"Certainly," said mama.
"Ah," thought I, "you wish some music; well, then, you shall have it.
Wait a moment."
I seated myself at the piano and played--and I played without stopping.
I played everything that I could remember, for striking upon the
little black and white keys soothed my nerves a little. Ah, you want
some music! Well, listen. Take some Massenet, a little Mozart, some
Serpette, some Wagner, and some Beethoven, some Lecocq, and some
Berlioz, some Tchaikovsky, and some Nimporteki, one after another,
haphazard, pell-mell; one hour and three-quarters at the piano without
stopping. After which I turned round and looked at my auditors.
They resembled a plantation after a hail-storm--they were simply
annihilated. They took immediate advantage of the lull in the storm
and fled. I was still caressing the keys with my right hand, and they
trembled lest I should begin again. In a few minutes the drawing-room
was empty.
Mama came toward me:
"Will you tell me now, Mademoiselle--"
But I stopped her short.
"Listen, mother. You know that I am usually very amiable and seldom
nervous, but this evening I am very nervous. Don't worry me, please. We
will talk to-morrow as much as you like."
And I ran lightly up to my room.
This morning, on coming down to breakfast, I expected to find my
parents with long faces, but oh, what a surprise! they smiled upon me,
they kissed me, and were as sweet as could be.
The key to this mystery? It is this: Papa rejoined the baron at the
club last night about midnight, and Monsieur de Nivert said to him:
"My dear Givernay, your daughter is adorable! You will, I hope, permit
me to call upon the ladies again as soon as possible."
But what is even more surprising is, that an hour before breakfast a
letter came from Madame Salandier, in which that former chestnut vender
declared that "her son had been deeply impressed by the wit and grace
of Mademoiselle Juliette," etc., and finally asked if my mother could
receive her Monday to have a serious talk with her.
My friend Pepita was quite right when she said:
"Little Juliette, there are two classes of men that you must treat
insolently in order to make them respect you--servants and suitors."
THE SIGN OF THE KEY AND THE CROSS
BY HENRI DE RÉGNIER
[Illustration]
_Henri de Régnier, one of the most distinguished living poets
of France, was born at Honfleur in 1864. He has published a
number of novels, such as "La Double Maîtresse," in 1901,
aimed at reconstructing past eras of society, and a volume of
tales distinguished for their originality. His first masters
were Leconte de Lisle and De Heredia, but in the beauty of his
harmony and tenderness he is original. He is a symbolist, chief
of that younger generation of French writers who have set out
to enlarge the resources of their national poetry. Edmund Gosse
says that "of the number of experiment makers ... he comes
nearest to presenting a definitely evolved talent ... a genuine
artist of pure and strenuous vision."_
[Illustration]
THE SIGN OF THE KEY AND THE CROSS
BY HENRI DE RÉGNIER
Translated by Sophie Earl.
Copyright, 1900, by The Current Literature Publishing Company.
As I walked through the streets of the city I kept thinking of one
of the stories which had been related to me by Monsieur d'Amercœur.
Without having named the place where the circumstances occurred he
described it minutely, so that I seemed to recognize everything. The
old city, noble and monastic, crumbling in its dismantled ramparts
beside the yellowish river, with, beyond, the mountains piled against
the horizon; the narrow streets, half shade, half sunshine, the old
walled-in houses, the churches and numerous convents, each with its
chime of bells--all was familiar.
I seemed to find it again exactly as he described it, this city, an old
pile of stones, sombre or luminous, wrapped in warmth and solitude, and
the dusty ossification, retaining for such of its monuments as were yet
standing the skeleton of past grandeur. In the centre the houses were
crowded in a compact mass, still vast, outside of which the buildings
were scattered, while over all a sleep or torpor seemed to hover,
broken suddenly at times by a tolling or a merry clang of bells.
The streets, paved with flat stones or hardened with gravel, cut across
each other oddly to open into squares where the markets were held.
The flocks of the countryside gathered there to go away dispersed,
according to their sale. The auction and the church service were, turn
about, the sole occupations of the inhabitants. The place remained
rustic and devout. The quick trot of the sheep pattered over the
pavements, which echoed with the sandals of the monks. Pastor and flock
jostled each other. The odor of the shearing mingled with the smell of
woolen cloth. The air was redolent of incense and tallow. Shorn and
tonsured. Shepherds and priests.
I arrived at the angle of two streets. A fountain was flowing into a
time-worn basin. I remembered the fountain; Monsieur d'Amercœur had
praised the freshness of its water. The street to the right ought to
lead to the Close of the Black Friars. I followed its tortuosity, which
wound into the very heart of the city. A few poor shops displayed
their wares. Chaplets hung beside horsewhips. The street suddenly grew
wider. The high frontage of an old mansion appeared. I had seen several
others of the sort here and there, but this one was noticeable by some
peculiarities. It was built on a battered stone masonry. The windows,
high above the soil, were grated. In former times they must have
utilized those foundations on which arose the present edifice of severe
architectural design. At the corner of the structure the street turned
abruptly and descended by steps, gradually encircling the back of the
building, which proved to be an ancient castle, a stronghold of which
the blocks of stone were laid into the living rock.
I recognized the Mansion d'Heurteleure. The street ended; before me I
saw an avenue of poplars. Old stone sarcophagi, now empty, stood in
rows amid the long grass where a pathway had been worn. To the right
stretched a wall with a low door at the side. I started as I perceived
it. It opened into the herb garden of the monks, the portal of whose
convent could be seen at the end of the walk. I paused and approached
the little mural door. It was massive and iron-bound. The keyhole was
shaped like a heart.
Continuing, I reached the convent porch and rang. The porter admitted
me. Immense corridors led to vast halls. We ascended stairs, my guide
gathering up the skirts of his frock as we mounted. We met no one. From
the chapel, which I did not enter, came a droning psalmody of psalms.
I was shown through several cloisters, one of them charming, square,
full of flowers, and habited by doves, which grouped on the cornices
like a natural, graceful bas-relief. From a church spire visible in the
distance the horologe was ringing the hour. A great yellow sunflower
was looking into the deep water of a well and reflecting there its
golden disk, like a monstrance.
Nothing had altered since Monsieur d'Amercœur visited the city. The
same aspect proved the duration of the same habits. The cracking of
horsewhips still mingled with the tinkling of rosaries; the convent
bells clanged their chimes together as of yore, when Monsieur
d'Amercœur in frock and cowl, his bare feet sandaled, his staff in
hand, came knocking at the door. He asked to see the prior, which
office was at that time held by Dom Ricard, whose tomb I was shown
among the anonymous sepultures surrounding it. The prior had preserved
powerful links with the world from which he had retired. Keeping one
hand open there for alms and lending it, at need, in exchange for
delicate enterprises, which might be aided by his prudence and wisdom.
Monsieur d'Amercœur explained to him his costume, the motives for his
coming, and the details of his mission.
After twenty years of high service in the army, a gentleman of the
country, Monsieur d'Heurteleure returned to settle. He married shortly
after Mademoiselle Callestie, a poor girl of good family and great
beauty. The wedded pair lived at the d'Heurteleure mansion. The nobles
of the city frequented the house, the most assiduous in his visits
being Monsieur d'Aiglieul. He had served under and was related to
Monsieur d'Heurteleure, who was very fond of him. Life at the mansion
was very simple, no pomp, very few domestics; the dignity of rank was
upheld by the vast proportion of the apartments, the width of the
stairways, and the general aspect of antiquity.
Whether they grew weary of the dull existence in this old town after
the excitements of a military life, were seized suddenly by a spirit
of adventure, or from whatever cause it might have come, Monsieur
d'Heurteleure and Monsieur d'Aiglieul disappeared one day, no one knew
whither. Time passed. The searches were fruitless. Some mystery was
hinted at. Madame d'Heurteleure wept. All sorts of singular suspicions
were afloat, which finally reached the court where these two gentlemen
were still remembered. One day the double disappearance was mentioned
in the hearing of Monsieur d'Amercœur, who determined to solve the
enigma. He was empowered with full authority to act and at once he set
about it.
His first care was to assume a monastic frock, certain with this attire
to penetrate everywhere, through half-opened doors as well as through
the fissures of conscience, and Dom Ricard helped him to the best of
his power. For a while his researches were without result; but aided by
the incognito of his costume and his apparent calling, his inquiries
were patient and diverse. He hovered about the d'Heurteleure house,
scrutinized the people and the habits, studied the life. He listened to
and weighed all the still vivacious rumors. In vain. He wished to see
Madame d'Heurteleure. He was told that she was ill. Every day he passed
the house; following the street which rises around the sub-basement,
he reached the front, pausing sometimes to slake his thirst at the
fountain. Returning, as he descended the steps, he examined the
enormous foundations of stone and solid rock, longing to apply his
ear and listen to their mystery, for it seemed to him that the flanks
of the old castle contained the fantom of the secret, which he had
come to evoke from silence before it passed into oblivion. At last,
discouraged, he was on the point of giving up. He would have taken
leave of Dom Ricard but for the old monk's urgent advice to remain.
The venerable prior enjoyed the society of this sheep, so dissimilar
to the members of the flock which his wooden cross conducted in the
monotonous paths of the Order.
One day toward five o'clock in the afternoon, Monsieur d'Amercœur
went out by the old portal and strolled amid the tall grasses of the
avenue. The moment was melancholy and grandiose; the trees threw their
shadows across the funereal path, the lizards ran over the warm stones
of the antique tombs and in and out of their fissures. With one hand
Monsieur d'Amercœur held up the long monk's frock, with the other he
held the key to open the heart-shaped lock of the medicinal garden,
where he loved to wander. He wished to visit it once more before he
went away, to hear once more the soles of his sandals scraping over the
gravel, while his frock brushed the borders of boxwood. The symmetry
of the plots pleased him; their squares contained delicate plants and
curious flowers; little pools nourished aquatic specimens which plunged
their roots into the water, flowered and mirrored their bloom. At the
intersection of the paths stood porcelain urns painted with emblems
and pharmaceutical designs, with serpents twisted about the handles,
and these urns contained varieties rare and precious. Above the walls
waved the tops of the poplars; from the kitchen gardens off to one
side, separated by high green trellises, came the sound of a rake, the
striking of a spade against a watering can, the little sound of shears
clipping the young shoots; in here all was silence; a flower bent,
flexible, under the weight of an insect, swallows darted about; dragon
flies flitted across the greenish water; heavy plants and delicate
vines twined and intertwined.
Monsieur d'Amercœur was going toward the door of this odd little
enclosure when, at the end of the avenue, he saw approaching a woman
dressed in black. She walked slowly with faltering steps. By some inner
revelation he knew at once that this was Madame d'Heurteleure. He
slackened his own pace, so as to meet her at the moment when he stopped
before the door. Arrived there, he put the key into the lock. At the
sound the lady started and hesitated. He stooped as though trying to
turn the key. She wished to profit by this moment to pass; but found
herself face to face with him as he suddenly turned. She stood with
one hand pressing down her palpitating heart. He saw a face pale and
lovely, though haggard from grief and insomnia, with troubled eyes,
half-parted lips. Then he entered quickly, closing the door and leaving
in the iron-heart of the lock the key.
The next day he was meditating in the little cloister when a messenger
came to tell him that a veiled lady desired to speak with him. She was
admitted. He recognized Madame d'Heurteleure, and invited her to be
seated on a stone bench. The doves cooed softly on the capitals of the
quiet cloister, their murmurs mingled with the sighs of the penitent.
She sank on her knees, and with bent head and hands folded in his wide
sleeves Monsieur d'Amercœur listened to her dolorous confession. It was
a horrible and tragic story. Why relate it to him? Because her secret
seemed to have been laid bare. When she saw a monk holding a key to
open that heart-shaped lock, she felt as though he meant to force open
her conscience. Their meeting seemed like a decree of fate, his gesture
a mysterious allusion to the deliverance of her soul imprisoned in the
horror of its silence.
Her marriage with Monsieur d'Heurteleure was loveless. She esteemed,
while she feared his noble character, the hardness of which intimidated
her confidence and discouraged her tenderness. Years passed. One winter
Monsieur d'Aiglieul appeared and called frequently. He was handsome
and still young. She yielded to his love. Then followed days of joy
and terror; a dread of discovery and an agony of remorse. Monsieur
d'Heurteleure seemed unaware of their perfidy, though he grew suddenly
old and another deep line was added to those already furrowing his
brow. He was as usual often absent. One evening Madame d'Heurteleure
retired to her room about midnight. She felt depressed. Monsieur
d'Aiglieul had not appeared and he seldom missed a day. As she was
combing her hair before a mirror she saw the door open, and her husband
entered. He was booted, but his boots bore no trace of outdoor mire;
his coat looked dusty, a long spider web hung from his sleeve and
in his hand he held a key. Without speaking he went directly to the
wall of the chamber where a nail fastened an ivory crucifix, which he
tore off and broke upon the floor, while in its place he suspended
the heavy rusty key. Madame d'Heurteleure gazed for a moment without
comprehending, then all at once her hands clasped her heart, she gave
a cry and fell unconscious.
When she came to herself the whole affair was clear to her. Her husband
had allured Monsieur d'Aiglieul into some trap. The old mansion in its
invisible depths contained dungeons, chambers of eternal oblivion. A
cry, his, vibrated still in her ears. It seemed to come from below,
deafened by the piled-up stone, piercing the superposed arches,
reaching her from those lips forever separated by the thickness of the
walls. She tried to get out, the door was fastened, the windows were
padlocked, the domestics occupied another part of the house and were
beyond her call. The next day Monsieur d'Heurteleure came to bring her
food. Each day he came. The spider's web still hung from his dusty
sleeve, his boots creaked on the tesselated floor, the great line on
his forehead deepened in a pallor of sleepless misery. He went away
silently and to her tears and supplications he replied only by a brief
gesture, showing the key hung against the wall.
During those tragic days the wretched woman lived with her eyes fixed
on the horrible ex-voto, which grew larger to her vision, became
enormous. The patches of rust looked like red blood. The house was
still as death. Toward evening a step was heard. Monsieur d'Heurteleure
again entered bearing a lamp and a basket. His head had grown white,
he did not now so much as glance at the unhappy being who groveled at
his feet, but he never failed to stare greedily at the key. Then at
last Madame d'Heurteleure understood the desire which gnawed, which was
devouring him--to see his rival in death, to gloat over his vengeance,
to feel of the corruption that had once been flesh and blood, to take
down that key he had hung on the wall in place of the Sign of Pardon,
the ivory emblem of which he had shattered to substitute an iron symbol
of eternal rancor. But alas! vengeance never is satisfied, always she
craves for more; frenzied, insatiable, she feeds on her own vehemence
to the very dregs of memory, until the end of life.
Monsieur d'Heurteleure felt that she guessed his morbid longing and
that added to his torture. The adamant of his pride was streaked
with veins of blood. One night when Madame d'Heurteleure slumbered,
stretched on her bed, she heard her door open softly and saw her
husband on the threshold. He carried a lamp with the flame turned
low, and walked as lightly as a shadow without a sound, as though the
sombre somnambulism of his fixed idea had made of him an imponderable
fantom. He crossed the room, reached up, took down the key and went out
again. There was a dead silence. A fly awakened by the light buzzed
for an instant and then ceased. The door remained on the latch. Madame
d'Heurteleure bounded up. In her bare feet she slipped into the hall.
Her husband was going downstairs; she followed him. At the ground floor
he continued to descend; the stairway plunged into gloom, but she could
hear along the subterranean corridors the steps which preceded her.
They were now in the ancient substructions of the castle. The walls
sweated, the ceilings were vaulted. A last stairway twisted its spiral
into the rock. At its base the light of the vanishing lamp still
glimmered on the slimy pavement. Bending forward, Madame d'Heurteleure
listened. A grating sound reached her and the light disappeared. At the
foot of the stairs she found a circular chamber. An opening in the wall
revealed a shallow bay; she still crept on, until, at the end of the
passage, by feeling her way, she recognized a door very slightly ajar.
She pushed it open. In a sort of square hole, vaulted above and tiled
below, Monsieur d'Heurteleure was seated beside his little lamp. He was
motionless, staring with wide-open eyes. He looked at his wife without
seeing her. A nauseating odor came from the cell, and beyond the shadow
spread over the tiles lay a fleshless hand already greenish in hue.
Madame d'Heurteleure did not scream. Should she waken the wretched
somnambulist, whose frenzied sleep had drawn him to this tragic
dungeon? Was she capable of inflicting this degrading shock upon his
pride? No. The vengeance of the outrage was just. She felt pity for
those wild eyes, which stared at her without seeing her, for the
tortured visage, for the hair blanched by such poignant anguish, and it
seemed to her best to protect the secret of this nocturnal adventure
that he might never discover his self-betrayal. He must, she deemed, be
allowed to satisfy his terrible craving in the eternal silence of the
tomb, without ever knowing whose unseen hand walled him in face to face
with his sacrilege.
Monsieur d'Heurteleure still gazed blankly at her. Very calmly she
knelt and clasped the greenish palm which stretched its fleshless
fingers over the tiles, and then from the outside she closed the door.
Walking away on tiptoe, she slid the bolt of the vault which closed the
passage. She ascended the spiral stairs, the subterranean steps, the
stairways of the upper house, and on the rusty nail of her chamber wall
she suspended the tragic key, which balanced itself an instant, then
hung motionless to mark an eternal hour.
The doves passed to and fro as they flew below the arches of the little
cloister. The hour rang out simultaneously from all the belfries in the
city. The miserable woman sobbed and offered Monsieur d'Amercœur the
great key, letting it fall at his feet. He picked it up; it was heavy
and the patches of rust were red like blood. He walked away. Madame
d'Heurteleure, still kneeling, supplicated wildly with her hands joined
convulsively. He descended toward the little garden, which embalmed the
centre of the cloister with its fragrant flowers which grew in beds
equally divided by boxwood. Great roses engarlanded the well with its
stone circle; their thorns clung to the monkish frock as he bent over
to drink; the water spurted out. A tall, golden sunflower mirrored its
honey-laden monstrance. A dove cooed faintly, and Monsieur d'Amercœur,
returning to his still prostrate penitent, murmured in her ear the
words of an absolution which, if it lost nothing in heaven, gave at
least on earth peace to a tortured soul.
THE TELEGRAPH OPERATOR
BY ALPHONSE ALLAIS
[Illustration]
_Alphonse Allais, who has left an original successor in Georges
Courteline, was the great joker of Paris who died in 1905, at
fifty years of age. He clothes his ideas in jaunty, rakish,
crisp, up-to-date style, in the language of the reporter and
of the boulevards. Like most of the modern French literary
aspirants, Allais made his début in the Paris journals. He
wrote humorous, fantastic monologues full of life, and what the
French call "verve," which is a kind of sprightly enthusiasm
tempered by an original personality. He has written, besides
the three-act vaudeville called "L'Innocent," in collaboration
with Alfred Capus, several other plays and vaudevilles which
are immensely popular with the Parisians._
[Illustration]
THE TELEGRAPH OPERATOR
BY ALPHONSE ALLAIS
Translated by Emil Friend.
Copyright, 1892, by The Current Literature Publishing Company.
I stepped upon the platform at Baisenmoyen-Cert station, where my
friend Lenfileur awaited me with his carriage.
While on the train I suddenly recollected something that required
immediate attention at Paris. Upon my arrival at Baisenmoyen-Cert, I
went to the telegraph office to send back a message.
This station differed from others of its class because of the total
lack of writing materials.
After a prolonged exploration, I finally succeeded in capturing a rusty
pen, dipping it in some colorless, slimy fluid. With heroic effort I
succeeded in daubing down the few words of my telegram. A decidedly
unprepossessing woman grudgingly took the despatch, counted it, and
named the rate, which I immediately paid.
With the relieved conscience of having fulfilled a duty, I was about
to walk out when my attention was attracted by a young lady at one of
the tables manipulating a Morse key. With slight hauteur she turned her
back toward me.
Was she young? Probably. She certainly was red-haired. Was she pretty?
Why not? Her simple black dress advantageously displayed a round,
agreeable form; her luxuriant hair was arranged so as to reveal a few
ringlets and a splendid white neck. And suddenly a mad, inexplicable
desire to plant a kiss upon those golden ringlets seized me. In the
expectation that the young lady would turn round, I stopped and asked
the elderly woman a few questions anent telegraph affairs. Her replies
were not at all friendly.
The other woman, however, did not stir.
Whoever supposes that I did not go to the telegraph office the next
morning does not know me.
The pretty, red-haired one was alone this time.
Now she was compelled to show her face, and, _Sapristi!_ I could not
complain.