IX

_October 25._

Joseph puzzles me. His ways are really mysterious, and I do not know

what goes on in this silent and furious soul. But surely something

extraordinary. His look sometimes is difficult to endure,--so difficult

that mine avoids its intimidating fixity. He has a slow and gliding

gait, that frightens me. One would say that he was dragging a ball

riveted to his ankle, or, rather, the recollection of a ball. Is this

a relic of a prison or of a convent? Both, perhaps. His back, too,

frightens me, and also his large, powerful neck, tanned by the sun till

it looks like old leather, and stiffened with sinews that stretch and

strain like ropes. I have noticed on the back of his neck a collection

of hard muscles that stand out in an exaggerated fashion, like those of

wolves and wild beasts which have to carry heavy prey in their jaws.

Apart from his anti-Semitic craze, which indicates in Joseph a great

violence and a thirst for blood, he is rather reserved concerning

all matters. It is even impossible to know what he thinks. He has

none of the swagger, and none of the professional humility, by which

true domestics are to be recognized. Never a word of complaint,

never the slightest disparagement of his masters. He respects his

masters, without servility, and seems to be devoted to them, without

ostentation. He does not sulk at his work, even when it is most

repulsive. He is ingenious; he knows how to do everything, even the

most difficult and different things, not a part of his regular work.

He treats the Priory as if it were his own, watches it, guards it

jealously, defends it. He drives away the poor, the vagrant, and

the unfortunate, sniffing and threatening like a bull-dog. He is a

type of the old-time servant, of the domestic of the days before the

revolution. Of Joseph they say in the neighborhood: "There is nobody

like him. A pearl!" I know that they try to get him away from the

Lanlaires. From Louviers, from Elbeuf, from Rouen, he receives the

most flattering offers. He refuses them, and does not boast of having

refused them. Oh, no, indeed! He has been here for fifteen years, and

he considers this house as his own. As long as they want him, he will

stay. Madame, suspicious as she is, and seeing evil everywhere, places

a blind confidence in him. She, who believes in nobody, believes in

Joseph, in Joseph's honesty, in Joseph's devotion.

"A pearl! He would throw himself into the fire for us," she says.

And, in spite of her avarice, she overwhelms him with petty

generosities and little gifts.

Nevertheless, I distrust this man. He disturbs me, and at the same

time he interests me prodigiously. Often I have seen frightful things

passing in the troubled water, in the dead water of his eyes. Since

I have been observing him, I have changed the opinion that I formed

of him when I first entered this house,--the opinion that he is a

gross, stupid, and clumsy peasant. I ought to have examined him more

attentively. Now I think him singularly shrewd and crafty, and even

better than shrewd, worse than clever; I know not how to express myself

concerning him. And then--is it because I am in the habit of seeing

him every day?--I no longer find him so ugly or so old. Habit, like a

fog, tends to palliate things and beings. Little by little it obscures

the features of a face and rubs down deformities; if you live with

a humpback day in and day out, after a time he loses his hump. But

there is something else; I am discovering something new and profound

in Joseph, which upsets me. It is not harmony of features or purity

of lines that makes a man beautiful to a woman. It is something less

apparent, less defined, a sort of affinity, and, if I dare say so, a

sort of sexual atmosphere, pungent, terrible, or intoxicating, to the

haunting influence of which certain women are susceptible, even in

spite of themselves. Well, such an atmosphere emanates from Joseph. The

other day I admired him as he was lifting a cask of wine. He played

with it like a child with its rubber ball. His exceptional strength,

his supple skill, the terrible leverage of his loins, the athletic

push of his shoulders, all combined to make me dreamy. The strange and

unhealthy curiosity, prompted by fear as much as by attraction, which

is excited in me by the riddle of these suspicious manners, of this

closed mouth, of this impressing look, is doubled by this muscular

power, this bull's back. Without being able to explain it to myself

further, I feel that there is a secret correspondence between Joseph

and me,--a physical and moral tie that is becoming a little more

binding every day.

From the window of the linen-room where I work, I sometimes follow

him with my eyes in the garden. There he is, bending over his work,

his face almost touching the ground, or else kneeling against the

wall where the espaliers stand in line. And suddenly he disappears,

he vanishes. Lower your head, and, before you can raise it again, he

is gone. Does he bury himself in the ground? Does he pass through the

walls? From time to time I have occasion to go to the garden to give

him an order from Madame. I do not see him anywhere, and I call him:

"Joseph! Joseph! where are you?"

Suddenly, without a sound, Joseph arises before me, from behind a tree,

from behind a vegetable-bed. He rises before me in the sunlight, with

his severe and impenetrable mask, his hair glued to his skull, and his

open shirt revealing his hairy chest. Where does he come from? From

what hole does he spring? From what height has he fallen?

"Oh! Joseph, how you frightened me!"

And over Joseph's lips, and in his eyes, there plays a terrifying

smile, which really has the swift, short flashes of a knife. I believe

that this man is the devil.

The murder of the little Claire continues to be the all-absorbing

topic, and to excite the curiosity of the town. They fight for the

local and Paris newspapers that give the news. The "Libre Parole"

accuses the Jews squarely and by wholesale, and declares that it was a

"ritual murder." The magistrates have visited the spot, made inquiries

and examinations, and questioned many people. Nobody knows a thing.

Rose's charge, which has been circulating, has been met everywhere

with an incredulous shrug of the shoulders. Yesterday the police

arrested a poor peddler, who had no trouble in proving that he was not

in the vicinity at the time of the crime. The father, to whom public

rumor pointed, has been exonerated. Moreover, he bears an excellent

reputation. So nowhere is there any clue to put justice on the track

of the guilty. It seems that this crime excites the admiration of the

magistrates, and was committed with a surprising skill,--undoubtedly

by professionals, by Parisians. It seems also that the prosecuting

attorney is pushing the affair in a very tame fashion and for the sake

of form. The murder of a poor little girl is not a very interesting

matter. So there is every reason to believe that no clue will ever be

found, and that the case will soon be pigeon-holed, like so many others

that have not told their secret.

I should not wonder if Madame believed her husband guilty. That is

really comical, and she ought to know him better. She has behaved very

queerly ever since the news. She has ways of looking at Monsieur that

are not natural. I have noticed that during meals, whenever the bell

rings, she gives a little start.

After breakfast to-day, as Monsieur manifested an intention of going

out, she prevented him.

"Really, you may as well remain here. Why do you need to be always

going out?"

She even walked with Monsieur for a full hour in the garden. Naturally

Monsieur perceives nothing; he does not lose a mouthful of food or a

puff of tobacco-smoke. What a stupid blockhead!

I had a great desire to know what they could be saying to each other

when they were alone,--the two of them. Last night, for more than

twenty minutes, I listened at the door of the _salon_. I heard

Monsieur crumpling a newspaper. Madame, seated at her little desk, was

casting up her accounts.

"What did I give you yesterday?" Madame asked.

"Two francs," answered Monsieur.

"You are sure?"

"Why, yes, my pet."

"Well, I am short thirty-eight sous."

"It was not I who took them."

"No, it was the cat."

Of the other matter they said not a word.

In the kitchen Joseph does not like to have us talk about the little

Claire. When Marianne or I broach the subject, he immediately changes

it, or else takes no part in the conversation. It annoys him. I do not

know why, but the idea has come to me--and it is burying itself deeper

and deeper in my mind--that it was Joseph who did it. I have no proofs,

no clues to warrant my suspicion,--no other clues than his eyes, no

other proofs than the slight movement of surprise that escaped him

when, on my return from the grocer's, I suddenly, in the harness-room,

threw in his face for the first time the name of the little Claire

murdered and outraged. And yet this purely intuitive suspicion has

grown, first into a possibility, and then into a certainty. Undoubtedly

I am mistaken. I try to convince myself that Joseph is a "pearl."

I say to myself over and over again that my imagination takes mad

flights, obedient to the influence of the romantic perversity that is

in me. But all in vain; the impression remains, in spite of myself,

never leaves me for a moment, and is assuming the tormenting and

grimacing form of a fixed idea. And I have an irresistible desire to

ask Joseph:

"Say, Joseph, was it you who outraged the little Claire in the woods?

Was it you, old pig?"

The crime was committed on a Saturday. I remember that Joseph, at about

that date, went to the forest of Raillon to get some heath mould. He

was absent all day, and did not return to the Priory with his load

till late in the evening. Of that I am sure. And--an extraordinary

coincidence--I remember certain restless movements, certain troubled

looks, that he had that evening, when he came back. I took no notice of

them then. Why should I have done so? But to-day these facial details

come back to me forcibly. But was it on the Saturday of the crime

that Joseph went to the forest of Raillon? I seek in vain to fix the

date of his absence. And then, had he really the restless movements,

the accusing looks, that I attribute to him, and which denounce him

to me? Is it not I who am bent upon suggesting to myself the unusual

strangeness of those movements and those looks? Am I not determined,

without reason and against all probability, that it shall be Joseph--a

pearl--who did it? It irritates me, and at the same time confirms me

in my apprehensions, that I cannot reconstruct before my eyes the

tragedy of the forest. If only the judicial examination had revealed

fresh tracks of a cart on the dead leaves and on the heather in the

neighborhood? But no; the examination revealed nothing of the kind;

it revealed the outrage and murder of a little girl, and that is all.

Well, it is precisely that which so excites me. This cleverness of the

assassin in leaving not the slightest trace of his crime behind him,

this diabolical invisibility,--I feel in it and see in it the presence

of Joseph. Enervated, I make bold suddenly, after a silence, to ask him

this question:

"Joseph, what day was it that you went to the forest of Raillon to get

heath mould? Do you remember?"

Without haste, without a start, Joseph puts down the newspaper that he

was reading. Now his soul is steeled against surprises.

"Why do you ask?" he says.

"Because I want to know."

Joseph looks at me with his heavy, searching gaze. Then, without

affectation, he seems to be ransacking his memory in search of

recollections that are already old. And he answers:

"Indeed, I do not remember exactly; I think, though, that it was on a

Saturday."

"The Saturday when the body of the little Claire was found in the

woods?" I go on, giving to this inquiry, too quickly uttered, an

aggressive tone.

Joseph does not take his eyes from mine. His look has become so sharp

and so terrible that, in spite of my customary effrontery, I am obliged

to turn away my head.

"Possibly," he says again; "indeed, I really think that it was that

Saturday."

And he adds:

"Oh! these confounded women! You would do much better to think of

something else. If you read the newspaper, you would see that they have

been killing Jews again in Algeria. That at least is something worth

while."

Apart from his look, he is calm, natural, almost good-natured. His

gestures are easy; his voice no longer trembles. I become silent, and

Joseph, picking up the newspaper that he had laid on the table, begins

to read again, in the most tranquil fashion in the world.

For my part, I have begun to dream again. Now that I am about it, I

should like to find in Joseph's life some act of real ferocity. His

hatred of the Jews, his continual threats to torture, kill, and burn

them,--all this, perhaps, is nothing but swagger, and political swagger

at that. I am looking for something more precise and formal, some

unmistakable evidence of Joseph's criminal temperament. And I find

nothing but vague and moral impressions, hypotheses to which my desire

or my fear that they may be undeniable realities gives an importance

and a significance which undoubtedly they do not possess. My desire or

my fear? I do not know which of these two sentiments it is that moves

me.

But yes. Here is a fact, a real fact, a horrible fact, a revealing

fact. I do not invent it; I do not exaggerate it; I did not dream it;

it is exactly as I state it. It is one of Joseph's duties to kill the

chickens, rabbits, and ducks. He kills the ducks by the old Norman

method of burying a pin in their head. He could kill them with a blow,

without giving them pain. But he loves to prolong their suffering by

skilful refinements of torture. He loves to feel their flesh quiver and

their heart beat in his hands; he loves to follow, to count, to hold

in his hands, their suffering, their convulsions, their death. Once I

saw Joseph kill a duck. He held it between his knees. With one hand he

grasped it by the neck, with the other he buried a pin in its head; and

then he turned and turned the pin in the head, with a slow and regular

movement. One would have thought he was grinding coffee. And, as he

turned the pin, Joseph said, with savage joy:

"It is necessary to make it suffer. The more it suffers, the better its

blood will taste."

The animal had freed its wings from Joseph's knees; they were beating,

beating. Its neck, in spite of Joseph's grasp, twisted into a frightful

spiral, and beneath its feathers its flesh heaved. Then Joseph threw

the animal upon the stone floor of the kitchen, and, with elbows on his

knees and chin in his joined palms, he began to follow, with a look of

hideous satisfaction, its bounds, its convulsions, the mad scratching

of its yellow claws upon the floor.

"Stop then, Joseph," I cried. "Kill it at once; it is horrible to make

animals suffer."

And Joseph answered:

"That amuses me. I like to see that."

I recall this memory; I evoke all its sinister details; I hear all

the words that were spoken. And I have a desire, a still more violent

desire, to cry to Joseph:

"It was you who outraged the little Claire in the woods. Yes, yes; I am

sure of it now; it was you, you, you, old pig."

There is no longer any doubt of it; Joseph must be a tremendous

scoundrel. And this opinion that I have of his moral personality,

instead of driving me from him, far from placing a wall of horror

between us, causes me, not to love him perhaps, but to take an enormous

interest in him. It is queer, but I have always had a weakness for

scoundrels. There is something unexpected about them that lashes the

blood,--a special odor that intoxicates you,--something strong and

bitter that attracts you sexually. However infamous scoundrels may be,

they are never as infamous as the respectable people. What annoys me

about Joseph is that he has the reputation, and, to one who does not

know his eyes, the manners, of an honest man. I should like him better

if he were a frank and impudent scoundrel. It is true that he would

lose that halo of mystery, that prestige of the unknown, which moves

and troubles and attracts me--yes, really, attracts me--toward this old

monster.

Now I am calmer, because I am certain, and because nothing henceforth

can remove the certainty from my mind, that it was he who outraged the

little Claire in the woods.

For some time I have noticed that I have made a considerable impression

upon Joseph's heart. His bad reception of me is at an end; his

silence toward me is no longer hostile or contemptuous, and there is

something approaching tenderness in his nudges. His looks have no

more hatred in them,--did they ever have any, however?--and, if they

are still so terrible at times, it is because he is seeking to know

me better, always better, and wishes to try me. Like most peasants,

he is extremely distrustful, and avoids trusting himself to others,

for he thinks that they are planning to "take him in." He must be in

possession of numerous secrets, but he hides them jealously, under

a severe, scowling, and brutal mask, as one locks treasures in a

strong-box equipped with solid bars and mysterious bolts. However, his

distrust of me is lessening. He is charming toward me, in his way. He

does all that he can to show his friendship for me, and to please me.

He relieves me of my most painful duties; takes upon himself the heavy

work that is given me to do; and all without roguishness, without any

underlying gallantry, without seeking to provoke my gratitude, without

trying to get any profit from it whatsoever. On my side, I keep his

affairs in order, mend his stockings and his pantaloons, patch his

shirts, and arrange his closet with much more care and coquetry than I

do Madame's. And he says to me, with a look of satisfaction:

"That is very well, Célestine. You are a good woman,--an orderly woman.

Order, you see, means fortune. And, when one is pretty besides,--when

one is a beautiful woman, there is nothing better."

Hitherto we have talked together only for brief moments. At night, in

the kitchen, with Marianne, the conversation has to be general. No

intimacy is permissible between us two. And, when I see him alone,

nothing is more difficult than to make him talk. He refuses all long

conversations, fearing, undoubtedly, to compromise himself. A word

here, a word there, amiable or crusty, and that is all. But his eyes

speak, though his lips are silent. And they prowl around me, and they

envelop me, and they descend into me, into my very depths, in order to

turn my soul inside out and see what is in it.

For the first time we had a long talk yesterday. It was at night. The

masters had gone to bed; Marianne had gone to her room earlier than

usual. Not feeling disposed to read or write, it was tiresome for me

to remain alone. Still obsessed by the image of the little Claire, I

went to find Joseph in the harness-room, where, seated at a little

white-wood table, he was sorting seeds by the light of a dark lantern.

His friend, the sacristan, was there, standing near him, holding under

his two arms packages of little pamphlets, red, green, blue, tricolor.

With big round eyes surpassing the arch of the eyebrows, flattened

skull, and wrinkled, yellow, and cross-grained skin, he looked like a

toad. He had also the bounding heaviness of a toad. Under the table the

two dogs, rolled into a ball, were sleeping, with their heads buried in

their shaggy skins.

"Ah! it is you, Célestine?" exclaimed Joseph.

The sacristan tried to hide his pamphlets, but Joseph reassured him.

"We can talk before Mademoiselle. She is an orderly woman."

And he gave him directions.

"So, old man, it is understood, isn't it? At Bazoches, at Courtain,

at Fleur-sur-Tille. And let them be distributed to-morrow, in the

day-time. And try to get subscriptions. And let me tell you again;

go everywhere, into all the houses,--even the houses of republicans.

Perhaps they will show you the door, but that makes no difference.

Keep right on. If you win one of these dirty pigs, it is always so

much gained. And then, remember that you get five francs for every

republican."

The sacristan nodded his head approvingly. Having tucked the pamphlets

under his arms, he started off, Joseph accompanying him as far as the

iron fence. When the latter returned, he noticed my curious face, my

inquisitive eyes.

"Yes," he said, carelessly, "some songs, and some pictures, and

some pamphlets against the Jews, which are being distributed for

propagandism. I have made an arrangement with the priests; I work for

them. It is in the line of my own ideas, surely; but I must say also

that I am well paid."

He sat down again at the little table where he was sorting his seeds.

The two dogs, awakened, took a turn about the room, and went to lie

down again farther off.

"Yes, yes," he repeated, "I get good pay. Oh! the priests have money

enough."

And, as if fearing that he had said too much, he added:

"I tell you this, Célestine, because you are a good woman and an

orderly woman, and because I have confidence in you. It is between

ourselves, you know."

After a silence:

"What a good idea it was of yours to come out here to-night!" he

thanked me; "it is very nice of you; it flatters me."

Never had I seen him so amiable, so talkative. I bent over the little

table very near him, and, stirring the sorted seeds in the plate, I

answered coquettishly:

"It is true, too; you went away directly after dinner; we had no time

to gossip. Shall I help you sort your seeds?"

"Thank you, Célestine, I have finished."

He scratched his head.

"_Sacristi!_" he exclaimed, with annoyance, "I ought to go and see to

my garden-frames. The field-mice do not leave me a salad, the vermin!

But then, no, indeed, I must talk with you, Célestine."

Joseph rose, closed the door, which had been left half open, and led

me to the back of the harness-room. For a minute I was frightened. The

little Claire, whom I had forgotten, appeared before my eyes on the

forest heath, frightfully pale and bleeding. But there was nothing

wicked in Joseph's looks; they were timid, rather. We could scarcely

see each other in this dark room, lighted by the dull and hazy gleams

of the lantern. Up to this point Joseph's voice had trembled. Now it

suddenly took on assurance, almost gravity.

"For some days I have been wanting to confide this to you, Célestine,"

he began; "well, here it is. I have a feeling of friendship for you.

You are a good woman, an orderly woman. Now I know you very well."

I thought it my duty to assume an archly mischievous smile, and I

replied:

"You must admit that it has taken you some time. And why were you so

disagreeable with me? You never spoke to me; you were always rough with

me. You remember the scenes that you made me when I went through the

paths that you had just raked? Oh! how crusty you were!"

Joseph began to laugh, and shrugged his shoulders:

"Oh! yes; why, you know, one cannot get acquainted with people at the

very start. And women especially,--it takes the devil to know them. And

you came from Paris! Now I know you very well."

"Since you know me so well, Joseph, tell me, then, what I am."

With set lips and serious eyes, he said:

"What you are, Célestine? You are like me."

"I am like you, I?"

"Oh! not in your features, of course. But you and I, in the very depths

of the soul, are the same thing. Yes, yes, I know what I say."

Again there was a moment of silence. Then he resumed, in a voice that

was less stern:

"I have a feeling of friendship for you, Célestine. And then...."

"And then?..."

"I have some money, too,--a little money."

"Ah?"

"Yes, a little money. Why, one does not serve forty years in good

houses without saving something. Is it not so?"

"Surely," I answered, more and more astonished by Joseph's words and

manner. "And you have much money?"

"Oh! only a little."

"How much? Let me see."

Joseph gave a slight chuckle.

"You may know well that it is not here. It is in a place where it is

making little ones."

"Yes, but how much?"

Then in a low voice, almost a whisper:

"Perhaps fifteen thousand francs; perhaps more."

"My! but you are well fixed, you are!"

"Oh! perhaps less, too. One cannot tell."

Suddenly the two dogs lifted their heads simultaneously, bounded to

the door, and began to bark. I made a movement of fright.

"That's nothing," said Joseph, reassuringly, giving each of them a kick

in the side; "simply people passing in the road. Why, it is Rose, going

home. I know her step."

And, in fact, a few seconds later I heard a sound of dragging steps in

the road, and then a more distant sound of a closing gate. The dogs

became silent again.

I had sat down on a stool in a corner of the harness-room. Joseph, with

his hands in his pockets, walked back and forth in the narrow room,

his elbows hitting against the pine wainscoting from which leather

straps were hanging. We did not speak, I being horribly embarrassed and

regretting that I had come, and Joseph being plainly tormented by what

he had still to say to me.

After some minutes he made up his mind.

"There is another thing that I must confide to you, Célestine. I

am from Cherbourg. And Cherbourg is a tough town, full of sailors

and soldiers, of jolly lascars who do not deny themselves pleasure;

business is good there. Well, I know a fine opportunity just now at

Cherbourg. It is a matter of a little café near the water. A little

café in a first-rate location. The army is drinking a great deal

these days; all the patriots are in the street; they shout and bawl

and get thirsty. Now is the time to get it. One could make hundreds

and thousands, I promise you. Only, you see, there must be a woman

there,--an orderly woman, a pretty woman, well equipped, and not afraid

of slang and smut. The sailors and soldiers are good-natured and gay

and full of fun. They get drunk on the slightest provocation, and they

are fond of women, and spend much for them. What do you think about it,

Célestine?"

"I?" I exclaimed, stupefied.

"Yes; just suppose the case. Would you like it?"

"I?"

I did not know what he was coming at. I trembled from surprise to

surprise. Utterly upset, I could think of no answer to make. He

insisted:

"You, of course. And who, then, do you expect to come to the little

café? You are a good woman; you are orderly; you are not one of those

affected creatures who do not know even how to take a joke; and you are

patriotic! And then you are pretty, very nice to look at; you have eyes

to drive the whole Cherbourg garrison crazy. Just the cheese! Now that

I know you well, now that I know all that you can do, this idea keeps

continually running through my head."

"Well? And you?"

"I, too, of course! We would marry, like good friends."

"Then," cried I, with sudden indignation, "you want me to prostitute

myself to make money for you?"

Joseph shrugged his shoulders, and said tranquilly:

"All depends on the intention, Célestine. That is understood, is it

not?"

Then he came to me, took my hands, pressed them so tightly that I

screamed with pain, and stammered:

"I dream of you, Célestine; I dream of you in the little café. I am

crazy over you."

And, as I stood in amazement, a little frightened by this confession,

and without a gesture or a word, he continued:

"And then, perhaps there are more than fifteen thousand francs. Perhaps

more than eighteen thousand francs. One never knows how many little

ones this money makes. And then, things ... things ... jewels ... you

would be tremendously happy in the little café."

He held my waist clasped in the powerful vise of his arms. And I felt

his whole body against me, trembling with desire. If he had wished, he

could have taken me and stifled me without the slightest resistance on

my part. And he continued to unfold his dream:

"A little café, very pretty, very clean, very shining. And then, at the

bar, before a large mirror, a beautiful woman, dressed in the costume

of Alsace-Lorraine, with a beautiful silk waist and broad velvet

ribbons. Hey, Célestine? Think of that! I will talk with you about it

again one of these days; I will talk with you about it again."

I found nothing to say,--nothing, nothing, nothing. I was stupefied

by this thing, of which I had never dreamed; but I was also without

hatred, without horror, of this man's cynicism. Clasping me with the

same hands that had clasped, stifled, strangled, murdered the little

Claire in the woods, Joseph repeated:

"I will talk with you about it again. I am old; I am ugly. Possibly.

But to fix a woman, Célestine,--mark this well,--there is nobody like

me. I will talk with you about it again."

To fix a woman! How he fills one with forebodings! Is it a threat? Is

it a promise?

To-day Joseph has resumed his customary silence. One would think

nothing had happened last night between us. He goes, he comes, he

works, he eats, he reads his paper, just as usual. I look at him, and

I should like to detest him. I wish that his ugliness would fill me

with such immense disgust as to separate me from him forever. Well, no.

Ah! how queer it is! This man sends shivers through me, and I feel no

disgust. And it is a frightful thing that I feel no disgust, since it

was he who killed and outraged the little Claire in the woods.

X

_November 3._

Nothing gives me so much pleasure as to find in the newspapers the

name of a person in whose house I have served. This pleasure I felt

this morning more keenly than ever before, in learning from the "Petit

Journal" that Victor Charrigaud has just published a new book, which

has met with much approval and of which everybody speaks in admiration.

This book is entitled, "From Five to Seven," and is a howling

success. It is, says the article, a series of brilliant and cutting

society studies, which, beneath their light exterior, hide a profound

philosophy. Yes, rely upon it! At the same time that they praise Victor

Charrigaud for his talent, they also compliment him highly on his

elegance, on his distinguished social position, on his _salon_. Ah! let

us say a word of his _salon_. For eight months I was the Charrigauds'

chambermaid, and I really believe that I have never met such boors. God

knows, however!

Everybody is familiar with the name Victor Charrigaud. He has already

published a series of books that have made a sensation. "Their Little

Garters," "How They Sleep," "The Sentimental Bigoudis," "Humming-Birds

and Parrots," are among the most celebrated. He is a man of infinite

wit, a writer of infinite talent; unhappily, success and wealth have

come to him too quickly. His beginnings aroused the greatest hopes.

Everybody was struck with his great faculty of observation, with his

powerful gift of satire, with his implacable and just irony that

penetrated so deeply humanity's ridiculous side. A well-informed and

free mind, to which social conventions were nothing but falsehood and

servility, a generous and clear-sighted soul, which, instead of bending

under the humiliating level of prejudice, bravely directed its impulses

toward a pure and elevated social ideal. At least so Victor Charrigaud

was described to me by one of his friends, a painter, who was stuck on

me, and whom I used sometimes to go to see, and from whom I got the

opinions just expressed and the details that are to follow regarding

the literature and the life of this illustrious man.

Among the ridiculous things that Charrigaud had lashed so severely,

there was none that he had treated so harshly as snobbishness. In his

lively conversation, well supported by facts, even more than in his

books, he branded its moral cowardice and its intellectual barrenness

with a bitter precision in the picturesque, a comprehensive and

merciless philosophy, and sharp, profound, terrible words, which, taken

up by some and passed on by others, were repeated at the four corners

of Paris, and at once became classics, in a way. A complete and

astonishing psychology of snobbishness is contained in the impressions,

the traits, the concise profiles, the strangely-outlined and life-like

silhouettes, of which this prodigal and never-wearying originality

was an ever-flowing source. It seems, then, that, if any one should

have escaped that sort of moral influenza which rages so violently in

the _salons_, it was Victor Charrigaud, better protected than anybody

else against contagion by that admirable antiseptic--irony. But man is

nothing but surprise, contradiction, incoherence, and folly.

Scarcely had he felt the first caresses of success, when the snob

that was in him--and that was the reason why he was able to paint the

snob with such force of expression--revealed itself, exploded, one

might say, like an engine that has just received an electric shock.

He began by dropping those friends that had become embarrassing or

compromising, keeping only those who, some by their recognized talent,

others by their position in the press, could be useful to him, and

bolster his young fame by their persistent puffery. At the same time

he made dress and fashion a subject of most careful consideration. He

was seen in frock coats of an audacious Philippism, wearing collars

and cravats of the style of 1830 much exaggerated, velvet waistcoats

of irresistible cut, and showy jewels; and he took from metal cases,

inlaid with too precious stones, cigarettes sumptuously rolled in gilt

paper. But, heavy of limb and awkward of movement, he retained, in

spite of everything, the unwieldy gait of the Auvergne peasants, his

compatriots. Too new in a too sudden elegance in which he did not feel

at home, in vain did he study himself and the most perfect models of

Parisian style; he could not acquire that ease, that supple, delicate,

and upright line which he saw in the young swells at the clubs, at

the race-courses, at the theatres, and at the restaurants, and which

he envied them with a most violent hatred. It astonished him, for,

after all, he patronized only the most select furnishing houses, the

most famous tailors, memorable shirt-makers, and what shoemakers!

what shoemakers! Examining himself in the glass, he threw insults at

himself, in his despair.

"In vain do I cover myself with velvets, silks, and satin; I always

look like a boor. There is always something that is not natural."

As for Madame Charrigaud, who previously had dressed very simply and

with discreet taste, she, too, sported showy and stunning costumes,

with hair too red, jewels too big, silks too rich, giving her the air

of a laundry queen, the majesty of a Mardi-Gras empress. They made a

great deal of sport of her, sometimes cruelly. Old comrades, at once

humiliated and delighted by so much luxury and so much bad taste,

avenged themselves by saying jestingly of this poor Victor Charrigaud:

"Really, for an ironist, he has no luck."

Thanks to fortunate manoeuvres, incessant diplomacy, and more incessant

platitudes, they were received into what they called--they too--real

society, in the houses of Jewish bankers, Venezuelan dukes, and

vagrant arch-dukes, and in the houses of very old ladies, crazed over

literature, panderism, and the Academy. They thought of nothing but

cultivating and developing these new relations, and of acquiring others

more desirable and more difficult of attainment,--others, others, and

always others.

One day, to free himself from an obligation which he had stupidly

assumed by accepting an invitation to the house of a friend who was

not a conspicuous personage, but whom he was not yet ready to drop,

Charrigaud wrote him the following letter:

_My Dear Old Friend:_

We are disconsolate. Excuse us for not keeping our promise

for Monday. But we have just received, for that very day, an

invitation to dine at the Rothschilds. It is the first. You

understand that we cannot refuse. It would be disastrous.

Fortunately, I know your heart. Far from being angry with us, I

am sure that you will share our joy and our pride.

Another day he was telling of the purchase that he had just made of a

villa at Deauville:

"I really don't know for whom these people took us. They undoubtedly

took us for journalists, for Bohemians. But I quickly let them see that

I had a notary."

Gradually he eliminated all that remained of the friends of his

youth,--those friends whose simple presence in his house was a constant

and disagreeable reminder of the past, and a confession of that stain,

of that social inferiority,--literature and labor. And he contrived

also to extinguish the flames that sometimes kindled in his brain,

and to finally stifle that cursed wit whose sudden revival on certain

occasions it frightened him to feel, supposing it to be dead forever.

Then, it was no longer enough for him to be received in the houses of

others; he desired, in turn, to receive others in his own house. His

occupancy of a residence of some pretension, which he had just bought

in Auteuil, was made the pretext for a dinner.

I entered their service at the time when the Charrigauds had at last

resolved to give this dinner. Not one of those private dinners, gay and

without pose, such as they had been in the habit of giving, and which

for some years had made their house so charming, but a really elegant,

really solemn dinner, a stiff and chilly dinner, a select dinner, to

which should be ceremoniously invited, together with some correct

celebrities of literature and art, some society personalities, not too

difficult to reach, not too regularly established, but sufficiently

decorative to shed a little of their brilliancy upon their hosts.

"For the difficult thing," said Victor Charrigaud, "is not to dine in

the city, but to give a dinner at home."

After thinking over the plan for a long time, Victor Charrigaud made

this proposition:

"Well, I have it. I think that at first we can have only divorced

women--with their lovers. We must begin somewhere. There are some who

are very suitable, and whom the most Catholic newspapers speak of

with admiration. Later, when our connections shall have become more

extensive, and at the same time more select,--why, we can let the

divorced people slide."

"You are right," approved Mme. Charrigaud. "For the moment, the

important thing is to get the best people among those who are divorced.

Say what you will, the time has come when a divorce gives a person a

certain position."

"It has at least the merit of abolishing adultery," chuckled

Charrigaud. "Adultery is now very old-fashioned. Nobody but friend

Bourget now believes in adultery,--Christian adultery,--and in English

furniture."

To which Mme. Charrigaud replied, in a tone of nervous vexation:

"How you tire me, with your maliciously wicked remarks! You will see,

you will see that, because of them, we shall never be able to establish

a desirable _salon_."

And she added:

"If you really wish to become a man of society, you must learn first

either to be an imbecile or to hold your tongue."

They made, unmade, and remade a list of guests, which, after laborious

combinations, was finally settled upon as follows:

The Countess Fergus, divorced, and her friend, the economist and

deputy, Joseph Brigard.

The Baroness Henri Gogsthein, divorced, and her friend, the poet, Théo

Crampp.

The Baroness Otto Butzinghen, and her friend, the Viscount Lahyrais,

clubman, sportsman, gambler, and trickster.

Mme. de Rambure, divorced, and her friend, Mme. Tiercelet, suing for

divorce.

Sir Harry Kimberly, symbolist musician, and his young friend, Lucien

Sartorys, as beautiful as a woman, as supple as a _peau de Suède_

glove, as slender and blonde as a cigar.

The two academicians, Joseph Dupont de la Brie, collector of obscene

coins, and Isidore Durand de la Marne, author of gallant memoirs in

private and severe student of Chinese at the Institute.

The portrait-painter, Jacques Rigaud.

The psychological novelist, Maurice Fernancourt.

The society reporter, Poult d'Essoy.

The invitations were sent out, and, thanks to the mediation of

influential persons, all were accepted.

The Countess Fergus alone hesitated:

"The Charrigauds?" said she. "Is theirs really a proper house? Has he

not been engaged in all sorts of pursuits on Montmartre, in the past?

Do they not say that he sold obscene photographs, for which he had

posed, with an artificial bust? And are there not some disagreeable

stories afloat regarding her? Did she not have some rather vulgar

experiences before her marriage? Is it not said that she has been a

model,--that she has posed for the altogether? What a horror! A woman

who stripped before men who are not even her lovers?"

Finally she accepted the invitation, on being assured that Mme.

Charrigaud had posed only for the head, that Charrigaud, who was very

vindictive, would be quite capable of disgracing her in one of his

books, and that Kimberly would come to this dinner. Oh! if Kimberly had

promised to come! Kimberly, such a perfect gentleman, and so delicate

and so charming, really charming!

The Charrigauds were informed of these negotiations and these scruples.

Far from taking offence, they congratulated themselves that they had

successfully conducted the former and overcome the latter. It was now

a matter only of watching themselves, and, as Mme. Charrigaud said,

of behaving themselves like real society people. This dinner, so

marvelously prepared and planned, so skilfully negotiated, was really

their first manifestation in the new avatar of their elegant destiny,

of their social ambitions. It must, then, be an astonishing affair.

For a week beforehand everything was topsy-turvy in the house. It was

necessary that the apartments should be made to look like new, and that

there should be no hitch. They tried various lighting arrangements

and table decorations, that they might not be embarrassed at the last

moment. Over these matters M. and Mme. Charrigaud quarreled like

porters, for they had not the same ideas, and their æsthetic views

differed on all points, she inclining to sentimental arrangements, he

preferring the severe and "artistic."

"It is idiotic," cried Charrigaud. "They will think that they are in a

grisette's apartments. Ah! what a laughing-stock we shall be!"

"You had better not talk," replied Mme. Charrigaud, her nervousness

reaching the point of paroxysm. "You are still what you used to be, a

dirty tavern bum. And besides, I have enough of it; my back is broken

with it."

"Well, that's it; let us have a divorce, my little wolf, let us have a

divorce. By that means we at least shall complete the series, and cast

no reflection on our guests."

They perceived also that there would not be enough silverware,

glassware, and plates. They must rent some, and also rent some chairs,

for they had only fifteen, and even these were not perfect. Finally,

the menu was ordered of one of the grand caterers of the Boulevard.

"Let everything be ultra-stylish," ordered Mme. Charrigaud, "and

let no one be able to recognize the dishes that are served. Shrimp

hash, goose-liver cutlets, game that looks like ham, ham that

looks like cake, truffles in whipped cream, and mashed potatoes in

branches,--cherries in squares and peaches twisted into spirals. In

short, have everything as stylish as possible."

"Rest easy," declared the caterer. "I know so well how to disguise

things that I defy anybody to know what he is eating. It is a specialty

of the house."

At last the great day arrived.

Monsieur rose early,--anxious, nervous, agitated. Madame, who had

been unable to sleep all night, and weary from the errands of the day

before and the preparations of all sorts, could not keep still. Five

or six times, with wrinkled brow, out of breath, trembling and so

weary that, as she said, she felt her belly in her heels, she made a

final examination of the house, upset and rearranged bric-à-brac and

furniture without reason, and went from one room to another without

knowing why and as if she were mad. She trembled lest the cooks might

not come, lest the florist might fail them, and lest the guests might

not be placed at table in accordance with strict etiquette. Monsieur

followed her everywhere, clad only in pink silk drawers, approving

here, criticising there.

"Now that I think about it again," said he, "what a queer idea that was

of yours to order centauries for the table decoration! I assure you

that blue becomes black in the light. And then, after all, centauries

are nothing but simple corn-flowers. It will look as if we had been to

the fields to gather corn-flowers."

"Oh! corn-flowers! how provoking you are!"

"Yes, indeed, corn-flowers. And the corn-flower, as Kimberly said very

truly the other evening at the Rothschilds, is not a society flower.

Why not also corn poppies?"

"Let me alone," answered Madame. "You drive me crazy with all your

stupid observations. A nice time to offer them, indeed!"

But Monsieur was obstinate:

"All right, all right; you will see, you will see. Provided, my God,

that everything goes off tolerably well, without too many accidents,

without too many delays. I did not know that to be society people was

so difficult, so fatiguing, and so complicated a matter. Perhaps we

ought to have remained simple boors."

And Madame growled:

"Oh! for that matter, I see clearly that nothing will change you. You

scarcely do honor to a woman."

As they thought me pretty, and very elegant to look at, my masters had

allotted to me also an important _role_ in this comedy. First I was to

preside over the cloak-room, and then to aid, or rather superintend,

the four butlers, four tall lascars, with immense side-whiskers,

selected from several employment-bureaus to serve this extraordinary

dinner.

At first all went well. Nevertheless, there was a moment of alarm. At

quarter before nine the Countess Fergus had not yet arrived. Suppose

she had changed her mind, and resolved at the last moment not to come?

What a humiliation! What a disaster! The Charrigauds were in a state of

consternation. Joseph Brigard reassured them. It was the day when the

countess had to preside over her admirable "Society for the Collection

of Cigar-Stumps for the Army and Navy." The sessions sometimes did not

end till very late.

"What a charming woman!" said Mme. Charrigaud, ecstatically, as if

this eulogy had the magic power to hasten the coming of "this dirty

countess," whom, at the bottom of her soul, she cursed.

"And what a brain!" said Charrigaud, going her one better, though

really entertaining the same feeling. "The other day at the Rothschilds

I felt that it would be necessary to go back to the last century to

find such perfect grace and such superiority."

"And even then!" said Joseph Brigard, capping the climax. "You see,

my dear Monsieur Charrigaud, in democratic societies based upon

equality...."

He was about to deliver one of those semi-gallant, semi-sociological

discourses which he was fond of retailing in the _salons_, when the

Countess Fergus entered, imposing and majestic, in a black gown

embroidered with jet and steel that showed off the fat whiteness and

soft beauty of her shoulders. And it was amid murmurs and whispers of

admiration that they made their way ceremoniously to the dining-room.

The beginning of the dinner was rather cold. In spite of her success,

perhaps even because of her success, the Countess Fergus was a little

haughty, or, at least, too reserved. She seemed to wear an air of

condescension at having honored with her presence the humble house

of "these little people." Charrigaud thought he noticed that she

examined with a discreetly but visibly contemptuous pout the rented

silverware, the table decoration, Mme. Charrigaud's green costume, and

the four butlers whose too long side-whiskers dipped into the dishes.

He was filled with vague terrors and agonizing doubts as to the proper

appearance of his table and his wife. It was a horrible minute!

After some commonplace and laborious replies, exchanged apropos of

trivial topics then current, the conversation gradually became general,

and finally settled down upon the subject of correctness in society

life.

All these poor devils, all these poor wretches, male and female,

forgetting their own social irregularities, showed a strangely

implacable severity toward persons whom it was allowable to suspect,

not even of stains or blemishes, but simply of some formal lack of

respect for society laws,--the only ones that ought to be obeyed.

Living, in a certain sense, outside of their social ideal, thrown

back, so to speak, to the margin of that existence whose disgraced

correctness and regularity they honored as a religion, they undoubtedly

hoped to get into it again by driving out others. The comicality of

this was really intense and savory. They divided the universe into two

great parts: on the one side, that which is regular; on the other,

that which is not; here the people that one may receive; there the

people that one may not receive. And these two great parts soon became

pieces, and the pieces became thin slices, the subdivision going on

_ad infinitum_. There were those in whose houses one may dine, and

also those to whose houses one may go only for the evening. Those in

whose houses one may not dine, but to which one may go for the evening.

Those whom one may receive at his table, and those to whom one may

accord only admission to his _salon_,--and even then only under certain

circumstances, clearly defined. There were also those in whose houses

one may not dine and whom one should not receive at one's house, and

those whom one may receive at one's house and in whose houses one may

not dine; those whom one may receive at breakfast, and never at dinner;

and those in whose country houses one may dine, but never in their

Paris residences, etc. The whole being supported with demonstrative

and peremptory examples, well-known names being cited by way of

illustration.

"Shades," said the Viscount Lahyrais, sportsman, clubman, gambler, and

trickster. "The whole thing lies there. It is by the strict observance

of shades that a man is really in society, or is not."

I believe that I never heard such dreary things. As I listened to them,

I really felt a pity for these unfortunates.

Charrigaud neither ate or drank, and said nothing. Although he was

scarcely in the conversation, he nevertheless felt its enormous and

forbidding stupidity like a weight upon his skull. Impatient, feverish,

very pale, he watched the service, tried to catch favorable or ironical

impressions of the faces of his guests, and mechanically, with

movements more and more accelerated, and in spite of the warnings of

his wife, rolled big pellets of bread-crumb between his fingers. When

a question was put to him, he answered in a bewildered, distracted,

far-away voice:

"Certainly ... certainly ... certainly."

Opposite him, very stiff in her green gown, upon which spangles of

green steel glittered with a phosphorescent brilliancy, and wearing an

aigrette of red feathers in her hair, Mme. Charrigaud bent to right

and to left, and smiled, without ever a word,--a smile so eternally

motionless that it seemed painted on her lips.

"What a goose!" said Charrigaud to himself; "what a stupid and

ridiculous woman! And what a carnival costume! To-morrow, because of

her, we shall be the laughing-stock of Parisian society."

And on her side Mme. Charrigaud, beneath the fixity of her smile, was

thinking:

"What an idiot this Victor is! And what a bad appearance he makes!

To-morrow we shall catch it on account of his pellets."

The topic of correctness in society being exhausted, there followed an

embarrassing lull in the conversation, which Kimberly broke by telling

of his last trip to London.

"Yes," said he, "I spent in London an intoxicating week; and, ladies,

I witnessed a unique thing. I attended a ritual dinner which the great

poet, John-Giotto Farfadetti, gave to some friends to celebrate his

betrothal to the wife of his dear Frederic-Ossian Pinggleton."

"How exquisite that must have been!" minced the Countess Fergus.

"You cannot imagine," answered Kimberly, whose look and gestures, and

even the orchid that adorned the button-hole of his coat, expressed the

most ardent ecstasy.

And he continued:

"Fancy, my dear friends, in a large hall, whose blue walls,

though scarcely blue, are decorated with white peacocks and gold

peacocks,--fancy a table of jade, inconceivably and delightfully oval.

On the table some cups, in which mauve and yellow bonbons harmonized,

and in the centre a basin of pink crystal, filled with kanaka preserves

... and nothing more. Draped in long white robes, we slowly passed

in turn before the table, and we took, upon the points of our golden

knives, a little of these mysterious preserves, which then we carried

to our lips ... and nothing more."

"Oh! I find that moving," sighed the countess, "so moving!"

"You cannot imagine. But the most moving thing--a thing that really

transformed this emotion into a painful laceration of our souls--was

when Frederic-Ossian Pinggleton sang the poem of the betrothal of his

wife and his friend. I know nothing more tragically, more superhumanly

beautiful."

"Oh! I beg of you," implored the Countess Fergus, "repeat this

prodigious poem for our benefit, Kimberly."

"The poem, alas! I cannot. I can give you only its essence."

"That's it, that's it! The essence."

In spite of his morals, in which they cut no figure, Kimberly filled

women with mad enthusiasm, for his specialty was subtle stories of

transgression and of extraordinary sensations. Suddenly a thrill ran

round the table, and the flowers themselves, and the jewels on their

beds of flesh, and the glasses on the table-cloth, took attitudes in

harmony with the state of souls. Charrigaud felt his reason departing.

He thought that he had suddenly fallen into a mad-house. Yet, by force

of will, he was still able to smile, and say:

"Why, certainly ... certainly."

The butlers finished passing something that resembled a ham, from

which, in a flood of yellow cream, cherries poured like red larvæ. As

for the Countess Fergus, half swooning, she had already started for

extra-terrestrial regions.

Kimberly began:

"Frederic-Ossian Pinggleton and his friend, John-Giotto Farfadetti,

were finishing their daily tasks in the studio which they occupied

in common. One was the great painter, the other the great poet; the

former short and stout, the latter tall and thin; both alike clad in

drugget robes, their heads alike adorned with Florentine BONNETS, both

alike neurasthenics, for they had, in different bodies, like souls

and lily-twin spirits. John-Giotto Farfadetti sang in his verses the

marvelous symbols that his friend, Frederic-Ossian Pinggleton, painted

on his canvases, so that the glory of the poet was inseparable from

that of the painter, and that their works and their immortal geniuses

had come to be confounded in one and the same adoration."

Kimberly stopped for a moment. The silence was religious. Something

sacred hovered over the table. He continued:

"The day was nearing its end. A very soft twilight was enveloping the

studio in a pallor of fluid and lunar shade. Scarcely could one still

distinguish on the mauve walls the long, supple, waving, golden algæ

that seemed to move in obedience to the vibration of some deep and

magic water. John-Giotto Farfadetti closed the sort of antiphonary on

the vellum of which, with a Persian reed, he wrote, or rather engraved,

his eternal poems; Frederic-Ossian Pinggleton turned his lyre-shaped

easel against a piece of drapery, placed his heart-shaped palette

upon a fragile piece of furniture, and the two, facing one another,

stretched themselves, with august poses of fatigue, upon a triple row

of cushions, of the color of sea-weed."

"Hum!" said Mme. Tiercelet, with a slightly warning cough.

"No, not at all," said Kimberly, reassuringly; "it is not what you

think."

And he continued:

"In the centre of the studio, from a marble basin in which the petals

of roses were bathing, a violent perfume was rising. And on a little

table long-stemmed narcissuses were dying, like souls, in a narrow

vase whose neck opened into the calyx of a lily, strangely green and

distorted."

"Impossible to forget," said the countess, in a quivering voice, so low

that it could scarcely be heard.

And Kimberly, without stopping, went on with his narration:

"Outside, the street became more silent, because deserted. From the

Thames came, muffled by the distance, the distracted voices of sirens,

the gasping voices of marine boilers. It was the hour when the two

friends, giving themselves over to dreaming, preserved an ineffable

silence."

"Oh! I see them so clearly!" said Madame Tiercelet, in a tone of

admiration.

"And that 'ineffable,' how evocative it is!" applauded the Countess

Fergus, "and so pure!"

Kimberly profited by these flattering interruptions to take a swallow

of champagne. Then, feeling that he was listened to with more

passionate attention than before, he repeated:

"Preserved an ineffable silence. But on this special evening

John-Giotto Farfadetti murmured: 'I have a poisoned flower in my

heart.' To which Frederic-Ossian Pinggleton answered: 'This evening

a sorrowful bird has been singing in my heart.' The studio seemed

moved by this unusual colloquy. On the mauve wall, which was gradually

losing its color, the gold algæ seemed to spread and contract, and

to spread and contract again, in harmony with the new rhythms of an

unusual undulation, for it is certain that the soul of man communicates

to the soul of things its troubles, its passions, its fervors, its

transgressions, its life."

"How true that is!"

This cry, coming from several mouths at once, did not prevent Kimberly

from going on with the recital, which thenceforth was to unfold itself

amid the silent emotion of his hearers. His voice became even more

mysterious.

"This minute of silence was poignant and tragic. 'Oh! my friend!'

implored John-Giotto Farfadetti, 'you who have given me everything,

you whose soul is so marvelously twin with mine, you must give me

something of yourself that I have not yet had, and from the lack of

which I am dying.' 'Is it, then, my life that you ask?' said the

painter; 'it is yours; you can take it.' 'No, it is not your life;

it is more than your life; it is your wife!' 'Botticellina!' cried

the poet. 'Yes, Botticellina; Botticellinetta; flesh of your flesh,

the soul of your soul, the dream of your dream, the magic sleep of

your sorrows!' 'Botticellina! Alas! Alas! It was to be. You have

drowned yourself in her, she has drowned herself in you, as in a

bottomless lake, beneath the light of the moon. Alas! Alas! It was

to be.' Two tears, phosphorescent in the penumbra, rolled from the

eyes of the painter. The poet answered: 'Listen to me, oh! my friend!

I love Botticellina, and Botticellina loves me, and we shall both

die of loving one another, and of not daring to tell one another,

and of not daring to unite. She and I are two fragments, long ago

separated, of one and the same living being, which for perhaps two

thousand years have been seeking and calling one another, and which

meet at last to-day. Oh! my dear Pinggleton, unknown life has these

strange, terrible, and delicious fatalities. Was there ever a more

splendid poem than that which we are living to-night?' But the

painter kept on repeating, in a voice more and more sorrowful, this

cry: 'Botticellina! Botticellina!' He rose from the triple row of

cushions upon which he was lying, and walked back and forth in the

studio, feverishly. After some minutes of anxious agitation, he said:

'Botticellina was Mine. Henceforth must she be Thine?' 'She shall be

Ours!' replied the poet, imperiously; 'for God has chosen you to be the

point of suture for this severed soul which is She and which is I! If

not, Botticellina possesses the magic pearl that dissipates dreams, I

the dagger that delivers from corporeal chains. If you refuse, we shall

love each other in death.' And he added, in a deep tone that resounded

through the studio like a voice from the abyss: 'Perhaps it would be

better so.' 'No,' cried the painter, 'you shall live. Botticellina

shall be Thine, as she has been Mine. I will tear my flesh to shreds,

I will tear my heart from my breast, I will break my head against the

wall, but my friend shall be happy. I can suffer. Suffering, too, is

voluptuousness, in another form!' 'And a voluptuousness more powerful,

more bitter, more fierce than any other!' exclaimed John-Giotto

Farfadetti, ecstatically; 'I envy your fate, do you know? As for me,

I really believe that I shall die either of the joy of my love or of

the sorrow of my friend. The hour has come. Adieu!' He rose, like an

archangel. At that moment the drapery moved, opening and closing again

on an illuminating apparition. It was Botticellina, draped in a flowing

robe, of the color of the moonlight. Her floating hair shone around her

like artificial fire. In her hand she held a golden key. An ecstasy was

on her lips, and the night-sky in her eyes. John-Giotto rushed forward,

and disappeared behind the drapery. Then Frederic-Ossian Pinggleton lay

down again on the triple row of cushions, of the color of sea-weed.

And, while he buried his nails in his flesh, and while the blood

streamed from him as from a fountain, the golden algæ, now scarcely

visible, gently quivered upon the wall, which was gradually taking on a

coating of darkness. And the heart-shaped palette and the lyre-shaped

easel resounded long and long, in nuptial songs."

For some moments Kimberly was silent; then, while the emotion that

prevailed around the table was choking throats and compressing hearts,

he concluded:

"And this is why I have dipped the point of my golden knife in the

preserves prepared by kanaka virgins in honor of a betrothal more

magnificent than any that our century, in its ignorance of beauty, has

ever known."

The dinner was over. They rose from the table in religious silence,

but thrilled through and through. In the _salon_ Kimberly was closely

surrounded and warmly congratulated. The looks of all the women

converged radiantly upon his painted face, surrounding it with a halo

of ecstasies.

"Ah! I should so like to have my portrait painted by Frederic-Ossian

Pinggleton," cried Mme. de Rambure; "I would give anything to enjoy

such happiness."

"Alas! Madame," answered Kimberly, "since the sorrowful and sublime

event which I have related, Frederic-Ossian Pinggleton has been

unwilling to paint human faces, however charming they may be; he paints

only souls."

"And he is right! I should so like to be painted as a soul!"

"Of what sex?" asked Maurice Fernancourt, in a slightly sarcastic tone,

visibly jealous of Kimberly's success.

The latter said, simply:

"Souls have no sex, my dear Maurice. They have...."

"Hair on their paws," said Victor Charrigaud, in a very low voice, so

as to be heard only by the psychological novelist, to whom he was just

then offering a cigar.

And, dragging him into the smoking-room, he whispered:

"Ah! old man! I wish I could shout the most filthy things, at the top

of my voice, in the faces of all these people. I have enough of their

souls, of their green and perverse loves, of their magic preserves.

Yes, yes, to say the coarsest things, to besmear one's self with good

black fetid mud for a quarter of an hour,--oh! how exquisite that

would be, and how restful! And how it would relieve me of all these

nauseating lilies that they have put into my heart! And you?"

But the shock had been too great, and the impression of Kimberly's

recital remained. They could no longer interest themselves in the

vulgar things of earth,--in topics of society, art, and passion. The

Viscount Lahyrais himself, clubman, sportsman, gambler, and trickster,

felt wings sprouting all over him. Each one felt the need of collecting

his thoughts, of being alone, of prolonging the dream, of realizing

it. In spite of the efforts of Kimberly, who went from one to another,

asking: "Did you ever drink sable's milk? Ah! then, drink sable's milk;

it is ravishing!" the conversation could not be resumed; so that, one

after another, the guests excused themselves, and slipped away. At

eleven o'clock all had gone.

When they found themselves face to face, alone, Monsieur and Madame

looked at each other for a long time, steadily and with hostility,

before exchanging their impressions.

"For a pretty fizzle, you know, it is a pretty fizzle," declared

Monsieur.

"It is your fault," said Madame, in a tone of bitter reproach.

"Well, that's a good one!"

"Yes, your fault. You paid no attention to anything; you did nothing

but roll dirty pellets of bread in your fat fingers. Nobody could get a

word out of you. How ridiculous you were! It is shameful."

"Well, you needn't talk," rejoined Monsieur. "And your green gown, and

your smiles, and your blunders. It was I perhaps, it was I undoubtedly,

who told of Pinggleton's sorrow, who ate kanaka preserves, who painted

souls,--I doubtless am the lily-worshipper."

"You are not even capable of being," cried Madame, at the height of her

exasperation.

For a long time they hurled insults at one another. And Madame, after

having arranged the silverware and the opened bottles in the sideboard,

took herself off to her room, and shut herself up.

Monsieur continued to roam about the house in a state of extreme

agitation. Suddenly noticing me in the dining-room, where I was putting

things a little to rights, he came to me, and, taking me about the

waist, he said:

"Ah, Célestine, you do not know the immense delight that you give me.

To see a woman who is not a soul! To touch a woman who is not a lily!

Kiss me."

You may judge whether I was expecting that.

But the next day, when they read in the "Figaro" an article in which

their dinner, their elegance, their taste, their wit, and their social

connections were pompously celebrated, they forgot everything, and

talked of nothing but their great success. And their soul set sail for

more illustrious conquests and more sumptuous snobberies.

"What a charming woman is the Countess Fergus!" said Madame, at lunch,

as they were finishing the leavings of the dinner.

"And what a soul!" said Monsieur, in confirmation.

"And Kimberly, would you believe it? There's an astonishing talker for

you! And so exquisite in his manners!"

"It is a mistake to make sport of him. After all, his vice concerns no

one but himself; it is none of our business."

"Certainly not."

And she added, indulgently:

"Ah! if it were necessary to pick everybody to pieces!"

All day long, in the linen-room, I have amused myself in calling up the

queer things that happened in that house,--the passion for notoriety

with which, from that time, Madame was so filled that she would

prostitute herself to all the dirty journalists who would promise her

an article on her husband's books or a word about her costumes and her

_salon_, and Monsieur's complacency in letting this vile conduct go on,

though perfectly aware of it. With admirable cynicism he said: "At any

rate--it is less expensive than paying by the line at the newspaper

offices." Monsieur, on his side, fell to the lowest depths of baseness

and unscrupulousness. He called that the politics of the _salon_, and

society diplomacy.

I am going to write to Paris to have them send me my old master's new

book. But how rotten it must be at bottom!