Monsieur de Boisguilbault's expression changed and he frowned. He

glanced into the study and saw that the wind had blown down a piece of

green cloth with which he had covered the portrait awkwardly enough, and

that Jean must have seen it unless he was blind. Thereupon, he formed a

sudden resolution, threw the door wide open, and said with forced

calmness:

"I am hiding nothing here; you can look, if you choose."

"Oh! I am not at all curious to see your big books," laughed the

carpenter; "I know nothing about them and I can't understand why it was

necessary to write so many words just to know how to do what's right.

But there's the portrait of your deceased wife! I recognize her, it is

her sure enough. How came you to put it here? in my time it was in the

château."

"I had it put here so that I could see it all the time," said the

marquis sadly; "and, since it has been here, I have hardly looked at it.

I come into this study as little as I can, and if I dreaded to have you

see it, it was because I dreaded to see it myself. It makes me ill.

Close that door, if you don't need to have it open any longer."

"And then you are afraid that some one will speak of your sorrow, eh? I

can understand that, and after what you have just said, I'll wager that

you have never got over your wife's death! Well, it's the same way with

me, and you needn't be ashamed of it before me, Monsieur de

Boisguilbault; for old as I am, I tell you something seems to cut my

heart in two when I think that I am alone in the world! And yet I am

naturally of a cheerful disposition and I wasn't always happy in my

home; but what difference does it make? my feelings are stronger than I

am, for I loved that woman! The devil couldn't have prevented me from

loving her."

"My friend," said Monsieur de Boisguilbault, visibly touched, and making

a painful effort to restrain his emotion, "she loved you, so do not

complain too bitterly; and, then, you were a father. What became of your

son? Where is he?"

"He is underground with my wife, Monsieur de Boisguilbault."

"I didn't know it. I knew only that you were a widower. Poor Jean!

forgive me for reminding you of your sorrows! Oh! I pity you from the

bottom of my heart! To have a child and lose it!"

The marquis placed his hand on the carpenter's shoulder as he leaned

over his work, and all his kindness of heart appeared on his face. Jean

dropped his tools and said impulsively, with one knee on the floor:

"Do you know, Monsieur de Boisguilbault, I have been unhappier than you.

You can't imagine half of what I have suffered!"

"Tell me about it, if it's a relief to you. I shall understand it."

"Well, I will tell you, for you are a man of learning and judge things

in this world better than anyone I know, when your mind is calm. I will

tell you something that many people in my village know, but that I have

never been willing to talk about with anybody. My life has been a

strange one, I tell you! I was loved and I wasn't; I had a son and I

wasn't sure that I was his father."

"What do you say? No! don't say that; you must never tell about such

things!" said the marquis, in sore distress.

"You are right, while the thing is going on; but at our ages a man can

talk of anything, and you are not like the idiots who can see nothing

but a cause for laughter in the greatest misfortune with which their

neighbor can be afflicted. You are neither sneering nor unkind, and I

want you to tell me whether I behaved badly, whether I acted like a man

or a brute--in short, whether you would have done as I did; for

everybody blamed me more or less at the time, and if I had not had a

strong arm and a sharp tongue at the end of it, everybody would have

laughed in my face. You are to judge! My wife, my poor Nannie, loved one

of my friends, a handsome fellow--yes, and a good fellow--and yet she

loved me too. I don't know how the devil it came about, but I discovered

one fine morning that my son looked more like Pierre than like Jean.

Anybody could see it, monsieur! and there were times when I longed to

beat Nannie, to strangle the child and knock out Pierre's brains. And

then--and then--I said nothing at all. I wept and prayed. Oh! how I

suffered! I beat my wife on the pretext that she didn't keep the house

in order; I pulled the little one's ears on the pretext that he made too

much noise in mine; I picked a quarrel with Pierre over a game of

tenpins, and I nearly broke both his legs with the ball. And then, when

everybody else wept, I wept, too, and looked on myself as a villain. I

brought up the child and I wept for him; I buried my wife and I still

weep for her; I kept the friend and I still love him. And that's how

matters ended with me. What do you say to it?"

Monsieur de Boisguilbault did not reply. He was pacing the room and

making the floor creak under his feet.

"You think me a great coward and a great fool, I'll be bound," said the

carpenter, rising; "but, at all events, you see that your troubles are

nothing like mine."

The marquis dropped into a chair and said nothing. Tears rolled slowly

down his cheeks.

"Well, well, Monsieur de Boisguilbault, why are you weeping?" continued

Jean, with artless candor. "Are you trying to make me weep too? You

can't do it, I promise you! I shed so many tears of anger and grief in

those days that there wasn't a single one left in my body, I'll be

bound. Come, come! think of your past with patience and offer your

present to God; for there are people more badly treated than you, as you

see. You had for your wife a beautiful woman, virtuous, well educated

and quiet. Perhaps she didn't give you quite so many kisses and caresses

as I received from mine, but, at all events, she didn't deceive you, and

you proved that you had no fears of her by letting her go to Paris

without you whenever she wanted to. You were not jealous, and had no

reason to be; while I had a thousand devils in my brain every hour of

the day and night. I watched, I played the spy, I hid, because I was

jealous; I blushed for it, but I suffered martyrdom; and the more I

watched, the more I was convinced that she was very cunning about

deceiving me. I never was able to take her by surprise. Nannie was

shrewder than I was; and, when I had wasted my time watching her, she

would make a scene because I suspected her. When the child was old

enough to resemble anybody--and I saw that I wasn't the one--what could

you expect? I thought that I should go mad; but I got accustomed to

loving him, petting him, working to support him, trembling when he

bumped his head, seeing him caper round my bench, ride horseback on my

timber and amuse himself dulling my tools. I had only that one! I had

thought he was mine--no others came--and I couldn't get along without a

child, you see. And he loved me so dearly, the little rascal! He was so

bright! and, when I scolded him, he wept as if his heart would break. At

last I set about forgetting my suspicions, and I succeeded so well in

persuading myself that I was his father, that when he was shot in the

war, I longed to shoot myself. He was handsome and brave, a good workman

and as good a soldier, and it wasn't his fault if he wasn't my son! He

would have made my life happy; he would have helped me with my work, and

I shouldn't have had to grow old all alone. I should have had some one

to keep me company, to talk with me in the evening after my day's work,

to take care of me when I am sick, to put me to bed when I am tipsy, to

talk to me about his mother, whom I never dare to mention to anybody,

because everybody except him knew all about my unhappiness. I tell you,

Monsieur de Boisguilbault, you haven't had so much to bear! You didn't

have a contraband heir given you; and if you haven't had the pleasure,

neither have you had the shame!"

"And I should not have had the courage you had," said the marquis. "Open

that door again, Jean, and let me look at the marchioness's portrait.

You have given me courage. I was insane the day I turned you out of my

house. You would have saved me from becoming weak and mad. I thought

that I was getting rid of an enemy, and I deprived myself of a friend."

"But why in the devil did you take me for your enemy?"

"Have you no idea?" replied the marquis, fixing his eyes upon him in a

piercing glance.

"Not the least," said the carpenter emphatically.

"On your honor?" added Monsieur de Boisguilbault, wringing his hand

fiercely.

"On my everlasting salvation!" replied Jean, raising his hand above his

head with dignity. "I hope that you are going to tell me at last."

The marquis seemed not to hear this direct and sincere appeal. He felt

that Jean told the truth, and he had resumed his seat. Turning his chair

toward the study door, which Jean had opened, he gazed with profound

sadness at his wife's features.

"I can understand that you continued to love your wife, that you forgave

the innocent child," he said; "but how you could endure and continue to

meet the friend who betrayed you--that is what passes my comprehension!"

"Ah! Monsieur de Boisguilbault, that was in fact the most difficult

thing of all! especially as it was not my duty, and everybody would have

applauded me if I had broken every bone in his body. But I tell you what

disarmed me: I saw that he was terribly remorseful and really unhappy.

So long as the fever of love had hold of him, he would have walked over

my body to join his mistress. She was as lovely as a rose in May; I

don't know whether you ever saw her, or remember her, but I know that

Nannie was as beautiful in her way as Madame de Boisguilbault. I was mad

over her, and so was he! He would have turned heathen for her, and I

turned idiot. But when the youthful ardor began to die away I saw well

enough that they no longer loved each other and that they were ashamed

of their sin. My wife began to love me again, seeing that I was kind and

generous to her, and as for him, his sin was so heavy on his heart,

that, when we drank together, he always wanted to confess to me; but I

wouldn't have it, and sometimes, when he was drunk, he would kneel at my

feet, yelling:

"'Kill me, Jean, kill me! I deserve it and I shall be satisfied!'

"When he was sober, he forgot about that, but he would have let himself

be chopped to pieces for me; and at this moment he's my best friend,

next to Monsieur Antoine. The subject of our suffering no longer exists,

and our friendship has endured. It was on his account that I had my

trouble with the excise people and became a vagabond for a while. Well,

he worked for my customers, so as to keep them for me; he brought me

money, and when I was free again gave my customers back to me; he has

nothing that doesn't belong to me, and as he is younger than I am, I

trust that he will close my eyes. He owes me that much; but after all,

it seems to me that I love him on account of the injury he did me and

the courage it required to forgive him!"

"Alas! alas!" said Monsieur de Boisguilbault, "we are sublime when we

are not afraid of being ridiculous!"

He closed the study door gently and walked back toward the fireplace,

when his eye fell at last on the package and a letter addressed to him.

"MONSIEUR LE MARQUIS:

"I promised you that you should hear no more of me; but you yourself

compel me to remind you that I exist, and I am going to do it for the

last time.

"Either you made a mistake in handing me certain objects of great value,

or you intended to bestow alms on me.

"I should not blush to accept your charity if I were reduced to the

necessity of imploring it; but you are mistaken, monsieur le marquis, if

you think I am in want.

"Our circumstances are comfortable, considering our necessities and

tastes, which are modest and simple. You are rich and generous; I should

be blameworthy to accept benefactions which you might bestow on so many

others; it would be robbing the poor.

"The one thing which it would have been very sweet to me to carry away

from your house, and which I would have given all my blood to obtain, is

a word of forgiveness, a friendly word for my father. Ah! monsieur, you

cannot conceive what a child's heart suffers when she sees her father

unjustly accused and knows not how to set him right. You did not furnish

me with the means to do so, for you persisted in keeping silent as to

the cause of your resentment; but how could you fail to understand that,

under the present circumstances, I could not accept your gifts and take

advantage of your kindness!

"I retain, however, a small cornelian ring which you placed on my finger

when I entered your house under an assumed name. It is an object of

trifling value, you told me, a souvenir of your travels. It is very

precious to me, although it was not as a pledge of reconciliation that

you chose to give it to me: but it will remind me of a very sweet yet

very painful moment, when I felt all my heart go out toward you, with

vain hopes that vanished instantly. I ought to hate you, for you hate a

father whom I adore! I know not how it is I esteem your gifts with no

feeling of wounded pride, and that I renounce your friendship with

profound grief.

"Accept, monsieur le marquis, the deep respect of

"GILBERTE DE CHÂTEAUBRUN."

XXXIV

RESURRECTION

"Was it you who brought this package and letter, Jean?" queried Monsieur

de Boisguilbault.

"No, monsieur, I brought nothing at all, and I don't know what they

are," replied the carpenter, with the accent of truth.

"How am I to believe you?" rejoined the marquis, "when you lied to me so

coolly the day before yesterday, when you introduced one person to me

under the name of another?"

"The day before yesterday I lied, but I wouldn't have sworn to what I

said; to-day, I swear that I saw no one come in and I do not know who

brought those things. But, as you choose to mention what happened the

day before yesterday, let me tell you something that I wouldn't have

dared to speak of otherwise: that the poor child cried all the way home,

thinking of you, and that----"

"I beg you, Jean, don't talk to me about that young woman or her father!

I promised you that I would mention them when it was necessary, and on

that condition you agreed not to torment me. Wait till I question you."

"All right! but suppose you keep me waiting too long and I lose

patience?"

"Perhaps I shall never mention them to you and you will hold your tongue

forever," said the marquis in a tone of very marked ill-humor.

"The deuce you say!" retorted the carpenter, "that wasn't our

agreement."

"Off with you!" said Monsieur de Boisguilbault tartly. "Your day's work

is finished, you refuse to take supper here, and no doubt Emile is

waiting for you impatiently. Tell him to have courage and that I will

come and see him soon--to-morrow perhaps."

"If you treat him as you do me, if you refuse to talk to him or let him

talk about Gilberte, what good do you suppose a visit from you will do

him? That's not the kind of thing that will cure him."

"Jean, you wear out my patience, you make me ill! Be off, I say!"

"Oho! the wind has changed," thought the carpenter. "I must wait till

the sun comes out again."

He put on his jacket and walked across the park. Monsieur de

Boisguilbault accompanied him, to close the gate after him. It was still

light. The marquis noticed on the recently raked gravel the prints of a

woman's tiny foot going to and coming from the chalet. He did not call

the attention of the carpenter, who failed to notice the marks.

Meanwhile Gilberte had waited longer than she intended. The sun had set

ten minutes before and the time seemed mortally long to her. As the

approach of night and the fear of meeting some one from the château who

might recognize her, increased her uneasiness and impatience, she

ventured to leave the place where she was hiding and go down a little

way toward the stream, so that she would still be near enough to

recognize the carpenter. But she had not taken three steps in the open

when she heard footsteps behind her, and, turning hurriedly, she saw

Constant Galuchet, armed with his fishing-pole, going toward Gargilesse.

She pulled her hood over her face, but not so quickly that the angler

for gudgeons did not see a lock of golden hair, a blue eye and a rosy

cheek. Moreover, it would have been very difficult for Gilberte to

deceive anyone who was following her so closely. There was nothing of

the peasant in her carriage, and the fustian cape was not long enough to

hide the hem of a light dress and a pretty foot encased in a shapely and

tight-fitting little gaiter. Constant Galuchet's curiosity was keenly

aroused by this meeting. He had too much contempt for the peasant girls

to make love to them on his excursions; but the sight of a young lady in

disguise gave a fillip to his aristocratic curiosity, and a vague,

instinctive feeling that those golden locks so difficult of concealment

were Gilberte's, induced him to follow her and frighten her.

So he plodded along in her wake, sometimes walking immediately behind

her, sometimes beside her, moderating or quickening his pace to defeat

the little ruses to which she resorted to let him pass her and to fall

behind; stopping when she stopped, leaning toward her as he brushed by,

and darting inquisitive and insolent glances under her hood.

Gilberte, terrified beyond measure, looked about for some house in which

she could take refuge; and seeing none she kept on in the direction of

Gargilesse, hoping that the carpenter would overtake her and rid her of

her troublesome escort.

But hearing no footsteps and unable to endure being followed thus, she

stooped as if to look in her basket, to make her tormenter think that

she had forgotten or lost something; then turned back toward the park,

thinking that Galuchet, having no excuse for following her in that

direction, would not have the audacity to do it.

It was too late; Constant had recognized her and an impulse of base

vindictiveness took possession of him.

"Oho! my fair villager," he said, darting to her side, "what are you

looking for with so much mystery? Can't I help you to find it? You don't

answer! I understand: you have a nice little assignation hereabout, and

I interfere with it. So much the worse for girls who wander about the

country alone at night! they run the risk of meeting one gallant instead

of another, and the absent are always in the wrong. Come, come, don't

look at me so hard; all cats are gray in the dark, so take my arm. If we

don't find the man you want, we must try to fill his place so that you

won't miss him too much."

Gilberte, alarmed by this coarse talk, began to run. Being more adroit

and more slender than Galuchet, she plunged in among the trees where

they were thickest, and soon thought herself out of danger; but a sort

of frenzy had taken possession of him when he saw her escape him so

easily. In three bounds, after bumping and scratching himself a little

among the branches, he was by her side once more, opposite the gate of

Boisguilbault park.

Thereupon he seized her cape, saying:

"I propose to see if you are worth the trouble of chasing you in this

way! If you are ugly, you have no need to run, my love, for I shall not

run myself into a perspiration for you; but if you are young and pretty,

you'll find yourself in difficulty, my dear!"

Gilberte struggled bravely, striking Galuchet's face and breast with her

basket; but the battle was too one-sided: at the risk of wounding her

with the buckle of her cape, he fiercely tore off her hood.

At this moment two men appeared at the park gate, and Gilberte, tearing

herself free with a desperate effort, rushed toward them and sought

protection from the one who was nearest to her. She was received in

Monsieur de Boisguilbault's arms.

As she was almost fainting with fear and indignation, she hid her face

on the old man's breast, and neither he nor the carpenter had time to

recognize her; but when he saw Galuchet running away, all Jean's rancor

against him awoke, and he rushed after him.

Monsieur Cardonnet's clerk was short and stout, and Jean, despite his

age, had the advantage in build and activity. Seeing that he was on the

point of being overtaken, Galuchet turned to meet him, relying on his

strength.

Thereupon a struggle took place between them, and Galuchet, who was a

sturdy fellow, sustained the first attack not unsuccessfully; but Jean

was an athlete, and he soon brought him to the ground on the bank of the

stream.

"Ah! so you are not content to play the trade of spy!" he said, putting

his knees on his chest and clutching his throat so tight that the poor

devil was forced to relax his hold, "but you needs must insult women,

you miserable cur! I ought to crush such a venomous beast as you are;

but you are such a coward that you would prosecute me for it. Well! you

shan't have that pleasure; you shall leave my hands without a scratch

that you can show; I will content myself with a shave that's just fit

for you."

Whereupon the carpenter picked up a handful of black mud on the bank of

the stream and rubbed Galuchet's face and shirt and cravat with it; then

he let him go and said, standing in front of him:

"Just try to touch me, and see if I won't make you eat some of it!"

Galuchet had had altogether too rough a demonstration of the power of

the carpenter's arm to expose himself to it again. He longed to throw a

stone at his head when he calmly turned his back on him. But it occurred

to him that it might turn out a serious matter, and that he would have

to pay dear for it, if he failed to lay him low at the first blow.

So he beat a retreat, not without pouring forth insults and threats

against him and the hussy who had claimed his protection; but he dared

not mention Gilberte's name or let it be known that he had recognized

her. He was not perfectly sure that she would not eventually become his

employer's daughter-in-law, for Monsieur Cardonnet had seemed terribly

anxious and irresolute since Emile had been sick.

Gilberte and the marquis did not witness this scene. The girl was

suffocating with excitement, and, hardly conscious of her surroundings,

allowed herself to be led toward the chalet. Monsieur de Boisguilbault,

sorely embarrassed by the adventure, but resolved to lend his aid like a

loyal gentleman to an insulted female, dared not speak to her or let her

know that he had recognized her. His distrust returned; he wondered if

this scene had not been prearranged to throw the fluttering dove into

his bosom: but when she fell fainting at the door of the chalet, and he

saw her pallor, her glazed eyes and purple lips, he was seized with

affectionate sympathy and with fierce indignation against the man who

was capable of insulting a defenceless woman. Thereupon he said to

himself that the noble girl had incurred that danger in order to prove

to him her pride and disinterestedness. He lifted her, carried her to a

chair, and said as he rubbed her icy hands:

"Have courage, Mademoiselle de Châteaubrun; be calm, I implore you! you

are safe here and you are welcome."

"Gilberte!" cried the carpenter, as he entered the room and recognized

Monsieur Antoine's daughter; "my Gilberte! God in heaven! is it

possible? Ah! if I had known this I wouldn't have spared the villain!

but he isn't far away and I must catch him and kill him!"

Frantic with rage, he was about to go in pursuit of Galuchet, but the

marquis and Gilberte, who had partly recovered consciousness, detained

him. They had some difficulty, for Jean was beside himself. At last the

marquis made him understand that in the interest of Mademoiselle de

Châteaubrun's reputation, he should pursue his vengeance no farther.

Meanwhile the marquis continued to be exceedingly embarrassed in

Gilberte's presence. She wished to go, he longed, in his heart, to have

her stay, but he could not make up his mind to tell her so, except by

insisting upon the necessity of her taking a little time to rest and

recover from her emotion. But Gilberte was afraid of making her father

and Janille anxious again, and declared that she felt quite strong

enough to go. The marquis offered her his carriage; he offered ether; he

looked for a phial and could not find it; he hovered about her; he tried

to think of something to say to her in reply to her action and her

letter; and although he lacked neither good manners nor ease of manner

when his mind was once made up, he was more awkward and embarrassed than

a young student making his début in society, when he was struggling

with the pitiful irresolution of his character.

Finally, as Gilberte rose to take her leave with Jean, who was to escort

her to Châteaubrun, he also rose, took his hat and grasped his new cane

with a determined air which made the carpenter smile.

"You will allow me to accompany you too," he said. "That scoundrel may

be in ambush somewhere, and two champions are better than one."

"Let him come!" Jean whispered to Gilberte, who was on the point of

declining his offer.

They left the park, and at first the marquis walked some distance behind

or in front, as if to act as a guard. At last he found himself beside

Gilberte, and, observing that she seemed prostrated and could hardly

walk, he decided to offer her his arm. Little by little he fell into

conversation with her and gradually felt more at ease. He talked at

first on general subjects, then of herself more particularly. He

questioned her concerning her tastes, her occupations, her reading; and

although she was very modest and reserved, he soon discovered that she

was endowed with superior intelligence, and that she had a very solid

foundation of useful knowledge.

Impressed by this discovery, he sought to ascertain where and how she

had learned so many serious things, and she admitted that she had

derived the larger part of her knowledge from the library at

Boisguilbault.

"I am proud and delighted to hear it," said the marquis, "and I place

all my books at your disposal. I trust that you will send and ask for

what you want, unless you will consent to trust me to select for you and

to send you a parcel every week. Jean will consent to be our messenger

until Emile can take his place again."

Gilberte sighed; she could hardly believe, in view of Emile's alarming

silence, that happy time would ever come.

"Pray lean on my arm," said the marquis; "you seem ill and you are not

willing that I should assist you."

When they reached the foot of the hill of Châteaubrun, Monsieur de

Boisguilbault, who seemed to have forgotten his whereabouts, began to

show signs of excitement, like a restive horse. Suddenly he stopped and

gently withdrew Gilberte's arm from his and placed it in the

carpenter's.

"I leave you at your door and with a devoted friend," he said. "You have

no further need of me, but I carry away your promise to make use of my

books."

"If only I could carry you farther with me!" said Gilberte in a

supplicating tone; "I would agree never to open a book in my life,

although it would be a great deprivation to me."

"Unfortunately it is impossible!" he replied with a sigh; "but time and

chance bring about unexpected meetings. I hope, mademoiselle, that I do

not say adieu to you forever; for that thought would be very painful to

me."

He bowed and returned to his chalet, where he locked himself in and

passed a portion of the night writing, arranging papers and gazing at

the marchioness's portrait.

The next day, at noon, Monsieur de Boisguilbault donned his green coat,

cut in the style of the Empire, his lightest wig, doe-skin breeches,

gloves, and half-boots armed with short swan's-neck silver spurs. A

servant, in the full dress livery of an esquire, brought him the finest

horse in his stables, and, mounting himself a beast almost as perfect,

followed him at a slow trot along the Gargilesse road, carrying a small

casket slung over his arm by a strap.

Great was the surprise of the village folk when they saw the marquis

ride within their walls, erect and stiff on his white horse, like a

teacher of horsemanship of the olden time, in ceremonious costume, with

gold spectacles and a gold-headed hunting-crop, which he carried

somewhat like a taper. It was at least ten years since Monsieur de

Boisguilbault had entered a town or a village. The children followed

him, dazzled by the magnificence of his equipment, the women rushed to

their door-steps, and the men carrying burdens halted in stupefaction in

the middle of the street.

He rode slowly up the precipitous thoroughfare and down on the other

side to Monsieur Cardonnet's factory, being too good a horseman to

indulge in imprudent antics; and, resuming the trot à la Française as

he rode into the factory yard, he regulated his horse's gait so

perfectly that his hoof-beats sounded like the ticking of a clock in

perfect order. Certainly he still made a gallant appearance, and the

women said: "You see that he is a sorcerer, for he hasn't grown a day

older in the ten years since we last saw him here."

He asked for Monsieur Emile Cardonnet and found the young man in his

bedroom, sitting on a sofa, with his father at his right and the doctor

at his left. Madame Cardonnet was sitting opposite him, gazing anxiously

into his face.

Emile was very pale, but his condition was in no wise alarming. He rose

and went to meet Monsieur de Boisguilbault, who, after embracing him

affectionately, bowed low to Madame Cardonnet and with less warmth to

Monsieur Cardonnet. For a few moments there was no talk of aught save

the invalid's health. He had had a sharp attack of fever and had been

bled the night before; he had passed a comfortable night, and in the

morning the fever had entirely disappeared. They were urging him to go

for a drive in the cabriolet, and he was contemplating making a call

upon Monsieur de Boisguilbault when that gentleman entered.

The marquis had learned all the details of his illness from the

carpenter, who had carefully concealed them from Gilberte. There was no

longer any ground for fear. The doctor observed that his patient needed

a good dinner, and took his leave with the remark that he should come

the next day only to satisfy his conscience.

Monsieur de Boisguilbault meanwhile kept a close watch on Monsieur

Cardonnet's face. He detected there an expression of triumph rather than

of joy. Doubtless the manufacturer had trembled at the idea of losing

his son, but, that fear being dissipated, the victory was won: Emile

could endure grief.

For his part Monsieur Cardonnet examined the marquis's strange figure

and considered it supremely ridiculous. His gravity and his moderation

in speaking were the more annoying to him because Monsieur de

Boisguilbault, being in reality more embarrassed than he chose to

appear, simply made commonplace remarks in a most sententious tone. The

manufacturer, after a few moments, bowed to him again and left the room

to return to his business. Thereupon, Madame Cardonnet, divining from

Emile's restlessness that he desired to talk with his old friend in

private, left them together, after urging her son not to talk too much.

"Well," said Emile when they were alone, "you can bring me the martyr's

crown! I have passed through the ordeal of fire; but God protects those

who call upon him, and I have come out of it with clean hands and with

no apparent burns: a little used up, to be sure, but calm and full of

faith in the future. This morning, in full possession of my reasoning

power and in perfect tranquillity of mind, I told my father what I had

told him in the excitement, perhaps the delirium, of fever. He knows now

that I shall never renounce my opinions, and that no fooling with my

passion can procure him that triumph. He seems quite satisfied; for he

thinks that he has succeeded in disgusting me with a marriage which he

dreaded more than the fervor of my principles. He talked this morning

about distracting my thoughts, sending me abroad, to Italy. I told him

that I did not wish to leave France, nor this neighborhood even, unless

he turned me out of his house. He smiled, and would not contradict me,

because I was bled yesterday; but to-morrow he will talk to me in the

character of the stern friend, the day after to-morrow as the irritated

father, and the next day as the imperious master. Don't be alarmed about

me, my friend; I shall be brave, calm and patient. Whether he condemns

me to exile, or keeps me with him to torture me, I will show him that

love is very strong when it is inspired by enthusiasm for the true, and

sustained by the ideal."

"Emile," said the marquis, "I know through your friend Jean all that has

taken place between your father and yourself, also the great victory

that your heart has won. My mind was at rest before I came here."

"I knew, my friend, that you had become reconciled with that

simple-hearted but admirable man. He told me that you were coming to see

me; I was expecting you."

"Did he tell you nothing more?" said the marquis, gazing intently at

Emile.

"No, nothing more, I assure you," Emile replied, with the emphasis of

perfect sincerity.

"He did well to keep his promise," rejoined Monsieur de Boisguilbault;

"you were too much excited by fever to endure fresh emotion. I have

undergone violent emotions myself since we last met, but I am satisfied

with the result, and I will tell you what it is. But not yet, Emile; you

are too pale, and I am not sure enough of myself as yet. Don't come and

see me to-day; I have other places to go to, and perhaps I will see you

again when I return this way to-night. Will you promise me to eat some

dinner and take care of yourself--in a word, to get well?"

"I promise, my friend. If I only could send word to the woman I love

that, on resuming the free exercise of my life and my faculties, I find

my love more ardent and more absolute than ever in the depths of my

heart."

"Very well, Emile, write a few lines; not enough to tire you. I will

come again to-night, and, if she doesn't live too far away, I will

undertake to send your letter to her."

"Alas! my friend, I cannot tell you her name; but if the carpenter would

take charge of it, now that I have recovered my strength and am no

longer watched every moment, I could write."

"Write then, seal your letter, and do not address it The carpenter is

working for me, and he shall have the letter before night."

While the young man was writing, Monsieur de Boisguilbault left the room

and asked to speak with Monsieur Cardonnet. He was told that he had just

driven away in his cabriolet.

"Do you know where I can find him?" asked the marquis, half convinced by

this hurried departure.

He had not said where he was going, but they thought to Châteaubrun, as

he had taken that road, and as he had been there the week before.

Upon receiving this reply, Monsieur de Boisguilbault displayed

surprising activity. He returned to Emile's room, took the letter, felt

his pulse, found that he was a little excited, mounted his horse, and

rode out of the village quietly as he had come. But he urged his horse

to a gallop as soon as he was on level ground.

XXXV

ABSOLUTION

Meanwhile Monsieur Cardonnet had arrived at Châteaubrun, and was in

presence of Gilberte, her father and Janille.

"Monsieur de Châteaubrun," he said, taking a seat with perfect

self-possession amid those three persons, who were filled with

consternation by a visit which boded fresh unhappiness, "you know

doubtless all that has taken place between my son and myself with regard

to mademoiselle your daughter. My son has had the good taste and the

good sense to choose her for his wife. Mademoiselle, and you, monsieur,

have had the extreme kindness to accept his attentions, without any very

definite knowledge as to whether I approve them."

At this point Janille made an angry gesture, Gilberte lowered her eyes

and turned pale, and Monsieur Antoine flushed and opened his mouth to

interrupt Monsieur Cardonnet. But he, giving him no time to do so,

continued thus:

"I did not approve of this union at first, I agree: but I came here, I

saw mademoiselle, and I yielded--on very mild and simple conditions. My

son is ultra-democratic in his notions, and I am a moderate

conservative. I foresaw that his exaggerated opinions would ruin his

intellect and his credit. I demanded that he should abandon them and

return to judicious and decent ideas. I thought that I could easily

obtain that sacrifice. I rejoiced over it in anticipation; I announced

it to you as indubitable in a letter addressed to mademoiselle; but, to

my great surprise, Emile persists in his madness, and sacrifices to it a

love which I believed to be deeper and more devoted. I am forced,

therefore, to tell you that he renounced mademoiselle's hand irrevocably

this morning, and I thought it my duty to inform you immediately, in

order that, being fully aware of his intentions and my own, you should

have no ground for accusing me of irresolution and imprudence. Whether

it seems fitting to you now to authorize his love and to permit his

attentions, is for you to say; I wash my hands of it."

"Monsieur Cardonnet," said Antoine, who had risen, "I know all this, and

I know, also, that you never lack fine phrases to make sport of us; but

I say that, if you are so well informed, it is because you sent spies

into our house and lackeys to insult us by revolting offers for my

daughter's hand. You have already caused us much distress by your

diplomacy, and we request you, without ceremony, to stop where you are.

We are not simple enough not to understand that you do not propose to

unite your wealth with our poverty at any price. We have not been

deceived by your devious manœuvres, and when you invented the

extraordinary scheme of placing your son between a moral submission,

which is impossible so far as his opinions are concerned, and a marriage

to which you would not have consented, even if he had been willing to

descend to falsehood, we swore that we would have no falsehood and no

dissimulation between him and you and ourselves. Allow me to tell you,

therefore, that we know very well what it befits us to do; that I am

quite as well able to protect my daughter's honor and dignity as you are

to protect your son's wealth, and that I have no occasion for advice or

lessons from anybody in that regard."

Having spoken thus with a firmness which Monsieur Cardonnet was far from

expecting on the part of the _old sot of Châteaubrun_, Monsieur Antoine

resumed his seat and looked the manufacturer in the eye. Gilberte felt

as if she were dying; but she thought it her duty to support with her

pride the just pride of her father. She too looked Monsieur Cardonnet in

the face, and her glance seemed to confirm all that Monsieur Antoine had

said.

Janille, unable to contain herself any longer, deemed it her duty to

speak.

"Never fear, monsieur," she said, "we can get along very well without

your name. We have one which is quite as good; and as for the matter of

money, we had more glory in losing what we had than you in making what

you didn't have."

"I know, Mademoiselle Janille," retorted Monsieur Cardonnet, with the

artificial calmness of profound contempt, "that you are very proud of

the name Monsieur de Châteaubrun has bestowed on your daughter. For my

own part, I would not have been so proud, and would have closed my eyes

to certain irregularities of birth; but I can imagine that the fortune

of a plebeian, acquired by hard labor, may seem contemptible to a person

born, as you apparently were, in the splendors of idleness. It only

remains for me to wish you all much joy, and to ask mademoiselle's

pardon for having caused her some slight grief. My wrongdoing was

unintentional, but I think that I can atone for it by a bit of sound

advice: remember that young people who venture to make free with the

wishes of their parents are sometimes intoxicated by an ephemeral

caprice rather than inspired by an enduring passion. Emile's conduct

with regard to her proves what I say, I think, and I am a little ashamed

for him."

"Enough, Monsieur Cardonnet, enough, do you hear?" exclaimed Monsieur

Antoine, really angry for the first time in his life: "I should blush to

have so much wit as you, if I made so unworthy a use of it as to insult

a young girl, and outrage her father in her presence. I trust that you

understand me, and that----"

"Monsieur Antoine! Mademoiselle Janille!" cried Sylvain Charasson,

rushing into the room; "here's Monsieur de Boisguilbault coming to see

you! as true as the sun's shining! it's Monsieur de Boisguilbault! I saw

his white horse and his yellow spectacles!"

This unexpected news excited Monsieur de Châteaubrun so that he forgot

all his anger, and overwhelmed by a sort of childish delight mingled

with terror, he went out with faltering step to meet his old friend.

But as he was about to throw himself into his arms, he was petrified

with dread and, as it were, paralyzed by the marquis's impassive face

and his courteous but sad salute. Trembling and heart-broken, Monsieur

Antoine seized his daughter's arm in a convulsive grasp, uncertain

whether he should push her toward Monsieur de Boisguilbault as a pledge

of reconciliation, or send her away as a crushing proof of his sin.

Janille, completely bewildered, courtesied again and again to the

marquis, who glanced absent-mindedly in her direction and bowed almost

imperceptibly to her.

"Monsieur Cardonnet," he said, as he stood in the door of the square

pavilion face to face with the manufacturer, who came out last, "I fancy

that you are going away, and I came here expressly to meet you. You left

your house just as I went to look for you, and I hurried after you. I

beg you therefore to remain a little while, and to be good enough to

give me your attention for a few moments."

"We will talk somewhere else, monsieur le marquis," replied Cardonnet,

"for I cannot stay here any longer: suppose we go down to the foot of

the mountain?"

"No, monsieur, no, permit me to insist: what I have to say is of some

importance, and everybody here must hear it. It seems clear to me that I

have not arrived soon enough to prevent some unpleasant explanations;

but you are a man of affairs, Monsieur Cardonnet, and you know that it

is the custom to summon a family council upon matters of serious

importance at which momentous interests are discussed coolly, even when

the participants bring to the council some little passion in the depths

of their hearts. Monsieur le Comte de Châteaubrun, I beg you to detain

Monsieur Cardonnet--it is quite essential. I am old and ill, I may not

have the strength to come here again, to take such a journey. You are

young men compared with me; I ask you therefore to be calm and

considerate and to spare me much fatigue. Will you refuse me?"

The marquis spoke this time with an ease and grace which made him an

entirely different man from him whom Monsieur Cardonnet had seen an hour

earlier. He was conscious of a feeling of curiosity, not unmixed with a

prudent regard for his own interests. Monsieur de Châteaubrun requested

him to remain, and they all returned to the pavilion, with the exception

of Janille, to whom Monsieur Antoine made a sign, and who took her place

behind the kitchen door to listen.

Gilberte was uncertain whether she ought to go in or remain outside; but

Monsieur de Boisguilbault offered her his hand with much courtesy, and,

leading her to a chair, sat down near her, at some distance from her

father and Emile's.

"To proceed in order, and in accordance with the respect due to ladies,"

he began, "I will first address myself to Mademoiselle de

Châteaubrun.--Mademoiselle, I made my will last night, and I have come

here to inform you as to its provisions and conditions; but I should be

glad not to be refused this time, and I shall not have the courage to

read you this scrawl unless you will promise not to be angry. You also

laid down certain conditions in a letter which I have here and which

caused me much pain. However, I consider them just, and I understand

your unwillingness to accept the most trivial gift from a man whom you

consider your father's enemy. In order to prevail upon you, therefore,

it is necessary that this hostility should come to an end, and that

monsieur your father should forgive me for whatever wrong I may have

done him.--Monsieur de Châteaubrun," he said, rising with heroic

courage, "you injured me many years ago; I retaliated by withdrawing my

friendship from you without any explanation. We should either have

fought or forgiven each other. We did not fight, but for twenty years we

have been strangers, which is a more serious matter to two men who have

been much attached to each other. I forgive you the wrong you did me,

will you forgive me?"

"Oh! marquis!" cried Monsieur Antoine, rushing to him and bending his

knee before him, "you never wronged me in any way. You were my best

friend. You were like a father to me, and I insulted you mortally. I

would have offered my bare breast to you if you would have run me

through with your sword, and I would never have raised my hand against

you. You did not choose to take my life, but you punished me much more

cruelly by withdrawing your friendship from me. And now you offer me

your forgiveness. I receive it on my knees, in presence of my friends

and my enemies, since this humiliation is the only reparation I can

offer you. You, Monsieur Cardonnet," he said, rising and eying the

manufacturer from head to foot, "are at liberty to sneer at what you

cannot understand; but I do not offer my bare breast and my arm without

a weapon to everybody, as you will soon know."

Monsieur Cardonnet also had risen, darting threatening glances at

Monsieur Antoine. The marquis placed himself between them and said to

Antoine:

"Monsieur le comte, I do not know what has taken place between Monsieur

Cardonnet and you; but you have offered me a reparation which I reject.

I choose to believe that there was wrong on both sides, and I wish to

see you not at my feet but in my arms; but since you consider that you

owe me an act of submission which my age justifies, I require you,

before I embrace you, to be reconciled to Monsieur Cardonnet, and to

take the first step in that direction."

"Impossible!" cried Antoine, convulsively pressing the marquis's arm,

half in joy, half in anger. "Monsieur has just spoken to my daughter in

a most insulting way."

"No, that cannot be," said the marquis; "there has been a

misunderstanding. I am acquainted with Monsieur Cardonnet's sentiments;

his character is inconsistent with an act of cowardice. Monsieur

Cardonnet, I am certain that you are as familiar with the point of honor

as any nobleman; and you have just seen two noblemen, who had cruelly

wounded each other, become reconciled before your eyes, without blushing

for their mutual concessions. Be generous, and prove to us that it is

not the name that makes nobility. I bring you words of peace and means

of reconciliation. Permit me to put your hand in Monsieur de

Châteaubrun's. Come; you won't refuse an old man on the verge of the

grave. Mademoiselle Gilberte, come to my aid; say a word to your

father."

The phrase _means of reconciliation_ had echoed loudly in Monsieur

Cardonnet's ear. His penetrating mind had already guessed a part of the

truth. He thought that he would be obliged to yield, and that it would

be better to carry off the honors of war than to undergo the necessity

of capitulation.

"My intentions were very different from what Monsieur de Châteaubrun

supposes," he said, "and there has always been in my thoughts so much

respect and esteem for mademoiselle his daughter, that I do not hesitate

to disavow any words of mine that can possibly be interpreted otherwise.

I beg Mademoiselle Gilberte to be convinced of my sincerity, and I offer

her father my hand as a pledge of the oath I take."

"Enough, monsieur, let us say no more about it!" said Monsieur Antoine,

taking his hand; "let us part without hard feeling. Antoine de

Châteaubrun has never known what it is to lie."

"That is true," thought Monsieur de Boisguilbault; "if he had been more

cunning, I should have been blind--and happy, like so many others.--I

thank you, Antoine," he said aloud, in a trembling voice. "Now, come and

embrace me!"

The count's embrace was passionate and enthusiastic; the marquis's calm

and constrained. He was playing a part beyond his strength; he turned

pale, trembled, and was forced to sit down. Antoine sat beside him, his

breast shaken with sobs. Gilberte knelt in front of the marquis and

covered his hands with kisses, weeping with joy and gratitude.

All this display and emotion disgusted the manufacturer, who looked on

with a cold, supercilious eye, awaiting the _means of reconciliation_.

At last Monsieur de Boisguilbault drew them from his pocket and read

them in a clear, distinct voice.

He set forth in a few clear, concise words that he possessed about four

million and a half francs; that he gave, by contract, two millions to

Mademoiselle Gilberte de Châteaubrun, on condition that she married

Monsieur Emile Cardonnet, and two millions to Monsieur Emile Cardonnet,

on condition that he married Mademoiselle Gilberte de Châteaubrun, both

of said gifts to take effect at Monsieur de Boisguilbault's death, but

to be void unless the marriage should be celebrated within six months.

Monsieur de Boisguilbault reserved the usufruct of these four millions

during his own life, but he gave five hundred thousand francs outright

to the future husband and wife, said gift to be effectual on their

wedding-day. The said last-named sum, however, was to be given to

Mademoiselle de Châteaubrun for her own use if she did not marry

Monsieur Emile Cardonnet.

A feeble cry was heard behind the door; it was Janille, fainting with

joy in Sylvain Charasson's arms.

XXXVI

RECONCILIATION

Gilberte had no comprehension of what was happening to her; she had no

idea of what a fortune of four millions was, and the thought of such a

burden imposed upon a life so simple and happy as hers would have caused

her more fear than joy; but she realized that her union with Emile had

become a possibility once more, and, being unable to speak, she pressed

Monsieur de Boisguilbault's hand convulsively in her own. Antoine was

completely bewildered to find his daughter so rich. His joy was no

greater than hers, but he saw in the marquis's conduct such an

overwhelming proof of his forgiveness, that he believed that he must be

dreaming and could find nothing to say to him.

Cardonnet was the only person present who really understood what it was

to have four millions and a half fall into the laps of his future

grandchildren. However, he did not lose his head, but listened

impassively to the reading of the will, and, not choosing to appear to

humble himself before the power of gold, he said coldly:

"I see that Monsieur de Boisguilbault is determined that the father's

will shall bow before that of the friend; but Mademoiselle de

Châteaubrun's poverty has never seemed to me a serious obstacle to this

marriage. There is another which is much more repugnant to me, namely,

that she is a natural child, and that there is every reason to believe

that her mother--I will not call her by name--occupies an inferior

position in society."

"You are in error, Monsieur Cardonnet," rejoined Monsieur de

Boisguilbault, firmly. "Mademoiselle Janille's morals have always been

beyond reproach, and, in my opinion, you do wrong to despise a person so

loyal and devoted to the objects of her affection. But the truth demands

that I set you right in this respect. I solemnly assure you, monsieur,

that Mademoiselle de Châteaubrun is of unmixed noble blood, if that

fact will give you any pleasure. I will even say that I knew her mother

intimately, and that she was of as good a family as my own. Now,

Monsieur Cardonnet, have you any other objection to make? Do you think

that Mademoiselle de Châteaubrun's character can possibly inspire

repugnance or suspicion in any one?"

"Most assuredly not, monsieur le marquis," Cardonnet replied; "and yet I

hesitate still. It seems to me that the paternal authority and dignity

are impaired by such a contract; that my consent seems to be purchased

for a money consideration; and, while I had but one ambition for my son,

to see him acquire wealth by his labor and his talent, I see that you

raise him to the very apex of fortune, with a life of inaction and

idleness before him."

"I hope that it will not be so," said Monsieur de Boisguilbault. "My

reason for choosing Emile for my heir is that I am confident that he

will not resemble me in any way, and that he will be able to make a

better use of wealth than I have done."

Cardonnet simply desired an excuse for yielding. He said to himself

that, by refusing, he should alienate his son forever, and that, by

consenting with a good grace, he might recover enough influence over him

to teach him to use his wealth according to his, the father's ideas:

that is to say, he reckoned that, with four millions in hand, he might

some day have forty; and he was convinced that no man, even a saint, can

suddenly find himself the possessor of four millions without taking a

liking to wealth. "He will make a fool of himself at first," he thought,

"and will throw away part of his treasure; and, when he sees that it is

growing less, he will be so frightened that he will try to make up the

deficit; and then, as appetite comes to those who consent to eat, he

will want to multiply it by two, by ten, by a hundred. With my help, he

and I may be the kings of the financial world some day."

"I have no right," he said at last, "to refuse the fortune offered to my

son. I would do it if I could, because the whole transaction is contrary

to my opinions and my ideas; but the right of property is a sacred law.

As soon as my son receives such a gift, he is a property-holder. I

should rob him by refusing my assent to the conditions laid down. I am

bound, therefore, to hold my peace forever concerning all that offends

my convictions in this extraordinary arrangement; and, since I am

compelled to yield, I desire, at all events, to do it gracefully,

especially as Mademoiselle Gilberte's beauty, intellect and noble

character flatter my egotism by promising happiness to my family."

"As we are all agreed," said Monsieur de Boisguilbault, rising and

making a signal through the window, "I will beg Mademoiselle Gilberte,

who has, like myself, a fondness for flowers, to accept the betrothal

bouquet."

The marquis's groom entered and put down the little casket he had

brought. Monsieur de Boisguilbault took from it a bouquet of the rarest

and most fragrant flowers; old Martin had spent more than an hour in

arranging it artistically. But, by way of ribbon, the bouquet was tied

with the necklace of diamonds which Gilberte had returned; and, to take

the place of the shawl, which the marquis had not deemed it advisable to

produce again, he had put two rows instead of one in the necklace.

"Oho! two or three thousand francs in addition to what the contract

calls for!" thought Monsieur Cardonnet, pretending to look at the

diamonds with indifference.

"Now," said Monsieur de Boisguilbault to Gilberte, "you can refuse me

nothing, as I have done what you wished. I suggest that you and your

father take your carriage--the same barrow that was so useful to me and

that procured me the happiness of your acquaintance. We will go to

Gargilesse. I fancy that Monsieur Cardonnet desires to present his

daughter-in-law to his wife, and, for my part, I am most anxious that my

heiress should win her heart."

Monsieur Cardonnet welcomed the suggestion eagerly, and they were about

to start when Emile appeared. He had learned that his father had gone to

Châteaubrun; he dreaded some new plot against his happiness and

Gilberte's peace of mind. He had leaped upon his horse, and forgetting

his loss of blood, his fever and his promises to the marquis, he arrived

at the ruins, trembling, breathless, and oppressed by the gloomiest

forebodings.

"Well, Emile, here is your wife already dressed for the wedding," said

Monsieur Cardonnet, divining the explanation of his imprudence. And he

pointed to Gilberte, covered with flowers and diamonds, on Monsieur de

Boisguilbault's arm.

Emile, whose nerves were terribly tense and agitated, was like one

thunderstruck amid all the miracles that burst upon him at once. He

tried to speak, staggered and fell fainting in Monsieur Antoine's arms.

Happiness rarely kills; Emile soon returned to life and bliss. Janille

rubbed his temples with vinegar, Gilberte held his hand in hers, and,

that nothing might be lacking in his joy, his mother, too, was there

when he opened his eyes. Made acquainted very recently, by Emile's

delirium, with his passion for Gilberte, she had made Galuchet tell her

the whole story, and, learning that her husband had gone to

Châteaubrun, and that her son had ridden thither notwithstanding his

condition, and foreseeing some terrible storm, she had driven at full

speed to the ruins, defying for the first time her husband's wrath, and

the bad roads, to which she paid no heed. She fell in love with Gilberte

at the first words they exchanged, and if the young girl felt some alarm

at the thought of entering a family of which Cardonnet was the head, she

was sure that she should find some compensation in his wife's loving

heart and gentle nature.

"As we are all together," said Monsieur de Boisguilbault, with a grace

of which no one would have believed him capable, "we must pass the rest

of the day together and dine somewhere. There are too many of us not to

cause Mademoiselle Janille some embarrassment here, and if we should

return to Gargilesse we might take Monsieur Cardonnet's butler unawares.

If you will all do me the honor to come to Boisguilbault, which, by the

way, is much nearer, we shall find there the materials for dining, I

think. Perhaps Monsieur Cardonnet will take some interest in becoming

acquainted with his children's property, we will draw up their marriage

contract there and appoint a day for the wedding."

This new evidence of the marquis's complete conversion was received with

great warmth. Janille asked but five minutes to make _mademoiselle's_

toilet, for she thought that she should be ceremoniously attired for the

occasion, but Gilberte greeted with a hearty kiss what she called a joke

on the part of her fond mother.

[Illustration: _THE RECONCILIATION._

"_I thank you, Antoine," the marquis said, in a trembling voice. "Now,

come and embrace me!_"

_The count's embrace was passionate and enthusiastic; the marquis's calm

and constrained._]

Meanwhile, the Cardonnet family inspected the ruins, and Monsieur de

Boisguilbault retired with Antoine to the pavilion to rest. No one heard

their conversation. Neither of them ever divulged its subject. Did they

exchange delicate and seemingly impossible explanations? It is hardly

probable. Did they agree never thereafter to make the slightest allusion

to their long feud, and to take up their friendship just where they had

dropped it? It is certain that, from that moment, they talked together

of the past without bitterness, and referred to former years with

pleasure, sometimes blended with emotion and with merriment. But it was

noticeable that these reminiscences never went beyond a certain

date--that of Monsieur de Boisguilbault's marriage--and that the name of

the marchioness was never mentioned between them. It was as if she had

never existed.

When Gilberte returned, dressed as handsomely as she was able or wished

to be, Emile was overjoyed to see that she had put on the lilac dress,

which one more washing by Janille had made almost pink, and which, owing

to the miracles of her economy and skill, still seemed fresh. She had

braided her long hair, which reached to the ground, and in that superb

_abandon_ reminded her happy lover of the scorching day at Crozant. Of

Monsieur de Boisguilbault's gifts she had retained only the bouquet and

the cornelian ring, which she showed to the marquis with an affectionate

smile. She was coquettish with him, coquettish with the heart, if we may

so express it; and while the deference and consideration which she

manifested toward Monsieur Cardonnet were somewhat forced, she yielded

ingenuously to the inclination to treat the marquis, in her manner and

in her thoughts, as if he were Emile's father.

As they were about to start, Monsieur de Boisguilbault took Janille's

hand and invited her to drive with him, as courteously as if she had

been Gilberte's mother. He was so far from being offended by hearing

them call each other _mother_ and _my girl_, that that close attachment

had suddenly inspired in him a great esteem and secret gratitude for the

old woman who had submitted to so much slander and vulgar jesting rather

than reveal to anybody on earth, even friend Jappeloup--whom the marquis

had for so long a time believed to be Antoine's confidant and

messenger,--the secret of Gilberte's birth.

Monsieur Cardonnet could not restrain a disdainful smile at this

invitation.

"Monsieur Cardonnet," said Monsieur de Boisguilbault in an undertone,

remarking that smile, "you will know and appreciate that woman when you

see how she brings up your grandchildren."

The park of Boisguilbault was thrown open for the first time in its

history to a party invited by the owner. The chalet too was thrown open,

with the exception of the study, the door of which was securely

fastened, thanks to Jappeloup.

The imposing melancholy of the château, the curious beauty of the

furniture, the magnificence of the park, and the noticeable air of good

breeding in the service, caused Monsieur Cardonnet some vexation. He had

done his utmost at Gargilesse to exclude parvenu manners from his

household, and amid the ruins of Châteaubrun, where he had felt that he

was a personage of consequence, he had not been very ill at ease. But he

seemed very small indeed amid the mixture of opulence and severe

simplicity that characterized Boisguilbault. He tried, by _liberal_

reflections, to prevent the marquis from thinking that he was dazzled by

his old-fashioned splendor. Monsieur de Boisguilbault, who did not lack

cunning beneath his awkwardness, and who had waited until that moment to

put before him the most distasteful of his demands, answered him calmly

and coincided with his opinions. Cardonnet expressed great surprise,

for, in common with everybody else, he supposed that the marquis had

retained all the pride of his caste and clung to the absurd principles

of the Restoration. As he could not refrain from expressing his

astonishment, Monsieur de Boisguilbault said to him gently:

"You do not know me, Monsieur Cardonnet; I am as much opposed to

distinctions and privileges as yourself. I believe that all men are

equal in rights and in worth, when they are honorable and virtuous."

At that moment, dinner was announced, and, as they were about to take

their places, Master Jean Jappeloup, cleanly shaved and in his Sunday

clothes, came out of the chalet, and playfully pushing Emile aside, took

Gilberte's hand to lead her to the table.

"It is my right," he said; "you know I promised to be your witness and

your best man, Emile."

Everybody welcomed the carpenter joyfully, except Monsieur Cardonnet,

who dared not however display less liberality under the circumstances

than the old marquis; so he contented himself with a satirical smile as

he saw him take his place at the family banquet. He submitted to

everything, promising himself that he would change his tone when the

marriage was consummated.

The dinner, served under the old trees in the park, was magnificent with

flowers and exquisite in respect to the dishes; and old Martin, whom his

master had forewarned early in the morning, surpassed himself in

superintending the service. Sylvain Charasson was admitted to the honor

of working under his orders that day, and he will talk about it all his

life.

The first moments were rather constrained. But little by little the

faction of the contented and happy triumphed over that of the

discontented,--which consisted of Monsieur Cardonnet alone and he was

half reconciled,--the table became more animated, and at dessert

Monsieur Cardonnet said to Emile, with a smile: "_We marquises_----"

Shall we speak of the happiness of Emile and Gilberte? Happiness cannot

be described, and even lovers themselves lack words with which to depict

it. When it was night, Monsieur and Madame de Cardonnet took their

leave, graciously authorizing Emile to escort his fiancée to

Châteaubrun, on condition that he should keep his father's cabriolet,

and not ride again that day. Monsieur Antoine, absorbed in a joyful

conversation with his friend Jean, wandered about the park, and Janille,

beginning to tire of playing the lady, satisfied her craving for action

by assisting Martin to put everything in order. Thereupon, Monsieur de

Boisguilbault took Emile's arm and Gilberte's and led them to the cliff

where he had first opened his heart to his young friend.

"My children," he said to them, "I have made you rich, because it was

necessary to do it in order to overcome the obstacles that separated

you, and because it was the only means of making you happy. My will was

made a long while ago, but last night I rewrote it. My purpose remains

what it was: I believe that Emile knows it and that Gilberte will

respect it. I have determined that, in the future, this great estate

shall be used to found a _commune_, and in my first will I tried to

provide a plan for it, and to lay its foundations. But the plan might

well be defective and the foundations unsubstantial; I do not regret my

work, because I have always felt that it was weak and that I am of all

men on earth the man least capable of planning and carrying out.

Providence came to my aid by sending Emile to me to take my place in

realizing my plans, and I had recently made him my sole trustee and the

executor of my will. But such a disposition of my property would have

made it impossible to obtain Monsieur Cardonnet's consent, and I

destroyed it when I determined that you two should marry. Official

documents have not the value commonly attributed to them, and the law

has never found the means of fettering the conscience. That is why I am

much more tranquil in my mind when I simply tell you what I wish and

receive your promise, than I should be if I bound you by chains so

fragile as those of the provisions of a will. Do not answer, my

children! I know your thoughts, I know your hearts. You have been

subjected to the harshest of all tests, that of abandoning the idea of

being united or of abjuring your opinions; you have come out of it

triumphantly; I rely absolutely upon you and I leave the future in your

hands. It is your intention to put your opinions in practice, Emile, and

I furnish you with the instruments; but that does not mean that you have

the ability as yet. For that you need knowledge of social science, and

that is the result of long-continued labor to which you will apply

yourself with the aid of the forces which your generation, not mine,

will develop more or less successfully, as God wills. It may be that you

will not see my plans come to maturity, my children; perhaps your

children will; but, in bequeathing you my wealth, I bequeath you my

heart and my faith. You will bequeath it to others, if you have to pass

through a phase in the existence of mankind which makes it impracticable

for you to found the establishment advantageously. But Emile once said

something that impressed me. One day when I asked him what he would do

with an estate like mine, he answered: '_I would try_!' Let him try

then, and, after careful reflection, after a careful study of reality,

may he who has always dreamed of the salvation of mankind in the

organization and development of agricultural science, find the means of

transition which will prevent a deplorable break in the chain between

the past and the future!

"I trust to his intelligence because it has its source in the heart. May

God give you genius, Emile, and may He give it to the men of your time!

for the genius of one man is almost nothing. For my part, I have nothing

more to do but to fall asleep peacefully in my grave. If I am privileged

to live a few days with you two, I shall have begun to live on the eve

of my death. But I shall not have lived in vain, indolent, disheartened

and useless as I have been, if I have found the man who can and will act

in my place.

"Keep the secret of my opinions and our plans until after your marriage,

and even until after the new and thorough education which Emile must

make it his duty to acquire. I aspire to see you free and powerful, in

order that I may die at peace. And after all, my children, whatever

course you may take, whatever errors you may commit, whatever success

may crown your efforts, I confess that it is impossible for me to be

anxious concerning the future of the world. In vain will the tempest

rage over the generations now born or to be born; in vain will error and

falsehood labor to perpetuate the horrible confusion which certain minds

call to-day, in derision apparently, social order; in vain will

wickedness wage war on earth; eternal truth will have its day at last.

And if my spirit is able to return, a few centuries hence, to visit this

immense heritage and glide beneath the venerable trees that my hand

planted, it will see men free, happy, equal, united, that is to say,

just and wise! These shaded paths where I have walked so often,

oppressed by ennui and sorrow, whither I have fled in horror from the

presence of the men of to-day, will shelter then, like the arched roof

of a divine temple, a numerous family kneeling to pray and bless the

Author of nature and the Father of mankind! This will be the _garden of

the commune_, that is to say, its gynæceum, its festal and banqueting

hall, its theatre and its church; for speak not to me of the cramped

spaces where stone and cement pen up men and thought; nor of your superb

colonnades and magnificent squares, in comparison with this natural

architecture, of which the Supreme Creator bears all the expense! I have

expressed in the trees and flowers, in the brooks, in the cliffs and

fields all the poetry of my thoughts. Do not rob the old planter of his

illusion, if illusion it be. He still believes in the adage that God is

in everything and that Nature is His temple!"

LEONE LEONI

INTRODUCTION

Being at Venice, in very cold weather and under very depressing

circumstances, the carnival roaring and whistling outside with the icy

north wind, I experienced the painful contrast which results from inward

suffering, alone amid the wild excitement of a population of strangers.

I occupied a vast apartment in the former Nasi palace, now a hotel,

which fronts on the quay, near the Bridge of Sighs. All travellers who

have visited Venice know that hotel, but I doubt if many of them have

ever happened to be there on Mardi Gras, in the heart of the classic

carnival city, in a frame of mind so painfully meditative as mine.

Striving to escape the spleen by forcing my imagination to labor, I

began at hazard a novel which opened with a description of the locality,

of the festival out-of-doors and of the solemn apartment in which I was

writing. The last book I had read before leaving Paris was _Manon

Lescaut_. I had discussed it, or rather listened to others discussing

it, and I had said to myself that to make Manon Lescaut a man and

Desgrieux a woman would be worth trying, and would present many tragic

opportunities, vice being often very near crime in man, and enthusiasm

closely akin to despair in woman.

I wrote this book in a week and hardly read it over before sending it to

Paris. It had answered my purpose and expressed my thoughts; I could

have added nothing to it if I had thought it over. And why should a work

of the imagination need to be thought over? What moral could we expect

to deduce from a fiction which everyone knows to be quite possible in

the world of reality? Some people who are very rigid in theory--no one

knows just why--have pronounced it a dangerous book. After the lapse of

twenty years, I look it over, and can detect no such tendency in it. The

Leone Leoni type, although not untrue to life, is exceptional, thank

God! and I do not see that the infatuation he inspires in a weak mind is

rewarded by very enviable joys. However, I have, at the present moment,

a well-fixed opinion concerning the alleged _morals_ of the novel, and I

have expressed elsewhere my deliberate ideas thereon.

GEORGE SAND.

Nohant, January, 1853.

I

We were at Venice. The cold and the rain had driven the promenaders and

the masks from the square and the quays. We could hear naught save the

monotonous voice of the Adriatic in the distance, breaking on the

islands, and from time to time the shouts of the watch aboard the

frigate which guards the entrance to Canal Saint-George, and the

answering hail from the custom-house schooner. It was a fine carnival

evening inside the palaces and theatres, but outside, everything was

dismal, and the street-lights were reflected in the streaming pavements,

where the hurried footstep of a belated masker, wrapped in his cloak,

echoed loudly from time to time.

We were alone in one of the rooms of the old Nasi palace, to-day

transformed into a hotel, the best in Venice. A few candles scattered

about the tables, and the blaze on the hearth only partially lighted the

enormous room, and the flickering of the flame seemed to make the

allegorical divinities painted in fresco on the ceiling move to and fro.

Juliette was indisposed, and had refused to go out. Lying on a sofa and

half-covered by a fur cloak, she seemed to be dozing; and I walked back

and forth noiselessly on the thick carpet, smoking _Serraglio_

cigarettes.

We recognize in my country a certain state of the mind which is, I

think, peculiar to Spaniards. It is a sort of serious tranquillity which

does not exclude activity of thought, as among the Teutonic races and in

the cafés of the Orient. Our intellect does not grow dull during the

trances in which we are buried. When we walk to and fro with measured

step for hours at a time, on the same line of mosaics, without swerving

a hair's breadth and puffing away at our cigars--that is the time when

the operation that we may call mental digestion takes place most easily.

Momentous resolutions are formed at such times, and excited passions

calm down and give birth to vigorous acts. A Spaniard is never calmer

than when he is meditating some scheme; it may be sinister or it may be

sublime. As for myself, I was digesting my plan; but there was nothing

heroic or alarming about it. When I had made the circuit of the room

about sixty times and smoked a dozen cigarettes, my mind was made up. I

halted by the sofa, and said to my young companion, regardless of her

sleep:

"Juliette, will you be my wife?"

She opened her eyes and looked at me without answering. I thought that

she had not heard me, and I repeated my question.

[Illustration: _DON ALEO AND JULIETTE._

"_Juliette, will you be my wife?_"

_She opened her eyes and looked at me without answering. I thought that

she had not heard me, and I repeated my question._]

"I heard you very plainly," she replied in an indifferent tone--then

held her peace anew.

I thought that my question had displeased her, and my anger and grief

were terrible; but, from respect for Spanish gravity, I manifested

neither, but began to pace the floor again.

At the seventh turn Juliette stopped me, saying: "What is the use?"

I made three turns more; then I threw away my cigarette, and, drawing a

chair to her side, sat down.

"Your position in society must distress you?" I said to her.

"I know," she replied, raising her exquisite face and fixing upon mine

her blue eyes wherein apathy seemed to be always at odds with

melancholy,--"yes, I know, my dear Aleo, that I am branded in society

with an ineffaceable designation, that of kept mistress."

"We will efface it, Juliette; my name will purify yours."

"Pride of the grandee!" she rejoined with a sigh. Then, turning suddenly

to me and seizing my hand, which she put to her lips in spite of me, she

added: "Do you really mean that you will marry me, Bustamente? O my God!

my God! what comparisons you force me to make!"

"What do you mean, my dear child?" I asked her. She did not reply, but

burst into tears.

These tears, of which I understood the cause only too well, hurt me

terribly. But I concealed the species of frenzy which they aroused in me

and returned to my seat by her side.

"Poor Juliette!" I said to her; "will that wound bleed forever?"

"You gave me leave to weep," she replied; "that was the first of our

agreements."

"Weep, my poor afflicted darling," I said; "then listen and answer me."

She wiped away her tears and put her hand in mine.

"Juliette," I said to her, "when you speak of yourself as a kept woman,

you are mad. Of what consequence are the opinions and coarse remarks of

a few fools? You are my friend, my companion, my mistress."

"Alas! yes," she said, "I am your mistress, Aleo, and it is that

dishonors me; I should have chosen to die rather than to bequeath to a

noble heart like yours the possession of a half extinct heart."

"We will rekindle the ashes gradually, my Juliette; let me hope that

they still hide a spark which I can find."

"Yes, yes, I hope so, I wish that it may be so!" she said eagerly. "So I

shall be your wife? But why? Shall I love you better for it? Will you

feel surer of me?"

"I shall know that you are happier and I shall be happier for that

reason."

"Happier! you are mistaken; I am as happy with you as possible; how can

the title of Donna Bustamente make me any happier?"

"It would put you out of reach of the insolent disdain of society."

"Society!" said Juliette; "you mean your friends. What is society? I

have never known. I have passed through life and made the tour of the

globe, but have never been able to discover what you call society."

"I know that you have lived hitherto like the enchanted maiden in her

globe of crystal, and yet I have seen you shed bitter tears over the

deplorable position in which you then were. I made an inward vow to

offer you my rank and my name as soon as I should be assured of your

affection."

"You failed to understand me, Don Aleo, if you thought that shame made

me weep. There was no place in my heart for shame; there were enough

other causes of sorrow to fill it and make it insensible to everything

that came from without. If he had continued to love me, I should have

been happy, though I had been covered with infamy in the eyes of what

you call society."

It was impossible for me to restrain a shudder of wrath; I rose to pace

the floor. Juliette detained me. "Forgive me," she said in a trembling

voice, "forgive me for the pain I cause you. It is beyond my strength

always to avoid speaking of him."

"Very well, Juliette," I said, stifling a painful sigh, "pray speak of

him if it is a relief to you! But is it possible that you cannot succeed

in forgetting him, when everything about you tends to direct your

thoughts toward another life, another happiness, another love?"

"Everything about me!" said Juliette excitedly; "are we not in Venice?"

She rose and walked to the window; her white silk petticoat fell in

numberless folds about her graceful form. Her chestnut hair escaped from

the long pins of chased gold which only half confined it, and bathed her

back in a flood of perfumed silk. She was so lovely with the faint touch

of color in her cheeks, and her half loving, half bitter smile, that I

forgot what she said and went to her to take her in my arms. But she had

drawn the curtains partly aside, and looking through the glass, as the

moon's moist beams were beginning to break through the clouds, she

cried: "O Venice! how changed thou art! how beautiful thou once wert in

my eyes, and how desolate and deserted thou dost seem to-day!"

"What do you say, Juliette?" I cried in my turn; "have you been in

Venice before? Why have you never told me?"

"I saw that you wanted to see this beautiful city, and I knew that a

word would have prevented you from coming here. Why should I have made

you change your plan?"

"Yes, I would have changed it," I replied, stamping my foot. "Even if we

had been at the very gate of this infernal city, I would have caused the

boat to steer for some shore unstained by that memory; I would have

taken you there, I would have swum with you in my arms, if I had had to

choose between such a journey and this house, where perhaps you will

find at every step a burning trace of his passage! But tell me,

Juliette, where in heaven's name I can take refuge with you from the

past? Mention some city, tell me of some corner of Italy to which that

adventurer has not dragged you in his train?"

I was pale and trembling with wrath; Juliette turned slowly, gazed

coldly at me, and said, turning her eyes once more to the window:

"Venice, we loved thee in the old days, and to-day I cannot look on thee

without emotion, for he was fond of thee, he constantly invoked thy name

in his travels, he called thee his dear fatherland; for thou wert the

cradle of his noble family, and one of thy palaces still bears the name

that he bears."

"By death and eternity!" I said to Juliette, lowering my voice, "we

leave this dear fatherland to-morrow!"

"_You_ may leave Venice and Juliette to-morrow," she replied with frigid

sang-froid; "but, as for me, I take orders from no one, and I shall

leave Venice when I please."

"I believe that I understand you, mademoiselle," I said indignantly:

"Leoni is in Venice."

Juliette started as if she had received an electric shock.

"What do you say? Leoni in Venice?" she cried, in a sort of frenzy,

throwing herself in to my arms; "repeat what you said; repeat his name,

let me at least hear his name once more!"

She burst into tears, and, suffocated by her sobs, almost lost

consciousness. I carried her to the sofa, and without thinking of

offering her any further assistance, began to pace the edge of the

carpet once more. But my rage subsided as the sea subsides when the

sirocco folds its wings. A bitter grief succeeded my excitement; and I

fell to weeping like a woman.

II

In the midst of this heart-rending agitation, I paused a few steps from

Juliette and looked at her. Her face was turned to the wall, but a

mirror fifteen feet high, which formed the panel, enabled me to see her

face. She was pale as death and her eyes were closed as in sleep; there

was more weariness than pain in the expression of her face, and that

expression accurately portrayed her mental plight: exhaustion and

indifference triumphed over the last ebullition of passion. I hoped.

I called her name softly and she looked at me with an air of amazement,

as if her memory lost the faculty of retaining facts at the same time

that her heart lost the power to feel anger.

"What do you want," she said, "and why do you wake me?"

"Juliette," I replied, "I offended you; forgive me; I wounded your

heart."

"No," she said, putting one hand to her forehead and offering me the

other, "you wounded my pride only. I beg you, Aleo, remember that I have

nothing, that I live on your gifts, and that the thought of my dependent

state humiliates me. You are kind and generous to me, I know. You lavish

attentions on me, you cover me with jewels, you overwhelm me with your

luxury and your magnificence; but for you I should have died in some

paupers' hospital, or should be confined in a madhouse. I know all that.

But remember, Bustamente, that you have done it all in spite of me, that

you took me in half-dead, and that you succored me when I had not the

slightest desire to be succored; remember that I wanted to die, and that

you passed many nights at my pillow, holding my hands in yours to

prevent me from killing myself; remember that I refused for a long time

your protection and your benefactions, and that, if I accept them

to-day, it is half from weakness and discouragement, half from affection

and gratitude to you, who ask me on your knees not to spurn them. Yours

is the noblest rôle, my friend, I know it well. But am I to blame

because you are kind? Can I be seriously reproached for debasing myself

when, alone and desperate, I confide myself to the noblest heart on

earth?"

"My beloved," I said, pressing her to my heart, "you reply most

convincingly to the vile insults of the miserable wretches who have

misrepresented you. But why do you say this to me? Do you think that you

need to justify yourself in the eyes of Bustamente for the happiness you

have bestowed upon him--the only happiness he has ever enjoyed in his

life? It is for me to justify myself, if I can, for I am the one who has

done wrong. I know how stubbornly your pride and your despair resisted

me; I am not likely ever to forget it. When I assume a tone of authority

with you, I am a madman whom you must pardon, for my passion for you

disturbs my reason and vanquishes all my strength of mind. Forgive me,

Juliette, and forget a moment of anger. Alas! I am unskilful in winning

love. I have a natural roughness of manner which is unpleasant to you. I

wound you when I am beginning to cure you, and I often destroy in one

hour the work of many days."

"No, no, let us forget this quarrel," she interposed, kissing me. "For

the little pain you cause me, I cause you a hundred times as much. You

are sometimes imperious; my grief is always cruel. Do not believe,

however, that it is incurable. Your kindness and your love will conquer

it at last. I should have a most ungrateful heart if I did not accept

the hope that you point out to me. We will talk of marriage another

time; perhaps you will induce me to consent to it. However, I confess

that I dread that species of servitude consecrated by all laws and all

prejudices; it is honorable, but it is indissoluble."

"Still another cruel remark, Juliette! Are you afraid, pray, to belong

to me forever?"

"No, no, of course not. Do not be distressed, I will do what you wish;

but let us drop the subject for to-day."

"Very well, but grant me another favor in place of that; consent to

leave Venice to-morrow."

"With all my heart. What do I care for Venice and all the rest? In

heaven's name, don't believe me when I express regret for the past; it

is irritation or madness that makes me speak so! The past! merciful

heaven! Do you not know how many reasons I have for hating it? See how

it has shattered me! How could I have the strength to grasp it again if

it were given back to me?"

I kissed Juliette's hand to thank her for the effort she made in

speaking thus, but I was not convinced; she had given me no satisfactory

answer. I resumed my melancholy promenade about the room.

The sirocco had sprung up and dried the pavement in an instant. The city

had become resonant once more as it ordinarily is, and the thousand

sounds of the festival reached our ears: the hoarse song of the tipsy

gondoliers, the hooting of the masks coming from the cafés and guying

the passers-by, the plash of oars in the canal. The guns of the frigate

bade good-night to the echoes of the lagunes, which made answer like a

discharge of artillery. The Austrian drum mingled its brutal roll, and

the bell of St. Mark's gave forth a doleful sound.

A ghastly depression seized upon me. The candles, burning low, set fire

to their green paper ruffles and cast a livid light upon the objects in

the room. Everything assumed imaginary forms and made imaginary noises,

to my disturbed senses. Juliette, lying on the sofa and swathed in fur

and silk, seemed to me like a corpse wrapped in its shroud. The songs

and laughter out of doors produced upon me the effect of shrieks of

distress, and every gondola that glided under the marble bridge below my

window suggested the idea of a drowning man struggling with the waves

and death. Finally, I had none but thoughts of despair and death in my

head, and I could not raise the weight which was crushing my breast.

At last, however, I succeeded in calming myself and reflected somewhat

less wildly. I admitted to myself that Juliette's cure was progressing

very slowly, and that, notwithstanding all the sacrifices in my favor

which gratitude had wrung from her, her heart was almost as sick as at

the very first. This long-continued and bitter regret for a love so

unworthily bestowed seemed inexplicable to me, and I sought the cause in

the powerlessness of my affection. It must be, I thought, that my

character inspires an insurmountable repugnance which she dares not avow

to me. Perhaps the life I lead is unpleasant to her, and yet I have made

my habits conform to hers. Leoni used to take her constantly from city

to city. I have kept her travelling for two years, forming no ties

anywhere, and never delaying for an instant to leave the place where I

detected the faintest sign of ennui on her face. And yet she is

melancholy, that is certain; nothing amuses her, and it is only from

consideration for me that she deigns sometimes to smile. Not one of the

things that ordinarily give pleasure to women has any influence on this

sorrow of hers; it is a rock that nothing can shake, a diamond that

nothing can dim. Poor Juliette! What strength in your weakness! what

desperate resistance in your inertia!

I had unconsciously raised my voice until I expressed my troubles aloud.

Juliette had raised herself on one arm and was listening to me sadly,

leaning forward on the cushions.

"Listen to me," I said, walking to her side, "I have just imagined a new

cause for your unhappiness. I have repressed it too much, you have

forced it back into your heart too much, I have dreaded like a coward to

see that sore, the sight of which tears my heart; and you, through

generosity, have concealed it from me. Your wound, thus neglected and

abandoned, has become more inflamed every day, whereas I should have

dressed it and poured balm upon it. I have done wrong, Juliette. You

must show me your sorrow, you must pour it out in my bosom, you must

talk to me about your past sufferings, tell me of your life from moment

to moment, name my enemy to me. Yes, you must. Just now you said

something to me that I shall not forget; you implored me to let you hear

his name at least. Very well! let us pronounce it together, that

accursed name that burns your tongue and your heart. Let us talk of

Leoni."

Juliette's eyes shone with an involuntary gleam. I felt a terrible pang;

but I conquered my suffering and asked her if she approved my plan.

"Yes," she said with a serious air, "I believe that you are right. You

see, my breast is often filled with sobs; the fear of distressing you

keeps me from giving them vent, and I pile up treasures of grief in my

bosom. If I dared to display my feelings before you, I believe that I

should suffer less. My sorrow is like a perfume that is kept always

confined in a tightly closed box; open the box and it soon escapes. If I

could talk constantly about Leoni and tell of the most trivial incidents

of our love, I should bring under my eyes at the same moment all the

good and all the harm he did me; whereas your aversion often seems to me

unjust, and in the secret depths of my heart I make excuses for injuries

which, if told by another, would be revolting to me."

"Very well," said I, "I desire to learn them from your mouth. I have

never known the details of this distressing story; I want you to tell

them to me, to describe your whole life. When I am better acquainted

with your troubles, perhaps I shall be better able to relieve them. Tell

me all, Juliette; tell me by what means this Leoni succeeded in making

you love him so dearly; tell me what charm, what secret he possessed;

for I am weary of seeking in vain the impracticable road to your heart.

Say on, I am listening."

"Ah! yes, I am glad to do it; it will give me some relief at last. But

let me talk and do not interrupt me by any sign of pain or anger; for I

shall tell things as they happened; I shall tell the good and the bad,

how I have loved and how I have suffered."

"You must tell everything, and I will listen to everything," I replied.

I ordered fresh candles to be brought and rekindled the fire.

Juliette spoke thus:

III

You know that I am the daughter of a rich jeweller of Brussels. My

father was skilful in his trade, but had little cultivation otherwise.

He had raised himself from the position of a common workman to that of

possessor of a handsome fortune which his flourishing business increased

from day to day. Despite his lack of education, he was on terms of

intimacy with the richest families in the province; and my mother, who

was pretty and clever, was well received in the opulent society of the

tradespeople.

My father was naturally mild and apathetic. Those qualities became more

marked each day, as his wealth and comfort increased. My mother, being

more active and younger, enjoyed unlimited freedom of action, and

joyfully made the most of the advantages of wealth and the pleasures of

society. She was kind-hearted, sincere and full of amiable qualities,

but she was naturally frivolous, and her beauty, which was treated with

marvellous respect by the years as they passed, prolonged her youth at

the expense of my education. She loved me dearly, beyond question, but

without prudence or discernment. Proud of my youthful charms and of the

trivial talents which she had caused me to acquire, she thought of

nothing but taking me about and exhibiting me; she took a delicious but

perilous pride in covering me constantly with new jewels, and in

appearing with me at parties. I recall those days with pain and yet with

pleasure; since then, I have reflected sadly on the futile employment of

my early years, and yet I sigh for those days of careless happiness

which should never have ended or never have begun. I fancy that I can

still see my mother with her plump, graceful figure, her white hands,

her black eyes, her coquettish smile, and withal so kind that you could

see at the first glance that she had never known anxiety or vexation,

and that she was incapable of imposing the slightest restraint upon

others, even with kindly intentions. Ah! yes, I remember her well! I

remember our long mornings devoted to planning and preparing our ball

dresses, our afternoons employed in making our toilets with such

painstaking care that hardly an hour remained to show ourselves on the

promenade. I see my mother, with her satin dresses, her furs, her long

white feathers, and the whole fluffy mass of lace and ribbons. After

finishing her toilet, she would forget herself a moment to look after

me. It was a great deal of a bore to unlace my black satin boots in

order to smooth out a wrinkle on the instep or to try on twenty pairs of

gloves before finding one of a shade sufficiently delicate for her

taste. Those gloves fitted so tight that I often tore them after taking

the greatest pains about putting them on; then I must begin anew, and we

would have heaps of débris in front of us before we had finally

selected those that I was to wear an hour, and then leave to my maid.

However, I had become so accustomed from childhood to regard these

trifling details as the most important occupations of a woman's life,

that I submitted patiently. We would set out at last, and at the

rustling of our silk gowns and the perfume exhaled by our handkerchiefs,

people would turn to look after us. I was accustomed to hearing our

names mentioned as we passed, by all sorts and conditions of men, and to

see them glance curiously at my impassive face. This mixture of coldness

and innocent effrontery constitutes what is called good breeding in a

young woman. As for my mother, she felt a twofold pride in exhibiting

herself and her daughter; I was a reflection, or, to speak more

accurately, a part of herself, of her beauty, of her wealth; her good

taste was displayed in my costume; my face, which resembled hers,

reminded her as well as others of the scarcely impaired freshness of her

early youth; so that, seeing my slender figure walking at her side, she

fancied that she saw herself twice over, pale and delicate as she had

been at fifteen, brilliant and beautiful as she still was. Not for

anything in the world would she have gone out without me; she would have

seemed to herself to be incomplete, half dressed as it were.

After dinner, the solemn discussion concerning ball dresses, silk

stockings and flowers began anew. My father, who gave his whole

attention to his shop during the day, would have preferred to pass the

evening quietly by his fireside; but he was so easy-going, that he did

not notice the way in which we deserted him. He would fall asleep in his

chair while our hair-dressers were striving to understand my mother's

scientifically devised plans. As we were going away, we would rouse the

worthy man from his slumbers and he would go obligingly and take from

his strong-box magnificent jewels mounted according to his own designs.

He would fasten them himself about our arms and necks and take pleasure

in remarking their effect. These jewels were intended for sale. We often

heard envious women about us crying out at their splendor and whispering

spiteful jests; but my mother consoled herself by saying that the

greatest ladies wore what we had cast off, and that was true. They would

come to my father next day and order jewels like those we had worn. A

few days later he would send the self-same ones; and we did not regret

them, for they were always replaced by others more beautiful.

Amid such surroundings, I grew up without thought for the present or the

future, without making any effort to form or strengthen my character. I

was naturally gentle and trustful like my mother; I was content to float

along as she did on the current of destiny. I was less vivacious,

however; I felt less keenly the attractions of pleasure and vanity; I

seemed to lack the little strength that she had, the desire and the

faculty of constant diversion. I accepted so easy a lot knowing nothing

of its price, and without comparing it with any other. I had no idea of

passion. I had been brought up as if I were never to know it; my mother

had been brought up in the same way and considered that she was to be

congratulated; for she was incapable of feeling passion and had never

had any occasion to fight against it. My intelligence had been applied

to studies in which the heart had no occasion to exercise control over

itself. I performed brilliantly on the piano, I danced beautifully, I

painted in water-colors with admirable precision and vigor; but there

was within me no spark of that sacred fire which gives life and enables

one to understand life. I loved my parents, but I did not know what it

was to love in any other way than that. I was wonderfully clever in

inditing a letter to one of my young friends; but I had no more idea of

the value of words than of sentiments. I loved my girl friends as a

matter of habit, I was good to them because I was obliging and gentle,

but I did not trouble myself about their characters; I scrutinized

nothing. I made no well-reasoned distinction between them; I was fondest

of the one who came oftenest to see me.

IV

I was the sort of person I have described, and sixteen years old, when

Leoni came to Brussels. The first time I saw him was at the theatre. I

was with my mother in a box near the balcony, where he sat with several

of the richest and most fashionable young men in the city. My mother

called my attention to him. She was constantly lying in wait for a

husband for me, and always looked for him among the men with the finest

figures and the most gorgeous clothes; those two points were everything

in her eyes. Birth and fortune attracted her only as accessories of

things that she considered much more important--dress and manners. A man

of superior mind in a simple coat would have inspired nothing but

contempt in her. Her future son-in-law must have cuffs of a certain

style, an irreproachable cravat, an exquisite figure, a pretty face,

coats made in Paris, and a stock of that meaningless twaddle which makes

a man fascinating in society.

As for myself, I made no comparison between one man and another. I

blindly entrusted the selection to my parents, and I neither dreaded nor

shrank from marriage.

My mother considered Leoni fascinating. It is true that his face is

wonderfully beautiful, and that he has the secret of being graceful,

animated and perfectly at ease with his dandified clothes and manners.

But I felt none of those romantic emotions which give to ardent hearts a

foretaste of their destiny. I glanced at him for a moment in obedience

to my mother, and should not have looked at him a second time, had she

not forced me to do so by her constant exclamations and by her manifest

curiosity to know his name. A young man of our acquaintance, whom she

summoned in order to question him, informed her that he was a noble

Venetian, a friend of one of the leading merchants of the city, that he

seemed to have an enormous fortune, and that his name was Leone Leoni.

My mother was delighted with this information. The merchant who was

Leoni's friend was to give a party the very next day, to which we were

invited. Frivolous and credulous as she was, it was enough for her to

have learned vaguely that Leoni was rich and noble, to induce her to

cast her eyes upon him instantly. She spoke to me about him the same

evening, and urged me to be pretty the next day. I smiled and went to

sleep at precisely the same hour as on other nights, without the

slightest acceleration of my heart beats at the thought of Leoni. I had

become accustomed to listen without emotion to the formation of such

projects. My mother declared that I was so sensible that they were not

called upon to treat me like a child. The poor woman did not realize

that she herself was much more of a child than I.

She dressed me with so much care and magnificence that I was proclaimed

queen of the ball; but at first the time seemed to have been wasted:

Leoni did not appear, and my mother thought that he had already left

Brussels. Incapable of controlling her impatience, she asked the master

of the house what had become of his Venetian.

"Ah!" said Monsieur Delpech, "you have noticed my Venetian already, have

you?"--He glanced with a smile at my costume, and understood.--"He's an

attractive youngster," he said, "of noble birth, and very much in

fashion both in Paris and London; but it is my duty to inform you that

he is a terrible gambler, and that the reason that you don't see him

here is that he prefers the cards to the loveliest women."

"A gambler!" said my mother; "that's very bad."

"Oh! that depends," rejoined Monsieur Delpech. "When one has the means,

you know!"

"To be sure!" said my mother; and that remark satisfied her. She worried

no more about Leoni's passion for gambling.

A few seconds after this brief interview, Leoni appeared in the salon

where we were dancing. I saw Monsieur Delpech whisper to him and glance

at me, and Leoni's eyes wander uncertainly about me, until, guided by

his friend's directions, he discovered me in the crowd and walked nearer

to see me more distinctly. I realized at that moment that my rôle as a

marriageable maiden was somewhat absurd; for there was a touch of irony

in the admiration of his glance, and, for the first time in my life

perhaps, I blushed and had a feeling of shame.

This shame became a sort of dull pain when I saw that Leoni had returned

to the card room after a few moments. It seemed to me that I was laughed

at and disdained, and I was vexed with my mother on that account. That

had never happened before and she was amazed at the ill-humor I

displayed toward her.--"Well, well," she said to me, with a little

irritation on her side, "I don't know what the matter is with you, but

you are turning homely. Let us go."

She had already risen when Leoni hurriedly crossed the room and invited

her to waltz; that unhoped-for incident restored all her good-humor; she

laughingly tossed me her fan and disappeared with him in the whirl.

As she was passionately fond of dancing, we were always accompanied to

balls by an old aunt, my father's older sister, who acted as my chaperon

when I was not invited to dance at the same time as my mother.

Mademoiselle Agathe--that was what we called my aunt--was an old maid of

a cold and even disposition. She had more common-sense than the rest of

the family, but she was not exempt from the tendency to vanity, which is

the reef upon which all parvenus go to pieces. Although she cut a very

melancholy figure at a ball, she never complained of the necessity of

accompanying us; it was an opportunity for her to display in her old age

some very beautiful gowns which she had never had the means to procure

in her youth. She set great store by money therefore; but she was not

equally accessible to all the seductions of society. She had a hatred of

long standing for the nobles, and she never lost an opportunity to decry

them and turn them to ridicule, which she did with much wit.

Shrewd and penetrating, accustomed to inaction and to keeping close

watch on the actions of other people, she had understood the cause of my

little fit of spleen. My mother's effusive chatter had apprised her of

her views concerning Leoni, and the Venetian's face, amiable and proud

and sneering, all at once, disclosed to her many things that my mother

did not understand.

"Look, Juliette," she said, leaning toward me, "there's a great nobleman

making sport of us."

I felt a painful thrill. What my aunt said corresponded with my

forebodings. It was the first time that I had seen contempt for our

bourgeoisie plainly written on a man's face. I had been brought up to

laugh at the contempt which the women hardly concealed from us, and to

look upon it as an indication of envy; but hitherto our beauty had

preserved us from the disdain of the men, and I thought that Leoni was

the most insolent creature that ever lived. I had a horror of him, and

when, after bringing my mother back to her seat, he invited me for the

following contradance, I haughtily declined. His face expressed such

amazement that I understood how confidently he reckoned upon a warm

reception. My pride triumphed and I sat down beside my mother, declaring

that I was tired. Leoni left us, bowing low after the Italian manner,

and bestowing upon me a curious glance in which there was a touch of his

characteristic mockery.

My mother, amazed at my action, began to fear that I might be capable of

having a will of my own. She talked to me gently, hoping that in a short

time I would consent to dance, and that Leoni would ask me again, but I

persisted in remaining in my seat. An hour or more later we heard

Leoni's name several times amid the confused murmuring of the ball; some

one passing near us said that he had lost six hundred louis.

"Very fine!" said my aunt dryly; "he will do well to look out for some

nice girl with a handsome dowry."

"Oh! he doesn't need to do that," somebody else replied, "he is so

rich!"

"Look," said a third, "there he is dancing; he doesn't look very

anxious."

Leoni was dancing, in fact, and his features did not display the

slightest concern. He accosted us again, paid my mother some insipid

compliments with the facility of a man in the best society, and then

tried to make me speak by putting questions to me indirectly. I

maintained an obstinate silence and he walked away with an indifferent

air. My mother was in despair and took me home.

For the first time she scolded me and I sulked. My aunt upheld me and

declared that Leoni was an impertinent fellow and a scoundrel. My

mother, who had never been opposed to such a point, began to weep, and I

did the same.

By such petty agitations did the coming of Leoni, and the unhappy

destiny that he brought, begin to disturb the profound peace in which I

had always lived. I will not tell you with so much detail what happened

on the following days. I do not remember so well, and the insatiable

passion that I conceived for him always seems to me like a strange dream

which no effort of my reason can reduce to order. This much is certain,

that Leoni was visibly piqued, surprised and disconcerted by my

coldness, and that he began at once to treat me with a respect which

satisfied my wounded pride. I saw him every day at parties or out

walking, and my aversion to him speedily vanished before the

extraordinary civilities and humble attentions with which he overwhelmed

me. In vain did my aunt try to put me on my guard against the arrogance

of which she accused him. I was no longer capable of feeling insulted by

his manners or his words; even his face had lost that suggestion of

sarcasm which had offended me at first. His glance acquired from day to

day an indescribable gentleness and affectionateness. He seemed to think

of nothing but me; he even sacrificed his taste for card-playing, and

passed whole nights dancing with my mother and me or talking with us. He

was soon invited to call at our house. I dreaded his call a little. My

aunt prophesied that he would find in our home a thousand subjects of

ridicule which he would pretend not to notice but which would furnish

him with material for joking with his friends. He came, and, to cap the

climax, my father, who was standing at his shop-door, brought him into

the house that way. That house, which belonged to us, was very handsome,

and my mother had had it decorated with exquisite taste; but my father,

who took no pleasure in anything outside of his business, was unwilling

to transfer to any other building his cases of pearls and diamonds. That

curtain of sparkling jewels behind the glass panels which guarded it was

a magnificent spectacle, and my father said truly enough that there

could be no more splendid decoration for a ground-floor. My mother, who

had had hitherto only transitory flashes of ambition to be allied to the

nobility, had never been humiliated to see her name carved in huge

letters just below the balcony of her bedroom. But when, from that

balcony, she saw Leoni cross the threshold of the fatal shop, she

thought that we were lost and looked anxiously at me.

V

During the few days immediately preceding this, I had had the revelation

of a hitherto unknown pride. I felt it awake within me now, and,

impelled by an irresistible impulse, I determined to watch Leoni's

manner as he talked with my father in his counting-room. He was slow

about coming upstairs, and I rightly inferred that my father had

detained him, to show him, as was his ingenuous custom, the marvels of

his workmanship. I went resolutely down to the shop and entered,

feigning surprise to find Leoni there. My mother had always forbidden me

to enter the shop, her greatest fear being that I should be taken for a

shopgirl. But I sometimes slipped away to go down and kiss my poor

father, who had no greater joy than to receive me there. When I entered

he uttered an exclamation of pleasure and said to Leoni: 'Look, look,

monsieur le baron, what I have shown you amounts to nothing; here is my

loveliest diamond.' Leoni's face betrayed the keenest delight; he smiled

at my father with emotion and at me with passion. Never had such a

glance met mine. I became red as fire. An unfamiliar feeling of joy and

passion brought a tear to the brink of my eyelid as my father kissed me

on the forehead.

We stood a few seconds without speaking; then Leoni, taking up the

conversation, found a way to say to my father everything that was most

likely to flatter his self-esteem as an artist and tradesman. He seemed

to take extreme pleasure in making him explain the process by which

rough stones were transformed into precious gems, brilliant and

transparent. He said some interesting things on that subject himself,

and, addressing me, gave me some mineralogical information that was

within my reach. I was confounded by the wit and grace with which he

succeeded in exalting and ennobling our condition in our own eyes. He

talked to us about products of the goldsmith's art which he had seen in

his travels, and extolled especially the works of his compatriot

Cellini, whom he placed beside Michael Angelo. In short, he ascribed so

much merit to my father's profession and praised his talent so highly

that I almost wondered whether I was the daughter of a hard-working

mechanic or a genius.

My father accepted this last hypothesis, and, being charmed with the

Venetian's manners, took him up to my mother. During this visit, Leoni

displayed so much wit and intelligence, and talked upon every subject in

such a superior way that I was fairly fascinated as I listened to him. I

had never conceived the idea of such a man. Those who had been pointed

out to me previously as the most attractive were so insignificant and

vapid beside him that I thought I must be dreaming. I was too ignorant

to appreciate all Leoni's knowledge and eloquence, but I understood him

instinctively. I was dominated by his glance, enthralled by his tales,

surprised and fascinated by every new resource that he developed.

It is certain that Leoni is a man endowed with extraordinary faculties.

In a few days he succeeded in arousing a general infatuation throughout

the city. He has all the talents, commands all the means of seduction.

If he were present at a concert, after a little urging he would sing or

play upon any instrument with a marked superiority over the professional

musicians. If he consented to pass the evening in the privacy of some

family circle, he would draw lovely pictures in the women's albums. In

an instant he would produce a portrait full of expression, or a vigorous

caricature; he improvised or declaimed in all languages; he knew all the

character dances of Europe, and he danced them all with fascinating

grace; he had seen, remembered, appreciated and understood everything;

he read the whole world like a book that one carries in one's pocket. He

acted admirably in tragedy or comedy; he organized companies of

amateurs; he was himself leader of the orchestra, star performer,

painter, decorator and scene-shifter. He was at the head of all the

sports and all the parties. It could truly be said that pleasure walked

in his footprints, and that, at his approach, everything changed its

aspect and assumed a new face. He was listened to with enthusiasm and

blindly obeyed; people believed in him as a prophet; and if he had

promised to produce spring in midwinter, they would have deemed him

capable of doing it. After he had been in Brussels a month, the

character of the people had actually changed. Pleasure united all

classes, soothed all the tender susceptibilities, brought all ranks to

the same level. It was nothing but riding-parties, fireworks,

theatricals, concerts and masquerades. Leoni was magnificent and

generous; the workmen would have risen in revolt for him. He scattered

favors about with lavish hand, and found money and time for everything.

His caprices were soon adopted by everybody. All the women loved him,

and the men were so subjugated by him that they did not think of being

jealous of him.