The next morning we unexpectedly fell on an outpost of uhlans four

leagues away. Surprised by our sudden attack, they were not able to

mount their horses, nor even to defend themselves, and in a few moments

we had five prisoners, corresponding to our own number. The captain

questioned them, and from their answers we felt certain that they were

the same whom we had encountered the previous day. Then a very curious

operation took place. One of us was told off to ascertain their sex, and

nothing can depict our joy when we discovered what we were seeking among

them, the female executioner who had tortured our friend.

The four others were shot on the spot, with their backs toward us and

close to the muzzles of our rifles, and then we turned our attention to

the woman. What were we going to do with her? I must acknowledge that we

were all of us in favor of shooting her. Hatred, and the wish to avenge

Piédelot had extinguished all pity in us, and we had forgotten that we

were going to shoot a woman. But a woman reminded us of it, the

captain's wife; at her entreaties, therefore, we determined to keep her

a prisoner. The captain's poor wife was to be severely punished for this

act of clemency.

The next day we heard that the armistice had been extended to the

eastern part of France, and we had to put an end to our little campaign.

Two of us, who belonged to the neighborhood, returned home. So there

remained only four of us, all told: the captain, his wife, and two men.

We belonged to Besançon, which was still being besieged in spite of the

armistice.

“Let us stop here,” said the captain. “I cannot believe that the war is

going to end like this. The devil take it! Surely there are men still

left in France, and now is the time to prove what they are made of. The

spring is coming on, and the armistice is only a trap laid for the

Prussians. During the time that it lasts, a new army will be formed, and

some fine morning we shall fall upon them again. We shall be ready, and

we have a hostage--let us remain here.”

We fixed our quarters there. It was terribly cold, and we did not go out

much, as somebody had always to keep the female prisoner in sight.

She was sullen and never spoke save to refer to her husband, whom the

captain had killed. She looked at him continually with fierce eyes, and

we felt that she was tortured by a wild longing for revenge. That seemed

to us to be the most suitable punishment for the terrible torments that

she had made Piédelot suffer, for impotent vengeance is such intense

pain!

Alas! we who knew how to avenge our comrade ought to have known that

this woman would find a way to avenge her husband, and should have been

on our guard. It is true that one of us kept watch every night, and that

at first we tied her by a long rope to the great oak bench that was

fastened to the wall. But, by and by, as she had never tried to escape,

in spite of her hatred for us, we relaxed our extreme prudence and

allowed her to sleep somewhere else, and without being tied. What had we

to fear? She was at the end of the room, a man was on guard at the door,

and between her and the sentinel the captain's wife and two other men

used to lie. She was alone and unarmed against four, so there could be

no danger.

One night when we were asleep, and the captain was on guard, the

lancer's wife was lying more quietly in her corner than usual. She had

even smiled during the evening for the first time since she had been our

prisoner. Suddenly, however, in the middle of the night, we were

awakened by a terrible cry. We got up, groping about. Scarcely were we

up when we stumbled over a furious couple who were rolling about and

fighting on the ground. It was the captain and the lancer's wife. We

threw ourselves on to them and separated them in a moment. She was

shouting and laughing, and he seemed to have the death rattle. All this

took place in the dark. Two of us held her, and when a light was struck,

a terrible sight met our eyes. The captain was lying on the floor in a

pool of blood, with an enormous wound in his throat, and his sword

bayonet, that had been taken from his rifle, was sticking in the red,

gaping wound. A few minutes afterward he died, without having been able

to utter a word.

His wife did not shed a tear. Her eyes were dry, her throat was

contracted, and she looked at the lancer's wife steadfastly, and with a

calm ferocity that inspired fear.

“This woman belongs to me,” she said to us suddenly. “You swore to me

not a week ago to let me kill her as I chose if she killed my husband,

and you must keep your oath. You must fasten her securely to the

fireplace, upright against the back of it, and then you can go where you

like, but far from here. I will take my revenge on her to myself. Leave

the captain's body, and we three, he, she, and I, will remain here.”

We obeyed and went away. She promised to write to us to Geneva, as we

were returning there.

VI.

Two days later, I received the following letter, dated the day after we

had left. It had been written at an inn on the highroad:

“My Friend:

“I am writing to you, according to my promise. For the moment I am at

this inn, where I have just handed my prisoner over to a Prussian

officer.

“I must tell you, my friend, that this poor woman left two children in

Germany. She had followed her husband, whom she adored, as she did not

wish him to be exposed to the risks of war by himself, and as her

children were with their grandparents. I have learned all this since

yesterday, and it has turned my ideas of vengeance into more humane

feelings. At the very moment when I felt pleasure in insulting this

woman, and in threatening her with the most fearful torments--in

recalling Piédelot, who had been burned alive, and in threatening her

with a similar death, she looked at me coldly, and said:

“'Why should you reproach me, Frenchwoman? You think that you will do

right in avenging your husband's death, is not that so?'

“'Yes,' I replied.

“'Very well then; in killing him, I did what you are going to do in

burning me. I avenged my husband, for your husband killed him.'

“'Well,' I replied, 'as you approve of this vengeance, prepare to endure

it.'

“'I do not fear it.'

“And in fact she did not seem to have lost courage. Her face was calm,

and she looked at me without trembling, while I brought wood and dried

leaves together, and feverishly threw on to them the powder from some

cartridges, to make her funeral pile the more cruel.

“I hesitated in my thoughts of persecution for a moment. But the

captain's body was there, pale and covered with blood, and he seemed to

be looking at me with large, glassy eyes, and I applied myself to my

work again after kissing his pale lips. Suddenly, however, on raising my

head, I saw that she was crying, and I felt rather surprised.

“'So you are frightened?' I said to her.

“'No, but when I saw you kiss your husband, I thought of mine, of all

whom I love.'

“She continued to sob, but stopping suddenly she said to me in broken

words, and in a low voice:

“'Have you any children?'

“A shiver ran over me, for I guessed that this poor woman had some. She

asked me to look in a pocketbook which was in her bosom, and in it I saw

two photographs of quite young children, a boy and a girl, with those

kind, gentle, chubby faces that German children have. In it there were

also two locks of light hair and a letter in a large childish hand,

beginning with German words which meant: 'My dear little mother.'

“I could not restrain my tears, my dear friend, and so I untied her, and

without venturing to look at the face of my poor, dead husband, who was

not to be avenged, I went with her as far as the inn. She is free; I

have just left her, and she kissed me with tears. I am going upstairs to

my husband; come as soon as possible, my dear friend, to look for our

two bodies.”

I set off with all speed, and when I arrived there was a Prussian patrol

at the cottage. When I asked what it all meant, I was told that there

was a captain of _francs-tireurs_ and his wife inside, both dead. I gave

their names; they saw that I knew them, and I begged to be allowed to

undertake their funeral.

“Somebody has already undertaken it,” was the reply. “Go in if you wish

to, as you knew them. You can settle about their funeral with their

friend.”

I went in. The captain and his wife were lying side by side on a bed,

and were covered by a sheet. I raised it, and saw that the woman had

inflicted a wound in her throat similar to that from which her husband

had died.

At the side of the bed there sat, watching and weeping, the woman who

had been mentioned to me as their last friend. It was the lancer's wife.

HAUTOT SENIOR AND HAUTOT JUNIOR

I.

In front of the building, half farmhouse, half manor-house, one of those

rural habitations of a mixed character which were all but seigneurial,

and which are at the present time occupied by large cultivators, the

dogs, lashed beside the apple-trees in the orchard near the house, kept

barking and howling at the sight of the shooting-bags carried by the

gamekeepers and the boys. In the spacious dining-room kitchen, Hautot

Senior and Hautot Junior, M. Bermont, the tax-collector, and M. Mondaru,

the notary, were taking a bite and drinking some wine before going out

to shoot, for it was the opening day.

Hautot Senior, proud of all his possessions, talked boastfully

beforehand of the game which his guests were going to find on his lands.

He was a big Norman, one of those powerful, ruddy, bony men, who can

lift wagonloads of apples on their shoulders. Half peasant, half

gentleman, rich, respected, influential, invested with authority, he

made his son César go as far as the third form at school, so that he

might be an educated man, and there he had brought his studies to a stop

for fear of his becoming a fine gentleman and paying no attention to the

land.

César Hautot, almost as tall as his father, but thinner, was a good son,

docile, content with everything, full of admiration, respect, and

deference for the wishes and opinions of his sire.

M. Bermont, the tax-collector, a stout little man, who showed on his red

cheeks a thin network of violet veins resembling the tributaries and the

winding courses of rivers on maps, asked:

“And hares--are there any hares on it?”

Hautot Senior answered: “As many as you like, especially in the

Puysatier lands.”

“Which direction shall we begin in?” asked the notary, a jolly notary,

fat and pale, big-paunched too, and strapped up in an entirely new

hunting costume bought at Rouen.

“Well, that way, through these grounds. We will drive the partridges

into the plain, and we will beat there again.”

And Hautot Senior rose up. They all followed his example, took their

guns out of the corners, examined the locks, stamped with their feet in

order to feel themselves firmer in their boots which were rather hard,

not having as yet been rendered flexible by the heat of the blood. Then

they went out; and the dogs, standing erect at the ends of their

leashes, gave vent to piercing howls while beating the air with their

paws.

They set forth for the lands referred to. These consisted of a little

glen, or rather a long undulating stretch of inferior soil, which had on

that account remained uncultivated, furrowed with mountain-torrents,

covered with ferns, an excellent preserve for game.

The sportsmen took up their positions at some distance from each other,

Hautot Senior posting himself at the right, Hautot Junior at the left,

and the two guests in the middle. The keeper and those who carried the

game-bags followed. It was the anxious moment when the first shot is

awaited, when the heart beats a little, while the nervous finger keeps

feeling at the trigger every second.

Suddenly the shot went off. Hautot Senior had fired. They all stopped,

and saw a partridge breaking off from a covey which was rushing along at

great speed to fall down into a ravine under a thick growth of

brushwood. The sportsman, becoming excited, rushed forward with rapid

strides, thrusting aside the briers which stood in his path, and

disappeared in his turn into the thicket in quest of his game.

Almost at the same instant, a second shot was heard.

“Ha! ha! the rascal!” exclaimed M. Bermont, “he will unearth a hare down

there.”

They all waited, with their eyes riveted on the heap of branches through

which their gaze failed to penetrate.

The notary, making a speaking-trumpet of his hands, shouted:

“Have you got them?”

Hautot Senior made no response.

Then César, turning toward the keeper, said to him:

“Just go and assist him, Joseph. We must keep walking in a straight

line. We'll wait.”

And Joseph, an old stump of a man, lean and knotty, all of whose joints

formed protuberances, proceeded at an easy pace down the ravine,

searching at every opening through which a passage could be effected

with the cautiousness of a fox. Then, suddenly, he cried:

“Oh! come! come! an unfortunate thing has occurred.”

They all hurried forward, plunging through the briers.

The elder Hautot, who had fallen on his side, in a fainting condition,

kept both his hands over his stomach, from which flowed down upon the

grass through the linen vest torn by the lead, long streamlets of blood.

As he was laying down his gun, in order to seize the partridge within

reach of him, he had let the firearm fall, and the second discharge,

going off with the shock, had torn open his entrails. They drew him out

of the trench; they removed his clothes and they saw a frightful wound,

through which the intestines came out. Then, after having bandaged him

the best way they could, they brought him back to his own house, and

awaited the doctor, who had been sent for, as well as a priest.

When the doctor arrived, he gravely shook his head, and, turning toward

young Hautot, who was sobbing on a chair:

“My poor boy,” said he, “this does not look well.”

But, when the dressing was finished, the wounded man moved his fingers,

opened his mouth, then his eyes, cast around him troubled, haggard

glances, then appeared to search about in his memory, to recollect, to

understand, and he murmured:

“Ah! good God! this has done for me!”

The doctor held his hand.

“Why no, why no, some days of rest merely--it will be nothing.”

Hautot returned:

“It has done for me! My stomach is split open! I know it well.”

Then, all of a sudden:

“I want to talk to the son, if I have the time.”

Hautot Junior, in spite of himself, shed tears, and kept repeating like

a little boy:

“P'pa, p'pa, poor p'pa!”

But the father, in a firmer tone:

“Come! stop crying--this is not the time for it. I have to talk to you.

Sit down there quite close to me. It will be quickly done, and I shall

be more calm. As for the rest of you, kindly give me one minute.”

They all went out, leaving the father and son face to face.

As soon as they were alone:

“Listen, son! you are twenty-four years; one can say things like this to

you. And then there is not such mystery about these matters as we import

into them. You know well that your mother has been seven years dead,

isn't that so? and that I am not more than forty-five years myself,

seeing that I got married at nineteen? Is not that true?”

The son faltered:

“Yes, it is true.”

“So then your mother has been seven years dead, and I have remained a

widower. Well! a man like me cannot remain without a wife at

thirty-eight, isn't that true?”

The son replied:

“Yes, it is true.”

The father, out of breath, quite pale, and his face contracted with

suffering, went on:

“God! what pain I feel! Well, you understand. Man is not made to live

alone, but I did not want to take a successor to your mother, since I

promised her not to do so. Then--you understand?”

“Yes, father.”

“So, I kept a young girl at Rouen, Rue d'Eperlan 18, in the third story,

the second door,--I tell you all this, don't forget,--but a young girl,

who has been very nice to me, loving, devoted, a true woman, eh? You

comprehend, my lad?”

“Yes, father.”

“So then, if I am carried off, I owe something to her, something

substantial, that will place her in a safe position. You understand?”

“Yes, father.”

“I tell you that she is an honest girl, and that, but for you, and the

remembrance of your mother, and again but for the house in which we

three lived, I would have brought her here, and then married her, for

certain--listen--listen, my lad. I might have made a will--I haven't

done so. I did not wish to do so--for it is not necessary to write down

things--things of this sort--it is too hurtful to the legitimate

children--and then it embroils everything--it ruins everyone! Look you,

the stamped paper, there's no need of it--never make use of it. If I am

rich, it is because I have not made waste of what I have during my own

life. You understand, my son?”

“Yes, father.”

“Listen again--listen well to me! So then, I have made no will--I did

not desire to do so--and then I knew what you were; you have a good

heart; you are not niggardly, not too near, in any way; I said to myself

that when my end approached I would tell you all about it, and that I

would beg of you not to forget the girl. And then listen again! When I

am gone, make your way to the place at once--and make such arrangements

that she may not blame my memory. You have plenty of means. I leave it

to you--I leave you enough. Listen! You won't find her at home every day

in the week. She works at Madame Moreau's in the Rue Beauvoisine. Go

there on a Thursday. That is the day she expects me. It has been my day

for the past six years. Poor little thing! she will weep!--I say all

this to you because I have known you so well, my son. One does not tell

these things in public either to the notary or to the priest. They

happen--everyone knows that--but they are not talked about, save in case

of necessity. Then there is no outsider in the secret, nobody except the

family, because the family consists of one person alone. You

understand?”

“Yes, father.”

“Do you promise?”

“Yes, father.”

“Do you swear it?”

“Yes, father.”

“I beg of you, I implore of you, so do not forget. I bind you to it.”

“No, father.”

“You will go yourself. I want you to make sure of everything.”

“Yes, father.”

“And, then, you will see--you will see what she will explain to you. As

for me, I can say no more to you. You have vowed to do it.”

“Yes, father.”

“That's good, my son. Embrace me. Farewell. I am going to break up, I'm

sure. Tell them they may come in.”

Young Hautot embraced his father, groaning while he did so; then, always

docile, he opened the door, and the priest appeared in a white surplice,

carrying the holy oils.

But the dying man had closed his eyes and he refused to open them again,

he refused to answer, he refused to show, even by a sign, that he

understood.

He had spoken enough, this man; he could speak no more. Besides he now

felt his heart calm; he wanted to die in peace. What need had he to make

a confession to the deputy of God, since he had just done so to his son,

who constituted his own family?

He received the last rites, was purified and absolved, in the midst of

his friends and his servants on their bended knees, without any movement

of his face indicating that he still lived.

He expired about midnight, after four hours' convulsive movements, which

showed that he must have suffered dreadfully in his last moments.

II.

It was on the following Tuesday that they buried him; the shooting had

opened on Sunday. On his return home, after having accompanied his

father to the cemetery, César Hautot spent the rest of the day weeping.

He scarcely slept at all on the following night, and he felt so sad on

awakening that he asked himself how he could go on living.

However, he kept thinking until evening that, in order to obey the last

wish of his father, he ought to repair to Rouen next day, and see this

girl Catholine Donet, who resided in the Rue d'Eperlan in the third

story, second door. He had repeated to himself in a whisper, just as a

little boy repeats a prayer, this name and address a countless number of

times, so that he might not forget them, and he ended by lisping them

continually, without being able to stop or to think of what they were,

so much were his tongue and his mind possessed by the commission.

Accordingly, on the following day, about eight o'clock, he ordered

Graindorge to be yoked to the tilbury, and set forth at the quick

trotting pace of the heavy Norman horse, along the highroad from

Ainville to Rouen. He wore his black frock-coat, a tall silk hat on his

head, and breeches with straps; and he did not, on account of the

occasion, dispense with the handsome costume, the blue overalls which

swelled in the wind, protecting the cloth from dust and from stains, and

which was to be removed quickly the moment he jumped out of the coach.

He entered Rouen accordingly just as it was striking ten o'clock, drew

up, as he had usually done, at the Hôtel des Bon-Enfants, in the Rue des

Trois-Marcs, submitted to the hugs of the landlord and his wife and

their five children, for they had heard the melancholy news. After that,

he had to tell them all the particulars about the accident, which caused

him to shed tears, to repel all the proffered attentions which they

sought to thrust upon him merely because he was wealthy, and to decline

even the breakfast they wanted him to partake of, thus wounding their

sensibilities.

Then, having wiped the dust off his hat, brushed his coat and removed

the mud stains from his boots, he set forth in search of the Rue

d'Eperlan, without venturing to make inquiries from anyone, for fear of

being recognized and arousing suspicions.

At length, being unable to find the place, he saw a priest passing by,

and, trusting to the professional discretion which churchmen possess, he

questioned the ecclesiastic.

He had only a hundred steps farther to go; it was exactly the second

street to the right.

Then he hesitated. Up to that moment, he had obeyed, like a mere animal,

the expressed wish of the deceased. Now he felt quite agitated,

confused, humiliated, at the idea of finding himself--the son--in the

presence of this woman who had been his father's mistress. All the

morality which lies buried in our breasts, heaped up at the bottom of

our sensuous emotions by centuries of hereditary instruction, all that

he had been taught, since he had learned his catechism, about creatures

of evil life, the instinctive contempt which every man entertains for

them, even though he may marry one of them, all the narrow honesty of

the peasant in his character, was stirred up within him and held him

back, making him grow red with shame.

But he said to himself:

“I promised the father, I must not break my promise.”

Then he gave a push to the door of the house bearing the number 18,

which stood ajar, discovered a gloomy-looking staircase, ascended three

flights, perceived a door, then a second door, came upon the string of a

bell, and pulled it. The ringing, which resounded in the apartment

before which he stood, sent a shiver through his frame. The door was

opened, and he found himself facing a young lady very well dressed, a

brunette with a fresh complexion, who gazed at him with eyes of

astonishment.

He did not know what to say to her, and she, who suspected nothing, and

who was waiting for him to speak, did not invite him to come in. They

stood looking thus at one another for nearly half a minute, at the end

of which she said in a questioning tone:

“You have something to tell me, Monsieur?”

He falteringly replied:

“I am M. Hautot's son.”

She gave a start, turned pale, and stammered out as if she had known him

for a long time:

“Monsieur César?”

“Yes.”

“And what next?”

“I have come to speak to you on the part of my father.”

She articulated:

“Oh, my God!”

She then drew back so that he might enter. He shut the door and followed

her into the interior. Then he saw a little boy of four or five years

playing with a cat, seated on the floor in front of a stove, from which

rose the steam of dishes which were being kept hot.

“Take a seat,” she said.

He sat down.

She asked:

“Well?”

He no longer ventured to speak, keeping his eyes fixed on the table

which stood in the center of the room, with three covers laid on it, one

of which was for a child. He glanced at the chair which had its back

turned to the fire. They had been expecting him. That was his bread

which he saw, and which he recognized near the fork, for the crust had

been removed on account of Hautot's bad teeth. Then, raising his eyes,

he noticed on the wall his father's portrait, the large photograph taken

at Paris the year of the exhibition, the same as that which hung above

the bed in the sleeping apartment at Ainville.

The young woman again asked:

“Well, Monsieur César?”

He kept staring at her. Her face was livid with anguish; and she waited,

her hands trembling with fear.

Then he took courage.

“Well, Mam'zelle, papa died on Sunday last just after he had opened the

shooting.”

She was so much overwhelmed that she did not move. After a silence of a

few seconds, she faltered in an almost inaudible tone:

“Oh! it is not possible!”

Then, on a sudden, tears showed themselves in her eyes, and covering her

face with her hands, she burst out sobbing.

At that point the little boy turned round, and, seeing his mother

weeping, began to howl. Then, realizing that this sudden trouble was

brought about by the stranger, he rushed at César, caught hold of his

breeches with one hand and with the other hit him with all his strength

on the thigh. And César remained agitated, deeply affected, with this

woman mourning for his father at one side of him, and the little boy

defending his mother at the other. He felt their emotion taking

possession of himself, and his eyes were beginning to brim over with the

same sorrow; so, to recover his self-command, he began to talk:

“Yes,” he said, “the accident occurred on Sunday, at eight o'clock--”

And he told, as if she were listening to him, all the facts without

forgetting a single detail, mentioning the most trivial matters with the

minuteness of a countryman. And the child still kept assailing him,

making kicks at his ankles.

When he came to the time at which his father had spoken about her, her

attention was caught by hearing her own name, and, uncovering her face,

she said:

“Pardon me! I was not following you; I would like to know--if you do not

mind beginning over again.”

He related everything at great length, with stoppages, breaks, and

reflections of his own from time to time. She listened to him eagerly

now perceiving with a woman's keen sensibility all the sudden changes of

fortune which his narrative indicated, and trembling with horror, every

now and then, exclaiming:

“Oh, my God!”

The little fellow, believing that she had calmed down, ceased beating

César, in order to catch his mother's hand, and he listened, too, as if

he understood.

When the narrative was finished, young Hautot continued:

“Now, we will settle matters together in accordance with his wishes.

Listen: I am well off, he has left me plenty of means. I don't want you

to have anything to complain about--”

But she quickly interrupted him:

“Oh! Monsieur César, Monsieur César, not today. I am cut to the

heart--another time--another day. No, not to-day. If I accept, listen!

'Tis not for myself--no, no, no, I swear to you. 'Tis for the child.

Besides this provision will be put to his account.”

Thereupon César scared, divined the truth, and stammering:

“So then--'tis his--the child?”

“Why, yes,” she said.

And Hautot Junior gazed at his brother with a confused emotion, intense

and painful.

After a lengthened silence, for she had begun to weep afresh, César,

quite embarrassed, went on:

“Well, then, Mam'zelle Donet, I am going. When would you wish to talk

this over with me?”

She exclaimed:

“Oh! no, don't go! don't go! Don't leave me all alone with Emile. I

would die of grief. I have no longer anyone, anyone but my child. Oh!

what wretchedness, what wretchedness. Monsieur César! Stop! Sit down

again. You will say something more to me. You will tell me what he was

doing over there all the week.”

And César resumed his seat, accustomed to obey.

She drew over another chair for herself in front of the stove, where the

dishes had all this time been simmering, took Emile upon her knees, and

asked César a thousand questions about his father with reference to

matters of an intimate nature, which made him feel, without reasoning on

the subject, that she had loved Hautot with all the strength of her

frail woman's heart.

And, by the natural concatenation of his ideas--which were rather

limited in number--he recurred once more to the accident, and set about

telling the story over again with all the same details.

When he said: “He had a hole in his stomach--you could put your two

fists into it,” she gave vent to a sort of shriek, and the tears gushed

forth again from her eyes.

Then, seized by the contagion of her grief, César began to weep, too,

and as tears always soften the fibers of the heart, he bent over Emile

whose forehead was close to his own mouth and kissed him.

The mother, recovering her breath, murmured:

“Poor lad, he is an orphan now!”

“And so am I,” said César.

And they ceased to talk.

But suddenly the practical instinct of the housewife, accustomed to be

thoughtful about many things, revived in the young woman's breast.

“You have perhaps taken nothing all the morning, Monsieur César.”

“No, Mam'zelle.”

“Oh! you must be hungry. You will eat a morsel.”

“Thanks,” he said, “I am not hungry; I have had too much trouble.”

She replied:

“In spite of sorrow, we must live. You will not refuse to let me get

something for you! And then you will remain a little longer. When you

are gone I don't know what will become of me.”

He yielded after some further resistance, and, sitting down with his

back to the fire, facing her, he ate a plateful of tripe, which had been

bubbling in the stove, and drank a glass of red wine. But he would not

allow her to uncork the bottle of white wine. He several times wiped the

mouth of the little boy, who had smeared all his chin with sauce.

As he was rising up to go, he asked:

“When would you like me to come back to speak about this business to

you, Mam'zelle Donet?”

“If it is all the same to you, say next Thursday, Monsieur César. In

that way I would lose none of my time, as I always have my Thursdays

free.”

“That will suit me--next Thursday.”

“You will come to lunch. Won't you?”

“Oh! On that point I can't give you a promise.”

“The reason I suggested it is that people can chat better when they are

eating. One has more time, too.”

“Well, be it so. About twelve o'clock, then.” And he took his departure,

after he had again kissed little Emile, and pressed Mademoiselle Donet's

hand.

III.

The week appeared long to César Hautot. He had never before found

himself alone, and the isolation seemed to him insupportable. Till now,

he had lived at his father's side, just like his shadow, followed him

into the fields, superintended the execution of his orders, and, when

they had been a short time separated, again met him at dinner. They had

spent the evenings smoking their pipes, face to face with one another,

chatting about horses, cows, or sheep, and the grip of their hands when

they rose up in the morning might have been regarded as a manifestation

of deep family affection on both sides.

Now César was alone, he went vacantly through the process of dressing

the soil in autumn, every moment expecting to see the tall gesticulating

silhouette of his father rising up at the end of a plain. To kill time,

he entered the houses of his neighbors, told about the accident to all

who had not heard of it, and sometimes repeated it to the others. Then,

after he had finished his occupations and his reflections, he would sit

down at the side of the road, asking himself whether this kind of life

was going to last forever.

He frequently thought of Mademoiselle Donet. He liked her. He considered

her thoroughly respectable, a gentle and honest young woman, as his

father had said. Yes, undoubtedly she was an honest girl. He resolved to

act handsomely toward her, and to give her two thousand francs a year,

settling the capital on the child. He even experienced a certain

pleasure in thinking that he was going to see her on the following

Thursday and arrange this matter with her. And then the notion of this

brother, this little chap of five, who was his father's son, plagued

him, annoyed him a little, and at the same time, excited him. He had, as

it were, a family in this brat, sprung from a clandestine alliance, who

would never bear the name of Hautot, a family which he might take or

leave, just as he pleased, but which would recall his father.

And so, when he saw himself on the road to Rouen on Thursday morning,

carried along by Graindorge trotting with clattering foot-beats, he felt

his heart lighter, more at peace than he had hitherto felt it since his

bereavement.

On entering Mademoiselle Donet's apartment, he saw the table laid as on

the previous Thursday, with the sole difference that the crust had not

been removed from the bread. He pressed the young woman's hand, kissed

Emile on the cheeks, and sat down, more or less as if he were in his own

house, his heart swelling in the same way. Mademoiselle Donet seemed to

him a little thinner and paler. She must have grieved sorely. She wore

now an air of constraint in his presence, as if she understood what she

had not felt the week before under the first blow of her misfortune, and

she exhibited an excessive deference toward him, a mournful humility,

and made touching efforts to please him, as if to pay him back by her

attentions for the kindness he had manifested toward her. They were a

long time at lunch talking over the business which had brought him

there. She did not want so much money. It was too much. She earned

enough to live on herself, but she only wished that Emile might find a

few sous awaiting him when he grew big. César held out, however, and

even added a gift of a thousand francs for herself for the expense of

mourning.

When he had taken his coffee, she asked:

“Do you smoke?”

“Yes--I have my pipe.”

He felt in his pocket. Good God! He had forgotten it! He was becoming

quite woe-begone about it when she offered him a pipe of his father's

that had been shut up in a cupboard. He accepted it, took it up in his

hand, recognized it, smelled it, spoke of its quality in a tone of

emotion, filled it with tobacco, and lighted it. Then he set Emile

astride on his knee, and made him play the cavalier, while she removed

the tablecloth and put the soiled plates at one end of the sideboard in

order to wash them as soon as he was gone.

About three o'clock, he rose up with regret, quite annoyed at the

thought of having to go.

“Well! Mademoiselle Donet,” he said, “I wish you good evening, and am

delighted to have found you like this.”

She remained standing before him, blushing, much affected, and gazed at

him while she thought of the other.

“Shall we not see one another again?” she said.

He replied simply:

“Why, yes, Mam'zelle, if it gives you pleasure.”

“Certainly, Monsieur César. Will next Thursday suit you then?”

“Yes, Mademoiselle Donet.”

“You will come to lunch, of course?”

“Well--if you are so kind as to invite me, I can't refuse.”

“It is understood, then, Monsieur César--next Thursday, at twelve, the

same as to-day.”

“Thursday at twelve, Mam'zelle Donet!”

NO QUARTER

The broad sunlight threw its burning rays on the fields, and under this

shower of flame life burst forth in glowing vegetation from the earth.

As far as the eye could see, the soil was green; and the sky was blue to

the verge of the horizon. The Norman farms scattered through the plain

seemed at a distance like little woods inclosed each in a circle of thin

beech-trees. Coming closer, on opening the worm-eaten stile, one fancied

that he saw a giant garden, for all the old apple-trees, as knotted as

the peasants, were in blossom. The weather-beaten black trunks, crooked,

twisted, ranged along the inclosure, displayed beneath the sky their

glittering domes, rosy and white. The sweet perfume of their blossoms

mingled with the heavy odors of the open stables and with the fumes of

the steaming dunghill, covered with hens and their chickens. It was

midday. The family sat at dinner in the shadow of the pear-tree planted

before the door--the father, the mother, the four children, the two

maidservants, and the three farm laborers. They scarcely uttered a word.

Their fare consisted of soup and of a stew composed of potatoes mashed

up in lard.

From time to time one of the maidservants rose up, and went to the

cellar to fetch a pitcher of cider.

The husband, a big fellow of about forty, stared at a vine-tree, quite

exposed to view, which stood close to the farmhouse, twining like a

serpent under the shutters the entire length of the wall.

He said, after a long silence:

“The father's vine-tree is blossoming early this year. Perhaps it will

bear good fruit.”

The peasant's wife also turned round, and gazed at the tree without

speaking.

This vine-tree was planted exactly in the place where the father of the

peasant had been shot.

It was during the war of 1870. The Prussians were in occupation of the

entire country. General Faidherbe, with the Army of the North, was at

their head.

Now the Prussian staff had taken up its quarters in this farmhouse. The

old peasant who owned it, Père Milon, received them, and gave them the

best treatment he could.

For a whole month the German vanguard remained on the lookout in the

village. The French were posted ten leagues away without moving, and

yet, each night, some of the uhlans disappeared.

All the isolated scouts, those who were sent out on patrol, whenever

they started in groups of two or three, never came back.

They were picked up dead in the morning in a field, near a farmyard, in

a ditch. Their horses even were found lying on the roads with their

throats cut by a saber stroke. These murders seemed to have been

accomplished by the same men, who could not be discovered.

The country was terrorized. Peasants were shot on mere information,

women were imprisoned, attempts were made to obtain revelations from

children by fear.

But, one morning, Père Milon was found stretched in his stable with a

gash across his face.

Two uhlans ripped open were seen lying three kilometers away from the

farmhouse. One of them still grasped in his hand his blood-stained

weapon. He had fought and defended himself.

A council of war having been immediately constituted, in the open air,

in front of the farmhouse, the old man was brought before it.

He was sixty-eight years old. He was small, thin, a little crooked, with

long hands resembling the claws of a crab. His faded hair, scanty and

slight, like the down on a young duck, allowed his scalp to be plainly

seen. The brown, crimpled skin of his neck showed the big veins which

sank under his jaws and reappeared at his temples. He was regarded in

the district as a miser and a hard man in business transactions.

He was placed standing between four soldiers in front of the kitchen

table, which had been carried out of the house for the purpose. Five

officers and the Colonel sat facing him. The Colonel was the first to

speak.

“Père Milon,” he said, in French, “since we came here we have had

nothing to say of you but praise. You have always been obliging, and

even considerate toward us. But to-day a terrible accusation rests on

you, and the matter must be cleared up. How did you get the wound on

your face?”

The peasant gave no reply.

The Colonel went on:

“Your silence condemns you, Père Milon. But I want you to answer me, do

you understand? Do you know who has killed the two uhlans who were found

this morning near the crossroads?”

The old man said in a clear voice:

“It was I!”

The Colonel, surprised, remained silent for a second, looking steadfully

at the prisoner. Père Milon maintained his impassive demeanor, his air

of rustic stupidity, with downcast eyes, as if he were talking to his

cure. There was only one thing that could reveal his internal agitation,

the way in which he slowly swallowed his saliva with a visible effort,

as if he were choking.

The old peasant's family--his son Jean, his daughter-in-law, and two

little children stood ten paces behind, scared and dismayed.

The Colonel continued:

“Do you know also who killed all the scouts of our army whom we have

found every morning, for the past month, lying here and there in the

fields?”

The old man answered with the same brutal impassiveness:

“It was I!”

“It is you, then, that killed them all?”

“All of them-yes, it was I.”

“You alone?”

“I alone.”

“Tell me the way you managed to do it?”

This time the peasant appeared to be affected; the necessity of speaking

at some length incommoded him.

“I know myself. I did it the way I found easiest.”

The Colonel proceeded:

“I warn you, you must tell me everything. You will do well, therefore,

to make up your mind about it at once. How did you begin it?”

The peasant cast an uneasy glance toward his family, who remained in a

listening attitude behind him. He hesitated for another second or so,

then all of a sudden he came to a resolution on the matter.

“I came home one night about ten o'clock, and the next day you were

here. You and your soldiers gave me fifty crowns for forage with a cow

and two sheep. Said I to myself: 'As long as I get twenty crowns out of

them, I'll sell them the value of it.' But then I had other things in my

heart, which I'll tell you about now. I came across one of your

cavalrymen smoking his pipe near my dike, just behind my barn. I went

and took my scythe off the hook, and I came back with short steps from

behind, while he lay there without hearing anything. And I cut off his

head with one stroke, like a feather, while he only said 'Oof!' You have

only to look at the bottom of the pond; you'll find him there in a coal

bag with a big stone tied to it.

“I got an idea into my head. I took all he had on him from his boots to

his cap, and I hid them in the bakehouse in the Martin wood behind the

farmyard.”

The old man stopped. The officers, speechless, looked at one another.

The examination was resumed, and this is what they were told.

Once he had accomplished this murder, the peasant lived with only one

thought: “To kill the Prussians!” He hated them with the sly and

ferocious hatred of a countryman who was at the same time covetous and

patriotic. He had got an idea into his head, as he put it. He waited for

a few days.

He was allowed to go and come freely, to go out and return just as he

pleased, as long as he displayed humility, submissiveness, and

complaisance toward the conquerors.

Now, every evening he saw the cavalrymen bearing dispatches leaving the

farmhouse; and he went out, one night, after discovering the name of the

village to which they were going, and after picking up by associating

with the soldiers the few words of German he needed.

He made his way through his farmyard, slipped into the wood, reached the

bakehouse, penetrated to the end of the long passage, and having found

the clothes of the soldier which he had hidden there, he put them on.

Then he went prowling about the fields, creeping along, keeping to the

slopes so as to avoid observation, listening to the least sounds,

restless as a poacher.

When he believed the time had arrived he took up his position at the

roadside, and hid himself in a clump of brushwood. He still waited. At

length, near midnight, he heard the galloping of a horse's hoofs on the

hard soil of the road. The old man put his ear to the ground to make

sure that only one cavalryman was approaching; then he got ready.

The uhlan came on at a very quick pace, carrying some dispatches. He

rode forward with watchful eyes and strained ears. As soon as he was no

more than ten paces away, Père Milon dragged himself across the road,

groaning: “Hilfe! hilfe!” (“Help! help!”).

The cavalryman drew up, recognized a German soldier dismounted, believed

that he was wounded, leaped down from his horse, drew near the prostrate

man, never suspecting anything, and, as he stooped over the stranger, he

received in the middle of the stomach the long, curved blade of the

saber. He sank down without any death throes, merely quivering with a

few last shudders.

Then the Norman, radiant with the mute joy of an old peasant, rose up,

and merely to please himself, cut the dead soldier's throat. After that,

he dragged the corpse to the dike and threw it in.

The horse was quietly waiting for its rider, Père Milon got on the

saddle and started across the plain at the gallop.

At the end of an hour, he perceived two more uhlans approaching the

staff-quarters side by side. He rode straight toward them, crying:

“Hilfe! hilfe!” The Prussians let him come on, recognizing the uniform

without any distrust.

And like a cannon ball the old man shot between the two, bringing both

of them to the ground with his saber and a revolver. The next thing he

did was to cut the throats of the horses--the German horses! Then,

softly he re-entered the bakehouse and hid the horse he had ridden

himself in the dark passage. There he took off the uniform, put on once

more his own old clothes, and going to his bed, slept till morning.

For four days, he did not stir out, awaiting the close of the open

inquiry as to the cause of the soldiers' deaths; but, on the fifth day,

he started out again, and by a similar stratagem killed two more

soldiers.

Thenceforth, he never stopped. Each night he wandered about, prowled

through the country at random, cutting down some Prussians, sometimes

here, sometimes there, galloping through the deserted fields under the

moonlight, a lost uhlan, a hunter of men. Then, when he had finished his

task, leaving behind him corpses lying along the roads, the old horseman

went to the bakehouse where he concealed both the animal and the

uniform. About midday he calmly returned to the spot to give the horse a

feed of oats and some water, and he took every care of the animal,

exacting therefore the hardest work.

But, the night before his arrest, one of the soldiers he attacked put

himself on his guard, and cut the old peasant's face with a slash of a

saber.

He had, however, killed both of them. He had even managed to go back and

hide his horse and put on his everyday garb, but, when he reached the

stable, he was overcome by weakness and was not able to make his way

into the house.

He had been found lying on the straw, his face covered with blood.

When he had finished his story, he suddenly lifted his head and glanced

proudly at the Prussian officers.

The Colonel, tugging at his mustache, asked:

“Have you anything more to say?”

“No, nothing more; we are quits. I killed sixteen, not one more, not one

less.”

“You know you have to die?”

“I ask for no quarter!”

“Have you been a soldier?”

“Yes, I served at one time. And 'tis you killed my father, who was a

soldier of the first Emperor, not to speak of my youngest son François,

whom you killed last month near Evreux. I owed this to you, and I've

paid you back. 'Tis tit for tat!”

The officers stared at one another.

The old man went on:

“Eight for my father, eight for my son--that pays it off! I sought for

no quarrel with you. I don't know you! I only know where you came from.

You came to my house here and ordered me about as if the house was

yours. I have had my revenge, and I'm glad of it!”

And stiffening up his old frame, he folded his arms in the attitude of a

humble hero.

The Prussians held a long conference. A captain, who had also lost a son

the month before defended the brave old farmer.

Then the Colonel rose up, and, advancing toward Père Milon, he said,

lowering his voice:

“Listen, old man! There is perhaps one way of saving your life--it is--”

But the old peasant was not listening to him, and, fixing his eyes

directly on the German officer, while the wind made the scanty hair move

to and fro on his skull, he made a frightful grimace, which shriveled up

his pinched countenance scarred by the saber-stroke, and, puffing out

his chest, he spat, with all his strength, right into the Prussian's

face.

The Colonel, stupefied, raised his hand, and for the second time the

peasant spat in his face.

All the officers sprang to their feet and yelled out orders at the same

time.

In less than a minute the old man, still as impassive as ever, was stuck

up against the wall and shot, while he cast a smile at Jean, his eldest

son, and then at his daughter-in-law and the two children, who were

staring with terror at the scene.

THE ORPHAN

Mademoiselle Source had adopted this boy under very sad circumstances.

She was at the time thirty-six years old. She was disfigured, having in

her infancy slipped off her nurse's lap into the fireplace, and getting

her face so shockingly burned that it ever afterward presented a

frightful appearance. This deformity had made her resolve not to marry,

for she did not want any man to marry her for her money.

A female neighbor of hers, being left a widow during her pregnancy, died

in childbirth, without leaving a sou. Mademoiselle Source took the

newborn child, put him out to nurse, reared him, sent him to a

boarding-school, then brought him home in his fourteenth year, in order

to have in her empty house somebody who would love her, who would look

after her, who would make her old age pleasant.

She resided on a little property four leagues away from Rennes, and she

now dispensed with a servant. The expenses having increased to more than

double what they had been since this orphan's arrival, her income of

three thousand francs was no longer sufficient to support three persons.

She attended to the housekeeping and the cooking herself, and sent the

boy out on errands, letting him further occupy himself with cultivating

the garden. He was gentle, timid, silent, and caressing. And she

experienced a deep joy, a fresh joy at being embraced by him, without

any apparent surprise or repugnance being exhibited by him on account of

her ugliness. He called her “Aunt” and treated her as a mother.

In the evening they both sat down at the fireside, and she got nice

things ready for him. She heated some wine and toasted a slice of bread,

and it made a charming little meal before going to bed. She often took

him on her knees and covered him with kisses, murmuring in his ear with

passionate tenderness. She called him: “My little flower, my cherub, my

adored angel, my divine jewel.” He softly accepted her caresses,

concealing his head on the old maid's shoulder. Although he was now

nearly fifteen years old, he had remained small and weak, and had a

rather sickly appearance.

Sometimes Mademoiselle Source brought him to the city to see two married

female relatives of hers, distant cousins, who were living in the

suburbs, and who were the only members of her family in existence. The

two women had always found fault with her for having adopted this boy,

on account of the inheritance; but for all that they gave her a cordial

welcome, having still hopes of getting a share for themselves, a third,

no doubt, if what she possessed were only equally divided.

She was happy, very happy, always taken up with her adopted child. She

bought books for him to improve his mind, and he devoted himself

ardently to reading.

He no longer now climbed on her knees to fondle her as he had formerly

done; but instead would go and sit down in his little chair in the

chimney-corner and open a volume. The lamp placed at the edge of the

little table, above his head, shone on his curly hair and on a portion

of his forehead; he did not move, he did not raise his eyes, he did not

make any gesture. He read on, interested, entirely absorbed in the

adventures which formed the subject of the book.

She, seated opposite to him, gazed at him with an eager, steady look,

astonished at his studiousness, jealous, often on the point of bursting

into tears.

She said to him now and then: “You will fatigue yourself, my treasure!”

in the hope that he would raise his head and come across to embrace her;

but he did not even answer her; he had not heard or understood what she

was saying; he paid no attention to anything save what he read in these

pages.

For two years he devoured an incalculable number of volumes. His

character changed.

After this, he asked Mademoiselle Source many times for money, which she

gave him. As he always wanted more, she ended by refusing, for she was

both regular and energetic and knew how to act rationally when it was

necessary to do so. By dint of entreaties he obtained a large sum one

night from her; but when he urged her to give him another sum a few days

later, she showed herself inflexible, and did not give way to him

further, in fact.

He appeared to be satisfied with her decision.

He again became quiet, as he had formerly been, loving to remain seated

for entire hours, without moving, plunged in deep reverie. He now did

not even talk to Madame Source, merely answering her remarks with short,

formal words. Nevertheless, he was agreeable and attentive in his manner

toward her; but he never embraced her now.

She had by this time grown slightly afraid of him when they sat facing

one another at night at opposite sides of the fireplace. She wanted to

wake him up, to make him say something, no matter what, that would break

this dreadful silence, which was like the darkness of a wood. But he did

not appear to listen to her, and she shuddered with the terror of a poor

feeble woman when she had spoken to him five or six times successively

without being able to get a word out of him.

What was the matter with him? What was going on in that closed-up head?

When she had been thus two or three hours sitting opposite him, she felt

herself getting daft, and longed to rush away and to escape into the

open country in order to avoid that mute, eternal companionship and also

some vague danger, which she could not define, but of which she had a

presentiment.

She frequently shed tears when she was alone. What was the matter with

him? When she gave expression to a desire, he unmurmuringly carried it

into execution. When she wanted to have anything brought to her from the

city, he immediately went there to procure it. She had no complaint to

make of him; no, indeed! And yet--

Another year flitted by, and it seemed to her that a new modification

had taken place in the mind of the young man. She perceived it; she felt

it; she divined it. How? No matter! She was sure she was not mistaken;

but she could not have explained in what the unknown thoughts of this

strange youth had changed.

It seemed to her that till now he had been like a person in a hesitating

frame of mind who had suddenly arrived at a determination. This idea

came to her one evening as she met his glance, a fixed, singular glance

which she had not seen in his face before.

Then he commenced to watch her incessantly, and she wished she could

hide herself in order to avoid that cold eye, riveted on her.

He kept staring at her, evening after evening for hours together, only

averting his eyes when she said, utterly unnerved:

“Do not look at me like that, my child!”

Then he bowed his head.

But the moment her back was turned, she once more felt that his eye was

upon her. Wherever she went he pursued her with his persistent gaze.

Sometimes, when she was walking in her little garden, she suddenly

noticed him squatted on the stump of a tree as if he were lying in wait

for her; and again when she sat in front of the house mending stockings

while he was digging some cabbage-bed, he kept watching her, as he

worked, in a sly, continuous fashion.

It was in vain that she asked him:

“What's the matter with you, my boy? For the last three years, you have

become very different. I don't find you the same. Tell me what ails you,

and what you are thinking of, I beg of you.”

He invariably replied, in a quiet, weary tone:

“Why, nothing ails me, Aunt!”

And when she persisted, appealing to him thus: “Ah! my child, answer me,

answer me when I speak to you. If you knew what grief you caused me, you

would always answer, and you would not look at me that way. Have you any

trouble? Tell me, I'll console you!” he would turn away with a tired

air, murmuring:

“But there is nothing the matter with me, I assure you.”

He had not grown much, having always a childish aspect, although the

features of his face were those of a man. They were, however, hard and

badly cut. He seemed incomplete, abortive, only half finished, and

disquieting as a mystery. He was a close impenetrable being, in whom

there seemed always to be some active, dangerous mental travail taking

place.

Mademoiselle Source was quite conscious of all this, and she could not,

from that time forth, sleep at night, so great was her anxiety.

Frightful terrors, dreadful nightmares assailed her. She shut herself up

in her own room and barricaded the door, tortured by fear.

What was she afraid of? She could not tell.

Fear of everything, of the night, of the walls, of the shadows thrown by

the moon on the white curtains of the windows, and, above all, fear of

him.

Why? What had she to fear? Did she know what it was? She could live this

way no longer! She felt certain that a misfortune threatened her, a

frightful misfortune.

She set forth secretly one morning and went into the city to see her

relatives. She told them about the matter in a gasping voice. The two

women thought she was going mad and tried to reassure her.

She said:

“If you knew the way he looks at me from morning till night. He never

takes his eyes off me! At times I feel a longing to cry for help, to

call in the neighbors, so much am I afraid. But what could I say to

them? He does nothing to me except to keep looking at me.”

The two female cousins asked:

“Is he ever brutal to you? Does he give you sharp answers?”

She replied:

“No, never; he does everything I wish; he works hard; he is steady; but

I am so frightened I don't mind that much. He has something in his head,

I am certain of that--quite certain. I don't care to remain all alone

like that with him in the country.”

The relatives, scared by her words, declared to her that they were

astonished and could not understand her; and they advised her to keep

silent about her fears and her plans, without, however, dissuading her

from coming to reside in the city, hoping in that way that the entire

inheritance would eventually fall into their hands.

They even promised to assist her in selling her house and in finding

another near them.

Mademoiselle Source returned home. But her mind was so much upset that

she trembled at the slightest noise, and her hands shook whenever any

trifling disturbance agitated her.

Twice she went again to consult her relatives, quite determined now not

to remain any longer in this way in her lonely dwelling. At last she

found a little cottage in the suburbs, which suited her, and privately

she bought it.

The signature of the contract took place on a Tuesday morning, and

Mademoiselle Source devoted the rest of the day to the preparations for

her change of residence.

At eight o'clock in the evening she got into the diligence which passed

within a few hundred yards of her house, and she told the conductor to

let her down in the place where it was his custom to stop for her. The

man called out to her as he whipped his horses:

“Good evening, Mademoiselle Source--good night!”

She replied as she walked on:

“Good evening, Père Joseph.” Next morning, at half past seven, the

postman who conveyed letters to the village, noticed at the crossroad,

not far from the highroad, a large splash of blood not yet dry. He said

to himself: “Hallo! some boozer must have been bleeding from the nose.”

But he perceived ten paces farther on a pocket-handkerchief also stained

with blood. He picked them up. The linen was fine, and the postman, in

alarm, made his way over to the dike, where he fancied he saw a strange

object.

Mademoiselle Source was lying at the foot on the grass, her throat cut

open with a knife.

An hour later, the gendarmes, the examining magistrate, and other

authorities made an inquiry as to the cause of death.

The two female relatives, called as witnesses, told all about the old

maid's fears and her last plans.

The orphan was arrested. Since the death of the woman who had adopted

him, he wept from morning till night, plunged, at least to all

appearance, in the most violent grief.

He proved that he had spent the evening up to eleven o'clock in a cafe.

Ten persons had seen him, having remained there till his departure.

Now the driver of the diligence stated that he had set down the murdered

woman on the road between half past nine and ten o'clock.

The accused was acquitted. A will, a long time made, which had been left

in the hands of a notary in Rennes, made him universal legatee. So he

inherited everything.

For a long time the people of the country put him into quarantine, as

they still suspected him. His house, which was that of the dead woman,

was looked upon as accursed. People avoided him in the street.

But he showed himself so good-natured, so open, so familiar, that

gradually these horrible doubts were forgotten. He was generous,

obliging, ready to talk to the humblest about anything as long as they

cared to talk to him.

The notary, Maître Rameay, was one of the first to take his part,

attracted by his smiling loquacity. He said one evening at a dinner at

the tax-collector's house:

“A man who speaks with such facility and who is always in good-humor

could not have such a crime on his conscience.”

Touched by this argument, the others who were present reflected, and

they recalled to mind the long conversations with this man who made them

stop almost by force at the road corners to communicate his ideas to

them, who insisted on their going into his house when they were passing

by his garden, who could crack a joke better than the lieutenant of the

gendarmes himself, and who possessed such contagious gaiety that, in

spite of the repugnance with which he inspired them, they could not keep

from always laughing when in his company.

All doors were opened to him after a time.

He is, to-day, the mayor of his own community.

A LIVELY FRIEND

They had beer, constantly in each other's society for a whole winter in

Paris. After having lost sight of each other, as generally happens in

such cases, after leaving college, the two friends met again one night,

long years after, already old and white-haired, the one a bachelor, the

other married.

M. de Meroul lived six months in Paris and six months in his little

château at Tourbeville. Having married the daughter of a gentleman in

the district, he had lived a peaceful, happy life with the indolence of

a man who has nothing to do. With a calm temperament and a sedate mind,

without any intellectual audacity or tendency toward revolutionary

independence of thought, he passed his time in mildly regretting the

past, in deploring the morals and the institutions of to-day, and in

repeating every moment to his wife, who raised her eyes to heaven, and

sometimes her hands also, in token of energetic assent:

“Under what a government do we live, great God!”

Madame de Meroul mentally resembled her husband, just as if they had

been brother and sister. She knew by tradition that one ought, first of

all, to reverence the Pope and the King!

And she loved them and respected them from the bottom of her heart,

without knowing them, with a poetic exaltation, with a hereditary

devotion, with all the sensibility of a well-born woman. She was kindly

in every feeling of her soul. She had no child, and was incessantly

regretting it.

When M. de Meroul came across his old schoolfellow Joseph Mouradour at a

ball, he experienced from this meeting a profound and genuine delight,

for they had been very fond of one another in their youth.

After exclamations of astonishment over the changes caused by age in

their bodies and their faces, they had asked one another a number of

questions as to their respective careers.

Joseph Mouradour, a native of the south of France, had become a

councillor-general in his own neighborhood. Frank in his manners, he

spoke briskly and without any circumspection, telling all his thoughts

with sheer indifference to prudential considerations. He was a

Republican, of that race of good-natured Republicans who make their own

ease the law of their existence, and who carry freedom of speech to the

verge of brutality.

He called at his friend's address in Paris, and was immediately a

favorite, on account of his easy cordiality, in spite of his advanced

opinions. Madame de Meroul exclaimed:

“What a pity! such a charming man!”

M. de Meroul said to his friend, in a sincere and confidential tone:

“You cannot imagine what a wrong you do to our country.” He was attached

to his friend nevertheless, for no bonds are more solid than those of

childhood renewed in later life. Joseph Mouradour chaffed the husband

and wife, called them “my loving turtles,” and occasionally gave vent to

loud declarations against people who were behind the age, against all

sorts of prejudices and traditions.

When he thus directed the flood of his democratic eloquence, the married

pair, feeling ill at ease, kept silent through a sense of propriety and

good-breeding; then the husband tried to turn off the conversation in

order to avoid any friction. Joseph Mouradour did not want to know

anyone unless he was free to say what he liked.

Summer came round. The Merouls knew no greater pleasure than to receive

their old friends in their country house at Tourbeville. It was an

intimate and healthy pleasure, the pleasure of homely gentlefolk who had

spent most of their lives in the country. They used to go to the nearest

railway station to meet some of their guests, and drove them to the

house in their carriage, watching for compliments on their district, on

the rapid vegetation, on the condition of the roads in the department,

on the cleanliness of the peasants' houses, on the bigness of the cattle

they saw in the fields, on everything that met the eye as far as the

edge of the horizon.

They liked to have it noticed that their horse trotted in a wonderful

manner for an animal employed a part of the year in field-work; and they

awaited with anxiety the newcomer's opinion on their family estate,

sensitive to the slightest word, grateful for the slightest gracious

attention.

Joseph Mouradour was invited, and he announced his arrival. The wife and

the husband came to meet the train, delighted to have the opportunity of

doing the honors of their house.

As soon as he perceived them, Joseph Mouradour jumped out of his

carriage with a vivacity which increased their satisfaction. He grasped

their hands warmly, congratulated them, and intoxicated them with

compliments.

He was quite charming in his manner as they drove along the road to the

house; he expressed astonishment at the height of the trees, the

excellence of the crops, and the quickness of the horse.

When he placed his foot on the steps in front of the chateau, M. de

Meroul said to him with a certain friendly solemnity:

“Now you are at home.”

Joseph Mouradour answered: “Thanks, old fellow; I counted on that. For

my part, besides, I never put myself out with my friends. That's the

only hospitality I understand.”

Then he went up to his own room, where he put on the costume of a

peasant, as he was pleased to describe it, and he came down again not

very long after, attired in blue linen, with yellow boots, in the

careless rig-out of a Parisian out for a holiday. He seemed, too, to

have become more common, more jolly, more familiar, having assumed along

with his would-be rustic garb a free and easy swagger which he thought

suited the style of dress. His new apparel somewhat shocked M. and

Madame de Meroul, who even at home on their estate always remained

serious and respectable, as the particle “de” before their name exacted

a certain amount of ceremonial even with their intimate friends.

After lunch they went to visit the farms; and the Parisian stupefied the

respectable peasants by talking to them as if he were a comrade of

theirs.

In the evening, the curé dined at the house--a fat old priest, wearing

his Sunday suit, who had been specially asked that day in order to meet

the newcomer.

When Joseph saw him he made a grimace, then he stared at the priest in

astonishment as if he belonged to some peculiar race of beings, the like

of which he had never seen before at such close quarters. He told a few

stories allowable enough with a friend after dinner, but apparently

somewhat out of place in the presence of an ecclesiastic. He did not

say, “Monsieur l'Abbé,” but merely “Monsieur”; and he embarrassed the

priest with philosophical views as to the various superstitions that

prevailed on the surface of the globe.

He remarked:

“Your God, Monsieur, is one of those persons whom we must respect, but

also one of those who must be discussed. Mine is called Reason; he has

from time immemorial been the enemy of yours.”

The Merouls, greatly put out, attempted to divert his thoughts. The curé

left very early.

Then the husband gently remarked:

“You went a little too far with that priest.”

But Joseph immediately replied:

“That's a very good joke, too! Am I to bother my brains about a

devil-dodger? At any rate, do me the favor of not ever again having such

an old fogy to dinner. Confound his impudence!”

“But, my friend, remember his sacred character.”

Joseph Mouradour interrupted him:

“Yes, I know. We must treat them like girls who get roses for being well

behaved! That's all right, my boy! When these people respect my

convictions, I will respect theirs!”

This was all that happened that day.

Next morning Madame de Meroul, on entering her drawing-room, saw lying

on the table three newspapers which made her draw back in horror, “Le

Voltaire,” “La République Française,” and “La Justice.”

Presently Joseph Mouradour, still in his blue blouse, appeared on the

threshold, reading “L'Intransigéant” attentively. He exclaimed:

“Here is a splendid article by Rochefort. That fellow is marvelous.”

He read the article in a loud voice, laying so much stress on its most

striking passages that he did not notice the entrance of his friend.

M. de Meroul had a paper in each hand: “Le Gaulois” for himself and “Le

Clarion” for his wife.

The ardent prose of the master-writer who overthrew the empire,

violently declaimed, recited in the accent of the south, rang through

the peaceful drawing-room, shook the old curtains with their rigid

folds, seemed to splash the walls, the large upholstered chairs, the

solemn furniture fixed in the same position for the past century, with a

hail of words, rebounding, impudent, ironical, and crushing.

The husband and the wife, the one standing, the other seated, listened

in a state of stupor, so scandalized that they no longer even ventured

to make a gesture. Mouradour flung out the concluding passage in the

article as one sets off a stream of fireworks; then in an emphatic tone

he remarked:

“That's a stinger, eh?”

But suddenly he perceived the two prints belonging to his friend, and he

seemed himself for a moment overcome with astonishment. Then he came

across to his host with great strides, demanding in an angry tone:

“What do you want to do with these papers?”

M. de. Meroul replied in a hesitating voice:

“Why, these--these are my--my newspapers.”

“Your newspapers! Look here, now, you are only laughing at me! You will

do me the favor to read mine, to stir you up with a few new ideas, and,

as for yours--this is what I do with them--”

And before his host, filled with confusion, could prevent him, he seized

the two newspapers and flung them out through the window. Then he

gravely placed “La Justice” in the hands of Madame de Meroul and “Le

Voltaire” in those of her husband, himself sinking into an armchair to

finish “L'Intransigéant.”

The husband and the wife, through feelings of delicacy, made a show of

reading a little, then they handed back the Republican newspapers which

they touched with their finger-tips as if they had been poisoned.

Then Mouradour burst out laughing, and said:

“A week of this sort of nourishment, and I'll have you converted to my

ideas.”

At the end of a week, in fact, he ruled the house. He had shut the door

on the curé, whom Madame de Meroul went to see in secret. He gave orders

that neither the “Gaulois” nor the “Clarion” were to be admitted into

the house, which a manservant went to get in a mysterious fashion at the

post-office, and which, on his entrance, were hidden away under the sofa

cushions. He regulated everything just as he liked, always charming,

always good-natured, a jovial and all-powerful tyrant.

Other friends were about to come on a visit, religious people with

Legitimist opinions. The master and mistress of the chateau considered

it would be impossible to let them meet their lively guest, and not

knowing what to do, announced to Joseph Mouradour one evening that they

were obliged to go away from home for a few days about a little matter

of business, and they begged of him to remain in the house alone.

He showed no trace of emotion, and replied:

“Very well; 'tis all the same to me; I'll wait here for you as long as

you like. What I say is this--there need be no ceremony between friends.

You're quite right to look after your own affairs--why the devil

shouldn't you? I'll not take offense at your doing that, quite the

contrary. It only makes me feel quite at my ease with you. Go, my

friends--I'll wait for you.”

M. and Madame de Meroul started next morning.

He is waiting for them.

THE BLIND MAN

How is it that the sunlight gives us such joy? Why does this radiance

when it falls on the earth fill us so much with the delight of living?

The sky is all blue, the fields are all green, the houses all white; and

our ravished eyes drink in those bright colors which bring mirthfulness

to our souls. And then there springs up in our hearts a desire to dance,

a desire to run, a desire to sing, a happy lightness of thought, a sort

of enlarged tenderness; we feel a longing to embrace the sun.

The blind, as they sit in the doorways, impassive in their eternal

darkness, remain as calm as ever in the midst of this fresh gaiety, and,

not comprehending what is taking place around them, they continue every

moment to stop their dogs from gamboling.

When, at the close of the day, they are returning home on the arm of a

young brother or a little sister, if the child says: “It was a very fine

day!” the other answers: “I could notice that 'twas fine. Lulu wouldn't

keep quiet.”

I have known one of these men whose life was one of the most cruel

martyrdoms that could possibly be conceived.

He was a peasant, the son of a Norman farmer. As long as his father and

mother lived, he was more or less taken care of; he suffered little save

from his horrible infirmity; but as soon as the old people were gone, a

life of atrocious misery commenced for him. A dependent on a sister of

his, everybody in the farmhouse treated him as a beggar who is eating

the bread of others. At every meal the very food he swallowed was made a

subject of reproach against him; he was called a drone, a clown; and

although his brother-in-law had taken possession of his portion of the

inheritance, the soup was given to him grudgingly--just enough to save

him from dying.

His face was very pale and his two big white eyes were like wafers. He

remained unmoved in spite of the insults inflicted upon him, so shut up

in himself that one could not tell whether he felt them at all.

Moreover, he had never known any tenderness; his mother had always

treated him very unkindly, caring scarcely at all for him; for in

country places the useless are obnoxious, and the peasants would be

glad, like hens, to kill the infirm of their species.

As soon as the soup had been gulped down, he went to the door in summer

time and sat down, to the chimney-corner in winter time, and, after

that, never stirred till night. He made no gesture, no movement; only

his eyelids, quivering from some nervous affection, fell down sometimes

over his white sightless orbs. Had he any intellect, any thinking

faculty, any consciousness of his own existence? Nobody cared to inquire

as to whether he had or no.

For some years things went on in this fashion But his incapacity for

doing anything as well as his impassiveness eventually exasperated his

relatives, and he became a laughing-stock, a sort of martyred buffoon, a

prey given over to native ferocity, to the savage gaiety of the brutes

who surrounded him.

It is easy to imagine all the cruel practical jokes inspired by his

blindness. And, in order to have some fun in return for feeding him,

they now converted his meals into hours of pleasure for the neighbors

and of punishment for the helpless creature himself.

The peasants from the nearest houses came to this entertainment; it was

talked about from door to door, and every day the kitchen of the

farmhouse was full of people. For instance, they put on the table in

front of his plate, when he was beginning to take the soup, a cat or a

dog. The animal instinctively scented out the man's infirmity, and,

softly approaching, commenced eating noiselessly, lapping up the soup

daintily; and, when a rather loud licking of the tongue awakened the

poor fellow's attention, it would prudently scamper away to avoid the

blow of the spoon directed at it by the blind man at random!

Then the spectators, huddled against the walls, burst out laughing,

nudged each other, and stamped their feet on the floor. And he, without

ever uttering a word, would continue eating with the aid of his right

hand, while stretching out his left to protect and defend his plate.

At another time they made him chew corks, bits of wood, leaves, or even

filth, which he was unable to distinguish.

After this, they got tired even of these practical jokes; and the

brother-in-law, mad at having to support him always, struck him, cuffed

him incessantly, laughing at the useless efforts of the other to ward

off or return the blows. Then came a new pleasure--the pleasure of

smacking his face. And the plowmen, the servant-girls, and even every

passing vagabond were every moment giving him cuffs, which caused his

eyelashes to twitch spasmodically. He did not know where to hide himself

and remained with his arms always held out to guard against people

coming too close to him.

At last he was forced to beg.

He was placed somewhere on the highroad on market-days, and, as soon as

he heard the sound of footsteps or the rolling of a vehicle, he reached

out his hat, stammering:

“Charity, if you please!”

But the peasant is not lavish, and, for whole weeks, he did not bring

back a sou.

Then he became the victim of furious, pitiless hatred. And this is how

he died.

One winter, the ground was covered with snow, and it froze horribly. Now

his brother-in-law led him one morning at this season a great distance

along the highroad in order that he might solicit alms. The blind man

was left there all day, and, when night came on, the brother-in-law told

the people of his house that he could find no trace of the mendicant.

Then he added:

“Pooh! best not bother about him! He was cold, and got some one to take

him away. Never fear! he's not lost. He'll turn up soon enough to-morrow

to eat the soup.”

Next day he did not come back.

After long hours of waiting, stiffened with the cold, feeling that he

was dying, the blind man began to walk. Being unable to find his way

along the road, owing to its thick coating of ice, he went on at random,

falling into dikes, getting up again, without uttering a sound, his sole

object being to find some house where he could take shelter.

But by degrees the descending snow made a numbness steal over him, and

his feeble limbs being incapable of carrying him farther, he had to sit

down in the middle of an open field. He did not get up again.

The white flakes which kept continually falling buried him, so that his

body, quite stiff and stark, disappeared under the incessant

accumulation of their rapidly thickening mass; and nothing any longer

indicated the place where the corpse was lying.

His relatives made pretense of inquiring about him and searching for him

for about a week. They even made a show of weeping.

The winter was severe, and the thaw did not set in quickly. Now, one

Sunday, on their way to mass, the farmers noticed a great flight of

crows, who were whirling endlessly above the open field, and then, like

a shower of black rain, descended in a heap at the same spot, ever going

and coming.

The following week these gloomy birds were still there. There was a

crowd of them up in the air, as if they had gathered from all corners of

the horizon; and they swooped down with a great cawing into the shining

snow, which they filled curiously with patches of black, and in which

they kept rummaging obstinately. A young fellow went to see what they

were doing, and discovered the body of the blind man, already half

devoured, mangled. His wan eyes had disappeared, pecked out by the long

voracious beaks.

And I can never feel the glad radiance of sunlit days without sadly

remembering and gloomily pondering over the fate of the beggar so

deprived of joy in life that his horrible death was a relief for all

those who had known him.

THE IMPOLITE SEX

MADAME DE X. TO MADAME DE L.

ETRETAT, Friday.

MY DEAR AUNT,--I am going to pay you a visit without making much fuss

about it. I shall be at Les Fresnes on the second of September, the day

before the hunting season opens; I do not want to miss it, so that I may

tease these gentlemen. You are very obliging, Aunt, and I would like you

to allow them to dine with you, as you usually do when there are no

strange guests, without dressing or shaving for the occasion, on the

ground that they are fatigued.

They are delighted, of course, when I am not present. But I shall be

there, and I shall hold a review, like a general, at the dinner-hour;

and, if I find a single one of them at all careless in dress, no matter

how little, I mean to send him down to the kitchen to the servant-maids.

The men of to-day have so little consideration for others and so little

good manners that one must be always severe with them. We live indeed in

an age of vulgarity. When they quarrel with one another, they attack one

another with insults worthy of street porters, and, in our presence,

they do not conduct themselves even as well as our servants. It is at

the seaside that you see this most clearly. They are to be found there

in battalions, and you can judge them in the lump. Oh, what coarse

beings they are!

Just imagine, in a train, one of them, a gentleman who looked well as I

thought, at first sight, thanks to his tailor, was dainty enough to take

off his boots in order to put on a pair of old shoes! Another, an old

man, who was probably some wealthy upstart (these are the most

ill-bred), while sitting opposite to me, had the delicacy to place his

two feet on the seat quite close to me. This is a positive fact.

At the watering-places, there is an unrestrained outpouring of

unmannerliness. I must here make one admission--that my indignation is

perhaps due to the fact that I am not accustomed to associate as a rule

with the sort of people one comes across here, for I should be less

shocked by their manners if I had the opportunity of observing them

oftener. In the inquiry-office of the hotel I was nearly thrown down by

a young man, who snatched the key over my head. Another knocked against

me so violently without begging my pardon or lifting his hat, coming

away from a ball at the Casino, that he gave me a pain in the chest. It

is the same way with all of them. Watch them addressing ladies on the

terrace: they scarcely ever bow. They merely raise their hands to their

headgear. But indeed, as they are all more or less bald, it is the best

plan.

But what exasperates and disgusts me especially is the liberty they take

of talking publicly, without any precaution whatsoever, about the most

revolting adventures. When two men are together, they relate to each

other, in the broadest language and with the most abominable comments,

really horrible stories, without caring in the slightest degree whether

a woman's ear is within reach of their voices. Yesterday, on the beach,

I was forced to go away from the place where I sat in order not to be

any longer the involuntary confidant of an obscene anecdote, told in

such immodest language that I felt as much humiliated as I was indignant

at having heard it. Would not the most elementary good-breeding have

taught them to speak in a lower tone about such matters when we are near

at hand? Etretat is, moreover, the country of gossip and scandal. From

five to seven o'clock you can see people wandering about in quest of

nasty stories about others, which they retail from group to group. As

you remarked to me, my dear Aunt, tittle-tattle is the mark of petty

individuals and petty minds. It is also the consolation of women who are

no longer loved or sought after. It is enough for me to observe the

women who are fondest of gossiping to be persuaded that you are quite

right.

The other day I was present at a musical evening at the Casino, given by

a remarkable artist, Madame Masson, who sings in a truly delightful

manner. I took the opportunity of applauding the admirable Coquelin, as

well as two charming boarders of the Vaudeville, M---- and Meillet. I

was able, on the occasion, to see all the bathers collected together

this year on the beach. There were not many persons of distinction among

them.

One day I went to lunch at Yport. I noticed a tall man with a beard who

was coming out of a large house like a castle. It was the painter, Jean

Paul Laurens. He is not satisfied apparently with imprisoning the

subjects of his pictures; he insists on imprisoning himself.

Then I found myself seated on the shingle close to a man still young, of

gentle and refined appearance, who was reading some verses. But he read

them with such concentration, with such passion, I may say, that he did

not even raise his eyes toward me. I was somewhat astonished, and I

asked the conductor of the baths, without appearing to be much

concerned, the name of this gentleman. I laughed inwardly a little at

this reader of rhymes: he seemed behind the age, for a man. This person,

I thought, must be a simpleton. Well, Aunt, I am now infatuated about

this stranger. Just fancy, his name is Sully Prudhomme! I turned round

to look at him at my ease, just where I sat. His face possesses the two

qualities of calmness and elegance. As somebody came to look for him, I

was able to hear his voice, which is sweet and almost timid. He would

certainly not tell obscene stories aloud in public, or knock against

ladies without apologizing. He is sure to be a man of refinement, but

his refinement is of an almost morbid, vibrating character. I will try

this winter to get an introduction to him.

I have no more news to tell you, my dear Aunt, and I must interrupt this

letter in haste, as the post-hour is near. I kiss your hands and your

cheeks.

Your devoted niece,

BERTHE DE X.

P.S.--I should add, however, by way of justification of French

politeness, that our fellow-countrymen are, when traveling, models of

good manners in comparison with the abominable English, who seem to have

been brought up by stable-boys, so much do they take care not to

incommode themselves in any way, while they always incommode their

neighbors.

MADAME DE L. TO MADAME DE X.

LES FRESNES, Saturday.

My dear child,--Many of the things you have said to me are very

reasonable, but that does not prevent you from being wrong. Like you, I

used formerly to feel very indignant at the impoliteness of men, who, as

I supposed, constantly treated me with neglect; but, as I grew older and

reflected on everything, putting aside coquetry and observing things

without taking any part in them myself, I perceived this much--that if

men are not always polite, women are always indescribably rude.

We imagine that we should be permitted to do anything, my darling, and

at the same time we consider that we have a right to the utmost respect,

and in the most flagrant manner we commit actions devoid of that

elementary good-breeding of which you speak with passion.

I find, on the contrary, that men have, for us, much consideration, as

compared with our bearing toward them. Besides, darling, men must needs

be, and are, what we make them. In a state of society where women are

all true gentlewomen all men would become gentlemen.

Mark my words; just observe and reflect.

Look at two women meeting in the street. What an attitude each assumes

toward the other! What disparaging looks! What contempt they throw into

each glance! How they toss their heads while they inspect each other to

find something to condemn! And, if the footpath is narrow, do you think

one woman will make room for another, or will beg pardon as she sweeps

by? Never! When two men jostle each other by accident in some narrow

lane, each of them bows and at the same time gets out of the other's

way, while we women press against each other, stomach to stomach, face

to face, insolently staring each other out of countenance.

Look at two women who are acquaintances meeting on a staircase before

the drawing-room door of a friend of theirs to whom one has just paid a

visit, and to whom the other is about to pay a visit. They begin to talk

to each other, and block up the passage. If anyone happens to be coming

up behind them, man or woman, do you imagine that they will put

themselves half an inch out of their way? Never! never!

I was waiting myself, with my watch in my hands, one day last winter, at

a certain drawing-room door. Behind me two gentlemen were also waiting

without showing any readiness to lose their temper, like me. The reason

was that they had long grown accustomed to our unconscionable insolence.

The other day, before leaving Paris, I went to dine with no less a

person than your husband in the Champs-Elysees, in order to enjoy the

open air. Every table was occupied. The waiter asked us not to go, and

there would soon be a vacant table.

At that moment, I noticed an elderly lady of noble figure, who, having

paid the amount of her check, seemed on the point of going away. She saw

me, scanned me from head to foot, and did not budge. For more than a

full quarter of an hour she sat there, immovable, putting on her gloves,

and calmly staring at those who were waiting like myself. Now, two young

men who were just finishing their dinner, having seen me in their turn,

quickly summoned the waiter in order to pay whatever they owed, and at

once offered me their seats, even insisting on standing while waiting

for their change. And, bear in mind, my fair niece, that I am no longer

pretty, like you, but old and white-haired.

It is we (do you see?) who should be taught politeness; and the task

would be such a difficult one that Hercules himself would not be equal

to it. You speak to me about Etretat, and about the people who indulge

in “tittle-tattle” along the beach of that delightful watering-place. It

is a spot now lost to me, a thing of the past, but I found much

amusement there in days gone by.

There were only a few of us, people in good society, really good

society, and a few artists, and we all fraternized. We paid little

attention to gossip in those days.

Well, as we had no insipid Casino, where people only gather for show,

where they talk in whispers, where they dance stupidly, where they

succeed in thoroughly boring one another, we sought some other way of

passing our evenings pleasantly. Now, just guess what came into the head

of one of our husbandry? Nothing less than to go and dance each night in

one of the farmhouses in the neighborhood.

We started out in a group with a street-organ, generally played by Le

Poittevin, the painter, with a cotton nightcap on his head. Two men

carried lanterns. We followed in procession, laughing and chattering

like a pack of fools.

We woke up the farmer and his servant-maids and laboring men. We got

them to make onion-soup (horror!), and we danced under the apple-trees,

to the sound of the barrel-organ. The cocks waking up began to crow in

the darkness of the outhouses; the horses began prancing on the straw of

their stables. The cool air of the country caressed our cheeks with the

smell of grass and of new-mown hay.

How long ago it is! How long ago it is. It is thirty years since then!

I do not want you, my darling, to come for the opening of the hunting

season. Why spoil the pleasure of our friends by inflicting on them

fashionable toilettes after a day of vigorous exercise in the country?

This is the way, child, that men are spoiled. I embrace you.

Your old aunt,

GENEVIEVE DE L.

THE CAKE

Let us say that her name was Madame Anserre so as not to reveal her real

name.

She was one of those Parisian comets which leave, as it were, a trail of

fire behind them. She wrote verses and novels; she had a poetic heart,

and was rarely beautiful. She opened her doors to very few--only to

exceptional people, those who are commonly described as princes of

something or other. To be a visitor at her house constituted a claim, a

genuine claim to intellect: at least this was the estimate set on her

invitations. Her husband played the part of an obscure satellite. To be

the husband of a comet is not an easy thing. This husband had, however,

an original idea, that of creating a State within a State, of possessing

a merit of his own, a merit of the second order, it is true; but he did,

in fact, in this fashion, on the days when his wife held receptions,

hold receptions also on his own account. He had his special set who

appreciated him, listened to him, and bestowed on him more attention

than they did on his brilliant partner.

He had devoted himself to agriculture--to agriculture in the Chamber.

There are in the same way generals in the Chamber--those who are born,

who live, and who die, on the round leather chairs of the War Office,

are all of this sort, are they not? Sailors in the Chamber,--viz., in

the Admiralty,--colonizers in the Chamber, etc., etc. So he had studied

agriculture, had studied it deeply, indeed, in its relations to the

other sciences, to political economy, to the Fine Arts--we dress up the

Fine Arts with every kind of science, and we even call the horrible

railway bridges “works of art.” At length he reached the point when it

was said of him: “He is a man of ability.” He was quoted in the

technical reviews; his wife had succeeded in getting him appointed a

member of a committee at the Ministry of Agriculture.

This latest glory was quite sufficient for him.

Under the pretext of diminishing the expenses, he sent out invitations

to his friends for the day when his wife received hers, so that they

associated together, or rather did not--they formed two distinct groups.

Madame, with her escort of artists, academicians, and ministers,

occupied a kind of gallery, furnished and decorated in the style of the

Empire. Monsieur generally withdrew with his agriculturists into a

smaller portion of the house used as a smoking-room and ironically

described by Madame Anserre as the Salon of Agriculture.

The two camps were clearly separate. Monsieur, without jealousy,

moreover, sometimes penetrated into the Academy, and cordial

hand-shakings were exchanged; but the Academy entertained infinite

contempt for the Salon of Agriculture, and it was rarely that one of the

princes of science, of thought, or of anything else, mingled with the

agriculturists.

These receptions occasioned little expense--a cup of tea, a cake, that

was all. Monsieur, at an earlier period, had claimed two cakes, one for

the Academy, and one for the agriculturists, but Madame having rightly

suggested that this way of acting seemed to indicate two camps, two

receptions, two parties, Monsieur did not press the matter, so that they

used only one cake, of which Madame Anserre did the honors at the

Academy, and which then passed into the Salon de Agriculture.

Now, this cake was soon, for the Academy, a subject of observation well

calculated to arouse curiosity. Madame Anserre never cut it herself.

That function always fell to the lot of one or other of the illustrious

guests. The particular duty, which was supposed to carry with it

honorable distinction, was performed by each person for a pretty long

period, in one case for three months, scarcely ever for more; and it was

noticed that the privilege of “cutting the cake” carried with it a heap

of other marks of superiority--a sort of royalty, or rather very

accentuated viceroyalty.

The reigning cutter spoke in a haughty tone, with an air of marked

command; and all the favors of the mistress of the house were for him

alone.

These happy individuals were in moments of intimacy described in hushed

tones behind doors as the “favorites of the cake,” and every change of

favorite introduced into the Academy a sort of revolution. The knife was

a scepter, the pastry an emblem; the chosen ones were congratulated. The

agriculturists never cut the cake. Monsieur himself was always excluded,

although he ate his share.

The cake was cut in succession by poets, by painters, and by novelists.

A great musician had the privilege of measuring the portions of the cake

for some time; an ambassador succeeded him. Sometimes a man less well

known, but elegant and sought after, one of those who are called

according to the different epochs, “true gentleman,” or “perfect

knight,” or “dandy,” or something else, seated himself, in his turn,

before the symbolic cake. Each of them, during this ephemeral reign,

exhibited greater consideration toward the husband; then, when the hour

of his fall had arrived, he passed on the knife toward the other, and

mingled once more with the crowd of followers and admirers of the

“beautiful Madame Anserre.”

This state of things lasted a long time; but comets do not always shine

with the same brilliance. Everything gets worn out in society. One would

have said that gradually the eagerness of the cutters grew feebler; they

seemed to hesitate at times when the tray was held out to them; this

office, once so much coveted, became less and less desired. It was

retained for a shorter time; they appeared to be less proud of it.

Madame Anserre was prodigal of smiles and civilities. Alas! no one was

found any longer to cut it voluntarily. The newcomers seemed to decline

the honor. The “old favorites” reappeared one by one like dethroned

princes who have been replaced for a brief spell in power. Then, the

chosen ones became few, very few. For a month (oh, prodigy!) M, Anserre

cut open the cake; then he looked as if he were getting tired of it; and

one evening Madame Anserre, the beautiful Madame Anserre, was seen

cutting it herself. But this appeared to be very wearisome to her, and,

next day, she urged one of her guests so strongly to do it that he did

not dare to refuse.

The symbol was too well known, however; the guests stared at one another

with scared, anxious faces. To cut the cake was nothing, but the

privileges to which this favor had always given a claim now frightened

people; therefore, the moment the dish made its appearance the

academicians rushed pellmell into the Salon of Agriculture, as if to

shelter themselves behind the husband, who was perpetually smiling. And

when Madame Anserre, in a state of anxiety, presented herself at the

door with a cake in one hand and the knife in the other, they all seemed

to form a circle around her husband as if to appeal to him for

protection.

Some years more passed. Nobody cut the cake now; but yielding to an old

inveterate habit, the lady who had always been gallantly called “the

beautiful Madame Anserre” looked out each evening for some devotee to

take the knife, and each time the same movement took place around her, a

general flight, skillfully arranged and full of combined maneuvers that

showed great cleverness, in order to avoid the offer that was rising to

her lips.

But, one evening, a young man presented himself at her reception--an

innocent, unsophisticated youth. He knew nothing about the mystery of

the cake; accordingly, when it appeared, and when all the rest ran away,

when Madame Anserre took from the manservant's hands the dish and the

pastry, he remained quietly by her side.

She thought that perhaps he knew about the matter; she smiled, and in a

tone which showed some emotion, said:

“Will you be kind enough, dear Monsieur, to cut this cake?”

He displayed the utmost readiness, and took off his gloves, flattered at

such an honor being conferred on him.

“Oh, to be sure, Madame, with the greatest pleasure.”

Some distance away in the corner of the gallery, in the frame of the

door which led into the Salon of the Agriculturists, faces which

expressed utter amazement were staring at him. Then, when the spectators

saw the newcomer cutting without any hesitation, they quickly came

forward.

An old poet jocosely slapped the neophyte on the shoulder.

“Bravo, young man!” he whispered in his ear.

The others gazed at him with curiosity. Even the husband appeared to be

surprised. As for the young man, he was astonished at the consideration

which they suddenly seemed to show toward him; above all, he failed to

comprehend the marked attentions, the manifest favor, and the species of

mute gratitude which the mistress of the house bestowed on him.

It appears, however, that he eventually found out.

At what moment, in what place, was the revelation made to him? Nobody

could tell; but, when he again presented himself at the reception, he

had a preoccupied air, almost a shamefaced look, and he cast around him

a glance of uneasiness.

The bell rang for tea. The manservant appeared. Madame Anserre, with a

smile, seized the dish, casting a look about her for her young friend;

but he had fled so precipitately that no trace of him could be seen any

longer. Then, she went looking everywhere for him, and ere long she

discovered him in the Salon of the Agriculturists. With his arm locked

in that of the husband, he was consulting that gentleman as to the means

employed for destroying phylloxera.

“My dear Monsieur,” she said to him, “will you be so kind as to cut this

cake for me?”

He reddened to the roots of his hair, and hanging down his head,

stammered out some excuses. Thereupon M. Anserre took pity on him, and

turning toward his wife, said:

“My dear, you might have the goodness not to disturb us. We are talking

about agriculture. So get your cake cut by Baptiste.”

And since that day nobody has ever cut Madame Anserre's cake.

THE CORSICAN BANDIT

The road, with a gentle winding, reached the middle of the forest. The

huge pine-trees spread above our heads a mournful-looking vault, and

gave forth a kind of long, sad wail, while at either side their

straight, slender trunks formed, as it were, an army of organ-pipes,

from which seemed to issue the low, monotonous music of the wind through

the tree-tops.

After three hours' walking there was an opening in this row of tangled

branches. Here and there an enormous pine-parasol, separated from the

others, opening like an immense umbrella, displayed its dome of dark

green; then, all of a sudden, we gained the boundary of the forest, some

hundreds of meters below the defile which leads into the wild valley of

Niolo.

On the two projecting heights which commanded a view of this pass, some

old trees, grotesquely twisted, seemed to have mounted with painful

efforts, like scouts who had started in advance of the multitude heaped

together in the rear. When we turned round we saw the entire forest

stretched beneath our feet, like a gigantic basin of verdure, whose

edges, which seemed to reach the sky, were composed of bare racks

shutting in on every side.

We resumed our walk, and, ten minutes later, we found ourselves in the

defile.

Then I beheld an astonishing landscape. Beyond another forest, a valley,

but a valley such as I had never seen before, a solitude of stone ten

leagues long, hollowed out between two high mountains, without a field

or a tree to be seen. This was the Niolo valley, the fatherland of

Corsican liberty, the inaccessible citadel, from which the invaders had

never been able to drive out the mountaineers.

My companion said to me: “It is here, that all our bandits have taken

refuge.”

Ere long we were at the further end of this chasm, so wild, so

inconceivably beautiful.

Not a blade of grass, not a plant--nothing but granite. As far as our

eyes could reach we saw in front of us a desert of glittering stone,

heated like an oven by a burning sun which seemed to hang for that very

purpose right above the gorge. When we raised our eyes toward the crests

we stood dazzled and stupefied by what we saw. They looked red and

notched like festoons of coral, for all the summits are made of

porphyry; and the sky overhead seemed violet, lilac, discolored by the

vicinity of these strange mountains. Lower down the granite was of

scintillating gray, and under our feet it seemed rasped, pounded; we

were walking over shining powder. At our right, along a long and

irregular course, a tumultuous torrent ran with a continuous roar. And

we staggered along under this heat, in this light, in this burning,

arid, desolate valley cut by this ravine of turbulent water which seemed

to be ever hurrying onward, without being able to fertilize these rocks,

lost in this furnace which greedily drank it up without being penetrated

or refreshed by it.

But suddenly there was visible at our right a little wooden cross sunk

in a little heap of stones. A man had been killed there; and I said to

my companion:

“Tell me about your bandits.”

He replied:

“I knew the most celebrated of them, the terrible St. Lucia. I will tell

you his history.

“His father was killed in a quarrel by a young man of the same district,

it is said; and St. Lucia was left alone with his sister. He was a weak

and timid youth, small, often ill, without any energy. He did not

proclaim the _vendetta_ against the assassin of his father. All his

relatives came to see him, and implored of him to take vengeance; he

remained deaf to their menaces and their supplications.

“Then, following the old Corsican custom, his sister, in her

indignation, carried away his black clothes, in order that he might not

wear mourning for a dead man who had not been avenged. He was insensible

to even this outrage, and rather than take down from the rack his

father's gun, which was still loaded, he shut himself up, not daring to

brave the looks of the young men of the district.

“He seemed to have even forgotten the crime, and he lived with his

sister in the obscurity of their dwelling.

“But, one day, the man who was suspected of having committed the murder

was about to get married. St. Lucia did not appear to be moved by this

news; but, no doubt out of sheer bravado, the bridegroom, on his way to

the church, passed before the two orphans' house.

“The brother and the sister, at their window, were eating little fried

cakes when the young man saw the bridal procession moving past the

house. Suddenly he began to tremble, rose up without uttering a word,

made the sign of the cross, took the gun which was hanging over the

fireplace, and went out.

“When he spoke of this later on, he said: 'I don't know what was the

matter with me; it was like fire in my blood; I felt that I should do

it, that in spite of everything, I could not resist, and I concealed the

gun in a cave on the road to Corte.'

“An hour later, he came back, with nothing in his hand, and with his

habitual sad air of weariness. His sister believed that there was

nothing further in his thoughts.

“But when night fell he disappeared.

“His enemy had, the same evening, to repair to Corte on foot,

accompanied by his two bridesmen.

“He was pursuing his way, singing as he went, when St. Lucia stood

before him, and looking straight in the murderer's face, exclaimed: 'Now

is the time!' and shot him point-blank in the chest.

“One of the bridesmen fled; the other stared at the young man, saying:

“'What have you done, St. Lucia?'

“Then he was going to hasten to Corte for help, but St. Lucia said in a

stern tone:

“'If you move another step, I'll shoot you through the legs.'

“The other, aware that till now he had always appeared timid, said to

him: 'You would not dare to do it!' and he was hurrying off when he

fell, instantaneously, his thigh shattered by a bullet.

“And St. Lucia, coming over to where he lay, said:

“'I am going to look at your wound; if it is not serious, I'll leave you

there; if it is mortal, I'll finish you off.'

“He inspected the wound, considered it mortal, and slowly re-loading his

gun, told the wounded man to say a prayer, and shot him through the

head.

“Next day he was in the mountains.

“And do you know what this St. Lucia did after this?

“All his family were arrested by the gendarmes. His uncle, the curé, who

was suspected of having incited him to this deed of vengeance, was

himself put into prison, and accused by the dead man's relatives. But he

escaped, took a gun in his turn, and went to join his nephew in the

cave.

“Next, St. Lucia killed, one after the other, his uncle's accusers, and

tore out their eyes to teach the others never to state what they had

seen with their eyes.

“He killed all the relatives, all the connections of his enemy's family.

He massacred during his life fourteen gendarmes, burned down the houses

of his adversaries, and was up to the day of his death the most terrible

of the bandits, whose memory we have preserved.”

* * * * *

The sun disappeared behind Monte Cinto and the tall shadow of the

granite mountain went to sleep on the granite of the valley. We

quickened our pace in order to reach before night the little village of

Albertaccio, nothing better than a heap of stones welded beside the

stone flanks of a wild gorge. And I said as I thought of the bandit:

“What a terrible custom your _vendetta_ is!”

My companion answered with an air of resignation:

“What would you have? A man must do his duty!”

THE DUEL

In society, they called him “The handsome Signoles.” He called himself

Viscount Gontran Joseph de Signoles.

An orphan and master of a sufficient fortune, he cut something of a

figure, as the saying is. He had an attractive form, enough readiness of

speech to make some attempt at wit, a certain natural grace of manner,

an air of nobility and pride, and a mustache which was both formidable

and pleasant to the eye--a thing that pleases the ladies.

He was in demand in drawing-rooms, sought for by waltzers, and he

inspired in men that smiling enmity which one has for people of

energetic physique. He was suspected of some love affairs which showed

him capable of much discretion, for a young man. He lived happy,

tranquil, in a state of moral well-being most complete. It was well

known that he was good at handling a sword, and still better with a

pistol.

“If I were to fight,” he said, “I should choose a pistol. With that

weapon, I am sure of killing my man.”

Now, one evening, having escorted two young women, friends of his, to

the theater, being also accompanied by their husbands, he offered them,

after the play, an ice at Tortoni's. They had been there about ten

minutes, when he perceived that a gentleman, seated at a neighboring

table, gazed persistently at one of the ladies of his party. She seemed

troubled and disturbed, lowering her eyes. Finally, she said to her

husband:

“That man is staring me out of countenance. I do not know him; do you?”

The husband, who had seen nothing, raised his eyes but declared:

“No, not at all.”

The young woman replied, half laughing, half angry: “It is very

annoying; that individual is spoiling my ice.”

The husband shrugged his shoulders, replying:

“Pshaw! Pay no attention to him. If we were to notice all the insolent

people we meet, there would be no end to it.”

But the Viscount arose brusquely. He could not allow this unknown man to

spoil an ice he had offered. It was to him that the injury was

addressed, as it was through him and for him that his friends had

entered this _café_. The affair, then, concerned him only. He advanced

toward the man and said to him:

“You have, sir, a manner of looking at these ladies that is not to be

tolerated. I beg to ask you to cease this attention.”

The other replied: “So you command me to keep the peace, do you?”

With set teeth, the Viscount answered: “Take care, sir, or you will

force me to forget myself!”

The gentleman replied with a single word, an obscene word which

resounded from one end of the _café_ to the other, and made each guest

start with a sudden movement as if they were all on springs. Those that

were in front turned around; all the others raised their heads; three

waiters turned about on their heels as if on pivots; the two ladies at

the counter bounded forward, then entirely turned their backs upon the

scene, as if they had been two automatons obeying the same manipulation.

There was a great silence. Then, suddenly, a sharp noise rent the air.

The Viscount had struck his adversary. Everybody got up to interpose.

Cards were exchanged.

After the Viscount had returned home, he walked up and down his room at

a lively pace for some minutes. He was too much agitated to reflect upon

anything. One idea only hovered over his mind: “a duel”; and yet this

idea awoke in him as yet, no emotion whatever. He had done what he ought

to do; he had shown himself what he ought to be. People would talk of

it, approve of it, and congratulate him. He said aloud, in a high voice,

as one speaks when he is much troubled in thought:

“What a beast that man is.”

Then he sat down and began to reflect. He would have to find some

seconds in the morning. Whom should he choose? He thought over the

people of his acquaintance who were the most celebrated and in the best

positions. He took finally, Marquis de la Tour-Noire and Colonel

Bourdin, a great lord and a soldier who was very strong. Their names

would carry in the journals. He perceived that he was thirsty and he

drank, one after the other, three glasses of water; then he began to

walk again. He felt himself full of energy. By showing himself

hot-brained, resolute in all things, by exacting rigorous, dangerous

conditions, and by claiming a serious duel, a very serious one, his

adversary would doubtless withdraw and make some excuses.

He took up the card which he had drawn from his pocket and thrown upon

the table and re-read it as he had in the _café,_ by a glance of the

eye, and again in the cab, on returning home, by the light of a gas jet:

“George Lamil, 51 Moncey street.” That was all.

He examined these assembled letters which appeared so mysterious to him,

his senses all confused: George Lamil? Who was this man? What had he

done? Why had he looked at that woman in such a way? Was it not

revolting that a stranger, an unknown should come to trouble his life

thus, at a blow, because he had been pleased to fix his insolent gaze

upon a woman? And the Viscount repeated again, in a loud voice:

“What a brute.”

Then he remained motionless, standing, thinking, his look ever fixed

upon the card. A certain anger against this piece of paper was awakened

in him, a hateful anger which was mingled with a strange sentiment of

malice. It was stupid, this whole story! He took a penknife which lay

open at his hand, and pricked the card through the middle of-the printed

name, as if he were using a poignard upon some one.

So he must fight! Should he choose the sword or pistol, for he

considered himself the insulted one. With the sword he risked less; but

with the pistol, there was a chance of his adversary withdrawing. It is

rarely that a duel with the sword is mortal, a reciprocal prudence

hindering the combatants from keeping near enough to each other for the

point to strike very deep; with the pistol he risked his life very

seriously; but he could also meet the affair with all the honors of the

situation and without arriving at a meeting. He said aloud:

“It is necessary to be firm. He will be afraid.”

The sound of his own voice made him tremble and he began to look about

him. He felt very nervous. He drank still another glass of water, then

commenced to undress, preparatory to retiring.

When he was ready, he put out his light and closed his eyes. Then he

thought:

“I have all day to-morrow to busy myself with my affairs. I must sleep

first, in order to be calm.”

He was very warm under the clothes, but he could not succeed in falling

asleep. He turned and turned again, remained for five minutes upon his

back, then placed himself upon his left side, then rolled over to the

right.

He was still thirsty. He got up and drank. Then a kind of disquiet

seized him:

“Can it be that I am afraid?” said he.

Why should his heart begin to beat so foolishly at each of the customary

noises about his room?--when the clock was going to strike and the

spring made that little grinding noise as it raised itself to make the

turn? And he found it was necessary for him to open his mouth in order

to breathe for some seconds following this start, so great was his

feeling of oppression. He began to reason with himself upon the

possibilities of the thing:

“What have I to fear?”

No, certainly, he should not fear, since he was resolved to follow it

out to the end and since he had fully made up his mind to fight without

a qualm. But he felt himself so profoundly troubled that he asked

himself:

“Can it be that I am afraid in spite of myself?”

And this doubt invaded him, this disquiet, this fear; if a force more

powerful than his will, dominating, irresistible, should conquer him,

what would happen to him? Yes, what would happen? Certainly he could

walk upon the earth, if he wished to go there. But if he should tremble?

And if he should lose consciousness? And he thought of his situation, of

his reputation, of his name.

And a singular desire took possession of him to get up and look at

himself in the glass. He relighted his candle. When he perceived his

face reflected in the polished glass, he scarcely knew himself, and it

seemed to him that he had never seen himself before. His eyes appeared

enormous; he was pale, certainly; he was pale, very pale.

He remained standing there before the mirror. He put out his tongue as

if to examine the state of his health, and suddenly this thought entered

his brain after the fashion of a bullet:

“After to-morrow at this time, I shall perhaps be dead.”

And his heart began to beat furiously.

“After to-morrow at this time, I shall perhaps be dead. This person

opposite me, this being I have so often seen in this glass, will be no

more. How can it be! I am here, I see myself, I feel that I am alive,

and in twenty-four hours I shall be stretched upon that bed, dead, my

eyes closed, cold, inanimate, departed.”

He turned around to the bed and distinctly saw himself stretched on his

back in the same clothes he had worn on going out. In his face were the

lines of death, and a rigidity in the hands that would never stir again.

Then a fear of his bed came over him, and in order to see it no more he

passed into his smoking-room. Mechanically he took a cigar, lighted it,

and began to walk about. He was cold. He went toward the bell to waken

his valet; but he stopped with his hand on the cord:

“This man would perceive at once that I am afraid.”

He did not ring, but made a fire. His hands trembled a little from a

nervous shiver when they came in contact with any object. His mind

wandered; his thoughts from trouble became frightened, hasty, and

sorrowful; an intoxication seemed to invade his mind as if he were

drunk. And without ceasing he asked:

“What am I going to do? What is going to become of me?”

His whole body was vibrating, traversed by a jerking and a trembling; he

got up and approached the window, opening the curtains.

The day had dawned, a summer day. A rose-colored sky made the city rosy

on roof and wall. A great fall of spread out light, like a caress from

the rising sun, enveloped the waking world; and, with this light, a gay,

rapid, brutal hope invaded the heart of the Viscount! He was a fool to

allow himself to be thus cast down by fear, even before anything was

decided, before his witnesses had seen those of this George Lamil,

before he yet knew whether he were going to fight a duel.

He made his toilette, dressed himself, and walked out with firm step.

He repeated constantly, in walking: “It will be necessary for me to be

energetic, very energetic. I must prove that I am not afraid.”

His witnesses, the Marquis and the Colonel, placed themselves at his

disposal and, after having shaken hands with him energetically,

discussed the conditions. The Colonel asked:

“Do you wish it to be a serious duel?”

The Viscount responded: “Very serious.”

The Marquis continued: “Will you use a pistol?”

“Yes.”

“We leave you free to regulate the rest.”

The Viscount enunciated, in a dry, jerky voice:

“Twenty steps at the order, and on raising the arm instead of lowering

it. Exchange of bullets until one is grievously wounded.”

The Colonel declared, in a satisfied tone:

“These are excellent conditions. You shoot well, all the chances are in

your favor.”

They separated. The Viscount returned home to wait for them. His

agitation, appeased, for a moment, grew now from minute to minute. He

felt along his arms, his legs, and in his breast a kind of trembling, of

continued vibration; he could not keep still, either sitting or

standing. There was no longer an appearance of saliva in his mouth, and

each instant he made a noisy movement with his tongue, as if to unglue

it from the roof of his mouth.

He wished to breakfast but he could not eat. Then the idea came to him

of drinking to give himself courage and he brought out a small bottle of

rum, which he swallowed in six little glasses, one after the other.

A heat, like that of a burning fire, invaded him, followed almost

immediately by a numbness of the soul. He thought:

“I have found the remedy. Now all goes well.”

But at the end of an hour, he had emptied the bottle and his state of

agitation became intolerable. He felt a foolish impulse to roll on the

ground, to cry out and bite. Then night fell.

A stroke of the bell gave him such a shock that he had not sufficient

strength left to rise and receive his witnesses. He dared not even speak

to them to say “Good evening,” to pronounce a single word, for fear that

they would discover a change in his voice.

The Colonel announced:

“All is arranged according to the conditions that you have fixed upon.

Your adversary claimed the privileges of the offended, but he soon

yielded and accepted all. His witnesses are two military men.”

The Viscount pronounced the word:

“Thanks.”

The Marquis continued:

“Excuse us if we only come in and go out, for we have still a thousand

things to occupy our attention. A good doctor will be necessary, since

the combat is only to cease after a severe wound, and you know that

bullets are no trifles. Then, a place must be found, in some proximity

to a house, where we may carry the wounded, if necessary, etc., etc.;

finally, we have but two or three hours for it.”

The Viscount, for the second time, articulated:

“Thanks.”

The Colonel asked:

“How is it with you? Are you calm?”

“Yes, very calm, thank you.”

The two men then retired.

When he again found himself alone, it seemed to him that he was mad. His

domestic having lighted the lamps, he seated himself before his table to

write some letters. After having traced, at the top of a page: “This is

my testament--” he arose with a shake and put it away from him, feeling

himself incapable of forming two ideas, or of sufficient resolution to

decide what was to be done.

So he was going to fight a duel! There was no way to avoid it. How could

he ever go through it? He wished to fight, it was his intention and firm

resolution so to do; and yet, he felt, that in spite of all his effort

of mind and all the tension of his will, he would not be able to

preserve even the necessary force to go to the place of meeting. He

tried to imagine the combat, his own attitude, and the position of his

adversary.

From time to time, his teeth chattered in his mouth with a little hard

noise. He tried to read, and took down the Chateauvillard code of

dueling. Then he asked himself:

“Has my opponent frequently fought? Is he known? Is he classed? How am I

to know?”

He remembered Baron de Vaux's book upon experts with the pistol, and he

ran through it from one end to the other. George Lamil was not

mentioned. Nevertheless, if this man were not an expert, he would not so

readily have accepted this dangerous weapon and these mortal conditions.

He opened, in passing, a box of Gastinne Renettes which stood on a

little stand, took out one of the pistols, held it in a position to

fire, and raised his arm. But he trembled from head to foot and the gun

worked upon all his senses.

Then he said: “It is impossible. I cannot fight in this condition.”

He looked at the end of the barrel, at that little black, deep hole that

spits out death, he thought of the dishonor, of the whisperings in his

circle, of the laughs in the drawing-rooms, of the scorn of the ladies,

of the allusions of the journals, of all the insults that cowards would

throw at him.

He continued to examine the weapon, and, raising the cock, he suddenly

saw a priming glittering underneath like a little red flame. The pistol

was loaded then, through a chance forgetfulness. And he found in this

discovery a confused, inexplicable joy.

If in the presence of the other man he did not have that calm, noble

bearing that he should have, he would be lost forever. He would be

spotted, branded with the sign of infamy, hunted from the world! And

this calm, heroic bearing he would not have, he knew it, he felt it.

However, he was brave, since he did wish to fight! He was brave,

since.... The thought that budded never took form, even in his own mind;

for, opening his mouth wide he brusquely thrust the barrel of his pistol

into his throat, and pulled the trigger....

When his valet, hearing the report, hastened to him, he found him dead

upon his back. A jet of blood had splashed upon the white paper on the

table and made a great red spot upon these four words:

“This is my testament.”