A year slowly passed away. Madame Chanteau had changed her mind, and,

instead of sending Pauline to a boarding-school, had kept her at home

with herself, being chiefly moved to this course by the complaints of

Chanteau, who had grown so used to the girl that he declared he could

not possibly get on without her. But the good lady did not confess that

any such reason of self-interest had anything to do with the alteration

of her plans; she talked about undertaking the child's education

herself, feeling quite youthful again at the thought of reverting to

her old profession of tuition. Besides, in boarding-schools, said

she, little girls became acquainted with all kinds of things, and she

wished her young ward to be reared in perfect innocence and purity.

They hunted out from among Lazare's miscellaneous books a Grammar, an

Arithmetic, a Treatise on History, and even an Abridgment of the Greek

Mythology; and Madame Chanteau resumed her functions of preceptress.

Lazare's big room was turned into a schoolroom; Pauline had to resume

her music lessons there, and was put through a severe course of

deportment to rid her of all the unladylike, boyish ways into which

she had fallen. She showed herself very docile and intelligent, and

manifested a great willingness to learn, even when the subject-matter

of her lessons was distasteful to her. There was only one thing which

seemed to weary her, and that was the catechism. She had not as yet

supposed that her aunt would take the trouble to conduct her to mass on

Sundays. Why should she, indeed? When she lived in Paris, no one had

ever taken her to Saint-Eustache, which was quite near their house.

It was only with difficulty that abstract ideas found their way into

her understanding, and her aunt had to explain to her that a well

brought-up young lady's duty in the country was to set a proper example

by showing herself to be on good terms with the priest. Religion, with

her, had never been anything more than a matter of appearance and

respectability, and she looked upon it as part of a polite education,

standing upon very much the same footing as the art of deportment.

Twice every day the tide swept up to the cliffs of Bonneville, and

Pauline's life passed on with the great expanse of surging water before

her eyes. She had given over playing and romping, for she no longer

had a companion. When she had run along the terrace with Matthew, or

strolled to the end of the kitchen-garden with Minouche, her only

pleasure was to go and gaze at the sea, which was full of changing

life, dark and gloomy in the stormy days of winter, and gleaming

with bright blues and greens beneath the summer sun. The beneficent

influence which seemed to flow from the girl's presence in the house

manifested itself in another form that year, for Chanteau received from

Davoine a quite unlooked-for remittance of five thousand francs, which

threats of a dissolution of partnership had extorted from him. Madame

Chanteau never missed going to Caen each quarter to receive her niece's

dividends, and when she had deducted her expenses and the sum which

she was allowed for Pauline's board, she invested the balance in the

purchase of further stock. On returning home she always took the girl

into her room, and, opening the well-known drawer in the secrétaire,

said to her: 'There, you see, I am putting this with the other. Isn't

it getting a big heap? Don't be at all uneasy about it. You will find

it all there when you want it. There won't be a centime missing.'

One fine morning in August Lazare suddenly made his appearance,

bringing with him the news of his complete success in his preliminary

examinations. He had not been expected for another week, but he had

wanted to take his mother by surprise. His arrival greatly delighted

them all. In the letters which he had written home every fortnight he

had shown an increasing interest in medicine, and, now that he was

amongst them again, he appeared to be completely changed. He never

spoke a word about music, but was perpetually chattering about his

professors and his scientific studies, dragging them in _à propos_

of everything, even of the dishes that were served at dinner and

the direction in which the wind was blowing. He was, now, a prey to

another wildly enthusiastic ambition, for he dreamed, day and night, of

becoming a physician, whose wonderful skill would be trumpeted through

the whole world. Pauline, when she had thrown her arms round his neck

and kissed him with child-like frankness, was more surprised than the

others at this change in him. It almost grieved her, indeed, that he

should have dropped all his interest in music, even as a recreation.

Could it be possible, she asked herself, that, when one had really

loved anything, one could end by caring nothing at all about it? One

day when she asked him about his symphony, he began to make fun of it,

and told her that he had quite done with all such nonsense. She felt

quite sad at those words. But he also seemed to be soon bored with her

society, and laughed with an unpleasant laugh; while his eyes and his

gestures spoke of a ten months' life which could not have been related

in detail to little girls.

He had unpacked his trunk himself, so as to keep from view the books

he had brought home with him, novels and medical works, some of them

copiously illustrated. He no longer twirled his cousin like a top, as

he had been wont to do, making her petticoats fly in a circle round

her, and he even seemed quite confused at times when she persisted in

coming into his room and staying there. However, she had scarcely grown

at all during his absence, and she still looked him frankly in the face

with her pure innocent eyes, in such wise that by the end of a week

his appearance of uneasiness had vanished, and they reverted to their

old intimacy and comradeship. The fresh sea-breezes had now swept the

unhealthy influences of the students' quarter of Paris out of Lazare's

brain, and he felt once more a child himself as he romped about with

his little cousin, both of them full of vigorous health and gaiety. All

the old life began anew; the racing round the table, the scampers with

Matthew and Minouche through the garden, the rambles to the Golden Bay

and the bathing in the open air. And that year, too, Louise, who had

paid a visit to Bonneville in May, went to take her holidays with some

other friends at Rouen; and so the others spent two very delightful

months, without a single disagreement or misunderstanding to mar their

enjoyment. When October came, Pauline watched Lazare pack his trunk for

his return to Paris. He gathered together the books he had brought with

him, which had remained stowed away in his cupboard without once being

opened.

'Are you going to take them all back with you?' the girl asked in a

melancholy voice.

'Yes, indeed,' he replied. 'I shall want them all for my studies. You

have no notion how hard I am going to work. I shall want every one of

them.'

The little house at Bonneville once more subsided into lifeless,

monotonous quietude. Each day passed in precisely the same way as its

predecessors, bringing the same round of incidents beside the ceaseless

rhythm of the ocean. That year, however, was marked distinctly for

Pauline. In the month of June she took her first communion, being

then twelve and a half years old. By slow degrees a religious feeling

had taken possession of her, but it was a religious feeling loftier

than the one indicated in her catechism, whose answers she constantly

repeated without understanding them. With her reflective young mind

she had ended by picturing the Deity to herself as a very powerful and

very wise ruler, who directed everything upon earth in accordance with

principles of strict justice; and this simplified conception of hers

sufficed to put her on a footing of understanding with Abbé Horteur.

The Abbé was a peasant's son, and into his hard head nothing but the

letter of the law had ever made its way. He had grown to be contented

with the observance of outward ceremonies and the maintenance of

religious practices. True, he bestowed the greatest care and thought

upon his own salvation; and if his parishioners should finally be

damned, well, it would be their own fault. For fifteen years he had

been trying to terrify them without success, and now all that he asked

of them was to come to church on the great feast days. And, in spite

of the sinful state in which it rotted, Bonneville did come to church

pretty regularly, drawn thither by the influence of old habit. But the

priest's tolerance had degenerated into indifference as to the real

spiritual condition of his flock. Every Saturday it was his custom to

go and play draughts with Chanteau, although the mayor, making his

gout an excuse, never set foot inside the church. But then Madame

Chanteau did all that was necessary by attending the services regularly

and taking Pauline with her. It was the priest's great simplicity and

frankness which by degrees won Pauline over. While living in Paris, she

had heard priests scoffed and sneered at as hypocrites, whose black

robes concealed all manner of sins and wickedness. But the priest of

that little sea-side hamlet seemed to her a thoroughly genuine, honest

fellow, with his heavy boots and sun-browned neck and farmer-like

speech and manner. One little fact especially impressed her. Abbé

Horteur was strongly addicted to puffing away at a big meerschaum

pipe, but he seemed to be disturbed by some slight scruples as to the

propriety of such a habit, for whenever he wanted to smoke he always

retired into his garden, and hid himself away in the solitude of his

lettuce-beds. And it was the anxious air with which he hastily tried

to put his pipe out of sight when he was taken unawares in his garden

that touched the girl, though she could scarcely have told why. She

took her first communion in a very serious and reverent frame of mind,

in company with two other girls from the village and one boy. When the

priest came to dine with the Chanteaus in the evening, he declared that

never since he had been at Bonneville had he seen a communicant who had

conducted herself with such reverence at the Holy Table.

Financially, the year was not so prosperous for the Chanteaus. The rise

in the price of deal, for which Davoine had been hoping for a long time

past, did not take place, and so only bad news came from Caen, for,

being driven into selling at a loss, the business was in a bad way

indeed. Thus the family lived in the most meagre fashion, and were only

able to make their income of three thousand francs cover the necessary

expenses by practising the most rigid economy. Lazare, whose letters

to herself she kept strictly private, was Madame Chanteau's chief

source of anxiety. He was apparently leading a life of extravagance

and dissipation, for he constantly applied to her for money. When she

went to Caen in July to receive Pauline's dividend, she made a fierce

attack upon Davoine. Two thousand francs which he had previously given

to her had been sent to Lazare, and now she succeeded in wringing

another thousand francs out of him, and these she at once despatched to

Paris. For Lazare had written to tell her that he would not be able to

come home unless he was provided with the means of paying his debts.

Every day during a whole week they expected his arrival amongst them,

but each morning a letter came announcing that his departure had been

put off till the morrow. When at last he did actually start for home,

his mother and Pauline went as far as Verchemont to meet him. They met

there, kissed each other on the high-road, and walked home together,

followed by the unoccupied coach, which carried Lazare's luggage.

Lazare's return home that year was by no means so gay as his previous

triumphal surprise. He had failed to pass an examination in July,

and was embittered against all his professors, of whom he fell foul

throughout the evening. The next morning, in Pauline's presence, he

threw his books upon one of the shelves in the wardrobe, exclaiming

that they might lie there and rot. This sudden disgust for his studies

alarmed her. She heard him scoff bitterly at medicine, and deny its

power to cure even a cold. One day when she was attempting to defend

it from his attacks, in an impulse of youthful belief, he sneered

so bitterly at her ignorance of what she was talking about that his

remarks brought a hot blush to her cheeks. But, all the same, he said,

he had resigned himself to being a doctor; as well that kind of humbug

as any other: everything was equally stupid at bottom. Pauline grew

quite indignant and angry at the new ideas which he had brought home

with him. Where had he got them from? From those wicked books he read,

she was quite sure; but she dared not discuss the matter fully, held

back as she was by her own ignorance, and feeling ill at ease amidst

her cousin's sneers and innuendoes and pretences that he could not tell

her everything. The holidays glided away in perpetual misunderstandings

and bickerings. In their walks together the young man seemed to be

bored, and declared that the sea was wearisome and monotonous. As a

means of killing time, however, he had taken to writing verses, and

composed sonnets on the sea with great elaboration and fastidiousness

of rhymes. He declined to bathe, saying that he had found that cold

baths disagreed with his constitution, for, in spite of his denial of

all value to medical science, he now indulged in the most sweeping and

authoritative opinions, condemning or curing people with a word. About

the middle of September, when they were expecting Louise's arrival, he

suddenly expressed his intention of returning to Paris, saying that

he wished to prepare for his examination again. He really thought that

his life would be unbearable between two little girls, and wished to

get back to the Latin Quarter. Pauline's manner to him, however, became

gentler and more submissive the more he did to vex her. When he was

rude and sought to distress her, she merely looked at him with those

tender, smiling eyes of hers, whose soft influence was able to soothe

even Chanteau when he groaned and moaned amidst one of his attacks of

gout. She thought that her cousin was in some way out of health, for he

looked upon life like a weary old man.

The day before his departure Lazare manifested such delight at the

prospect of leaving Bonneville that Pauline burst into tears.

'You don't love me any more now!'

'Don't be a goose! Haven't I got to make my way in life? A big girl

like you to be crying! The idea of it!'

Then she summoned up her courage again and smiled as she said to him:

'Work hard this year, so that when you come back again we may all be

quite happy and satisfied.'

'Oh! there's no good in working hard! Their examinations are nothing

but foolery. I didn't pass because I didn't care to. I am going to

hurry through with it all now, since my lack of fortune prevents me

from living a life of ease and leisure, which is the only satisfactory

life a man can lead.'

In the early part of October, after Louise had returned to Caen,

Pauline again resumed her lessons with her aunt. The curriculum of her

third year's studies embraced bowdlerised French History, and Greek

Mythology as 'adapted to the use of young persons.' But the girl, who

had shown such diligence in the previous year, now seemed to have

become quite sluggish and dull. Sometimes she even went to sleep over

her tasks, and her face flushed with a hot surging of blood. A mad

outburst of anger against Véronique, who didn't like her, she declared,

made her so ill that she had to stop in bed for a couple of days. Then

came changes in herself which disquieted and distressed her. About

Christmas-time Pauline's health was such as to alarm Madame Chanteau.

But that worthy woman, from ridiculous notions of her own, was largely

to blame, as she refused to take Doctor Cazenove's advice and talk

to the girl as she should have done. And in the result Pauline, at an

important period in her youth, narrowly escaped being stricken with an

attack of brain-fever.

When she was well again and resumed her studies, she began to affect

an enthusiastic interest in the Greek Mythology. She shut herself up

in Lazare's big room--which was still used as a schoolroom--and had to

be sent for at meal-times. When she came down, she seemed buried in

thought and quite indifferent to all that went on. Upstairs, however,

the Mythology lay quite neglected on the table, for it was in poring

over all the medical books which Lazare had left in the old wardrobe

that she now spent her time. There were a good many of those works,

and, though at first she failed to understand all the technical terms

she met with, she plodded on through anatomy and physiology, and even

pathology and clinical medicine. Thus she not only learnt--in all

simplicity and purity of mind, saved from all vicious thought by a

healthy craving for knowledge--many things of which girls of her age

are usually ignorant; but her researches extended to the symptoms and

treatment of all sorts of disease and ailment. Superfluous subjects she

passed by unheeded. She seemed to know intuitively what knowledge was

necessary to enable her to be of assistance to those who suffered. Her

heart melted with pity as she read on, and she gave herself up again to

her old dream of learning everything so that she might be able to cure

all that went amiss.

Knowledge rendered Pauline grave and thoughtful. She felt surprised and

annoyed at her aunt's silence towards her, which had resulted in such

terror and serious illness. And when one day Madame Chanteau did see

fit to refer to the matter, the girl quietly intimated that she needed

no information. At this the other was alarmed, and Pauline then told

her all about Lazare's books. There was a scene, but the girl, with her

outspoken frankness, quite routed her aunt. 'How can there be harm in

knowledge of the normal conditions of life?' she asked. Her enthusiasm

was perfectly mental, and never did a single wrong thought disturb the

pure depths of her clear, child-like eyes. On the same shelf with the

medical books she had found novels which had repelled her and bored

her, so that she had thrown them aside after glancing at the first few

pages. Her aunt, growing more and more disconcerted, though she had

recovered a little from her first shock, contented herself with locking

the wardrobe and taking away the key. But a week later it was there

again, and Pauline indulged herself in reading at intervals, by way of

recreation, either a chapter on neurosis, with her mind fixed the while

upon her cousin, or one relating to the treatment of gout, with the

idea of undertaking her uncle's cure.

Each day increasing love of life and its various manifestations

displayed itself in Pauline and made of her, to use her aunt's phrase,

a general mother. Everything that lived, everything that suffered,

aroused in her a feeling of active tenderness and won from her

abundant kindliness and thoughtful care. She had now forgotten all

about Paris, and began to feel as though she had been born in that

wild spot under the pure breezes from the sea. She had developed, too,

into a well-formed young woman, and with her healthy mind and love of

knowledge it was with delight that she found herself reaching full

growth and sunny ripeness. On her part there was a full acceptance of

life, life beloved in all its functions, welcomed with the triumphant

greeting of vigorous health and soundness of nature.

That year Lazare remained for six months without writing home, with

the exception, that is, of a very brief note now and then to tell

them he was all right. Then all at once he began to deluge his mother

with letters. He had again been plucked at the November examination,

and had become more disgusted than ever with the study of medicine,

which dealt with too gloomy matters for his taste, so that he had

now enthusiastically turned to chemistry. He had chanced to make the

acquaintance of the illustrious Herbelin, whose discoveries were then

revolutionising the science, and had entered his laboratory as an

assistant, without owning, however, that he was relinquishing medicine.

But his letters were soon full of a new scheme, which he at first

mentioned somewhat timidly, but gradually grew wildly enthusiastic

about. It was a plan for turning sea-weed to wonderful profit, by the

adoption of some new methods and reagents discovered by the illustrious

Herbelin. Lazare dwelt upon the great probability of the scheme's

success; the great chemist's assistance; the ease with which raw

material could be obtained, and the very small expense that would be

incurred for plant. In the end he frankly expressed his disinclination

to be a doctor, and jokingly declared that he should prefer to sell

remedies to the sick rather than to kill them off himself. He finished

all his letters by recapitulating the prospects of speedily acquiring

a large fortune, and mentioned as an additional lure to his parents

that, if they would consent to his new plans, he should remain with

them, as he proposed setting up his works quite close to Bonneville.

The months slipped away, and Lazare did not come home for the vacation.

All through the winter he continued to unfold the details of his new

scheme in long closely-written letters, which Madame Chanteau used

to read aloud in the evening after dinner. One night in May they

resolved themselves into a solemn family council to discuss the matter

seriously, for Lazare had written to ask for a categorical reply.

Véronique was bustling about the room, taking off the dinner-cloth and

putting the red one on the table in its place.

'He is his grandfather over again, always running after some fresh

scheme and doing no good at anything,' declared Madame Chanteau,

glancing up at the former journeyman-carpenter's masterpiece, whose

presence on the mantelshelf was a perpetual source of annoyance to her.

'Well, he certainly doesn't get his flighty disposition from me, for I

detest all change,' sighed Chanteau between a couple of groans, as he

lay back in his arm-chair, where he was just recovering from another

attack of gout. 'But you yourself, my dear, you know you are a little

given to restlessness.'

His wife shrugged her shoulders as though to imply that all her actions

were dictated and carried out by reason and common-sense. Then she

added slowly: 'Well, what are we to say? I suppose we shall have to

write to him and tell him that he may have his own way. I wanted to see

him in the magistracy, and I wasn't over well pleased at his being a

doctor; but now he has got down to being an apothecary! Still, if he

comes back home again and makes a lot of money, that will be better

than nothing.'

It was really this hope of money-making which decided her. She began to

indulge in new dreams for the son she was so fond of. She foresaw him

very wealthy, the owner of a fine house at Caen, a councillor-general,

perhaps even a deputy. Chanteau, who had no opinion either one way or

the other, and was absorbed in his own sufferings, left his wife to

see after all the interests of the family. Pauline, in spite of her

surprise and silent disapprobation of her cousin's continual changes,

thought that he had better be allowed to try his luck at the grand new

scheme which he had got into his head.

'At any rate, we shall be all together,' she said.

'And it's precious little good that Monsieur Lazare seems to be doing

in Paris,' Véronique ventured to add. 'It will be better for him to

come and live quietly here with us.'

Madame Chanteau nodded assent. She again took up the letter which she

had received that morning.

'He here goes into the financial side of his scheme,' she said. Then

she read the letter, commenting on it as she proceeded. Sixty thousand

francs would be required for erecting the works. In Paris Lazare had

met one of his old Caen friends, Boutigny, who was now selling wine on

commission there. Boutigny was very enthusiastic about the new scheme,

and had offered to invest thirty thousand francs in the business. He

would make an admirable partner, one whose practical business habits

would ensure the success of the undertaking. There would, however,

still remain thirty thousand francs to be borrowed somewhere, as Lazare

was anxious to have half the business in his own hands.

'As you hear,' continued Madame Chanteau, 'he wants me to apply in his

name to Thibaudier. It is a good idea, and I am sure Thibaudier will

let him have the money. Louise is not very well just now, and I have

thought of going to Caen to ask her to stay with us for a week. As I

shall see her father, I will mention the matter to him.'

A cloud passed before Pauline's eyes, and her lips quivered as she drew

them tightly together. Véronique was standing at the other side of the

table, wiping a tea-cup and watching her closely.

'I had, indeed, thought of another way,' said Madame Chanteau in a low

voice; 'but as there is always some risk in a business enterprise, I

have come to the conclusion to say nothing about it.'

Then, turning to the young girl, she added: 'Yes, my dear, you might

have lent the thirty thousand francs to your cousin yourself. You

couldn't find a better investment, and you would very likely get

twenty-five per cent. interest, for your cousin would share his profits

with you, and it quite grieves me to think of a lot of money going into

an outsider's pocket. But I shouldn't like you to run any risk with

your fortune. It is a sacred deposit. It is quite safe upstairs, and I

will restore it to you unimpaired.'

Pauline grew pale as she listened to her aunt's words; and a

struggle went on within her. She had inherited a somewhat avaricious

disposition: Quenu's and Lisa's love of money. In the pork-butcher's

shop she had been taught to reverence its power, and to guard against

the want of it. Then, too, her aunt had so frequently called her

attention to the drawer in the secrétaire where her little fortune was

locked up, that the thought of seeing it gradually squandered by her

erratic cousin irritated her. So she kept silent, though she was also

troubled by a vision of Louise handing a great bag of money to Lazare.

'Even if you, my dear, should wish it, I shouldn't,' Madame Chanteau

continued; and, addressing her husband, she added: 'It is quite a

matter of conscience, isn't it?'

'Her money belongs to her,' said Chanteau with a deep groan as he tried

to move his leg. 'If things were to turn out badly, we should be called

upon to make good the loss. No! no! we mustn't do that. Thibaudier will

be glad to lend it, I have no doubt.'

Then Pauline, in an impulse of affection, cried:

'No! no! please don't grieve me like this. I certainly ought to lend

the money to Lazare myself. Isn't he my brother? It would be very

unkind of me if I refused to let him have it. How could you suppose

that I could have any objection? Give him the money at once, aunt; give

him all of it!'

Her eyes filled with tears at the effort she had just made; then her

face broke out into a smile, while she remained in a state of confusion

between her regret at having hesitated for a moment and a miserable

fear that the money would be lost. She had to struggle a little while

against the protest of her relations, who were certainly honest enough

to show her the risks she would run.

'Come and kiss me then, my dear,' her aunt finished by saying, yielding

to the girl's tears. 'You are a very good girl, and you shall lend

Lazare your money, since it would vex you so much if he did not take

it.'

'Come and kiss me, too, dear, won't you?' added her uncle. They cried

and kissed all round the table. Then, as Pauline went out of the room

to call Matthew, and Véronique brought in the tea, Madame Chanteau

exclaimed, wiping the tears from her eyes: 'It's a great consolation to

find her generous-minded.'

'Of course!' growled the servant; 'why, she would strip her chemise

off her back rather than let that other one have a chance of giving

anything!'

It was a week later, on a Saturday, that Lazare returned to Bonneville.

Doctor Cazenove, who had been invited to dine with the Chanteaus,

brought the young man along with him in his gig. They found Abbé

Horteur, who was also dining there that evening, playing draughts

with Chanteau, who was lying back in his invalid's chair. He had been

suffering for three months past from the attack from which he was now

recovering. It had been more painful and violent than any previous

one, and now, in spite of the terrible twinges he constantly felt in

his feet, he considered himself in a state of Paradise. His skin was

scaling, and the swellings had almost disappeared. Véronique was busy

roasting some pigeons in the kitchen, and every time the door opened

he sniffed the appetizing odour, overcome, again, by his irrepressible

greediness, on which subject the priest began to remonstrate with him.

'You are not attending to the game, Monsieur Chanteau. Now, be advised

by me, and be very careful about what you eat this evening. Rich food

is bad for you in your present condition.'

Louise had arrived the previous day. When she and Pauline heard the

Doctor's gig approaching, they both rushed wildly into the yard. But it

was only his cousin whom Lazare appeared to notice, and he looked at

her with an expression of amazement.

'What! can this really be Pauline?'

'Yes, indeed, it is I.'

'But, good gracious, what a lot you must have eaten to have grown like

that! Why, you are quite big enough to get married now!'

She blushed, and laughed gaily, her eyes glistening with pleasure at

seeing him take such notice of her. He had left her a mere chit, a raw

schoolgirl in a pinafore, and now he saw her again as a well-grown

young woman, whose figure showed to advantage in her white rose-sprayed

summer gown. However, she became quite serious as she examined him in

turn. She thought he was looking much older, he stooped, his laugh no

longer sounded young, and his face twitched nervously at times.

'By the way,' said Lazare, 'I must really treat you a little more

ceremoniously now. How do you do, partner?'

Pauline's blush assumed a deeper tint; the word 'partner' made her feel

intensely happy. When her cousin had kissed her, he might well kiss

Louise afterwards. She experienced no feeling of jealousy now.

It was a delightful dinner. Chanteau, alarmed by the Doctor's threats,

ate with moderation. Madame Chanteau and the priest discussed

magnificent schemes for the aggrandizement of Bonneville when the

sea-weed business should have enriched the neighbourhood. It was eleven

o'clock before they separated. As Lazare and Pauline were about to quit

each other, at the doors of their rooms, the young man said to her

laughingly:

'So young ladies, when they have grown up, no longer wish one

good-night?'

'Why, yes, they do,' she cried; and, throwing her arms round his neck,

she kissed him full on the lips with all her old girlish impulsiveness.

III

Two days later a very low tide laid the rocks quite bare. Lazare,

brimming over with the wild enthusiasm which always filled him at

the outset of any of his new schemes, was impatient to be off to

the sea-weed. So away he hurried, with bare legs and just a canvas

jacket over his bathing-costume. Pauline went with him to share in his

investigations. She, too, wore a bathing-costume and the heavy shoes

which she used when bound on shrimping expeditions. When they had got

about half a mile from the cliffs, and had reached the centre of the

spreading tract of sea-weed, still streaming with the water of the

ebbing tide, the young man's enthusiasm burst forth as if he were only

now discovering that immense crop of marine plants over which he and

Pauline had rambled a hundred times before.

'Look! look!' he cried; 'what money we shall make out of it all; and

nobody has ever thought of making any use of it before!'

Then he began to point out to her the different species with gleeful

pedantry; the zosterias, of a delicate green and similar to long

hair, stretching far away in spreading lawns; the ulvæ, with large

lettuce-like leaves of glaucous transparency; the serrated fuci and

the bladder-bearing fuci, which grew in such thick profusion that they

enveloped the rocks like thick moss. As they followed the tide, too,

they came upon species of greater size and stranger forms, such as

various kinds of laminaria, especially that known as Neptune's Belt, a

girdle-like strip of greenish leather, with wrinkled edges, that looked

as though it were made to circle some giant's waist.

'What wealth there is going to waste here!' exclaimed Lazare. 'How

stupid people are! In Scotland folks are sensible enough to make some

use of the ulvæ at any rate, for they turn it into food and eat it. We

here just use the fuci to pack fish with, and the zosteria to stuff

mattresses; and as for the rest, it is simply turned into manure; and

all that science does is to burn a few cartloads to extract soda from

the residue.'

Pauline, in the water to her knees, felt perfectly happy amidst all the

sharp saltness; and her cousin's explanations interested her extremely.

'So do you intend to distil all this?' she asked.

Lazare was very much amused with the word 'distil.'

'Yes; distil it, if you like to call it so. But the process is a

very complicated one, as you'll see. However, mark my words. We have

subjugated terrestrial vegetation to our use; we eat vegetables and

fruit, and avail ourselves in other ways of trees and plants, don't we?

Well, perhaps we shall find that we can turn marine vegetation to still

greater profit when we seriously try to do so.'

Meantime they both enthusiastically gathered specimens, loading

themselves and going so far out that they became drenched on their way

back. Lazare went on pouring forth explanations, repeating all that

his master, Herbelin, had told him. The ocean was a vast reservoir of

chemical compounds, and the sea-weed was ever condensing in its tissues

the salts contained in the water. The problem they had to solve was

how to extract from the sea-weed all its useful components at small

cost. He talked of taking the ashes which resulted from combustion--the

impure soda of commerce--of sifting them, and finally extracting in

a state of perfect purity the various iodides and bromides of sodium

and potassium, the sulphate of soda, and the various salts of iron and

manganese, so as to turn every particle of the material to profitable

use. He waxed particularly enthusiastic over the fact that by the

system which the illustrious Herbelin had devised nothing that could be

of the slightest use would be lost. So there was an immense fortune

before them.

'Good gracious! what a mess you're in!' cried Madame Chanteau, when

they got home again.

'Never mind about that,' said Lazare gaily, as he flung his load of

sea-weed on to the middle of the terrace. 'We are bringing you back

five-franc pieces.'

The next day one of the Verchemont peasants was sent with a cart to

bring back a whole load of weed, and the experiments were commenced in

the big room on the second floor. Pauline was appointed assistant. For

a month they went quite mad over the subject. The room was soon crammed

with dried weeds, with jars containing floating sprays, and instruments

of all sorts of odd shapes. There was a microscope on the table, and

the piano was hidden beneath retorts and flasks; whilst the wardrobe

groaned with the weight of technical works and collections that were

perpetually being referred to. The experiments, made with small

quantities of material with the most scrupulous care, gave encouraging

results. Herbelin's cold system was based upon the discovery that

certain bodies crystallise at very low temperatures, and the only thing

required was to obtain the necessary lowness of temperature, whereupon

each particular substance deposited itself in crystals successively,

and thus separate from others. Lazare burned the weeds in a pit, mixed

the ashes with water, and subjected them to the necessary temperature,

which he obtained by a refrigerative method based upon the rapid

evaporation of ammonia. He would afterwards have to carry out these

operations on a large scale and transfer them from the laboratory to

proper works, observing careful economy in the method of manufacture

and the installation of the requisite plant.

On the day when he succeeded in extracting five distinct substances

from his crude liquor, the room rang with cries of triumph. They had

obtained quite a surprising proportion of bromide of potassium, and

would be able to supply that popular remedy as plentifully as bread.

Pauline danced wildly round the table; and then flew downstairs and

burst into the dining-room, where her uncle was reading his newspaper

and her aunt was marking table-napkins.

'There!' she cried, 'you can be as ill as you like now, and we can give

you as much bromide of potassium as ever you'll want!'

Madame Chanteau, who had been suffering lately from nervous attacks,

had been put upon a bromide _régime_ by Doctor Cazenove. She smiled as

she answered:

'Have you got enough to cure everyone?--for everyone seems to be out of

sorts just now.'

The vigorous young girl, whose face beamed with robust health, spread

out her arms as though she were casting the remedy to the four corners

of the earth.

'Yes, yes!' said she, 'we shall make enough for the whole world.

Neurosis is done for!'

After inspecting the coast Lazare decided that he would build his works

near the Golden Bay. It answered all the necessary requirements. It

had a wide spreading beach, flagged as it were with flat rocks, which

facilitated the gathering of the weed; there was good communication

from it by the Verchemont Road; land was cheap; the necessary materials

were at hand; and it was sufficiently isolated without being remote.

Pauline joked about the name which they had given to the bay on account

of its gleaming sand. They did not think then, said she, that they

would ever find real gold there, as they were going to do now. They

made a capital beginning, bought about five acres of barren land at

a low price, and obtained the Prefect's authorisation after only two

months' delay. Then the building was commenced. Boutigny had already

arrived on the scene. He was a little, ruddy-faced man of thirty,

extremely common in appearance, and the Chanteaus did not take to him

at all. He declined to live at Bonneville, saying that he had found a

very convenient house at Verchemont; and the family's coldness towards

him increased when they heard that he had brought there a woman whom he

had probably picked up in some low haunt in Paris. Lazare shrugged his

shoulders at what he called their provincial narrow-mindedness. She was

a very pleasant sort of person, he thought, and had shown a good deal

of devotion in consenting to bury herself in such a wilderness; but he

made no further protest, on Pauline's account. What was expected from

Boutigny was active surveillance and intelligent organisation of the

work, and in this respect he showed himself to be all that could be

desired. He was never idle, and had a perfect genius for management;

under his direction the building soon sprang up.

For the next four months, while the work for the installation of the

machinery was going on, the Golden Bay Factory, as they called it,

became the goal of the young people's daily walk. Madame Chanteau

sometimes went with them, but Matthew was more often their only

companion. He soon grew tired, dragged his big feet along wearily

till they reached the works, when he would lie down, with his tongue

hanging out, panting like a blacksmith's bellows. The dog was the only

one of the party who bathed now, and would rush into the sea whenever

a stick was thrown for him to fetch, showing sufficient intelligence

to turn his back to the waves when he seized the stick, so as to avoid

swallowing the salt water. At each visit to the works Lazare used to

hurry on the contractors, while Pauline made practical remarks which

occasionally showed a good deal of common-sense.

The apparatus, constructed after designs made by Lazare himself, had

been ordered at Caen, and workmen came thence to set it up. Boutigny

was beginning to show a good deal of uneasiness at the rapid rate

at which the estimates increased. Why couldn't they have commenced

with as small a building as possible, and with merely the absolutely

indispensable appliances, he asked. Why launch out into all those

intricate workshops and rooms and all that elaborate machinery for a

business which it would have been more prudent to have started on a

small scale? They might gradually have extended it as they gained some

experience of the conditions under which it ought to be carried on

and the demand there might be for the output. But Lazare was carried

away by his enthusiastic dreams, and, if he had been allowed to have

his own way entirely, he would have added to the works a magnificent

façade looking towards the sea and proclaiming the grandeur of his

plans to the limitless horizon. Each visit only seemed to increase his

feverish hopes. So, what was the use of being stingy, especially as

they were going to make such a fortune out of the place? Thus the walk

back was delightfully gay. Poor Matthew used to lag far behind them;

and at times Pauline and Lazare would hide behind a wall, as delighted

as little children when the dog, suddenly finding himself alone and

fearing that he was lost, began hunting about for them in a state of

comical alarm.

Every evening on their return they were greeted with the same question:

'Well, how's it all getting on? Are you well pleased?'

The answer, too, was always the same.

'Oh, yes; but it is not finished yet.'

This was a period of close intimacy between the two young people.

Lazare showed a warm affection for Pauline, which a feeling of

gratitude for the money she had advanced served to strengthen.

Again, too, he gradually lost sight of her sex and regarded her as a

boyish companion, a younger brother, whose good points became more

manifest every day. She was so sensible and courageous, so cheerful

and pleasant, that he could not refrain from looking on her with an

unconfessed feeling of respect and esteem, which he tried to conceal

even from himself by chaffing and teasing her. In the most unconcerned

and casual way she had told him of her private studies and her aunt's

horror, and he had experienced a moment's wonder and embarrassment as

the girl, who knew so much already, turned her big candid eyes upon

him. After that, however, a perfect understanding seemed to exist

between them, and he talked freely and openly, as they worked together

at their common studies. She was continually asking him questions, in

which she appeared to have no other object than the simple acquisition

of information, so that she might make herself useful to him. And she

often amused him by the many gaps which she showed in her knowledge,

by the extraordinary mixture of information with which she was

crammed. When she showed herself to be labouring under some ludicrous

misconception, Lazare broke out into such peals of laughter that she

grew quite angry with him and told him that it would be much better if,

instead of laughing at her, he would show her where she was wrong; and

the matter generally terminated in a lesson.

Pauline, however, was changing; she often felt a vague uneasiness. At

times, when Lazare pulled her about in his brotherly fashion, her heart

would beat excitedly. The woman whom they had forgotten all about was

awaking within her amid the pulsing of her blood. She often believed

that she was on the point of falling into some serious illness, for she

grew very feverish, and could not sleep. In the daytime, too, she felt

weary and listless, but she made no complaints to her aunt.

One evening, after dinner, however, she began to talk about the

absurdity and annoyance of dreams. How tiresome it was that one was

compelled to lie on one's back, quite defenceless and helpless, a prey

to all sorts of idiotic ideas and fancies! But what vexed her most,

she said, was the absolute loss and annihilation both of the will and

body power. Then her cousin, with his pessimistic views, also fell

foul of dreams, as disturbing the happiness and serenity of utter

unconsciousness. Her uncle, however, proceeded to distinguish between

different sorts of dreams, saying that he liked to have pleasant ones,

while he detested nightmares. Pauline spoke so strongly on the subject

that Madame Chanteau, in surprise, began to question her. Then she

stammered and hesitated, saying that her dreams were about all sorts of

ridiculous things, trifles too vague to remember. And she was speaking

the truth in this respect, for the incidents of her dreams remained

obscure. She saw no one in them; and all she felt was like the kiss of

the sea-breezes as they flew at her window in the summer-time.

Every day Pauline's affection for Lazare seemed to increase. And this

was not merely the instinctive awakening of womanhood after seven

years' brotherly companionship; she also felt a need of devoting

herself to somebody, and illusion showed him to her as the worthiest

in intelligence and strength of all she knew. By slow degrees her old

sisterly feeling was being transformed into love, with sweet touches

of budding passion, secret thrills, furtive longings, all the fond

delights that attend the heart's start upon its journey of affection,

beneath the promptings of Nature. Lazare, protected by his former

free-and-easy life in the students' quarter of Paris, had no curiosity

to satisfy, and still looked upon her as a sister, never as an object

of desire; while she, on the other hand, all virginal purity in this

lonely spot where she knew no other young man, grew to worship him more

and more, and to bestow herself upon him entirely. From morning till

evening, when they were together, she seemed to derive life from his

presence, and her eyes ever sought his, as she eagerly busied herself

to serve him.

About this time Madame Chanteau became quite astonished at Pauline's

piety. She saw her go twice to confession. Then all at once she seemed

to take a dislike to Abbé Horteur, and for three Sundays even refused

to go to mass, only resuming her attendance at the church subsequently

in order that she might not displease her aunt. She gave no explanation

of her conduct; but she had probably been offended and displeased by

something the Abbé had said to her, for he was not a man of refined

speech. It was at this period that Madame Chanteau, with her keen

maternal instinct, discovered Pauline's growing love for Lazare; but

she said nothing about it to anyone, not even to her husband. The

knowledge of it came upon her as a surprise, for until now affection

and possible marriage between the young people had not entered into her

plans or thoughts. Like Lazare, she had gone on regarding her ward as a

mere schoolgirl. Now, she told herself, it was her duty to look sharply

after them; but she did not do so, really feeling very little interest

or anxiety about a love which her son did not appear to return.

When the hot days of August came round, Lazare suggested one evening

that they should have a bathe next day, on their way to the works.

Madame Chanteau accompanied them on this occasion, in spite of the

terrible heat. She sat down on the burning shingle, with Matthew by

her side, sheltering herself beneath her sunshade, under which the dog

tried to stretch his head.

'Hallo! where's she off to?' all at once cried Lazare, as he saw

Pauline disappear behind a rock.

'She is going to get ready, of course!' said Madame Chanteau. 'Turn

your head away. It isn't decorous; and she won't like it.'

He seemed quite astonished, then looked at his mother, and turned his

back to the rock. Finally, he also began to undress, without saying a

word.

'Are you ready?' he shouted, at last. 'What a time you are!'

Pauline ran lightly towards him, with a laugh which sounded a little

forced. They had never bathed together since Lazare's return home. She

wore a swimming-costume, made in a single piece and fastened about her

waist by a belt. With her lissom figure she looked like a Florentine

statue. Her arms and legs were bare, and her small feet, white as a

child's, were shod with sandals.

'Well,' said Lazare, 'shall we go as far as the Picochets?'

'Yes, to the Picochets,' she answered.

'Don't go far!' cried Madame Chanteau. 'I shall feel so frightened if

you do.'

But they were already in the water. The Picochets were a group of rocks

which the high tide did not quite cover, and lay about half a mile off.

The young people swam along leisurely, side by side, like a pair of

friends out for a walk on some smooth straight road. Matthew followed

them for a little way, but, when he saw them still going forward

without sign of returning, he swam back to the shore and shook the

water out of his coat, splashing the drops all over Madame Chanteau.

Unnecessary exertion of this kind did not commend itself to his lazy

nature.

'You are a sensible animal,' said the old lady. 'It is quite wicked of

them to go risking their lives in this way.'

She could only just discern the heads of Pauline and Lazare bobbing

up in the water like tufts of sea-weed moving with the waves. There

was a pleasant swell, and they skimmed along with a gentle undulatory

motion, talking quietly and examining the sea-weed that floated past

them in the transparent water. Then Pauline, beginning to feel a little

tired, turned herself upon her back and floated, gazing the while at

the sky, like one lost amidst the blue immensity. She still retained

all her old love for the sea that was now so softly cradling her. She

loved its sharp fresh breath and its pure cold waves; and she yielded

to it entirely, happy in its ceaseless rippling against her flesh, and

revelling in the exertion of swimming, which kept down the throbbing of

her heart. Suddenly, however, she gave a slight cry. Her cousin glanced

towards her uneasily, and asked what was the matter.

'I'm afraid,' she said, 'that the bodice of my costume has split. I

swung my left arm out too quickly.'

Then they both laughed. Pauline had begun to swim leisurely again,

and was smiling a little uneasily as she contemplated the accident to

her costume. A shoulder-strap had given way. Her cousin merrily told

her to feel in her pocket, to see if she had not some pins about her.

Soon afterwards, however, they reached the Picochets, whereupon Lazare

mounted on a ledge of rock, as it was the custom to rest and draw

breath before returning to the shore. But Pauline remained in the water

and continued swimming round the rocks.

'Aren't you coming up?'

'No. I'd rather stay where I am.'

Lazare thought it was a mere whim of hers, and felt vexed with her.

It was very foolish, he remarked. If she didn't come out of the water

and rest a little, she would break down on the journey back. But she

persisted in staying where she was, and did not even answer her cousin,

as with the water up to her chin, she still swam on gently, seeking to

hide the snowy whiteness of her naked shoulder, which shone, vague and

milky, like the pearliness of a shell. Towards the open sea the rocks

were hollowed out into a kind of grotto, where they had often played

at being Robinson Crusoes. Far away on the other side Madame Chanteau,

sitting on the beach, looked like a black insect.

'Take your own course, then, you foolish, obstinate girl!' cried

Lazare, springing into the water again. 'I sha'n't help you, remember

that.'

Then they slowly started on their return to the shore. They sulked with

each other and would not speak. When Lazare heard Pauline beginning

to pant, he told her that she had better turn upon her back again and

float, but she did not appear to hear him. The rent in her costume

was widening. At the slightest attempt to turn, her breast would have

burst clear out of the water. Lazare, at last, apparently began to

understand things, and, seeing how tired she was, and fearing that she

would never be able to reach the shore without assistance swam close

to her, resolutely determined upon bearing her up. She tried to escape

him, however, and to continue swimming by herself. But at last she was

obliged to yield to him; and when they reached the shore again, Lazare

was holding her in a close embrace.

Madame Chanteau had rushed down to the edge of the water in a terrible

state of alarm, while Matthew stood in the sea up to his stomach,

barking loudly.

'How wicked and foolish of you! I told you that you were going too far!'

Pauline had fainted. Lazare carried her on to the sand as though she

were a child. And all at once she heaved a deep sigh and opened her

eyes. As soon as she recognised her cousin, she burst out sobbing and

nearly choked him with her hysterical embrace, as she kissed him full

on the lips. She hardly knew what she was doing; she was acting under

the influence of a sudden impulse of love, which the consciousness of

her escape from death had sent thrilling through her.

'Oh! how good you are, Lazare! Oh! how I love you!'

He shook, almost unbalanced by the impetuosity of his cousin's kiss.

While Madame Chanteau was dressing her, he went off of his own accord.

The walk back to Bonneville was slow and painful, as both the young

people were thoroughly worn out with fatigue. Madame Chanteau walked

between them, thinking that the time had come for decisive action.

There were other causes for uneasiness in the family. The works at

Golden Bay were now finished, and for the last week they had been

testing the apparatus, with the most deplorable results. Lazare was

obliged to confess that he had made some serious mistakes in several

portions of it. He thereupon set off to Paris to consult his master,

Herbelin, and came back in a very discouraged frame of mind. Everything

would have to be made over again. The celebrated chemist had introduced

great improvements into his method, which necessitated many alterations

in the appliances. But then the sixty thousand francs were entirely

spent, and Boutigny absolutely refused to advance another sou. From

morning till night he talked sarcastically and bitterly of the foolish

squandering of money over fads, with the pertinacity of a practical man

whose warning has turned out correct. Lazare felt inclined to murder

him. But what troubled him more than anything else was the thought of

Pauline's thirty thousand francs lying lost in that abyss of disaster.

His honour and pride revolted against the idea. It was impossible to

think of it. More money must be got somewhere. They could not abandon

an undertaking which would surely bring them millions eventually.

'Don't make yourself unhappy about it,' said his mother, as she saw

him becoming quite ill with the worry of obtaining more capital. 'We

haven't got so low yet as not to be able to raise a few thousand-franc

notes.'

Madame Chanteau was working out a plan of her own. The idea of a

marriage between Pauline and Lazare struck her as being very feasible

and desirable. There was only some nine years' difference between their

ages, and that was a thing one saw every day. A marriage, too, would

be such a convenient way of settling matters. Lazare would be working

for his wife, and need not trouble himself any further about the debt;

moreover, he would be able to take from Pauline's fortune whatever

further sums he wanted. At the bottom of her heart, it is true, Madame

Chanteau felt some trifling scruples about the course she meditated,

having a lurking fear of the possibility of an utter catastrophe, and

the complete ruin of her ward. But she pooh-poohed the idea of such an

ending to the great scheme. Wasn't it beyond doubt that Lazare was a

very clever fellow who knew perfectly well what he was doing? He would

make Pauline very wealthy one of these days, and it was really she who

would benefit by the marriage. It mattered nothing that Lazare was

without fortune at present. He was a fortune in himself.

The marriage was quickly agreed upon. One morning Madame Chanteau went

into Pauline's room and sounded the young girl, who, with smiling

tranquillity, confessed her love for her cousin. Then her aunt told her

she must pretend to be tired, and in the afternoon went alone with her

son to the works. As they came back she unfolded to him her scheme,

telling him of his cousin's affection for him, the convenience and

suitability of the proposed marriage, and the advantages to be derived

from it. At first he was quite amazed. He had never entertained such a

notion. The girl was quite a child, wasn't she? Then he became moved,

and finally told his mother that he certainly liked Pauline very much,

and would do all she wished.

As they came back into the house they found Pauline laying the table,

for want of something else to do. Her uncle, with his newspaper laying

on his knee, was watching Minouche, who was fastidiously licking her

fur.

'Well, so there's a probability of a wedding, I hear,' said Lazare,

concealing his emotion beneath an affectation of gaiety.

Pauline stood quite still, holding a plate in her hands, and blushed

deeply, unable to say a word.

'Who is going to be married?' asked her uncle, suddenly, as though he

had just awoke.

His wife had told him all about it in the morning, but the dainty

way in which the cat was licking herself had absorbed his attention.

However, he quickly remembered.

'Ah! yes, of course!' said he.

Then he looked at the young people mischievously, while a sudden

painful twinge in his right foot made his lips twitch. Pauline had

gently put the plate down, and, turning to Lazare, she said:

'If you are willing, I'm quite willing too.'

'There! that's settled, then. Give each other a kiss,' exclaimed Madame

Chanteau, hanging up her straw hat.

The girl went up to Lazare, holding out her hands to him. He, laughing,

took them within his own, and began to joke.

'You have deserted your doll, then? And this is why you hide yourself

away so that one may not even see you washing your finger-tips! And it

is poor Lazare that you have selected for your victim!'

'Oh! aunt, do make him give over, or I shall go away!' murmured

Pauline, looking painfully confused and trying to make her escape.

Little by little he drew her closer to him, playing with her as in

the old days of their boy-like chumship. Then she suddenly planted a

smacking kiss on his cheek, which he returned chancewise on her ear.

But some secret thought seemed to cast a gloom over him, and he said

sadly:

'It's a sorry bargain you are making, my poor child. You don't know

what a very old man I am. Still, if you really wish it----'

The dinner was wildly gay. They all talked at once, and made all kinds

of plans for the future, as though they were now meeting for the first

time. Véronique, who had just come into the room as the engagement was

being announced, went back into the kitchen and banged the door after

her without saying a single word. When the dessert was laid upon the

table, their noisy gaiety toned down a little and they began to talk

about matters more seriously. Madame Chanteau said that the marriage

could not take place for another two years, for she should prefer

them to wait till Pauline was fully of age, so that there might be no

risk of any suspicion that any advantage had been taken of her youth.

Pauline looked aghast at this announcement of two years' delay, but

her aunt's sense of honour touched her deeply, and she got up from her

chair to go and kiss her. A date for the wedding was fixed; the two

young people would have to learn to be patient, and meanwhile they

would also be earning the first portion of their future millions. No

doubt at all was felt as to their ultimate great wealth.

'Pull out the drawer, aunt dear,' said Pauline, 'and give him as much

money as ever he wants. It is as much his as mine now.'

But Madame Chanteau would not hear of this.

'No, indeed. Not a single sou of it shall be spent unnecessarily. You

know you can fully trust me for that, and I would rather have my right

hand cut off than that you should be a loser. You want ten thousand

francs for the works? Well, those ten thousand francs I will give you,

and the rest I will keep tightly locked up. Not a sou of it shall be

touched.'

'With ten thousand francs,' said Lazare, 'I am quite certain of

success. All the heavy expenses are already paid, and it would really

be wicked not to go on with it now. You will see presently. And you, my

dear, I will have you dressed in a robe of cloth-of-gold like a queen

on our wedding-day.'

Their happiness and gaiety were increased by the unexpected arrival

of Doctor Cazenove. He had just been attending to the injuries of a

fisherman, who had crushed his fingers underneath a boat, and the

family insisted upon his remaining with them and having some tea.

The great news did not appear to surprise him; but, as he heard the

Chanteaus launching out enthusiastically in praise of the sea-weed

scheme, he glanced uneasily at Pauline, and said:

'Yes, no doubt the idea is ingenious and worth a trial. But a safe

investment in stock is better. If I were you, I should prefer being

happy at once in a quiet sort of way--'

He stopped short on seeing a shadow pass over the young girl's face,

and the warm affection which he felt for her induced him to speak

against his own convictions.

'But money is very pleasant to have; so, perhaps, you had better make a

lot of it. And I will certainly come and dance at the wedding. I will

dance the Zambuco of the Caribbeans, a dance I don't suppose you ever

heard of. You stretch out your arms like the sails of a windmill, and

then keep striking your thighs as you dance round a captive, while he

is being cut up and cooked by the women.'

The months flew past. Pauline regained all her old placid cheerfulness.

Doubt and uncertainty were the only things that could seriously trouble

her candid and frank nature. The confession of her love and the fixing

of a date for her marriage with Lazare seemed to have put an end to the

disturbing feelings that had assailed her. Her engagement caused little

difference in her relations with Lazare; they both led their old life

of familiar companionship; he ever busily engaged in the advancement of

his great scheme, and quite protected from sudden passion by his former

adventures in Paris, and she so simple and pure-minded in her virginity

and knowledge that she was shielded as by a double wall of protection.

Sometimes, indeed, they would take each other by the hand, in that big

disorderly room, and lovingly smile at one another; and while they read

together some treatise on Marine Botany their heads would perhaps rest

tenderly against each other; or, as they examined some flask brown with

bromine or some purple specimen of iodine, Pauline would lean gently

against Lazare, or bend down over the instruments that littered the

table and piano and bring her face near to his, or ask him to lift her

up so that she might reach the topmost shelf of the cupboard. But at

those moments there was nothing beyond decorous permissible tenderness,

such as might have been manifested openly before the members of their

family. Madame Chanteau herself said that they behaved in an extremely

proper and sensible manner; and when Louise arrived, with all her

pretty airs and graces, Pauline did not exhibit the slightest jealousy.

A whole year passed away in this fashion. The works were now in

operation, and the worries which arose kept Pauline and Lazare from

thinking about anything else. The new appliances had been set up after

considerable difficulty, and the first results seemed excellent.

Certainly the yield was slight, but when the system should be brought

to greater perfection, and all care and energy should be shown,

there was no doubt that they would quickly reach an enormous output.

Boutigny had already found great openings for their products; more

than they could supply, indeed. Success and fortune seemed ensured,

and this apparent certainty carried them off their heads. From their

former despondency they now rushed to the other extreme, casting money

by handfuls into extensions and alterations of the works, and never

feeling the least doubt that they would find it all again, melted into

a huge golden ingot. Every fresh outlay seemed only to urge them on to

another.

On the first few occasions Madame Chanteau refused to take any money

from the drawer without notifying Pauline.

'There are some payments to be made on Saturday, my dear,' she would

say. 'Will you come with me upstairs, and settle what scrip we shall

sell?'

'Oh! there's no occasion for that, aunt,' Pauline would reply. 'You can

settle that yourself.'

'No, my dear, you know that I never do anything without consulting you.

It is your money.'

In time, however, Madame Chanteau grew less rigid in this respect. One

evening Lazare told her of a debt which he had concealed from Pauline,

five thousand francs spent on copper pipes which had not even been

used. She had only just returned from a visit to the drawer with her

niece, so she went upstairs again by herself, on seeing the despair her

son was in, and took out the extra five thousand francs, on a solemn

promise that he would repay them out of the first profits.

But from that day her old strictness departed, and she began to take

scrip out of the drawer without consulting Pauline. She found it a

little unpleasant and humiliating, too, at her age, to be continually

consulting a mere child, and she rebelled against doing so. The money

would all be paid back to Pauline; and, even if it did belong to her,

that was no reason why one should never be able to make the slightest

move without obtaining her permission. So from this time she ceased to

insist on Pauline accompanying her on her visits to the secrétaire.

Pauline was really happier in consequence, for, in spite of her kind

and generous heart, those constant withdrawals of money perturbed her.

Her common-sense began to warn her of the probability of a catastrophe,

and the feelings of prudence and economy which she had inherited

from her mother were now roused in opposition to all the reckless

expenditure. At first she was surprised at Madame Chanteau's silence,

for she felt sure that the money was going the same way as before, with

the one difference that she was not being consulted about it. After

a little time, however, she felt that she preferred it to be so. It,

at any rate, saved her the grief of seeing the bundle of papers grow

smaller at each visit to the drawer. Between herself and her aunt there

was but a quick exchange of glances at certain times; a steady anxious

gaze on the girl's part, when she guessed some further abstraction, and

a vacillating look from Madame Chanteau, who felt irritated that she

should be obliged to turn away her head. Thus bitterness and dislike

began to arise between them.

That year, unfortunately, Davoine became a bankrupt. Though the

disaster had been foreseen, it was none the less a terrible blow for

the Chanteaus. They still had their three thousand francs a year

arising from their investments in stock; and all that they were able

to save from the wreck of the timber business, some twelve thousand

francs, was at once invested, so as to bring their total income up to

three hundred francs a month. In the second fortnight Madame Chanteau

was driven to take fifty francs of Pauline's money. The butcher from

Verchemont was waiting with his bill, and she could not send him away

without paying him. Then there were fifty francs wanted to pay for a

washing-machine, and ten more for potatoes, and even fifty sous for

fish. She came to the point of supplying the needs of Lazare and the

works in wretched little sums, which she doled out day by day. Towards

the end of each month she was often to be seen stealthily disappearing

and then coming back again with her hand in her pocket, from which she

reluctantly drew forth sou after sou, to make up the amount of a bill.

The habit quickly grew upon her, and she soon depended entirely upon

the contents of the drawer, helping herself to the money, whenever

occasion required, without any hesitation. When she opened the lid

of the secrétaire, however, that old piece of furniture would give a

slight creak which used to affect her unpleasantly. The stupid old

thing, she would say to herself. To think that during all those years

she had never been able to buy a decent desk! The poor old secrétaire,

which, when it had contained a fortune, had seemed to impart an air of

wealth and gaiety to the house, now only irritated her, and she looked

upon it as the abode of every evil, diffusing misfortune from every

chink.

One evening Pauline ran into the house from the yard, crying, 'The

baker's here! He says we owe him three days' bread, two francs and

eighty-five centimes.'

Madame Chanteau began to fumble in her pockets.

'I shall have to go upstairs,' she murmured.

'Stay here,' said the young girl carelessly. 'I will go for you.

Where's your money?'

'No, no, I'll go myself. You would never find it. It is put away.'

Madame Chanteau stammered out these words, and she and Pauline

exchanged a silent glance, at which they both grew pale. There was a

moment of painful hesitation, and then the aunt went upstairs, quite

shivering with suppressed anger, and feeling sure that her ward knew

perfectly well where she was going to get those two francs eighty-five

centimes. Why, she asked herself, had she always insisted upon her

presence when taking the money from the drawer? The memory of her old

scrupulous probity quite angered her now, convinced as she was that her

niece was following her in imagination, and watching her as she opened

the drawer, took out the money, and then closed the secrétaire again.

After she had come downstairs and paid the baker, her anger vented

itself in an attack upon the girl.

'Good gracious! what a state your dress is in! What have you been

doing with yourself? You have been drawing water for the kitchen,

surely. Eh? Be good enough to let Véronique do her own work, if you

please. Upon my word, I believe you have gone out of your way on

purpose to make a mess of yourself. You seem to have no idea that your

clothes cost money. I don't get so much for your keep that it is easy

to make both ends meet!'

And so she went on. Pauline had at first made some slight attempt to

defend herself, but she soon refrained, and listened to her aunt in

silence, with an aching heart. She was quite conscious that the other's

affection for her had been on the wane for some time, and when she was

alone with Véronique she often gave way to tears. At those times the

servant would rattle the saucepans and affect to be very busy, in order

to excuse herself from taking notice or siding with one party or the

other. Although she was continually growling at Pauline, she was now

beginning to feel some qualms of conscience and to doubt whether the

girl was receiving fair treatment.

When the winter came round again, Lazare grew quite despondent. Once

again his whim had changed; he began to hate the works. There had

been fresh pecuniary embarrassments in November, and he had fallen

into a perfect state of panic. He had got over previous worries, but

this one seemed to reduce him to despair, to render him hopeless of

everything; and he began to revile science. The idea of making anything

out of sea-weed was ridiculous! They might improve their system as

much as they liked, but they would never be able to drag out of Nature

anything that Nature didn't want them to have. He even fell foul of

his master, the great Herbelin himself, who, having been good enough

to visit the works at Golden Bay, had seemed quite distressed by all

the elaborate appliances, which, he said, were perhaps on too large

a scale to yield the results which had been obtained with careful

small experiments in his own laboratory. The truth of the matter was,

that, except in laboratory experiments on a small scale, no means was

yet known of maintaining the low temperature which was necessary for

the crystallisation of the various substances. Lazare had, indeed,

succeeded in extracting a certain quantity of bromide of potassium

from sea-weed, but, as he could not sufficiently isolate the four or

five other bodies mingled with it, the result was failure. He felt

quite sick of the whole business, and confessed himself beaten. One

evening, when Madame Chanteau and Pauline besought him to be calm and

to make one last effort, there came a very painful scene, when unkind

recriminations were indulged in, bitter tears shed, and doors banged

with such noisy violence that poor old Chanteau jumped up in his

arm-chair in sheer fright.

'You will end by killing me!' the young man screamed, as he rushed away

and locked himself up in his room, completely overcome by childish

despair.

At breakfast-time the next morning he brought down with him a paper

covered over with figures. Out of Pauline's hundred and eighty thousand

francs, nearly a hundred thousand were already gone. Was there any

sense in wasting more money? It would all be lost. He was still under

the influence of the previous evening's alarm. His mother, too, now

seemed inclined to back him up. She had never been able to go against

him and vex him, even in his faults. It was only Pauline who still

tried to discuss the matter. The announcement of the expenditure of

those hundred thousand francs quite dazed her. What! they had taken

more than half her fortune, and those hundred thousand francs would be

utterly lost if they did not try to struggle on! But her arguments and

persuasions were all in vain, and she went on talking to no purpose

till Véronique had cleared the table. Then, to avoid breaking out into

reproaches against them, she rushed off to her own room, quite sick at

heart.

There was a short interval of silence while the embarrassed family

lingered before the table.

'The girl is evidently avaricious,' said Madame Chanteau at last. 'It

is a pitiful failing, but I won't have Lazare worried to death with all

these bothers and vexations.'

Then Chanteau broke in timidly:

'I was never told that any such sum had been spent. It is dreadful to

think of. A hundred thousand francs!'

'Well, what of it!' interrupted his wife sharply. 'It will be all

repaid to her. If our son marries her, he is certainly capable of

making a hundred thousand francs.'

Then they began to discuss the best way out of this difficulty. What

had alarmed Lazare more than anything else was a statement given to him

by Boutigny, which showed a most desperate condition of affairs. The

debts amounted to about twenty thousand francs; and, when Boutigny saw

that his partner was determined to retire, he expressed his intention

of going to Algeria, where, said he, there was a splendid position

awaiting him. But, afterwards, he came to the conclusion that his best

course would be to get the works into his own possession. So he feigned

such unwillingness, and so complicated the accounts, that in the end

he managed to secure the site and buildings and apparatus against

payment of the twenty thousand francs debts; and when, ultimately,

Lazare succeeded in wringing out of him some bills for five thousand

francs, to be paid at intervals of three months, he regarded it as

quite a wonderful victory. On the very next day Boutigny sold off the

apparatus and began to adapt the buildings for the manufacture of

common commercial soda, to be made in the ordinary routine way, without

any ultra-scientific process.

Pauline, who felt a little ashamed at her impulsive movement in favour

of prudence and economy, became quite cheerful again and submissive, as

though she recognised that she had done something for which she ought

to seek pardon. When Lazare produced the bills for the five thousand

francs, Madame Chanteau was quite triumphant, and insisted upon her

niece going upstairs with her to see them put away in the drawer.

'There, my dear, that's five thousand francs we've got back. There they

are: they are all for you. My son has refused to keep a single one of

them to repay him for all the trouble he has had.'

Chanteau had been worried in mind for some time now. Although he dared

not refuse his signature when it was asked of him, the way in which his

wife was dealing with their ward's fortune filled him with alarm. That

total of a hundred thousand francs was for ever ringing in his ears.

How could they possibly make up such a deficiency by the time when the

accounts would have to be examined? And the worst of it all was that

Saccard, the surrogate-guardian, with the fame of whose speculations

all Paris re-echoed, had just recalled Pauline's existence, after

apparently forgetting all about her for nearly eight years. He had

written to ask after her, and had even spoken of calling at Bonneville

one day on his way to transact some business at Cherbourg. What

explanation could they possibly give him, if he were to ask for an

account of how matters stood, as he undoubtedly had the right to do?

This sudden awaking after such a long period of utter indifference was

very alarming.

When Chanteau at last spoke to his wife on the matter, he found that

she was much more affected by curiosity than by alarm. For a moment,

she felt sure that the truth of the matter was that Saccard, with

his gigantic speculations, had suddenly found himself ruined, and

had bethought himself of getting hold of Pauline's money to try and

regain what he had lost. Then, directly afterwards, she began to

wonder whether it was not the girl herself who had written to her

surrogate-guardian out of some feeling of revenge. But, when she found

that her husband expressed the deepest disgust at any such hypothesis,

she began to indulge in complicated suppositions of the most unlikely

kind. Perhaps, said she, that creature of Boutigny's, the hussy whom

they had refused to receive at their house, and who was running them

down in all the shops of Verchemont and Arromanches, had written

anonymous letters to Saccard.

'But they may do what they like, for all that,' she said. 'The girl

is not eighteen yet, but we have only to marry her straight off to

Lazare, and the marriage will at once make her complete mistress of her

fortune.'

'Are you quite sure of that?' asked Chanteau.

'Of course I am. I was only reading it in the Code this morning.'

Madame Chanteau had taken to studying the Code lately. Her

conscientious scruples were not quite extinct, and she sought about

her for reasons to allay them. Legal subtleties had a special interest

for her just now in the growing decline of her honesty, which the

temptation afforded by the large sum of money in her keeping was

gradually and completely destroying.

However, she seemed to hesitate about actually bringing the marriage

scheme to an immediate issue. After the financial disaster at the

sea-weed works, Pauline herself had wished to hasten affairs. What was

the good of waiting another six months till she should be eighteen?

They had better get married at once, without waiting for Lazare to look

out for other employment. She ventured to say as much to her aunt, who,

put out by the girl's frankness, had recourse to a lie. She closed

the door, and whispered that Lazare was really rendered very unhappy

by secret trouble. He was extremely sensitive, and it would pain him

very much to marry her before he was able to bring her a fortune, now

that he had compromised her own. The girl listened to all this with

great astonishment, quite unable to understand any such romantic

delicacy. What did it matter? Even if he had been very rich, she

would have married him all the same, because she loved him. Besides,

how long would they have to wait? For ever, very likely. Then Madame

Chanteau protested, saying she would do what she could to persuade him

to overcome this exaggerated sense of honour, if Pauline would only

keep quiet and not try to hurry matters; and, in conclusion, she made

her niece swear to say nothing on the subject, as she feared that the

young man might do something foolish, perhaps suddenly leave home, if

he found that his secret had been discovered and discussed. Pauline,

whom her aunt's remarks filled with uneasiness, then promised to remain

silent and patient. Chanteau, however, continued to grow more and more

afraid of Saccard, and one day he said to his wife: 'If it can be

managed, Pauline and Lazare had much better be married at once.'

'There is no hurry,' she said. 'The danger is not at the door yet.'

'But as they are to be married some day----You haven't changed your

mind about it, eh? It will kill them if they are separated.'

'Kill them, indeed! As long as a thing is not done, it need not be done

at all, if it should turn out inadvisable. But they are quite free to

do as they like, and we shall see if they continue in the same mind.'

Pauline and Lazare had resumed all their old comradeship, while the

terribly severe winter kept them both confined to the house. During the

first week Lazare seemed so melancholy, and so ashamed of himself and

embittered by his ill-fortune, that Pauline lavished all her tenderness

upon him and treated him as gently as though he were an invalid. She

felt great pity for that big young man, whose whimsical, enthusiastic

temperament, and mere nervous courage accounted for all his failures,

and she gradually began to assume a sort of scolding mother-like

authority over him. At first he entirely lost his head and vowed that

he would go and work as a mere peasant; then he gave himself up to all

kinds of wild projects for making an immediate fortune, and declared

that he would not remain a burden on his family for another day. But

time slipped on, and he continually deferred putting his plans into

execution. Every morning he came down with some new scheme which would

at once lead to the greatest wealth and honour. Pauline, frightened by

her aunt's lying confidences, scolded him and asked him if he supposed

that anyone wanted him to go bothering himself in that way. It would

be soon enough for him to look out for something to do when the spring

came, and, no doubt, he would speedily be successful; but, till then,

it was necessary for him to rest. At the end of a month she seemed

to have gained the better of him, and he fell into a state of dreamy

idleness and cynical resignation beneath what he called the burdens of

life.

Every day now Pauline found some new trouble in Lazare which upset her.

His previous outbursts of temper and his will-o'-the-wisp enthusiasm

were preferable to this moody cynicism and bitter profession of

scepticism. Pessimism acquired in Paris among fellow-students was

reviving in him. The girl could understand that angry disgust at his

failure--the catastrophe of the sea-weed scheme--lay at the bottom of

his railings against life. But she was not able to divine the other

influences at work in him, and had to confine herself to indignant

protests when he reverted to his old philosophy--the denial of all

progress and the futility of science. Wasn't that beast of a Boutigny

on the high road to fortune with his wretched commercial soda? said

Lazare. What was the good, then, of ruining one's self to make

something better, to discover new laws and systems, when empiricism won

the day? This was his constant strain, and he would finish by saying,

with a bitter smile on his lips, that the only good thing science

could do would be to discover a way to blow the whole universe into

atoms by means of some colossal cartridge. Then he frigidly jested on

the will-power that directs the world and the blind folly of wishing

to live. All life, he said, was pain and trouble, and he adopted the

doctrine of the Hindoo fakirs, that annihilation was the supreme

blessing. When Pauline heard him affecting a horror and disgust of

all active motion, and predicting the ultimate self-extinction of

the nations, who one day--when their intelligence was highly enough

developed to enable them to realise the imbecile, miserable part

which an unknown power made them play--would refuse to beget fresh

generations, she became indignant and tried to find arguments to

confute him; but all to no avail, for she was quite ignorant of these

matters, and, as her cousin told her, did not possess a metaphysical

head. Still, she would not allow she was beaten, and roundly sent

Schopenhauer to the devil when Lazare wanted to read some extracts

from his works to her. Schopenhauer, indeed! A man who had written

such horrid lies about women! If he had not shown a little affection

for animals she would have strangled him! Vigorous with robust health

herself, and full of cheerfulness and hope for the morrow, she at

last reduced her cousin to silence by her merry laughter and youthful

freshness.

'Stop! stop!' she would cry. 'You are talking nonsense. We will think

about dying when we have grown old.'

The idea of death, which she spoke of so lightly, always affected him

very painfully, and he quickly turned the conversation, after murmuring:

'People die at all ages.'

Pauline at last understood that the thought of death was terrible to

Lazare. She called to mind his fear-stricken cry that night as they lay

on the beach gazing at the stars. At the mention of certain things she

saw him turn sickly pale, shut himself up in moody silence, as though

he were concealing some disease whose existence he dared not confess.

She was greatly surprised at the fear of personal extinction felt by

this pessimist, who talked about snuffing out the stars like so many

candles amid the wreck of the whole universe. This mental disease of

Lazare's was of old standing, and the girl did not guess the dangerous

hold that it had obtained upon her cousin. As he grew older, Lazare had

seen death rise before him. Till he was twenty years of age but a faint

chill had touched him when he went to bed. But now he could not lay his

head on his pillow without the thought of Nevermore freezing his very

blood. He tossed about, a prey to sleeplessness, and could not resign

himself to the fatal necessity which presented itself so lugubriously

to his imagination.

And when, from sheer exhaustion, he had at last fallen asleep, he would

awake with a start, and spring up in bed, his eyes staring wildly

with terror and his hands clutching one another, as he gasped in the

darkness: 'O my God! my God!' He would pant for breath and believe that

he was dying; and it was not till he had struck a light and thoroughly

awakened himself that he regained anything like calmness. After these

outbreaks of panic he always retained a feeling of shame that he had

allowed himself to cry out to a God whose existence he denied, that he

had yielded to the hereditary weakness of the human race in calling

amidst its powerlessness for help. But every night he suffered in

this way, and even during the daytime a chance word or a momentary

thought, arising from something he saw or read, sufficed to throw him

into a state of terror. One evening, as Pauline was reading a newspaper

to her uncle, Lazare hastily rushed from the room, completely upset

by the fancies of some story-teller who pictured the skies of the

twentieth century filled with troops of balloons conveying travellers

from continent to continent. He had thought that he would no longer

be living then, that his eyes would never gaze upon those balloons,

which vanished into far-away centuries, the idea of whose revolution,

after his own complete extinction, filled him with anguish. It was to

no purpose that philosophers reminded him that not a spark of life is

ever utterly lost; the _Ego_ within him ragefully refused to accept

its fate. These inward struggles had already deprived him of his

former cheerfulness; and when Pauline, who could not always follow the

twists and turns of his morbid mind, looked at him at those times when

tormenting shame prompted him to conceal his anguish, her heart melted

with compassion; she burned to show her love and do all she could to

make him happier.

Their days were spent in the big room on the second floor, amidst a

litter of sea-weed, bottles, jars, and instruments, which Lazare had

never had the energy to clear away. The sea-weed was falling to pieces

and the bottles were growing discoloured, while the instruments were

getting damaged by neglect. But in all this disorder Pauline and Lazare

were alone and warm. Frequently did the December rains beat upon the

slates of the roof from morning till night, while the west wind roared

organ-like through the crevices of the woodwork. Whole weeks passed

without sight of the sun, and there was nothing for the eye to rest

upon save the grey sea--a grey immensity, in which the earth seemed to

be melting away. Pauline found amusement for her unoccupied hours in

classifying a collection of _floridæ_ which she had gathered during

the previous spring. At first Lazare, with his utter _ennui_, had just

watched her as she mounted the delicate forms, whose soft blues and

reds showed like water-colours; but afterwards, growing weary of his

idleness, and forgetting his theory of inaction, he unearthed the piano

from the litter of damaged appliances and dirty bottles beneath which

it was buried. A week later his passion for music had resumed all its

old sway over him. It was a revival of the artistic sense which lay

beneath his failure as a scientist and a manufacturer. One morning,

as he was playing his March of Death, the idea of the great symphony

on Grief, which he had once thought of composing, excited him again.

All that had been already written, except the March, was worthless, he

thought; and the March was the only portion he would retain. But what

a magnificent subject it was--what a task to perform! And how he might

embody all his philosophy in it! He would commence with the creation of

life by the selfish caprice of some superior power. Then would come the

delusiveness of happiness and the mockery of life in striking passages,

an embrace of lovers, a massacre of soldiers, and the death of a God

upon the cross. Throughout everything a cry of woe should ascend; the

groans of humankind should mount upwards to the skies, until came

the final hymn of deliverance, a hymn whose melting sweetness should

express all the happiness that came of universal annihilation.

The next morning he set enthusiastically to work, jingling, strumming

on the piano, and covering sheets of paper with black bars. As the

instrument was in a more feeble condition than ever, he sang the notes

himself in a droning manner. Never had any of his previous fads taken

such strong hold of him. He was so completely absorbed that he forgot

his meals, and all but deafened poor Pauline, who, in her desire to

please him, pretended that she liked it all very much, and neatly

recopied portions of the score. This time he was quite sure that he had

a masterpiece in hand.

But by-and-by his enthusiasm flagged. He had the whole score written

except the introduction, and inspiration for that failed him. He would

have to let it wait for a time, he said, and he smoked cigarettes,

while his manuscript lay upon the table in front of him. Pauline played

little bits from it on the piano, with all a beginner's clumsiness. It

was now that the intimacy between the two young people began to assume

a dangerous character. Lazare's brain was no longer occupied; and,

shut up with Pauline in a state of idleness, he began to feel for her

a warmer passion than before. She was so light-hearted and merry; so

affectionate and devoted. At first he thought that all he felt was a

mere impulse of gratitude, an amplification of that fraternal affection

with which she had inspired him ever since childhood. But by degrees

passion, hitherto dormant, awoke into life. In that younger brother he

was at last beginning to recognise a woman; and he flushed as she did

when he brushed against her. If their hands happened to meet, they

both looked confused and their breath came quickly, while their cheeks

crimsoned. And thus all the time they now spent alone together they

felt troubled and ill at ease.

Sometimes, to relieve them from embarrassment, Pauline would begin to

joke with all the frank boldness of her innocent, though well-read mind.

'By the way,' said she, one day, 'did I tell you that I dreamed that

your favourite Schopenhauer had received tidings in the other world of

our marriage, and that his ghost came to pay us a visit?'

Lazare laughed uneasily. He understood very well that she was poking

fun at his inconsistencies, but his whole being was now thrilled with

tenderness, which carried all his distaste for existence away.

'Don't be naughty, dear,' he said. 'You know that I love you.'

She assumed a chiding look.

'I am afraid you are inclined to put off the universal deliverance. You

are grovelling in egotism and delusions again.'

'Hold your tongue, you wicked tease!'

He sprang up and chased her round the room, as she continued to hurl

at him fragments of pessimistic philosophy with all the solemnity of a

doctor of the Sorbonne. But when he caught hold of her, he no longer

dared to keep her within his grasp, and pinch her for punishment as in

olden time.

One day when he was chasing her round the room, and had succeeded in

getting close, he clutched her by the waist. She broke into a ringing

laugh, while he, holding her against the wardrobe, quivered with

excitement as he felt her struggling.

'Ah! I have got you this time!' he cried.

Their faces were touching, and she still laughed, though in an uneasy

manner.

'Please let me go,' she entreated. 'I won't be naughty any more.'

He roughly planted a kiss on her lips. Then the whole room appeared

to swim round them and a hot feverish gust seemed to sweep them into

space. She staggered, and then, with a sudden effort, released herself

from her cousin's grasp. For a moment they both stood silent and

confused, their cheeks crimson as they avoided each other's glance. At

last Pauline dropped upon a chair to get her breath.

'You have hurt me, Lazare,' she said, speaking as though she were

seriously displeased with him.

From that day he guarded himself from contact with her. His sense of

honour rebelled against the thought of any disgraceful lapse; he was

quite conscious that in heart and soul she was entirely his own; but he

felt that respect and protection were her due, and that in dangerous

dallying his would be the guilt alone. However, this very struggle

on his part only served to increase his love. Everything lately had

tended to fan its flame: the idleness of the first few weeks, his

assumed indifference as to what became of him, his disgust with life,

through which sprang a fresh passionate desire of life and love and

even suffering, as occupation for his empty hours. And then music

finally transported his mind, carrying him away to a land of dreams on

spreading wings of melody. He began to believe that a mighty passion

possessed him, and vowed to cultivate it for his genius' sake. He could

no longer doubt it. He would be a great musician, for he need only

hearken to the promptings of his heart. Everything then appeared to him

purified; he felt content to worship Pauline on his knees, and did not

even think of hurrying on their marriage.

'Come and read this letter I have just received,' said Chanteau in

alarm one day to his wife, who had just come up from the village.

It was another letter from Saccard, and quite a threatening one. Ever

since November he had been asking for a statement of the accounts of

Pauline's fortune, and, as the Chanteaus had only replied by evasions

and subterfuges, he now announced that he meant to lay the matter

before the family council. Madame Chanteau, though she would not

confess it, was quite as alarmed as her husband.

'The wretch!' she growled, when she had read the letter.

They looked at each other, quite pale and without finding a word to

say. They already seemed to hear in that lifeless little dining-room

the echoes of a disgraceful law-suit.

'There must be no more dilly-dallying,' resumed Chanteau. 'We must

marry the girl at once, since marriage releases her from all control.'

But to his wife this expedient seemed to grow more distasteful every

day. She expressed various fears. Who could tell if the two young

folks would get on well together? It is quite possible for people to

agree as friends, and yet to make each other perfectly miserable as man

and wife. Lately, she said, various unpleasant things had struck her.

'No,' she added; 'it would be wrong to sacrifice them for the sake of

our own peace. Let us wait a little longer. And, besides, should we

gain any advantage by marrying her now? She was eighteen last month,

and we can apply for legal emancipation.'

She was beginning to feel quite confident again. She went upstairs

to get the Code, and they both pored over it together. Article 478

tranquillised them, but they felt uneasy again as they read Article

480, for there it was enacted that the accounts of a ward's estate must

be submitted to a curator appointed by the family council. It was true

that she could easily manage all the members of the council, and make

them do what she wanted, but whom could she choose as curator? The

difficulty was to find some easy-going man, instead of Saccard, the

surrogate-guardian.

Suddenly she had an inspiration.

'I've got it,' she cried, 'Doctor Cazenove! He is somewhat in our

confidence, and he won't refuse.'

Chanteau nodded approval. He continued, however, to look at his wife,

as though revolving some thought in his mind.

'And so,' he said at last, 'you will hand over the money? What is left

of it, I mean?'

Madame Chanteau remained silent for a moment. Her eyes sought the Code,

whose pages she turned with nervous excitement. Then with an effort she

replied:

'Of course; and it will be a great relief to me to do so, after the

accusations that have already been made against us. Upon my word, it is

enough to make one suspect oneself! I would give something to see the

tiresome papers removed from my secrétaire to-night. And, anyway, we

should always have to give them up to her.'

The next day, when Doctor Cazenove made his usual Saturday round in

Bonneville, she mentioned the great service they awaited from his

friendship. She made an open breast of the situation, and told him how

the money had been swallowed up in the sea-weed works, without the

family council having been consulted in the matter. Then she dwelt

upon the intended marriage and the sad possibility of the bonds of

affection which united them all together being torn asunder by the

scandal of a law-suit.

Before promising his assistance the doctor desired to have an interview

with Pauline. He had long suspected that she was being taken advantage

of, and that her fortune was being gradually frittered away; and,

though he had hitherto said nothing for fear of causing her pain, he

felt that now, as he was being invited to become an accomplice, it

was his duty to warn her. The interview took place in the girl's own

room. At the commencement of the conversation her aunt was present. She

had accompanied the Doctor to declare that the marriage now depended

entirely on Pauline's emancipation from the family council's control,

as Lazare would never consent to marry as long as it was possible for

others to accuse him of doing so for the mere purpose of avoiding

an examination of the accounts. Then she left the room, saying that

she did not wish to do anything to affect the decision of the dear

girl whom she already regarded as her darling daughter. Pauline,

quite overcome with emotion, immediately begged the Doctor to render

them the delicate service the necessity of which had just been made

clear to him. It was to no purpose that Cazenove tried to explain the

exact position of affairs to her, to show her that she was despoiling

herself, reducing herself to a condition of absolute dependence, or

that he revealed his own fears for the future--perfect ruin, possible

ingratitude and suffering. At every gloomy suggestion she uttered

indignant protests, refused to listen further, and showed a feverish

haste to complete the sacrifice.

'No! no! don't try to make me regret things. I am really very

avaricious at heart, though I don't let it appear. It has given me a

world of trouble to conquer myself. Let them have everything. If they

will only give me their love, they may have all that belongs to me!'

'And so,' asked the Doctor, 'it is affection for your cousin that leads

you to strip yourself of your fortune?'

She blushed and did not reply.

'But suppose that after a time your cousin should cease to love you?'

She stared at him with a frightened look. Her eyes filled with big

tears, and a cry of protesting love burst from her heart. 'No! no! Why

do you torture me like this?'

Then Doctor Cazenove consented to do as she wished. He could not

summon up the courage to amputate that generous heart of the illusions

of love. Trouble would come to her soon enough.

Madame Chanteau conducted the campaign with astonishing brilliancy of

intrigue. That struggle made her feel quite young again. She set off

to Paris once more, taking along with her all the necessary powers

and authorisations. She quickly won the members of the family council

over to her own way of thinking. Those good people, indeed, had never

troubled about their duties; they showed the indifference usual in

such matters. The members of the council who came from Quenu's side

of the family, cousins Naudet, Liardin, and Delorme, agreed with her

at once; and as for the three on Lisa's side, it was only upon Octave

Mouret that she had to expend any argument; the others, Claude Lantier

and Rambaud, who were both then living at Marseilles, contented

themselves with forwarding her their written consent. To all of them

she poured out a moving, if somewhat confused, story, and spoke of

the old Arromanches surgeon's affection for Pauline, and his manifest

intention to leave her all his money should he be permitted to take her

under his care. As for Saccard, he, too, acquiesced, as the others had

done, after Madame Chanteau had paid him three visits and suggested a

brilliant new idea to him, the formation of a ring in Normandy butter.

Pauline's emancipation was formally pronounced by the family council,

and the ex-naval surgeon Cazenove, of whom the Justice of the Peace had

received the most satisfactory account, was nominated trustee.

A fortnight after Madame Chanteau's return to Bonneville the auditing

of the guardianship accounts took place in the simplest manner. The

Doctor had lunched with them, and they sat lingering round the table,

discussing the latest news from Caen, whence Lazare had just returned

after a two days' visit, taken thither by the threat of an action on

the part of 'that scamp Boutigny.'

'By the way,' added the young man, 'Louise will give you all a surprise

when you see her next week. When I saw her, I positively didn't

recognise her. She is living with her father now, and has grown into

quite a fashionable young lady. We had a very merry laugh over it.'

Pauline looked at him, feeling some surprise at the warmth of his tone.

'Talking of Louise,' interrupted Madame Chanteau, 'reminds me that I

travelled with a lady from Caen who knew the Thibaudiers. I was quite

thunderstruck when she told me that Thibaudier would give his daughter

a dowry of a hundred thousand francs. With the other hundred thousand

which she had from her mother the girl will have two hundred thousand.

Two hundred thousand francs! She will be quite wealthy!'

'She could do very well without all that,' said Lazare, 'for she's

quite charming. And so kittenish in her ways!'

A gloomy expression thereupon came into Pauline's eyes, and her lips

twitched nervously. However, the Doctor, who had never ceased watching

her, lifted up his little glass of rum, saying:

'Ah, we haven't clinked glasses yet! Here's to your health, my young

friends! Get married quickly and have plenty of children.'

Without a smile Madame Chanteau slowly raised her glass; while her

husband, to whom liqueurs were forbidden, contented himself with

nodding his head approvingly. Lazare, however, had just caught hold of

Pauline's hand with such an expression of affection that all the blood

in her heart had come pulsing to her cheeks. Was she not, indeed, his

good angel, whose love for him he would adorn with the brilliance of

genius? She returned the pressure of his grasp. Then they all clinked

glasses.

'To your hundredth birthday!' continued the Doctor, who considered that

a hundred years was a good and proper age for a man to reach.

Lazare turned pale. The mention of those hundred years sent a painful

thrill through him, reminding him of the time when he would have ceased

to exist, the dread of which everlastingly lurked within his mind.

In a hundred years where would he be, indeed? And what would he be?

What stranger would be seated drinking wine at that table where he now

sat? He raised his little glass with a trembling hand; while Pauline,

who had grasped hold of the other, pressed it with a kind of maternal

encouragement, as though she had seen the icy quiver of 'Nevermore!'

passing over his pallid face. After a short interval of silence Madame

Chanteau said very seriously, 'And now suppose we get our business

over?'

She had settled that the formalities should be gone through in her own

room. It would lend additional solemnity to them, she thought. Chanteau

had been able to walk better since he had begun to take salicylic acid.

With the help of the banisters he climbed the stairs behind his wife.

Lazare talked about going on to the terrace to smoke a cigar there; but

his mother called him back, and insisted upon his presence, which would

only be seemly and proper, she said.

The Doctor and Pauline had already gone on before. Matthew, who looked

at the procession with wondering eyes, followed in the rear.

'That dog is quite a nuisance!' cried Madame Chanteau, as she tried to

shut the door. 'One can't go anywhere without being followed by him.

Well! well! come in, then; I can't have you scratching outside. There!

no one will come and disturb us now. Everything, you see, is quite

ready.'

Some pens and an inkstand were all ready laid upon the table. In the

room one found all the closeness and mournful silence that clings to

places that are rarely occupied. Only Minouche spent her idle hours

there, when she could manage to glide inside of a morning; and just now

she happened to be lying asleep on the middle of the eider-down quilt.

She raised her head in surprise at the invasion, and stared at the

new-comers with her green eyes.

'Sit down! Sit down!' said Chanteau.

Then things were quickly settled. Madame Chanteau refrained from all

share in the proceedings, leaving her husband to play the part in which

she had been carefully coaching him since the day before. In conformity

with the requirements of the law, the latter, ten days previously, had

delivered to Pauline and the Doctor the accounts of his guardianship

in a bulky volume, where the expenses were noted on one page and the

receipts on the other. Everything was charged for, not only Pauline's

board and lodging, but also the cost of the journeys to Paris and Caen.

All that had to be done was to accept the accounts by a private deed.

But Cazenove, taking his office of curator somewhat seriously, wanted

an explanation about some of the expenses that had been incurred in

connection with the sea-weed works, and compelled Chanteau to enter

into details. Pauline cast a supplicating glance at the Doctor. What

was the use of all this? She herself had assisted in the preparation

of the accounts, which her aunt had copied out in her most elegant

English--that is, angular--handwriting.

Meantime Minouche had sat up on the eider-down quilt, the better to

view these strange proceedings. Matthew, after lying with his huge

head stretched out on the carpet with an air of great wisdom, had just

thrown himself on his back and was rolling and twisting about with

noisy manifestations of joy.

'Oh, do make him be still, Lazare!' cried Madame Chanteau, quite

impatient of the disturbance. 'One can't hear one's self speak!'

The young man was looking out of the window, following a far-off

white sail with his eyes in order to conceal his embarrassment. He

experienced a feeling of deep shame as he listened to his father, who

was giving a detailed account of the money lost in the works.

'Make a little less noise, Matthew!' he cried, reaching out his foot.

The dog thought he was going to have his belly rubbed, a proceeding

which he dearly loved, and he grew more demonstrative than ever.

Happily, there was now nothing more to be done than to affix the

signatures. Pauline, with a stroke of her pen, hastened to signify her

approval of everything. Then the Doctor, as if regretfully, scrawled a

huge flourish over the stamped paper. Painful silence fell.

'The assets,' said Madame Chanteau, breaking the silence, 'amount,

then, to seventh-five thousand two hundred and ten francs thirty

centimes. I will now hand that sum to Pauline.'

She stepped towards the secrétaire and lowered the lid, which gave out

the creak that had so often distressed her. But just now she was very

grave, and, when she opened the drawer, they saw the old ledger-binding

inside. It was the same as before, with its green-marble pattern

stained with grease spots, but it was not nearly so bulky; as the scrip

was removed it had grown thinner and thinner.

'No! no! aunt,' exclaimed Pauline, 'keep it!'

Madame Chanteau protested:

'We are giving in our accounts,' she said, 'and we must give up the

money as well. It is your property. You remember what I said to you

when I put it there eight years ago? We don't want to take a copper of

it for ourselves.'

She drew out the papers and insisted on her niece counting them. There

was scrip for seventy-five thousand francs, and a small packet of

gold, wrapped up in a piece of newspaper, completed the balance.

'But where am I to put it all?' asked Pauline, whose cheeks flushed at

the handling of so much money.

'Lock it up in one of your drawers,' her aunt replied. 'You are now

big enough to take care of your own money. I don't want to see it

again myself. Stay! if you really find it so troublesome, give it to

Minouche, who is looking very attentively at you.'

Now that the Chanteaus had settled their accounts, their cheerfulness

returned. Lazare, quite at his ease, began playing with the dog, making

him try to catch hold of his tail, in such wise that he bent and

twisted his spine and spun round and round like a top. Doctor Cazenove,

for his part, had already entered upon his duties as trustee, and was

promising Pauline to receive her dividends for her and advise her on

the question of investments.

And precisely at that moment Véronique was bustling about amongst her

pans down below. She had crept upstairs, and, with her ear at the

keyhole, had overheard the statement of accounts. For several weeks

past a slowly growing feeling of pity and affection for Pauline had

been driving away her remaining prejudices against the girl.

''Pon my word, they have swindled her out of half her money!' she

angrily growled. 'It's not right! Although she had no business to come

and settle herself down here, still that was no reason why they should

strip her as bare as a worm. No! no! I know what is right, and I shall

end by quite loving the poor child!'

IV