CHAPTER XI

FOOTNOTES

PREFACE

'La Joie de Vivre,' here translated as 'The Joy of Life,' was written

by M. Zola in 1883, partly at his country house at Médan, and partly

at Bénodet, a little seaside place in Brittany. The scene of the

story is laid, however, on the coast of the neighbouring province of

Normandy, between the mouth of the Orne and the rocks of Grandcamp,

where the author had sojourned, more than once, in previous years. The

title selected by him for this book is to be taken in an ironical or

sarcastic sense. There is no joy at all in the lives of the characters

whom he portrays in it. The story of the 'hero' is one of mental

weakness, poisoned by a constantly recurring fear of death; whilst

that of his father is one of intense physical suffering, blended with

an eager desire to continue living, even at the cost of yet greater

torture. Again, the story of the heroine is one of blighted affections,

the wrecking of all which might have made her life worth living.

And there is a great deal of truth in the various pictures of human

existence which are thus presented to us; however much some people, in

their egregious vanity, may recoil from the idea that life and love and

talent and glory are all very poor and paltry things.

M. Zola is not usually a pessimist. One finds many of his darkest

pictures relieved by a touch of hopefulness; but there is extremely

little in the pages of 'La Joie de Vivre,' which is essentially an

analysis of human suffering and misery. Nevertheless, the heroine,

Pauline Quenu, the daughter of the Quenus who figure largely in 'Le

Ventre de Paris' ('The Fat and the Thin'), is a beautiful, touching,

and almost consolatory creature. She appears to the reader as the

embodiment of human abnegation and devotion. Her guardians rob her,

but she scarcely heeds it; her lover Lazare, their son, discards her

for another woman, but she forgives him. It is she who infuses life

into the lungs of her rival's puny babe; and when Lazare yields to

his horrible fear of death it is she who tries to comfort him, who

endeavours to dispel the gloomy thoughts which poison his hours.

No sacrifice is too great for her--money, love, she relinquishes

everything, in the vain hope of securing a transient happiness for the

man to whom she has given her heart. At times, no doubt, she yearns for

his affection, she experiences momentary weaknesses, but her spirit is

strong, and it invariably triumphs over her rebellious flesh.

Lazare, on the other hand, is one of those wretched beings whose

number seems to be constantly increasing in our midst, the product

of our corrupt civilisation, our grotesque educational systems, our

restlessness and thirst for wealth, our thousand vices and our blatant

hypocrisy. At the same time he is a talented young fellow, as are so

many of the wretched _décadents_ of nowadays; and 'something more

or something less' in his brain might have turned his talent into

genius. In this respect, indeed, he suggests another of M. Zola's

characters, Claude Lantier, the painter of 'L'Œuvre'; but he is far

weaker than was Claude, whose insanity sprang from his passion for his

art, whereas Lazare's mental disorder is the fruit of that lack, both

of will-power and of the spirit of perseverance, which always becomes

manifest in decaying races. Briefly, he is a type of the talented,

versatile, erratic weakling--a variety of what Paris expressively calls

the _arriviste_, who loomed so largely through the final years of the

last century, and who by force of numbers, not of power, threatens to

dominate the century which has just begun.

In one respect Lazare differs greatly from Claude Lantier. Claude's

insanity drove him to suicide, but Lazare shrinks from the idea of

annihilation. His whole life indeed is blighted by the unreasoning fear

of death to which I have previously alluded. In the brightest moments

of Lazare's existence, in the broad sunshine, amid the fairest scenes

of Nature, in the very transports of love, as in moments of anxiety

and bereavement, and as in the gloom, the silence, and the solitude

of night, the terrible, ever-recurring thought flashes on him: 'My

God, my God, so one must die!' In the course of years this dread is

intensified by the death of his mother and his old dog; and neither

of the women who love him--the devoted Pauline, whom he discards, and

the puppet Louise, whom he marries--can dispel it. The pious may argue

that this fear of death is only natural on the part of an unbeliever,

and that the proper course for Lazare to have pursued was to have

sought the consolation of religion. But they have only to visit a few

lunatic asylums to find in them extremely devout patients, who, whilst

believing in a resurrection and a future life, nevertheless dread

death quite as keenly as Lazare Chanteau did. Indeed, this fear of

dissolution constitutes a well-known and perfectly defined disorder of

the brain, rebellious alike to scientific and to spiritual treatment.

By the side of Lazare and Pauline 'La Joie de Vivre' shows us the

former's parents. There is Lazare's mother, who despoils and wrongs

Pauline for his benefit, who lives a life of sour envy, and who dies a

wretched death, fearful of punishment. And there is his father, whose

only thought is his stomach, and who, as I have mentioned, clings

despairingly to a semblance of life amid the direst physical anguish.

Louise, whom Lazare marries, is a skilfully drawn type of the weak,

pretty, scented, coquettish, frivolous woman, who seems to have been

with us ever since the world began, the woman to whom men are drawn

by a perversion of natural instincts, and whom they need, perhaps, in

order that in their saner moments they may the better appreciate the

qualities of those few who resemble Pauline. As for the subordinate

characters of the story, the grumpy Norman servant, though of a type

often met with in M. Zola's stories, is perhaps the best, the various

changes in her disposition towards the heroine being described with

great fidelity to human nature. Then the rough but kind-hearted old

doctor, the sturdy, tolerant priest, the artful and vicious village

children, are all admirably delineated by M. Zola, and grouped around

the central figures in such wise as to add to the truth, interest, and

impressiveness of his narrative. And, painful as the tale at times may

be, it is perhaps as well, in these days of pride and vanity, that one

should be recalled now and again to a sense of the abject grovelling

which unhappily characterises such a vast number of human lives. It may

slightly console one, no doubt, to remember that there are at least

some Paulines among us. But then, how few they are, and how numerous on

the other hand are the men like Lazare and the women like his mother!

When all is considered, judging by what one sees around one every day,

one is forced to the conclusion that this diseased world of ours makes

extremely little progress towards real sanity and health.

E. A. V.

MERTON, SURREY.

THE JOY OF LIFE

I

When the cuckoo-clock in the dining-room struck six, Chanteau lost all

hope. He rose with a painful effort from the arm-chair in which he was

sitting, warming his heavy, gouty legs before a coke fire. Ever since

two o'clock he had been awaiting the arrival of Madame Chanteau, who,

after five weeks' absence, was to-day expected to bring from Paris

their little cousin, Pauline Quenu, an orphan girl, ten years of age,

whose guardianship they had undertaken.

'I can't understand it at all, Véronique,' he said, opening the

kitchen-door. 'Some accident must have happened to them.'

The cook, a tall stout woman of five-and-thirty, with hands like a

man's and a face like a gendarme's, was just removing from the fire a

leg of mutton, which seemed in imminent danger of being over-done. She

did not express her irritation in words, but the pallor of her usually

ruddy cheeks betokened her displeasure.

'Madame has, no doubt, stayed in Paris,' she said curtly, 'looking

after that endless business which is putting us all topsy-turvy.'

'No! no!' answered Chanteau. 'The letter we had yesterday evening said

that the little girl's affairs were completely settled. Madame was to

arrive this morning at Caen, where she intended making a short stay to

see Davoine. At one o'clock she was to take the train again; at two she

would alight at Bayeux; at three, old Malivoire's coach would put her

down at Arromanches. Even if Malivoire wasn't ready to start at once,

Madame ought to have been here by four o'clock, or by half-past at the

latest. There are scarcely six miles from Arromanches to Bonneville.'

The cook kept her eyes fixed on the joint, and only shook her head

while these calculations were thrown at her. After some little

hesitation Chanteau added: 'I think you had better go to the corner of

the road and look if you can see anything of them, Véronique.'

She glared at him, growing still paler with suppressed anger.

'Why? What for? Monsieur Lazare is already out there, getting drenched

in looking for them: and what's the good of my going and getting wet

through also?'

'The truth is,' murmured Chanteau, softly, 'that I am beginning to

feel a little uneasy about my son as well. He ought to have been back

by this time. What can he have been doing out on the road for the last

hour?'

Without vouchsafing any answer Véronique took from a nail an old black

woollen shawl, which she threw over her head and shoulders. Then, as

she saw her master following her into the passage, she said to him,

rather snappishly: 'Go back to your fire, if you don't want to be

bellowing with pain to-morrow.'

She shut the door with a bang, and put on her clogs while standing on

the steps and crying out to the wind:

'The horrid little brat! Putting us to all this trouble!'

Chanteau's composure remained perfect. He was accustomed to Véronique's

ebullitions of temper. She had entered his service in the first year

of his married life, when she was but a girl of fifteen. As soon as

the sound of her clogs had died away, he bolted off like a schoolboy,

and planted himself at the other end of the passage, before a glass

door which overlooked the sea. There he stood for a moment, gazing

at the sky with his blue eyes. He was a short, stout man, with thick

closely-cut white hair. He was scarcely fifty-six years old, but gout,

to which he was a martyr, had prematurely aged him.

Just then he was feeling anxious and troubled, and hoped that little

Pauline would be able to win Véronique's affection. But was it his

fault that she was coming? When the Paris notary had written to

tell him that his cousin Quenu, whose wife had died some six months

previously, had just died also, charging him in his will with the

guardianship of his little daughter, he had not felt able to refuse

the trust. It was true they had not seen much of one another, as

the family had been dispersed. Chanteau's father, after leaving the

South and wandering all over France as a journeyman carpenter, had

established a timber-yard at Caen; while, on the other hand, Quenu,

at his mother's death, had gone to Paris, where one of his uncles had

subsequently given him a flourishing pork-butcher's business, in the

very centre of the market district.[1] They had only met each other

some two or three times, on occasions when Chanteau had been compelled

by his gout to quit his business and repair to Paris for special

medical advice. But the two men had ever had a genuine respect for one

another, and the dying father had probably thought that the sea air

would be beneficial to his daughter. The girl, too, as the heiress of

the pork-butcher's business, would certainly be no charge upon them.

Madame Chanteau, indeed, had fallen so heartily into the scheme that

she had insisted upon saving her husband all the dangerous fatigue of

the journey to Paris. Setting off alone and bustling about she had

settled everything, in her perpetual craving for activity; and Chanteau

was quite contented so long as his wife was pleased.

But what could be detaining the pair of them? Anxiety seized him again,

as he looked out upon the dark sky, over which the west wind was

driving huge masses of black clouds, like sooty rags whose tattered

ends draggled far away into the sea. It was one of those March gales,

when the equinoctial tides beat furiously upon the shores. The flux was

only just setting in, and all that could be seen of it was a thin white

bar of foam, far away towards the horizon. The wide expanse of bare

beach, a league of rocks and gloomy seaweed, its level surface blotched

here and there with dark pools, had a weirdly melancholy aspect as it

lay stretched out beneath the quickly increasing darkness that fell

from the black clouds scudding across the skies.

'Perhaps the wind has overturned them into some ditch,' murmured

Chanteau.

He felt constrained to go out and look. He opened the glass door,

and ventured in his list-slippers on to the gravelled terrace which

commanded a view of the village. A few drops of rain were dashed

against his face by the hurricane, and a terrific gust made his thick

blue woollen dressing-jacket flap and flap again. But he struggled on,

bareheaded and bending down, and at last reached the parapet, over

which he leaned while glancing at the road that ran beneath. This

road descended between two steep cliffs, and looked almost as though

it had been hewn out of the solid rock to afford a resting-place for

the twenty or thirty hovels of which Bonneville consisted. Every

tide threatened to hurl the houses from their narrow shingle-strewn

anchorage and crush them against the rocky cliff. To the left there was

a little landing-place, a mere strip of sand, whither amid rhythmic

calls men hoisted up some half-score boats. The inhabitants did not

number more than a couple of hundred souls. They made a bare living out

of the sea, clinging to their native rocks with all the unreasoning

persistence of limpets. And on the cliffs above their miserable roofs,

which every winter were battered by the storms, there was nothing to be

seen except the church, standing about half-way up on the right, and

the Chanteaus' house across the cleft on the other hand. Bonneville

contained nothing more.

'What dreadful weather it is!' cried a voice.

Chanteau raised his head and recognised the priest, Abbé Horteur,

a thick-set man of peasant-like build, whose red hair was still

unsilvered by his fifty years. He used a plot of graveyard land in

front of the church as a vegetable garden, and was now examining his

early salad plants, tucking his cassock the while between his legs in

order to prevent the wind from blowing it over his head. Chanteau, who

could not make himself heard amidst the roaring of the gale, contented

himself with waving his hand.

'They are doing right in getting their boats up, I think,' shouted the

priest.

But just then a gust of wind caught hold of his cassock and wrapt it

round his head, so he fled for refuge behind the church.

Chanteau turned round to escape the violence of the blast. With his

eyes streaming with moisture he cast a glance at his garden, over which

the spray was sweeping, and the brick-built two-storeyed house with

five windows, whose shutters seemed in imminent danger of being torn

away from their fastenings. When the sudden squall had subsided, he

bent down again to look at the road; and just at that moment Véronique

returned. She shook her hands at him.

'What! you have actually come out!--Be good enough to go into the house

again at once, sir!'

She caught him up in the passage, and scolded him like a child detected

in wrong-doing. Wouldn't she have all the trouble of looking after him

in the morning when he suffered agonies of pain from his indiscretion?

'Have you seen nothing of them?' he asked, submissively.

'No, indeed, I have seen nothing--Madame is no doubt taking shelter

somewhere.'

He dared not tell her that she should have gone further on. However, he

was now beginning to feel especially anxious about his son.

'I saw that all the neighbourhood was being blown into the air,'

continued the cook. 'They are quite afraid of being done for this time.

Last September the Cuches' house was cracked from top to bottom, and

Prouane, who was going up to the church to ring the _Angelus_, has just

told me that he is sure it will topple over before morning.'

Just as she spoke a big lad of nineteen sprang up the three steps

before the door. He had a spreading brow and sparkling eyes, and a fine

chestnut down fringed his long oval face.

'Ah! here's Lazare at last!' said Chanteau, feeling much relieved. 'How

wet you are, my poor boy!'

In the passage the young man hung his hooded cloak, which was quite

saturated with sea-water.

'Well?' interrogated his father.

'I can see nothing of them,' replied Lazare. 'I have been as far as

Verchemont, and waited under the shed at the inn there, and kept my

eyes on the road, which is a river of mud. But I could see no sign of

them. Then, as I began to feel afraid that you might get uneasy about

me, I came back.'

The previous August Lazare had left the College of Caen, after gaining

his Bachelor's degree; and for the last eight months he had been

roaming about the cliffs, unable to make any choice of a profession,

for he only felt enthusiastic about music, a predisposition which

distressed his mother extremely. She had gone away very much displeased

with him, as he had refused to accompany her to Paris, where she had

thought she might be able to place him in some advantageous position.

'Now that I have let you know I am all right,' the young man resumed,

'I should like to go on to Arromanches.'

'No, no! it is getting late,' said Chanteau. 'We shall be having some

news of your mother presently. I am expecting a message every moment.

Listen! Isn't that a carriage?'

Véronique had gone to open the door.

'It is Doctor Cazenove's gig,' she said. 'Shall I bring him in, sir?

Why! good gracious! there's madame in it!'

They all three hurried down the steps. A huge dog, a cross between a

sheep-dog and a Newfoundland, who had been lying asleep in a corner of

the passage, sprang forward and began to bark furiously. Upon hearing

this barking, a small white cat of delicate aspect made its way to the

door, but, at the sight of the wet and dirt outside, it gave a slight

wriggle of disgust with its tail, and sat down very sedately on the top

step to see what was going to happen.

A lady about fifty years of age sprang from the gig with all the

agility of a young girl. She was short and slight, her hair was still

perfectly black, and her face would have been quite pleasant but for

the largeness of her nose. The dog sprang forward and placed his big

paws on her shoulders, as though he wanted to kiss her; but this

displeased her.

'Down! down! Matthew. Get away, will you? Tiresome animal!'

Lazare ran across the yard behind the dog, calling as he went, 'All

right, mother?'

'Yes, yes!' replied Madame Chanteau.

'We have been very anxious about you,' said Chanteau, who had followed

his son, in spite of the wind. 'What has happened to make you so late?'

'Oh! we've had nothing but troubles,' she answered. 'To begin with, the

roads are so bad that it has taken us nearly two hours to come from

Bayeux. Then, at Arromanches, one of Malivoire's horses went lame and

he couldn't let us have another. At one time I really thought we should

have to stay with him all night. But the Doctor was kind enough to

offer us his gig, and Martin here has driven us home.'

The driver, an old man with a wooden leg, who had formerly served in

the navy, and had there had his limb amputated by Cazenove, then a

naval surgeon, had afterwards taken service under the Doctor. He was

tethering the horse when Madame Chanteau suddenly checked her flow of

speech and called to him:

'Martin! help the little girl to get down!'

No one had yet given a thought to the child. The hood of the gig fell

very low, and only her black skirt and little black-gloved hands could

be seen. She did not wait, however, for the coachman's assistance,

but sprang lightly to the ground. Just then there came a fierce puff

of wind, which whirled her clothes about her and sent the curls of

her dark brown hair flying from under her crape-trimmed hat. She did

not seem very strong for her ten years. Her lips were thick; and her

face, if full, showed the pallor of the girls who are brought up in the

back shops of Paris. The others stared at her. Véronique, who had just

bustled up to welcome her mistress, checked herself, her face assuming

an icy and jealous expression. But Matthew showed none of this reserve.

He sprang up between the child's arms and licked her with his tongue.

'Don't be afraid of him!' cried Madame Chanteau. 'He won't hurt you.'

'Oh! I'm not at all afraid of him,' said Pauline quietly; 'I am very

fond of dogs.'

Indeed, Matthew's boisterous welcome did not seem to disturb her in the

slightest degree. Her grave little face broke out into a smile beneath

her black hat, and she affectionately kissed the dog on his snout.

'Aren't you going to kiss your relations too?' exclaimed Madame

Chanteau. 'See, this is your uncle, since you call me your aunt; and

this is your cousin, a great strapping scapegrace, who isn't half as

well behaved as you are.'

The child manifested no awkward shyness. She kissed everyone, and even

found a word or two for each, with all the grace of a young Parisienne

already schooled in politeness.

'I am very much obliged to you, uncle, for taking me to live with

you----You will see that we shall get on very well together, cousin----'

'What a sweet little thing she is!' cried Chanteau, quite delighted.

Lazare looked at her in surprise, for he had pictured her as being much

smaller and far more shy and childish.

'Yes, indeed, she is a sweet child,' said the lady, 'and you have no

idea how brave she is! The wind blew straight in our faces as we drove

along, and the rain quite blinded us. Fully a score of times I thought

that the hood, which was flapping about like a veil, would be carried

away altogether. Well, that child there, instead of being alarmed, was

quite amused by it all and enjoyed it. But what are we stopping out

here for? It is no use getting any wetter than we are; the rain is

beginning to fall again.'

She turned round to see where Véronique was. When she saw her keeping

aloof and looking very surly, she said to her sarcastically:

'Good evening, Véronique. How are you? While you are making up your

mind to come and speak to me, you had better go and get a bottle of

wine for Martin. We have not been able to bring our luggage with us,

but Malivoire will bring it on early to-morrow.'

Then she suddenly checked herself and hastily returned to the gig. 'My

bag! my bag! Ah, there it is! I was afraid it had slipped into the

road.'

It was a large black leather bag, already whitened at the corners by

wear. She would not trust it to her son, but persisted in carrying it

herself. Just as they were at last about to enter the house, another

violent squall made them halt, short of breath, near the door. The cat,

sitting on the steps with an air of curiosity, watched them fighting

their way onwards; and Madame Chanteau then inquired if Minouche had

behaved properly during her absence. The name of Minouche again brought

a smile to Pauline's serious little face. She stooped down and fondled

the cat, which rubbed itself against her skirts, whilst holding its

tail erect in the air. Matthew for his part, in proclamation of the

return, began to bark again as he saw the family mounting the steps and

entering the vestibule.

'Ah, it is pleasant to be home again!' said Madame Chanteau. 'I really

thought that we should never get here. Yes, Matthew, you are a very

good dog, but please be quiet--Lazare, do make him keep still. He is

quite splitting my ears!'

However, the dog proved obstinate, and the entry of the Chanteaus into

their dining-room was accompanied by this lively music. They pushed

Pauline, the new daughter of the house, before them; Matthew came on

behind, still barking loudly; and Minouche followed last, with her

sensitive hair bristling amidst the uproar.

In the kitchen Martin had already drunk a couple of glasses of wine,

one after the other, and was now hastening away, stamping over the

floor with his wooden leg and calling 'good-night' to everybody.

Véronique had just put the leg of mutton to the fire again, as it had

got quite cold. She thrust her head into the room, and asked:

'Will you have dinner now?'

'Yes, indeed we will,' said Chanteau. 'It is seven o'clock. But, my

good girl, we must wait till madame and the little one have changed

their things.'

'But I haven't got Pauline's trunk here,' said Madame Chanteau.

'Fortunately, however, our underclothing is not wet. Take off your

cloak and hat, my dear. There, take them away, Véronique. And take off

her boots. I have some slippers here.'

The cook knelt down before the child, who had seated herself. Madame

Chanteau took out of her bag a pair of small felt slippers and put them

on the girl's feet. Then she took off her own boots, and, once more

dipping her hand into the bag, brought out a pair of shoes for herself.

'Shall I bring dinner in now?' asked Véronique again.

'In a minute. Pauline, come into the kitchen and wash your hands and

face. We will make more of a toilet later on, for, just now, we are

dying of hunger.'

Pauline came back first, having left her aunt with her nose in a bowl

of water. Chanteau had resumed his place in his big yellow velvet

arm-chair before the fire. He was rubbing his legs mechanically,

fearing another attack of pain; while Lazare stood cutting some bread

in front of the table, on which four covers had been laid more than

an hour before. The two men, who were scarcely at their ease, smiled

at the child, without managing to find a word to say to her; while

she calmly inspected the room, which was furnished in walnut-wood.

Her glance wandered from the sideboard and the half-dozen chairs to

the hanging lamp of polished brass, and then rested upon some framed

lithographs which hung against the brown wall-paper. Four of them

represented the seasons, and the fifth was a view of Vesuvius. Probably

the imitation wainscotting of oak-coloured paint, scratched and showing

the plaster underneath, the flooring soiled with old grease-spots, and

the general shabbiness of this room, where the family lived, made her

regret the beautiful marble-fitted shop which she had left the previous

day, for her eyes assumed an expression of sadness, and she seemed to

guess all the cares that lay concealed in this her new dwelling-place.

Then, after curiously examining a very old barometer mounted in a case

of gilded wood, her eyes turned to a strange-looking affair which

monopolised the whole of the mantelpiece. It was enclosed in a glass

box, secured at the edges by strips of blue paper. At first sight it

looked like a toy, a miniature wooden bridge; but a bridge of extremely

intricate design.

'That was made by your great-uncle,' explained Chanteau, who was

delighted to find a subject of conversation. 'My father, you know,

began life as a carpenter, and I have always preserved his masterpiece.'

He was not at all ashamed of his origin, and Madame Chanteau tolerated

the presence of the bridge on the mantelpiece, in spite of the

displeasure which this cumbersome curiosity always caused her by

reminding her of her marriage with a working-man's son. But the little

girl was no longer paying attention to her uncle's words, for through

the window she had just caught sight of the far-reaching horizon, and

she eagerly stepped forward and planted herself close to the panes,

whose muslin curtains were held back by cotton loops. Since her

departure from Paris her one continual thought had been the sea. She

had dreamed of it and never ceased to question her aunt about it during

their journey; inquiring at every hill they came to whether the sea

lay at the other side of it. When at last they reached the beach at

Arromanches, she had been struck silent with wonder, her eyes dilating

and her heart heaving with a heavy sigh. From Arromanches to Bonneville

she had every minute thrust her head out of the gig's hood, in spite of

the violent wind, in order to look at the sea, which seemed to follow

them. And now the sea was still there; it would always be there, as

though it belonged to her. With her eyes she seemed to be slowly taking

possession of it.

The night was falling from the grey sky, across which the wind drove

the clouds at headlong speed. Amid the increasing darkness of that

turbulent evening only the white line of the rising tide could be

distinguished. It was a band of foam, which seemed to be ever widening,

a succession of waves flowing up, pouring over the tracts of weed and

covering the ridges of rock with a soft gliding motion, whose approach

seemed like a caress. But far away the roar of the billows increased,

huge crests arose, while at the foot of the cliff, where Bonneville

had stowed itself away as securely as possible behind its doors, there

hovered a death-like gloom. The boats, drawn up to the top of the

shingle, lay there, alone and deserted, like huge stranded fish. The

rain steeped the village in vaporous mist, and only the church still

stood out plainly against a pale patch of sky.

Pauline stood by the window in silence. Her little heart was heaving

anew. She seemed to be stifling, and as she drew a deep sigh all her

breath appeared to drain from her lips.

'Well! it's a good deal bigger than the Seine, isn't it?' said Lazare,

who had just taken his stand behind her.

The girl continued to be a source of much surprise to him; he felt all

the shy awkwardness of a schoolboy in her presence.

'Yes, indeed,' she replied, in a very low voice, without turning her

head.

'You are not frightened of it?'

At this she turned and looked at him with an expression of

astonishment. 'No, indeed. Why should I be? The water won't come up so

far as this!'

'Ah! one never knows what it will do,' he said, yielding to an impulse

to make fun of her. 'Sometimes the water rises over the church.'

She broke into a hearty laugh, an outburst of noisy, healthy gaiety,

the merriment of a sensible person whom the absurd delights.

'Ah! cousin,' said she, playfully taking the young man's hand, 'I'm not

so foolish as you think. You wouldn't stop here if the sea were likely

to come up over the church.'

Lazare laughed in his turn, and clasped the child's hands. The pair

were henceforth hearty friends. In the midst of their merriment Madame

Chanteau returned into the room. She appeared quite delighted, and

exclaimed as she rubbed her hands: 'Ah! you have got to know each

other, then? I felt quite sure you would get on well together.'

'Shall I bring in dinner, Madame?' asked Véronique, standing by the

kitchen door.

'Yes, certainly, my girl. But you had better light the lamp first; it

is getting too dark to see.'

The night, indeed, was falling so quickly that the dining-room would

have been in darkness but for the red glow of the coke fire. Lighting

the lamp caused a further delay, but at last the operation was

satisfactorily performed, and the table lay illuminated beneath the

lowered shade. They were all in their places, Pauline between her uncle

and cousin, and opposite her aunt, when the latter rose from her chair

again, with that restlessness of one who can never remain still.

'Where is my bag? Wait a moment, my dear; I am going to give you your

mug. Take the glass away, Véronique. The little girl is used to having

her own mug.'

She took a silver mug, already a little battered, out of her bag, and,

having first wiped it with her napkin, placed it before Pauline. Then

she put the bag away behind her, on a chair. The cook brought in some

vermicelli soup, warning them, in her crabbed fashion, that it was

much overcooked. No one dared complain, however. They were all very

hungry, and the soup hissed in their spoons. Next came some soup-beef.

Chanteau, fond of dainties, scarcely took any of it, reserving himself

for the leg of mutton. But when this was placed upon the table there

was a general outcry. It was like fried leather; surely they could not

eat it!

'I knew very well how it would be,' said Véronique, placidly. 'You

oughtn't to have kept it waiting.'

Pauline, with a laugh, cut her meat up into little bits, and managed

to swallow it, in spite of its toughness. As for Lazare, he was quite

unconscious of what he had upon his plate, and would have eaten slices

of dry bread without knowing that they were not cut from a fowl's

breast. Chanteau, however, gazed at the leg of mutton with a mournful

expression.

'And what else have you got, Véronique?'

'Fried potatoes, sir.'

He made a gesture of despair and threw himself back in his chair.

'Shall I bring the beef back again, sir?' asked the cook.

But he answered her with a melancholy shake of his head. 'As well have

bread as boiled beef. Oh, my gracious! what a dinner! and just in this

bad weather, too, when we can't get any fish.'

Madame Chanteau, who was a very small eater, looked at him

compassionately.

'My poor dear,' she said, suddenly, 'you quite distress me. I have

brought a little present with me; I meant it for to-morrow, but as

there seems to be a famine this evening----'

She had opened her bag as she spoke and drew out of it a pan of _foie

gras_. Chanteau's eyes flashed brightly. _Foie gras!_ Ah, it was

forbidden fruit! A luxury which he adored, but which his doctor had

absolutely forbidden him to touch.

'You know,' continued his wife, 'you must have only a very little.

Don't be foolish, now, or you shall never have any more.'

Chanteau had caught hold of the pan, and he began to open it with

trembling hands. There were frequently tremendous struggles between

his greediness and his fear of gout; and almost invariably it was his

greediness that got the upper hand. Never mind! it was too good to

resist, and he would put up with the pain that would follow.

Véronique, who had watched him helping himself to a thick slice, took

herself off to the kitchen, grumbling as she went:

'Well, well! how he will bellow to-morrow!'

The word 'bellow' was habitually on her tongue, and her master and

mistress had grown quite used and reconciled to it, so naturally and

simply did it come from her lips. When the master had an attack of gout

he bellowed, according to Véronique, and she was never scolded for her

want of respect in saying so. The dinner ended very merrily. Lazare

jokingly dispossessed his father of the _foie gras_. When the cheese

and biscuits were put upon the table, Matthew's sudden appearance

caused a boisterous commotion. Until then he had been lying asleep

under the table. But the arrival of the biscuits had awakened him. He

seemed to have scented them in his sleep. Every evening, just at this

stage of the meal, it was his custom to get up and shake himself and

make the round of the table, questioning the faces of the diners to see

if they were charitably disposed. Usually it was Lazare who first took

pity upon him, but that evening Matthew, on his second circuit of the

table, halted by Pauline's side and gazed up at her earnestly with his

honest human-like eyes; and then, divining in her a friend both of man

and beast, he laid his huge head on her little knee, without dropping

his glance of mild supplication.

'Oh, what a shameful beggar you are!' said Madame Chanteau. 'Aren't you

ashamed of yourself, Matthew, to be so greedy?'

The dog swallowed at a single gulp the piece of biscuit which Pauline

offered him, and then again laid his head on her little knee, asking

for another piece, with his eyes constantly fixed on those of his new

friend. She laughed at him and kissed him and found him very amusing,

with his flattened ears and the black spot under his left eye, the only

spot of colour that marked his rough white hairy coat. Then there came

a diversion of another character. Minouche, growing jealous, leapt

lightly upon the edge of the table, and began to purr and rub her head

against the little girl's chin, swaying her supple body the while with

all the grace of a young kid. To poke one with her cold nose and kiss

one lightly with her sharp teeth, while she pounded about with her feet

like a baker kneading dough, was her feline way of caressing. Pauline

was now quite delighted between the two animals. The cat on her left,

the dog on her right, took possession of her and worried her shamefully

in order to secure all her biscuits.

'Send them away,' said her aunt. 'They will leave you nothing for

yourself.'

'Oh! that doesn't matter,' she placidly replied, feeling quite happy in

being despoiled.

They finished, and Véronique removed the dishes. The two animals,

seeing the table quite bare, gave their lips a last lick and then took

themselves off, without even saying 'thank you.'

Pauline rose from her chair, and went to stand by the window, straining

her eyes to penetrate the darkness. Ever since the soup had been put

upon the table she had been watching the window grow darker and darker,

till it had gradually become as black as ink. Now it was like an

impenetrable wall; the dense darkness had hidden everything--sky, sea,

village, and even church itself. Nevertheless, without feeling in the

least disturbed by her cousin's jests, she tried to distinguish the

water, worrying to find out how far the tide was going to rise; but she

could only hear its ever-increasing roar, its angry threatening voice,

which seemed to grow louder every minute amidst the howling of the wind

and the splashing of the rain. Not a glimmer, not even the whiteness of

the foam, could be seen in that chaos; and nothing was heard but the

rush of the waves, lashed on by the gale in the black depths.

'Dear me,' said Chanteau, 'it is coming up stiffly, and yet it won't be

high-water for another couple of hours.'

'If the wind were to blow from the north,' put in Lazare, 'Bonneville

would certainly be swept away. Fortunately for us here, it is coming

slantwise.'

The little maid had turned and was listening to them, her big eyes full

of an expression of anxious pity.

'Bah!' said Madame Chanteau, 'we are safe under shelter, and we must

let other folks get out of their trouble as best they may----Tell me,

my dear, would you like a cup of hot tea? And then, afterwards, we will

go to bed.'

Véronique had laid an old red cloth, with a faded pattern of big

bunches of flowers, over the dinner-table, around which the family

generally spent the evening. They took their accustomed places. Lazare,

who had left the room for a moment, came back carrying an inkstand,

a pen, and a whole handful of papers, and, seating himself beneath

the lamp-light, he began to copy some music. Madame Chanteau, whose

eyes since her return had never ceased following her son with an

affectionate glance, suddenly became very stiff and surly.

'That music of yours again! You can't devote an evening to us, then,

even on the night of my return home?'

'But, mother, I am not going out of the room. I mean to stay with you.

You know very well that this doesn't interfere with my talking. Fire

away and talk to me, and I will answer you.'

He went on with his work, covering half the table with his papers.

Chanteau had stretched himself out comfortably in his arm-chair, with

his hands hanging listlessly at his sides. In front of the fire Matthew

lay asleep, while Minouche, who had sprung upon the table again, was

performing an elaborate toilet, carefully licking her stomach, with

one leg cocked up in the air. The falling light from the hanging lamp

seemed to make everything cosy and homelike, and Pauline, who with

half-closed eyelids had been smiling upon her newly-found relatives,

could no longer keep herself from sleep, worn out as she was with

fatigue and rendered drowsy by the heat of the room. Her head slipped

down upon her arm, which was resting on the table, and lay there,

motionless, beneath the placid glow of the lamp. Her delicate eyelids

looked like a silk veil cast over her eyes, and soft regular breath

came gently from her pure lips.

'She must be tired out,' said Madame Chanteau, lowering her voice. 'We

will just wake her up to give her some tea, and then I will take her to

bed.'

Then silence reigned in the room. No sound broke upon the howling of

the storm except the scratching of Lazare's pen. It was perfect quiet,

the habitual sleepiness of life spent every evening in the same spot.

For a long time the father and mother looked at each other without

saying a word. At last Chanteau asked, in a hesitating voice:

'And is Davoine doing well at Caen?'

'Bah! Doing well, indeed! I told you that you were being taken in!'

Now that the child was fast asleep they could talk. They spoke in low

tones, however, and at first seemed inclined to tell each other what

there was to be told as briefly as possible. But presently passion

got the better of them and carried them on, and, by degrees, all the

worries of the household became manifest.

At the death of his father the former journeyman carpenter, who had

carried on his timber-trade with ambitious audacity, Chanteau had found

the business considerably compromised. A very inactive man himself,

unaspiring and careful, he had contented himself with simply putting

matters on a safe basis, by dint of good management, and living upon

a moderate but sure profit. The one romance of his life was his

marriage. He had married a governess whom he had met in a friend's

family. Eugénie de la Vignière, the orphan daughter of one of the

ruined squireens of the Cotentin, reckoned upon fanning his indolent

nature into ambition. But he with his imperfect education, for he had

been sent late to school, recoiled from vast schemes, and opposed his

own natural inertness to the ambitious plans of his wife. When their

son was born, she transferred to that child her hopes for the family's

rise in life, sent him to college, and superintended his studies every

evening herself. But a last disaster upset all her plans. Chanteau,

who had suffered from gout from the time he was forty years of age,

at last experienced such severe and painful attacks that he began to

talk about selling his business. To Madame Chanteau this portended

straitened means and mediocrity, the spending of their remaining days

in retirement on their petty savings, and the casting of her son into

the struggle for life, without the support of an income of twenty

thousand francs, such as she had dreamed of for him.

Thereupon she had insisted upon having, at any rate, a hand in the

sale. The profits were about ten thousand francs a year, on which

the family made a considerable show, for Madame Chanteau was fond of

giving parties. Having discovered a certain Davoine, she had worked

out the following scheme. Davoine was to buy the timber business for

a hundred thousand francs, but he was only to pay fifty thousand in

money; in consideration of the other fifty thousand remaining unpaid,

the Chanteaus were to become his partners in the business and share

the profits. This man Davoine appeared to be a very bold fellow, and,

even if he did not extend the business of the firm, they would still

be sure of five thousand francs a year, which, added to the interest

of the fifty thousand invested in stock, would give them altogether

an income of eight thousand francs.[2] And on this they would get on

as well as they could, pending the time when their son should achieve

some brilliant success and be able to extricate them from a life of

mediocrity.

It was upon these principles that the business was sold. Two years

previously Chanteau had bought a seaside house at Bonneville, which

he had been able to get as a bargain through the bankruptcy of an

insolvent debtor. Instead of selling it again at a profit, as for a

time she had thought of doing, Madame Chanteau determined that the

family should go and live there, at any rate until Lazare had achieved

his first successes. To give up her parties and bury herself in such

an out-of-the-way place was for her, indeed, almost suicide; but as

she had agreed to surrender their entire house to Davoine, she would

have had to rent another, and so she summoned up all her resolution

to go in for a life of economy, with the firm hope of one day making

a triumphal return to Caen, when her son should have gained a high

position. Chanteau gave his consent to everything. His gout would have

to accommodate itself to the sea air, and, besides, of three doctors

whom he had consulted, two had been good enough to declare that the

fresh breezes from the open would act as a splendid tonic on his system

generally. So, one morning in May, the Chanteaus departed to settle at

Bonneville, leaving Lazare, then fourteen years old, at the college at

Caen.

Since this heroic exile, five years had passed, and the affairs of the

family had gone from bad to worse. As Davoine was constantly launching

out into fresh speculations, he was ever telling them that it was

necessary he should have further advances; and the consequence was that

all the profits were risked again and again, and the balance-sheet

generally showed a loss. The Chanteaus were reduced to living at

Bonneville on the three thousand francs a year derived from the money

they had invested in stock, and they were so hardly pressed that they

had been obliged to sell their horse, and get Véronique to undertake

the management of the kitchen garden.

'At any rate, Eugénie,' said Chanteau, a little timorously, 'if I have

been let in, it is partly your fault.'

But she repudiated the responsibility altogether. She always

conveniently forgot that the partnership with Davoine was her own work.

'My fault indeed!' she replied drily. 'How can that be? Am I laid up?

If you were not such an invalid, we might perhaps be millionaires.'

Whenever his wife attacked him in this bitter fashion, he always

lowered his head with pain and shame at the thought that it was his

illness that was ruining the family.

'We must wait and be patient,' he murmured. 'Davoine appears to be very

confident of the success of his new scheme. If the price of deal goes

up, we shall make a fortune.'

'And what good will that be?' interrupted Lazare, who was still copying

out his music. 'We have enough to eat as it is. It is very foolish of

you worrying yourselves in this way. I don't care a bit about money.'

Madame Chanteau shrugged her shoulders again.

'It would be a great deal better if you cared about it a little more,

and didn't waste your time in foolish nonsense.'

It was she herself who had taught him to play the piano, though the

mere sight of a score now sufficed to make her angry. Her last hope had

fled. This son of hers, whom she had dreamed of seeing a prefect or a

judge, talked of writing operas; and she foresaw that in the future he

would be reduced to running about the streets giving lessons, as she

herself had once done.

'Here is the balance-sheet for the last three months, which Davoine

gave me,' she said. 'If things continue in this way, it will be we who

shall owe him money by next July.'

She had put her bag upon the table, and she took out of it a paper,

which she handed to Chanteau. He just turned it round, and then laid

it down in front of him without opening it. At that moment Véronique

brought in the tea. No one spoke for some time, and the cups remained

empty. Minouche was dozing placidly beside the sugar-basin, and Matthew

was snoring like a man before the fire. The roar of the sea continued

outside like a mighty bass accompaniment to the peaceful echoes of the

drowsy room.

'Won't you awaken her, mother?' said Lazare, at last. 'It can't be good

for her to go on sleeping there.'

'Yes! yes!' murmured Madame Chanteau, who seemed buried in deep

thought, with her eyes fixed upon Pauline.

They all three looked at the sleeping girl. Her breathing was very

calm, and there was a flowery softness about her pale cheeks and rosy

lips beneath the glow of the lamp-light. Her chestnut curls, which the

wind had disarranged, cast a slight shadow over her delicate brow. Then

Madame Chanteau's thoughts reverted to her visit to Paris, and all the

bother she had met with there, and she felt quite astonished at the

enthusiasm with which she had undertaken the child's guardianship,

inspired with instinctive regard for a wealthy ward, though her

intentions of course were scrupulously honourable, and quite without

thought of benefiting by the fortune of which she would be trustee.

'When I alighted at the shop,' she began slowly, 'she was wearing a

little black frock, and she came to kiss me, sobbing and crying. It

is a very fine shop indeed; beautifully fitted up with marble and

plate-glass, and just in front of the markets. There was such a servant

there, about as big as a jackboot, with a fresh red face. It was she

who had given information to the notary, and had brought him to put

everything under seal. When I got there she was going on quietly

selling sausages and black puddings. It was Adèle who told me about our

poor cousin Quenu's death. Ever since he had lost his wife, six months

previously, his blood seemed to be suffocating him. He was constantly

fidgeting about his neck with his hand to loosen his neckerchief; and

at last they found him one evening lying with his face all purple in a

bowl of dripping. His uncle Gradelle died in just the same way.'

She said no more, and silence fell again. Over Pauline's face, as she

lay asleep, there played a passing smile, suggesting some pleasant

dream.

'And the law business, was that all transacted satisfactorily?' asked

Chanteau.

'Oh! quite so. But your lawyer was very right in leaving a blank for

the name in the power-of-attorney; for it appears that I could not

have acted in your stead, as women are not eligible in such matters.

But, as I wrote and told you, on my arrival I went to consult the

parish lawyer who sent us the extract from the will in which you were

appointed guardian. He at once inserted his chief clerk's name in the

power-of-attorney, which is quite a common course, he tells me. Then

we were able to get along. I went before a justice of the peace and

nominated as members of the family council three relations on Lisa's

side: two young cousins, Octave Mouret and Claude Lantier, and a cousin

by marriage, Monsieur Rambaud, who lives at Marseilles; then, on our

side, that is Quenu's side, I chose his nephews, Naudet, Liardin, and

Delorme. It is a very proper council, you see, and one which we can

easily manage as we think best for the child's benefit. At their first

meeting they nominated as surrogate-guardian Monsieur Saccard,[3] whom

I had chosen, out of necessity, from among Lisa's relations.'

'Hush! hush! She is waking up,' interrupted Lazare.

Pauline had just opened her eyes widely. Without moving, she gazed

with some astonishment at the people talking around her, and then,

with a smile full of sleepiness, closed her eyes once more, being worn

out with fatigue. Again did her motionless little face show a milky

camellia-like transparency.

'Isn't that Saccard the speculator?' asked Chanteau.

'Yes,' answered his wife. 'I saw him, and we had a talk together. He

is a charming man. He has so many things to look after, he told me,

that I must not reckon much on his assistance. But, you know, we really

don't want anybody's help. From the moment we take the child--well, we

do take her; and we don't want anybody coming and interfering with us.

All the other business was got through quickly. Your power-of-attorney

conferred all the necessary authority. The seals were removed, an

inventory of the property was made, and the business was sold by

auction. The sale went off splendidly, for there were two parties

bidding hotly one against the other, and so we got ninety thousand

francs, cash down. The notary had previously discovered scrip for sixty

thousand francs in a desk. I begged him to buy more scrip, and so now

we have a hundred and fifty thousand francs securely invested. I have

brought the scrip along with me, having first given the chief clerk the

full discharge and receipt, which I asked you to send me by return of

post. See! here it is!'

She had thrust her hand into her bag and brought out a bulky packet. It

was the scrip, tied up between two pieces of thick cardboard which had

formed the binding of one of the shop account-books. The green marbled

surface was speckled with grease-spots. Both father and son looked

attentively at the fortune which lay upon the shabby tablecloth.

'The tea is getting cold, mother,' said Lazare, putting his pen down at

last. 'Hadn't I better pour it out?'

He got up from his seat and filled the cups. His mother had returned no

answer to his question. Her eyes were still fixed on the scrip.

'Of course,' she continued slowly, 'at a subsequent meeting of the

family council which I summoned, I asked to have my travelling expenses

reimbursed, and the sum that we are to receive for the child's

maintenance was fixed at eight hundred francs a year. We are not so

rich as she is, and we cannot afford to take her for nothing. None of

us would desire to make a farthing profit out of the girl, but it would

have pressed us too much to have kept her out of our own income. The

interest of her fortune will be banked and invested, and her capital

will be almost doubled by the time she comes of age. Well, it is only

our duty that we are doing. We are bound to obey the wishes of the

dead. And if it costs us something to do it, perhaps the sacrifice

may bring us better fortune, of which, I am sure, we stand in great

need----The poor little dear was so cut up, and sobbed so bitterly at

leaving her nurse! I trust she will be happy with us here.'

The two men were quite affected.

'Most certainly I shall never be unkind to her,' said Chanteau.

'She is a charming little thing,' added Lazare. 'I love her already.'

Just then Matthew appeared to have smelt the tea in his dreams, for

he gave himself a shake, and again came and thrust his big head upon

the edge of the table. Minouche, too, got up and stretched herself and

yawned, and, when she was quite awake, she craned out her neck to sniff

at the packet of papers in the greasy covers. As the Chanteaus glanced

at Pauline, they saw that her eyes were also open and fixed upon the

scrip and the old ledger binding.

'Ah! she knows very well what is inside there,' said Madame Chanteau.

'Don't you, my dear? I showed them all to you in Paris. That is what

your poor father and mother have left you.'

Tears trickled down the child's face. Her grief often recurred in

April-like showers. But she soon smiled again through her tears,

feeling amused at Minouche, who had for a long time smelt at the papers

and was doubtless attracted by their odour, for she began to purr and

rub her head against the corners of the ledger.

'Come away, Minouche!' cried Madame Chanteau. 'Money isn't to be made a

plaything of!'

Chanteau laughed, and so did Lazare. With his head resting on the edge

of the table, Matthew was becoming quite excited. Looking eagerly with

his flaming eyes at the packet of papers which he must have taken for

some great delicacy, he began to bark at the cat. Then all the family

grew lively. Pauline caught up Minouche and fondled her in her arms as

though she were a doll.

For fear the girl should drop off to sleep again, Madame Chanteau made

her drink her tea at once. Then she called Véronique.

'Bring us our candles. Here we are sitting and talking and never going

to bed. Why! it is actually ten o'clock, and I am so tired that I half

fell asleep at dinner!'

But a man's voice sounded from the kitchen, and when the cook returned

with four lighted candles her mistress asked her:

'Whom were you talking to?'

'It is Prouane, Madame. He came up to tell the master that things are

in a very bad way down yonder. The sea is breaking everything to pieces

apparently.'

Chanteau had been prevailed upon to accept office as mayor of

Bonneville, and Prouane, the tipsy scamp, who acted as Abbé Horteur's

beadle, likewise discharged the duties of mayor's clerk. He had been a

non-commissioned officer in the navy, and wrote a copybook hand. When

they called to him to come into the room, he made his appearance with

his woollen cap in his hand and his jacket and boots streaming with

water.

'Well! what's the matter, Prouane?'

'Sure, sir, the Cuches' house is completely flooded. And if it goes on

like this much longer it will be the same with the Gonins'. We have all

been down there, Tourmal, Houtelard, myself, and the others. But it is

no use; we can't do anything against that thievish sea. It's written

that it will carry off a slice of the land every year.'

Then they all became silent. The four candles burned with tall flames,

and the rush of the devouring sea against the cliffs broke through the

night air. It was now high tide, and the house shook as every wave

dashed against the rocky barrier. It was like the roaring of giant

artillery; thunderous consecutive reports arose amidst the rolling of

shingle, which, as it swept over the rocks, sounded like the continuous

crackling of a fusillade. And amidst all this uproar the wind raised

its howling plaint, and the rain, every now and then increasing in

violence, seemed to pelt the walls of the house with a hail of bullets.

'It is like the end of the world,' Madame Chanteau murmured. 'What will

the Cuches do? Where are they going to take refuge?'

'They will have to be sheltered,' said Prouane. 'Meantime they are at

the Gonins'. What a sight it was! There was a little lad, who is only

three years old, perfectly drenched, and his mother with nothing on but

a petticoat--begging your pardon for mentioning it--and the father,

too, with his hand split open by a falling beam, while madly trying to

save their few rags.'

Pauline had risen from the table and returned to the window. She

listened to what was being said with all the serious demeanour of a

grown-up person. Her expression indicated distressful sympathy and

pity, and her full lips trembled with emotion.

'Oh, aunt!' she said, 'how very sad for the poor things!' Then her

gaze wandered through the window into that inky darkness where nothing

was visible. They could hear that the sea had reached the road, and

was sweeping wildly and fiercely over it, but they could see nothing.

The little village and the rocks and the whole neighbourhood seemed

submerged beneath a flood of ink. For the young girl it was a painful

experience and surprise. That sea which she had thought so beautiful

hurled itself upon poor folks and ruined them!

'I will go down with you, Prouane,' cried Lazare. 'Perhaps something

can be done.'

'Oh yes! do go, cousin!' said Pauline, with flashing eyes. But the man

shook his head.

'It is no use troubling yourself, Monsieur Lazare; you couldn't do

anything more than the others. We can only stand about and watch the

sea work its will, and destroy what it likes, and when it gets tired of

that we shall have to be grateful that it has done no worse. I merely

came up to inform Monsieur Chanteau.'

Then Chanteau began to grow angry, bothered by this business, which

would give him an uneasy night and demand all his attention in the

morning.

'I don't believe there ever was a village built in such an idiotic

position!' he cried. 'You have buried yourselves right under the waves,

and it's no wonder if the sea swallows up your houses one by one. And

why ever in the world do you stop in such a place? You should leave it

and go elsewhere.'

'Where can we go?' asked Prouane, who listened with an expression of

stupefaction. 'We are here, sir, and we have got to stop here. We must

be somewhere.'

'Yes, that's true,' said Madame Chanteau, bringing the discussion to

an end. 'And wherever you are, here or elsewhere, there will always be

trouble----We are just going to bed. Good-night. To-morrow it will be

light.'

The man went off bowing, and they heard Véronique bolt the door behind

him. They took their candles and gave a parting caress to Matthew and

Minouche, who both slept in the kitchen. Lazare collected his music

together, and Madame Chanteau put the scrip in its greasy covers

beneath her arm, and also took from the table Davoine's balance-sheet,

which her husband had forgotten. It was a heart-breaking paper, and the

sooner it was put out of sight the better.

'We are going to bed, Véronique,' she cried. 'You need not wander up

and down at this time of night.' But, hearing nothing save a grunt in

the kitchen, she added in lower tones:

'What is the matter with her? I haven't brought a baby home for her to

wean!'

'Leave her alone,' said Chanteau. 'She has her whims, you know. Well!

we are all four here: so good-night!'

He himself slept on the ground floor, in a room on the other side of

the passage. This arrangement had been made so that, when he was

suffering from an attack of gout, he might be readily wheeled in his

arm-chair either to table or to the terrace. He opened the door, and

then stood still for a moment. His legs were very heavy, as at the

approach of a fresh attack, of which, indeed, the stiffness of his

joints had been giving him warning since the previous day. Plainly

enough, he had acted very foolishly in eating that _foie gras_. The

consciousness of his error made him feel anything but happy.

'Good-night,' he repeated in a mournful voice. 'You others can always

sleep. Good-night, my little dear. Have a good long rest; you want it

at your age.'

'Good-night, uncle,' said Pauline in reply, as she kissed him. Then the

door closed. Madame Chanteau went upstairs first with the little girl.

Lazare followed behind.

'Well, for my part, I shan't want anyone to rock me to sleep to-night,'

said the old lady, 'that's quite certain. And I don't at all object to

that uproar. I find it lulling. When I was in Paris I quite missed the

shaking of my bed.'

They all went up to the first floor. Pauline, who carefully held her

candlestick straight, was somewhat amused by this procession in Indian

file, each carrying a lighted candle, which set all their shadows

dancing. When she reached the landing she paused, hesitating where to

go, till her aunt gently pushed her forward.

'Straight on,' she said. 'That room there is kept for visitors, and

this one opposite is mine. Come in for a minute; I want to show you

something.'

The bedroom, hung with yellow cretonne with a pattern of green leaves,

was very plainly furnished in mahogany. There was a bed, a wardrobe,

and a secrétaire. In the middle stood a small table on a square of red

carpet. When she had examined every corner carefully with her candle,

Madame Chanteau went up to the secrétaire and opened it.

'Come and look!' she said.

She drew out one of the little drawers and placed Davoine's disastrous

balance-sheet in it, with a sigh. Then she emptied the drawer above it,

pulled it right out and shook it, to clear it of a few old scraps, and,

with Pauline looking at her as she prepared to stow the scrip away in

it, she said:

'I am going to put it in here, you see. There is nothing else in the

drawer, and it will be all by itself. Would you like to put it there

yourself?'

Pauline felt a slight sense of shame, which she could not have

accounted for. She blushed as she answered, 'Oh! aunt dear, what

difference does it make?'

But she had already taken the old ledger-binding in her hand, and she

put it in the drawer, while Lazare threw the light of the candle he was

holding upon the secrétaire.

'There!' said Madame Chanteau, 'you are quite sure about it now, and

you may feel quite easy about it. The drawer is the top one on the

left, remember. It will stop there till the day when you are old enough

to come and take it out and do what you like with it. Minouche won't be

able to come and eat it here, will she?'

The idea of Minouche opening the secrétaire and eating the papers

quite tickled the child's fancy, and she broke into a merry laugh. Her

momentary embarrassment altogether disappeared, and she began to joke

with Lazare, who amused her by purring like a cat and pretending to

make an attack upon the secrétaire. He, too, laughed gaily. His mother,

however, very solemnly locked the flap, turning the key round twice.

'It is quite safe now,' she said. 'Come, Lazare, don't make yourself

ridiculous. Now, Pauline, I will go up with you to your room to see if

you have got everything you want.'

They all three filed out into the staircase. When they reached the

second floor, Pauline with some hesitation opened the door of the room

on her left, but her aunt immediately called out:

'No! no! not that one! That's your cousin's room. Yours is the one

opposite.'

Pauline, however, stood where she was, lost in amazement at the size of

the room and the state of confusion it was in. It contained a piano, a

couch, and a huge table, besides a lot of books and pictures. And when

at last she opened the opposite door, she was quite delighted to find

that her own room was a very small one in comparison with the other.

The wall-paper was of a creamy yellow, flowered with blue roses. The

furniture consisted of an iron bedstead hung with muslin curtains, a

dressing-table, a chest of drawers, and three chairs.

'Yes; you have everything here, I think,' said Madame Chanteau--'water,

sugar, towels, and soap. I hope you will sleep well. Véronique has a

little room beside you. If you feel at all frightened, knock on the

wall.'

'And I am close to you as well,' added Lazare. 'If a ghost comes, I

will fly at him with my sword.'

The doors of both rooms, which faced each other, were open; Pauline's

eyes strayed from one to the other.

'There are no ghosts,' she said merrily. 'You must keep your sword for

robbers. Good-night, aunt. Good-night, cousin.'

'Good-night, my dear. You know how to undress yourself?'

'Oh! yes. I am getting a big girl, you know, now. I always did

everything for myself in Paris.'

They kissed her, and Madame Chanteau told her, as she went off, that

she might lock her door. But the child had already sprung to the

window, impatient to find out whether it overlooked the sea. The rain

was streaming so violently down the panes that she dared not open it.

All was pitchy dark outside, but she felt quite happy when she heard

the waves beating beneath her. Then, in spite of her fatigue, which

almost prevented her from keeping her eyes open, she walked round the

room and examined the furniture. The thought that she was to have

a room of her own, separate from anyone else, where she might shut

herself up entirely alone, quite flattered and pleased her, and made

her feel as though she were grown up already. Just as she was about to

turn the key in the lock, however, she hesitated, and felt a little

uneasy. How should she escape, if she should see anybody in the night?

She trembled for a moment, and then, though she was in her petticoats,

having taken off her dress, she opened the door. Opposite to her she

saw Lazare, standing in the middle of his room and looking at her.

'Well?' he said. 'What's the matter? Do you want anything?'

She turned very red, and felt disposed to tell him a fib, but her

natural frankness got the better of that inclination.

'No, nothing,' she replied. 'But I feel afraid, do you know, when the

door is locked; so I am not going to fasten it; and if you hear me

knock, it will be for you to come. You, mind, and not the cook!'

He had walked out of his room to her door, attracted by the charm of

her child-like frankness and innocence.

'Good-night!' he repeated, stretching out his arms to her. She

thereupon threw her puny little arms round his neck and pressed him to

her, quite regardless of the scantiness of her attire.

'Good-night, cousin!'

Five minutes later she bravely blew her candle out, and buried herself

in her muslin-curtained bed. For a long time her slumber was light and

broken, from her very weariness. She heard Véronique come upstairs,

without the least care to hush her footsteps, and then push her

furniture about with noise enough to waken everybody. After a while,

however, there was nothing to be heard save the tumult of the storm

outside. The rain beat down upon the slates; the wind shook the windows

and whistled under the doors, and the girl long listened to that

cannonading, and trembled and quivered as each wave broke against the

cliff. It seemed to her that the house, now silent and lifeless, was

being carried out to sea like a ship. Then, as she grew warm and snug

beneath her blankets, her wandering thoughts strayed, with sympathetic

pity, to the poor people down in the village, whom the sea was driving

from their beds. But at last everything faded from her mind, and she

slept soundly, scarce breathing.

II

From the first week Pauline's presence in the house proved a source of

joy and pleasure to the family. Her cheerful healthiness and her calm,

tranquil smile spread a softening influence over the asperities of the

Chanteau household. In her the father found a nurse, while the mother

was made happy by the fact that her son now spent more of his time at

home. It was only Véronique who went on grumbling and growling. The

knowledge that there were a hundred and fifty thousand francs locked up

in the secrétaire, although they were to remain scrupulously untouched,

seemed also to give the family a semblance of wealth. There was a new

influence in their midst, and fresh hopes arose, though what they were

it would have been difficult to say.

On the third night after Pauline's arrival, the attack of gout, which

Chanteau had foreseen, broke out in all its violence. For a week past

he had been experiencing prickings in his joints, tremblings and

quiverings in his legs, and an utter distaste for all exercise. He had

gone to bed feeling somewhat easier, but about three o'clock in the

morning had been seized with a frightful pain in the big toe of his

left foot. Thence it had quickly spread to his heel, and then risen

to his ankle. He endured the agony as well as he could till morning,

sweating beneath his blankets, anxious as he was to disturb nobody.

His attacks were the dread of the whole house, and he always put off

calling for assistance till the last possible minute, feeling ashamed

of his helplessness, and dreading the angry reception which awaited

the announcement of each fresh attack. But when he heard Véronique go

past his door, about eight o'clock in the morning, he could no longer

restrain a groan, as a sharper spasm of pain than previously shot

through his foot.

'There we are again!' growled the cook. 'Just listen to him bellowing!'

She came into the room and watched him as he lay moaning and tossing

his head about. And her only attempt at consolation was to say: 'You

don't suppose this will please Madame when she hears of it, do you?'

As soon as Madame Chanteau heard of her husband's fresh attack she

bounced into the room, and, letting her hands drop by her sides in

angry desperation, cried out: 'What, again! No sooner do I get back

than this begins afresh!'

For the last fifteen years she had harboured intense hatred against

gout. She cursed it as an enemy, a thief that had blighted her

existence, ruined her son, blasted all her hopes. If it had not been

for that gout, would they have all been living a life of exile in that

forsaken hole? Thus, in spite of all her natural kindness, she always

manifested a petulant, hostile disposition towards her husband in his

attacks, declaring, too, that she was quite incapable of nursing him.

'Oh! what agony I suffer!' groaned the unhappy man. 'I know it is going

to be much worse this time than it was the last. Don't stop there, as

it puts you out so, but send for Doctor Cazenove at once.'

The house was immediately in a state of commotion. Lazare set off

to Arromanches, though the family retained but little confidence in

medical help. During the last fifteen years Chanteau had tried all

sorts of medicines, and with each fresh kind he had only grown worse.

His attacks, which at first had been slight and infrequent, had

quickly multiplied and become much more violent. He was racked with

pain in both feet, and one of his knees was threatened also. Three

times already had he seen his system of treatment changed, and his

wretched body had become a mere basis for experimenting with competing

nostrums. After being copiously bled, he had been scoured with

purgatives, and now they crammed him with colchicum and lithium. The

draining-away of his blood and the weakening of his frame had turned

what had been intermittent into chronic gout. Local treatment had been

no more successful. Leeches had left his joints in a state of painful

stiffness; opium only prolonged his attacks, and blisters brought on

ulceration. Wiesbaden and Carlsbad had done him no good, and a season

at Vichy had all but killed him.

'Oh dear! oh dear! what agony I am suffering!' repeated poor Chanteau.

'It is just as though a lot of dogs were gnawing at my feet.'

He was perpetually altering the position of his leg, hoping to gain

some relief by the change, but he was still racked with agony, and each

fresh movement drew another groan from him. Presently, as the paroxysms

of his pain grew sharper, a continuous howl came from his lips. He

shivered and grew quite feverish, and his throat was parched with a

burning thirst.

Pauline had just glided into his room. She stood by his bed and gazed

at him gravely, but did not give way to tears; though Madame Chanteau

lost her head, distracted by her husband's cries and groans. Véronique

wished to arrange the bed-clothes differently, as the sufferer found

their weight intolerable, but as she was about to lay hold of them with

her big awkward hands he screamed yet more loudly and forbade her to

touch him. He was quite frightened of her, and said that she shook him

as roughly as though he were a bundle of linen.

'Don't call for me again then, sir,' she said as she bounced angrily

out of the room. 'If you won't let anybody help you, you must attend to

yourself!'

Thereupon Pauline gently glided up to the bedside, and with delicate

skilfulness lightened the pressure of the bed-clothes with her childish

fingers. The sufferer felt a short respite from his agony, and accepted

the girl's help with a smile.

'Thank you, my dear. Stay! stay! Ah! that fold there weighs five

hundred pounds! Oh! not so quickly, my dear, you quite frightened me.'

Then his agony returned in full force again; and as his wife, trying

to find some occupation in the room, first drew up the blinds and then

bustled to his bedside and placed a cup on the little table, he grew

still more querulous.

'Oh! do keep still; don't rush about so! You make everything shake and

tremble. Every step you take is just like a blow on my head with a

hammer.'

She made no attempt at apologising or soothing him. Matters always

ended in this fashion, and he was left to suffer in solitude.

'Come along, Pauline,' she said, quite unconcernedly. 'You see that

your uncle can't endure to have any of us near him.'

But Pauline stayed behind in the sick-room. She glided about with such

a light step that her feet scarcely seemed to touch the floor. From

that moment she installed herself there as the sick man's nurse, and

she was the only person whose presence in the room he could endure. She

seemed able to read his thoughts, and she anticipated all his wants,

softening the light as occasion seemed to require, and giving him his

gruel, which Véronique brought as far as the door. But what the poor

man found especially soothing and comforting was to see her constantly

before him, sitting thoughtfully and quietly on her chair, with her big

sympathetic eyes ever fixed upon him. He tried to find some distraction

from his weariness in telling her of his sufferings.

'Just now I feel as if someone were sawing away at the joints of my

toes with a jagged knife, and at the same time I could almost swear

that I was being drenched with warm water.'

Then the character of his agony changed. It seemed as though a steel

wire were twisted tightly round his ankle, and he could feel his

muscles being strained till they were on the point of breaking. Pauline

listened with affectionate complaisance and seemed to fully understand

all he told her, remaining ever placid amongst all his groanings, with

no other thought than to do what she could to alleviate his pain. She

even forced herself to appear gay, and actually succeeded in making him

laugh between his paroxysms.

When Doctor Cazenove at last arrived, he was filled with admiration of

the little nurse, and gave her a hearty kiss upon her head. The Doctor

was a man of fifty-four, vigorous and lean, who, after thirty years'

service in the navy, had just settled down at Arromanches, where an

uncle had left him a house. He had been a friend of the Chanteaus ever

since he had cured Madame Chanteau of an awkward sprain.

'Well! well! here I am again!' he said. 'I have just come in to shake

hands; but, you know, I can do nothing more for you than the little

girl is already doing. When one has inherited gout, and has got past

one's fiftieth year, one must reconcile oneself to it. And then, you

know, you ruined your constitution with the shopful of drugs you

swallowed. The only remedies are patience and flannel!'

The Doctor affected utter scepticism of the power of medicine in such

a case. In thirty years he had seen so many poor sufferers racked

with pain and disease, in all sorts of climates and in all kinds of

surroundings, that he had grown very modest about his power to afford

any actual relief. He generally preferred to let Nature work out its

own cure. However, he carefully examined Chanteau's swollen toe, whose

gleaming skin had turned a deep red, went on to look at the knee which

was threatened with inflammation, and finally took note of the presence

of a little pearl-like deposit, white and hard, at the edge of the

patient's right ear.

'But, Doctor,' groaned the sufferer, 'you are not going to leave me

suffering like this?'

Cazenove's demeanour had become quite serious. That chalky bead

interested him, and his faith in medical science returned at the sight

of this new symptom. 'Dear me' he murmured half to himself, 'I had

better try what salts and alkalies will do. It is evidently becoming

chronic.'

Then in a louder and angry tone he said: 'It is your own fault, you

know. You won't follow the directions I have given you. You are always

glued to your arm-chair, and you never think of taking any exercise.

And then I dare say you have been drinking wine and eating too much

meat. Eh! haven't you, now? Confess that you have been taking something

heating!'

'Nothing but a tiny bit of _foie gras_,' murmured Chanteau, very humbly.

The Doctor raised both his arms, as though to call the elements to

witness his patient's folly. Then he took some little phials from the

pockets of his overcoat, and began to prepare a draught. By way of

local treatment he simply wrapped the foot and knee in cotton-wool,

which he kept in its place by twisting some waxed thread round it.

When he went away, it was to Pauline that he gave his directions. The

invalid was to have a tablespoonful of the draught every two hours, and

as much gruel as he liked, but he must observe the greatest strictness

in the matter of diet.

'If you suppose that anybody can keep him from eating anything he

chooses, you are very much mistaken,' said Madame Chanteau, as she went

with the Doctor to the door.

'No! no! aunt dear; he will be very good, you will see,' Pauline

ventured to assert. 'I will make him do what is right.'

Cazenove looked at her, and was amused by her serious manner. He kissed

her again, on both her cheeks this time.

'There's a good little girl,' he said, 'who came into the world on

purpose to help others.'

For a whole week Chanteau lay groaning. Just when the attack seemed

over, his right foot was seized by the foe, and all his agony returned

with increased violence. The whole house rang with his cries. Véronique

kept in the depths of her kitchen so as to escape the sound of them,

and Madame Chanteau and Lazare sometimes actually ran out of the house,

quite overcome by nervous excitement. It was only Pauline who remained

with the sick man, and she indeed never left his room. She was ever

struggling with his foolish whims and fancies; as, for instance, when

he furiously insisted upon having a cutlet cooked, saying that he was

very hungry, and roundly declaring that Doctor Cazenove was an ass and

didn't know what was good for him. The night was the worst time, for

then the attacks seemed to come on with increased violence. Pauline

could only snatch some two or three hours' sleep. But, in spite of it

all, she retained her spirits, and her health did not seem in any way

to suffer. Madame Chanteau readily accepted her services, until, when

Chanteau was again convalescent, the girl at last regained her liberty;

and then a close companionship sprang up between her and Lazare.

It took its rise in that by-room which the young man occupied upstairs.

He had had a partition knocked down, and so this room of his covered

half of the second storey. A little iron bedstead was hidden away

behind a tattered old screen. Against the wall and on the bare

floor-boards were piled a thousand volumes of books, classical works,

largely imperfect sets, which had been discovered in a lumber-room at

Caen and had been transported to Bonneville. Near the window there was

a huge antique Norman wardrobe crammed with all kinds of out-of-the-way

objects, specimens of minerals, old and useless tools, and broken toys.

There was a piano, also, over which were hung a pair of foils and a

fencing-mask; and there was an enormous table in the centre, an old

high drawing-table, so completely littered with papers, engravings,

tobacco-jars and pipes that it was difficult to find a hand's-breadth

of space available for writing.

Pauline was delighted when she was given the freedom of this wild

chaos. She spent a month in exploring it thoroughly, and every day

she made some new discovery, such as an illustrated 'Robinson Crusoe'

which she came upon in rummaging amongst the books, or a doll which she

fished out of the miscellaneous collection in the cupboard. As soon

as she was dressed of a morning, she sprang out of her own room into

her cousin's and settled herself there; and in the afternoon she often

returned thither again.

From the day of her first visit Lazare had received her as though she

had been a boy, a younger brother, some nine years his junior, but so

merry and amusing and with such big intelligent eyes as to be in no

wise in his way; and as usual he went on smoking his pipe, lolling in

his chair with his legs cocked up in the air, or reading, or writing

long letters into which he slipped flowers. Sometimes they made a

pretty riot between them, for Pauline had a habit of suddenly springing

upon the table or bounding through the split folds of the old screen.

One morning as Lazare wondered why he did not hear her, and turned to

ascertain what she might be about, he saw her, foil in hand, with her

face screened with the fencing-mask as she flourished away at space.

Whenever he told her to be still or threatened to turn her out of the

room, the result was a tremendous skirmish and a wild pursuit through

the disorderly place. Then she would fly at him and throw her arms on

his neck, and he twirled her round like a top, with her petticoats

circling about her. As the room echoed with their merry child-like

laughter, he felt quite a boy again himself.

Next the piano afforded them occupation. It was an old instrument of

Érard's make, dating from the year 1810, and upon it, in former times,

Mademoiselle Eugénie de la Vignière had given lessons for fifteen

years. The strings in its mahogany case, from which most of the

polish had departed, sighed out far-away tones of a muffled softness.

Lazare, who had never been able to persuade his mother to get him a

new piano, strummed away on the old instrument with all his might,

without succeeding in eliciting from it the sonorous rhapsodies buzzing

in his head; and he had got into the habit of adding the notes of his

own voice to the instrument's in order to obtain the required volume

of sound. His passion for music soon led him to abuse Pauline's easy

complaisance. He had found a listener, and for whole afternoons he kept

her there while he went through his _répertoire_, which comprised all

that was most complicated in music, and notably the then unacknowledged

scores of Berlioz and Wagner. He poured forth his vocal accompaniment,

and, as his enthusiasm increased, rendered the piece quite as much with

his throat as with his fingers. On these occasions the poor child used

to feel dreadfully bored, but she went on listening with an air of rapt

attention, so that she might not hurt her cousin's feelings.

Sometimes darkness would surprise them still at the piano, and then

Lazare would leave off playing and tell Pauline of his dreams for the

future. He would be a great musician in spite of his mother, in spite

of everybody. At the college at Caen a professor of the violin, struck

by his genius for music, had prophesied a glorious career for him.

He had secretly taken private lessons in composition, and now he was

working hard by himself. He already had in his head a vague outline

of a symphony on the subject of the Earthly Paradise; and, indeed, he

had actually written the score of one passage descriptive of Adam and

Eve being driven away by the angels, a march of a solemn and mournful

character, which he consented to play one evening to Pauline. The

child quite approved of it and declared it delightful. Then, however,

she began to talk to him; of course it must be very nice, she said,

to compose pretty music, but wouldn't it be more prudent if he were

to obey the wishes of his parents, who wanted to make him a prefect

or a judge? The whole house was made unhappy by the quarrel between

the mother and the son; he declaring that he would go to Paris to the

Conservatoire, and she replying that she would just give him till next

October to make up his mind to embrace some respectable profession.

Pauline backed up her aunt's designs, and told her, with an air of

tranquil conviction, that she would take upon herself to bring her

cousin round to proper views. She indeed argued the matter with Lazare,

who grew angry with her and violently closed the piano, telling her

that she was 'a horrid _bourgeoise_.'

For three days they sulked with each other, and then made friends

again. To win her over to his musical scheme, Lazare wished to teach

her to play on the piano. He showed her how to place her fingers on the

keys, and kept her for hours running up and down the scales. But she

discouraged him very much by her lack of enthusiasm. She was always on

the look-out for something to laugh at and make a joke of, and took

great delight in making Minouche promenade along the key-board and

execute barbaric symphonies with her paws, asserting that the cat was

playing the famous banishment from the Earthly Paradise, whereat the

composer himself smiled. Then they broke out into boisterous fun again,

she threw her arms round his neck, and he spun her round like a top,

while Minouche, joining in the merriment, sprang from the table to the

top of the cupboard. As for Matthew, he was not admitted into the room,

as he was apt to become over-riotous when he felt merry.

'You drive me crazy, you wretched little shopkeeper!' Lazare one day

broke out, quite impatiently. 'You had better get my mother to teach

you, if you can persuade her to do so.'

'All this music of yours will never do you any good, you know,' Pauline

answered quite roundly. 'If I were you I would be a doctor.'

He stared at her fiercely. A doctor, indeed! What had put that idea

into her head? He worked himself into a state of excitement that made

him lose all self-control.

'Listen to me!' he cried. 'If they won't let me be a musician, I'll

kill myself!'

The summer completed Chanteau's restoration to health, and Pauline was

now able to follow Lazare in his rambles out of doors. The big room

was deserted, and they set off on wild adventures together. For some

days they confined themselves to the terrace, where vegetated tufts

of tamarisks, which the salt winds had nipped and blighted. Then they

invaded the yard, broke the chain belonging to the well, terrified the

dozen skinny fowls that lived upon grasshoppers, and hid themselves in

the empty stable and coach-house and knocked the plaster off the walls.

Thence they slipped into the kitchen-garden, a bit of poor dry ground,

which Véronique dug and hoed like a peasant. There were four beds sown

with tough vegetables and planted with miserable stumps of pear-trees,

which were all bent by the north-west gales. And while here, on pushing

open a little door, they found themselves on the cliffs, under the

broad sky, with the open sea in front of them. Pauline's absorbing

interest in that mighty expanse of water, now so soft and pure under

the bright July sun, had never diminished. It was always for the sea

that she looked from every window in the house. But she had never

yet been near it, and a new era in her life commenced when she found

herself alone with Lazare in the solitude of the shore.

What happy times they had together! Madame Chanteau grumbled and

wanted to keep them in the house, in spite of all her confidence in

Pauline's discretion; and so they never went out through the yard,

where Véronique would have seen them, but glided stealthily through the

kitchen-garden, and so escaped, to appear no more till evening. They

soon found their rambles round the church and the graveyard, with its

shadowing yews and the priest's salad-beds, a trifle monotonous, and

in a week they had quite exhausted the attractions of Bonneville, with

its thirty cottages clinging to the side of the cliff and its strip

of shingle where the fishermen drew up their boats. When the tide was

low it was far more amusing to wander along at the foot of the cliffs.

They walked over fine sand, frightening the little crabs that scudded

away before them, or jumped from rock to rock among the thick seaweed

and the sparkling pools where shrimps were skimming about; to say

nothing of the fish they caught, of the mussels they ate, raw and even

without bread, or the strange-looking creatures they carried away in

their handkerchiefs, or the odd discoveries they sometimes made, such

as that of a stranded dab or a little lobster lurking at the bottom of

a hole. They would sometimes let themselves be overtaken by the rising

tide and rush merrily for refuge to some big rock, to wait there till

the ebb allowed them to go their way again. They were perfectly happy

as they came back home in the evening wet through and with their hair

all tossed about by the wind. And they grew so accustomed to this

life in the fresh salt breezes that they found the atmosphere of the

lamp-lighted room at night quite suffocating.

But their greatest pleasure of all was bathing. The beach was too rocky

to attract the inhabitants of Caen and Bayeux, and, whereas every year

new villas rose on the cliffs at Arromanches, never a single bather

made his appearance at Bonneville. Lazare and Pauline had discovered,

about half a mile from the village, over towards Port-en-Bessin, a

delightful spot, a little bay shut in by two rocky cliffs and carpeted

with soft glittering sand. They called it the Golden Bay, for its

secluded waves seemed to wash up pieces of glittering gold. They were

quite alone and undisturbed there, and undressed and slipped on their

bathing things without any feeling of shame. Lazare in a week taught

Pauline to swim. She was much more enthusiastic about this than she had

been about the piano, and in her plucky attempts she often swallowed

big mouthfuls of salt water. If a larger wave than usual sent them

tottering one against the other, they laughed gleefully; and when they

came out of the water, they went romping over the sand till the wind

had dried them. This was much more amusing than fishing.

The days slipped away, however, and August came round, and as yet

Lazare had come to no decision. In October Pauline was to go to a

boarding-school at Bayeux. When bathing had tired them, they would

sit on the sand and talk over the state of their affairs gravely and

sensibly. Pauline had succeeded in interesting Lazare in medical

matters by telling him that if she were a man she should think nothing

nobler or more delightful than to be able to cure ailing people.

Besides, for the last week or so, the Earthly Paradise had not been

getting on satisfactorily, and Lazare was beginning to have doubts

about his genius for music. At any rate, there had been great glory won

in the practice of medicine, and he bethought him of many illustrious

names, Hippocrates, Ambrose Paré, and others.

One afternoon, however, he burst out into a loud cry of delight. He

had the score of his masterpiece in his hand at the time. It was all

rubbish, he said, that Paradise of his, and could not be worked out.

He would destroy it all, and write quite a new symphony on Grief,

which should describe in sublime harmonies the hopeless despair of

Humanity groaning beneath the skies. He retained the march of Adam

and Eve, and boldly transferred it to his new work as the 'March of

Death.' For a week his enthusiasm increased every hour, and the whole

universe entered into the scheme of his symphony. But, when another

week had passed away, Pauline was very much astonished to hear him

say one evening that he was quite willing to go and study medicine in

Paris. He was really thinking that by doing so he would be near the

Conservatoire, and would then be able to see what could be done. Madame

Chanteau, however, was delighted. She would certainly have preferred

seeing her son hold some judicial or administrative office, but, at any

rate, doctors were very respectable persons and sometimes made a good

deal of money. 'You must be a little witch!' she said, kissing Pauline;

'you have more than repaid us, my dear, for taking you.'

Everything was settled. Lazare was to leave on the 1st of October.

During the month of September that remained to them they gave

themselves up with greater fervour than ever to their romps and

rambles, resolved to finish their term of freedom in a worthy manner.

They sported about in the Golden Bay at times till darkness surprised

them there.

One evening they were sitting on the beach, watching the stars appear

like fiery beads in the paling sky. Pauline gazed at them with the

placid admiration of a healthy child, whereas Lazare, who had become

feverish ever since he had been preparing for his departure, blinked

nervously, while in his mind revolved all kinds of schemes and

ambitions for the future.

'How lovely the stars are!' said Pauline quietly, after a long interval

of silence.

He made no reply. All his cheerfulness had left him; his gaze seemed

disturbed by some inward anxiety. Up in the sky the stars were growing

thicker every minute, as if sparks were being cast by the handful

across the heavens.

'You have never learned anything about them, have you?' he said at

last. 'Each star up yonder is a sun, round which there are planets

wheeling like the earth. There are thousands and thousands of them; and

far away beyond those you can see are legions of others. There is no

end to them.' Then he became silent for a moment. By-and-by he resumed

in a voice that quivered with emotion: 'I don't like to look at them;

they make me feel afraid.'

The rising tide was raising a distant wail, like the mournful cry of a

multitude lamenting its wretchedness. Over the horizon, black now with

fallen night, glittered the gold-dust of wheeling worlds. And amid that

sad wail that echoed round them from the world, pressed low beneath

the countless stars, Pauline thought she detected a sound of bitter

sobbing beside her.

'What is the matter with you? Are you ill?'

Lazare made no answer. He was indeed sobbing, with his face hidden in

his convulsively twitching hands, as though he wanted to blot out the

sight of everything. And as soon as he was able to speak, he gasped:

'Oh, to die! to die!'

The scene filled Pauline with long-lasting astonishment. Lazare rose

to his feet with difficulty, and they went back to Bonneville through

the darkness, the rising tide pressing closely upon them. Neither spoke

a word to the other. As Pauline watched the young man go on in front

of her, he seemed to grow shorter, to bend beneath the breeze from the

west.

That evening they found a new-comer waiting for them in the

dining-room, talking to Chanteau. For a week past they had been

expecting the arrival of a young girl called Louise, who was eleven

years and a half old, and came to spend a fortnight every year at

Bonneville. They had twice gone to meet her at Arromanches, without

finding her, and now, that evening, when no one was looking for her,

she had turned up quite unexpectedly. Louise's mother had died in

Madame Chanteau's arms, recommending her daughter to the other's care.

Her father, Monsieur Thibaudier, a banker at Caen, had married again

six months afterwards, and had already three children by his present

wife. Absorbed by his new family and business matters, he had sent

Louise to a boarding-school, and was only too glad when he could get

her off his hands during the holidays by sending her upon a round of

visits to her friends. He gave himself as little trouble about her as

possible, and she had come to the Chanteaus' a week behind her time, in

the charge of a servant. 'The master had so much to worry him,' said

the latter, who returned home immediately she had deposited her charge

at Bonneville, with an intimation that Mademoiselle's father would do

his best to come and fetch her himself when her time was up.

'Come along, Lazare!' cried Chanteau. 'Here she is at last!'

Louise smiled and kissed the young man on both his cheeks, though the

acquaintance between them was slight, for she had been constantly shut

up in school, and it was barely a year since he had left college. Their

knowledge of each other really dated from their last holidays, and

Lazare had hitherto treated the girl somewhat ceremoniously, fancying

that she already considered herself grown-up, and despised any youthful

display of boisterousness.

'Well, Pauline, aren't you going to kiss her?' said Chanteau, entering

the room. 'She is older than you by a year and a half, you know. You

must be very fond of each other; it will please me very much to see you

so.'

Pauline looked keenly at Louise, who was slight and delicate, with

somewhat irregular though very pleasing features. Her hair was thick

and fair, and was curled and arranged like that of a young woman.

Pauline turned a little pale on seeing Louise kiss Lazare; and when she

herself was kissed by her with a smile, it was with quivering lips that

she returned the salute.

'What is the matter with you?' asked her aunt. 'Are you cold?'

'Yes, I think I am a little. The wind was rather chilly,' she answered,

blushing at the falsehood she was telling.

When they sat down to dinner she ate nothing. Her eyes never strayed

from the faces of those who were present, and became very black

whenever her uncle or her cousin or even Véronique paid any attention

to Louise. But she seemed to be especially pained when Matthew, making

his customary round of the table, went and laid his huge head upon the

new-comer's knee. It was quite in vain that she called him to her. He

would not leave Louise, who gorged him with sugar.

When they rose from the table, Pauline immediately left the room.

Véronique was clearing the things away, and as she came back from the

kitchen for a fresh trayful she said, with a triumphant expression:

'Ah, Madame! I know you think your Pauline quite perfect, but just go

and look at her now in the yard.'

They all went out to see. Hiding away behind the coach-house, Pauline

was holding Matthew against the wall, and, apparently mad with passion,

was hitting his head with all the strength of her clenched fists. The

poor dog seemed quite stupefied, and, instead of offering resistance to

her blows, simply hung down his head. They rushed out at her, but even

at their approach she did not desist from her cruel treatment, and they

were obliged to carry her off. She was found to be in such a feverish,

excited state that she was at once put to bed, and for the greater

part of the night her aunt dared not leave her.

'Oh! yes, she's a dear little thing, a very dear little thing!' sneered

Véronique, who was quite delighted at having discovered a flaw in the

diamond.

'I remember, now,' said Madame Chanteau, 'that people spoke to me about

her outbursts of temper when I was in Paris. She is quite jealous--what

a nasty thing! I have noticed during the six months that she has been

with us several trifling matters that haven't pleased me; but, really,

to try to murder the poor dog beats everything!'

When Pauline saw Matthew the next day, she threw her trembling arms

round him and, kissing him on the nose, burst into such a flood of

tears that they feared she was going to have another hysterical attack.

In spite of her repentance, she could not restrain these outbursts of

mad passion. It was as though some sudden storm within her sent all her

blood boiling and hissing into her head. She had doubtless inherited

this jealous violence from some ancestor on her mother's side; yet she

had a deal of common-sense for a child of ten years old, and used to

say that she did all she could to struggle against those outbreaks, but

without avail. They made her very miserable, as though they had been

the symptoms of some shameful disease.

At times, when Madame Chanteau reproached her, she replied, hiding her

head against her aunt's shoulder: 'I love you so much, why do you love

others?'

Thus, in spite of all her efforts and struggles, Pauline suffered a

great deal from Louise's presence in the house. Ever since the other

had been expected, she had been looking forward to her coming with

uneasy curiosity, and now she was impatiently counting the days of

her stay, all eagerness for her departure. Yet she could not help

remarking the charm of Louise's manner, the pretty seductiveness of

her half-childish, half-womanish demeanour; but, perhaps, it was this

very charm and seductiveness that troubled her and made her so angry

when Lazare was present. For his part, the young man showed the greater

preference for Pauline, and even made jokes about Louise, saying that

she wearied him with her grand airs, and that Pauline and he had better

leave her alone to play the fine lady by herself, while they went off

somewhere to amuse themselves as they liked. All boisterous romping

had ceased since Louise's arrival; indoors they remained looking

at pictures, and when they went to the shore they walked about with

irreproachable decorum. It was a fortnight utterly wasted.

One morning Lazare announced his intention of anticipating his

departure by five days. He was anxious, he said, to get settled down in

Paris, where he expected to find one of his old chums at the College

of Caen. Pauline, whom the thought of the approaching separation had

distressed for a month past, now strongly approved of her cousin's

determination, and gleefully assisted her aunt to pack his trunk. But

as soon as he had driven off in old Malivoire's ancient _berline_ she

rushed away to her room, locked herself in it, and gave herself up

to weeping. Then, in the evening, she bore herself very kindly and

affectionately towards Louise, and the remaining week which the latter

spent at Bonneville passed away delightfully. When the maid came to

fetch her home again, explaining that the banker had not been able to

leave his business, the two girls rushed into each other's arms and

swore eternal friendship.