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* * * * *
[Illustration: =Guy de Maupassant=]
SHORT STORY
CLASSICS
(FOREIGN)
VOLUME FIVE
FRENCH II
[Illustration]
EDITED BY
William Patten
WITH
AN INTRODUCTION
AND NOTES
[Illustration]
P. F. COLLIER & SON
NEW YORK
COPYRIGHT 1907
BY P. F. COLLIER & SON
The use of the copyrighted translations in this
collection has been authorized by the
authors or their representatives. The
translations made especially for
this collection are covered
by the general
copyright
CONTENTS--VOLUME V
PAGE
LA BRETONNE
ANDRÉ THEURIET 1339
WHICH WAS THE MADMAN?
EDMOND ABOUT 1349
THE GRAND MARRIAGE
LUDOVIC HALÉVY 1379
THE ACCURSED HOUSE
ÉMILE GABORIAU 1415
THE FÊTE AT COQUEVILLE
ÉMILE ZOLA 1427
THE LOST CHILD
FRANÇOIS COPPÉE 1471
PUTOIS
ANATOLE FRANCE 1495
SAC-AU-DOS
JORIS KARL HUYSMANS 1515
"BONJOUR, MONSIEUR"
JEAN RICHEPIN 1559
THE BIT OF STRING
GUY DE MAUPASSANT 1571
THE NECKLACE
GUY DE MAUPASSANT 1581
THE WALL OPPOSITE
PIERRE LOTI 1595
THE ANCESTOR
PAUL BOURGET 1605
WHEN HE WAS A LITTLE BOY
HENRI LAVEDAN 1639
A GENTLEMAN FINDS A WATCH
GEORGES COURTELINE 1651
A YOUNG GIRL'S DIARY
MARCEL PRÉVOST 1659
THE SIGN OF THE KEY AND THE CROSS
HENRI DE RÉGNIER 1671
THE TELEGRAPH OPERATOR
ALPHONSE ALLAIS 1685
LA BRETONNE
BY CLAUDE ADHÉMAR ANDRÉ THEURIET
[Illustration]
_André Theuriet, born at Marly-le-Roi in 1833, went to
Paris to study law, and finally became head of the Government
Department of Finance. In 1857 appeared the charming collection
of verses called "Chemin des Bois," which was crowned by the
Academy, and which earned for the author the title of "Song
Sparrow" from the great critic Sainte-Beuve._
_Theuriet received, in 1890, the Vitel prize from the Academy
for general literary excellence, and was admitted to that body
in 1896. His style is sane, fresh, limpid, delicate, and rich
in color. He is a lover of nature with a profound feeling for
the peasant._
_Theuriet's standing is well assured when we consider that
such men as Jules Claretie, Adolph Brisson, François Coppée,
all contributed appreciations of Theuriet in "Les Annales
Politiques et Littéraires," soon after his death, on April 23,
1907._
[Illustration]
LA BRETONNE
BY ANDRÉ THEURIET
Translated by B. C. Waggener.
Copyright, 1891, by The Current Literature Publishing Company.
One November evening, the eve of Sainte-Catherine's Day, the gate of
the Auberive prison turned upon its hinges to allow to pass out a
woman of some thirty years, clad in a faded woolen gown and coiffed in
a linen cap that framed in a singular fashion a face pale and puffed
by that sickly-hued fat which develops on prison regimen. She was a
prisoner whom they had just liberated, and whom her companions of
detention called La Bretonne.
Condemned for infanticide, it was exactly, day for day, six years ago
that the prison van had brought her to the Centrale. Now, in her former
garb, and with her small stock of money received from the clerk in
her pocket, she found herself free and with her roadpass stamped for
Langres.
The courier for Langres, however, had long since gone. Cowed and
awkward, she took her way stumblingly toward the chief inn of the
borough, and with trembling voice asked shelter for the night. But
the inn was crowded, and the _aubergiste_, who did not care to harbor
"one of those birds from over yonder," counseled her to push on to the
_cabaret_ at the far end of the village.
La Bretonne passed on, and, more trembling and awkward than ever,
knocked at the door of that cabaret, which, properly speaking, was but
a cantine for laborers. The cabaretière also eyed her askance, scenting
doubtless a "discharged" from the Centrale, and finally refused her on
the plea that she had no bed to give her.
La Bretonne dared not insist, but with bowed head pursued her way,
while at the bottom of her soul rose and grew a dull hatred for that
world which thus repulsed her.
She had no other resource than to gain Langres afoot.
Toward the end of November, night comes quickly. Soon she found herself
enveloped in darkness, on a grayish road that ran between two divisions
of the forest, and where the north wind whistled fiercely, choked her
with dust, and pelted her with dead leaves.
After six years of sedentary and recluse life her legs were stiff, the
muscles knotted and her feet, accustomed to sabots, pinched and bruised
by her new slippers. At the end of a league she felt them blistered and
herself exhausted. She dropped upon a pile of stones by the wayside,
shivering and asking herself if she was going to be forced to perish of
cold and hunger in this black night, under this icy breeze, which froze
her to the marrow.
All at once, in the solitude of the road, she seemed to hear the
droning notes of a voice singing. She listened and distinguished the
air of one of those caressing and monotonous chants with which one
soothes young children.
She was not alone, then!
She struggled to her feet and in the direction from which the voice
came, and there, at the turn of a crossroad, perceived a reddish light
streaming through the branches. Five minutes later she was before a
mud-walled hovel, whose roof, covered by squares of sod, leaned again
the rock, and whose window had allowed to pass that beckoning ray.
With anxious heart she decided to knock.
The chant ceased instantly and a woman opened the door, a peasant
woman, no older than La Bretonne herself, but faded and aged by work.
Her bodice, torn in places, displayed the skin tanned and dirty; her
red hair escaped disheveled from under a soiled stuff cap, and her
gray eyes regarded with amazement the stranger whose face had in it
something of touching loneliness.
"Good evening!" said she, lifting yet higher the sputtering lamp in her
hand; "what do you desire?"
"I am unable to go on," murmured La Bretonne, in a voice broken by a
sob; "the city is far, and if you will lodge me for the night, you will
do me a service.... I have money; I will pay you for the trouble."
"Enter," replied the other, after a moment's hesitancy; "but why,"
continued she, in a tone more curious than suspicious, "did you not
sleep at Auberive?"
"They would not give me a lodging," lowering her blue eyes and taken
with a sudden scruple, "be--because, see you, I come from the Maison
Centrale."
"So! the Maison Centrale! but no matter--enter--I fear nothing, having
known only misery. Moreover, I've a conscience against turning a
Christian from the door on a night like this. I'll give you a bed and a
slice of cheese."
And she pulled from the eaves some bundles of dried heather and spread
them as a pallet in the corner by the fire.
"Do you live here alone?" demanded La Bretonne, timidly.
"Yes, with my _gâchette_, going on seven years now. I earn our living
by working in the wood."
"Your man, then, is dead?"
"Yes," said the other bruskly, "the _gâchette_ has no father. Briefly,
to each his sorrow! But come, behold your straw, and two or three
potatoes left from supper. It is all I can offer you--"
She was called by a childish voice coming from a dark nook, separated
from the room by a board partition.
"Good night!" she repeated, "the little one cries; I must go, but
sleep you well!"
And taking up the lamp she passed into the closet, leaving La Bretonne
crouched alone in the darkness.
Stretched upon her heather, after she had eaten her supper, she strove
to close her eyes, but sleep would not come to her. Through the thin
partition she heard the mother still softly talking to the child, whom
the arrival of a stranger had wakened, and who did not wish to go to
sleep again.
The mother soothed and fondled it with words of endearment that somehow
strangely disturbed La Bretonne. That outburst of simple tenderness
seemed to waken a confused maternal instinct in the soul of that girl
condemned in the past for having stifled her new-born.
"If things had not gone so badly with me," thought La Bretonne,
sorrowfully, "_it_ would have been the same age as this little one
here."
At that thought and at the sound of that childish voice, a sickening
shudder seemed to shake her very vitals; something soft and tender to
spring up in that soured heart, and an increasing need for the relief
of tears.
"But come, come, my little one," the mother cried, "to sleep you must
go! And if you are good and do as I say, to-morrow I'll take you to the
Sainte-Catherine's Fair!"
"The _fête_ of little children, mama; the _fête_ of little children,
you mean?"
"Yes, my angel, of little children."
"And the day when the good Sainte-Catherine brings playthings to the
babies, mama?"
"Sometimes--yes."
"Then why doesn't she bring playthings to our house, mama?"
"We live too far away, perhaps; and then--we are too poor."
"She brings them only to rich babies, then, mama? But why, mama, why, I
say? I should love to see playthings!"
"Eh, bien! some day you may, if you are very good--to-night, perhaps,
if you are wise and go to sleep soon."
"I will, then, mama, I will right away, so she can bring them
to-morrow."
The little voice ceased; there was a long silence; then a long breath,
even and light!
The child slept at last--the mother also.
La Bretonne, only, did not sleep! An emotion, at once poignant and
tender, tore at her heart, and she thought more than ever of that other
little one, whom they said she had killed.... This lasted till dawn.
Mother and child slept still, but La Bretonne was up and out, gliding
hurriedly and furtively in the direction of Auberive and slackening her
pace only when the first houses of the village came in sight.
Soon she had reached and was traversing its only street, walking slowly
now and scanning with all her eyes the signs of the shops. One at last
seemed to fix her attention. She knocked at the shutter and presently
it opened. A mercer's shop, apparently, but also with some toys and
playthings in the window--poor, pitiful trifles, a pasteboard doll, a
Noah's ark, a woolly, stiff-legged little sheep!
To the astonishment of the merchant, La Bretonne purchased them all,
paid, and went out. She had resumed the road to the hovel in the wood,
when suddenly a hand fell heavily upon her shoulder, and she was face
to face with a brigadier of _gendarmerie_.
The unhappy one had forgotten that it was forbidden to liberated
prisoners to loiter near the Maison Centrale.
"Instead of vagabondizing here, you should already be at Langres," said
the brigadier, gruffly. "Come, march, be off with you! To the road, to
the road, I say!"
She sought to explain. Pains lost. At once a passing cart was pressed
into service, La Bretonne bundled into it, and in charge of a
_gendarme_ once more en route for Langres.
The cart jolted lumberingly over the frozen ruts. The poor La Bretonne
clutched with a heartbroken air her bundle of playthings in her
freezing fingers.
All at once, at a turn of the road, she recognized the cross path that
led through the wood. Her heart leaped and she besought the _gendarme_
to stop only one moment. She had a commission for La Fleuriotte, the
woman that lived there!
She supplicated with so much fervor that the _gendarme_, a good man at
heart, allowed himself to be persuaded. They stopped, tied the horse to
a tree, and ascended the pathway.
Before the door La Fleuriotte hewed the gathered wood into the required
fagots. On seeing her visitor return, accompanied by a _gendarme_, she
stood open-mouthed and with arms hanging.
"Hist!" said La Bretonne, "hist! the little one--does it sleep still?"
"Yes--but--"
"Then, here, these playthings, lay them on the bed and tell her
Sainte-Catherine brought them. I returned to Auberive for them; but it
seems I had no right to do it, and they are taking me now to Langres."
"Holy Mother of God!" cried the amazed La Fleuriotte.
"Hist! be still, I say!"
And drawing near the bed herself, followed always by her escort, La
Bretonne scattered upon the coverlet the doll, the Noah's ark, and the
stiff-legged, woolly, and somewhat grimy little lamb, bent the bare arm
of the child till it clasped the latter, then turned with a smile.
"Now," said she, addressing the _gendarme_, vigorously rubbing his eyes
with the cuff of his jacket--the frost, it seemed, had gotten into
them--"I am ready: we can go!"
WHICH WAS THE MADMAN?
BY EDMOND FRANÇOIS VALENTIN ABOUT
[Illustration]
_Edmond About, born at Dieuze in 1828, author of a play,
"Gaetana," the noisy failure of which crushed for a long time
his dramatic aspiration, turned to the writing of novels,
such as "The Marriages of Paris," "Madelon," and "The Romish
Question," the latter a book which attacked with great venom
and vivacity the temporal power of the Pope. "The Man of
the Old School" is a general title under which he collected
separate stories, studies of social reform, such as "The
Romance of an Honest Man," at one time an eloquent manual of
patriotism. About has also written studies in politics and
finance, besides art criticisms, more brilliant than profound._
_About's style is distinguished by its spirit and lucidity. He
knows how to tell a story, and has great respect for his mother
tongue. He was elected to the Academy in 1884, but died in 1885
without delivering his thesis._
[Illustration]
WHICH WAS THE MADMAN?
THE STORY OF A STRANGE CASE
BY EDMOND ABOUT
Copyright, 1903, by The Current Literature Publishing Company.
I
One might pass Dr. Auvray's house twenty times without suspecting the
miracles that are wrought there. It is a modest establishment near the
end of Montaigne Avenue, between Prince Soltikoff's Gothic palace and
the gymnasium. The unpretentious iron gates open into a small garden,
filled with lilacs and rosebushes. The porter's lodge is on the left
side of the gateway; the wing containing the doctor's office and the
apartments of his wife and daughter are on the right; while the main
building stands with its back to the street and its south windows
overlook a small grove of horsechestnuts and lindens.
It is there that the doctor treats, and generally cures, cases of
mental aberration. I would not introduce you into his house, however,
if you incurred any risk of meeting frenzied lunatics or hopeless
imbeciles. You will be spared all such harrowing sights. Dr. Auvray is
a specialist, and treats cases of monomania only. He is an extremely
kind-hearted man, endowed with plenty of shrewdness and good sense; a
true philosopher, an untiring student, and an enthusiastic follower of
the famous Esquirol.
Having come into possession of a small fortune soon after the
completion of his medical course, he married, and founded the
establishment which we have described. Had there been a spark of
charlatanism in his composition, he could easily have amassed a
fortune, but he had been content to merely earn a living. He shunned
notoriety, and when he effected a wonderful cure, he never proclaimed
it upon the housetops. His very enviable reputation had been acquired
without any effort on his part, and almost against his will. Would you
have a proof of this? Well, his treatise on monomania, published by
Baillière in 1852, has passed through six editions, though the author
has never sent a single copy to the newspapers. Modesty is a good
thing, certainly, but one may carry it too far. Mademoiselle Auvray
will have a dowry of only twenty thousand francs, and she will be
twenty-two in April.
About a month ago a hired coupé stopped in front of Dr. Auvray's door,
from which two men alighted and entered the office. The servant asked
them to be seated, and await his master's return.
One of the visitors was about fifty years of age, a tall, stout,
dark-complexioned but ruddy-faced man, rather ungainly in figure and
appearance. He had thick, stubby hands and enormous thumbs. Picture a
laboring man, dressed in his employer's clothes, and you have M. Morlot.
His nephew, Francis Thomas, is a young man, about twenty-three years
old; but it is very difficult to describe him, as there is nothing
distinctive either in his manner or appearance. He is neither tall nor
short, handsome nor ugly, stout nor thin--in short, he is commonplace
and mediocre in every respect, with chestnut hair, and of an extremely
retiring disposition, manner and attire. When he entered Dr. Auvray's
office, he seemed to be greatly excited. He walked wildly to and fro,
as if unable to remain in one place; looked at twenty different things
in the same instant, and would certainly have handled them all if his
hands had not been tied.
"Compose yourself, my dear Francis," said his uncle, soothingly. "What
I am doing is for your own good. You will be perfectly comfortable and
happy here, and the doctor is sure to cure you."
"I am not sick. There is nothing whatever the matter with me. Why have
you tied my hands?"
"Because you would have thrown me out of the window, if I had not. You
are not in your right mind, my poor boy, but Dr. Auvray will soon make
you well again."
"I am as sane as you are, uncle; and I can't imagine what you mean. My
mind is perfectly clear and my memory excellent. Shall I recite some
poetry to you, or construe some Latin? I see there is a Tacitus here in
the bookcase. Or, if you prefer, I will solve a problem in algebra or
geometry. You don't desire it? Very well, then listen while I tell you
what you have been doing this morning.
"You came to my room at eight o'clock, not to wake me, for I was
not asleep, but to get me out of bed. I dressed myself without any
assistance from Germain. You asked me to accompany you to Dr. Auvray's;
I refused; you insisted; then Germain aided you in tying my hands. I
shall dismiss him this evening. I owe him thirteen days' wages; that
is to say, thirteen francs, as I promised to pay him thirty francs a
month. You, too, owe him something, as you are the cause of his losing
his New Year's gift. Isn't this a tolerably clear statement of the
facts? Do you still intend to try to make me out a lunatic? Ah, my dear
uncle, let your better nature assert itself. Remember that my mother
was your sister. What would my poor mother say if she saw me here? I
bear you no ill-will, and everything can be amicably arranged. You have
a daughter."
"Ah, there it is again. You must certainly see that you are not in your
right mind. I have a daughter--I? Why, I am a bachelor, as you know
perfectly well."
"You have a daughter--" repeated Francis, mechanically.
"My poor nephew, listen to me a moment. Have you a cousin?"
"A cousin? No, I have no cousin. Oh, you won't catch me there. I have
no cousin, either male or female."
"But I am your uncle, am I not?"
"Yes; you are my uncle, of course, though you seem to have forgotten
the fact this morning."
"Then if I had a daughter, she would be your cousin; but as you have
no cousin, I can have no daughter."
"You are right, of course. I had the pleasure of meeting her at Ems
last summer with her mother; I love her; I have reason to believe that
she is not indifferent to me, and I have the honor to ask you for her
hand in marriage."
"Whose hand, may I ask?"
"Your daughter's hand."
"Just hear him," Morlot said to himself. "Dr. Auvray must certainly be
very clever if he succeeds in curing him. I am willing to pay him six
thousand francs a year for board and treatment. Six thousand francs
from thirty thousand leaves twenty-four thousand. How rich I shall be!
Poor Francis!"
He seated himself again, and picked up a book that chanced to be lying
on a table near him.
"Calm yourself," he said soothingly, "and I will read you something.
Try to listen. It may quiet you."
Opening the volume, he read as follows:
"'Monomania is opinionativeness on one subject; a persistent clinging
to one idea; the supreme ascendency of a single passion. It has its
origin in the heart. To cure the malady, the cause must be ascertained
and removed. It arises generally from love, fear, vanity, overweening
ambition or remorse, and betrays itself by the same symptoms as any
other passion; sometimes by boisterousness, gaiety, and garrulousness;
sometimes by extreme timidity, melancholy, and silence.'"
As M. Morlot read on, Francis became more quiet, and at last appeared
to fall into a peaceful slumber.
"Bravo!" thought the uncle, "here is a triumph of medical skill
already. It has put to sleep a man who was neither hungry nor sleepy!"
Francis was not asleep, but he was feigning sleep to perfection. His
head drooped lower and lower, and he regulated his heavy breathing
with mathematical exactness. Uncle Morlot was completely deceived. He
went on reading for some time in more and more subdued tones; then he
yawned; then he stopped reading; then he let the book drop from his
hands and closed his eyes, and in another minute he was sound asleep,
to the intense delight of his nephew, who was watching him maliciously
out of the corner of his eye.
Francis began operations by scraping his chair on the uncarpeted floor,
but M. Morlot moved no more than a post. Francis then tramped noisily
up and down the room, but his uncle snored the louder. Then the nephew
approached the doctor's desk, picked up an eraser that was lying there,
and with it finally succeeded in cutting the rope that bound his hands.
On regaining his liberty he uttered a smothered exclamation of joy;
then he cautiously approached his uncle. In two minutes, M. Morlot
himself was securely bound, but it had been done so gently and so
adroitly that his slumbers had not been disturbed in the least.
Francis stood admiring his work for a moment; then he stooped and
picked up the book that had fallen to the floor. It was Dr. Auvray's
treatise on monomania. He carried it off into a corner of the room
and began to read it with much apparent interest, while awaiting the
doctor's coming.
II
It is necessary to revert briefly to the antecedents of this uncle
and nephew. Francis Thomas was the only son of a former toy-merchant,
on the Rue de Saumon. The toy trade is an excellent business, about
one hundred per cent profit being realized on most of the articles;
consequently, since his father's death, Francis had been enjoying that
ease generally known as honest ease; possibly because it enables one to
live without stooping to sordid acts; possibly, too, because it enables
one to keep one's friends honest, also. In short, he had an income of
thirty thousand francs a year.
His tastes were extremely simple, as I have said before. He detested
show, and always selected gloves, waistcoats, and trousers of those
sober hues shading from dark brown to black. He never carried an
eyeglass for the very good reason, he said, that he had excellent
eyesight; he wore no scarf-pin, because he needed no pin to hold his
cravat securely; but the fact is, he was afraid of exciting comment. He
would have been wretched had his sponsors bestowed upon him any save
the most commonplace names; but, fortunately, his cognomens were as
modest and unpretending as if he had chosen them himself.
His excessive modesty prevented him from adopting a profession. When
he left college, he considered long and carefully the seven or eight
different paths open before him. A legal career seemed to be attended
with too much publicity; the medical profession was too exciting;
business too complicated. The responsibilities of an instructor of
youth were too onerous; the duties of a government official too
confining and servile. As for the army, that was out of the question,
not because he feared the enemy, but because he shuddered at the
thought of wearing a uniform; so he finally decided to live on his
income, not because it was the easiest thing to do, but because it was
the most unobtrusive.
But it was in the presence of the fair sex that his weakness became
most apparent. He was always in love with somebody. Whenever he
attended a play or a concert he immediately began to gaze around him
in search of a pretty face. If he found one to his taste, the play was
admirable, the music perfection; if he failed, the whole performance
was detestable, the actors murdered their lines, and all the singers
sang out of tune. He worshiped these divinities in secret, however, for
he never dared to speak to one of them.
When he fancied himself a victim to the tender passion, he spent the
greater part of his time in composing the most impassioned declarations
of love, which never passed his lips, however. In imagination he
addressed the tenderest words of affection to his adored one, and
revealed the innermost depths of his soul to her; he held long
conversations with her, delightful interviews, in which he furnished
both the questions and answers. His burning protestations of undying
love would have melted a heart of ice, but none of his divinities were
ever aware of his aspirations and longings.
It chanced, however, in the month of August of that same year, about
four months before he so adroitly bound his uncle's hands, that
Francis had met at Ems a young lady almost as shy and retiring as
himself, a young lady whose excessive timidity seemed to imbue him
with some of the courage of an ordinary mortal. She was a frail,
delicate _Parisienne_--pale as a flower that had blossomed in the
shade, and with a skin as transparent as an infant's. She was at Ems
in company with her mother, who had been advised to try the waters for
an obstinate throat trouble, chronic laryngitis, if I remember right.
The mother and daughter had evidently led a very secluded life, for
they watched the noisy crowd with undisguised curiosity and amazement.
Francis was introduced to them quite unexpectedly by one of his friends
who was returning from Italy by way of Germany. After that, Francis was
with them almost constantly for a month; in fact, he was their sole
companion.
For sensitive, retiring souls, a crowd is the most complete of
solitudes; the more people there are around them, the more persistently
they retreat to a corner to commune with themselves. Of course, the
mother and daughter soon became well acquainted with Francis, and
they grew very fond of him. Like the navigator who first set foot on
American soil, they discovered some new treasure every day. They never
inquired whether he was rich or poor; it was enough for them to know
that he was good. Francis, for his part, was inexpressibly delighted
with his own transformation. Have you ever heard how spring comes in
the gardens of Russia? One day everything is shrouded in snow; the next
day a ray of sunshine appears and puts grim winter to flight. By noon
the trees are in bloom; by night they are covered with leaves; a day or
two more and the fruit appears.
The heart of Francis underwent a similar metamorphosis. His reserve and
apparent coldness disappeared as if by magic, and in a few short weeks
the timid youth was transformed into a resolute, energetic man--at
least to all appearances. I do not know which of the three persons
first mentioned marriage, but that is a matter of no consequence.
Marriage is always understood when two honest hearts avow their love.
Now Francis was of age, and undisputed master of himself and his
possessions, but the girl he loved had a father whose consent must be
obtained, and it was just here that this young man's natural timidity
of disposition reasserted itself. True, Claire had said to him: "You
can write to my father without any misgivings. He knows all about our
attachment. You will receive his consent by return mail."
Francis wrote and rewrote his letter a hundred times, but he could not
summon up the courage to send it.
Surely the ordeal was an easy one, and it would seem as though the
most timorous mind could have passed through it triumphantly. Francis
knew the name, position, fortune, and even the disposition of his
prospective father-in-law. He had been initiated into all the family
secrets, he was virtually a member of the household. The only thing
he had to do was to state in the briefest manner who he was and what
he possessed. There was no doubt whatever as to the response; but he
delayed so long that at the end of a month Claire and her mother very
naturally began to doubt his sincerity. I think they would have waited
patiently another fortnight, however, but the father would not permit
it. If Claire loved the young man, and her lover was not disposed to
make known his intentions, the girl must leave him at once. Perhaps Mr.
Francis Thomas would then come and ask her hand in marriage. He knew
where to find her.
Thus it chanced that, one morning when Francis went to invite the
ladies to walk as usual, the proprietor of the hotel informed him
that they had returned to Paris, and that their apartments were
already occupied by an English family. This crushing blow, falling
so unexpectedly, destroyed the poor fellow's reason, and, rushing
out of the house like a madman, he began a frantic search for Claire
in all the places where he had been in the habit of meeting her. At
last he returned to his own hotel with a violent sick headache, which
he proceeded to doctor in the most energetic manner. First he had
himself bled, then he took baths in boiling hot water, and applied
the most ferocious mustard plasters; in short, he avenged his mental
tortures upon his innocent body. When he believed himself cured, he
started for France, firmly resolved to have an interview with Claire's
father before even changing his clothes. He traveled with all possible
speed, jumped off the train before it stopped, forgetting his baggage
entirely, sprang into a cab, and shouted to the coachman:
"Drive to her home as quick as you can!"
"Where, sir?"
"To the house of Monsieur--on the--the Rue--I can't remember." He had
forgotten the name and address of the girl he loved.
"I will go home," he said to himself, "and it will come back to me."
So he handed his card to the coachman, who took him to his own home.
His concierge was an aged man, with no children, and named Emmanuel. On
seeing him, Francis bowed profoundly, and said:
"Sir, you have a daughter, Mlle. Claire Emmanuel. I intended to write
and ask you for her hand in marriage, but decided it would be more
seemly to make the request in person."
They saw that he was mad, and his uncle Morlot, in the Faubourg Saint
Antoine, was immediately summoned.
Now Uncle Morlot was the most scrupulously honest man on the Rue
Charonne, which, by the way, is one of the longest streets in Paris.
He manufactured antique furniture with conscientious care, but only
mediocre skill. He was not a man to pass off ebonized pine for real
ebony, or a cabinet of his own make for a medieval production; and yet,
he understood the art of making new wood look old and full of apparent
worm-holes as well as anybody living; but it was a principle of his
never to cheat or deceive any one. With almost absurd moderation for a
follower of this trade, he limited his profits to five per cent over
and above the expenses of the business, so he had gained more esteem
than money. When he made out a bill, he invariably added up the items
three times, so afraid was he of making a mistake in his own favor.
After thirty years of close attention to business he was very little
better off than when he finished his apprenticeship. He had merely
earned his living, just like the humblest of his workmen, and he often
asked himself rather enviously how his brother-in-law had managed
to acquire a competence. If this brother-in-law, with the natural
arrogance of a _parvenu_, rather looked down on the poor cabinet-maker,
the latter, with all the pride of a man who has not tried to succeed
financially, esteemed himself all the more highly. He gloried in his
poverty, as it were; and said to himself with plebeian pride: "I, at
least, have the satisfaction of knowing that I owe nothing to any one."
Man is a strange animal: I am not the first person who has made that
remark. This most estimable M. Morlot, whose overscrupulous probity
made him almost a laughing-stock, experienced a singular feeling of
elation in his secret heart when he was apprised of his nephew's
condition. An insinuating voice whispered softly: "If Francis is
insane, you will become his guardian."
"You will be none the richer," responded Conscience, promptly.
"And why not?" persisted the Tempter. "The expenses of an insane person
never amount to thirty thousand francs a year. Besides, you will be
put to a great deal of trouble and have to neglect your business,
very probably, so it is only right that you should receive some
compensation. You will not be wronging any one by taking part of the
money."
"But one ought to expect no compensation for such services to a member
of one's family," retorted the voice of Conscience.
"Then why have the members of our family never done anything for me?
I have been in straitened circumstances again and again, and have
found it almost impossible to meet my obligations, but neither my
nephew Francis nor his deceased father ever rendered me the slightest
assistance."
"Nonsense," replied his better nature; "this attack of insanity is
nothing serious. Francis will be himself again in a few days."
"It is just as probable that the malady will wear him out and that you
will come into possession of the entire property," persisted the wily
Tempter.
The worthy cabinet-maker tried to close his ears to the insidious
voice, but his ears were so large that the subtle, persistent voice
glided in, despite all his efforts. The establishment on the Rue
Charonne was intrusted to the care of the foreman, and the uncle took
up his abode in his nephew's comfortable apartments. He slept in an
excellent bed, and enjoyed it very much; he sat down to a well-spread
table, and the indigestion, which had tormented him for years, vanished
as if by enchantment. He was waited upon and shaved by Germain, his
nephew's valet, and he speedily came to regard such attentions as a
necessity. Gradually, too, he became accustomed to seeing his nephew in
this deplorable condition, and to quite reconcile himself to the idea
that he would never be cured, but all the while he kept repeating to
himself, as if to ease his conscience, "I am wronging nobody."
At the expiration of three months he had become very tired of having
an insane person shut up in the house with him--for he had long
since begun to consider himself at home--and his nephew's incessant
maundering, and continual requests for Mlle. Claire's hand in marriage,
became an intolerable bore. He therefore resolved to get rid of him by
placing him in Dr. Auvray's insane asylum.
"After all, my nephew will be much better cared for there," he said to
himself, "and I shall be much easier in mind. Every one admits that the
best way to divert a lunatic's mind is to give him a change of scene,
so I am only doing my duty."
It was with this very thought in his mind that he fell asleep just
before Francis bound his hands. What an awakening was his!
The doctor entered with a smiling excuse for his long delay. Francis
rose, laid his book on the table, and proceeded with volubility to
explain the business that had brought him there.
"It is my uncle on my mother's side that I desire to intrust to
your care," he began. "He is, as you see, a man between forty-five
and fifty years of age, accustomed to manual labor and the economy
and privations of a humble and busy life; moreover, he was born of
healthy, hard-working parents, in a family where no case of mental
aberration was ever before known. You will not, therefore, be obliged
to contend with a hereditary malady. His is probably one of the most
peculiar cases of monomania that has ever come under your observation.
His mood changes almost instantaneously from one of extreme gaiety to
profound melancholy. In fact, it is a strange compound of monomania and
melancholy."
"He has not lost his reason entirely?"
"Oh, no; he is never violent; in fact, he is insane upon one subject
only."
"What is the nature of his malady?"
"Alas! the besetting sin of the age, sir; cupidity. He has become
deeply imbued with the spirit of our times. After working hard from
childhood, he finds himself still comparatively poor, while my father,
who began life under like circumstances, was able to leave me a snug
little fortune. My uncle began by being envious of me; then the thought
occurred to him that, being my only relative, he would become my heir
in case of my death, and my guardian in case I became insane; and as it
is very easy for a weak-minded person to believe whatever he desires to
believe, the unfortunate man soon persuaded himself that I had lost my
reason. He has told everybody that this is the case; and he will soon
tell you so. In the carriage, though his hands were tied, he really
believed that it was he who was bringing me here."
"When did this malady first show itself?"
"About three months ago. He came to my concierge and said to him, in
the wildest manner: 'Monsieur Emmanuel, you have a daughter. Let me in,
and then come and assist me in binding my nephew.'"
"Is he aware of his condition? Does he know that his mind is affected?"
"No, sir, and I think that is a favorable sign. I should add, however,
that his physical health is somewhat impaired, and he is much troubled
with indigestion and insomnia."
"So much the better; an insane person who sleeps and eats regularly is
generally incurable. Suppose you allow me to wake him."
Dr. Auvray placed his hand gently on the shoulder of the sleeper, who
instantly sprang to his feet. The first movement he made was to rub
his eyes. When he discovered that his hands were tied, he instantly
suspected what had taken place while he was asleep, and burst into a
hearty laugh.
"A good joke, a very good joke!" he exclaimed.
Francis drew the doctor a little aside.
"Sir, in five minutes he will be in a towering rage," he whispered.
"Let me manage him. I know how to take him."
The good doctor smiled on the supposed patient as one smiles on a child
one wishes to amuse. "Well, you wake in very good spirits, my friend;
did you have a pleasant dream?" he asked affably.
"No, I had no dream at all; I'm merely laughing to find myself tied
up like a bundle of fagots. One would suppose that I was the madman,
instead of my nephew."
"There, I told you so," whispered Francis.
"Have the goodness to untie my hands, doctor. I can explain better when
I am free."
"I will unbind you, my friend, but you must promise to give no trouble."
"Can it be, doctor, that you really take me for an insane person?"
"No, my friend, but you are ill, and we will take care of you, and, I
hope, cure you. See, your hands are free; don't abuse your liberty."
"What the devil do you imagine I'll do? I came here merely to bring my
nephew."
"Very well, we will talk about that matter by and by. I found you sound
asleep. Do you often fall asleep in the daytime?"
"Never! It was that stupid book that--"
"Oh, oh! This is a serious case," muttered the author of the book
referred to. "So you really believe that your nephew is insane?"
"Dangerously so, doctor. The fact that I was obliged to bind his hands
with this very rope is proof of that."
"But it was your hands that were bound. Don't you recollect that I just
untied them?"
"But let me explain--"
"Gently, gently, my friend, you are becoming excited. Your face is very
red; I don't want you to fatigue yourself. Just be content to answer
my questions. You say that your nephew is ill?"
"Mad, mad, mad, I tell you!"
"And it pleases you to see him mad?"
"What?"
"Answer me frankly. You don't wish him to be cured, do you?"
"Why do you ask me that?"
"Because his fortune is under your control. Don't you wish to be rich?
Are you not disappointed and discouraged because you have toiled so
long without making a fortune? Don't you very naturally think that your
turn has come now?"
M. Morlot made no reply. His eyes were riveted on the floor. He asked
himself if he was not dreaming, and tried his best to decide how much
of this whole affair was real, and how much imaginary, so completely
bewildered was he by the questions of this stranger, who read his heart
as if it had been an open book.
"Do you ever hear voices?" inquired Dr. Auvray.
Poor M. Morlot felt his hair stand on end, and remembering that
relentless voice that was ever whispering in his ear, he replied
mechanically, "Sometimes."
"Ah, he is the victim of an hallucination," murmured the doctor.
"No, there is nothing whatever the matter with me, I tell you. Let me
get out of here. I shall be as crazy as my nephew if I remain much
longer. Ask my friends. They will all tell you that I am perfectly
sane. Feel my pulse. You can see that I have no fever."
"Poor uncle!" murmured Francis. "He doesn't know that insanity is
delirium unattended with fever."
"Yes," added the doctor, "if we could only give our patients a fever,
we could cure every one of them."
M. Morlot sank back despairingly in his armchair. His nephew began to
pace the floor.
"I am deeply grieved at my uncle's deplorable condition," he remarked
feelingly, "but it is a great consolation to me to be able to intrust
him to the care of a man like yourself. I have read your admirable
treatise on monomania. It is the most valuable work of the kind that
has appeared since the publication of the great Esquirol's Treatise
upon Mental Diseases. I know, moreover, that you are truly a father to
your patients, so I will not insult you by commending M. Morlot to your
special care. As for the compensation you are to receive, I leave that
entirely to you."
As he spoke, he drew from his pocket-book a thousand-franc note and
laid it on the mantel. "I shall do myself the honor to call again some
time during the ensuing week. At what hour are your patients allowed to
see visitors?"
"From twelve to two, only; but I am always at home. Good day, sir."
"Stop him! stop him!" shouted Uncle Morlot. "Don't let him go. He is
the one that is mad; I will tell you all about it."
"Calm yourself, my dear uncle," said Francis, starting toward the
door. "I leave you in Dr. Auvray's care; he will soon cure you, I
trust."
M. Morlot sprang up to intercept his nephew, but the doctor detained
him.
"What a strange fatality!" cried the poor uncle. "He has not uttered a
single senseless remark. If he would only rave as usual, you would soon
see that I am not the one who is mad, but--"
Francis already had his hand on the door-knob, but turning suddenly,
he retraced his steps as if he had forgotten something and, walking
straight up to the doctor, said:
"My uncle's malady was not the only thing that brought me here."
"Ah," murmured M. Morlot, seeing a ray of hope, at last.
"You have a daughter," continued the young man.
"At last!" shouted the poor uncle. "You are a witness to the fact that
he said: 'You have a daughter.'"
"Yes," replied the doctor, addressing Francis. "Will you kindly
explain--"
"You have a daughter, Mlle. Claire Auvray."
"There, there! didn't I tell you so?" cried the uncle.
"Yes," again replied the doctor.
"She was at Ems three months ago with her mother."
"Bravo! Bravo!" yelled M. Morlot.
"Yes," responded the physician for the third time.
M. Morlot rushed up to the doctor, and cried: "You are not the doctor,
but a patient in the house."
"My friend, if you are not more quiet we shall have to give you a
douche."
M. Morlot recoiled in terror. His nephew continued calmly:
"I love your daughter, sir; I have some hope that I am loved in return,
and if her feelings have not changed since the month of September, I
have the honor to ask her hand in marriage."
"Is it to Monsieur Francis Thomas that I have the honor of speaking?"
inquired the doctor.
"The same, sir. I should have begun by telling you my name."
"Then you must permit me to say, sir, that you have been guilty of no
unseemly haste--"
But just then the good doctor's attention was diverted by M. Morlot,
who was rubbing his hands in a frenzied manner.
"What is the matter with you, my friend?" the doctor asked in his kind,
fatherly way.
"Nothing, nothing! I am only washing my hands. There is something on
them that troubles me."
"Show me what it is. I don't see anything."
"Can't you see it? There, there, between my fingers. I see it plainly
enough."
"What do you see?"
"My nephew's money. Take it away, doctor. I'm an honest man; I don't
want anything that belongs to anybody else."
While the physician was listening attentively to M. Morlot's first
ravings, an extraordinary change took place in Francis. He became as
pale as death, and seemed to be suffering terribly from cold, for his
teeth chattered so violently that Dr. Auvray turned and asked what was
the matter with him.
"Nothing," he replied. "She is coming, I hear her! It is joy, but it
overpowers me. It seems to be falling on me and burying me beneath its
weight like a snowdrift. Winter will be a dreary time for lovers. Oh,
doctor, see what is the matter with my head!"
But his uncle rushed up to him, crying:
"Enough, enough! Don't rave so! I don't want people to think you mad.
They will say I stole your reason from you. I'm an honest man. Doctor,
look at my hands, examine my pockets, send to my house on the Rue
Charonne. Search the cupboard. Open all the drawers. You will find I
have nothing that belongs to any other person."
Between his two patients the doctor was at his wits' end, when a door
opened, and Claire came in to tell her father that breakfast was on the
table.
Francis leaped up out of his chair, as if moved by a spring, but though
his will prompted him to rush toward Mlle. Auvray, his flesh proved
weak, and he fell back in his chair like lead. He could scarcely murmur
the words:
"Claire, it is I! I love you. Will you--"
He passed his hand over his forehead. His pale face became a vivid
scarlet. His temples throbbed almost to bursting; it seemed to him
that an iron band was contracting more and more around his head, just
above his brows. Claire, frightened nearly to death, seized both his
hands; his skin was so dry, and his pulse so rapid that the poor girl
was terrified. It was not thus that she had hoped to see him again. In
a few minutes, a yellowish tinge appeared about his nostrils; nausea
ensued, and Dr. Auvray recognized all the symptoms of a bilious fever.
"How unfortunate!" he said to himself. "If this fever had only attacked
his uncle, it would have cured him!"
He rang. A servant appeared, and shortly afterward Mme. Auvray, who
scarcely knew Francis, so greatly had he changed. It was necessary
that the sick man should be got to bed without delay, and Claire
relinquished her own pretty room to him. While they were installing him
there, his uncle wandered excitedly about the parlor, tormenting the
doctor with questions, embracing the sick man, seizing Mme. Auvray's
hand and exclaiming wildly: "Save him, save him! He shall not die! I
will not have him die! I forbid it. I have a right to. I am his uncle
and guardian. If you do not care for him, people will say I killed him.
You are witnesses to the fact that I ask for none of his property! I
shall give all his possessions to the poor! Some water--please give me
some water to wash my hands!" He was taken to the building occupied by
the patients, where he became so violent that it was necessary to put
him in a strait-jacket.