PART I

E-text prepared by Juliet Sutherland, Mary Meehan, and the Project

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THE WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT

VOLUME IV

The Old Maid and Other Stories

National Library Company

New York

Copyright, 1909, by

Bigelow, Smith & Co.

CONTENTS

THE OLD MAID

THE AWAKENING

IN THE SPRING

THE JENNET

RUST

THE SUBSTITUTE

THE RELIC

THE MAN WITH THE BLUE EYES

ALLOUMA

A FAMILY AFFAIR

THE ODALISQUE OF SENICHOU

A GOOD MATCH

A FASHIONABLE WOMAN

THE CARNIVAL OF LOVE

A DEER PARK IN THE PROVINCES

THE WHITE LADY

CAUGHT

CHRISTMAS EVE

WORDS OF LOVE

A DIVORCE CASE

WHO KNOWS?

SIMON'S PAPA

PAUL'S MISTRESS

THE RABBIT

THE TWENTY-FIVE FRANCS OF THE MOTHER SUPERIOR

THE VENUS OF BRANIZA

LA MORILLONNE

WAITER, A "BOCK"

REGRET

THE PORT

THE HERMIT

THE ORDERLY

DUCHOUX

OLD AMABLE

MAGNETISM

THE OLD MAID

Count Eustache d'Etchegorry's solitary country house had the appearance

of a poor man's home, where people do not have enough to eat every day in

the week, where the bottles are more frequently filled at the pump than

in the cellar, and where they wait until it is dark before lighting the

candles.

It was an old and sordid building; the walls were crumbling to pieces,

the grated, iron gates were eaten away by rust, the holes in the broken

windows had been mended with old newspapers, and the ancestral portraits

which hung against the walls, showed that it was no tiller of the soil,

nor miserable laborer whose strength had gradually worn out and bent his

back, who lived there. Great, knotty elm trees sheltered it, as if they

had been a tall, green screen, and a large garden, full of wild

rose-trees and of straggling plants, as well as of sickly-looking

vegetables, which sprang up half-withered from the sandy soil, went

down as far as the bank of the river.

From the house, one could hear the monotonous sound of the water, which

at one time rushed yellow and impetuous towards the sea, and then again

flowed back, as if driven by some invisible force towards the town which

could be seen in the distance, with its pointed spires, its ramparts, and

its ships at anchor by the side of the quay, and its citadel built on the

top of a hill.

A strong smell of the sea came from the offing, mingled with the resinous

smell of pine logs, and of the large nets with great pieces of sea-weed

clinging to them, which were drying in the sun.

Why had Monsieur d'Etchegorry, who did not like the country, who was of a

sociable rather than of a solitary nature, for he never walked alone, but

kept step with the retired officers who lived there, and frequently

played game after game at _piquet_ at the _café_, when he was in town,

buried himself in such a solitary place, by the side of a dusty road at

Boucau, a village close to the town, where on Sundays the soldiers took

off their tunics, and sat in their shirt sleeves in the public-houses,

drank the thin wine of the country, and teased the girls.

What secret reasons had he for selling the mansion which he had possessed

at Bayonne, close to the bishop's palace, and condemning his daughter, a

girl of nineteen, to such a dull, listless, solitary life; counting the

minutes far from everybody, as if she had been a nun, no one knew, but

most people said that he had lost immense sums in gambling, and had

wasted his fortune and ruined his credit in doubtful speculations. They

wondered whether he still regretted the tender, sweet woman whom he had

lost, who died one evening, after years of suffering, like a church lamp

whose oil has been consumed to the last drop. Was he seeking for perfect

oblivion, for that soothing repose in nature, in which a man becomes

enervated, and which envelopes him like a moist, warm cloth? How could he

be satisfied with such an existence? With the bad cooking, and the

careless, untidy ways of a char-woman, and with the shabby clothes, that

were discolored by use!

His numerous relations had been anxious about it at first, and had tried

to cure him of his apparent hypochondria, and to persuade him to employ

himself with something, but as he was obstinate, avoided them, rejected

their friendly offers with arrogance and self-sufficiency, even his

brothers had abandoned him, and almost renounced him. All their affection

had been transferred to the poor child who shared his solitude, and who

endured all that wretchedness with the resignation of a saint. Thanks to

them, she had a few gleams of pleasure in their exile, and was not

dressed like a beggar girl, but received invitations, and appeared here

and there at some ball, concert or tennis party, and the girl was

extremely grateful to them for it all, although she would much have

preferred that nobody should have held out a helping hand to her, but

have left her to her dull life, without any day dreams or homesickness,

so that she might grow used to her lot, and day by day lose all that

remained to her of her pride of race and of her youth.

With her sensitive and proud mind, she felt that she was treated exactly

like others were in society, that people showed her either too much pity

or too much indifference, that they knew all about her side life of

undeserved poverty, and that in the folds of her muslin dress they could

smell the mustiness of her home. If she was animated, or buoyed up with

secret hopes in her heart, if there was a smile on her lips, and her eyes

were bright when she went out at the gate, and the horses carried her off

to town at a rapid trot, she was all the more low-spirited and tearful

when she returned home, and she used to shut herself up in her room and

find fault with her destiny, declared to herself that she would imitate

her father, show relations and friends politely out, with a passive and

resigned gesture, and make herself so unpleasant and embarrassing that

they would grow tired of it in the end, leave long intervals between

their visits, and finally would not come to see her at all, but would

turn away from her, as if from a hospital where incurable patients were

dying.

Nevertheless, the older the count grew, the more the supplies in the

small country house diminished, and the more painful and harder existence

became. If a morsel of bread was left uneaten on the table, if an

unexpected dish was served up at table, if she put a piece of ribbon into

her hair, he used to heap violent, spiteful reproaches on her, torrents

of rage which defile the mouth, and violent threats like those of a

madman, who is tormented by some fixed idea. Monsieur d'Etchegorry had

dismissed the servant and engaged a char-woman, whom he intended to pay,

merely by small sums on account, and he used to go to market with a

basket on his arm.

He locked up every morsel of food, used to count the lumps of sugar and

charcoal, and bolted himself in all day long in a room that was larger

than the rest, and which for a long time had served as a drawing-room.

At times he would be rather more gentle, as if he were troubled by vague

thoughts, and used to say to his daughter, in an agonized voice, and

trembling all over: "You will never ask me for any accounts, I

say?... You will never demand your mother's fortune?"

She always gave him the required promise, did not worry him with any

questions, nor give vent to any complaints, and thinking of her cousins,

who would have good dowries, who were growing up happily and peacefully,

amidst careful and affectionate surroundings and beautiful old furniture,

who were certain to be loved, and to get married some day, and she asked

herself why fate was so cruel to some, and so kind to others, and what

she had done to deserve such disfavor.

Marie-des-Anges d'Etchegorry, without being absolutely pretty, possessed

all the charm of her age, and everybody liked her. She was as tall and

slim as a lily, with beautiful, fine, soft fair hair, eyes of a dark,

undecided color, which reminded one of those springs in the depths of the

forests, in which a ray of the sun is but rarely reflected--mirrors which

changed now to violet, then to the color of leaves, but most frequently

of a velvety blackness--and her whole being exhaled a freshness of

childhood, and something that could not be described, but which was

pleasant, wholesome and frank.

She lived on through a long course of years, growing old, faithful to

the man who might have given her his name, honorable, having resisted

temptations and snares, worthy of the motto which used to be engraved

on the tombs of Roman matrons before the Cæsars: "_She spun wool, and

kept at home_."

When she was just twenty-one, Marie-des-Anges fell in love, and her

beautiful, dark, restless eyes for the first time became illuminated with

a look of dreamy happiness. For someone seemed to have noticed her; he

waltzed with her more frequently than he did with the other girls, spoke

to her in a low voice, dangled at her petticoats, and discomposed her so

much, that she flushed deeply as soon as she heard the sound of his

voice.

His name was André de Gèdrè; he had just returned from Sénégal, where

after several months of daily fighting in the desert, he had won his

sub-lieutenant's epaulets.

With his thin, surnburnt, yellow face, looking awkward in his tight coat,

in which his broad shoulders could not distend themselves comfortably,

and in which his arms, which had formerly been used to cut right and

left, were cramped in their tight sleeves, he looked like one of those

pirates of old, who used to scour the seas, pillaging, killing, hanging

their prisoners to the yard-arms, who were ready to engage a whole fleet,

and who returned to the port laden with booty, and occasionally with

waifs and strays picked up at sea.

He belonged to a race of buccaneers or of heroes, according to the breeze

which swelled his sails and carried him North or South. Over head and

ears in debt, reduced to discounting doubtful legacies, to gambling at

Casinos, and to mortgaging the few acres of land that he had remaining at

much below their value, he nevertheless managed to make a pretty good

figure in his hand to mouth existence; he never gave in, never showed the

blows that he had received, and waited for the last struggle in a state

of blissful inactivity, while he sought for renewed strength and

philosophy from the caressing lips of women.

Marie-des-Anges seemed to him to be a toy which he could do with as

he liked. She had the flavor of unripe fruit; left to herself, and

sentimental as she was, she would only offer a very brief resistance to

his attacks, and would soon yield to his will, and when he was tired of

her and threw her off, she would bow to the inevitable, and would not

worry him with violent scenes, nor stand in his way, with threats on her

lips. And so he was kind, and used to wheedle her, and by degrees

enveloped her in the meshes of a net, which continually hemmed her in

closer and closer. He gained entire possession of her heart and

confidence, and without expressing any wish or making any promises,

managed so to establish his influence over her, that she did nothing

but what he wished.

Long before Monsieur de Gèdrè had addressed any passionate words to her,

or any avowal which immediately introduces warmth and danger into a

flirtation, Marie-des-Anges had betrayed herself with the candor of a

little girl, who does not think she is doing any wrong, and cannot hide

what she thinks, what she is dreaming about, and the tenderness which

lies hidden at the bottom of her heart, and she no longer felt that

horror of life which had formerly tortured her. She no longer felt

herself alone, as she had done formerly--so alone, so lost, even among

her own people, that everything had become indifferent to her.

It was very pleasant and soothing to love and to think that she was

loved, to have a furtive and secret understanding with another heart,

to imagine that he was thinking of her at the same time that she was

thinking of him, to shelter herself timidly under his protection, to

feel more unhappy each time she left him, and to experience greater

happiness every time they met.

She wrote him long letters, which she did not venture to send him when

they were written, for she was timid and feared that he would make fun of

them, and she sang the whole day through, like a lark that is intoxicated

with the sun, so that Monsieur d'Etchegorry scarcely recognized her any

longer.

Soon they made appointments together in some secluded spot, meeting for a

few minutes in the aisles of the cathedral and behind the ramparts, or on

the promenade of the _Alleés-Marinès_, which was always dark, on account

of the dense foliage.

And at last, one evening in June, when the sky was so studded with stars

that it might have been taken for a triumphal route of some sovereign,

strewn with precious stones and rare flowers, Monsieur de Gèdrè went into

the large, neglected garden.

Marie-des-Anges was waiting for him in a somber walk with witch elms on

either side and listening for the least noise, looking at the closed

windows of the house, and nearly fainting, as much from fear as from

happiness. They spoke in a low voice. She was close to him and he must

have heard the beating of her heart, into which he had cast the first

seeds of love, and he put his arms around her and clasped her gently, as

if she had been some little bird that he was afraid of hurting, but which

he did not wish to allow to escape.

She no longer knew what she was doing, but was in a state of entire

intense, supreme happiness. She shivered, and yet something burning

seemed to permeate her whole being under her skin, from the nape of her

neck to her feet, like a stream of burning spirit, and she would not have

had the strength to disengage herself or to take a step forward, so she

leant her head instinctively and very tenderly against André's shoulder.

He kissed her hair, touched her forehead with his lips, and at last put

them against hers. The girl felt as if she were going to die, and

remained inert and motionless, with her eyes full of tears.

He came nearly every evening for two months. She had not the courage to

repel him and to speak to him seriously of the future, and could not

understand why he had not yet asked her father for her hand and had not

fulfilled his former promises, until, one Sunday, as she was coming from

High Mass, walking on before her cousins, Marie-des-Anges heard the

following words, from a group in which André was standing, and he was

the speaker: "Oh! no," he said, "you are altogether mistaken; I should

never do anything so foolish.... One does not marry a girl without a

halfpenny; one takes her for one's mistress."

The unhappy girl mastered her feelings, went down the steps of the porch

quite steadily, but feeling utterly crushed, as if by the news of some

terrible disaster, and joined the servant, who was waiting for her, to

accompany her back to Boucau. The effects of what she had heard were to

give her a serious illness and for some time she hovered between life

and death, consumed and wasted by a violent fever; and when after a

fortnight's suffering, she grew convalescent, and looked at herself

in the glass, she recoiled, as if she had been face to face with an

apparition, for there was nothing left of her former self.

Her eyes were dull, her cheeks pale and hollow, and there were white

streaks in her silky, light hair. Why had she not succumbed to her

illness? Why had destiny reserved her for such a trial, and increased her

unhappy lot, that of disappointed hopes, thus? But when that rebellious

feeling was over, she accepted her cross, fell into a state of ardent

devotion and became crystallized in the torpor of an old woman, tried

with all her might to rid her memory of any recollections that had become

incrusted in it, and to put a thick black veil between herself and the

past.

She never walked in the garden now, and never went to Bayonne, and she

would have liked to have choked herself, and to have beaten herself,

when, in spite of her efforts and of her will, she remembered her lost

happiness, and when some sensual feeling and a longing for past pleasures

agitated her body afresh.

That lasted for four years, which finished her and altogether destroyed

her good looks and she had the figure and the appearance of an old maid,

when her father suddenly died, just as he was going to sit down to

dinner; and when the lawyer, who was summoned immediately, had ransacked

the cupboards and drawers, discovered a mass of securities, of

bank-notes, and of gold, which Count d'Etchegorry, who was eaten up

with avarice, had amassed eagerly, and hidden away, it was found that

Mademoiselle Marie-des-Anges, who was his sole heiress, possessed an

income of fifty thousand francs.

She received the news without any emotion, for of what use was such a

fortune to her now, and what should she do with it? Her eyes, alas! had

been too much opened by all the tears that had fallen from them for her

to delude herself with visionary hopes, and her heart had been too

cruelly wounded to warm itself by lying illusions, and she was seized by

melancholy when she thought that in future she would be coveted, she who

had been kept at arm's length, as if she had been a leper; that men would

come after her money with odious impatience, that now that she was worn

out and ugly, tired of everything and everybody, she would most certainly

have plenty of suitors to refuse, and that perhaps he would come back to

her, attracted by that amount of money, like a hawk hovering over its

prey, that he would try to re-kindle the dead cinders, to revive some

spark in them and to obtain pardon for his cowardice.

Oh! With what bitter pleasure she could have thrown those millions into

the road to the ragged beggars, or scattered them about like manna to all

who were suffering and dying of hunger, and who had neither roof nor

hearth! She naturally soon became the target at which everyone aimed, the

goal for which all those who had formerly disdained her most, now eagerly

tried.

Monsieur de Gèdrè was not long before he was in the ranks of her suitors,

as she had foreseen, and caused her that last heart-burning of seeing him

humble, kneeling at her feet, acting a comedy, trying every means of

overcoming her resistance, and to regain possession of that heart, which

was closed against him, after having been entirely his, in all its

adorable virginity.

And Marie-des-Anges had loved him so deeply that his letters in which he

recalled the past, and stirred up all the recollections of their love,

their kisses, and their dreams, softened her in spite of herself, and

came across her profound, incurable sadness, like a factitious light, the

reflection of a bonfire, which, from a distance, illuminates a prison

cell for a moment.

He was poor himself and had not wished, so he said, to drag her into his

life of privation and shifts, and she thought to herself that perhaps he

had been right; and thus sensibly, like a mother or an elder sister, who

has become indulgent and wishes to close her eyes and her ears against

everything, to forgive again, to forgive always, she excused him, and

tried to remember nothing but those months of tenderness and of ecstacy,

those months of happiness, and that he had been the first, the only man

who, in the course of her unhappy, wasted life, had given her a moment's

peace, had caused her to dream, and had made her happy, and youthful and

loving.

He had been charitable towards her and she would be so a hundred fold

towards him; and so she grew happy again, when she said to herself that

she would be his benefactress, that even with his hard heart, he could

not accept the sacrifice from a woman, who, like so many others, might

have returned him evil for evil, but who preferred to be kind and

maternal, after having been in love with him, without some feelings

of gratitude and emotion.

And that resolution transfigured her, restored to her temporarily,

something of her youth, which had so soon fled away, and a poor, heroic

saint amongst all the saints, she took refuge in a Carmelite convent, so

as to escape from this returning temptation, and to bequeath everything

of which she could lawfully dispose, to Monsieur de Gèdrè.

THE AWAKENING

During the three years that she had been married, she had not left the

_Val de Ciré_, where her husband possessed two cotton-mills. She led a

quiet life, and although she had no children, she was quite happy in her

house among the trees, which the work-people called the _château_.

Although Monsieur Vasseur was considerably older than she was, he was

very kind. She loved him, and no guilty thought had ever entered her

mind.

Her mother came and spent every summer at Ciré, and then returned to

Paris for the winter, as soon as the leaves began to fall.

Jeanne coughed a little every autumn, for the narrow valley through which

the river wound, grew foggy for five months. First of all, slight mists

hung over the meadows, making all the low-lying ground look like a large

pond, out of which the roof of the houses rose.

Then that white vapor, which rose like a tide, enveloped everything, and

turned the valley into a land of phantoms, through which men moved about

like ghosts, without recognizing each other ten yards off, and the trees,

wreathed in mist, and dripping with moisture, rose up through it.

But the people who went along the neighboring hills, and who looked down

upon the deep, white depression of the valley, saw the two huge chimneys

of Monsieur Vasseur's factories, rising above the mist below. Day and

night they vomited forth two long trails of black smoke, and that alone

indicated that people were living in that hollow, which looked as if it

were filled with a cloud of cotton.

That year, when October came, the medical men advised the young woman

to go and spend the winter in Paris with her mother, as the air of the

valley was dangerous for her weak chest, and she went. For a month or so,

she thought continually of the house which she had left, to which she

seemed rooted, and whose well-known furniture and quiet ways she loved

so much, but by degrees she grew accustomed to her new life, and got to

liking entertainments, dinners and evening parties, and balls.

Till then, she had retained her girlish manners, she had been undecided

and rather sluggish; she walked languidly, and had a tired smile, but now

she became animated and merry, and was always ready for pleasure. Men

paid her marked attentions, and she was amused at their talk, and made

fun of their gallantries, as she felt sure that she could resist them,

for she was rather disgusted with love, from what she had learned of it

in marriage.

The idea of giving up her body to the coarse caresses of such bearded

creatures, made her laugh with pity, and shudder a little with ignorance.

She asked herself how women could consent to those degrading contacts

with strangers, as they were already obliged to endure them with their

legitimate husbands. She would have loved her husband much more if they

had lived together like two friends, and had restricted themselves to

chaste kisses, which are the caresses of the soul.

But she was much amused by their compliments, by the desire which showed

itself in their eyes, and which she did not share, by their declarations

of love, which they whispered into her ear as they were returning to the

drawing-room after some grand dinner, by their words, which were murmured

so low that she almost had to guess them, and which left her blood quite

cool, and her heart untouched, while they gratified her unconscious

coquetry, while they kindled a flame of pleasure within her, and while

they made her lips open, her eyes glow bright, and her woman's heart,

to which homage was due, quiver with delight.

She was fond of those _tête-à-têtes_ when it was getting dusk, when a man

grows pressing, stammers, trembles and falls on his knees. It was a

delicious and new pleasure to her to know that they felt that passion

which left her quite unmoved, to say _no_, by a shake of the head, and

with her lips, to withdraw her hands, to get up and calmly ring for

lights, and to see the man who had been trembling at her feet, get up,

confused and furious when he heard the footman coming.

She often had a hard laugh, which froze the most burning words, and said

harsh things, which fell like a jet of icy water on the most ardent

protestations, while the intonations of her voice were enough to make any

man who really loved her, kill himself, and there were two especially who

made obstinate love to her, although they did not at all resemble one

another.

One of them, Paul Péronel, was a tall man of the world, gallant and

enterprising, a man who was accustomed to successful love affairs, and

who knew how to wait, and when to seize his opportunity.

The other, Monsieur d'Avancelle, quivered when he came near her, scarcely

ventured to express his love, but followed her like a shadow, and gave

utterance to his hopeless desire by distracted looks, and the assiduity

of his attentions to her, and she made him a kind of slave who followed

her steps, and whom she treated as if he had been her servant.

She would have been much amused if anybody had told her that she would

love him, and yet she did love him, after a singular fashion. As she saw

him continually, she had grown accustomed to his voice, to his gestures,

and to his manner, as one grows accustomed to those with whom one meets

continually. Often his face haunted her in her dreams, and she saw him

as he really was; gentle, delicate in all his actions, humble, but

passionately in love, and she awoke full of those dreams, fancying that

she still heard him, and felt him near her, until one night (most likely

she was feverish), she saw herself alone with him in a small wood, where

they were both of them sitting on the grass. He was saying charming

things to her, while he pressed and kissed her hands.

She could feel the warmth of his skin and of his breath, and she was

stroking his hair, in a very natural manner.

We are quite different in our dreams to what we are in real life. She

felt full of love for him, full of calm and deep love, and was happy in

stroking his forehead and in holding him against her. Gradually he put

his arms round her, kissed her eyes and her cheeks without her attempting

to get away from him; their lips met, and she yielded.

When she saw him again, unconscious of the agitation that he had caused

her, she felt that she grew red, and while he was telling her of his

love, she was continually recalling to mind their previous meeting,

without being able to get rid of the recollection.

She loved him, loved him with refined tenderness, which arose chiefly

from the remembrance of her dream, although she dreaded the

accomplishment of the desires which had arisen in her mind.

At last, he perceived it, and then she told him everything, even to the

dread of his kisses, and she made him swear that he would respect her,

and he did so. They spent long hours of transcendental love together,

during which their souls alone embraced, and when they separated, they

were enervated, weak and feverish.

Sometimes their lips met, and with closed eyes they reveled in that long,

yet chaste caress; she felt, however, that she could not resist much

longer, and as she did not wish to yield, she wrote and told her husband

that she wanted to come to him, and to return to her tranquil, solitary

life. But in reply, he wrote her a very kind letter, and strongly advised

her not to return in the middle of the winter, and so expose herself to a

sudden change of climate, and to the icy mists of the valley, and she was

thunderstruck, and angry with that confiding man, who did not guess, who

did not understand, the struggles of her heart.

February was a warm, bright month, and although she now avoided being

alone with Monsieur Avancelle, she sometimes accepted his invitation to

drive round the lake in the _Bois de Boulogne_ with him, when it was

dusk.

On one of those evenings, it was so warm that it seemed as if the sap in

every tree and plant were rising. Their cab was going at a walk; it was

growing dusk, and they were sitting close together, holding each others'

hands, and she said to herself:

"It is all over, I am lost!" for she felt her desires rising in her

again, the imperious want for that supreme embrace, which she had

undergone in her dream. Every moment their lips sought each other, clung

together and separated, only to meet again immediately.

He did not venture to go into the house with her, but left her at her

door, more in love with him than ever, and half fainting.

Monsieur Paul Péronel was waiting for her in the little drawing-room,

without a light, and when he shook hands with her, he felt how feverish

she was. He began to talk in a low, tender voice, lulling her worn-out

mind with the charm of amorous words.

She listened to him without replying, for she was thinking of the other;

she thought she was listening to the other, and thought she felt him

leaning against her, in a kind of hallucination. She saw only him, and

did not remember that any other man existed on earth, and when her ears

trembled at those three syllables: "I love you," it was he, the other

man, who uttered them, who kissed her hands, who strained her to his

breast, like the other had done shortly before in the cab. It was he

who pressed victorious kisses on her lips, it was his lips, it was he

whom she held in her arms and embraced, whom she was calling to, with all

the longings of her heart, with all the over-wrought ardor of her body.

When she awoke from her dream, she uttered a terrible cry. Captain

Fracasse was kneeling by her, and thanking her, passionately, while he

covered her disheveled hair with kisses, and she almost screamed out:

"Go away! go away! go away!"

And as he did not understand what she meant, and tried to put his arm

round her waist again, she writhed, as she stammered out:

"You are a wretch, and I hate you! Go away! go away!" And he got up in

great surprise, took up his hat, and went.

The next day she returned to _Val de Ciré_, and her husband, who had not

expected her for some time, blamed her for a freak.

"I could not live away from you any longer," she said.

He found her altered in character, and sadder than formerly, but when he

said to her:

"What is the matter with you? You seem unhappy. What do you want?" she

replied:

"Nothing. Happiness exists only in our dreams, in this world."

Avancelle came to see her the next summer, and she received him without

any emotion, and without regret, for she suddenly perceived that she had

never loved him, except in a dream, from which Paul Péronel had brutally

roused her.

But the young man, who still adored her, thought as he returned to Paris:

"Women are really very strange, complicated and inexplicable beings."

IN THE SPRING

When the first fine spring days come, and the earth awakes and assumes

its garment of verdure, when the perfumed warmth of the air blows on our

faces and fills our lungs, and even appears to penetrate to our heart, we

feel vague longings for undefined happiness, a wish to run, to walk at

random, to inhale the spring. As the winter had been very severe the year

before, this longing assumed an intoxicating feeling in May; it was like

a superabundance of sap.

Well, one morning on waking, I saw from my window the blue sky glowing in

the sun above the neighboring houses. The canaries hanging in the windows

were singing loudly, and so were the servants on every floor; a cheerful

noise rose up from the streets, and I went out, with my spirits as bright

as the day was, to go--I did not exactly know where. Everybody I met

seemed to be smiling; an air of happiness appeared to pervade everything,

in the warm light of returning spring. One might almost have said that a

breeze of love was blowing through the city, and the young women whom I

saw in the streets in their morning toilettes, in the depths of whose

eyes there lurked a hidden tenderness, and who walked with languid grace,

filled my heart with agitation.

Without knowing how or why, I found myself on the banks of the Seine.

Steamboats were starting for Suresnes, and suddenly I was seized by an

unconquerable wish to have a walk through the woods. The deck of the

_mouche_[1] was crowded with passengers, for the sun in early spring

draws you out of the house, in spite of yourself, and everybody moves

about, goes and comes, and talks to his neighbor.

[Footnote 1: Fly.]

I had a female neighbor; a little work-girl, no doubt, who possessed

the true Parisian charm; a little head, with light curly hair, which

looked like frizzed light, came down to her ears and descended to the

nape of her neck, danced in the wind, and then became such fine, such

light-colored down, that one could scarcely see it, but on which one

felt an irresistible desire to impress a shower of kisses.

Under the magnetism of my looks, she turned her head towards me, and then

immediately looked down, while a slight fold, which looked as if she were

ready to break out into a smile, also showed that fine, silky, pale down

which the sun was gilding a little.

The calm river grew wider; the atmosphere was warm and perfectly still,

but a murmur of life seemed to fill all space.

My neighbor raised her eyes again, and, this time, as I was still looking

at her, she smiled, decidedly. She was charming like that, and in her

passing glance, I saw a thousand things, which I had hitherto been

ignorant of, for I saw unknown depths, all the charm of tenderness, all

the poetry which we dream of, all the happiness which we are continually

in search of, in it. I felt an insane longing to open my arms and to

carry her off somewhere, so as to whisper the sweet music of words of

love into her ears.

I was just going to speak to her, when somebody touched me on the

shoulder, and when I turned round in some surprise, I saw an ordinary

looking man, who was neither young nor old, and who gazed at me sadly:

"I should like to speak to you," he said.

I made a grimace, which he no doubt saw, for he added:

"It is a matter of importance."

I got up, therefore, and followed him to the other end of the boat, and

then he said:

"Monsieur, when winter comes, with its cold, wet and snowy weather,

your doctor says to you constantly: 'Keep your feet warm, guard against

chills, colds, bronchitis, rheumatism and pleurisy.'

"Then you are very careful, you wear flannel, a heavy great coat and

thick shoes, but all this does not prevent you from passing two months in

bed. But when spring returns, with its leaves and flowers, its warm, soft

breezes, and its smell of the fields, which cause you vague disquiet and

causeless emotion, nobody says to you:

"Monsieur, beware of love! It is lying in ambush everywhere; it is

watching for you at every corner; all its snares are laid, all its

weapons are sharpened, all its guiles are prepared! Beware of

love.... Beware of love. It is more dangerous than brandy, bronchitis,

or pleurisy! It never forgives, and makes everybody commit irreparable

follies."

"Yes, Monsieur, I say that the French Government ought to put large

public notices on the walls, with these words: '_Return of Spring. French

citizens, beware of love!_' just as they put: '_Beware of paint._'

"However, as the government will not do this, I must supply its place,

and I say to you: 'Beware of love,' for it is just going to seize you,

and it is my duty to inform you of it, just as in Russia they inform

anyone that his nose is frozen."

I was much astonished at this individual, and assuming a dignified

manner, I said:

"Really, Monsieur, you appear to me to be interfering in a matter which

is no business of yours."

He made an abrupt movement, and replied:

"Ah! Monsieur! Monsieur! If I see that a man is in danger of being

drowned at a dangerous spot, ought I to let him perish? So just listen to

my story, and you will see why I ventured to speak to you like this.

"It was about this time last year that it occurred. But, first of all, I

must tell you that I am a clerk in the Admirality, where our chiefs, the

commissioners, take their gold lace and quill-driving officers seriously,

and treat us like fore-top men on board a ship. Well, from my office I

could see a small bit of blue sky and the swallows, and I felt inclined

to dance among my portfolios.

"My yearning for freedom grew so intense, that, in spite of my

repugnance, I went to see my chief, who was a short, bad-tempered man,

who was always in a rage. When I told him that I was not well, he looked

at me, and said: 'I do not believe it, Monsieur, but be off with you! Do

you think that any office can go on, with clerks like you?' I started at

once, and went down the Seine. It was a day like this, and I took the

_mouche_, to go as far as Saint Cloud. Ah! What a good thing it would

have been if my chief had refused me permission to leave the office for

the day!

"I seemed to myself to expand in the sun. I loved it all; the steamer,

the river, the trees, the houses, my fellow-passengers, everything. I

felt inclined to kiss something, no matter what; it was love, laying its

snare. Presently, at the Trocadéro, a girl, with a small parcel in her

hand, came on board and sat down opposite to me. She was certainly

pretty; but it is surprising, Monsieur, how much prettier women seem to

us when it is fine, at the beginning of the spring. Then they have an

intoxicating charm, something quite peculiar about them. It is just like

drinking wine after the cheese.

"I looked at her, and she also looked at me, but only occasionally, like

that girl did at you, just now; but at last, by dint of looking at each

other constantly, it seemed to me that we knew each other well enough to

enter into conversation, and I spoke to her, and she replied. She was

decidedly pretty and nice, and she intoxicated me, Monsieur!

"She got out at Saint-Cloud, and I followed her. She went and delivered

her parcel, and when she returned, the boat had just started. I walked by

her side, and the warmth of the air made us both sigh. 'It would be very

nice in the woods,' I said. 'Indeed, it would!' she replied. 'Shall we go

there for a walk, Mademoiselle?'

"She gave me a quick, upward look, as if to see exactly what I was like,

and then, after a little hesitation, she accepted my proposal, and soon

we were there, walking side by side. Under the foliage, which was still

rather thin, the tall, thick, bright, green grass, was inundated by the

sun, and full of small insects that also made love to one another, and

birds were singing in all directions. My companion began to jump and to

run, intoxicated by the air, and the smell of the country, and I ran and

jumped behind her. How stupid we are at times, Monsieur!

"Then she wildly sang a thousand things; opera airs, and the song of

_Musette_! The song of _Musette_! How poetical it seemed to me, then! I

almost cried over it. Ah! Those silly songs make us lose our heads; and,

believe me, never marry a woman who sings in the country, especially if

she sings the song of _Musette_!

"She soon grew tired, and sat down on a grassy slope, and I sat down at

her feet, and took her hands, her little hands, that were so marked with

the needle, and that moved me. I said to myself: 'These are the sacred

marks of toil.' Oh! Monsieur, do you know what those sacred marks of

labor mean? They mean all the gossip of the workroom, the whispered

blackguardism, the mind soiled by all the filth that is talked; they mean

lost chastity, foolish chatter, all the wretchedness of daily bad habits,

all the narrowness of ideas which belongs to women of the lower orders,

united in the girl whose sacred fingers bear _the sacred marks of toil_.

"Then we looked into each other's eyes for a long while. Oh! What power a

woman's eye has! How it agitates us, how it invades our very being, takes

possession of us, and dominates us. How profound it seems, how full of

infinite promises! People call that looking into each other's souls! Oh!

Monsieur, what humbug! If we could see into each other's souls, we should

be more careful of what we did. However, I was caught, and crazy after

her, and tried to take her into my arms, but she said: 'Paws off!' Then I

knelt down, and opened my heart to her, and poured out all the affection

that was suffocating me, on her knees. She seemed surprised at my change

of manner, and gave me a sidelong glance, as if to say: 'Ah! So that is

the way women make a fool of you, old fellow! Very well, we will see.

In love, Monsieur, we are all artists, and women are the dealers.'

"No doubt I could have had her, and I saw my own stupidity later, but

what I wanted was not a woman's person; it was love, it was the ideal.

I was sentimental, when I ought to have been using my time to a better

purpose.

"As soon as she had had enough of my declarations of affection, she got

up, and we returned to Saint-Cloud, and I did not leave her until we got

to Paris; but she had looked so sad as we were returning, that at last I

asked her what was the matter. 'I am thinking,' she replied, 'that this

has been one of those days of which we have but few in life.' And my

heart beat so that it felt as if it would break my ribs.

"I saw her on the following Sunday, and the next Sunday, and every

Sunday. I took her to Bougival, Saint-Germain, Maisons-Lafitte, Poissy;

to every suburban resort of lovers.

"The little jade, in turn, pretended to love me, until, at last, I

altogether lost my head, and three months later I married her.

"What can you expect, Monsieur, when a man is a clerk, living alone,

without any relations, or anyone to advise him? One says to oneself: 'How

sweet life would be with a wife!'

"And so one gets married, and she calls you names from morning till

night, understands nothing, knows nothing, chatters continually, sings

the song of _Musette_ at the top of her voice (oh! that song of

_Musette_, how tired one gets of it!); quarrels with the charcoal dealer,

tells the porter of all her domestic details, confides all the secrets of

her bedroom to the neighbor's servant, discusses her husband with the

trades-people, and has her head so stuffed with such stupid stories, with

such idiotic superstitions, with such extraordinary ideas and such

monstrous prejudices, that I--for what I have said, applies more

particularly to myself--shed tears of discouragement every time I

talked to her."

He stopped, as he was rather out of breath, and very much moved, and I

looked at him, for I felt pity for this poor, artless devil, and I was

just going to give him some sort of answer, when the boat stopped. We

were at Saint-Cloud.

The little woman who had so taken my fancy, got up in order to land. She

passed close to me, and gave me a side glance and a furtive smile; one of

those smiles that drive you mad; then she jumped on the landing-stage.

I sprang forward to follow her, but my neighbor laid hold of my arm, I

shook myself loose, however, whereupon he seized the skirt of my coat,

and pulled me back, exclaiming:

"You shall not go! You shall not go!" in such a loud voice, that

everybody turned round and laughed, and I remained standing motionless

and furious, but without venturing to face scandal and ridicule, and the

steamboat started.

The little woman on the landing-stage looked at me as I went off with

an air of disappointment, while my persecutor rubbed his hands, and

whispered to me:

"I have done you a great service, you must acknowledge."

THE JENNET

Every time he held an inspection on the review ground, General Daumont de

Croisailles was sure of a small success, and of receiving a whole packet

of letters from women the next day.

Some were almost illegible, scribbled on paper with a love emblem at the

top, by some sentimental milliner; the others ardent, as if saturated

with curry, letters which excited him, and suggested the delights of

kisses to him.

Among them, also, there were some which evidently came from a woman of

the world, who was tired of her monotonous life, had lost her head, and

let her pen run on, without exactly knowing what she was writing, with

those mistakes in spelling here and there which seemed to be in unison

with the disordered beating of her heart.

He certainly looked magnificent on horseback; there was something of the

fighter, something bold and mettlesome about him, _a valiant look_, as

our grandmothers used to say, when they threw themselves into the arms

of the conquerors, between two campaigns, though the same conquerors had

loud, rough voices, even when they were making love, as they had to

dominate the noise of the firing, and violent gestures, as if they were

using their swords and issuing orders, who did not waste time over

useless refinements, and in squandering the precious hours which were

counted so avariciously, in minor caresses, but sounded the charge

immediately, and made the assault, without meeting with any more

resistance than they did from a redoubt.

As soon as he appeared, preceded by dragoons, with his sword in his hand,

amidst the clatter of hoofs and jingle of scabbards and bridles, while

plumes waved and uniforms glistened in the sun, a little in front of his

staff, sitting perfectly upright in the saddle, and with his cocked hat

with its black plumes, slightly on one side, the surging crowd, which was

kept in check by the police officers, cheered him as if he had been some

popular minister, whose journey had been given notice of beforehand by

posters and proclamations.

That tumult of strident voices that went from one end of the great square

to the other, which was prolonged like the sound of the rising tide,

which beats against the shore with ceaseless noise, that rattle of

rifles, and the sound of the music that alternated with blasts of the

trumpets all along the line, made the General's heart swell with

unspeakable pride.

He attudinized in spite of himself, and thought of nothing but

ostentation, and of being noticed. He continually touched his horse with

his spurs, and worried it, so as to make it appear restive, and to prance

and rear, to champ its bit, and to cover it with foam, and then he would

continue his inspection, galloping from regiment to regiment with a

satisfied smile, while the good old infantry captains, sitting on their

thin Arab horses, with their toes well stuck out, said to one another:

"I should not like to have to ride a confounded, restive brute like that,

I know!"

But the General's aide-de-camp, little Jacques de Montboron, could easily

have reassured them, for he knew those famous thoroughbreds, as he had

had to break them in, and had received a thousand trifling instructions

about them.

They were generally more or less spavined brutes, which he had bought at

Tattersall's auctions for a ridiculous price, and so quiet and well in

hand that they might have been held with a silk thread, but with a good

shape, bright eyes, and coats that glistened like silk. They seemed to

know their part, and stepped out, pranced and reared, and made way for

themselves, as if they had just come out of the riding-school at Saumur.

That was his daily task, his obligatory service.

He broke them in, one after another, and transformed them into veritable

mechanical horses, accustomed them to bear the noise of trumpets and

drums, and of firing, without starting, tired them out by long rides the

evening before every review, and bit his lips to prevent himself from

laughing when people declared that General Daumont de Croisailles was

a first-rate rider, who was really fond of danger.

A rider! That was almost like writing history! But the aide-de-camp

discreetly kept up the illusion, outdid the others in flattery, and

related unheard-of feats of the General's horsemanship.

And, after all, breaking in horses was not more irksome than carrying on

a monotonous and dull correspondence about the buttons on the gaiters, or

than thinking over projects of mobilization, or than going through

accounts in which he lost himself like in a labyrinth. He had not, from

the very first day that he entered the military academy at Saint-Cyr,

learned that sentence which begins the rules of the _Interior Service_,

in vain:

"As discipline constitutes the principal strength of an army, it is very

important for every superior to obtain absolute respect, and instant

obedience from his inferiors."

He did not resist, but accustomed himself thus to become a sort of

Monsieur Loyal, spoke to his chief in the most flattering manner, and

reckoned on being promoted over the heads of his fellow officers.

General Daumont de Croisailles was not married and did not intend to

disturb the tranquillity of his bachelor life as long as he lived, for

he loved all women, whether they were dark, fair or red-haired, too

passionately to love only one, who would grow old, and worry him with

useless complaints.

Gallant, as they used to be called in the good old days, he kissed the

hands of those women who refused him their lips, and as he did not wish

to compromise his dignity, and be the talk of the town, he had rented a

small house just outside it.

It was close to the canal, in a quiet street with courtyards and shady

gardens, and as nothing is less amusing than the racket of jealous

husbands, or the brawling of excited women who are disputing or raising

their voices in lamentation, and as it is always necessary to foresee

some unfortunate incident or other in the amorous life, some unlucky

mishap, some absurdly imprudent action, some forgotten love appointment,

the house had five different doors.

So discreet, that he reassured even the most timid, and certainly not

given to melancholy, he understood extremely well how to vary his kisses

and his ways of proceeding; how to work on women's feelings, and to

overcome their scruples, to obtain a hold over them through their

curiosity to learn something new, by the temptation of a comfortable,

well-furnished, warm room, that was fragrant with flowers, and where

a little supper was already served as a prologue to the entertainment.

His female pupils would certainly have deserved the first prize in a

love competition.

So men mistrusted that ancient Lovelace as if he had been the plague,

when they had plucked some rare and delicious fruit, and had sketched out

some charming adventure, for he always managed to discover the weak spot,

and to penetrate into the place.

To some, he held out the lure of debauch without any danger attached

to it, the desire of finishing their amorous education, of reveling in

perverted enjoyment, and to others he held out the irresistible argument

that seduced Danae, that of gold.

Others, again, were attracted by his cocked hat and feathers, and by the

conceited hope of seeing him at their knees, of throwing their arms round

him as if he had been an ordinary lover, although he was a general who

rode so imposingly, who was covered with decorations, and to whom all the

regiments presented arms simultaneously, the chief whose orders could not

be commented on or disputed, and who had such a martial

and haughty look.

His pay, allowances and his private income of fifteen thousand francs,[2]

all went in this way, like water that runs out drop by drop, from a

cracked bottle.

[Footnote 2: £600.]

He was continually on the alert, and looked out for intrigues with the

acuteness of a policeman, followed women about, had all the impudence and

all the cleverness of the fast man who has made love for forty years,

without ever meaning anything serious, who knows all its lies, tricks and

illusions, and who can still do a march without halting on the road, or

requiring too much music to put him in proper trim. And in spite of his

age and gray hairs, he could have given a sub-lieutenant points, and was

very often loved for himself, which is the dream of men who have passed

forty, and do not intend to give up the game just yet.

And there were not a dozen in the town who could, without lying, have

declared to a jealous husband or a suspicious lover, that they had not,

at any rate, once staid late in the little house in the Eglisottes

quarter, who could have denied that they had not returned more

thoughtful. Not a dozen, certainly, and, perhaps, not six!

Among that dozen or six, however, was Jacques de Montboron's mistress.

She was a little marvel, that Madame Courtade, whom the Captain had

unearthed in an ecclesiastical warehouse in the Faubourg Saint-Exupère,

and not yet twenty. They had begun by smiling at each other, and by

exchanging those long looks when they met, which seemed to ask for

charity.

Montboron used to pass in front of the shop at the same hours, stopped

for a moment with the appearance of a lounger who was loitering about the

streets, but immediately her supple figure appeared, pink and fair,

shedding the brightness of youth and almost childhood round her, while

her looks showed that she was delighted at little gallant incidents which

dispelled the monotony and weariness of her life for a time, and gave

rise to vague but delightful hopes.

Was love, that love which she had so constantly invoked, really knocking

at her door at last, and taking pity on her unhappy isolation? Did that

officer, whom she met whenever she went out, as if he had been faithfully

watching her, when coming out of church, or when out for a walk in the

evening, who said so many delightful things to her with his wheedling

eyes, really love her as she wished to be loved, or was he merely amusing

himself at that game, because he had nothing better to do in their quiet

little town?

But in a short time he wrote to her, and she replied to him, and at last

they managed to meet in secret, to make appointments, and talk together.

She knew all the cunning tricks of a simple girl, who has tasted the most

delicious of sweets with the tip of her tongue, and acting in concert,

and giving each other the word, so that there might be no awkward

mistake, they managed to make the husband their unwitting accomplice,

without his having the least idea of what was going on.

Courtade was an excellent fellow, who saw no further than the tip of his

nose, incapable of rebelling, flabby, fat, steeped in devotion, and

thinking too much about heaven to see what a plot was being hatched

against him, in our unhappy vale of tears, as the psalters say.

In the good old days of confederacies, he would have made an excellent

chief of a corporation; he loved his wife more like a father than a

husband, considering that at his age a man ought no longer to think of

such trifles, and that, after all, the only real happiness in life was

to keep a good table and to have a good digestion, and so he ate like

four canons, and drank in proportion.

Only once during his whole life had he shown anything like energy--but

he used to relate that occurrence with all the pride of a conqueror,

recalling his most heroic battle--and that was on the evening when

he refused to allow the bishop to take his cook away, quite regardless

of any of the consequences of such a daring deed.

In a few weeks, the Captain became his regular table companion, and his

best friend. He had begun by telling him in a boastful manner that, in

order to keep a vow that he had made to St. George, during the charge

up the slope at Yron, during the battle of Gravelotte, he wished to send

two censers and a sanctuary lamp to his village church.

Courtade did his utmost, and all the more readily as this unexpected

customer did not appear to pay any regard to money. He sent for several

goldsmiths, and showed Montboron models of all kinds; he hesitated,

however, and did not seem able to make up his mind, and discussed the

subject, designed ornaments himself, gained time, and thus managed to

spend several hours every day in the shop.

In fact, he was quite at home in the place, shook hands with Courtade,

called him "my dear fellow," and did not wince when he took his arm

familiarly before other people, and introduced him to his customers

as, "My excellent friend, the Marquis de Montboron." He could go in and

out of the house as he pleased, whether the husband was at home or not.

The censers and the lamp were sent in due course to Montboron's château

at Pacy-sur-Romanche (in Normandy), and when the package was undone, it

caused the greatest surprise to Jacques' mother, who was more accustomed

to receiving requests for money from her son, than ecclesiastical

objects.

Suddenly, however, without rhyme or reason, little Madame Courtade became

insupportable and enigmatical. Her husband could not understand it at

all, and grew uneasy, and continually consulted his friend the Captain.

Etiennette's character seemed to have completely changed; she found

fifty pretexts for deserting the shop, for coming late, for avoiding

_tête-à-têtes_, in which people come to explanations, and mutually become

irritated, though such matters usually end in a reconciliation, amidst a

torrent of kisses.

She disappeared for days at a time, and soon, Montboron, who was not

fitted to play the part of a Sganarelle, either by age or temperament,

became convinced that his mistress was making him wear the horns, that

she was hobnobbing with the General, and that she was in possession of

one of the five keys of the house in the Eglisottes quarter; and as he

was as jealous as an Andalusian, and felt a horror for that kind of

pleasantry, he swore that he would make his rival pay a hundred fold

for the trick which he had played him.

The Fourteenth of July was approaching, when there was to be a grand

parade of the whole garrison on the large review ground, and all along

the paling, which divided the spectators from the soldiers, itinerant

dealers had put up their stalls, and there were mountebanks' and

somnambulists' booths, menageries, and a large circus, which had gone

through the town in caravans, with a great noise of trumpets and of

drums.

He had given his aide-de-camp his instructions beforehand, for he was

more anxious than ever to surprise people, and to have a horse like an

equestrian statue, an animal which should outdo that famous black horse

of General Boulanger's, about which the Parisian loungers had talked so

much, and told Montboron not to mind what the price was, as long as he

found him a suitable charger.

When the Captain, a few days before the review, brought him a chestnut

jennet, with a long tail and flowing mane, which would not keep quiet for

five seconds, but kept on shaking its head, had extraordinary action,

answered the slightest touch of the leg, and stepped out as if it knew no

other motion, General Daumont de Croisailles showered compliments upon

him, and assured him that he knew few officers who possessed his

intelligence and his value, and that he should not forget him when the

proper time came for recommending him for promotion.

Not a muscle of the Marquis de Montboron's face moved, and when the day

of the review arrived, he was at his post on the staff that followed the

General, who sat as upright as a dart in the saddle, and looked at the

crowd to see whether he could not recognize some old or new female friend

there, while his horse pranced and plunged.

He rode onto the review ground, amidst the increasing noise of applause,

with a smile upon his lips, when, suddenly, at the moment that he

galloped up into the large square, formed by the troops drawn up in a

line, the band of the fifty-third regiment struck up a quick march, and,

as if obeying a preconcerted signal, the jennet began to turn round, and

to accelerate its speed, in spite of the furious tugs at the bridle which

the rider gave.

The horse performed beautifully, followed the rhythm of the music, and

appeared to be acting under some invisible impulse, and the General had

such a comical look on his face, he looked so disconcerted, rolled his

eyes, and seemed to be the prey to such terrible exasperation, that he

might have been taken for some character in a pantomime, while his staff

followed him, without being able to comprehend this fresh fancy of his.

The soldiers presented arms, the music did not stop, though the

instrumentalists were much astonished at this interminable ride.

The General at last became out of breath, and could scarcely keep in the

saddle, and the women, in the crowded ranks of the spectators, gave

prolonged, nervous laughs, which made the old _roué's_ ears tingle with

excitement.

The horse did not stop until the music ceased, and then it knelt down

with bent head, and put its nostrils into the dust.

It nearly gave General de Croisailles an attack of the jaundice,

especially when he found out that it was his aide-de-camp's _tit for

tat_, and that the horse came from a circus which was giving performances

in the town. And what irritated him all the more was, that he could not

even set it down against Montboron and have him sent to some terrible

out-of-the-way hole, for the Captain sent in his resignation, wisely

considering that sooner or later he should have to pay the costs of

that little trick, and that the chances were that he should not get any

further promotion, but remain stationary, like a cab which some bilker

has left standing for hours at one end of an arcade, while he has made

his escape at the other.

RUST

During nearly his whole life, he had had an insatiable love for sport. He

went out every day, from morning till night, with the greatest ardor, in

summer and winter, spring and autumn, on the marshes, when it was close

time on the plains and in the woods. He shot, he hunted, he coursed, he

ferreted; he spoke of nothing but shooting and hunting, he dreamt of it,

and continually repeated:

"How miserable any man must be who does not care for sport!"

And now that he was past fifty, he was well, robust, stout and vigorous,

though rather bald, and he kept his moustache cut quite short, so that it

might not cover his lips, and interfere with his blowing the horn.

He was never called by anything but his first Christian name, Monsieur

Hector, but his full name was Baron Hector Gontran de Coutelier, and he

lived in a small manor house which he had inherited, in the middle of the

woods; and though he knew all the nobility of the department, and met its

male representatives out shooting and hunting, he only regularly visited

one family, the Courvilles, who were very pleasant neighbors, and had

been allied to his race for centuries, and in their house he was liked,

and taken the greatest care of, and he used to say: "If I were not a

sportsman, I should like to be here always."

Monsieur de Courville had been his friend and comrade from childhood,

and lived quietly as a gentleman farmer with his wife, daughter and

son-in-law, Monsieur de Darnetot, who did nothing, under the pretext of

being devoted to historical studies.

Baron de Coutelier often went and dined with his friends, as much with

the object of telling them of the shots he had made, as of anything else.

He had long stories about dogs and ferrets, of which he spoke as if they

were persons of note, whom he knew very well. He analyzed them, and

explained their thoughts and intentions:

"When Medor saw that the corn-crake was leading him such a dance, he said

to himself: 'Wait a bit, my friend, we will have a joke.' And then, with

a jerk of the head to me, to make me go into the corner of the clover

field, he began to quarter the sloping ground, noisily brushing through

the clover to drive the bird into a corner from which it could not

escape.

"Everything happened as he had foreseen. Suddenly, the corn-crake found

itself on the borders of the clover, and it could not go any further

without showing itself; Medor stood and pointed, half-looking round at

me, but at a sign from me, he drew up to it, flushed the corn-crake;

_bang_! down it came, and Medor, as he brought it to me, wagged his tail,

as much as to say: 'How about that, Monsieur Hector?'"

Courville, Darnetot, and the two ladies laughed very heartily at those

picturesque descriptions into which the Baron threw his whole heart. He

grew animated, moved his arms about, and gesticulated with his whole

body; and when he described the death of anything he had killed, he gave

a formidable laugh, and said:

"Was not that a good shot?"

As soon as they began to speak about anything else, he left off

listening, and hummed a hunting song, or a few notes to imitate a hunting

horn, to himself.

He had only lived for field sports, and was growing old, without thinking

about it, or guessing it, when he had a severe attack of rheumatism, and

was confined to his bed for two months, and nearly died of grief and

weariness.

As he kept no female servant, for an old footman did all the cooking, he

could not get any hot poultices, nor could he have any of those little

attentions, nor anything that an invalid requires. His gamekeeper was his

sick nurse, and as the servant found the time hang just as heavily on his

hands as it did on his master's, he slept nearly all day and all night in

any easy chair, while the Baron was swearing and flying into a rage

between the sheets.

The ladies of the De Courville family came to see him occasionally, and

those were hours of calm and comfort for him. They prepared his herb tea,

attended to the fire, served him his breakfast up daintily, by the side

of his bed, and when they were going again, he used to say:

"By Jove! You ought to come here altogether," which made them laugh

heartily.

When he was getting better, and was beginning to go out shooting again,

he went to dine with his friends one evening; but he was not at all in

his usual spirits. He was tormented by one continual fear--that he might

have another attack before shooting began, and when he was taking his

leave at night, when the women were wrapping him up in a shawl, and tying

a silk handkerchief round his neck, which he allowed to be done for the

first time in his life, he said in a disconsolated voice:

"If it goes on like this, I shall be done for."

As soon as he had gone, Madame Darnetot said to her mother:

"We ought to try and get the Baron married."

They all raised their hands at the proposal. How was it that they had

never thought of it before? And during all the rest of the evening they

discussed the widows whom they knew, and their choice fell on a woman of

forty, who was still pretty, fairly rich, very good-tempered and in

excellent health, whose name was Madame Berthe Vilers, and, accordingly,

she was invited to spend a month at the château. She was very dull at

home, and was very glad to come; she was lively and active, and Monsieur

de Coutelier took her fancy immediately. She amused herself with him as

if he had been a living toy, and spent hours in asking him slyly about

the sentiments of rabbits and the machinations of foxes, and he gravely

distinguished between the various ways of looking at things which

different animals had, and ascribed plans and subtle arguments to them,

just as he did to men of his acquaintance.

The attention she paid him, delighted him, and one evening, to show his

esteem for her, he asked her to go out shooting with him, which he had

never done to any woman before, and the invitation appeared so funny to

her that she accepted it.

It was quite an amusement for them to fit her out; everybody offered her

something, and she came out in a sort of short riding habit, with boots

and men's breeches, a short petticoat, a velvet jacket, which was too

tight for her across the chest, and a huntsman's black velvet cap.

The Baron seemed as excited as if he were going to fire his first shot.

He minutely explained to her the direction of the wind, and how different

dogs worked. Then he took her into a field, and followed her as anxiously

as a nurse does when her charge is trying to walk for the first time.

Medor soon made a point, and stopped with his tail out stiff and one paw

up, and the Baron, standing behind his pupil, was trembling like a leaf,

and whispered:

"Look out, they are par ... par ... partridges." And almost before he had

finished, there was a loud _whirr_--_whirr_, and a covey of large birds

flew up in the air, with a tremendous noise.

Madame Vilers was startled, shut her eyes, fired off both barrels and

staggered at the recoil of the gun; but when she had recovered her

self-possession, she saw that the Baron was dancing about like a madman,

and that Medor was bringing back the first of the two partridges which

she had killed.

From that day, Monsieur de Coutelier was in love with her, and used to

say, raising his eyes: "What a woman!" And he used to go and see them

every evening now, and talked about shooting.

One day, Monsieur de Courville, who was walking part of the way with him,

asked him, suddenly:

"Why don't you marry her?"

The Baron was altogether taken by surprise, and said:

"What? I? Marry her? ... Well ... really...."

And he said no more for a while, but then, suddenly shaking hands with

his companion, he said:

"Good-bye, my friend," and quickly disappeared in the darkness.

He did not go again for three days, but when he reappeared, he was pale

from thinking the matter over, and graver than usual. Taking Monsieur de

Courville aside, he said:

"That was a capital idea of yours; try and persuade her to accept me, for

one might say that a woman like she is, was made for me, and you and I

shall be able to have some sort of sport together, all the year round."

As Monsieur de Courville felt certain that his friend would not meet with

a refusal, he replied:

"Propose to her immediately, my dear fellow, or would you rather that I

did it for you?"

But the Baron grew suddenly nervous, and said, with some hesitation:

"No, ... no.... I must go to Paris for ... for a few days. As soon as I

come back, I will give you a definite answer." No other explanation was

forthcoming, and he started the next morning.

He made a long stay. One, two, three weeks passed, but Monsieur de

Coutelier did not return, and the Courvilles, who were surprised and

uneasy, did not know what to say to their friend, whom they had informed

of the Baron's wishes. Every other day they sent to his house for news of

him, but none of his servants had a line.

But one evening, while Madame Vilers was singing, and accompanying

herself on the piano, a servant came with a mysterious air, and told

Monsieur de Courville that a gentleman wanted to see him. It was the

Baron, in a traveling suit, who looked much altered and older, and as

soon as he saw his old friend, he seized both his hands, and said, in a

somewhat tired voice: "I have just returned, my dear friend, and I have

come to you immediately; I am thoroughly knocked up."

Then he hesitated in visible embarrassment, and presently said:

"I wished to tell you ... immediately ... that ... that business ... you

know what I mean ... must come to nothing."

Monsieur de Courville looked at him in stupefaction. "Must come to

nothing?... Why?"

"Oh! Do not ask me, please; it would be too painful for me to tell

you; but you may rest assured that I am acting like an honorable man.

I cannot ... I have no right ... no right, you understand, to marry this

lady, and I will wait until she has gone, to come here again; it would be

too painful for me to see her. Good-bye." And he absolutely ran away.

The whole family deliberated and discussed the matter, surmising a

thousand things. The conclusion they came to was, that the Baron's past

life concealed some great mystery, that, perhaps, he had natural

children, or some connection of long standing. At any rate, the matter

seemed serious, and so as to avoid any difficult complications, they

adroitly informed Madame Vilers of the state of affairs, who returned

home just as much of a widow as she had come.

Three months more passed, when one evening, when he had dined rather too

well, and was rather unsteady on his legs, Monsieur de Coutelier, while

he was smoking his pipe with Monsieur de Courville, said to him:

"You would really pity me, if you only knew how continually I am thinking

about your friend."

But the other, who had been rather vexed at the Baron's behavior in the

circumstances, told him exactly what he thought of him:

"By Jove, my good friend, when a man has any secrets in his existence,

like you have, he does not make advances to a woman, immediately, as you

did, for you must surely have foreseen the reason why you had to draw

back."

The Baron left off smoking in some confusion.

"Yes, and no; at any rate, I could not have believed what actually

happened."

Whereupon, Monsieur de Courville lost his patience, and replied:

"One ought to foresee everything."

But Monsieur de Coutelier replied in a low voice, in case anybody should

be listening: "I see that I have hurt your feelings, and will tell you

everything, so that you may forgive me. You know that for twenty years

I have lived only for sport; I care for nothing else, and think about

nothing else. Consequently, when I was on the point of undertaking

certain obligations with regard to this lady, I felt some scruples of

conscience. Since I have given up the habit of ... of love, there! I

have not known whether I was still capable of ... you know what I

mean ... Just think! It is exactly sixteen years since ... I for the last

time ... you understand what I mean. In this neighborhood, it is not easy

to ... you know. And then, I had other things to do. I prefer to use my

gun, and so before entering into an engagement before the Mayor[3] and

the Priest to ... well, I was frightened. I said to myself: 'Confound it;

suppose I missed fire!' An honorable man always keeps his engagements,

and in this case, I was undertaking sacred duties with regard to this

lady, and so, to feel sure, I made up my mind to go and spend a week in

Paris.

[Footnote 3: Civil marriage is obligatory in France, whether a religious

ceremony takes place or not.--TRANSLATOR.]

"At the end of that time, nothing, absolutely nothing occurred. I always

lost the game.... I waited for a fortnight, three weeks, continually

hoping. In the restaurants, I ate a number of highly seasoned dishes,

which upset my stomach, and ... and it was still the same thing ... or

rather, nothing. You will, therefore, understand, that, in such

circumstances, and having assured myself of the fact, the only thing

I could do was ... was ... to withdraw; and I did so."

Monsieur de Courville had to struggle very hard not to laugh, and he

shook hands with the Baron, saying:

"I am very sorry for you," and accompanied him half-way home.

When he got back, and was alone with his wife, he told her everything,

nearly choking with laughter; she, however, did not laugh, but listened

very attentively, and when her husband had finished, she said, very

seriously:

"The Baron is a fool, my dear; he was frightened, that is all. I will

write and ask Berthe to come back here as soon as possible."

And when Monsieur de Courville observed that their friend had made such

long and useless attempts, she merely said:

"Nonsense! When a man loves his wife, you know ... that sort of thing

adjusts itself to the situation."

And Monsieur de Courville made no reply, as he felt rather confused

himself.

THE SUBSTITUTE

"Madame Bonderoi?"

"Yes, Madame Bonderoi."

"Impossible."

"I tell you it is."

Madame Bonderoi, the old lady in a lace cap, the devout, the holy, the

honorable Madame Bonderoi, whose little false curls looked as if they

were glued round her head.

"That is the very woman."

"Oh! Come, you must be mad."

"I swear to you that it is Madame Bonderoi."

"Then please give me the details."

"Here they are. During the life of Monsieur Bonderoi, the lawyer, people

said that she utilized his clerks for her own particular service. She is

one of those respectable middle-class women, with secret vices, and

inflexible principles, of whom there are so many. She liked good-looking

young fellows, and I should like to know what is more natural than that?

Do not we all like pretty girls?"

"As soon as old Bonderoi was dead, his widow began to live the peaceful

and irreproachable life of a woman with a fair, fixed income. She went to

church assiduously, and spoke evil of her neighbors, but gave no handle

to anyone for speaking ill of her, and when she grew old she became the

little wizened, sour-faced, mischievous woman whom you know. Well, this

adventure, which you would scarcely believe, happened last Friday.

"My friend, Jean d'Anglemare, is, as you know, a captain in a dragoon

regiment, who is quartered in the barracks in the _Rue de la Rivette_,

and when he got to his quarters the other morning, he found that two men

of his squadron had had a terrible quarrel. The rules about military

honor are very severe, and so a duel took place between them. After the

duel they became reconciled, and when their officer questioned them, they

told him what their quarrel had been about. They had fought on Madame

Bonderoi's account."

"Oh!"

"Yes, my dear fellow, about Madame Bonderoi."

"But I will let Trooper Siballe speak."

"This is how it was, Captain. About a year and a half ago, I was lounging

about the barrack-yard, between six and seven o'clock in the evening,

when a woman came up and spoke to me, and said, just as if she had been

asking her way: 'Soldier, would you like to earn ten francs a week,

honestly?' Of course, I told her that I decidedly should, and so she

said: 'Come and see me at twelve o'clock to-morrow morning. I am Madame

Bonderoi, and my address is No. 6, _Rue de la Tranchée_.' 'You may rely

upon my being there, Madame.' And then she went away, looking very

pleased, and she added: 'I am very much obliged to you, soldier.' 'I am

obliged to you, Madame,' I replied. But I plagued my head about the

matter, until the time came, all the same.

"At twelve o'clock, exactly, I rang the bell, and she let me in herself.

She had a lot of ribbons on her head.

"'We must make haste,' she said; 'as my servant might come in.'

"'I am quite willing to make haste,' I replied, 'but what am I to do?'

"But she only laughed, and replied: 'Don't you understand, you great

knowing fellow?'

"I was no nearer her meaning, I give you my word of honor, Captain, but

she came and sat down by me, and said:

"'If you mention this to anyone, I will have you put in prison, so swear

that you will never open your lips about it.'

"I swore whatever she liked, though I did not at all understand what she

meant, and my forehead was covered with perspiration, so I took my

pocket-handkerchief out of my helmet, and she took it and wiped my brow

with it; then she kissed me, and whispered: 'Then you will?' 'I will do

anything you like, Madame,' I replied, 'as that is what I came for.'

"Then she made herself clearly understood by her actions, and when I saw

what it was, I put my helmet onto a chair, and showed her that in the

dragoons a man never retires, Captain.

"Not that I cared much about it, for she was certainly not in her prime,

but it is no good being too particular in such a matter, as ten francs

are scarce, and then I have relations whom I like to help, and I said to

myself: 'There will be five francs for my father, out of that.'

"When I had done my allotted task, Captain, I got ready to go, though she

wanted me to stop longer, but I said to her:

"'To everyone their due, Madame. A small glass of brandy costs two sous,

and two glasses cost four.'

"She understood my meaning, and put a gold ten-franc piece into my hand.

I do not like that coin, because it is so small that if your pockets are

not very well made, and come at all unsewn, one is apt to find it in

one's boots, or not to find it at all, and so, while I was looking at it,

she was looking at me. She got red in the face, as she had misunderstood

my looks, and she said: 'Is not that enough?'

"'I did not mean that, Madame,' I replied; 'but if it is all the same to

you, I would rather have two five-franc pieces.' And she gave them to me,

and I took my leave. This has been going on for a year and a half,

Captain. I go every Tuesday evening, when you give me leave to go out of

barracks; she prefers that, as her servant has gone to bed then, but last

week I was not well, and I had to go into the infirmary. When Tuesday

came, I could not get out, and I was very vexed, because of the ten

francs which I had been receiving every week, and I said to myself:

"'If anybody goes there, I shall be done; and she will be sure to take

an artilleryman, and that made me very angry. So I sent for Paumelle, who

comes from my part of the country, and I told him how matters stood:

"'There will be five francs for you, and five for me,' I said. He agreed,

and went, as I had given him full instructions. She opened the door as

soon as he knocked, and let him in, and as she did not look at his face,

she did not perceive that it was not I, for, you know, Captain, one

dragoon is very like another, with their helmets on.

"Suddenly, however, she noticed the change, and she asked, angrily: 'Who

are you? What do you want? I do not know you.'

"Then Paumelle explained matters; he told her that I was not well, and

that I had sent him as my substitute; so she looked at him, made him also

swear to keep the matter secret, and then she accepted him, as you may

suppose, for Paumelle is not a bad-looking fellow, either. But when he

came back, Captain, he would not give me my five francs. If they had been

for myself, I should not have said a word, but they were for my father,

and on that score, I would stand no nonsense, and I said to him:

"'You are not particular in what you do, for a dragoon; you are a

discredit to your uniform.'

"He raised his fist, Captain, saying that fatigue duty like that was

worth double. Of course, everybody has his own ideas, and he ought not to

have accepted it. You know the rest."

"Captain d'Anglemare laughed until he cried as he told me the story, but

he also made me promise to keep the matter a secret, just as he had

promised the two soldiers. So, above all, do not betray me, but promise

me to keep it to yourself."

"Oh! You may be quite easy about that. But how was it all arranged, in

the end?"

"How? It is a joke in a thousand!... Mother Bonderoi keeps her two

dragoons, and reserves his own particular day for each of them, and in

that way everybody is satisfied."

"Oh! That is capital! Really capital!"

"And he can send his old father and mother the money as usual, and thus

morality is satisfied."

THE RELIC

_To the Abbé Louis d'Ennemare, at Soissons._

"My Dear Abbé:

"My marriage with your cousin is broken off in the stupidest manner,

on account of a stupid trick which I almost involuntarily played my

intended, in my embarrassment, and I turn to you, my old schoolfellow,

for you may be able to help me out of the difficulty. If you can, I shall

be grateful to you until I die.

"You know Gilberte, or rather you think you know her, for do we ever

understand women? All their opinions, their ideas, their creeds, are a

surprise to us. They are all full of twists and turns, of the unforeseen,

of unintelligible arguments, or defective logic and of obstinate ideas,

which seem final, but which they alter because a little bird came and

perched on the window ledge.

"I need not tell you that your cousin is very religious, as she was

brought up by the _White_ (or was it the _Black_?) _Ladies_ at Nancy. You

know that better than I do, but what you perhaps do not know, is, that

she is just as excitable about other matters as she is about religion.

Her head flies away, just like a leaf being whirled away by the wind; and

she is a woman, or rather a girl, more so than many are, for she is

moved, or made angry in a moment, starting off at a gallop after

affection, just as she does after hatred, and returning in the same

manner; and she is as pretty ... as you know, and more charming than

I can say ... as you will never know.

"Well, we became engaged, and I adored her, as I adore her still, and she

appeared to love me.

"One evening, I received a telegram summoning me to Cologne for a

consultation, which might be followed by a serious and difficult

operation, and as I had to start the next morning, I went to wish

Gilberte goodbye, and tell her why I could not dine with them on

Wednesday, but on Friday, the day of my return. Ah! Take care of Fridays,

for I assure you they are unlucky!

"When I told her that I had to go to Germany, I saw that her eyes filled

with tears, but when I said I should be back very soon, she clapped her

hands, and said:

"'I am very glad you are going, then! You must bring me back something; a

mere trifle, just a souvenir, but a souvenir that you have chosen for me.

You must find out what I should like best, do you hear? And then I shall

see whether you have any imagination.'

"She thought for a few moments, and then added:

"'I forbid you to spend more than twenty francs on it. I want it for the

intention, and for the remembrance of your penetration, and not for its

intrinsic value.'

"And then, after another moment's silence, she said, in a low voice, and

with downcast eyes.

"'If it costs you nothing in money, and if it is something very ingenious

and pretty, I will ... I will kiss you.'

"The next day, I was in Cologne. It was the case of a terrible accident,

which had thrown a whole family into despair, and a difficult amputation

was necessary. They put me up; I might say, they almost locked me up, and

I saw nobody but people in tears, who almost deafened me with their

lamentations; I operated on a man who appeared to be in a moribund state,

and who nearly died under my hands, and with whom I remained two nights,

and then, when I saw that there was a chance for his recovery, I drove to

the station. I had, however, made a mistake in the trains, and I had an

hour to wait, and so I wandered about the streets, still thinking of my

poor patient, when a man accosted me. I do not know German, and he was

totally ignorant of French, but at last I made out that he was offering

me some relics. I thought of Gilberte, for I knew her fanatical devotion,

and here was my present ready to hand, so I followed the man into a shop

where religious objects were for sale, and I bought _a small piece of a

bone of one of the Eleven Thousand Virgins_.

"The pretended relic was enclosed in a charming, old silver box, and that

determined my choice, and putting my purchase into my pocket, I went to

the railway station, and so to Paris.

"As soon as I got home, I wished to examine my purchase again, and on

taking hold of it, I found that the box was open, and the relic lost! It

was no good to hunt in my pocket, and to turn it inside out; the small

bit of bone, which was no bigger than half a pin, had disappeared.

"You know, my dear little Abbé, that my faith is not very great, but, as

my friend, you are magnanimous enough to put up with my coldness, and to

leave me alone, and to wait for the future, so you say. But I absolutely

disbelieve in the relics of second-hand dealers in piety, and you share

my doubts in that respect. Therefore, the loss of that bit of sheep's

carcass did not grieve me, and I easily procured a similar fragment,

which I carefully fastened inside my jewel, and then I went to see my

intended.

"As soon as she saw me, she ran up to me, smiling and anxious, and said

to me:

"'What have you brought me?'

"I pretended to have forgotten, but she did not believe me, and I made

her beg me, and beseech me, even. But when I saw that she was devoured by

curiosity, I gave her the sacred silver box. She appeared over-joyed.

"'A relic! Oh! A relic!'

"And she kissed the box passionately, so that I was ashamed of my

deception. She was not quite satisfied, however, and her uneasiness soon

turned to terrible fear, and looking straight into my eyes, she said:

"'Are you sure that it is authentic?'

"'Absolutely certain.'

"'How can you be so certain?'

"I was caught, for to say that I had bought it through a man in the

streets, would be my destruction. What was I to say? A wild idea struck

me, and I said, in a low, mysterious voice:

"'I stole it for you.'

"She looked at me with astonishment and delight in her large eyes.

"'Oh! You stole it? Where?'

"'In the cathedral; in the very shrine of the Eleven Thousand Virgins.'

"Her heart beat with pleasure, and she murmured:

"'Oh! Did you really do that ... for me? Tell me ... all about it!'

"There was an end of it, and I could not go back. I made up a fanciful

story, with precise details. I had given the custodian of the building a

hundred francs to be allowed to go about the building by myself; the

shrine was being repaired, but I happened to be there at the breakfast

time of the workmen and clergy; by removing a small panel, I had been

enabled to seize a small piece of bone (oh! so small), among a quantity

of others, (I said a quantity, as I thought of the amount that the

remains of the skeletons of eleven thousand virgins must produce). Then I

went to a goldsmith's and bought a casket worthy of the relic; and I was

not sorry to let her know that the silver box cost me five hundred

francs.

"But she did not think of that; she listened to me, trembling; in an

ecstasy, and whispering:

"'How I love you!' she threw herself into my arms.

"Just note this: I had committed sacrilege for her sake. I had committed

a theft; I had violated a shrine; violated and stolen holy relics, and

for that she adored me, thought me loving, tender, divine. Such is woman,

my dear Abbé.

"For two months I was the best of lovers. In her room, she had made a

kind of magnificent chapel in which to keep this bit of mutton chop,

which, as she thought, had made me commit that love-crime, and she worked

up her religious enthusiasm in front of it every morning and evening. I

had asked her to keep the matter secret, for fear, as I said, that I

might be arrested, condemned and given over to Germany, and she kept her

promise.

"Well, at the beginning of the summer, she was seized with an

irresistible wish to see the scene of my exploit, and she begged her

father so persistently (without telling him her secret reason), that he

took her to Cologne, but without telling me of their trip, according to

his daughter's wish.

"I need not tell you that I had not seen the interior of the cathedral. I

do not know where the tomb (if there be a tomb), of the Eleven Thousand

Virgins is, and then, it appears that it is unapproachable, alas!

"A week afterwards, I received ten lines, breaking off our engagement,

and then an explanatory letter from her father, whom she had, somewhat

late, taken into her confidence.

"At the sight of the shrine, she had suddenly seen through my trickery

and my lie, and had also found out that I was innocent of any other

crime. Having asked the keeper of the relics whether any robbery had

been committed, the man began to laugh, and pointed out to them how

impossible such a crime was, but from the moment I had plunged my profane

hand into venerable relics, I was no longer worthy of my fair-haired

and delicate betrothed.

"I was forbidden the house; I begged and prayed in vain, nothing could

move the fair devotee, and I grew ill from grief. Well, last week, her

cousin, Madame d'Arville, who is yours also, sent word to me that she

should like to see me, and when I called, she told me on what conditions

I might obtain my pardon, and here they are. I must bring her a relic, a

real, authentic relic, certified to be such by Our Holy Father, the Pope,

of some virgin and martyr, and I am going mad from embarrassment and

anxiety.

"I will go to Rome, if needful, but I cannot call on the Pope

unexpectedly, and tell him my stupid adventure; and, besides, I doubt

whether they let private individuals have relics. Could not you give me

an introduction to some cardinal, or only to some French prelate, who

possesses some remains of a female saint? Or perhaps you may have the

precious object she wants in your collection?

"Help me out of my difficulty, my dear Abbé, and I promise you that I

will be converted ten years sooner than I otherwise should be!

"Madame d'Arville, who takes the matter seriously, said to me the other

day:

"'Poor Gilberte will never marry.'

"My dear old schoolfellow, will you allow your cousin to die the victim

of a stupid piece of business on my part? Pray prevent her from being the

eleventh thousand and one virgin.

"Pardon me, I am unworthy, but I embrace you, and love you with all my

heart.

"Your old friend,

"Henri Fontal."

THE MAN WITH THE BLUE EYES

Monsieur Pierre Agénor de Vargnes, the Examining Magistrate, was the

exact opposite of a practical joker. He was dignity, staidness,

correctness personified. As a sedate man, he was quite incapable of being

guilty, even in his dreams, of anything resembling a practical joke,

however remotely. I know nobody to whom he could be compared, unless it

be the present president of the French Republic. I think it is useless to

carry the analogy any further, and having said thus much, it will be

easily understood that a cold shiver passed through me when Monsieur

Pierre Agénor de Vargnes did me the honor of sending a lady to wait on

me.

At about eight o'clock, one morning last winter, as he was leaving the

house to go to the _Palais de Justice_, his footman handed him a card,

on which was printed:

DOCTOR JAMES FERDINAND,

_Member of the Academy of Medicine,

Port-au-Prince,

Chevalier of the Legion of Honor._

At the bottom of the card, there was written in pencil:

_From Lady Frogère_

Monsieur de Vargnes knew the lady very well, who was a very agreeable

Creole from Haiti, and whom he had met in many drawing-rooms, and, on the

other hand, though the doctor's name did not awaken any recollections in

him, his quality and titles alone required that he should grant him an

interview, however short it might be. Therefore, although he was in a

hurry to get out, Monsieur de Vargnes told the footman to show in his

early visitor, but to tell him beforehand that his master was much

pressed for time, as he had to go to the Law Courts.

When the doctor came in, in spite of his usual imperturbability, he could

not restrain a movement of surprise, for the doctor presented that

strange anomaly of being a negro of the purest, blackest type, with the

eyes of a white man, of a man from the North, pale, cold, clear, blue

eyes, and his surprise increased when, after a few words of excuse for

his untimely visit, he added, with an enigmatical smile:

"My eyes surprise you, do they not? I was sure that they would, and, to

tell you the truth, I came here in order that you might look at them

well, and never forget them."

His smile, and his words, even more than his smile, seemed to be those of

a madman. He spoke very softly, with that childish, lisping voice, which

is peculiar to negroes, and his mysterious, almost menacing words,

consequently, sounded all the more as if they were uttered at random by

a man bereft of his reason. But his looks, the looks of those pale, cold,

clear, blue eyes, were certainly not those of a madman. They clearly

expressed menace, yes, menace, as well as irony, and, above all,

implacable ferocity, and their glance was like a flash of lightning,

which one could never forget.

"I have seen," Monsieur de Vargnes used to say, when speaking about it,

"the looks of many murderers, but in none of them have I ever observed

such a depth of crime, and of impudent security in crime."

And this impression was so strong, that Monsieur de Vargnes thought that

he was the sport of some hallucination, especially as when he spoke about

his eyes, the doctor continued with a smile, and in his most childish

accents: "Of course, Monsieur, you cannot understand what I am saying to

you, and I must beg your pardon for it. To-morrow, you will receive a

letter which will explain it at all to you, but, first all, it was

necessary that I should let you have a good, a careful look at my eyes,

my eyes which are myself, my only and true self, as you will see."

With these words, and with a polite bow, the doctor went out, leaving

Monsieur de Vargnes extremely surprised, and a prey to this doubt, as he

said to himself:

"Is he merely a madman? The fierce expression, and the criminal depths of

his looks are perhaps caused merely by the extraordinary contrast between

his fierce looks and his pale eyes."

And absorbed in these thoughts, Monsieur de Vargnes unfortunately allowed

several minutes to elapse, and then he thought to himself suddenly:

"No, I am not the sport of any hallucination, and this is no case of an

optical phenomenon. This man is evidently some terrible criminal, and I

have altogether failed in my duty in not arresting him myself at once,

illegally, even at the risk of my life."

The judge ran downstairs in pursuit of the doctor, but it was too late;

he had disappeared. In the afternoon, he called on Madame Frogère, to ask

her whether she could tell him anything about the matter. She, however,

did not know the negro doctor in the least, and was even able to assure

him that he was a fictitious personage, for, as she was well acquainted

with the upper classes in Haiti, she knew that the Academy of Medicine at

Port-au-Prince had no doctor of that name among its members. As Monsieur

de Vargnes persisted, and gave descriptions of the doctor, especially

mentioning his extraordinary eyes, Madame Frogère began to laugh, and

said:

"You have certainly had to do with a hoaxer, my dear Monsieur. The eyes

which you have described, are certainly those of a white man, and the

individual must have been painted."

On thinking it over, Monsieur de Vargnes remembered that the doctor had

nothing of the negro about him, but his black skin, his woolly hair and

beard, and his way of speaking, which was easily imitated, but nothing of

the negro, not even the characteristic, undulating walk. Perhaps, after

all, he was only a practical joker, and during the whole day, Monsieur de

Vargnes took refuge in that view, which rather wounded his dignity as a

man of consequence, but which appeased his scruples as a magistrate.

The next day, he received the promised letter, which was written, as well

as addressed, in letters cut out of the newspapers. It was as follows:

* * * * *

"MONSIEUR,--

"Doctor James Ferdinand does not exist, but the man whose eyes you saw

does, and you will certainly recognize his eyes. This man has committed

two crimes, for which he does not feel any remorse, but, as he is a

psychologist, he is afraid of some day yielding to the irresistible

temptation of confessing his crimes. You know better than anyone (and

that is your most powerful aid), with what imperious force criminals,

especially intellectual ones, feel this temptation. That great Poet,

Edgar Poe, has written masterpieces on this subject, which express the

truth exactly, but he has omitted to mention the last phenomenon, which

_I_ will tell you. Yes, I, a criminal, feel a terrible wish for somebody

to know of my crimes, and, when this requirement is satisfied, my secret

has been revealed to a confidant, I shall be tranquil for the future, and

be freed from this demon of perversity, which only tempts us once. Well!

Now that is accomplished. You shall have _my_ secret; from the day that

you recognize me by my eyes, you will try and find out what I am guilty

of, and how I was guilty, and you will discover it, being a master of

your profession, which, by-the-bye, has procured you the honor of having

been chosen by me to bear the weight of this secret, which now is shared

by us, and by us two alone. I say, advisedly, _by us two alone_. You

could not, as a matter of fact, prove the reality of this secret to

anyone, unless I were to confess it, and I defy you to obtain my public

confession, as I have confessed it to you, _and without danger to

myself_."

* * * * *

Three months later, Monsieur de Vargnes met Monsieur X---- at an evening

party and at first sight, and without the slightest hesitation, he

recognized in him those very pale, very cold, and very clear blue eyes,

eyes which it was impossible to forget.

The man himself remained perfect impassive, so that Monsieur de Vargnes

was forced to say to himself:

"Probably I am the sport of a hallucination at this moment, or else there

are two pairs of eyes that are perfectly similar, in the world. And what

eyes! Can it be possible?"

The magistrate instituted inquiries into his life, and he discovered

this, which removed all his doubts.

Five years previously, Monsieur X---- had been a very poor, but very

brilliant medical student, who, although he never took his doctor's

degree, had already made himself remarkable by his microbiological

researches.

A young and very rich widow had fallen in love with him and married him.

She had one child by her first marriage, and in the space of six months,

first the child and then the mother died of typhoid fever, and thus

Monsieur X---- had inherited a large fortune, in due form, and without

any possible dispute. Everybody said that he had attended to the two

patients with the utmost devotion. Now, were these two deaths the two

crimes mentioned in his letter?

But then, Monsieur X---- must have poisoned his two victims with the

microbes of typhoid fever, which he had skillfully cultivated in them,

so as to make the disease incurable, even by the most devoted care and

attention. Why not?

"Do you believe it?" I asked Monsieur de Vargnes. "Absolutely," he

replied. "And the most terrible thing about it is, that the villain is

right when he defies me to force him to confess his crime publicly for I

see no means of obtaining a confession, none whatever. For a moment, I

thought of magnetism, but who could magnetize that man with those pale,

cold, bright eyes? With such eyes, he would force the magnetizer to

denounce himself as the culprit."

And then he said, with a deep sigh:

"Ah! Formerly there was something good about justice!"

And when he saw my inquiring looks, he added in a firm and perfectly

convinced voice:

"Formerly, justice had torture at its command."

"Upon my word," I replied, with all an author's unconscious and simple

egotism, "it is quite certain that without the torture, this strange tale

would have no conclusion, and that is very unfortunate, as far as regards

the story I intended to make of it."

ALLOUMA

I

One of my friends had said to me:--

"If you happen to be near Bordj-Ebbaba while you are in Algeria, be sure

and go to see my old friend Auballe, who has settled there."

I had forgotten the name of Auballe and of Ebbaba, and I was not thinking

of this planter, when I arrived at his house by pure accident. For a

month, I had been wandering on foot through that magnificent district

which extends from Algiers to Cherchell, Orléansville, and Tiaret. It is

at the same time wooded and bare, grand and charming. Between two hills,

one comes across large pine forests in narrow valleys, through which

torrents rush in the winter. Enormous trees, which have fallen across

the ravine, serve as a bridge for the Arabs, and also for the tropical

creepers, which twine round the dead stems, and adorn them with new life.

There are hollows, in little known recesses of the mountains, of a

terribly beautiful character, and the sides of the brooks, which are

covered with oleanders, are indescribably lovely.

But what has left behind it the most pleasant recollections of that

excursion, is the long after-dinner walks along the slightly wooded roads

on those undulating hills, from which one can see an immense tract of

country from the blue sea as far as the chain of the Quarsenis, on whose

summit there is the cedar forest of Teniet-el-Haad.

On that day I lost my way. I had just climbed to the top of a hill,

whence, beyond a long extent of rising ground, I had seen the extensive

plain of Metidja, and then, on the summit of another chain, almost

invisible in the distances that strange monument which is called _The

Tomb of the Christian Woman_, and which was said to be the burial-place

of the kings of Mauritana. I went down again, going southward, with a

yellow landscape before me, extending as far as the fringe of the desert,

as yellow as if all those hills were covered with lions' skins sewn

together, sometimes a pointed yellow peak would rise out of the midst of

them, like the bristly back of a camel.

I walked quickly and lightly, like as one does when following tortuous

paths on a mountain slope. Nothing seems to weigh on one in those short,

quick walks through the invigorating air of those heights, neither the

body, nor the heart, nor the thoughts, nor even cares. On that day I

felt nothing of all that crushes and tortures our life; I only felt the

pleasure of that descent. In the distance I saw an Arab encampment, brown

pointed tents, which seemed fixed to the earth, like limpets are to a

rock, or else _gourbis_, huts made of branches, from which a gray smoke

rose. White figures, men and women, were walking slowly about, and the

bells of the flocks sounded vaguely through the evening air.

The arbutus trees on my road hung down under the weight of their purple

fruit, which was falling on the ground. They looked like martyred trees,

from which blood-colored sweat was falling, for at the top of every tier

there was a red spot, like a drop of blood.

The earth all round them was covered with it, and as my feet crushed the

fruit, they left blood-colored traces behind them, and sometimes, as I

went along, I would jump and pick one, and eat it.

All the valleys were by this time filled with a white vapor, which rose

slowly, like the steam from the flanks of an ox, and on the chain of

mountains that bordered the horizon, on the outskirts of the desert of

Sahara, the sky was in flames. Long streaks of gold alternated with

streaks of blood--blood again! Blood and gold, the whole of human

history--and sometimes between the two there was a small opening in

the greenish azure, far away like a dream.

How far away I was from all those persons and things with which one

occupies oneself on the boulevards, far from myself also, for I had

become a kind of wandering being, without thought or consciousness,

far from any road, of which I was not even thinking, for as night came

on, I found that I had lost my way.

The shades of night were falling onto the earth like a shower of

darkness, and I saw nothing before me but the mountains, in the far

distance. Presently, I saw some tents in the valley, into which I

descended, and tried to make the first Arab I met understand in which

direction I wanted to go. I do not know whether he understood me, but

he gave me a long answer, which I did not in the least understand. In

despair, I was about to make up my mind to pass the night wrapped up in

a rug near the encampment, when among the strange words he uttered, I

fancied that I heard the name, _Bordj-Ebbaba_, and so I repeated:

"_Bordj-Ebbaba._"

"Yes, yes."

I showed him two francs that were a fortune to him, and he started off,

while I followed him. Ah! I followed that pale phantom which strode on

before me bare-footed along stony paths, on which I stumbled continually,

for a long time, and then suddenly I saw a light, and we soon reached the

door of a white house, a kind of fortress with straight walls, and

without any outside windows. When I knocked, dogs began to bark inside,

and a voice asked in French:

"Who is there?"

"Does Monsieur Auballe live here?" I asked.

"Yes."

The door was opened for me, and I found myself face to face with Monsieur

Auballe himself, a tall man in slippers, with a pipe in his mouth and the

looks of a jolly Hercules.

As soon as I mentioned my name, he put out both his hands and said:

"Consider yourself at home here, Monsieur."

A quarter of an hour later I was dining ravenously, opposite to my host,

who went on smoking.

I knew his history. After having wasted a great amount of money on women,

he had invested the remnants of his fortune in Algerian landed property

and taken to money-making. It turned out prosperously; he was happy, and

had the calm look of a happy and contented man. I could not understand

how this fast Parisian could have grown accustomed to that monstrous life

in such a lonely spot, and I asked him about it.

"How long have you been here?" I asked him.

"For nine years."

"And have you not been intolerably dull and miserable?"

"No, one gets used to this country, and ends by liking it. You cannot

imagine how it lays hold on people by those small, animal instincts that

we are ignorant of ourselves. We first become attached to it by our

organs, to which it affords secret gratifications which we do not inquire

into. The air and the climate overcome our flesh, in spite of ourselves,

and the bright light with which it is inundated keeps the mind clear and

fresh, at but little cost. It penetrates us continually by our eyes, and

one might really say that it cleanses the somber nooks of the soul."

"But what about women?"

"Ah...! There is rather a dearth of them!"

"Only _rather_?"

"Well, yes ... rather. For one can always, even among the Arabs, find

some complaisant, native women, who think of the nights of Roumi."

He turned to the Arab, who was waiting on me, who was a tall, dark

fellow, with bright, black eyes, that flashed beneath his turban, and

said to him:

"I will call you when I want you, Mohammed." And then, turning to me, he

said:

"He understands French, and I am going to tell you a story in which he

plays a leading part."

As soon as the man had left the room, he began:

"I had been here about four years, and scarcely felt quite settled yet

in this country, whose language I was beginning to speak, and forced, in

order not to break altogether with those passions that had been fatal to

me in other places, to go to Algiers for a few days, from time to time.

"I had bought this farm, this _bordj_, which had been a fortified post,

and was within a few hundred yards from the native encampment, whose man

I employ to cultivate my land. Among the tribe that had settled here, and

which formed a portion of the Oulad-Taadja, I chose, as soon as I arrived

here, that tall fellow whom you have just seen, Mohammed ben Lam'har, who

soon became greatly attached to me. As he would not sleep in a house, not

being accustomed to it, he pitched his tent a few yards from my house, so

that I might be able to call him from my window.

"You can guess what my life was, I dare say? Every day I was busy with

cleanings and plantations; I hunted a little, I used to go and dine with

the officers of the neighboring fortified posts, or else they came and

dined with me. As for pleasures ... I have told you what they consisted

in. Algiers offered me some which were rather more refined, and from time

to time a complaisant and compassionate Arab would stop me when I was out

for a walk, and offer to bring one of the women of his tribe to my house

at night. Sometimes I accepted, but more frequently I refused, from fear

of the disagreeable consequences and troubles it might entail upon me.

"One evening, at the beginning of summer, as I was going home, after

going over the farm, as I wanted Mohammed, I went into his tent without

calling him, as I frequently did, and there I saw a woman, a girl,

sleeping almost naked, with her arms crossed under her head, on one of

those thick, red carpets, made of the fine wool of Djebel-Amour, and

which are as soft and as thick as a feather bed. Her body, which was

beautifully white under the ray of light that came in through the raised

covering of the tent, appeared to me to be one of the most perfect

specimens of the human race that I had ever seen, and most of the women

about here are beautiful and tall, and are a rare combination of features

and shape. I let the edge of the tent fall in some confusion, and

returned home.

"I love women! The sudden flash of this vision had penetrated and

scorched me, and had rekindled in my veins that old, formidable ardor to

which I owe my being here. It was very hot for it was July, and I spent

nearly the whole night at my window, with my eyes fixed on the black

Mohammed's tent made on the ground.

"When he came into my room the next morning, I looked him closely in the

face, and he hung his head, like a man who was guilty and in confusion.

Did he guess that I knew? I, however, asked him, suddenly:

"'So you are married, Mohammed?' and I saw that he got red, and he

stammered out: 'No, _mo'ssieuia_!'

"I used to make him speak French to me, and to give me Arabic lessons,

which was often productive of a most incoherent mixture of languages;

however, I went on:

"'Then why is there a woman in your tent?'

"'She comes from the South,' he said, in a low, apologetic voice.

"'Oh! So she comes from the South? But that does not explain to me how

she comes to be in your tent.'

"Without answering my question, he continued:

"'She is very pretty.'

"'Oh! Indeed. Another time, please, when you happen to receive a pretty

woman from the South, you will take care that she comes to my _gourbi_,

and not to yours. You understand me, Mohammed?'

"'Yes, _mo'ssieuia_,' he repeated, seriously.

"I must acknowledge that during the whole day I was in a state of

aggressive excitement at the recollection of that Arab girl lying on the

red carpet, and when I went in at dinner time, I felt very strongly

inclined to go to Mohammed's tent again. During the evening, he waited

on me just as usual, and hovered round me with his impassive face, and

several times I was very nearly asking him whether he intended to keep

that girl from the South, who was very pretty, in his camel skin tent for

a long time.

"Towards nine o'clock, still troubled with that longing for female

society which is as tenacious as the hunting instinct in dogs, I went out

to get some fresh air, and to stroll about a little round that cone of

brown skin through which I could see a brilliant speck of light. I did

not remain long, however, for fear of being surprised by Mohammed in the

neighborhood of his dwelling. When I went in an hour later, I clearly saw

his outline in the tent, and then, taking the key out of my pocket, I

went into the _bordj_, where besides myself, there slept my steward, two

French laborers, and an old cook whom I had picked up in the Algiers. As

I went up stairs, I was surprised to see a streak of light under my door,

and when I opened it, I saw a girl with the face of a statue sitting on a

straw chair by the side of the table, on which a wax candle was burning;

she was bedizened with all those silver gew-gaws which women in the South

wear on their legs, arms, breast, and even on their stomach. Her eyes,

which were tinged with kohl, to make them look larger, regarded me

earnestly, and four little blue spots, finely tatooed on her skin, marked

her forehead, her cheeks, and her chin. Her arms, which were loaded with

bracelets, were resting on her thighs, which were covered by the long,

red silk skirt that she wore.

"When she saw me come in, she got up and remained standing in front of

me, covered with her barbaric jewels, in an attitude of proud submission.

"'What are you doing here?' I said to her in Arabic.

"'I am here because Mohammed told me to come.'

"'Very well, sit down.'

"So she sat down and lowered her eyes, while I examined her attentively.

"She had a strange, regular, delicate, and rather bestial face, but

mysterious as that of a Buddha. Her lips, which were rather thick and

covered with a reddish efflorescence, which I discovered on the rest of

her body as well, indicated a slight admixture of negro blood, although

her hands and arms were of an irreproachable whiteness.

"I hesitated what to do with her, and felt excited, tempted and rather

confused, so in order to gain time and to give myself an opportunity for

reflection, I put other questions to her, about her birth, how she came

into this part of the country, and what her connection with Mohammed was.

But she only replied to those that interested me the least, and it was

impossible for me to find out why she had come, with what intention,

by whose orders, nor what had taken place between her and my servant.

However, just as I was about to say to her: 'Go back to Mohammed's tent,'

she seemed to guess my intention, for getting up suddenly, and raising

her two bare arms, on which the jingling bracelets slipped down to her

shoulders, she crossed her hands behind my neck and drew me towards her

with an irresistible air of suppliant longing.

"Her eyes, which were bright from emotion, from that necessity of

conquering man, which makes the looks of an impure woman as seductive as

those of the feline tribe, allured me, enchained me, deprived me of all

the power of resistance, and filled me with impetuous ardor. It was a

short, sharp struggle of the eyes only, that eternal struggle between

those two human brutes, the male and the female, in which the male is

always beaten.

"Her hands, which had clasped behind my head, drew me irresistibly, with

a gentle, increasing pressure, as if by mechanical force towards her red

lips, on which I suddenly laid mine while, at the same moment, I clasped

her body, that was covered with jingling silver rings, in an ardent

embrace.

"She was as strong, as healthy, and as supple as a wild animal, with all

the motions, the ways, the grace, and even something of the odor of a

gazelle, which made me find a rare, unknown zest in her kisses, which

was as strange to my senses as the taste of tropical fruits.

"Soon--I say soon, although it may have been towards morning--I wished to

send her away, as I thought that she would go in the same way that she

had come; I did not, even, at the moment, ask myself what I should do

with her, or what she would do with me, but as soon as she guessed my

intention, she whispered:

"'What do you expect me to do if you get rid of me now? I shall have to

sleep on the ground in the open air at night. Let me sleep on the carpet,

at the foot of your bed.'

"What answer could I give her, or what could I do? I thought that no

doubt Mohammed also would be watching the window of my room, in which a

light was burning, and questions of various natures, that I had not put

to myself during the first minutes, formulated themselves clearly in my

brain.

"'Stop here,' I replied, 'and we will talk.'

"My resolution was taken in a moment. As this girl had been thrown into

my arms, in this manner, I would keep her; I would make her a kind of

slave-mistress, hidden in my house, like women in a harem are. When the

time should come that I no longer cared for her, it would be easy for me

to get rid of her in some way or another, for on African soil those sort

of creatures almost belong to us, body and soul, and so I said to her:

"'I wish to be kind to you, and I will treat you so that you shall not be

unhappy, but I want to know who you are and where you come from?'

"She saw clearly that she must say something, and she told me her story,

or rather a story, for no doubt she was lying from beginning to end, like

all Arabs always do, with or without any motive.

"That is one of the most surprising and incomprehensible signs of the

native character--the Arabs always lie. Those people in whom Islam has

become so incarnate that it has become part of themselves, to such an

extent as to model their instincts and modifies the entire race, and to

differentiate it from others in morals just as much as the color of the

skin differentiates a negro from a white man, are liars to the backbone,

so that one can never trust a word that they say. I do not know whether

they owe that to their religion, but one must have lived among them in

order to know the extent to which lying forms part of their being, of

their heart and soul, until it has become a kind of second nature, a very

necessity of life, with them.

"Well, she told me that she was the daughter of a _Caidi_ of the _Ouled

Sidi Cheik_, and of a woman whom he had carried off in a raid against the

Touaregs. The woman must have been a black slave, or, at any rate, have

sprung from a first cross of Arab and negro blood. It is well known that

negro women are in great request for harems, where they act as

aphrodisiacs. Nothing of such an origin was to be noticed, however,

except the purple color of her lips, and the dark nipples of her

elongated breasts, which were as supple as if they were on springs.

Nobody who knew anything about the matter, could be mistaken in that. But

all the rest of her belonged to the beautiful race from the South, fair,

supple and with a delicate face which was formed on straight and simple

lines like those of a Hindoo figure. Her eyes, which were very far apart,

still further heightened the somewhat god-like looks of this desert

marauder.

"I knew nothing exactly about her real life. She related it to me in

incoherent fragments, that seemed to rise up at random from a disordered

memory, and she mixed up deliciously childish observations with them;

a whole vision of a Nomad world, born of a squirrel's brain that had

leapt from tent to tent, from encampment to encampment, from tribe to

tribe. And all this was done with the severe looks that this reserved

people always preserve, with the appearance of a brass idol, and rather

comic gravity.

"When she had finished, I perceived that I had not remembered anything of

that long story, full of insignificant events, that she had stored up in

her flighty brain, and I asked myself whether she had not simply been

making fun of me by her empty and would-be serious chatter, which told me

nothing about her, nor about any real facts connected with her life.

"And I thought of that conquered race, among whom we have encamped, or,

rather, who are encamping among us, whose language we are beginning to

speak, whom we see every day, living under the transparent linen of their

tents, on whom we have imposed our laws, our regulations, and our

customs, and about whom we know nothing, nothing more whatever, I assure

you, than if we were not here, and solely occupied in looking at them,

for nearly sixty years. We know no more about what is going on in those

huts made of branches, and under those small canvas cones that are

fastened to the ground by stakes, which are within twenty yards of our

doors, than we know what the so-called civilized Arabs of the Moorish

houses in Algiers do, think, and are. Behind the white-washed walls of

their town houses, behind the partition of their _gourbi_, which is made

of branches, or behind that thin, brown, camel-haired curtain which the

wind moves, they live close to us, unknown, mysterious, cunning,

submissive, smiling, impenetrable. What if I were to tell you, that when

I look at the neighboring encampment through my field glasses, I guess

that there are superstitions, customs, ceremonies, a thousand practices

of which we know nothing, and which we do not even suspect! Never

previously, in all probability, did a conquered race know so well how

to escape so completely from the real domination, the moral influence

and the inveterate, but useless, investigations of the conquerors.

"Now I suddenly felt the insurmountable, secret barrier which

incomprehensible nature had set up between the two races, more than I had

ever felt it before, between this girl and myself, between this woman who

had just given herself to me, who had yielded herself to my caresses and

to me, who had possessed her, and, thinking of it for the first time, I

said to her: 'What is your name?'

"She did not speak for some moments, and I saw her start, as if she had

forgotten that I was there, and then, in her eyes that were raised to

mine, I saw that that moment had sufficed for her to be overcome by

sleep, by irresistible, sudden, almost overwhelming sleep, like

everything that lays hold of the mobile senses of women, and she

answered, carelessly, suppressing a yawn:

"'Allouma.'

"'Do you want to go sleep?'

"'Yes,' she replied.

"'Very well then, go to sleep!'

"She stretched herself out tranquilly by my side, lying on her stomach,

with her forehead resting on her folded arms, and I felt almost

immediately that fleeting, untutored thoughts were lulled in repose,

while I began to ponder, as I lay by her side, and tried to understand it

all. Why had Mohammed given her to me? Had he acted the part of a

magnanimous servant, who sacrifices himself for his master, even to the

extent of giving up the woman whom he had brought into his own tent, to

him? Or had he, on the other hand, obeyed a more complex and more

practical, though less generous impulse, in handing over this girl who

had taken my fancy, to my embrace? An Arab, when it is a question of

women, is rigorously modest and unspeakably complaisant, and one can no

more understand his rigorous and easy morality, than one can all the rest

of his sentiments. Perhaps, when I accidentally went to his tent, I had

merely forestalled the benevolent intentions of this thoughtful servant,

who had intended this woman, who was his friend and accomplice, or

perhaps even his mistress, for me.

"All these suppositions assailed me, and fatigued me so much, that, at

last, in my turn, I fell into a profound sleep, from which I was roused

by the creaking of my door, and Mohammed came in, to call me as usual. He

opened the window, through which a flood of light streamed in, and fell

onto Allouma who was still asleep; then he picked up my trousers, coat

and waistcoat from the floor in order to brush them. He did not look at

the woman who was lying by my side, did not seem to know or remark that

she was there, and preserved his ordinary gravity, demeanor and looks.

But the light, the movement, the slight noise which his bare feet made,

the feeling of the fresh air on her skin and in her lungs, roused Allouma

from her lethargy. She stretched out her arms, turned over, opened her

eyes, and looked at me and then Mohammed with the same indifference; then

she sat up in bed and said: 'I am hungry.'

"'What would you like?'

"'Kahoua.'

"'Coffee and bread and butter.'

"'Yes.'

"Mohammed remained standing close to our bed, with my clothes under his

arm, waiting for my orders.

"'Bring breakfast for Allouma and me,' I said to him.

"He went out, without his face betraying the slightest astonishment or

anger, and as soon as he had left the room, I said to the girl:

"'Will you live in my house?'

"'I should like to, very much.'

"'I will give you a room to yourself, and a woman to wait on you.'

"'You are very generous, and I am grateful to you.'

"'But if you behave badly, I shall send you away immediately.'

"'I will do everything that you wish me to.'

"She took my hand, and kissed it as a token of submission, and just then

Mohammed came in, carrying a tray with our breakfast on it, and I said to

him:--

"'Allouma is going to live here. You must spread a carpet on the floor of

the room at the end of the passage, and get Abd-El-Kader-El-Hadara's wife

to come and wait on her.'

"'Yes, _mo'ssieuia_.'

"That was all.

"An hour later, my beautiful Arab was installed in a large, airy, light

room, and when I went in to see that everything was in order, she asked

me in a supplicating voice, to give her a wardrobe with a looking-glass

in the doors. I promised her one, and then I left her squatting on the

carpet from Djebel-Amour, with a cigarette in her mouth, and gossiping

with the old Arab woman I had sent for, as if they had known each other

for years."

II

"For a month I was very happy with her, and I got strangely attached to

this creature belonging to another race, who seemed to me almost to

belong to some other species, and to have been born on a neighboring

planet.

"I did not love her; no, one does not love the women of that primitive

continent. This small, pale blue flower of Northern countries never

unfolds between them and us, or even between them and their natural

males, the Arabs. They are too near to human animalism, their hearts are

too rudimentary, their feelings are not refined enough to rouse that

sentimental exaltation in us, which is the poetry of love. Nothing

intellectual, no intoxication of thought or feeling is mingled with that

sensual intoxication which those charming nonentities excite in us.

Nevertheless, they captivate us like the others do, but in a different

fashion, which is less tenacious, and, at the same time, less cruel and

painful.

"I cannot even now explain precisely what I felt for her. I said to you

just now that this country, this bare Africa, without any arts, void of

all intellectual pleasures, gradually captivates us by its climate, by

the continual mildness of the dawn and sunset, by its delightful light,

and by the feeling of well-being with which it fills all our organs.

Well, then! Allouma captivated me in the same manner, by a thousand

hidden, physical, alluring charms, and by the procreative seductiveness,

not of her embraces, for she was of thoroughly oriental supineness in

that respect, but of her sweet self-surrender.

"I left her absolutely free to come and go as she liked, and she

certainly spent one afternoon out of two with the wives of my native

agricultural laborers. Often also, she would remain for nearly a whole

day admiring herself in front of a mahogany wardrobe with a large

looking-glass in the doors that I had got from Miliana.

"She admired herself conscientiously, standing before the glass doors, in

which she followed her own movements with profound and serious attention.

She walked with her head somewhat thrown back, in order to be able to see

whether her hips and loins swayed properly; went away, came back again,

and then, tired with her own movements, she sat down on a cushion and

remained opposite to her own reflection, with her eyes fixed on her face

in the glass, and her whole soul absorbed in that picture.

"Soon, I began to notice that she went out nearly every morning after

breakfast, and that she disappeared altogether until evening, and as I

felt rather anxious about this, I asked Mohammed whether he knew what

she could be doing during all these long hours of absence, but he replied

very calmly:

"'Do not be uneasy. It will be the Feast of Ramadan soon, and so she goes

to say her prayers.'

"He also seemed delighted at having Allouma in the house, but I never

once saw anything suspicious between them, and so I accepted the

situation as it was, and let time, accident, and life act for themselves.

"Often, after I had inspected my farm, my vineyards, and my clearings, I

used to take long walks. You know the magnificent forests in this part of

Algeria, those almost impenetrable ravines, where fallen pine trees hem

the mountain torrents, and those little valleys filled with oleanders,

which look like oriental carpets stretching along the banks of the

streams. You know that at every moment, in these woods and on these

hills, where one would think that nobody had ever penetrated, one

suddenly sees the white dome of a shrine that contains the bones of a

humble, solitary marabout, which was scarcely visited from time to time,

even by the most confirmed believers, who had come from the neighboring

villages with a wax candle in their pocket, to set up before the tomb of

the saint.

"Now one evening as I was going home, I was passing one of these

Mohammedan chapels, and, looking in through the door, which was always

open, I saw a woman praying before the altar. That Arab woman, sitting on

the ground in that dilapidated building, into which the wind entered as

it pleased, and heaped up the fine, dry pine needles in yellow heaps in

the corners. I went near to see better, and recognized Allouma. She

neither saw nor heard me, so absorbed was she with the saint, to whom she

was speaking in a low voice, as she thought that she was alone with him,

and telling this servant of God all her troubles. Sometimes she stopped

for a short time to think, to try and recollect what more she had to say,

so that she might not forget anything that she wished to confide to him;

then, again, she would grow animated, as if he had replied to her, as if

he had advised her to do something that she did not want to do, and the

reasons for which she was impugning, and I went away as I had come,

without making any noise, and returned home to dinner.

"That evening, when I sent for her, I saw that she had a thoughtful look,

which was not usual with her.

"'Sit down there,' I said, pointing to her place on the couch by my side.

As soon as she had sat down, I stooped to kiss her, but she drew her head

away quickly, and, in great astonishment, I said to her:

"'Well, what is the matter?'

"'It is the Ramadan,' she said.

"I began to laugh, and said: 'And the Marabout has forbidden you to allow

yourself to be kissed during the Ramadan?'

"Oh, yes; I am an Arab woman, and you are a Roumi!'

"'And it would be a great sin?'

"'Oh, yes!'

"'So you ate nothing all day, until sunset?'

"'No, nothing.'

"'But you had something to eat after sundown?'

"'Yes.'

"'Well, then, as it is quite dark now, you ought not to be more strict

about the rest than you are about your mouth.'

"She seemed irritated, wounded, and offended, and replied with an amount

of pride that I had never noticed in her before:--

"'If an Arab girl were to allow herself to be touched by a Roumi during

the Ramadan, she would be cursed for ever.'

"'And that is to continue for a whole month?'

"'Yes, for the whole of the month of Ramadan,' she replied, with great

determination.

"I assumed an irritated manner and said:--'Very well, then, you can go

and spend the Ramadan with your family.'

"She seized my hands, and, laying them on my heart, she said:--

"'Oh! Please do not be unkind, and you shall see how nice I will be. We

will keep Ramadan together, if you like. I will look after you, and spoil

you, but don't be unkind.'

"I could not help smiling at her funny manner and her unhappiness, and

I sent her to go to sleep at home, but, an hour later, just as I was

thinking about going to bed, there came two little taps at my door,

which were so slight, however, that I scarcely heard them; but when I

said:--'Come in,' Allouma appeared carrying a large tray covered with

Arab dainties; fried balls of rice, covered with sugar, and a variety of

other strange, Nomad pastry.

"She laughed, showing her white teeth, and repeated:--'Come, we will keep

Ramadan together.'

"You know that the fast, which begins at dawn and ends at twilight, at

the moment when the eye can no longer distinguish a black from a white

thread, is followed every evening by small, friendly entertainments, at

which eating is kept up until the morning, and the result is that for

such of the natives as are not very scrupulous, Ramadan consists of

turning day into night, and night into day. But Allouma carried her

delicacy of conscience further than this. She placed her tray between us

on the divan, and taking a small, sugared ball between her long, slender

fingers, she put it into my mouth, and whispered:--'Eat it, it is very

good.'

"I munched the light cake, which was really excellent, and asked

her:--'Did you make that?'

"'Yes.'

"'For me?'

"'Yes, for you.'

"'To enable me to support Ramadan?'

"'Oh! Don't be so unkind! I will bring you some every day.'

"Oh! the terrible month that I spent! A sugared, insipidly sweet month; a

month that nearly drove me mad; a month of spoiling and of temptation, of

anger and of vain efforts against an invincible resistance, but at last

the three days of Beiram came, which I celebrated in my own fashion, and

Ramadan was forgotten.

"The summer went on, and it was very hot, and in the first days of

autumn, Allouma appeared to me to be pre-occupied and absent-minded, and,

seemingly, taking no interest in anything, and, at last, when I sent for

her one evening, she was not to be found in her room. I thought that she

was roaming about the house, and I gave orders to look for her. She had

not come in, however, and so I opened my window, and called out:--

"'Mohammed,' and the voice of the man, who was lying in his tent,

replied:--

"'Yes, _mo'ssieuia_.'

"'Do you know where Allouma is?'

"'No, _mo'ssieuia_ ... it is not possible ... is Allouma lost?'

"A few moments later, my Arab came into my room, so agitated that he

could not master his feelings, and I said:

"'Is Allouma lost?'

"'Yes, she is lost.'

"'It is impossible.'

"'Go and look for her,' I said.

"He remained standing where he was, thinking, seeking for her motives,

and unable to understand anything about it. Then he went into the empty

room, where Allouma's clothes were lying about, in oriental disorder. He

examined everything, as if he had been a police officer, or, rather, he

smelt like a dog, and then, incapable of a lengthened effort, he

murmured, resignedly:--

"'She has gone, she has gone!'

"I was afraid that some accident had happened to her; that she had fallen

into some ravine and sprained herself, and I immediately sent all the men

about the place off with orders to look for her until they should find

her, and they hunted for her all that night, all the next day, and all

the week long, but nothing was discovered that could put us upon her

track. I suffered, for I missed her very much; my house seemed empty,

and my existence a void. And then, disgusting thoughts entered my mind. I

feared that she might have been carried off, or even murdered, but when I

spoke about it to Mohammed, and tried to make him share my fears, he

invariably replied:

"'No; gone away.'

"Then he added the Arab word _r'ezale_, which means _gazelle_, as if he

meant to say that she could run quickly, and that she was far away.

"Three weeks passed, and I had given up all hopes of seeing my Arab

mistress again, when one morning Mohammed came into my room, with every

sign of joy in his face, and said to me:

"'_Mo'ssieuia_, Allouma has come back.'

"I jumped out of bed and said:

"'Where is she?'

"'She does not dare to come in! There she is, under the tree.'

"And stretching out his arm, he pointed out to me, through the window, a

whitish spot at the foot of an olive tree.

"I got up immediately, and went out to where she was. As I approached

what looked like a mere bundle of linen thrown against the gnarled trunk

of the tree, I recognized the large, dark eyes, the tattooed stars, and

the long, regular features of that semi-wild girl who had so captivated

my senses. As I advanced towards her, I felt inclined to strike her, to

make her suffer pain, and to have my revenge, and so I called out to her

from a little distance:

"'Where have you been?'

"She did not reply, but remained motionless and inert, as if she were

scarcely alive, resigned to my violence, and ready to receive my blows.

I was standing up, close to her, looking in stupefaction at the rags with

which she was covered, at those bits of silk and muslin, covered with

dust, torn and dirty, and I repeated, raising my hand, as if she had been

a dog:

"'Where have you come from?'

"'From yonder,' she said, in a whisper.

"'Where is that?'

"'From the tribe.'

"'What tribe?'

"'Mine.'

"'Why did you go away?'

"When she saw that I was not going to beat her, she grew rather bolder,

and said in a low voice: "'I was obliged to do it.... I was forced to go,

I could not stop in the house any longer.'

"I saw tears in her eyes, and immediately felt softened. I leaned over

her, and when I turned round to sit down, I noticed Mohammed, who was

watching us at a distance, and I went on, very gently:

"'Come, tell me why you ran away?'

"Then she told me, that for a long time in her Nomad's heart she had felt

the irresistible desire to return to the tents, to lie, to run, to roll

on the sand; to wander about the plains with the flocks, to feel nothing

over her head, between the yellow stars in the sky and the blue stars in

her face, except the thin, threadbare, patched stuff, through which she

could see spots of fire in the sky, when she awoke during the night.

"She made me understand all that in such simple and powerful words, that

I felt quite sure that she was not lying, and pitied her, and I asked

her:

"'Why did you not tell me that you wished to go away for a time?'

"'Because you would not have allowed me...'

"'If you had promised to come back, I should have consented.'

"'You would not have believed me.'

"Seeing that I was not angry, she began to laugh, and said:

"'You see that is all over; I have come home again, and here I am. I only

wanted a few days there. I have had enough of it now, it is finished and

passed; the feeling is cured. I have come back, and have not that longing

any more. I am very glad, and you are very kind.'

"'Come into the house,' I said to her.

"She got up, and I took her hand, her delicate hand, with its slender

fingers, and triumphant in her rags, with her bracelets and her necklace

ringing, she went gravely towards my house, where Mohammed was waiting

for us, but before going in, I said:

"'Allouma, whenever you want to return to your own people, tell me, and

I will allow you to go.'

"'You promise?'

"'Yes, I promise.'

"'And I will make you a promise also. When I feel ill or unhappy'--and

here she put her hand to her forehead, with a magnificent gesture--'I

shall say to you: "I must go yonder," and you will let me go.'

"I went with her to her room, followed by Mohammed, who was

carrying some water, for there had been no time to tell the wife of

Abd-el-Kader-el-Hadam that her mistress had returned. As soon as she got

into the room, and saw the wardrobe with the looking-glass in the door,

she ran up to it, like a child does when it sees its mother. She looked

at herself for a few seconds, made a grimace, and then in a rather cross

voice, she said to the looking-glass:

"'Just you wait a moment; I have some silk dresses in the wardrobe.

I shall be beautiful in a few minutes.'

"And I left her alone, to act the coquette to herself.

"Our life began its usual course again, as formerly, and I felt more and

more under the influence of the strange, merely physical attractions of

that girl, for whom, at the same time, I felt a kind of paternal

contempt. For two months all went well, and then I felt that she was

again becoming nervous, agitated, and rather low-spirited, and one day

I said to her:--

"'Do you want to return home again?'

"'Yes.'

"'And you did not dare to tell me?'

"'I did not venture to.'

"'Go, if you wish to; I give you leave.'

"She seized my hands and kissed them, as she did in all her outbursts of

gratitude, and the same morning she disappeared.

"She came back, as she had done the first time, at the end of about three

weeks, in rags, covered with dust, and satiated with her Nomad life of

sand and liberty. In two years she returned to her own people four times

in this fashion.

"I took her back, gladly, without any feelings of jealousy, for with me

jealousy can only spring from love as we Europeans understand it. I might

very likely have killed her if I had surprised her in the act of

deceiving me, but I should have done it, just as one half kills a

disobedient dog, from sheer violence. I should not have felt those

torments, that consuming fire--Northern jealousy. I have just said that

I should have killed her like a disobedient dog, and, as a matter of

fact, I loved her somewhat in the same manner as one loves some very

highly bred horse or dog, which it is impossible to replace. She was a

splendid animal, a sensual animal, an animal made for pleasure, and which

possessed the body of a woman.

"I cannot tell you what an immeasurable distance separated our two souls,

although our hearts perhaps occasionally warmed towards each other. She

was something belonging to my house, she was part of my life, she had

become a very agreeable, daily, regular requirement with me, to which I

clung, and which the sensual man in me loved, that in me which was only

eyes and sensuality.

"Well, one morning, Mohammed came into my room with a strange look on his

face, that uneasy look of the Arabs, which resembles the furtive look of

a cat, face to face with a dog, and when I noticed his expression, I

said:

"'What is the matter, now?'

"'Allouma has gone away.'

"I began to laugh, and said:--'Where has she gone to?'

"'Gone away altogether, _mo'ssieuia_!'

"'What do you mean by _gone away altogether_; you are mad, my man.'

"'No, _mo'ssieuia_.'

"'Why has she gone away? Just explain yourself; come!'

"He remained motionless, and evidently did not wish to speak, and then he

had one of those explosions of Arab rage, which make us stop in streets

in front of two demoniacs, whose oriental silence and gravity suddenly

give place to the most violent gesticulations, and the most ferocious

vociferations, and I gathered, amidst his shouts, that Allouma had run

away with my shepherd, and when I had partially succeeded in calming

him, I managed to extract the facts from him one by one.

"It was a long story, but at last I gathered that he had been watching my

mistress, who used to meet a sort of vagabond whom my steward had hired

the month before, behind the neighboring cactus woods, or in the ravine

where the oleanders flourished. The night before, Mohammed had seen her

go out without seeing her return, and he repeated, in an exasperated

manner:--'Gone, _mo'ssieuia_; she has gone away!'

"I do not know why, but his conviction, the conviction that she had run

away with this vagabond, laid hold of me irresistibly in a moment. It

was absurd, unlikely, and yet certain in virtue of that very

unreasonableness, which constitutes female logic.

"Boiling over with indignation, I tried to recall the man's features, and

I suddenly remembered having seen him the previous week, standing on a

mound amidst his flock, and watching me. He was a tall Bedouin, the color

of whose bare limbs was blended with that of his rags; he was a type of a

barbarous brute, with high cheek bones, and a hooked nose, a retreating

chin, thin legs, and a tall carcass in rags, with the shifty eyes of a

jackal.

"I did not doubt for a moment that she had run away with that beggar.

Why? Because she was Allouma, a daughter of the desert. A girl from the

pavement in Paris would have run away with my coachman, or some thief in

the suburbs.

"'Very well,' I said to Mohammed. Then I got up, opened my window, and

began to draw in the stifling South wind, for the sirocco was blowing,

and I thought to myself:--

"Good heavens! she is ... a woman, like so many others. Does anybody know

what makes them act, what makes them love, what makes them follow, or

throw over a man? One certainly does know, occasionally; but often one

does not, and sometimes one is in doubt. Why did she run away with that

repulsive brute? Why? Perhaps, because the wind had been blowing

regularly from the South, for a month; that was enough; a breath of wind!

Does she know, do they know, even the cleverest of them, why they act?

No more than a weather-cock that turns with the wind. An imperceptible

breeze, makes the iron, brass, zinc, or wooden arrow revolve, just in

the same manner as some imperceptible influence, some undiscernible

impression moves the female heart, and urges it on to resolutions, and it

does not matter whether they belong to town or country, the suburbs or

the desert.

"They can then feel, provided that they reason and understand, why they

have done one thing rather than another, but, for the moment, they do

not know, for they are the playthings of their own sensibility, the

thoughtless, giddy-headed slaves of events, of their surroundings, of

chance meetings, and of all the sensations with which their soul and

their body trembles!"

Monsieur Auballe had risen, and, after walking up and down the room once

or twice, he looked at me, and said, with a smile:--

"That is love in the desert!"

"Suppose she were to come back?" I asked him.

"Horrid girl!" he replied.

"But I should be very glad if she did return to me."

"And you would pardon the shepherd?"

"Good heavens, yes! With women, one must always pardon ... or else

pretend not to see things."

A FAMILY AFFAIR

The Neuilly steam-tram had just passed the _Porte Maillot_, and was going

along the broad avenue that terminates at the Seine. The small engine

that was attached to the car whistled to warn any obstacle to get out of

its way, sent out its steam, and panted like a person out of breath from

running does, and its pistons made a rapid noise, like iron legs that

were running. The oppressive heat of the end of a July day lay over the

whole city, and from the road, although there was not a breath of wind

stirring, there arose a white, chalky, opaque, suffocating, and warm

dust, which stuck to the moist skin, filled the eyes, and got into the

lungs, and people were standing in the doors of their houses in search

of a little air.

The windows of the steam-tram were down, and the curtains fluttered in

the wind, and there were very few passengers inside, because on such warm

days people preferred the top or the platforms. Those few consisted of

stout women in strange toilets, of those shopkeepers' wives from the

suburbs, who made up for the distinguished looks which they did not

possess, by ill-timed dignity; of gentlemen who were tired of the office,

with yellow-faces, who stooped rather, and with one shoulder higher than

the other, in consequence of their long hours of work bending over the

desk. Their uneasy and melancholy faces also spoke of domestic troubles,

of constant want of money, of former hopes, that had been finally

disappointed; for they all belonged to that army of poor, threadbare

devils who vegetate economically in mean, plastered houses, with a tiny

piece of neglected garden in the midst of those fields where night soil

is deposited, which are on the outskirts of Paris.

A short, fat man, with a puffy face and a big stomach, dressed all in

black, and wearing a decoration in his button-hole, was talking to a

tall, thin man, dressed in a dirty, white linen suit, that was all

unbuttoned, with a white Panama hat on. The former spoke so slowly and

hesitatingly, that it occasionally almost seemed as if he stammered; he

was Monsieur Caravan, chief clerk in the Admiralty. The other, who had

formerly been surgeon on board a merchant ship, had set up in practice

in Courbevoie, where he applied the vague remnants of medical knowledge

which he had retained after an adventurous life, to the wretched

population of that district. His name was Chenet, and strange rumors

were current as to his morality.

Monsieur Caravan had always led the normal life of a man in a Government

office. For the last thirty years he had invariably gone the same way to

his office every morning, and had met the same men going to business at

the same time and nearly on the same spot, and he returned home every

evening the same way, and again met the same faces which he had seen

growing old. Every morning, after buying his halfpenny paper at the

corner of the _Faubourg Saint Honoré_, he bought his two rolls, and then

he went into his office, like a culprit who is giving himself up to

justice, and he got to his desk as quickly as possible, always feeling

uneasy, as he was expecting a rebuke for some neglect of duty of which he

might have been guilty.

Nothing had ever occurred to change the monotonous order of his

existence, for no event affected him except the work of his office,

perquisites, gratuities, and promotion. He never spoke of anything but of

his duties, either at the Admiralty or at home, for he had married the

portionless daughter of one of his colleagues. His mind, which was in a

state of atrophy from his depressing daily work, had no other thoughts,

hopes or dreams than such as related to the office, and there was a

constant source of bitterness that spoilt every pleasure that he might

have had, and that was the employment of so many commissioners of the

navy, _tinmen_, as they were called, because of their silver-lace, as

first-class clerks; and every evening at dinner he discussed the matter

hotly with his wife, who shared his angry feelings, and proved to their

own satisfaction that it was in every way unjust to give places in Paris,

to men who ought to be employed in the navy.

He was old now, and had scarcely noticed how his life was passing, for

school had merely been exchanged, without any transition, for the office,

and the ushers, at whom he had formerly trembled, were replaced by his

chiefs, whom he was terribly afraid of. When he had to go into the rooms

of these official despots, it made him tremble from head to foot, and

that constant fear had given him a very awkward manner in their presence,

a humble demeanor, and a kind of nervous stammering.

He knew nothing more about Paris than a blind man could know, who was led

to the same spot by his dog every day, and if he read the account of any

uncommon events, or of scandals, in his halfpenny paper, they appeared

to him like fantastic tales, which some pressman had made up out of his

own head, in order to amuse the inferior _employés_. He did not read the

political news, which his paper frequently altered, as the cause which

subsidized them might require, for he was not fond of innovations, and

when he went through the Avenue of the _Champs-Elysées_ every evening,

he looked at the surging crowd of pedestrians, and at the stream of

carriages, like a traveler who has lost his way in a strange country.

As he had completed his thirty years of obligatory service that year, on

the first of January, he had had the cross of the _Legion of Honor_

bestowed upon him, which, in the semi-military public offices, is a

recompense for the miserable slavery--the official phrase is, _loyal

services_ of unfortunate convicts who are riveted to their desk. That

unexpected dignity gave him a high and new idea of his own capacities,

and altogether altered him. He immediately left off wearing light

trousers and fancy waistcoats, and wore black trousers and long coats,

on which his _ribbon_, which was very broad, showed off better. He got

shaved every morning, trimmed his nails more carefully, changed his linen

every two days, from a legitimate sense of what was proper, and of

respect for the national _Order_, of which he formed a part, and from

that day he was another Caravan, scrupulously clean, majestic and

condescending.

At home, he said, "my cross," at every moment, and he had become so

proud of it, that he could not bear to see other men wearing any other

ribbon in their button-holes. He got especially angry on seeing strange

orders:--"Which nobody ought to be allowed to wear in France," and he

bore Chenet a particular grudge, as he met him on a tramcar every

evening, wearing a decoration of some sort or another, white, blue,

orange, or green.

The conversation of the two men, from the _Arc de Triomphe_ to Neuilly,

was always the same, and on that day they discussed, first of all,

various local abuses which disgusted them both, and the Mayor of Neuilly

received his full share of their blame. Then, as invariably happens in

the company of a medical man, Caravan began to enlarge on the chapter of

illness, as, in that manner, he hoped to obtain a little gratuitous

advice, if he was careful not to show his book. His mother had been

causing him no little anxiety for some time; she had frequent and

prolonged fainting fits, and, although she was ninety, she would not

take care of herself.

Caravan grew quite tender-hearted when he mentioned her great age,

and more than once asked Doctor Chenet, emphasizing the word

_doctor_--although he had no right to the title, being only an _Officier

de Santé_, and, as such, not fully qualified--whether he had often met

anyone as old as that. And he rubbed his hands with pleasure; not,

perhaps, that he cared very much about seeing the good woman last for

ever here on earth, but because the long duration of his mother's life

was, as it were, an earnest of old age for himself, and he continued:

"Oh! In my family, we last long, and I am sure that, unless I meet with

an accident, I shall not die until I am very old."

The _medico_ looked at him with pity, and glanced for a moment at his

neighbor's red face, his short, thick neck, his "corporation," as Chenet

called it to himself, that hung down between two flaccid, fat legs, and

his apoplectic rotundity of the old, flabby official, and, lifting the

white Panama hat which he wore, from his head, he said, with a snigger:--

"I am not so sure of that, old fellow; your mother is as tough as nails,

and I should say that your life is not a very good one."

This rather upset Caravan, who did not speak again until the tram put

them down at their destination, where the two friends got out, and Chenet

asked his friend to have a glass of vermouth at the _Café du Globe_,

opposite, which both of them were in the habit of frequenting. The

proprietor, who was a friend of theirs, held out two fingers to them,

which they shook across the bottles on the counter, and then they joined

three of their friends, who were playing at dominoes, and who had been

there since midday. They exchanged cordial greetings, with the usual

inquiries:--"Anything fresh?" and then the three players continued their

game, and held out their hands without looking up, when the others wished

them "Good-night," and then they both went home to dinner.

Caravan lived in a small, two-storied house in Courbevoie, near where

the roads meet; the ground floor was occupied by a hair-dresser. Two

bedrooms, a dining-room and a kitchen, formed the whole of their

apartments, and Madame Caravan spent nearly her whole time in cleaning

them up, while her daughter, Marie-Louise, who was twelve, and her son,

Philippe-Auguste, were running about with all the little, dirty,

mischievous brats of the neighborhood, and playing in the gutters.

Caravan had installed his mother, whose avarice was notorious in the

neighborhood, and who was terribly thin, in the room above them. She

was always in a bad temper, and she never passed a day without

quarreling and flying into furious tempers. She used to apostrophize the

neighbors, who were standing at their own doors, the coster-mongers, the

street-sweepers, and the street-boys, in the most violent language, and

the latter, to have their revenge, used to follow her at a distance when

she went out, and call out rude things after her.

A little servant from Normandy, who was incredibly giddy and thoughtless,

performed the household work, and slept on the second floor, in the same

room as the old woman, for fear of anything happening to her in the

night.

When Caravan got in, his wife, who suffered from a chronic passion for

cleaning, was polishing up the mahogany chairs that were scattered about

the room, with a piece of flannel. She always wore cotton gloves, and

adorned her head with a cap, which was ornamented with many colored

ribbons, which was always tilted on one ear, and whenever anyone caught

her polishing, sweeping, or washing, she used to say:--

"I am not rich; everything is very simple in my house, but cleanliness is

my luxury, and that is worth quite as much as any other."

As she was gifted with sound, obstinate, practical common sense, she led

her husband in everything. Every evening during dinner, and afterwards,

when they were in bed, they talked over the business in the office for

a long time, and, although she was twenty years younger than he, he

confided everything to her, as if she had had the direction, and followed

her advice in every matter.

She had never been pretty, and now she had grown ugly; in addition to

that, she was short and thin, while her careless and tasteless way of

dressing herself, hid her few, small feminine attributes, which might

have been brought out if she had possessed any skill in dress. Her

petticoats were always awry, and she frequently scratched herself, no

matter on what place, totally indifferent as to who might see her, and so

persistently that anybody who saw her, would think that she was suffering

from something like the itch. The only ornaments that she allowed herself

were silk ribbons, which she had in great profusion, and of various

colors mixed together, in the pretentious caps which she wore at home.

As soon as she saw her husband she got up and said, as she kissed his

whiskers:

"Did you remember Potin, my dear?"

He fell into a chair, in consternation, for that was the fourth time on

which he had forgotten a commission that he had promised to do for her.

"It is a fatality," he said; "it is no good for me to think of it all day

long, for I am sure to forget it in the evening."

But as she seemed really so very sorry, she merely said, quietly:

"You will think of it to-morrow, I daresay. Anything fresh at the

office?"

"Yes, a great piece of news: another tinman has been appointed second

chief clerk," and she became very serious.

"So he succeeds Ramon, this was the very post that I wanted you to have.

And what about Ramon?"

"He retires on his pension."

She grew furious, and her cap slid down on her shoulder, and she

continued:

"There is nothing more to be done in that shop now. And what is the name

of the new commissioner?"

"Bonassot."

She took up the _Naval Year Book_, which she always kept close at hand,

and looked him up.

"'Bonassot--Toulon. Born in 1851. Student-Commissioner in 1871.

Sub-Commissioner in 1875.' Has he been to sea?" she continued, and at

that question Caravan's looks cleared up, and he laughed until his sides

shook.

"Just like Balin--just like Balin, his chief." And he added an old office

joke, and laughed more than ever:

"It would not even do to send them by water to inspect the

_Point-du-Jour_, for they would be sick on the penny steamboats on

the Seine."

But she remained as serious as if she had not heard him, and then she

said in a low voice, while she scratched her chin:

"If only we had a Deputy to fall back upon. When the Chamber hears

everything that is going on at the Admiralty, the Minister will be turned

out..."

She was interrupted by a terrible noise on the stairs. Marie-Louise and

Philippe-Auguste, who had just come in from the gutter, were giving each

other slaps all the way upstairs. Their mother rushed at them furiously,

and taking each of them by an arm, she dragged them into the room,

shaking them vigorously, but as soon as they saw their father, they

rushed up to him, and he kissed them affectionately, and taking one of

them on each knee, he began to talk to them.

Philippe-Auguste was an ugly, ill-kempt little brat, dirty from head to

foot, with the face of an idiot, and Marie-Louise was already like her

mother--spoke like her, repeated her words, and even imitated her

movements. She also asked him whether there was anything fresh at the

office, and he replied merrily:

"Your friend, Ramon, who comes and dines here every Sunday, is going to

leave us, little one. There is a new second head-clerk."

She looked at her father, and with a precocious child's pity, she said:

"So somebody has been put over your head again!"

He stopped laughing, and did not reply, and then, in order, to create a

diversion, he said, addressing his wife, who was cleaning the windows:

"How is mamma, up there?"

Madame Caravan left off rubbing, turned round, pulled her cap up, as it

had fallen quite on to her back, and said, with trembling lips:

"Ah! yes; just speak to your mother about this, for she has created a

pretty scene. Just think that a short time ago Madame Lebaudin, the

hairdresser's wife, came upstairs to borrow a packet of starch of me,

and, as I was not at home, your mother called her _a beggar woman_, and

turned her out; but I gave it to the old woman. She pretended not to

hear, like she always does when one tells her unpleasant truths, but

she is no more deaf than I am, as you know. It is all a sham, and the

proof of it is, that she went up to her own room immediately, without

saying a word."

Caravan did not utter a word, and at that moment the little servant

came in to announce dinner. In order to let his mother know, he took a

broom-handle, which always stood in a corner, and rapped loudly on the

ceiling three times, and they went into the dining-room. Madame Caravan,

junior, helped the soup, and waited for the old woman, but she did not

come, and the soup was getting cold, so they began to eat slowly, and

when their plates were empty, they waited again, and Madame Caravan,

who was furious, attacked her husband:

"She does it on purpose, you know that as well as I do. But you always

uphold her."

He, in great perplexity between the two, sent Marie-Louise to fetch her

grandmother, and he sat motionless, with his eyes down, while his wife

tapped her glass angrily with her knife. In about a minute, the door

flew open suddenly, and the child came in again, out of breath and very

pale, and said very quickly:

"Grandmamma has fallen down on the ground."

Caravan jumped up, threw his table-napkin down, and rushed upstairs,

while his wife, who thought it was some trick of her mother-in-law's,

followed more slowly, shrugging her shoulders, as if to express her

doubt. When they got upstairs, however, they found the old woman lying at

full length in the middle of the room, and when they turned her over they

saw that she was insensible and motionless, while her skin looked more

wrinkled and yellow than usual, and her eyes were closed, her teeth

clenched, and her thin body was stiff.

Caravan knelt down by her, and began to moan:

"My poor mother! my poor mother!" he said. But the other Madame Caravan

said:

"Bah! She has only fainted again, that is all, and she has done it to

prevent us from dining comfortably, you may be sure of that."

They put her on the bed, undressed her completely, and Caravan, his wife,

and the servant began to rub her, but, in spite of their efforts, she did

not recover consciousness, so they sent Rosalie, the servant, to fetch

_Doctor_ Chenet. He lived a long way off, on the quay going towards

Suresnes, and so it was considerable time before he arrived. He came at

last, however, and, after having looked at the old woman, felt her pulse,

auscultated her, he said:--"It is all over."

Caravan threw himself on the body, sobbing violently; he kissed his

mother's rigid face, and wept so, that great tears fell on the dead

woman's face, like drops of water, and, naturally, Madame Caravan,

Junior, showed a decorous amount of grief, and uttered feeble moans,

as she stood behind her husband, while she rubbed her eyes vigorously.

But, suddenly, Caravan raised himself up, with his thin hair in disorder,

and, looking very ugly in his grief, said:--

"But ... are you sure, doctor?... Are you quite sure?..."

The medical stooped over the body, and, handling it with professional

dexterity, like a shopkeeper might do, when showing off his goods, he

said:--"See, my dear friend, look at her eye."

He raised the eyelid, and the old woman's looks reappeared under his

finger, and were altogether unaltered, unless, perhaps, the pupil was

rather larger, and Caravan felt a severe shock at the sight. Then

Monsieur Chenet took her thin arm, forced the fingers open, and said,

angrily, as if he had been contradicted:

"Just look at her hand; I never make a mistake, you may be quite sure of

that."

Caravan fell on the bed, and almost bellowed, while his wife, still

whimpering, did what was necessary.

She brought the night-table, on which she spread a table napkin, and

placed four wax candles on it, which she lighted; then she took a sprig

of box, which was hanging over the chimney glass, and put it between

the candles, into the plate, which she filled with clean water, as she

had no holy water. But, after a moment's rapid reflection, she threw a

pinch of salt into the water, no doubt, thinking she was performing some

sort of act of consecration by doing that, and when she had finished, she

remained standing motionless, and the medical man, who had been helping

her, whispered to her:

"We must take Caravan away."

She nodded assent, and, going up to her husband, who was still on his

knees, sobbing, she raised him up by one arm, while Chenet took him by

the other.

They put him into a chair, and his wife kissed his forehead, and then

began to lecture him. Chenet enforced her words, and preached firmness,

courage, and resignation--the very things which are always wanting in

such overwhelming misfortunes--and then both of them took him by the arms

again and led him out.

He was crying like a great child, with convulsive hiccoughs; his arms

were hanging down, and his legs seemed useless, and he went downstairs

without knowing what he was doing, and moving his legs mechanically.

They put him into the chair which he always occupied at dinner, in front

of his empty soup plate. And there he sat, without moving, with his eyes

fixed on his glass, and so stupefied with grief, that he could not even

think.

In a corner, Madame Caravan was talking with the doctor, and asking what

the necessary formalities were, as she wanted to obtain practical

information. At last, Monsieur Chenet, who appeared to be waiting for

something, took up his hat and prepared to go, saying that he had not

dined yet; whereupon, she exclaimed:--

"What! you have not dined? But stop here, doctor; don't go. You shall

have whatever we can give you, for, of course, you will understand that

we do not fare sumptuously." However, he made excuses and refused, but

she persisted, and said:--

"You really must stop; at times like this, people like to have friends

near them, and, besides that, perhaps you will be able to persuade my

husband to take some nourishment; he must keep up his strength."

The doctor bowed, and, putting down his hat, he said:--

"In that case, I will accept your invitation, Madame."

She gave Rosalie, who seemed to have lost her head, some orders, and then

sat down, "to pretend to eat," as she said, "to keep the _doctor_

company."

The soup was brought in again, and Monsieur Chenet took two helpings.

Then there came a dish of tripe, which exhaled a smell of onions, and

which Madame Caravan made up her mind to taste.

"It is excellent," the doctor said, at which she smiled, and, turning to

her husband, she said:--

"Do take a little, my poor Alfred, only just to put something into your

stomach. Remember you have got to pass the night watching by her!"

He held out his plate, docilely, just as he would have gone to bed, if

he had been told to, obeying her in everything, without resistance and

without reflection, and, therefore, he ate; the doctor helped himself

three times, while Madame Caravan, from time to time, fished out a large

piece at the end of her fork, and swallowed it with a sort of studied

inattention.

When a salad bowl full of macaroni was brought in, the doctor said:

"By Jove! That is what I am very fond of." And this time, Madame Caravan

helped everybody. She even filled the children's saucers, which they had

scraped clean, and who, being left to themselves, had been drinking wine

without any water, and were now kicking each other under the table.

Chenet remembered that Rossini, the composer, had been very fond of that

Italian dish, and suddenly he exclaimed:--

"Why! that rhymes, and one could begin some lines like this:

_"The Maestro Rossini

Was fond of macaroni."_

Nobody listened to him, however. Madame Caravan, who had suddenly grown

thoughtful, was thinking of all the probable consequences of the event,

while her husband made bread pellets, which he put on the table-cloth,

and looked at with a fixed, idiotic stare. As he was devoured by thirst,

he was continually raising his glass full of wine to his lips, and the

consequences were that his senses, which had already been rather upset by

the shock and grief, seemed to dance about vaguely in his head, as if

they were going to vanish altogether.

Meanwhile, the doctor, who had been drinking away steadily, was getting

visibly drunk, and Madame Caravan herself felt the reaction which follows

all nervous shocks, and was agitated and excited, and although she had

been drinking nothing but water, she felt her head rather confused.

By-and-bye, Chenet began to relate stories of deaths, that appeared funny

to him. In that suburb of Paris, that is full of people from the

provinces, one meets with that indifference towards death were it even

a father or mother, which all peasants show; that want of respect, that

unconscious ferociousness which is so common in the country, and so rare

in Paris, and he said:

"Why, I was sent for last week to the _Rue du Puteaux_, and when I went,

I found the sick person (and there was the whole family calmly sitting

near the bed) finishing a bottle of liquor of aniseed, which had been

bought the night before to satisfy the dying man's fancy."

But Madame Caravan was not listening; she was continually thinking of the

inheritance, and Caravan was incapable of understanding anything.

Soon coffee was served, which had been made very strong, and as every cup

was well qualified with cognac, it made all their faces red, and confused

their ideas still more; to make matters still worse, Chenet suddenly

seized the brandy bottle and poured out "a drop just to wash their mouths

out with," as he termed it, for each of them, and then, without speaking

any more, overcome in spite of themselves, by that feeling of animal

comfort which alcohol affords after dinner, they slowly sipped the sweet

cognac, which formed a yellowish syrup at the bottom of their cups.

The children had gone to sleep, and Rosalie carried them off to bed, and

then, Caravan, mechanically obeying that wish to forget oneself which

possesses all unhappy persons, helped himself to brandy again several

times, and his dull eyes grew bright. At last the doctor rose to go, and

seizing his friend's arm, he said:

"Come with me; a little fresh air will do you good. When one is in

trouble, one must not stick to one spot."

The other obeyed mechanically, put on his hat, took his stick, and went

out, and both of them went arm-in-arm towards the Seine, in the starlight

night.

The air was warm and sweet, for all the gardens in the neighborhood were

full of flowers at that season of the year, and their scent, which is

scarcely perceptible during the day, seemed to awaken at the approach

of night, and mingled with the light breezes which blew upon them in the

darkness.

The broad avenue, with its two rows of gaslamps, that extended as far as

the _Arc de Triomphe_, was deserted and silent, but there was the distant

roar of Paris, which seemed to have a reddish vapor hanging over it. It

was a kind of continual rumbling, which was at times answered by the

whistle of a train at full speed, in the distance, traveling to the

ocean, through the provinces.

The fresh air on the faces of the two men rather overcame them at first,

made the doctor lose his equilibrium a little, and increased Caravan's

giddiness, from which he had suffered since dinner. He walked as if he

were in a dream; his thoughts were paralyzed, although he felt no grief,

for he was in a state of mental torpor that prevented him from suffering,

and he even felt a sense of relief which was increased by the mildness

of the night.

When they reached the bridge they turned to the right, and they got the

fresh breeze from the river. It rolled along, calm and melancholy,

bordered by tall poplar trees, and the stars looked as if they were

floating on the water and were moving with the current. A slight, white

mist that floated over the opposite banks, filled their lungs with a

sensation of cold, and Caravan stopped suddenly, for he was struck by

that smell from the water, which brought back old memories to his mind.

For he, suddenly, in his mind, saw his mother again, in Picardy, as he

had seen her years before, kneeling in front of their door, and washing

the heaps of linen, by her side, in the stream that ran through their

garden. He almost fancied that he could hear the sound of the wooden

beetle with which she beat the linen, in the calm silence of the country,

and her voice, as she called out to him:

"Alfred, bring me some soap." And he smelt that odor of the trickling

water, of the mist rising from the wet ground, the heap of wet linen,

which he should never forget, and which came back to him on the very

evening on which his mother died.

He stopped, with a feeling of despair, and felt heartbroken at that

eternal separation. His life seemed cut in half, all his youth

disappeared, swallowed up by that death. All the _former_ life was over

and done with, all the recollections of his youthful days would vanish;

for the future, there would be nobody to talk to him of what had happened

in days gone by, of the people he had known of old, of his own part of

the country, and of his past life; that was a part of his existence which

existed no longer, and the other might as well end now.

And then he saw _Mamma_ as she was when younger, wearing well-worn

dresses, which he remembered for such a long time that they seemed

inseparable from her; he recollected her movements, the different tones

of her voice, her habits, her manias, her fits of anger, the wrinkles on

her face, the movements of her thin fingers, and all her well-known

attitudes, which she would never have again, and clutching hold of the

doctor, he began to moan and weep. His lank legs began to tremble, his

whole, stout body was shaken by his sobs, all he could say was:

"My mother, my poor mother, my poor mother...!"

But his companion, who was still drunk, and who intended to finish the

evening in certain places of bad repute that he frequented secretly,

made him sit down on the grass by the riverside, and left him almost

immediately, under the pretext that he had to see a patient.

Caravan went on crying for a long time, and then, when he had got to the

end of his tears, when his grief had, so to say, run out of him, he again

felt relief, repose, and sudden tranquillity.

The moon had risen, and bathed the horizon in its soft light.

The tall poplar trees had a silvery sheen on them, and the mist on the

plain, looked like floating snow; the river, in which the stars were

reflected, and which looked as if it were covered with mother-of-pearl,

was rippled by the wind. The air was soft and sweet, and Caravan inhaled

it almost greedily, and thought that he could perceive a feeling of

freshness, of calm and of superhuman consolation pervading him.

He really tried to resist that feeling of comfort and relief, and kept on

saying to himself:--"My mother, my poor mother!" ... and tried to make

himself cry, from a kind of a conscientious feeling, but he could not

succeed in doing so any longer and those sad thoughts, which had made him

sob so bitterly a short time before, had almost passed away. In a few

moments, he rose to go home, and returned slowly, under the influence of

that serene night, and with a heart soothed in spite of himself.

When he reached the bridge he saw that the last tramcar was ready to

start, and the lights through the windows of the _Café du Globe_, and he

felt a longing to tell somebody of the catastrophe that had happened, to

excite pity, to make himself interesting. He put on a woeful face, pushed

open the door, and went up to the counter, where the landlord still was.

He had counted on creating an effect, and had hoped that everybody would

get up and come to him with outstretched hands, and say:--"Why, what is

the matter with you?" But nobody noticed his disconsolate face, so he

rested his two elbows on the counter, and, burying his face in his hands,

he murmured: "Good heavens! Good heavens!"

The landlord looked at him and said: "Are you ill, Monsieur Caravan?"

"No, my friend," he replied, "but my mother has just died."

"Ah!" the other exclaimed, and as a customer at the other end of the

establishment asked for a glass of Bavarian beer, he went to attend to

him, left Caravan almost stupefied at his want of sympathy.

The three domino players were sitting at the same table which they had

occupied before dinner, totally absorbed in their game, and Caravan went

up to them, in search of pity, but as none of them appeared to notice

him, he made up his mind to speak.

"A great misfortune has happened to me since I was here," he said.

All three slightly raised their heads at the same instant, but keeping

their eyes fixed on the pieces which they held in their hands.

"What do you say?"

"My mother has just died;" whereupon one of them said:

"Oh! the devil," with that false air of sorrow which indifferent people

assume. Another, who could not find anything to say, emitted a sort of

sympathetic whistle, shaking his head at the same time, and the third

turned to the game again, as if he were saying to himself: "Is that all!"

Caravan had expected some of those expressions that are said to "come

from the heart," and when he saw how his news was received, he left the

table, indignant at their calmness before their friend's sorrow, although

at that moment he was so dazed with grief, that he hardly felt it, and

went home. When he got in, his wife was waiting for him in her nightgown,

and sitting in a low chair by the open window, still thinking of the

inheritance.

"Undress yourself," she said; "we will talk when we are in bed."

He raised his head, and looking at the ceiling, he said:

"But ... there is nobody up there."

"I beg your pardon, Rosalie is with her, and you can go and take her

place at three o'clock in the morning, when you have had some sleep."

He only partially undressed, however, so as to be ready for anything that

might happen, and after tying a silk handkerchief round his head, he

joined his wife, who had just got in between the sheets, and for some

time they remained side by side, and neither of them spoke. She was

thinking.

Even in bed, her night-cap was adorned with a red bow, and was pushed

rather over one ear, as was the way with all the caps that she wore, and,

presently, she turned towards him and said:

"Do you know whether your mother made a will?"

He hesitated for a moment, and then replied:

"I ... I do not think so.... No, I am sure that she did not."

His wife looked at him, and she said, in a low, furious voice:

"I call that infamous; here we have been wearing ourselves out for ten

years in looking after her, and have boarded and lodged her! Your sister

would not have done so much for her, nor I either, if I had known how I

was to be rewarded! Yes, it is a disgrace to her memory! I daresay that

you will tell me that she paid us, but one cannot pay one's children in

ready money for what they do; that obligation is recognized after death;

at any rate, that is how honorable people act. So I have had all my worry

and trouble for nothing! Oh, that is nice! that is very nice!"

Poor Caravan, who felt nearly distracted, kept on saying:

"My dear, my dear, please, please be quiet."

She grew calmer by degrees, and, resuming her usual voice and manner, she

continued:

"We must let your sister know, to-morrow."

He started, and said:

"Of course, we must; I had forgotten all about it; I will send her a

telegram the first thing in the morning."

"No," she replied, like a woman who had foreseen everything; "no, do not

send it before ten or eleven o'clock, so that we may have time to turn

round before she comes. It does not take more than two hours to get here

from Charenton, and we can say that you lost your head from grief. If we

let her know in the course of the day, that will be soon enough, and will

give us time to look round."

But Caravan put his hand to his forehead, and, in the same timid voice

in which he always spoke of his chief, the very thought of whom made him

tremble, he said:

"I must let them know at the office."

"Why?" she replied. "On such occasions like this, it is always excusable

to forget. Take my advice, and don't let him know; your chief will not be

able to say anything to you, and you will put him in a nice fix."

"Oh! yes, that I shall, and he will be in a terrible rage, too, when he

notices my absence. Yes, you are right; it is a capital idea, and when I

tell him that my mother is dead, he will be obliged to hold his tongue."

And he rubbed his hands in delight at the joke, when he thought of his

chief's face; while the body of the dead old woman lay upstairs, and the

servant was asleep close to it.

But Madame Caravan grew thoughtful, as if she were pre-occupied by

something, which she did not care to mention, but at last she said:

"Your mother had given you her clock, had she not; the girl playing at

cup and ball?"

He thought for a moment, and then replied:

"Yes, yes; she said to me (but it was a long time ago, when she first

came here): 'I shall leave the clock to you, if you look after me well.'"

Madame Caravan was reassured, and regained her serenity, and said:

"Well, then, you must go and fetch it out of her room, for if we get your

sister here, she will prevent us from having it."

He hesitated.

"Do you think so?..."

That made her angry.

"I certainly think so; as soon as it is in our possession, she will know

nothing at all about where it came from; it belongs to us. It is just the

same with the chest of drawers with the marble top, that is in her room;

she gave it me one day when she was in a good temper. We will bring it

down at the same time."

Caravan, however, seemed incredulous, and said:

"But, my dear, it is a great responsibility!"

She turned on him furiously.

"Oh! Indeed! Will you never alter? You would let your children die of

hunger, rather than make a move. Does not that chest of drawers belong to

us, as she gave it to me? And if your sister is not satisfied, let her

tell me so, me! I don't care a straw for your sister. Come, get up, and

we will bring down what your mother gave us, immediately."

Trembling and vanquished, he got out of bed, and began to put on his

trousers, but she stopped him:

"It is not worth while to dress yourself; your drawers are quite enough;

I mean to go as I am."

They both left the room in their night clothes, went upstairs quite

noiselessly, opened the door and went into the room, where the four

lighted tapers and the plate with the sprig of box alone seemed to be

watching the old woman in her rigid repose; for Rosalie, who was lying

back in the easy chair with her legs stretched out, her hands folded in

her lap, and her head on one side, was also quite motionless, and was

snoring with her mouth wide open.

Caravan took the clock, which was one of those grotesque objects that

were produced so plentifully under the Empire. A girl in gilt bronze was

holding a cup and ball, and the ball formed the pendulum.

"Give that to me," his wife said, "and take the marble top off the chest

of drawers."

He put the marble on his shoulder with a considerable effort, and they

left the room. Caravan had to stoop in the door-way, and trembled as he

went downstairs, while his wife walked backwards, so as to light him, and

held the candlestick in one hand, while she had the clock under her other

arm.

When they were in their own room, she heaved a sigh.

"We have got over the worst part of the job," she said; "so now let us go

and fetch the other things."

But the drawers were full of the old woman's wearing apparel, which they

must manage to hide somewhere, and Madame Caravan soon thought of a plan.

"Go and get that wooden box in the passage; it is hardly worth anything,

and we may just as well put it here."

And when he had brought it upstairs, the change began. One by one, she

took out all the collars, cuffs, chemises, caps, all the well-worn things

that had belonged to the poor woman lying there behind them, and arranged

them methodically in the wooden box, in such a manner as to deceive

Madame Braux, the deceased woman's other child, who would be coming the

next day.

When they had finished, they first of all carried the drawers downstairs,

and the remaining portion afterwards, each of them holding an end, and it

was some time before they could make up their minds where it would stand

best; but at last they settled upon their own room, opposite the bed,

between the two windows, and as soon as it was in its place, Madame

Caravan filled it with her own things. The clock was placed on the

chimney-piece in the dining-room, and they looked to see what the effect

was, and they were both delighted with it, and agreed that nothing could

be better. Then they got into bed, she blew out the candle, and soon

everybody in the house was asleep.

It was broad daylight when Caravan opened his eyes again. His mind was

rather confused when he woke up, and he did not clearly remember what had

happened, for a few minutes; when he did, he felt it painfully, and

jumped out of bed, almost ready to cry again.

He very soon went to the room overhead, where Rosalie was still sleeping

in the same position as the night before, for she did not wake up once

during the whole time. He sent her to do her work, put fresh tapers in

the place of those that had burnt out, and then he looked at his mother,

revolving in his brain those apparently profound thoughts, those

religious and philosophical commonplaces, which trouble people of

mediocre minds, in the face of death.

But he went down stairs as soon as his wife called him. She had written

out a list of what had to be done during the morning, which rather

frightened him when he saw that he would have to do all this:

1. Give information of the death to the Mayor's officer.

2. See the doctor who had attended her.

3. Order the coffin.

4. Give notice at the church.

5. Go to the undertaker.

6. Order the notices of her death at the printer's.

7. Go to the lawyer.

8. Telegraph the news to all the family.

Besides all this there were a number of small commissions; so he took his

hat and went out, and as the news had got abroad, Madame Caravan's female

friends and neighbors soon began to come in, and begged to be allowed to

see the body. There had been a scene at the hairdresser's, on the ground

floor, about the matter, between husband and wife, while he was shaving a

customer; for while she was knitting the woman had said: "Well, there is

one less, and as great a miser as one ever meets with. I certainly was

not very fond of her; but, nevertheless, I must go and have a look at

her."

The husband, while lathering his _patient's_ chin, said: "That is another

queer fancy! Nobody but a woman would think of such a thing. It is not

enough for them to worry you during life, but they cannot even leave you

at peace when you are dead." But his wife, without disconcerting herself

the least, replied: "The feeling is stronger than I, and I must go. It

has been on me since the morning. If I was not to see her, I should think

about it all my life, but when I have had a good look at her, I shall be

satisfied."

The knight of the razor shrugged his shoulders, and remarked in a low

voice to the gentleman whose cheek he was scraping: "I just ask you, what

sort of ideas do you think these confounded females have? I should not

amuse myself by going to see a corpse!" But his wife had heard him, and

replied very quietly: "But it is so, it is so." And then, putting her

knitting on the counter, she went upstairs, to the first floor, where she

met two other neighbors, who had just come, and who were discussing the

event with Madame Caravan, who was giving them the details, and they all

went together to the mortuary chamber. The four women went in softly,

and, one after the other, sprinkled the bed clothes with the holy water,

knelt down, made the sign of the cross while they mumbled a prayer, then

they got up, and open-mouthed, regarded the corpse for a long time, while

the daughter-in-law of the dead woman, with her handkerchief to her face,

pretended to be sobbing piteously.

When she turned about to walk away, whom should she perceive standing

close to the door but Marie-Louise and Philippe-Auguste, who were

curiously taking stock of things. Then, forgetting to control her

chagrin, she threw herself upon them with uplifted hands, crying out

in a furious voice, "Will you get out of this, you filthy brats."

Ten minutes later, in going upstairs again with another contingent of

neighbors, she prayed, wept profusely, performed all her duties, and

found once more her two children, who had followed her up stairs. She

again boxed their ears soundly, but the next time she paid no heed to

them, and at each fresh arrival of visitors the two urchins always

followed in the wake, crowded themselves up in a corner, and imitating

slavishly everything they saw their mother do.

When the afternoon came round the crowds of curious people began to

diminish, and soon there were no more visitors. Madame Caravan, returning

to her own apartments, began to make the necessary preparations for the

funeral ceremony, and the defunct was hence left by herself.

The window of the room was open. A torrid heat entered along with the

clouds of dust; the flames of the four candles were flickering in the

direction of the immobile corpse, and upon the cloth which covered the

face, the closed eyes, the two hands stretched out, small flies alighted,

came, went, and careered up and down incessantly, being the only

companions of the old woman during the next hour.

Marie-Louise and Philippe-Auguste, however, had now left the house, and

were running up and down the street. They were soon surrounded by their

playmates, by little girls, especially, who were older, and who were much

more interested to inquire into all the mysteries of life, asking

questions after the manner of persons of great importance.

"Then your grandmother is dead?" "Yes, she died yesterday evening." "How,

in what way did she meet her death?"

Then Marie began to explain, telling all about the candles and the

cadaverous face. It was not long before great curiosity was aroused in

the breasts of all the children, and they asked to be allowed to go

upstairs to look at the departed.

It was not long before Marie-Louise had arranged a group for a first

visit, consisting of five girls and two boys--the biggest and the most

courageous. She made them take off their shoes so that they might not

be discovered. The troupe filed into the house and mounted the stairs as

stealthily as an army of mice.

Once in the chamber, the little girl, imitating her mother, regulated the

ceremony. She solemnly walked in advance of her comrades, went down on

her knees, made the sign of the cross, moistened her lips with the holy

water, stood up again, sprinkled the bed, and while the children, all

crowded together, were approaching--frightened and curious, and eager

to look at the face and hands of the deceased--she began suddenly to

simulate sobbing, and to bury her eyes in her little handkerchief. Then,

becoming instantly consoled, on thinking of the other children who were

downstairs waiting at the door, she withdrew in haste, returning in a

minute with another group, then a third, for all the little ruffians of

the country-side, even to the little beggars in rags, had congregated in

order to participate in this new pleasure; and each time she repeated her

mother's grimaces with absolute perfection.

At length, however, she became tired. Some game or other attracted the

children away from the house, and the old grandmother was left alone,

forgotten suddenly by everybody.

A dismal gloom pervaded the chamber, and upon the dry and rigid features

of the corpse, the dying flames of the candles cast occasional gleams of

light.

Towards 8 o'clock, Caravan ascended to the chamber of death, closed the

windows, and renewed the candles. On entering now he was quite composed,

evidently accustomed already to regard the corpse as though it had been

there for a month. He even went the length of declaring that, as yet,

there was not any signs of decomposition, making this remark just at the

moment when he and his wife were about to sit down at table. "Pshaw!" she

responded, "she is now in wood; she will keep there for a year."

The soup was eaten without a word being uttered by anyone. The children,

who had been free all day, now worn out by fatigue, were sleeping soundly

on their chairs, and nobody ventured on breaking the silence.

Suddenly the flame of the lamp went down. Mdme. Caravan immediately

turned up the wick, a prolonged gurgling noise ensued, and the light went

out. It had been forgotten during the day to buy oil. To send for it now

to the grocers' would keep back the dinner, and everybody began to look

for candles, but none were to be found except the night lights which had

been placed upon the tables upstairs, in the death chamber.

Mdme. Caravan, always prompt in her decisions, quickly dispatched

Marie-Louise to fetch two, and her return was awaited in total darkness.

The footsteps of the girl who had ascended the stairs were distinctly

heard. There followed now a silence for a few seconds, then the child

descended precipitately. She threw open the door affrighted, and in

a choked voice murmured: "Oh! papa, grandmamma is dressing herself!"

Caravan bounded to his feet with such precipitance that his chair rolled

over against the chair. He stammered out: "You say?... What is that you

say?"

But Marie-Louise, gasping with emotion, repeated:

"Grand ... grand ... grandmamma is putting on her clothes, she is coming

down stairs."

Caravan rushed boldly up the staircase, followed by his wife,

dumbfounded; but he came to a standstill before the door of the second

floor, overcome with terror, not daring to enter. What was he going to

see? Mdme. Caravan, more courageous, turned the handle of the door and

stepped forward into the room.

The room seemed to become darker, and in the middle of it, a tall

emaciated figure moved about. The old woman stood upright, and in

awakening from her lethargic sleep, before even full consciousness had

returned to her, in turning upon her side, and raising herself on her

elbow, she had extinguished three of the candles which burned near the

mortuary bed. Then, recovering her strength, she got out of bed and began

to seek for her things. The absence of her chest of drawers had at first

given her some trouble, but, after a little, she had succeeded in finding

her things at the bottom of the wooden trunk, and was now quietly

dressing. She emptied the plateful of holy water, replaced the box which

contained the latter behind the looking-glass and arranged the chairs in

their places, and was ready to go downstairs when there appeared before

her her son and daughter-in-law.

Caravan rushed forward, seized her by the hands, embraced her with

tears in his eyes, while his wife, who was behind him, repeated in a

hypocritical tone of voice: "Oh, what a blessing! Oh, what a blessing!"

But the old woman, without being at all moved, without even appearing to

understand, as rigid as a statue, and with glazed eyes, simply asked:

"Will the dinner soon be ready?"

He stammered out, not knowing what he said: "O, yes, mother, we have been

waiting for you."

And with an alacrity, unusual in him, he took her arm, while Mdme.

Caravan, the younger, seized the candle and lighted them downstairs,

walking backwards in front of them, step by step, just as she had

done the previous night, in front of her husband, who was carrying the

marble.

On reaching the first floor, she ran up against people who were

ascending. It was the Charenton family, Mdme. Braux, followed by her

husband.

The wife, tall, fleshy, with a dropsical stomach which threw her trunk

far out behind her, opened wide her astonished eyes, ready to take

flight. The husband, a shoemaker socialist, a little hairy man, the

perfect image of a monkey, murmured, quite unconcerned: "Well, what next?

Is she resurrected?"

As soon as Mdme. Caravan recognized them, she made despairing signs to

them, then, speaking aloud, she said: "Mercy! How do you mean!... Look

there! What a happy surprise!"

But Mdme. Braux, dumbfounded, understood nothing; she responded in a low

voice: "It was your dispatch which made us come; we believed it was all

over."

Her husband, who was behind her, pinched her to make her keep silent. He

added with a malignant laugh, which his thick beard concealed: "It was

very kind of you to invite us here. We set out in post haste."--which

remark showed clearly the hostility which had for a long time reigned

between the households. Then, just as the old woman had arrived at

the last steps, he pushed forward quickly and rubbed against her cheeks

the hair which covered his face, bawling out in her ear, on account of

her deafness: "How well you look, mother; sturdy as usual, hey!"

Mdme. Braux, in her stupor at seeing the old woman whom they all believed

to be dead, dared not even embrace her; and her enormous belly blocked up

the passage and hindered the others from advancing. The old woman, uneasy

and suspicious, but without speaking, looked at everyone around her; and

her little gray eyes, piercing and hard, fixed themselves now on the one

and now on the other, and they were so terrible in their expression that

the children became frightened.

Caravan, to explain matters, said: "She has been somewhat ill, but she is

better now; quite well, indeed, are you not, mother?"

Then the good woman, stopping in her walk, responded in a husky voice,

as though it came from a distance: "It was syncope. I heard you all the

while."

An embarrassing silence followed. They entered the dining-room, and in a

few minutes they all sat down to an improvised dinner.

Only M. Braux had retained his self-possession; his gorilla features

grinned wickedly, while he let fall some words of double meaning which

painfully disconcerted everyone.

But the clock in the hall kept on ticking every second; and Rosalie, lost

in astonishment, came to seek out Caravan, who darted a fierce glance at

her, as she threw down his serviette. His brother-in-law even asked him

whether it was not one of his days to hold a reception, to which he

stammered out, in answer: "No, I have only been executing a few

commissions; nothing more."

Next, a packet was brought in, which he began to open sadly, and from

which dropped out unexpectedly a letter with black borders. Then,

reddening up to the very eyes, he picked up the letter hurriedly, and

pushed it into his waistcoat pocket.

His mother had not seen it! She was looking intently at her clock, which

stood on the mantelpiece, and the embarrassment increased in midst of a

glacial silence. Turning her face towards her daughter, the old woman,

from whose eyes flashed fierce malice, said: "On Monday, you must take me

away from here, so that I can see your little girl. I want so much to see

her." Madame Braux, her features illuminated, exclaimed: "Yes, mother,

that I will," while Mdme. Caravan, the younger, became pale, and seemed

to be enduring the most excruciating agony. The two men, however,

gradually drifted into conversation, and soon became embroiled in a

political discussion. Braux maintained the most revolutionary and

communistic doctrines, gesticulating and throwing about his arms, his

eyes darting like a blood-hound's. "Property, sir," he said, "is robbery

perpetrated on the working classes; the land is the common property of

every man; hereditary rights are an infamy and a disgrace." But,

hereupon, he suddenly stopped, having all the appearance of a man who has

just said something foolish; then, resuming, after a pause, he said, in

softer tones: "But I can see quite well that this is not the proper

moment to discuss such things."

The door was opened, and Doctor Chenet appeared. For a moment he seemed

bewildered, but regaining his usual smirking expression of countenance,

he jauntily approached the old woman, and said: "Ah, hah! mamma, you are

better to-day. Oh! I never had any doubt but you would come round again;

in fact, I said to myself as I was mounting the staircase, 'I have an

idea that I shall find the old one on her feet once more;'" and he tapped

her gently on the back: "Ah! she is as solid as the Pont-Neuf, she will

see us all out; you shall see if she does not."

He sat down, accepted the coffee that was offered him, and soon began to

join in the conversation of the two men, backing up Braux, for he himself

had been mixed up in the Commune.

Now, the old woman, feeling herself fatigued, wished to leave the room,

at which Caravan rushed forward. She thereupon fixed him in the eyes and

said to him: "You, you, must carry my clock and chest of drawers up

stairs again without a moment's delay." "Yes, mamma," he replied,

yawning; "yes, I will do so." The old woman then took the arm of her

daughter and withdrew from the room. The two Caravans remained rooted to

the floor, silent, plunged in the deepest despair, while Braux rubbed his

hands and sipped his coffee, gleefully.

Suddenly Mdme. Caravan, consumed with rage, rushed at him, exclaiming:

"You are a thief, a footpad, a cur. I would spit in your face, if ... I

would ... I ... would...." She could find nothing further to say,

suffocating as she was, with rage, while he still sipped his coffee,

with a smile.

His wife returning just then, looked menacingly at her sister-in-law, and

both--the one with her enormous fat stomach, the other, epileptic and

spare, voice changed, hands trembling--flew at one another and seized

each other by the throat.

Chenet and Braux now interposed, and the latter taking his better half by

the shoulders pushed her out of the door in front of him, shouting to his

sister-in-law: "Go away, you slut: you are a disgrace to your relations;"

and the two were heard in the street bellowing and shouting at the

Caravans, until after they had disappeared from sight.

M. Chenet also took his departure, leaving the Caravans alone, face to

face. The husband soon fell back on his chair, and with the cold sweat

standing out in beads on his temples, murmured: "What shall I say to my

chief to-morrow?"

THE ODALISQUE OF SENICHOU

In Senichou, which is a suburb of Prague, there lived about twenty

years ago, two poor but honest people, who earned their bread by the

sweat of their brow; he worked in a large printing establishment,

and his wife employed her spare time as a laundress. Their pride, and

their only pleasure, was their daughter Viteska, who was a vigorous,

voluptuous-looking, handsome girl of eighteen, whom they brought up very

well and carefully. She worked for a dress-maker, and was thus able to

help her parents a little, and she made use of her leisure moments to

improve her education, and especially her music. She was a general

favorite in the neighborhood on account of her quiet modest demeanor, and

she was looked upon as a model by the whole suburb.

When she went to work in the town, the tall girl with her magnificent

head, which resembled that of an ancient, Bohemian Amazon, with its

wealth of black hair, and her dark, sparkling yet soft eyes, attracted

the looks of passers-by, in spite of her shabby dress, much more than the

graceful, well-dressed ladies of the aristocracy. Frequently some young,

wealthy lounger would follow her home; and even try to get into

conversation with her, but she always managed to get rid of them and

their importunities, and she did not require any protector, for she was

quite capable of protecting herself from any insults.

One evening, however, she met a man on the suspension bridge, whose

strange appearance made her give him a look which evinced some interest,

but perhaps even more surprise. He was a tall, handsome man with bright

eyes and a black beard; he was very sunburnt, and in his long coat, which

was like a caftan, with a red fez on his head, he gave those who saw him

the impression of an Oriental; he had noticed her look all the more as he

himself had been so struck by her poor, and at the same time regal,

appearance, that he remained standing and looking at her in such a way,

that he seemed to be devouring her with his eyes, so that Viteska, who

was usually so fearless, looked down. She hurried on and he followed her,

and the quicker she walked, the more rapidly he followed her, and, at

last, when they were in a narrow, dark street in the suburb, he suddenly

said in an insinuating voice: "May I offer you my arm, my pretty girl?"

"You can see that I am old enough to look after myself," Viteska replied

hastily; "I am much obliged to you, and must beg you not to follow me

any more; I am known in this neighborhood, and it might damage my

reputation." "Oh! You are very much mistaken if you think you will get

rid of me so easily," he replied. "I have just come from the East and

am returning there soon, come with me, and as I fancy that you are as

sensible as you are beautiful, you will certainly make your fortune

there, and I will bet that before the end of a year, you will be covered

with diamonds, and be waited on by eunuchs and female slaves."

"I am a respectable girl, sir," she replied proudly, and tried to go on

in front, but the stranger was immediately at her side again. "You were

born to rule," he whispered to her. "Believe me, and I understand the

matter, that you will live to be a Sultaness, if you have any luck." The

girl did not give him any answer, but walked on. "But, at any rate,

listen to me," the tempter continued. "I will not listen to anything;

because I am poor, you think it will be easy for you to seduce me,"

Viteska exclaimed: "but I am as virtuous as I am poor, and I should

despise any position which I had to buy with shame." They had reached

the little house where her parents lived, and she ran in quickly, and

slammed the door behind her.

When she went into the town the next morning, the stranger was waiting

at the corner of the street where she lived, and bowed to her very

respectfully. "Allow me to speak a few words with you," he began. "I feel

that I ought to beg your pardon for my behavior yesterday." "Please let

me go on my way quietly," the girl replied. "What will the neighbors

think of me?" "I did not know you," he went on, without paying any

attention to her angry looks, "but your extraordinary beauty attracted

me. Now that I know that you are as virtuous as you are charming, I wish

very much to become better acquainted with you. Believe me, I have the

most honorable intentions."

Unfortunately, the bold stranger had taken the girl's fancy, and she

could not find it in her heart to refuse him. "If you are really in

earnest," she stammered in charming confusion, "do not follow me about

in the public streets, but come to my parents' house like a man of honor,

and state your intentions there." "I will certainly do so, and

immediately, if you like," the stranger replied, eagerly. "No, no,"

Viteska said; "but come this evening if you like."

The stranger bowed and left her, and really called on her parents in the

evening. He introduced himself as Ireneus Krisapolis, a merchant from

Smyrna, spoke of his brilliant circumstances, and finally declared that

he loved Viteska passionately. "That is all very nice and right," the

cautious father replied, "but what will it all lead to? Under no

circumstances can I allow you to visit my daughter. Such a passion as

yours often dies out as quickly as it arises, and a respectable girl is

easily robbed of her virtue." "And suppose I make up my mind to marry

your daughter?" the stranger asked, after a moment's hesitation. "Then

I shall refer you to my child, for I shall never force Viteska to marry

against her will," her father said.

The stranger seized the pretty girl's hand, and spoke in glowing terms of

his love for her, of the luxury with which she would be surrounded in his

house, of the wonders of the East, to which he hoped to take her, and at

last Viteska consented to become his wife. Thereupon the stranger hurried

on the arrangements for the wedding, in a manner that made the most

favorable impression on them all, and during the time before their

marriage he lay at her feet like her humble slave.

As soon as they were married, the newly-married couple set off on their

journey to Smyrna and promised to write as soon as they got there, but

a month, then two and three, passed without the parents, whose anxiety

increased every day, receiving a line from them, until at last the father

in terror applied to the police.

The first thing was to write to the Consul at Smyrna for information:

his reply was to the effect that no merchant of the name of Ireneus

Krisapolis was known in Smyrna, and that he had never been there. The

police, at the entreaties of the frantic parents, continued their

investigations, but for a long time without any result. At last, however,

they obtained a little light on the subject, but it was not at all

satisfactory. The police at Pestle said that a man, whose personal

appearance exactly agreed with the description of Viteska's husband, had

a short time before carried off two girls from the Hungarian capital, to

Turkey, evidently intending to trade in that coveted, valuable commodity

there, but that when he found that the authorities were on his track he

had escaped from justice by a sudden flight.

* * * * *

Four years after Viteska's mysterious disappearance, two persons, a man

and a woman, met in a narrow street in Damascus, in a scarcely less

strange manner, than when the Greek merchant met Viteska on the

suspension bridge at Prague. The man with the black beard, the red fez,

and the long, green caftan, was no one else than Ireneus Krisapolis;

matters appeared to be going well with him; he had his hands comfortably

thrust into the red shawl which he had round his waist, and a negro was

walking behind him with a large parasol, while another carried his

_Chiloque_ after him. A noble Turkish lady met him in a litter borne

by four slaves; she was wrapped like a ghost in a white veil, only that

a pair of large, dark, threatening eyes flashed at the merchant.

He smiled, for he thought that he had found favor in the eyes of an

Eastern houri, and that flattered him; but he soon lost sight of her in

the crowd, and forgot her almost immediately. The next morning however,

a eunuch of the pasha's came to him, to his no small astonishment, and

told him to come with him. He took him to the Sultan's most powerful

deputy, who ruled as an absolute despot in Damascus. They went through

dark, narrow passages, and curtains were pushed aside, which rustled

behind them again. At last they reached a large rotunda, the center of

which was occupied by a beautiful fountain, while scarlet divans ran all

around it. Here the eunuch told the merchant to wait, and left him. He

was puzzling his brains what the meaning of it all could be, when

suddenly a tall, commanding woman came into the apartment. Again a pair

of large, threatening eyes looked at him through the veil, while he knew

from her green, gold-embroidered caftan, that if it was not the pasha's

wife, it was at least one of his favorites, who was before him, and so he

hurriedly knelt down, and crossing his hands on his breast, he put his

head on to the ground before her. But a clear, diabolical laugh made him

look up, and when the beautiful Odalisque threw back her veil, he uttered

a cry of terror, for his wife, his deceived wife, whom he had sold, was

standing before him.

"Do you know me?" she asked with quiet dignity. "Viteska!" "Yes, that was

my name when I was your wife," she replied quickly, in a contemptuous

voice; "but now that I am the pasha's wife, my name is Sarema. I do not

suppose you ever expected to find me again, you wretch, when you sold me

in Varna to an old Jewish profligate, who was only half alive. You see I

have got into better hands, and I have made my fortune, as you said I

should do. Well? What do you expect of me; what thanks, what reward?"

The wretched man was lying overwhelmed, at the feet of the woman whom he

had so shamefully deceived, and could not find a word to say; he had felt

that he was lost, and had not even got the courage to beg for mercy. "You

deserve death, you miscreant," Sarema continued. "You are in my hands,

and I can do whatever I please with you, for the pasha has left your

punishment to me alone. I ought to have you impaled, and to feast my eyes

on your death agonies. That would be the smallest compensation for all

the years of degradation that I have been through, and which I owe to

you." "Mercy, Viteska! Mercy!" the wretched man cried, trembling all

over, and raising his hands to her in supplication.

The Odalisque's only reply was a laugh, in which rang all the cruelty of

an insulted woman's deceived heart. It seemed to give her pleasure to see

the man whom she had loved, and who had so shamefully trafficked in her

beauty, in his mortal agony, as he cringed before her, whining for his

life, as he clung to her knees, but at last she seemed to relent

somewhat.

"I will give your life, you miserable wretch," she said, "but you shall

not go unpunished." So saying, she clapped her hands, and four black

eunuchs came in, and seized the favorite's unfortunate husband and in a

moment bound his hands and feet.

"I have altered my mind, and he shall not be put to death," Sarema said,

with a smile that made the traitor's blood run cold in his veins; "but

give him a hundred blows with the bastinade, and I will stand by and

count them." "For God's sake," the merchant screamed, "I can never endure

it." "We will see about that," the favorite said, coldly, "and if you

die under it, it was allotted you by fate; I am not going to retract my

orders."

She threw herself down on the cushions, and began to smoke a long pipe,

which a female slave handed to her on her knees. At a sign from her the

eunuchs tied the wretched man's feet to the pole, by which the soles of

the culprit were raised, and began the terrible punishment. Already at

the tenth blow the merchant began to roar like a wild animal, but his

wife whom he had betrayed, remained unmoved, carelessly blowing the blue

wreaths of smoke into the air, and resting on her lovely arm, she watched

his features, which were distorted by pain, with merciless enjoyment.

During the last blows he only groaned gently, and then he fainted.

* * * * *

A year later the dealer was caught with his female merchandise by the

police in an Austrian town, and handed over to justice, when he made a

full confession, and by that means the parents of the _Odalisque of

Senichou_ heard of their daughter's position. As they knew that she was

happy and surrounded by luxury, they made no attempt to get her out of

the Pasha's hands, who, like a thorough Mussulman, had become the slave

of his slave.

The unfortunate husband was sent over to the frontier when he was

released from prison. His shameful traffic, however, flourishes still,

in spite of all the precautions of the police and of the consuls, and

every year he provides the harems of the East with those voluptuous

_Boxclanas_, especially from Bohemia and Hungary, who, in the eyes of

a Mussulman, vie for the prize of beauty, with the slender Circassian

women.

A GOOD MATCH

Strauss' band was playing in the saloons of the Horticultural Society,

which was so full that the young cadet Hussar-sergeant Max B., who had

nothing better to do on an afternoon when he was off duty than to drink a

glass of good beer and to listen to a new waltz tune, had already been

looking about for a seat for some time, when the head waiter, who knew

him, quickly took him to an unoccupied place, and without waiting for his

orders, brought him a glass of beer. A very gentlemanly-looking man, and

three elegantly dressed ladies were sitting at the table.

The cadet saluted them with military politeness, and sat down, but almost

before he could put the glass to his lips, he noticed that the two elder

ladies, who appeared to be married, turned up their noses very much at

his taking a seat at their table, and even said a few words which he

could not catch, but which no doubt referred unpleasantly to him. "I am

afraid I am in the way here," the cadet said; and he got up to leave,

when he felt a pull at his sabre-tasch beneath the table, and at the same

time the gentleman felt bound to say with some embarrassment: "Oh! not at

all; on the contrary, we are very pleased that you have chosen this

table."

Thereupon the cadet resumed his seat, not so much because he took the

gentleman's invitation as sincere, but because the silent request to

remain, which he had received under the table, and which was much more

sincerely meant, had raised in him one of those charming illusions, which

are so frequent in our youth, and which promised so much happiness, with

electrical rapidity. He could not doubt for a moment, that the daring

invitation came from the third, the youngest and prettiest of the ladies,

into whose company a fortunate accident had thrown him.

From the moment that he had sat down by her, however, she did not deign

to bestow even another look on him, much less a word, and to the young

hussar, who was still rather inexperienced in such matters, this seemed

rather strange; but he possessed enough natural tact not to expose

himself to a rebuff by any hasty advances, but quietly to wait further

developments of the adventure on the part of the heroine of it. This gave

him the opportunity of looking at her more closely, and for this he

employed the moments when their attention was diverted from him, and was

taken up by conversation among themselves.

The girl, whom the others called Angelica, was a thorough Viennese

beauty, not exactly regularly beautiful, for her features were not Roman

or Greek, and not even strictly German, and yet they possessed every

female charm, and were seductive, in the fullest sense of the word. Her

strikingly small nose, which in a lady's-maid might have been called

impudent, and her little mouth with its voluptuously full lips, which

would have been called lustful in a street-walker, imparted an

indescribable piquant charm to her small head, which was surmounted by

an imposing tower of that soft brown hair which is so characteristic of

Viennese women. Her bright eyes were full of good sense, and a merry

smile lurked continually in the most charming little dimples near her

mouth and on her chin.

In less than a quarter of an hour, our cadet was fettered, with no more

will of his own than a slave has, to the triumphal chariot of this

delightful little creature, and as he hoped and believed--for ever.

And he was a man worth capturing. He was tall and slim, but muscular, and

looked like an athlete, and at the time he had one of those handsome,

open faces which women like so much. His honest, dark eyes showed

strength of will, courage and strong passions, and that, women also like.

During an interval in the music, an elderly gentleman, with the ribbon of

an order in his button-hole, came up to the table, and from the manner in

which he greeted them, it was evident that he was an old friend. From

their conversation, which was carried on in a very loud tone of voice,

and with much animation, in the bad, Viennese fashion, the cadet gathered

that the gentleman who was with the ladies, was a Councilor of Legation,

and that the eldest lady was his wife, while the second lady was his

married, and the youngest his unmarried, sister-in-law. When they at last

rose to go, the pretty girl, evidently intentionally, put her velvet

jacket, trimmed with valuable sable, very loosely over her shoulders;

then she remained standing at the exit, and slowly put it on, so that the

cadet had an opportunity to get close to her. "Follow us," she whispered

to him, and then ran after the others.

The cadet was only too glad to obey her directions, and followed them at

a distance, without being observed, to the house where they lived. A week

passed without his seeing the pretty Angelica again, or without her

giving him any sign of life. The waiter in the Horticultural Society's

grounds, whom he asked about them, could tell him nothing more than that

they were people of position, and a few days later the cadet saw them all

again at a concert, but he was satisfied with looking at his ideal from a

distance. She, however, when she could do so without danger, gave him

one of those coquettish looks which inexperienced young men imagine

express the innermost feelings of a pure, virgin heart. On that occasion

she left the grounds with her sisters, much earlier, and as she passed

the handsome cadet, she let a small piece of rolled-up paper fall, which

only contained the words: "Come at ten o'clock to-night, and ring the

bell."

He was outside the house at the stroke of ten and rang, but his

astonishment knew no bounds when, instead of Angelica or her confidential

maid, the housekeeper opened the door. She saw his confusion, and quickly

put an end to it by taking his hand, and pulling him into the house.

"Come with me," she whispered; "I know all about it. The young lady will

be here directly, so come along." Then she lead him through the kitchen

into a room which was shut off from the rest of the house, and which she

had apparently furnished for similar meetings, on her own account, and

left him there by himself, and the cadet was rather surprised to see the

elegant furniture, a wide, soft couch, and some rather obscene pictures

in broad, gilt frames. In a few minutes, the beautiful girl came, in, and

without any further ceremony, threw her arms round the young soldier's

neck. In her _negligée_, she appeared to him much more beautiful than in

her elegant outdoor dress, but the virginal fragrance which then pervaded

her, had given way to that voluptuous atmosphere which surrounds a young

newly-married woman.

Angelica, whose little feet were encased in blue velvet slippers lined

with ermine, and who was wrapped in a richly embroidered, white

dressing-gown, that was trimmed with lace, drew the handsome cadet down

on to the couch with graceful energy, and almost before he exactly knew

what he had come for, she was his, and the young soldier, who was half

dazed at his unexpected victory and good fortune, did not leave her until

after twelve o'clock. He returned every night at ten, rang the bell, and

was admitted by the girl's slyly-smiling confidante, and a few moments

later was clasping his little goddess, who used to wrap her delicate,

white limbs sometimes in dark sable, and at others in princely ermine,

in his arms. Every time they partook of a delicious supper, laughed and

joked and loved each other like only young, good-looking people do love,

and frequently they entertained one another until morning.

Once the cadet attempted diffidently to pay the housekeeper for her

services, and also for the supper, but she refused his money with a

laugh, and said that everything was already settled; and the young

soldier had reveled in this manner in boundless bliss for four months,

when, by an unfortunate accident, he met his mistress in the street one

day. She was alone, but in spite of this she contracted her delicate,

finely-arched eyebrows angrily, when he was about to speak to her, and

turned her head away. This hurt the honest young fellow's feelings, and

when that evening she drew him to her bosom, that was rising and falling

tempestuously under the black velvet that covered it, he remonstrated

with her quietly, but emphatically.--She made a little grimace, and

looking at him coldly and angrily, she at last said, shortly: "I forbid

you to take any notice of me out of doors. I do not choose to recognize

you; do you understand?"

The cadet was surprised and did not reply, but the harmony of his

pleasures was destroyed by a harsh discord. For some time he bore his

misery in silence and with resignation, but at last the situation became

unendurable; his mistress's fiery kisses seemed to mock him, and the

pleasure which she gave him to degrade him, so at last he summoned up

courage, and in his open way, he came straight to the point.

"What do you think of our future, Angelica?" She wrinkled her brows a

little. "Do not let us talk about it; at any rate not to-day." "Why not?

We must talk about it sooner or later," he replied, "and I think it is

high time for me to explain my intentions to you, if I do not wish to

appear as a dishonorable scoundrel in your eyes." She looked at him in

surprise. "I look upon you as one of the best and most honorable of men,

Max," she said, soothingly, after a pause. "And do you trust me also?"

"Of course I do." "Are you convinced that I love you honestly?" "Quite."

"Then do not hesitate any longer to bestow your hand upon me," her lover

said, in conclusion. "What are you thinking about?" she cried, quickly,

in a tone of refusal. "What is to be the end of our connection? What is

at any rate not permissible with a woman, is wrong and dishonorable

with a girl. You yourself must feel lowered if you do not become my wife

as soon as possible." "What a narrow-minded view," Angelica replied,

angrily, "but as you wish it, I will give you my opinion on the subject,

but ... by letter." "No, no; now, directly."

The pretty girl did not speak for some time, and looked down, but

suddenly she looked at her lover, and a malicious, mocking smile lurked

in the corners of her mouth. "Well, I love you, Max, I love you really

and ardently," she said, carelessly; "but I can never be your wife. If

you were an officer I might perhaps marry you; yes, I certainly would,

but as it is, it is impossible." "Is that your last word?" the cadet

said, in great excitement. She only nodded, and then put her full, white

arms round his neck, with all the security of a mistress who is granting

some favor to her slave; but on that occasion she was mistaken. He sprang

up, seized his sword and hurried out of the room, and she let him go, for

she felt certain that he would come back again, but he did not do so, and

when she wrote to him, he did not answer her letters, and still did not

come; so at last she gave him up.

It was a bad, a very bad, experience for the honorable young fellow; the

highborn, frivolous girl had trampled on all the ideals and illusions of

his life with her small feet, for he then saw only too clearly, that she

had not loved him, but that he had only served her pleasures and her

lusts, while he, he had loved her so truly!

About a year after the catastrophe with charming Angelica, the handsome

cadet happened to be in his captain's quarters, and accidentally saw a

large photograph of a lady on his writing table, and on going up

and looking at it, he recognized--Angelica.

"What a beautiful girl," he said, wishing to find out how the land lay.

"That is the lady I am going to marry," the captain, whose vanity was

flattered, said, "and she is as pure and as good as an angel, just

as she is as beautiful as one, and into the bargain she comes of a very

good and very rich family; in short, in the fullest sense of the word,

she is 'a good match.'"

A FASHIONABLE WOMAN

It can easily be proved that Austria is far richer in talented men in

every domain, than North Germany, but while men are systematically

drilled there for the vocation which they choose, like the Prussian

soldiers are, with us they lack the necessary training, especially

technical training, and consequently very few of them get beyond mere

diletantism. Leo Wolfram was one of those intellectual diletantes, and

the more pleasure one took in his materials and characters, which were

usually boldly taken from real life, and in a certain political, and what

is still more, in a plastic plot, the more he was obliged to regret that

he had never learnt to compose or to mold his characters, or to write; in

one word, that he had never become a literary artist, but how greatly he

had in himself the materials for a master of narration, his "Dissolving

Views," and still more his _Goldkind_,[4] prove.

[Footnote 4: Golden Child.]

This Goldkind is a striking type of our modern society, and the novel of

that name contains all the elements of a classic novel, although of

course in a crude, unfinished state. What an exact reflection of our

social circumstances Leo Wolfram gave in that story our present

reminiscences will show, in which a lady of that race plays the principal

part.

It may be ten years ago, that every day four very stylishly dressed

persons went to dine in a corner of the small dining-room of one of the

best hotels in Vienna, who, both there and elsewhere, gave occasion

for a great amount of talk. They were an Austrian landowner, his charming

wife, and two young diplomatists, one of whom came from the North, while

the other was a pure son of the South. There was no doubt that the lady

came in for the greatest share of the general interest in every respect.

The practiced observer and discerner of human nature easily recognized

in her one of those characters which Goethe has so aptly named

"problematical," for she was one of those individuals who are always

dissatisfied and at variance with themselves and with the world, who are

a riddle to themselves, and who can never be relied on, and with the

interesting and captivating, though unfortunate contradictions in her

nature, she made a strong impression on everybody, even by her mere

outward appearance. She was one of those women who are called beautiful,

without their being really so. Her face, as well as her figure, was

wanting in æsthetic lines, but there was no doubt that, in spite of that,

or perhaps on that very account, she was the most dangerous, infatuating

woman that one could imagine.

She was tall and thin, and there was a certain hardness about her figure,

which became a charm through the vivacity and grace of her movements; her

features harmonized with her figure, for she had a high, clever, cold

forehead, a strong mouth with sensual lips, and an angular, sharp chin,

the effect of which was, however, diminished by her slightly turned-up,

small nose, her beautifully arched eyebrows, and her large, animated,

swimming blue eyes.

In her face, which was almost too full of expression for a woman, there

was as much feeling, kindness and candor as there was calculation,

coolness and deceit, and when she was angry and drew her upper lip up, so

as to show her dazzlingly white teeth, it had even a devilish look of

wickedness and cruelty, and at that time, when women still wore their own

hair, the beauty of her long, chestnut plaits, which she fastened on the

top of her head like a crown, was very striking. Besides this, she was

remarkable for her elegant, tasteful dresses, and a bearing which united

to the dignity of a lady of rank that undefinable something which makes

actresses and women who belong to the higher classes of the _demi-monde_

so interesting to us.

In Paris she would have been taken for a kept woman, but in Vienna the

best drawing-rooms were open to her, and she was not looked upon as more

respectable or as less respectable than any other aristocratic beauties.

Her husband decidedly belonged to that class of men whom that witty

writer, Balzac, so delightfully calls _les hommes prédestinés_ in his

_Physiologie du Mariage_. Without doubt, he was a very good-looking man,

but he bore that stamp of insignificance which so often conceals

coarseness and vulgarity, and was one of those men who, in the long run,

become unendurable to a woman of refined tastes. He had a good private

income, but his wife understood the art of enjoying life, and so a

deficit in the yearly accounts of the young couple became the rule,

without causing the lively lady to check her noble passion in the least

on that account; she kept horses and carriages, rode with the greatest

boldness, had her box at the opera, and gave beautiful little suppers,

which at that time was the highest aim of a Viennese woman of her class.

One of the two young diplomats who accompanied her, a young Count,

belonging to a well-known family in North Germany, and who was a perfect

gentleman in the highest sense of the word, was looked upon as her

adorer, while the other, who was his most intimate friend, yet, in spite

of his ancient name and his position as attaché to a foreign legation,

gave people that distinct impression that he was an adventurer, which

makes the police keep such a careful eye on some persons, and he had the

reputation of being an unscrupulous and dangerous duellist. Short, thin,

with a yellow complexion, with strongly-marked but engaging features, an

aquiline nose and bright, dark eyes, he was the typical picture of a man

who seduces women and kills men.

The handsome woman appeared to be in love with the Count, and to take an

interest in his friend; at least, that was the construction that the

others in the dining-room put upon the situation, as far as it could

be made out from the behavior and looks of the people concerned, and

especially from their looks, for it was strange how devotedly and

ardently the beautiful woman's blue eyes rested on the Count, and with

what wild, diabolical sympathy she gazed at the Italian from time to

time, and it was hard to guess whether there was most love or hatred in

that glance. None of the four, however, who were then dining and chatting

so gaily together, had any presentiment at the time that they were

amusing themselves over a mine, which might explode at any moment, and

bury them all.

It was the husband of the beautiful woman who provided the tinder. One

day he told her that she must make up her mind to the most rigid

retrenchment, give up her box at the opera, and sell her carriage and

horses, if she did not wish to risk her whole position in society. Her

creditors had lost all patience, and were threatening to distrain on her

property, and even to put her in prison. She made no reply to this

revelation, but during dinner she said to the Count, in a whisper, that

she must speak to him later, and would, therefore, come to see him at his

house. When it was dark, she came thickly veiled, and after she had

responded to his demonstrations of affection for some time, with more

patience than amiableness, she began. Their conversation is extracted

from his diary.

"You are so unconcerned and happy, while misery and disgrace are

threatening me!" "Please explain what you mean!" "I have incurred some

debts." "Again?" he said reproachfully, "why do you not come to me at

once, for you must do it in the end, and then at least you would avoid

any exposure?" "Please do not take me to task," she replied; "you know it

only makes me angry. I want some money; can you give me some?" "How much

do you want?" She hesitated, for she had not the courage to name the real

amount, but at last she said, in a low voice: "Five thousand florins."[5]

It was evidently only a small portion of what she really required, so

he replied: "I am sure you want more than that!" "No." "Really not?" "Do

not make me angry."

[Footnote 5: About £500, nominally.]

He shrugged his shoulders, went to his strong box and gave her the money,

whereupon she nodded, and giving him her hand, she said: "You are always

kind, and as long as I have you, I am not afraid; but if I were to lose

you, I should be the most unhappy woman in the world." "You always have

the same fears; but I shall never leave you; it would be impossible for

me to separate from you," the Count exclaimed. "And if you die?" she

interrupted him hastily. "If I die?" the Count said, with a peculiar

smile. "I have provided for you in that eventuality also." "Do you

mean to say" ... she stammered, flushed, and her large, lovely eyes

rested on her lover with an indescribable expression in them. He,

however, opened a drawer in his writing-table, and took out a document,

which he gave her. It was his will. She opened it with almost indecent

haste, and when she saw the amount--thirty thousand florins--she grew

pale to her very lips.

It was a moment in which the germs of a crime were sown in her breast,

but one of those crimes which cannot be touched by the Criminal Code. A

few days after she had paid her visit to the Count, she herself received

one from the Italian. In the course of conversation he took a jewel case

out of his breast pocket and asked her opinion of the ornaments, as she

was well-known for her taste in such matters, telling her at the same

time, that it was intended as a present for an actress, with whom he was

on intimate terms.--"It is a magnificent set!" she said, as she looked at

it. "You have made an excellent selection." Then she suddenly became

absorbed in thought, while her nostrils began to quiver, and that touch

of cold cruelty played on her lips.

"Do you think that the lady for whom this ornament is intended will be

pleased with it?" the Italian asked. "Certainly," she replied; "I myself

would give a great deal to have it." "Then may I venture to offer it to

you?" the Italian said.

She blushed, but did not refuse it, but the same evening she rushed into

her lover's room in a state of the greatest excitement. "I am beside

myself," she stammered; "I have been most deeply insulted." "By whom?"

the Count asked, excitedly. "By your friend, who has dared to send me

some jewelry to-day. I suppose he looks upon me as a lost woman; perhaps

I am already looked upon as belonging to the _demi-monde_, and this I owe

to you, to you alone, and to my mad love for you, to which I have

sacrificed my honor and everything. Everything!" She threw herself down

and sobbed, and would not be pacified until the Count gave her his word

of honor that he would set aside every consideration for his friend, and

obtain satisfaction for her at any price. He met the Italian the same

evening at a card party and questioned him.

"I did not, in the first place, send the lady the jewelry, but I gave it

to her myself, not, however, until she had asked me to do so." "That is a

shameful lie!" the Count shouted, furiously. Unfortunately, there were

others present, and his friend took the matter seriously, so the next

morning he sent his seconds to the Count.

Some of their real friends tried to settle the matter in another way, but

his bad angel, his mistress, who required thirty thousand florins, drove

the Count to his death. He was found in the Prater, with his friend's

bullet in his chest. A letter in his pocket spoke of suicide, but the

police did not doubt for a moment that a duel had taken place. Suspicion

soon fell on the Italian, but when they went to arrest him, he had

already made his escape.

The husband of the beautiful, problematical woman, called on the

broken-hearted father of the man who had been killed in the duel, and who

had hastened to Vienna on receipt of a telegraphic message, a few hours

after his arrival, and demanded the money. "My wife was your son's most

intimate friend," he stammered, in embarrassment, in order to justify his

action as well as he could. "Oh! I know that," the old Count replied,

"and female friends of that kind want to be paid immediately, and in

full. Here are the thirty thousand florins."

And our _Goldkind_? She paid her debts, and then withdrew from the scene

for a while. She had been compromised, certainly, but then, she had risen

in value in the eyes of those numerous men who can only adore and

sacrifice themselves for a woman when her foot is on the threshold of

vice and crime.

I saw her last during the Franco-German war, in the beautiful

_Mirabell-garden_ at Salzburg. She did not seem to feel any qualms of

conscience, for she had become considerably stouter, which made her more

attractive, more beautiful, and consequently, more dangerous, than she

was before.

THE CARNIVAL OF LOVE

The Princess Leonie was one of those beautiful, brilliant enigmas, who

irresistibly allure everyone like a Sphinx, for she was young, charming,

and singularly lovely, and understood how to heighten her charms not a

little by carefully-chosen dresses. She was a great lady of the right

stamp, and was very intellectual into the bargain, which is not the case

with all aristocratic ladies; she also took great interest in art and

literature, and it was even said that she patronized one of our poets in

a manner which was worthy of the Medicis, and that she strewed the

beautiful roses of continual female sympathy on to his thorny path. All

this was evident to everybody, and had nothing strange about it, but the

world would have liked to know the history of that woman, and to look

into the depths of her soul, and because people could not do this in

Princess Leonie's case, they thought it very strange.

No one could read that face, which was always beautiful, always cheerful,

and always the same; no one could fathom those large, dark, unfathomable

eyes, which hid their secrets under the unvarying brilliancy of majestic

repose, like a mountain lake, whose waters look black on account of their

depth. For everybody was agreed that the beautiful princess had her

secrets, interesting and precious secrets, like all other ladies of our

fashionable world.

Most people looked upon her as a flirt who had no heart, and even no

blood, and they asserted that she was only virtuous because the power of

loving was denied her, but that she took all the more pleasure in seeing

that she was loved, and that she set her trammels and enticed her

victims, until they surrendered at discretion at her feet, so that she

might leave them to their fate, and hurry off in pursuit of some fresh

game.

Others declared that the beautiful woman had met with her romances in

life, and was still having them, but, as a thorough Messalina, she knew

how to conceal her adventures as cleverly as that French queen who had

every one of her lovers thrown into the cold waters of the Seine, as soon

as he quitted her soft, warm arms, and she was described thus to Count

Otto F., a handsome cavalry officer, who had made the acquaintance of the

beautiful, dangerous woman at that fashionable watering place, Karlsbad,

and had fallen deeply in love with her.

Even before he had been introduced to her, the Princess had already

exchanged fiery, encouraging glances with him, and when a brother officer

took him to call on her, she welcomed him with a smile which appeared to

promise him happiness, but after he had paid his court to her for a

month, he did not seem to have made any progress, and as she possessed in

a high degree the skill of being able to avoid even the shortest private

interviews, it appeared as if matters would go no further than that

delightful promise.

Night after night, the enamored young officer walked along the garden

railings of her villa as close to her windows as possible, without being

noticed by any one, and at last fortune seemed to favor him. The moon,

which was nearly at the full, was shining brightly, and in its silvery

light he saw a tall, female figure, with large plaits round her head,

coming along the grave path; he stood still, as he thought he recognized

the Princess, but as she came nearer he saw a pretty girl, whom he did

not know, and who came up to the railings and said to him with a smile:

"What can I do for you, Count?" mentioning his name.

"You seem to know me, Fräulein." "Oh! I am only the Princess's

lady's-maid." ... "But you could do me a great favor." "How?" she asked

quickly: "You might give the Princess a letter." ... "I should not

venture to do that," the girl replied with a peculiar, half-mocking,

half-pitying smile, and with a deep curtsey, she disappeared behind

the raspberry bushes which formed a hedge along the railings.

The next morning, as the Count, with several other ladies and gentlemen,

was accompanying the Princess home from the pump-room, the fair coquette

let her pocket-handkerchief fall just outside her house. The young

officer took this for a hint, so he picked it up, concealed the letter

that he had written, which he always kept about him so as to be prepared

for any event, in the folds of the soft cambric, and gave it back to the

Princess, who quickly put it into her pocket. That also seemed to him to

be a good augury, and, in fact, in the course of a few hours he received

a note in disguised handwriting, by the post, in which his bold wooing

was graciously entertained, and an appointment was made for the same

night in the pavilion of the Princess's villa.

The happiness of the enamored young officer knew no bounds; he kissed the

letter a hundred times, thanked the Princess when he met her in the

afternoon where the band was playing by his animated looks, which she

either did not or could not understand, and at night was standing an hour

before the appointed time behind the wall at the bottom of the garden.

When the church clock struck eleven he climbed over it and jumped on to

the ground on the other side, and looked about him carefully; then he

went up to the small, white-washed summer-house, where the Princess had

promised to meet him, on tiptoe. He found the door ajar, went in, and

at the same moment he felt two soft arms thrown round him. "Is it

you, Princess?" he asked, in a whisper, for the pavilion was in

total darkness, as the venetian blinds were drawn. "Yes, Count, it is

I." ... "How cruel." ... "I love you, but I am obliged to conceal my

passion under the mask of coldness because of my social position."

As she said this, the enamored woman, who was trembling on his breast

with excitement, drew him on to a couch that occupied one side of the

pavilion, and began to kiss him ardently. The lovers spent two blissful

hours in delightful conversation and intoxicating pleasures; then she

bade him farewell, and told him to remain where he was until she had gone

back to the house. He obeyed her, but could not resist looking at her

through the venetian blinds, and he saw her tall, slim figure as she went

along the gravel path with an undulating walk. She wore a white boumous,

which he recognized as having seen in the pump-room; her soft, black hair

fell down over her shoulders, and before she disappeared into the villa

she stood for a moment and looked back, but he could not see her face,

as she wore a thick veil.

When Count F. met the Princess the next morning in company with other

ladies, when the band was playing, she showed an amount of unconstraint

which confused him, and while she was joking in the most unembarrassed

manner, he turned crimson and stammered out such a lot of nonsense that

the ladies noticed it, and made him the target for their wit. None of

them was bolder or more confident in their attacks on him than the

Princess, so that at last he looked upon the woman who concealed so much

passion in her breast, and who yet could command herself so thoroughly,

as a kind of miracle, and at last said to himself: "The world is right;

woman is a riddle!"

The Princess remained there for some weeks longer, and always maintained

the same polite and friendly, but cool and sometimes ironical, demeanor

towards him, but he easily endured being looked upon as her unfortunate

adorer by the world, for at least every other day a small, scented note,

stamped with her arms and signed _Leonie_, summoned him to the pavilion,

and there he enjoyed the full, delightful possession of the beautiful

woman. It, however, struck him as strange that she would never let him

see her face. Her head was always covered with a thick black veil,

through which he could see her eyes, which sparkled with love,

glistening; he passed his fingers through her hair, he saw her well-known

dresses, and once he succeeded in getting possession of one of her

pocket-handkerchiefs, on which the name _Leonie_ and the princely coronet

were magnificently embroidered.

When she returned to Vienna for the winter, a note from her invited him

to follow her there, and as he had indefinite leave of absence from his

regiment, he could obey the commands of his divinity. As soon as he

arrived there he received another note, which forbade him to go to her

house, but promised him a speedy meeting in his rooms, and so the young

officer had the furniture elegantly renovated, and looked forward to a

visit from the beautiful woman with all a lover's impatience.

At last she came, wrapped in a magnificent cloak of green velvet, trimmed

with ermine, but still thickly veiled, and before she came in she made it

a condition that the room in which he received her should be quite dark,

and after he had put out all the lights she threw off her fur, and her

coldness gave way to the most impetuous tenderness.

"What is the reason that you will never allow me to see your dear,

beautiful face?" the officer asked. "It is a whim of mine, and I suppose

I have the right to indulge in whims," she said, hastily. "But I so long

once more to see your splendid figure and your lovely face in full

daylight," the Count continued. "Very well then, you shall see me at the

Opera this evening."

She left him at six o'clock, after stopping barely an hour with him, and

as soon as her carriage had driven off he dressed and went to the opera.

During the overture, he saw the Princess enter her box and looking

dazzlingly beautiful; she was wearing the same green velvet cloak,

trimmed with ermine, that he had had in his hands a short time before,

but almost immediately she let it fall from her shoulders, and showed a

bust which was worthy of the Goddess of Love. She spoke with her husband

with much animation, and smiled with her usual cold smile, though she did

not give her adorer even a passing look, but, in spite of this, he felt

the happiest of mortals.

In Vienna, however, the Count was not as fortunate as he had been at

Karlsbad, where he had first met her, for his beautiful mistress only

came to see him once a week; often she only stopped a short time with

him, and once nearly six weeks passed without her favoring him at all,

and she did not even make any excuse for remaining away. Just then,

however, Leonie's husband accidentally made the young officer's

acquaintance at the Jockey Club, took a fancy to him, and asked him

to go and see him at his house.

When he called and found the Princess alone his heart felt as if it would

burst with pleasure, and seizing her hand, he pressed it ardently to his

lips. "What are you doing, Count?" she said, drawing back. "You are

behaving very strangely." "We are alone," the young officer whispered,

"so why this mask of innocence? Your cruelty is driving me mad, for it is

six weeks since you came to see me last." "I certainly think you are out

of your mind," the Princess replied, with every sign of the highest

indignation, and hastily left the drawing-room. Nothing else remained for

the Count but to do the same thing, but his mind was in a perfect whirl,

and he was quite incapable of explaining to himself the Princess's

enigmatical behavior. He dined at an hotel with some friends, and when he

got home he found a note in which the Princess begged him to pardon her,

and promised to justify her conduct, for which purpose she would see him

at eight o'clock that evening.

Scarcely, however, had he read her note, when two of his brother-officers

came to see him, and asked him, with well-simulated anxiety, whether he

were ill. When he said that he was perfectly well, one of them continued,

laughing: "Then please explain the occurrence that is in everybody's

mouth to-day, in which you play such a comical part."--"I, a comical

part?" the Count shouted.--"Well, is it not very comical when you call on

a lady like Princess Leonie, whom you do not know, to upbraid her for her

cruelty, and most unceremoniously call her _thou_[6]?"

[Footnote 6: In Germany, _thou du_, is only used between near relations,

lovers, very intimate friends, to children, servants, &c.--TRANSLATOR.]

That was too much; Count F. might pardon the Princess for pretending

not to know him in society, but that she should make him a common

laughing-stock, nearly drove him mad. "If I call the Princess _thou_,"

he exclaimed, "it is because I have the right to do so, as I will

prove."--His comrades shrugged their shoulders, but he asked them to

come again punctually at seven o'clock, and then he made his

preparations.

At eight o'clock his divinity made her appearance, still thickly veiled,

but on this occasion wearing a valuable sable cloak. As usual, Count F.

took her into the dark-room and locked the outer door; then he opened

that which led into his bedroom, and his two friends came in, each with a

candle in his hand.--The lady in the sable cloak cried out in terror when

Count F. pulled off her veil, but then it was his turn to be surprised,

for it was not the Princess Leonie who stood before him, but her pretty

lady's-maid, who, now she was discovered, confessed that love had driven

her to assume her mistress's part, in which she had succeeded perfectly,

on account of the similarity of their figure, eyes and hair. She had

found the Count's letter in the Princess's pocket-handkerchief when they

were at Karlsbad and had answered it. She had made him happy, and had

heightened the illusion which her figure gave rise to by borrowing the

Princess's dresses.

Of course the Count was made great fun of, and turned his back on Vienna

hastily that same evening, but the pretty lady's-maid also disappeared

soon after the catastrophe, and only by those means escaped from her

mistress's well-merited anger; for it turned out that that gallant little

individual had already played the part of her mistress more than once,

and had made all those hopeless adorers of the Princess, who had found

favor in her own eyes, happy in her stead.

Thus the enigma was solved which Princess Leonie seemed to have proposed

to the world.

A DEER PARK IN THE PROVINCES

It is not very long ago that an Hungarian Prince, who was in an Austrian

cavalry regiment, was quartered in a wealthy Austrian garrison town. The

ladies of the local aristocracy naturally did everything they could to

allure the new comer, who was young, good-looking, animated and amusing,

into their nets, and at last one of the ripe beauties, who was now

resting there on her amorous laurels, after innumerable victories on the

hot floors of Viennese society, succeeded in taking him in her toils, but

only for a short time, for she had very nearly reached that limit in age

where, on the man's side, love ceases and esteem begins. But she had more

sense than most women, and she recognized the fact in good time, and as

she did not wish to give up the principal character which she played in

society there so easily, she reflected as to what means she could employ

to bind him to her in another manner. It is well known that the notorious

Marchioness de Pompadour, who was one of the mistresses of Louis XV. of

France, when her own charms did not suffice to fetter that changeable

monarch, conceived the idea of securing the chief power in the State and

in society for herself, by having a pavilion in the deer park, which

belonged to her, and where Louis XV. was in the habit of hunting, fitted

up with every accommodation of a harem, where she brought beautiful women

and girls of all ranks of life to the arms of her royal lover.

Inspired by that historical example, the baroness began to arrange

evening parties, balls, and private theatricals in the winter, and in the

summer excursions into the country, and thus she gave the Prince, who at

that time was still, so to say, at her feet, the opportunity of plucking

fresh flowers. But even this clever expedient did not avail in the long

run, for beautiful women were scarce in that provincial town, and the few

which the local aristocracy could produce were not able to offer the

Prince any fresh attractions, when he had made their closer acquaintance.

At last, therefore, he turned his back on the highly-born Messalinas, and

began to bestow marked attention on the pretty women and girls of the

middle classes, either in the streets or when he was in his box at the

theater.

There was one girl in particular, the daughter of a well-to-do merchant,

who was supposed to be the most beautiful girl in the capital, on to

whom his opera glass was constantly leveled, and whom he even followed

occasionally without being noticed. But Baroness Pompadour soon got wind

of this unprincely taste, and determined to do everything in her power to

keep her lover and the whole nobility, which was threatened, from such an

unheard-of disgrace, as an intrigue of a Prince with a girl of the middle

classes, would have been in her eyes. "It is really sad," the outraged

baroness once said to me, "that in these days princes and monarchs choose

their mistresses only from the stage, or even from the scum of the

people. But it is the fault of our ladies themselves. They mistake their

vocation! Ah! Where are those delightful times when the daughters of the

first families looked upon it as an honor to become their princes'

mistresses?"

Consequently, the horror of the blue-blooded, aristocratic lady was

intense when the Prince, in his usual, amiable, careless manner,

suggested to her to people her deer park with girls of the lower orders.

"It is a ridiculous prejudice," the Prince said on that occasion, "which

obliges us to shut ourselves off from the other ranks, and to confine

ourselves altogether to our own circle, for monotony and boredom are the

inevitable consequences of it. How many honorable men of sense and

education, and especially how many charming women and girls there are,

who do not belong to the aristocracy, who would infuse fresh life and a

new charm into our dull, listless society! I very much wish that a lady

like you would make a beginning, and would give up this exclusiveness,

which cannot be maintained in these days, and would enrich our circle

with the charming daughters of middle class families."

A wish of the Prince's was as good as a command; so the baroness made a

wry face, but she accommodated herself to the circumstances, and promised

to invite some of the prettiest girls of the _plebs_ to a ball in a few

days. She really issued a number of invitations, and even condescended to

drive to the house of each of them in person. "But I must ask one thing

of you," she said to each of the pretty girls, "and that is to come

dressed as simply as possible; washing muslins will be best. The Prince

dislikes all finery and ostentation and he would be very vexed with me if

I were the cause of any extravagance on your part."

The great day arrived; it was quite an event for the little town, and all

classes of society were in a state of the greatest excitement. The

pretty, plebeian girls, with her whom the Prince had first noticed at

their head, appeared in all their innocence, in plain, washing dresses,

according to the Prince's orders, with their hair plainly dressed, and

without any ornaments, except their own fresh, buxom charms. When they

were all captives in the den of the proud, aristocratic lioness, the poor

little mice were very much terrified when suddenly the aristocratic

ladies came into the ball-room, rustling in whole oceans of silks and

lace, with their haughty heads changed into so many hanging gardens of

Semiramis, loaded with all the treasures of India, and radiant as the

sun.

At first the poor girls looked down in shame and confusion, and Baroness

Pompadour's eyes glistened with all the joy of triumph, but her

ill-natured pleasure did not last long, for the intrigue, on which the

Prince's ignoble passions were to make shipwreck, recoiled on the

highly-born lady patroness of the deer park.

It was not the aristocratic ladies in their magnificent toilettes that

threw the girls from the middle classes into the shade, but, on the

contrary, those pretty girls in their washing dresses, and with the plain

but splendid ornament of their abundant hair looked far more charming

than they would have done in silk dresses with long trains, and with

flowers in their hair, and the novelty and unwontedness of their

appearance there allured not only the Prince, but all the other gentlemen

and officers, so that the proud grand-daughters of the lions, griffins,

and eagles, were quite neglected by the gentlemen, who danced almost

exclusively with the pretty girls of the middle classes.

The faded lips of the baronesses and countesses uttered many a "_For

Shame_!" but all in vain, neither was it any good for the Baroness to

make up her mind that she would never again put a social medley before

the Prince in her drawing-room, for he had seen through her intrigue, and

gave her up altogether. _Sic transit gloria mundi!_

She, however, consoled herself as best she could.

THE WHITE LADY

Fortuna, the goddess of chance and good luck, has always been _Cupid's_

best ally and Arnold T., who was a lieutenant in a hussar regiment, was

evidently a special favorite of both those roguish deities.

This good-looking, well-bred young officer had been an enthusiastic

admirer of the two Countesses W., mother and daughter, during a tolerably

long leave of absence, which he spent with his relations in Vienna. He

had admired them from the _Prater_, and worshiped them at the opera, but

he had never had an opportunity of making their acquaintance, and when he

was back at his dull quarters in Galicia, he liked to think about those

two aristocratic beauties. Last summer his regiment was transferred to

Bohemia, to a wildly romantic district, that had been made illustrious

by a talented writer, which abounded in magnificent woods, lofty

mountain-forests and castles, and which was a favorite summer resort

of the neighboring aristocracy.

Who can describe his joyful surprise, when he and his men were quartered

in an old, weather-beaten castle in the middle of a wood, and he learnt

from the house-steward who received him that the owner of the castle was

the husband, and, consequently, also the father of his Viennese ideals.

An hour after he had taken possession of his old-fashioned, but

beautifully furnished, room in a side-wing of the castle, he put on

his full-dress uniform, and throwing his dolman over his shoulders, he

went to pay his respects to the Count and the ladies.

He was received with the greatest cordiality. The Count was delighted to

have a companion when he went out shooting, and the ladies were no less

pleased at having some one to accompany them on their walks in the

forests, or on their rides, so that he felt only half on the earth, and

half in the seventh heaven of Mohammedan bliss. Before supper he had time

to inspect the house more closely, and even to take a sketch of the

large, gloomy building from a favorable point. The ancient seat of the

Counts of W. was really very gloomy; in fact it created a sinister,

uncomfortable feeling. The walls, which were crumbling away here and

there, and which were covered with dark ivy; the round towers, which

harbored jackdaws, owls, and hawks; the Æolian harp, which complained

and sighed and wept in the wind; the stones in the castle yard, which

were overgrown with grass; the cloisters, in which every footstep

re-echoed; the great ancestral portraits which hung on the walls, coated

as it were with dark, mysterious veils by the centuries which had passed

over them--all this recalled to him the legends and fairy tales

of his youth, and he involuntarily thought of the _Sleeping Beauty in the

Wood_, and of _Blue Beard_, of the cruel mistress of the Kynast,[7] and

that aristocratic tigress of the Carpathians, who obtained the unfading

charms of eternal youth by bathing in human blood.

[Footnote 7: A Castle, now a well-preserved ruin, in the Giant Mountains

in N. Germany. The legend is that its mistress, Kunigerude, vowed to

marry nobody except the Knight who should ride round the parapet of the

Castle, and many perished in the attempt. At last one of them succeeded

in performing the feat, but he merely sternly rebuked her, and took his

leave. He was accompanied by his wife, disguised as his page, according

to some versions of the legend.--TRANSLATOR.]

He came in to supper where he found himself for the first time in company

with all the members of the family, just in the frame of mind that was

suitable for ghosts, and was not a little surprised when his host told

him, half smiling and half seriously, that the "White Lady" was

disturbing the castle again, and that she had latterly been seen very

often. "Yes, indeed," Countess Ida exclaimed; "You must take care, Baron,

for she haunts the very wing where your room is." The hussar was just in

the frame of mind to take the matter seriously, but, on the other hand,

when he saw the dark, ardent eyes of the Countess, and then the merry

blue eyes of her daughter fixed on him, any real fear of ghosts was quite

out of the question with him. For Baron T. feared nothing in this world,

but he possessed a very lively imagination, which could conjure up

threatening forms from another world so plainly that sometimes he felt

very uncomfortable at his own fancies. But on the present occasion that

malicious apparition had no power over him; the ladies took care of that,

for both of them were beautiful and amiable.

The Countess was a mature Venus of thirty-six, of middle height, and with

the voluptuous figure of a true Viennese, with bright eyes, thick dark

hair, and beautiful white teeth, while her daughter Ida, who was

seventeen, had light hair and the pert little nose of the china figures

of shepherdesses in the dress of the period of Louis XIV., and was short,

slim, and full of French grace. Besides them and the Count, a son of

twelve and his tutor were present at supper. It struck the hussar as

strange that the tutor, who was a strongly-built young man, with a

winning face and those refined manners which the greatest plebeian

quickly acquires when brought into close and constant contact with the

aristocracy, was treated with great consideration by all the family

except the Countess, who treated him very haughtily. She assumed a

particularly imperious manner towards her son's tutor, and she either

found fault with, or made fun of, everything that he did, while he put

up with it all with smiling humility.

Before supper was over their conversation again turned on to the ghost,

and Baron T. asked whether they did not possess a picture of the _White

Lady_. "Of course we have one," they all replied at once; whereupon Baron

T. begged to be allowed to see it. "I will show it you to-morrow," the

Count said. "No, Papa, now, immediately," the younger lady said

mockingly; "just before the ghostly hour, such a thing creates a much

greater impression."

All who were present, not excepting the boy and his tutor, took a candle

and then they walked as if they had formed a torchlight procession, to

the wing of the house where the hussar's room was. There was a life-size

picture of the _White Lady_ hanging in a Gothic passage near his room,

among other ancestral portraits, and it by no means made a terrible

impression on anyone who looked at it, but rather the contrary. The

ghost, dressed in stiff, gold brocade and purple velvet, and with a hawk

on her wrist, looked like one of those seductive Amazons of the fifteenth

century, who exercised the art of laying men and game at their feet with

equal skill.

"Don't you think that the _White Lady_ is very like mamma?" Countess Ida

said, interrupting the Baron's silent contemplation of the picture.

"There is no doubt of it," the hussar replied, while the Countess smiled

and the tutor turned red, and they were still standing before the

picture, when a strong gust of wind suddenly extinguished all the lights,

and they all uttered a simultaneous cry. The _White Lady_, the little

Count whispered, but she did not come, and as it was luckily a moonlight

night, they soon recovered from their momentary shock. The family retired

to their apartments, while the hussar and the tutor went to their own

rooms, which were situated in the wing of the castle which was haunted by

the _White Lady_; the officer's being scarcely thirty yards from the

portrait, while the tutor's were rather further down the corridor.

The hussar went to bed, and was soon fast asleep, and though he had

rather uneasy dreams nothing further happened. But while they were at

breakfast the next morning, the Count's body-servant told them, with

every appearance of real terror, that as he was crossing the court-yard

at midnight, he had suddenly heard a noise like bats in the open

cloisters, and when he looked he distinctly saw the _White Lady_ gliding

slowly through them; but they merely laughed at the poltroon, and though

our hussar laughed also, he fully made up his mind, without saying a word

about it, to keep a look-out for the ghost that night.

Again they had supper alone, without any company, had some music and

pleasant talk and separated at half-past eleven. The hussar, however,

only went to his room for form's sake; he loaded his pistols, and when

all was quiet in the castle, he crept down into the court-yard and took

up his position behind a pillar which was quite hidden in the shade,

while the moon, which was nearly at the full, flooded the cloisters with

its clear, pale light.

There were no lights to be seen in the castle except from two windows,

which were those of the Countess's apartments, and soon they were also

extinguished. The clock struck twelve, and the hussar could scarcely

breathe from excitement; the next moment, however, he heard the noise

which the Count's body-servant had compared to that of bats, and almost

at the same instant a white figure glided slowly through the open

cloisters and passed so close to him, that it almost made his blood

curdle, and then it disappeared in the wing of the castle which he and

the tutor occupied.

The officer who was usually so brave, stood as though he was paralyzed

for a few moments, but then he took heart, and feeling determined to make

the nearer acquaintance of the spectral beauty, he crept softly up the

broad staircase and took up his position in a deep recess in the

cloisters, where nobody could see him.

He waited for a long time; he heard every quarter strike, and at last,

just before the close of the _witching hour_, he heard the same noise

like the rustling of bats, and then she came, he felt the flutter of her

white dress, and she stood before him--it was indeed the Countess.

He presented his pistol at her as he challenged her, but she raised her

hand menacingly. "Who are you?" he exclaimed. "If you are really a ghost,

prove it, for I am going to fire." "For heaven's sake!" the White Lady

whispered, and at the same instant two white arms were thrown round him,

and he felt a full, warm bosom heaving against his own.

After that night the ghost appeared more frequently still. Not only did

the _White Lady_ make her appearance every night in the cloisters, only

to disappear in the proximity of the hussar's rooms as long as the family

remained at the castle, but she even followed them to Vienna.

Baron T., who went to that capital on leave of absence during the

following winter, and who was the Count's guest at the express wish of

his wife, was frequently told by the footman that although hitherto she

had seemed to be confined to the old castle in Bohemia, she had shown

herself now here, now there, in the mansion in Vienna, in a white dress

and making a noise like the wings of a bat, and bearing a striking

resemblance to the beautiful Countess.

CAUGHT

A young and charming lady, who was a member of the Viennese aristocracy,

went last summer, like young and charming ladies usually do, to a

fashionable Austrian watering place, Carlsbad, which is much frequented

by foreigners, without her husband.

As is usually the case in their rank of life, she had married from family

considerations and for money; and the short spell of _Love after

Marriage_ was not sufficient to take deep root, and after she had

satisfied family traditions and her husband's wishes by giving birth

to a son and heir, they both went their way; the young, handsome and

fascinating man to his clubs, the race-course, and behind the scenes at

the theaters, and his charming, coquettish wife to her box at the opera,

to the ice in winter, and to some fashionable watering place in the

summer.

On the present occasion she brought a young, very highly-connected Pole

with her from one of the latter resorts, who enjoyed all the rights and

the liberty of an avowed favorite, and who had to perform all the duties

of a slave.

As is usual in such cases, the lady rented a small house in one of the

suburbs of Vienna, had it beautifully furnished and received her lover

there. She was always dressed very attractively, sometimes as _La Belle

Hélène_ in Offenbach's Opera, only rather more after the ancient Greek

fashion; another time as an Odalisque in the Sultan's harem, and another

time as a lighthearted Suabian girl, and so forth. In winter, however,

she grew tired of such meetings, and she wanted to have matters more

comfortable, so she took it into her head to receive her lover in her own

house. But how was it to be done? That, however, gave her no particular

difficulty, as is the case with every woman, when once she has made up

her mind to a thing, and after thinking it over for a day or two she went

to the next _rendez-vous_, with a fully prepared plan of war.

The Pole was one of those types of handsome men which are rare; he was

almost womanly in his delicate features, of the middle height, slim and

well-made, and he resembled a youthful Bacchus who might very easily be

made to pass for a Venus by the help of false locks; the more so as there

was not even the slightest down on his lips. The lady, therefore, who was

very fertile in resources, suggested to the handsome Pole that he might

just as well transform himself into a handsome Polish lady, so that he

might, under the cover of the ever feminine, be able to visit her

undisturbed, and as it was winter, the thick, heavy, capacious dress

assisted the metamorphosis.

The lady, accordingly, bought a number of very beautiful costumes for her

lover, and in the course of a few days she told her husband that a

charming young Polish lady, whose acquaintance she had made in the

summer at Carlsbad, was going to spend the winter in Vienna, and would

very frequently come and see her. Her husband listened to her with the

greatest indifference, for it was one of his fundamental rules never to

make love to any of his wife's female friends, and he went to his club as

usual at night, and the next day had forgotten all about the Polish lady.

And now, half an hour after the husband had left the house, a cab drove

up and a tall, slim, heavily veiled lady got out and went up the thickly

carpeted stairs, only to be metamorphosed into the most ardent lover in

the young woman's _boudoir_. The young Pole grew accustomed to his female

attire so quickly that he even ventured to appear in the streets in it,

and when he began to make conquests, and aristocratic gentlemen and

successful speculators on the Stock Exchange looked at him significantly,

and even followed him, he took a real pleasure in the part he was

playing, and began to understand the pleasure a coquette feels in

tormenting men.

The young Pole became more and more daring, until at last one evening he

went to a private box at the opera, wrapped in an ermine cloak, on to

which his dark, false curls fell in heavy waves.

A handsome young man in a box opposite to him ogled him incessantly from

the first moment, and the young Pole responded in a manner which made the

other bolder every minute. At the end of the third act, the box opener

brought the fictitious Venus a small bouquet with a card concealed in it,

on which was written in pencil: "You are the most lovely woman in the

world, and I implore you on my knees to grant me an interview." The young

Pole read the name of the man who had been captivated so quickly, and,

with a peculiar smile, wrote on a card on which nothing but the name

"Valeska" was printed: "After the theater," and sent Cupid's messenger

back with it.

When the spurious Venus was about to enter her carriage after the

performance, thickly veiled and wrapped in her ermine cloak, the handsome

young man was standing by it with his hat off, and he opened the door for

her. She was kind enough to allow him to get in with her and during their

drive she talked to him in the most charming manner, but she was cruel

enough to dismiss him without pity before they reached her house, and

this she did every time. For she went to the theater each night now, and

every evening she received an ardent note, and every evening she allowed

the amorous swain to accompany her as far as her house, and men were

beginning to envy him on account of his brilliant conquest, when a

catastrophe happened which was very surprising for all concerned.

The husband of the lady in whose eyes the Pole had found favor, surprised

the loving couple one day under circumstances which made any

justification impossible. But while he, trembling with rage and jealousy,

was drawing a small Circassian dagger which hung against the wall from

its sheath, and as his wife threw herself, half-fainting, on to a couch,

the young Pole had hastily put the false curls on to his head, and had

slipped into the silk dress and the sable cloak which he had been wearing

when he came into his mistress's boudoir. "What does this mean," the

husband stammered, "Valeska?"--"Yes, sir," the young Pole replied;

"Valeska, who has come here to show your wife a few love letters,

which." ... "No, no," the deceived, but nevertheless guilty, husband said

in imploring accents; "no, that is quite unnecessary." And at the same

time he put the dagger back into its sheath. "Very well then, there is a

truce between us," the Pole observed coolly, "but do not forget what

weapons I possess, and which I mean to retain against all contingencies."

Then the gentlemen bowed politely to each other, and the unexpected

meeting came to an end.

From that time forward, the terms on which the young married couple lived

together assumed the character of that everlasting peace, which President

Grant once promised to the whole world in his message to all nations. The

young woman did not find it necessary to make her lover put on

petticoats, and the husband constantly accompanied the real Valeska a

good deal further than he did the false one on that memorable occasion.

CHRISTMAS EVE

"The Christmas-eve supper![8] Oh! no, I shall never go in for that again!"

Stout Henri Templier said that in a furious voice, as if some one had

proposed some crime to him, while the others laughed and said:

"What are you flying into a rage about?"

[Footnote 8: A great institution in France, and especially in Paris, at

which black puddings are an indispensable dish.--TRANSLATOR.]

"Because a Christmas-eve supper played me the dirtiest trick in the

world, and ever since I have felt an insurmountable horror for that night

of imbecile gayety."

"Tell us what it is?"

"You want to know what it was? Very well then, just listen.

"You remember how cold it was two years ago at Christmas; cold enough to

kill poor people in the streets. The Seine was covered with ice; the

pavements froze one's feet through the soles of one's boots, and the

whole world seemed to be at the point of going to pot.

"I had a big piece of work on, and so I refused every invitation to

supper, as I preferred to spend the night at my writing table. I dined

alone and then began to work. But about ten o'clock I grew restless at

the thought of the gay and busy life all over Paris, at the noise in the

streets which reached me in spite of everything, at my neighbors'

preparations for supper, which I heard through the walls. I hardly knew

any longer what I was doing; I wrote nonsense, and at last I came to the

conclusion that I had better give up all hope of producing any good work

that night.

"I walked up and down my room; I sat down and got up again. I was

certainly under the mysterious influence of the enjoyment outside, and

I resigned myself to it. So I rang for my servant and said to her:

"'Angela, go and get a good supper for two; some oysters, a cold

partridge, some crayfish, hams and some cakes. Put out two bottles of

champagne, lay the cloth and go to bed.'

"She obeyed in some surprise, and when all was ready, I put on my great

coat and went out. A great question was to be solved: 'Whom was I going

to bring in to supper?' My female friends had all been invited elsewhere,

and if I had wished to have one, I ought to have seen about it

beforehand, so I thought that I would do a good action at the same time,

and I said to myself:

"'Paris is full of poor and pretty girls who will have nothing on their

table to-night, and who are on the look out for some generous fellow. I

will act the part of Providence to one of them this evening; and I will

find one if I have to go into every pleasure resort, and have to question

them and hunt for one till I find one to my choice.' And I started off on

my search.

"I certainly found many poor girls, who were on the look-out for some

adventure, but they were ugly enough to give any man a fit of

indigestion, or thin enough to freeze as they stood if they had stopped,

and you all know that I have a weakness for stout women. The more flesh

they have, the better I like them, and a female colossus would drive me

out of my senses with pleasure.

"Suddenly, opposite the Théâtre des Variétés, I saw a face to my liking.

A good head, and then two protuberances, that on the chest very

beautiful, and that on the stomach simply surprising; it was the stomach

of a fat goose. I trembled with pleasure, and said:

"'By Jove! What a fine girl!'

"It only remained for me to see her face. A woman's face is the dessert,

while the rest is ... the joint.

"I hastened on, and overtook her, and turned round suddenly under a gas

lamp. She was charming, quite young, dark, with large, black eyes, and

I immediately made my proposition, which she accepted without any

hesitation, and a quarter of an hour later, we were sitting at supper in

my lodgings. 'Oh! how comfortable it is here,' she said as she came in,

and she looked about her with evident satisfaction at having found a

supper and a bed, on that bitter night. She was superb; so beautiful that

she astonished me, and so stout that she fairly captivated me.

"She took off her cloak and hat, sat down and began to eat; but she

seemed in low spirits, and sometimes her pale face twitched as if she

were suffering from some hidden sorrow.

"'Have you anything troubling you?' I asked her.

"'Bah! Don't let us think of troubles!'

"And she began to drink. She emptied her champagne glass at a draught,

filled it again, and emptied it again, without stopping, and soon a

little color came into her cheeks, and she began to laugh.

"I adored her already, kissed her continually, and discovered that she

was neither stupid, nor common, nor coarse as ordinary street-walkers

are. I asked her for some details about her life, but she replied:

"'My little fellow, that is no business of yours!' Alas! an hour

later....

"At last it was time to go to bed, and while I was clearing the table,

which had been laid in front of the fire, she undressed herself quickly,

and got in. My neighbors were making a terrible din, singing and

laughing like lunatics, and so I said to myself:

"'I was quite right to go out and bring in this girl; I should never have

been able to do any work.'

"At that moment, however, a deep groan made me look round, and I said:

"'What is the matter with you, my dear?'

"She did not reply, but continued to utter painful sighs, as if she were

suffering horribly, and I continued:

"'Do you feel ill?' And suddenly she uttered a cry, a heartrending cry,

and I rushed up to the bed, with a candle in my hand.

"Her face was distorted with pain, and she was wringing her hands,

panting and uttering long, deep groans, which sounded like a rattle in

the throat, and which are so painful to hear, and I asked her in

consternation:

"'What is the matter with you? Do tell me what is the matter.'

"'Oh! my stomach! my stomach!' she said. I pulled up the bed-clothes, and

I saw ... My friends, she was in labor.

"Then I lost my head, and I ran and knocked at the wall with my fists,

shouting: 'Help! help!'

"My door was opened almost immediately, and a crowd of people came in,

men in evening dress, women in low necks, harlequins, Turks, Musketeers,

and this inroad startled me so, that I could not explain myself, and

they, who had thought that some accident had happened, or that a crime

had been committed, could not understand what was the matter. At last,

however, I managed to say:

"'This ... this ... woman ... is being confined.'

"Then they looked at her, and gave their opinion, and a Friar,

especially, declared that he knew all about it, and wished to assist

nature, but as they were all as drunk as pigs, I was afraid that they

would kill her, and I rushed downstairs without my hat, to fetch an old

doctor, who lived in the next street. When I came back with him, the

whole house was up; the gas on the stairs had been relighted, the lodgers

from every floor were in my room, while four boatmen were finishing my

champagne and lobsters.

"As soon as they saw me they raised a loud shout, and a milkmaid

presented me with a horrible little wrinkled specimen of humanity, that

was mewing like a cat, and said to me:

"'It is a girl.'

"The doctor examined the woman, declared that she was in a dangerous

state, as the event had occurred immediately after supper, and he took

his leave, saying he would immediately send a sick nurse and a wet nurse,

and an hour later, the two women came, bringing all that was requisite

with them.

"I spent the night in my armchair, too distracted to be able to think of

the consequences, and almost as soon as it was light, the doctor came

again, who found his patient very ill, and said to me:

"'Your wife, Monsieur....'

"'She is not my wife,' I interrupted him.

"'Very well then, your mistress; it does not matter to me.'

"He told me what must be done for her, what her diet must be, and then

wrote a prescription.

"What was I to do? Could I send the poor creature to the hospital? I

should have been looked upon as a brute in the house and in all the

neighborhood, and so I kept her in my rooms, and she had my bed for six

weeks.

"I sent the child to some peasants at Poissy to be taken care of, and she

still costs me fifty francs[9] a month, for as I had paid at first, I

shall be obliged to go on paying as long as I live, and later on, she

will believe that I am her father. But to crown my misfortunes, when the

girl had recovered ... I found that she was in love with me, madly in

love with me, the baggage!"

[Footnote 9: £2]

"Well?"

"Well, she had grown as thin as a homeless cat, and I turned the skeleton

out of doors, but she watches for me in the streets, hides herself, so

that she may see me pass, stops me in the evening when I go out, in order

to kiss my hand, and, in fact, worries me enough to drive me mad; and

that is why I never keep Christmas eve now."

WORDS OF LOVE

Sunday.--

You do not write to me, I never see you, you never come, so I must

suppose that you have ceased to love me. But why? What have I done? Pray

tell me, my own dear love. I love you so much, so dearly! I should like

always to have you near me, to kiss you all day while I called you every

tender name that I could think of. I adore you, I adore you, I adore you,

my beautiful cock.--Your affectionate hen,

SOPHIE.

* * * * *

Monday.--

My dear friend,

You will absolutely understand nothing of what I am going to say to you,

but that does not matter, and if my letter happens to be read by another

woman, it may be profitable to her.

Had you been deaf and dumb, I should no doubt have loved you for a very

long time, and the cause of what has happened is, that you can talk; that

is all.

In love, you see, dreams are always made to sing, but in order that they

might do so, they must not be interrupted, and when one talks between two

kisses, one always interrupts that frenzied dream which our souls indulge

in, unless they utter sublime words; and sublime words do not come out of

the little mouths of pretty girls.

You do not understand me at all, do you? So much the better, and I will

go on. You are certainly one of the most charming and adorable women whom

I have ever seen.

Are there any eyes on earth that contain more dreams than yours, more

unknown promises, greater depths of love? I do not think so. And when

that mouth of yours, with its two round lips, smiles, and shows the

glistening white teeth, one is tempted to say that there issues from this

ravishing mouth ineffable music, something inexpressibly delicate, a

sweetness which extorts sighs.

It is then that you quietly call out to me, my great and renowned

"lady-killer," and it then seems to me as though I had suddenly found

an entrance into your thoughts, which I can see is ministering to your

soul--that little soul of a pretty, little creature, yes, pretty,

but--and that is what troubles me, don't you see, troubles me more than

tongue can tell. I would much prefer never to see you at all.

You go on pretending not to understand anything, do you not? I calculate

on that.

Do you remember the first time you came to see me at my residence?

How gaily you stepped inside, an odor of violets, which clung to your

skirts, heralding your entrance; how we regarded each other, for ever

so long, without uttering a word, after which we embraced like two

fools.... Then ... then from that time to this, we have never exchanged

a word.

But when we separated, did not our trembling hands and our eyes say many

things, things ... which cannot be expressed in any language. At least, I

thought so; and when you went away, you murmured:

"We shall meet again soon!"

That was all you said, and you will never guess what delightful dreams

you left me, all that I, as it were, caught a glimpse of, all that I

fancied I could guess in your thoughts.

You see, my poor child, for men who are not stupid, who are rather

refined and somewhat superior, love is such a complicated instrument,

that the merest trifle puts it out of order. You women never perceive the

ridiculous side of certain things when you love, and you fail to see the

grotesqueness of some expressions.

Why does a word which sounds quite right in the mouth of a small, dark

woman, seem quite wrong and funny in the mouth of a fat, light-haired

woman? Why are the wheedling ways of the one, altogether out of place

in the other?

Why is it that certain caresses which are delightful from the one, should

be wearisome from the other? Why? Because in everything, and especially

in love, perfect harmony, absolute agreement in motion, voice, words, and

in demonstrations of tenderness, are necessary, with the person who

moves, speaks and manifests affection; it is necessary in age, in height,

in the color of the hair, and in the style of beauty.

If a woman of thirty-five, who has arrived at the age of violent,

tempestuous passion, were to preserve the slightest traces of the

caressing archness of her love affairs at twenty, were not to understand

that she ought to express herself differently, look at her lover

differently, and kiss him differently were not to see that she ought to

be Dido and not a Juliette, she would infallibly disgust nine lovers out

of ten, even if they could not account to themselves for their

estrangement. Do you understand me? No. I hoped so.

From the time that you turned on your tap of tenderness, it was all over

for me, my dear friend. Sometimes we would embrace for five minutes, in

one interminable kiss, one of those kisses which make lovers close their

eyes, as if part of it would escape through their looks, as if to

preserve it entire in that clouded soul which it is ravaging. And then,

when our lips separated, you would say to me:

"That was nice, you fat old dog."

At such moments, I could have beaten you; for you gave me successively

all the names of animals and vegetables which you doubtless found in some

_cookery book_, or _Gardener's Manual_. But that is nothing.

The caresses of love are brutal, bestial, and if one comes to think of

it, grotesque! ... Oh! My poor child, what joking elf, what perverse

sprite could have prompted the concluding words of your letter to me? I

have made a collection of them, but out of love for you, I will not show

them to you.

And you really sometimes said things which were quite inopportune, and

you managed now and then to let out an exalted: _I love you!_ on such

singular occasions, that I was obliged to restrain a strong desire to

laugh. There are times when the words: _I love you!_ are so out of place,

that they become indecorous; let me tell you that.

But you do not understand me, and many other women will also not

understand me, and think me stupid, though that matters very little to

me. Hungry men eat like gluttons, but people of refinement are disgusted

at it, and they often feel an invincible dislike for a dish, on account

of a mere trifle. It is the same with love, as it is with cookery.

What I cannot comprehend, for example, is, that certain women who fully

understand the irresistible attraction of fine, embroidered stockings,

the exquisite charm of shades, the witchery of valuable lace concealed

in the depths of their underclothing, the exciting jest of hidden luxury,

and all the subtle delicacies of female elegance, never understand the

invincible disgust with which words that are out of place, or foolishly

tender, inspire us.

At times coarse and brutal expressions work wonders, as they excite the

senses, and make the heart beat, and they are allowable at the hours of

combat. Is not that sentence of Cambronne's sublime? [10]

[Footnote 10: At Waterloo, General Cambronne is reported to have said,

when called on to surrender:--_The Guard dies, but does not surrender._

But according to Victor Hugo, in _Les Miserables_, he used the

expression _Merde_! which cannot be put into English fit for ears

polite.--TRANSLATOR.]

Nothing shocks us that comes at the right time; but then, we must also

know when to hold our tongue, and to avoid phrases _à la Paul de Kock_,

at certain moments.

And I embrace you passionately, on the condition that you say nothing,

RENE.

A DIVORCE CASE

M. Chassel advocate, rises to speak: Mr. President and gentlemen of the

jury. The cause that I am charged to defend before you, requires medicine

rather than justice; and is much more a case of pathology than a case of

ordinary law. At first blush the facts seem very simple.

A young man, very rich, with a noble and cultivated mind, and a generous

heart, becomes enamored of a young lady, who is the perfection of beauty,

more than beautiful, in fact; she is adorable, besides being as gracious,

as she is charming, as good and true as she is tender and pretty, and he

marries her. For some time, he comports himself towards her not only as a

devoted husband, but as a man full of solicitude and tenderness. Then he

neglects her, misuses her, seems to entertain for her an insurmountable

aversion, an irresistible disgust. One day he even strikes her, not only

without any cause, but also without the faintest pretext. I am not going,

gentlemen, to draw a picture of silly allurements, which no one would

comprehend. I shall not paint to you the wretched life of those two

beings, and the horrible grief of this young woman. It will be sufficient

to convince you, if I read some fragments from a journal written up every

day by that poor young man, by that poor fool! For it is in the presence

of a fool, gentlemen, that we now find ourselves, and the case is all the

more curious, all the more interesting, seeing that, in many points, it

recalls the insanity of the unfortunate prince who recently died, of the

witless king who reigned platonically over Bavaria. I shall hence

designate this case--poetic folly.

You will readily call to mind all that has been told of that most

singular prince. He caused to be erected amid the most magnificent

scenery his kingdom afforded, veritable fairy castles. The reality even

of the beauty of the things themselves, as well as of the places, did not

satisfy him. He invented, he created, in these improbable manors,

factitious horizons, obtained by means of theatrical artifices, changes

of view, painted forests, fabled empires, in which the leaves of the

trees became precious stones. He had the Alps, and glaciers, steppes,

deserts of sand made hot by a blazing sun; and at nights, under the rays

of the real moon, lakes which sparkled from below by means of fantastic

electric lights. Swans floated on the lakes which glistened with skiffs,

while an orchestra, composed of the finest executants in the world,

inebriated with poetry the soul of the royal fool. That man was chaste,

that man was a virgin. He lived only to dream, his dream, his dream

divine. One evening he took out with him in his boat, a lady, young and

beautiful, a great artiste, and he begged her to sing. Intoxicated

herself by the magnificent scenery, by the languid softness of the air,

by the perfume of flowers, and by the ecstacy of that prince, both young

and handsome, she sang, she sang as women sing who have been touched by

love; then, overcome, trembling, she falls on the bosom of the king in

order to seek out his lips. But he throws her into the lake, and seizing

his oars, rows back to the shore, without concerning himself, whether

anybody has saved her or not.

Gentlemen of the jury, we find ourselves in presence of a case similar in

every way to that. I shall say no more now, except to read some passages

from the journal which we unexpectedly came upon in the drawer of an old

secretary.

* * * * *

How sad and weary is everything; always the same, always hateful. How I

dream of a land more beautiful, more noble, more varied. What a poor

conception they have of their God, if their God existed, or if he had not

created other things, elsewhere. Always woods, little woods, waves which

resemble waves, plains which resemble plains, everything is sameness and

monotony. And Man? Man? What a horrible animal! wicked, haughty and

repugnant!

* * * * *

It is essential to love, to love perdition, without seeing that which one

loves. For, to see is to comprehend, and to comprehend is to embrace. It

is necessary to love, to become intoxicated by it, just as one gets drunk

with wine, even to the extent that one knows no longer what one is

drinking. And to drink, to drink, to drink, without drawing breath, day

and night!

* * * * *

I have found her, I believe. She has about her something ideal which does

not belong to this world, and which furnishes wings to my dream. Ah! my

dream! How it reveals to me beings different from what they really are!

She is a blonde, a delicate blonde, with hair whose delicate shade is

inexpressible. Her eyes are blue! Only blue eyes can penetrate my soul.

All women, the woman who lives in my heart, reveal themselves to me in

the eye, only in the eyes. Oh! what a mystery, what a mystery is the eye!

The whole universe lives in it, inasmuch as it sees, inasmuch as it

reflects. It contains the universe, both things and beings, forests

and oceans, men and beasts, the settings of the sun, the stars, the

arts--all, all, it sees; it collects and absorbs all; and there is still

more in it; the eye of itself has a soul; it has in it the man who

thinks, the man who loves, the man who laughs, the man who suffers! Oh!

regard the blue eyes of women, those eyes that are as deep as the sea, as

changeful as the sky, so sweet, so soft, soft as the breezes, sweet as

music, luscious as kisses; and transparent, so clear that one sees behind

them, discerns the soul, the blue soul which colors them, which animates

them, which electrifies them. Yes, the soul has the color of the looks.

The blue soul alone contains in itself that which dreams; it bears its

azure to the floods and into space. The eye! Think of it, the eye! It

imbibes the visible life, in order to nourish thought. It drinks in the

world, color, movement, books, pictures, all that is beautiful, all that

is ugly, and weaves ideas out of them. And when it regards us, it gives

us the sensation of a happiness that is not of this earth. It informs us

of that of which we have always been ignorant; it makes us comprehend

that the realities of our dreams are but noisome ordures.

* * * * *

I love her too for her walk. "Even when the bird walks one feels that it

has wings," as the poet has said. When she passes one feels that she is

of another race from ordinary women, of a race more delicate, and more

divine. I shall marry her to-morrow. But I am afraid, I am afraid of so

many things!

* * * * *

Two beasts, two dogs, two wolves, two foxes, cut their way through the

plantation and encounter one another. One of each two is male, the other

female. They couple. They couple in consequence of an animal instinct,

which forces them to continue the race, their race, the one from which

they have sprung, the hairy coat, the form, movements and habitudes. The

whole of the animal creation do the same without knowing why.

We human beings, also.

It is for this I have married; I have obeyed that insane passion which

throws us in the direction of the female.

* * * * *

She is my wife. In accordance with my ideal desires, she comes very

nearly to realize my unrealizable dream. But in separating from her, even

for a second, after I have held her in my arms, she becomes no more than

the being whom nature has made use of, to disappoint all my hopes.

Has she disappointed them? No. And why have I grown weary of her, become

loath even to touch her; she cannot graze even the palm of my hand, or

the tip of my lips, but my heart throbs with unutterable disgust, not

perhaps disgust of her, but a disgust more potent, more widespread, more

loathsome; the disgust, in a word, of carnal love so vile in itself that

it has become for all refined beings, a shameful thing, which is

necessary to conceal, which one never speaks of save in a whisper, nor

without blushing.

* * * * *

I can no longer bear the idea of my wife coming near me, calling me by

name, with a smile; I cannot look at her, nor touch even her arm, I

cannot do it any more. At one time I thought to be kissed by her, would

be to transport me to St. Paul's seventh heaven. One day, she was

suffering from one of those transient fevers, and I smelled in her

breath, a subtle, slight almost imperceptible puff of human putridity; I

was completely overthrown.

Oh! the flesh, with its seductive and eager smell, a putrefaction which

walks, which thinks, which speaks, which looks, which laughs, in which

nourishment ferments and rots, which, nevertheless, is rose-colored,

pretty, tempting, deceitful as the soul itself.

* * * * *

Why flowers alone, which smell so sweet, those large flowers, glittering

or pale, whose tones and shades make my heart tremble and trouble my

eyes. They are so beautiful, their structure is so finished, so varied

and sensual, semi-opened like human organs, more tempting than mouths,

and streaked with turned up lips, teeth, flesh, seed of life powders,

which, in each, gives forth a distinct perfume.

They reproduce themselves, they alone, in the world, without polluting

their inviolable race, shedding around them the divine influence of their

love, the odoriferous incense of their caresses, the essence of their

incomparable body, of their body adorned with every grace, with every

elegances of every shape and form; who have likewise the coquetry of

every hue of color, and the inebriating seduction of every variety of

perfume.

* * * * *

FRAGMENTS WHICH WERE SELECTED SIX MONTHS LATER.

I love flowers, not as flowers, but as material and delicious beings;

I pass my days and my nights in beds of flowers, where they have been

concealed from the public view like the women of a harem.

Who knows, except myself, the sweetness, the infatuation, the quivering,

carnal, ideal, superhuman ecstacy of these tendernesses; and those kisses

upon the bare flesh of a rose, upon the blushing flesh, upon the white

skin, so miraculously different, delicate, rare, subtle, unctuous, of

these adorable flowers!

I have flower-beds that no one has seen except myself, and which I tend

myself.

I enter there as one would glide into a place of secret pleasure. In the

lofty glass gallery, I pass first through a collection of enclosed

carollas, half open or in full bloom, which incline towards the ground,

or towards the roof. This is the first kiss they have given me.

The flowers just mentioned, these flowers which adorn the vestibule of my

mysterious passions, are my servants and not my favorites.

They salute me by the change of their color and by their first

inhalations. They are darlings, coquettes, arranged in eight rows to the

right, eight rows, the left, and so laid out that they look like two

gardens springing up from under my feet.

My heart palpitates, my eyes flash at the sight of them; my blood rushes

through my veins, my soul is elated, and my hands tremble from desire as

soon as I touch them. I pass on. There are three closed doors at the

bottom of that gallery. I can make my choice of them. I have three

harems.

But I enter most often the habitation of the orchids, my little

wheedlers, by preference. Their chamber is low, suffocating. The humid

and hot air make the skin moist, takes away the breath and causes the

fingers to quiver. They come, these strange girls, from a country marshy,

burning and unhealthy. They draw you towards them as do the sirens, are

as deadly as poison, admirably fantastic, enervating, dreadful. The

butterflies here would also seem to have enormous wings, tiny feet, and

eyes! Yes! they have also eyes! They look at me, they see me, prodigious,

incomparable beings, fairies, daughters of the sacred earth, of the

impalpable air, and of hot sun rays, that mother bountiful of the

universe. Yes, they have wings, they have eyes, and nuances that no

painter could imitate, every charm, every grace, every form that one

could dream of. These wombs are transverse, odoriferous and transparent,

ever open for love and more tempting than all the flesh of women. The

unimaginable designs of their little bodies inebriates the soul, and

transports it to a paradise of images and of voluptuous ideals. They

tremble upon their stems as though they would fly. When they do fly do

they come to me? No, it is my heart that hovers o'er them, like a mystic

male, tortured by love.

No wing of any animal can keep pace with them. We are alone, they and I,

in the lighted prison which I have constructed for them. I regard them, I

contemplate them, I admire them, I adore them, the one after the other.

How healthy, strong and rosy, a rosiness that moistens the lips of

desire! How I love them! The border is frizzled, paler than their throat,

where the carolla hides itself away; a mysterious mouth, seductive sugar

under the tongue, exhibiting and unveiling the delicate, admirable and

sacred organs of these divine little creatures which smell so exquisitely

and do not speak.

I sometimes have a passion for some of them that lasts as long as their

existence, which only embraces a few days and nights. I then have them

taken away from the common gallery and enclosed in a pretty glass cabin,

in which there murmurs a jet of water over against a tropical gazon,

which has been brought from one of the Pacific Islands. And I remain

close to it, ardent, feverish and tormented, knowing that its death is

near, and watch it fading away, while that in thought, I possess it,

aspire to its love, drink it in, and then pluck its short life with an

inexpressible caress.

* * * * *

When he had finished the reading of these fragments, the advocate

continued:

"Decency, gentlemen of the jury, hinders me from communicating to you the

extraordinary avowals of this shameless, idealistic fool. The fragments

that I have just submitted to you will be sufficient, in my opinion, to

enable you to appreciate this instance of mental malady, less rare in our

epoch of hysterical insanity and of corrupt decadence than most of us

believe.

"I think, then, that my client is more entitled than any women whatever

to claim a divorce, in the exceptional circumstances in which the

disordered senses of her husband has placed her."

WHO KNOWS?

I

My God! My God! I am going to write down at last what has happened to me.

But how can I? How dare I? The thing is so bizarre, so inexplicable, so

incomprehensible, so silly!

If I were not perfectly sure of what I have seen, sure that there was not

in my reasoning any defect, no error in my declarations, no lacune in the

inflexible sequence of my observations, I should believe myself to be the

dupe of a simple hallucination, the sport of a singular vision. After

all, who knows?

Yesterday I was in a private asylum, but I went there voluntarily, out of

prudence and fear. Only one single human being knows my history, and that

is the doctor of the said asylum. I am going to write to him. I really do

not know why? To disembarrass myself? For I feel as though I were being

weighed down by an intolerable nightmare.

Let me explain.

I have always been a recluse, a dreamer, a kind of isolated philosopher,

easy-going, content with but little, harboring ill-feeling against no

man, and without even having a grudge against heaven. I have constantly

lived alone, consequently, a kind of torture takes hold of me when I find

myself in the presence of others. How is this to be explained? I for one

cannot. I am not averse from going out into the world, from conversation,

from dining with friends, but when they are near me for any length of

time, even the most intimate friends, they bore me, fatigue me, enervate

me, and I experience an overwhelming torturing desire, to see them get up

to depart, or to take themselves away, and to leave me by myself.

That desire is more than a craving; it is an irresistible necessity. And

if the presence of people, with whom I find myself, were to be continued;

if I were compelled, not only to listen, but also to follow, for any

length of time, their conversation, a serious accident would assuredly

take place. What kind of accident? Ah! who knows? Perhaps a slight

paralytic stroke? Yes, probably!

I like so much to be alone that I cannot even endure the vicinage of

other beings sleeping under the same roof. I cannot live in Paris,

because when there I suffer the most acute agony. I lead a moral life,

and am therefore tortured in my body and in my nerves by that immense

crowd which swarms, which lives around even when it sleeps. Ah! the

sleeping of others is more painful still than their conversation. And I

can never find repose when I know, when I feel, that on the other side of

a wall, several existences are interrupted by these regular eclipses of

reason.

Why am I thus? Who knows? The cause of it is perhaps very simple. I get

tired very soon with everything that does not emanate from me. And there

are many people in similar case.

We are, on earth, two distinct races. Those who have need of others,

whom others distract, engage, soothe, whom solitude harasses, pains,

stupefies, like the forward movement of a terrible glacier, or the

traversing of the desert; and those, on the contrary, whom others weary,

tire, bore, silently torture, while isolation calms them, bathes them in

the repose of independency, and plunges them into the humors of their own

thoughts. In fine, there is here a normal, physical phenomenon. Some are

constituted to live a life without themselves, others, to live a life

within themselves. As for me, my exterior associations are abruptly and

painfully short-lived, and, as they reach their limits, I experience in

my whole body and in my whole intelligence, an intolerable uneasiness.

As a result of this, I became attached, or rather, I had become much

attached to inanimate objects, which have for me the importance of

beings, and my house has become, had become, a world in which I lived an

active and solitary life, surrounded by all manner of things, furniture,

familiar knick-knacks, as sympathetic in my eyes as the visages of human

beings. I had filled my mansion with them, little by little, I had

adorned it with them, and I felt an inward content and satisfaction, was

more happy than if I had been in the arms of a desirable female, whose

wonted caresses had become a soothing and delightful necessity.

I had had this house constructed in the center of a beautiful garden,

which hid it from the public highways, and which was near the entrance to

a city where I could find, on occasion, the resources of society, for

which, at moments, I had a longing. All my domestics slept in a separate

building which was situated at some considerable distance from my house,

at the far end of the kitchen garden, which was surrounded by a high

wall. The obscure envelopment of the nights, in the silence of my

invisible and concealed habitation, buried under the leaves of the great

trees, were so reposeful and so delicious, that I hesitated every

evening, for several hours, before I could retire to my couch, in order

to enjoy the solitude a little longer.

One day _Signad_ had been played at one of the city theaters. It was the

first time that I had listened to that beautiful, musical, and fairy-like

drama, and I had derived from it the liveliest pleasures.

I returned home on foot, with a light step, my head full of sonorous

phrases, and my mind haunted by delightful visions. It was night, the

dead of night, and so dark that I could hardly distinguish the broad

highway, and whence I stumbled into the ditch more than once. From the

custom's-house, at the barriers to my house, was about a mile, perhaps a

little more, or a leisurely walk of about twenty minutes. It was one

o'clock in the morning, one o'clock or maybe half-past one; the sky had

by this time cleared somewhat and the crescent appeared, the gloomy

crescent of the last quarter of the moon. The crescent of the first

quarter is, that which rises about five or six o'clock in the evening;

is clear, gay and fretted with silver; but the one which rises after

midnight is reddish, sad and desolating; it is the true Sabbath crescent.

Every prowler by night has made the same observation. The first, though

as slender as a thread, throws a faint joyous light which rejoices the

heart and lines the ground with distinct shadows; the last, sheds hardly

a dying glimmer, and is so wan that it occasions hardly any shadows.

In the distance, I perceived the somber mass of my garden, and I know

not why I was seized with a feeling of uneasiness at the idea of going

inside. I slowed my pace, and walked very softly, the thick cluster of

trees having the appearance of a tomb in which my house was buried.

I opened my outer gate, and I entered the long avenue of sycamores, which

ran in the direction of the house, arranged vault-wise like a high

tunnel, traversing opaque masses, and winding round the turf lawns,

on which baskets of flowers, in the pale darkness, could be indistinctly

discerned.

In approaching the house, I was seized by a strange feeling, I could hear

nothing, I stood still. In the trees there was not even a breath of air.

"What is the matter with me then?" I said to myself. For ten years I had

entered and re-entered in the same way, without ever experiencing the

least inquietude. I never had any fear at nights. The sight of a man,

a marauder, or a thief, would have thrown me into a fit of anger, and I

would have rushed at him without any hesitation. Moreover, I was armed, I

had my revolver. But I did not touch it, for I was anxious to resist that

feeling of dread with which I was permeated.

What was it? Was it a presentiment? That mysterious presentiment which

takes hold of the senses of men who have witnessed something which, to

them, is inexplicable? Perhaps? Who knows?

In proportion as I advanced, I felt my skin quiver more and more, and

when I was close to the wall, near the outhouses of my vast residence,

I felt that it would be necessary for me to wait a few minutes before

opening the door and going inside. I sat down, then, on a bench, under

the windows of my drawing room. I rested there, a little fearful, with my

head leaning against the wall, my eyes wide open under the shade of the

foliage. For the first few minutes, I did not observe anything unusual

around me; I had a humming noise in my ears, but that happened often to

me. Sometimes it seemed to me that I heard trains passing, that I heard

clocks striking, that I heard a multitude on the march.

Very soon, those humming noises became more distinct, more concentrated,

more determinable, I was deceiving myself. It was not the ordinary

tingling of my arteries which transmitted to my ears these rumbling

sounds, but it was a very distinct, though very confused, noise which

came, without any doubt whatever, from the interior of my house. I

distinguished through the walls this continued noise, I should rather say

agitation than noise, an indistinct moving about of a pile of things, as

if people were tossing about, displacing, and carrying away

surreptitiously all my furniture.

I doubted, however, for some considerable time yet, the evidence of my

ears. But having placed my ear against one of the outhouses, the better

to discover what this strange disturbance was that was inside my house,

I became convinced, certain, that something was taking place in my

residence, which was altogether abnormal and incomprehensible. I had no

fear, but I was--how shall I express it--paralyzed by astonishment. I did

not draw my revolver, knowing very well that there was no need of my

doing so. I listened.

I listened a long time, but could come to no resolution, my mind being

quite clear, though in myself I was naturally anxious. I got up and

waited, listening always to the noise, which gradually increased, and at

intervals grew very loud, and which seemed to become an impatient, angry

disturbance, a mysterious commotion.

Then, suddenly, ashamed of my timidity, I seized my bunch of keys, I

selected the one I wanted, I guided it into the lock, turned it twice,

and, pushing the door with all my might, sent it banging against the

partition.

The collision sounded like the report of a gun, and there responded to

that explosive noise, from roof to basement of my residence, a formidable

tumult. It was so sudden, so terrible, so deafening, that I recoiled

a few steps, and though I knew it to be wholly useless, I pulled my

revolver out of its case.

I continued to listen for some time longer. I could distinguish now an

extraordinary pattering upon the steps of my grand staircase, on the

waxed floors, on the carpets, not of boots, nor of naked feet, but of

iron, and wooden crutches, which resounded like cymbals. Then I suddenly

discerned, on the threshold of my door, an arm chair, my large reading

easy chair, which set off waddling. It went away through my garden.

Others followed it, those of my drawing-room, then my sofas, dragging

themselves along like crocodiles on their short paws; then all my chairs,

bounding like goats, and the little footstools, hopping like rabbits.

Oh! what a sensation! I slunk back into a clump of bushes where I

remained crouched up, watching, meanwhile, my furniture defile past,

for everything walked away, the one behind the other, briskly or slowly,

according to its weight or size. My piano, my grand piano, bounded past

with the gallop of a horse and a murmur of music in its sides; the

smaller articles slid along the gravel like snails, my brushes, crystal,

cups and saucers, which glistened in the moonlight. I saw my writing desk

appear, a rare curiosity of the last century, which contained all the

letters I had ever received, all the history of my heart, an old history

from which I have suffered so much! Besides, there was inside of it a

great many cherished photographs.

Suddenly--I no longer had any fear--I threw myself on it, seized it as

one would seize a thief, as one would seize a wife about to run away; but

it pursued its irresistible course, and despite my efforts and despite my

anger, I could not even retard its pace. As I was resisting in

desperation that insuperable force, I was thrown to the ground in my

struggle with it. It then rolled me over, trailed me along the gravel,

and the rest of my furniture which followed it, began to march over me,

tramping on my legs and injuring them. When I loosed my hold, other

articles passed over my body, just as a charge of cavalry does over the

body of a dismounted soldier.

Seized at last with terror, I succeeded in dragging myself out of the

main avenue, and in concealing myself again among the shrubbery, so as

to watch the disappearance of the most cherished objects, the smallest,

the least striking, the least unknown which had once belonged to me.

I then heard, in the distance, noises which came from my apartments,

which sounded now as if the house were empty, a loud noise of shutting

of doors. They were being slammed from top to bottom of my dwelling,

even the door which I had just opened myself unconsciously, and which

had closed of itself, when the last thing had taken its departure. I

took flight also, running towards the city, and I only regained my

self-composure on reaching the boulevards, where I met belated people.

I rang the bell of a hotel where I was known. I had knocked the dust off

my clothes with my hands, and I told the porter how that I had lost my

bunch of keys, which included also that of the kitchen garden, where my

servants slept in a house standing by itself, on the other side of the

wall of the enclosure, which protected my fruits and vegetables from the

raids of marauders.

I covered myself up to the eyes in the bed which was assigned to me;

but I could not sleep, and I waited for the dawn in listening to the

throbbing of my heart. I had given orders that my servants were to be

summoned to the hotel at daybreak, and my _valet de chambre_ knocked at

my door at seven o'clock in the morning.

His countenance bore a woeful look.

"A great misfortune has happened during the night, monsieur," said he.

"What is it?"

"Somebody has stolen the whole of monsieur's furniture, all, everything,

even to the smallest articles."

This news pleased me. Why? Who knows? I was complete master of myself,

bent on dissimulating, on telling no one of anything I had seen;

determined on concealing and in burying in my heart of hearts, a

terrible secret. I responded:

"They must then be the same people who have stolen my keys. The police

must be informed immediately. I am going to get up, and I will rejoin you

in a few moments."

The investigation into the circumstances under which the robbery might

have been committed lasted for five months. Nothing was found, not

even the smallest of my knick-knacks, nor the least trace of the

thieves. Good gracious! If I had only told them what I knew.... If I

had said ... I had been locked up--I, not the thieves--and that I was

the only person who had seen everything from the first.

Yes I but I knew how to keep silence. I shall never refurnish my house.

That were indeed useless. The same thing would happen again. I had no

desire even to re-enter the house, and I did not re-enter it; I never

visited it again. I went to Paris, to the hotel, and I consulted doctors

in regard to the condition of my nerves, which had disquieted me a good

deal ever since that fatal night.

They advised me to travel, and I followed their council.

II

I began by making an excursion into Italy. The sunshine did me much good.

During six months I wandered about from Genoa to Venice, from Venice to

Florence, from Florence to Rome, from Rome to Naples. Then I traveled

over Sicily, a country celebrated for its scenery and its monuments,

relics left by the Greeks and the Normans. I passed over into Africa,

I traversed at my ease that immense desert, yellow and tranquil, in which

the camels, the gazelles, and the Arab vagabonds, roam about, where, in

the rare and transparent atmosphere, there hovers no vague hauntings,

where there is never any night, but always day.

I returned to France by Marseilles, and in spite of all the Provençal

gaiety, the diminished clearness of the sky made me sad. I experienced,

in returning to the continent, the peculiar sensation, of an illness

which I believed had been cured, and a dull pain which predicted that

the seeds of the disease had not been eradicated.

I then returned to Paris. At the end of a month, I was very dejected. It

was in the autumn, and I wished to make, before the approach of winter,

an excursion through Normandy, a country with which I was unacquainted.

I began my journey, in the best of spirits, at Rouen, and for eight days

I wandered about passive, ravished and enthusiastic, in that ancient

city, in that astonishing museum of extraordinary Gothic monuments.

But, one afternoon, about four o'clock, as I was sauntering slowly

through a seemingly unattractive street, by which there ran a stream as

black as the ink called "Eau de Robec," my attention, fixed for the

moment on the quaint, antique appearance of some of the houses, was

suddenly turned away by the view of a series of second-hand furniture

shops, which succeeded one another, door after door.

Ah! they had carefully chosen their locality, these sordid traffickers

in antiquaries, in that quaint little street, overlooking that sinister

stream of water, under those tile and slate-pointed roofs in which still

grinned the vanes of byegone days.

At the end of these grim storehouses you saw piled up sculptured chests,

Rouen, Sévre, and Moustier's pottery, painted statues, others of oak,

Christs, Virgins, Saints, church ornaments, chasubles, capes, even sacred

vases, and an old gilded wooden tabernacle, where a god had hidden

himself away. Oh! What singular caverns are in those lofty houses,

crowded with objects of every description, where the existence of things

seems to be ended, things which have survived their original possessors,

their century, their times, their fashions, in order to be bought as

curiosities by new generations.

My affection for bibelots was awakened in that city of antiquaries. I

went from shop to shop crossing, in two strides, the four plank rotten

bridges thrown over the nauseous current of the Eau de Robec.

Heaven protect me! What a shock! One of my most beautiful wardrobes was

suddenly descried by me, at the end of a vault, which was crowded with

articles of every description and which seemed to be the entrance to some

catacombs of a cemetery of ancient furniture. I approached my wardrobe,

trembling in every limb, trembling to such an extent that I dare not

touch it. I put forth my hand, I hesitated. It was indeed my wardrobe,

nevertheless; a unique wardrobe of the time of Louis XIII., recognizable

by anyone who had only seen it once. Casting my eyes suddenly a little

farther, towards the more somber depths of the gallery, I perceived three

of my tapestry covered chairs; and farther on still, my two Henry II.

tables, such rare treasures that people came all the way from Paris to

see them.

Think! only think in what a state of mind I now was! I advanced,

haltingly, quivering with emotion, but I advanced, for I am brave,

I advanced like a knight of the dark ages.

I found, at every step, something that belonged to me; my brushes, my

books, my tables, my silks, my arms, everything, except the bureau full

of my letters, and that I could not discover.

I walked on, descending to the dark galleries, in order to ascend next

to the floors above. I was alone, I called out, nobody answered, I was

alone; there was no one in that house--a house as vast and tortuous

as a labyrinth.

Night came on, and I was compelled to sit down in the darkness on one

of my own chairs, for I had no desire to go away. From time to time I

shouted, "Hullo, hullo, somebody."

I had sat there, certainly, for more than an hour, when I heard steps,

steps soft and slow, I knew not where, I was unable to locate them, but

bracing myself up, I called out anew, whereupon I perceived a glimmer

of light in the next chamber.

"Who is there?" said a voice.

"A buyer," I responded.

"It is too late to enter thus into a shop."

"I have been waiting for you for more than an hour," I answered.

"You can come back to-morrow."

"To-morrow I must quit Rouen."

I dared not advance, and he did not come to me. I saw always the glimmer

of his light, which was shining on a tapestry on which were two angels

flying over the dead on a field of battle. It belonged to me also. I

said:

"Well, come here."

"I am at your service," he answered.

I got up and went towards him.

Standing in the center of a large room was a little man, very short and

very fat, phenomenally fat, a hideous phenomenon.

He had a singular beard, straggling hair, white and yellow, and not a

hair on his head. Not a hair!

As he held his candle aloft at arm's length in order to see me, his

cranium appeared to me to resemble a little moon, in that vast chamber,

encumbered with old furniture. His features were wrinkled and blown, and

his eyes could not be seen.

I bought three chairs which belonged to myself, and paid at once a large

sum for them, giving him merely the number of my room at the hotel. They

were to be delivered the next day before nine o'clock.

I then started off. He conducted me, with much politeness, as far as the

door.

I immediately repaired to the commissaire's office at the central police

depot, and I told the commissaire of the robbery which had been

perpetrated and of the discovery I had just made. He required time to

communicate by telegraph with the authorities who had originally charge

of the case, for information, and he begged me to wait in his office

until an answer came back. An hour later, an answer came back, which was

in accord with my statements.

"I am going to arrest and interrogate this man at once," he said to me,

"for he may have conceived some sort of suspicion, and smuggled away out

of sight what belongs to you. Will you go and dine and return in two

hours: I shall then have the man here, and I shall subject him to a fresh

interrogation in your presence."

"Most gladly, monsieur. I thank you with my whole heart."

I went to dine at my hotel and I ate better than I could have believed.

I was quite happy now; "that man was in the hands of the police," I

thought.

Two hours later I returned to the office of the police functionary, who

was waiting for me.

"Well, monsieur," said he, on perceiving me, "we have not been able to

find your man. My agents cannot put their hands on him."

Ah! I felt myself sinking.

"But ... you have at least found his house?" I asked.

"Yes, certainly; and what is more, it is now being watched and guarded

until his return. As for him, he has disappeared."

"Disappeared?"

"Yes, disappeared. He ordinarily passes his evenings at the house of

a female neighbor, who is also a furniture broker, a queer sort of

sorceress, the widow Bidoin. She has not seen him this evening and cannot

give any information in regard to him. We must wait until to-morrow."

I went away. Ah! how sinister the streets of Rouen seemed to me, now

troubled and haunted!

I slept so badly that I had a fit of nightmare every time I went off to

sleep.

As I did not wish to appear too restless or eager, I waited till 10

o'clock the next day before reporting myself to the police.

The merchant had not reappeared. His shop remained closed.

The commissary said to me:

"I have taken all the necessary steps. The court has been made acquainted

with the affair. We shall go together to that shop and have it opened,

and you shall point out to me all that belongs to you."

We drove there in a cab. Police agents were stationed round the building;

there was a locksmith, too, and the door of the shop was soon opened.

On entering, I could not discover my wardrobes, my chairs, my tables; I

saw nothing, nothing of that which had furnished my house, no, nothing,

although on the previous evening, I could not take a step without

encountering something that belonged to me.

The chief commissary, much astonished, regarded me at first with

suspicion.

"My God, monsieur," said I to him, "the disappearance of these articles

of furniture coincides strangely with that of the merchant."

He laughed.

"That is true. You did wrong in buying and paying for the articles which

were your own property, yesterday. It was that that gave him the cue."

"What seems to me incomprehensible," I replied, "is, that all the places

that were occupied by my furniture are now filled by other furniture."

"Oh!" responded the commissary, "he has had all night, and has no doubt

been assisted by accomplices. This house must communicate with its

neighbors. But have no fear, monsieur; I will have the affair promptly

and thoroughly investigated. The brigand shall not escape us for long,

seeing that we are in charge of the den."

* * * * *

Ah! My heart, my heart, my poor heart, how it beat!

I remained a fortnight at Rouen. The man did not return. Heavens! good

heavens! That man, what was it that could have frightened and surprised

him!

But, on the sixteenth day, early in the morning, I received from my

gardener, now the keeper of my empty and pillaged house, the following

strange letter:

* * * * *

Monsieur:

I have the honor to inform monsieur, that there happened something, the

evening before last, which nobody can understand, and the police no more

than the rest of us. The whole of the furniture has been returned, not

one piece is missing--everything is in its place, up to the very smallest

article. The house is now the same in every respect as it was before the

robbery took place. It is enough to make one lose one's head. The thing

took place during the night Friday--Saturday. The roads are dug up as

though the whole barrier had been dragged from its place up to the door.

The same thing was observed the day after the disappearance of the

furniture.

We are anxiously expecting monsieur, whose very humble and obedient

servant, I am,

Raudin, Phillipe.

* * * * *

Ah! no, no, ah! never, never, ah! no. I shall never return there!

I took the letter to the commissary of police.

"It is a very dexterous restitution," said he. "Let us bury the hatchet.

We shall, however, nip the man one of these days."

But he has never been nipped. No. They have not nipped him, and I am

afraid of him now, as though he were a ferocious animal that had been let

loose behind me.

Inexplicable! It is inexplicable, this monster of a moon-struck skull!

We shall never get to comprehend it. I shall not return to my former

residence. What does it matter to me? I am afraid of encountering that

man again, and I shall not run the risk.

I shall not risk it! I shall not risk it! I shall not risk it!

And if he returns, if he takes possession of his shop, who is to prove

that my furniture was on his premises? There is only my testimony against

him; and I feel that that is not above suspicion.

Ah! no! This kind of existence was no longer possible. I was not able to

guard the secret of what I had seen. I could not continue to live like

the rest of the world, with the fear upon me that those scenes might be

re-enacted.

I have come to consult the doctor who directs this lunatic asylum, and

I have told him everything.

After he had interrogated me for a long time, he said to me:

"Will you consent, monsieur, to remain here for some time?"

"Most willingly, monsieur."

"You have some means?"

"Yes, monsieur."

"Will you have isolated apartments?"

"Yes, monsieur."

"Would you care to receive any friends?"

"No, monsieur, no, nobody. The man from Rouen might take it into his head

to pursue me here to be revenged on me."

And I have been alone, alone, all, all alone, for three months. I am

growing tranquil by degrees. I have no longer any fears. If the antiquary

should become mad ... and if he should be brought into this asylum! Even

prisons themselves are not places of security.

SIMON'S PAPA

Noon had just struck. The school-door opened and the youngsters tumbled

out rolling over each other in their haste to get out quickly. But

instead of promptly dispersing and going home to dinner as was their

daily wont, they stopped a few paces off, broke up into knots and set to

whispering.

The fact was that that morning Simon, the son of La Blanchotte, had, for

the first time, attended school.

They had all of them in their families heard talk of La Blanchotte; and,

although in public she was welcome enough, the mothers among themselves

treated her with compassion of a somewhat disdainful kind, which the

children had caught without in the least knowing why.

As for Simon himself, they did not know him, for he never went

abroad, and did not go galloping about with them through the streets

of the village or along the banks of the river. Therefore, they loved

him but little; and it was with a certain delight, mingled with

considerable astonishment, that they met and that they recited to

each other this phrase, set afoot by a lad of fourteen or fifteen who

appeared to know all, all about it, so sagaciously did he wink. "You

know ... Simon ... well, he has no papa."

La Blanchotte's son appeared in his turn upon the threshold of the

school.

He was seven or eight years old. He was rather pale, very neat, with

a timid and almost awkward manner.

He was on the point of making his way back to his mother's house when the

groups of his school-fellows perpetually whispering and watching him with

the mischievous and heartless eyes of children bent upon playing a nasty

trick, gradually surrounded him and ended by enclosing him altogether.

There he stood fixed amidst them, surprised and embarrassed, not

understanding what they were going to do with him. But the lad who had

brought the news, puffed up with the success he had met with already,

demanded:

"How do you name yourself, you?"

He answered: "Simon."

"Simon what?" retorted the other.

The child, altogether bewildered, repeated: "Simon."

The lad shouted at him: "One is named Simon something ... that is not

a name ... Simon indeed."

And he, on the brink of tears, replied for the third time:

"I am named Simon."

The urchins fell a-laughing. The lad triumphantly lifted up his voice:

"You can see plainly that he has no papa."

A deep silence ensued. The children were dumbfounded by this

extraordinary, impossible monstrous thing--a boy who had not a papa; they

looked upon him as a phenomenon, an unnatural being, and they felt that

contempt, until then inexplicable, of their mothers for La Blanchotte

grow upon them. As for Simon, he had propped himself against a tree to

avoid falling and he remained as though struck to the earth by an

irreparable disaster. He sought to explain, but he could think of no

answer for them, to deny this horrible charge that he had no papa. At

last he shouted at them quite recklessly: "Yes, I have one."

"Where is he?" demanded the boy.

Simon was silent, he did not know. The children roared, tremendously

excited; and these sons of toil, most nearly related to animals,

experienced that cruel craving which animates the fowls of a farm-yard

to destroy one among themselves as soon as it is wounded. Simon suddenly

espied a little neighbor, the son of a widow, whom he had always seen, as

he himself was to be seen, quite alone with his mother.

"And no more have you," he said, "no more have you a papa."

"Yes," replied the other, "I have one."

"Where is he?" rejoined Simon.

"He is dead," declared the brat with superb dignity, "he is in the

cemetery, is my papa."

A murmur of approval rose amidst the scapegraces, as if this fact of

possessing a papa dead in a cemetery had caused their comrade to grow big

enough to crush the other one who had no papa at all. And these rogues,

whose fathers were for the most part evil-doers, drunkards, thieves and

ill-treaters of their wives, hustled each other as they pressed closer

and closer, as though they, the legitimate ones, would stifle in their

pressure one who was beyond the law.

He who chanced to be next Simon suddenly put his tongue out at him with

a waggish air and shouted at him:

"No papa! No papa!"

Simon seized him by the hair with both hands and set to work to demolish

his legs with kicks, while he bit his cheek ferociously. A tremendous

struggle ensued between the two combatants, and Simon found himself

beaten, torn, bruised, rolled on the ground in the middle of the ring of

applauding vagabonds. As he arose mechanically brushing his little blouse

all covered with dust with his hand, some one shouted at him:

"Go and tell your Papa."

He then felt a great sinking in his heart. They were stronger than he

was, they had beaten him and he had no answer to give them, for he knew

well that it was true that he had no Papa. Full of pride he attempted

for some moments to struggle against the tears which were suffocating

him. He had a choking fit, and then without cries he commenced to weep

with great sobs which shook him incessantly. Then a ferocious joy broke

out among his enemies, and, naturally, just as with savages in their

fearful festivals, they took each other by the hand and set about dancing

in a circle about him as they repeated as a refrain:

"No Papa! No Papa!"

But Simon quite suddenly ceased sobbing. Frenzy overtook him. There were

stones under his feet, he picked them up and with all his strength hurled

them at his tormentors. Two or three were struck and rushed off yelling,

and so formidable did he appear that the rest became panic stricken.

Cowards, as a crowd always is in the presence of an exasperated man,

they broke up and fled. Left alone, the little thing without a father set

off running towards the fields, for a recollection had been awakened

which brought his soul to a great determination. He made up his mind to

drown himself in the river.

He remembered, in fact, that eight days before a poor devil who begged

for his livelihood, had thrown himself into the water because he had no

more money. Simon had been there when they had fished him out again; and

the sight of the fellow, who usually seemed to him so miserable, and

ugly, had then struck him--his pale cheeks, his long drenched beard and

his open eyes being full of calm. The bystanders had said:

"He is dead."

And someone had said:

"He is quite happy now."

And Simon wished to drown himself also because he had no father, just

like the wretched being who had no money.

He reached the neighborhood of the water and watched it flowing. Some

fishes were sporting briskly in the clear stream and occasionally made

a little bound and caught the flies flying on the surface. He stopped

crying in order to watch them, for their housewifery interested him

vastly. But, at intervals, as in the changes of a tempest, altering

suddenly from tremendous gusts of wind, which snap off the trees and

then lose themselves in the horizon, this thought would return to him

with intense pain:

"I am about to drown myself because I have no Papa."

It was very warm and fine weather. The pleasant sunshine warmed the

grass. The water shone like a mirror. And Simon enjoyed some minutes the

happiness of that languor which follows weeping, in which he felt very

desirous of falling asleep there upon the grass in the warmth.

A little green frog leapt from under his feet. He endeavored to catch it.

It escaped him. He followed it and lost it three times following. At last

he caught it by one of its hind legs and began to laugh as he saw the

efforts the creature made to escape. It gathered itself up on its large

legs and then with a violent spring suddenly stretched them out as stiff

as two bars; while, its eye wide open in its round, golden circle, it

beat the air with its front limbs which worked as though they were hands.

It reminded him of a toy made with straight slips of wood nailed zigzag

one on the other, which by a similar movement regulated the exercise of

the little soldiers stuck thereon. Then he thought of his home and next

of his mother, and overcome by a great sorrow he again began to weep. His

limbs trembled; and he placed himself on his knees and said his prayers

as before going to bed. But he was unable to finish them, for such

hurried and violent sobs overtook him that he was completely overwhelmed.

He thought no more, he no longer saw anything around him and was wholly

taken up in crying.

Suddenly a heavy hand was placed upon his shoulder, and a rough voice

asked him:

"What is it that causes you so much grief, my fine fellow?"

Simon turned round. A tall workman with a black beard and hair all

curled, was staring at him good naturedly. He answered with his eyes

and throat full of tears:

"They have beaten me ... because ... I ... have no ... Papa ... no

Papa."

"What!" said the man smiling, "why everybody has one."

The child answered painfully amidst his spasms of grief:

"But I ... I ... I have none."

Then the workman became serious. He had recognized La Blanchotte's son,

and although but recently come to the neighborhood he had a vague idea of

her history.

"Well," said he, "console yourself my boy, and come with me home to your

mother. They will give you ... a Papa."

And so they started on the way, the big one holding the little one by the

hand, and the man smiled afresh, for he was not sorry to see this

Blanchotte, who was, it was said, one of the prettiest girls of the

country-side, and, perhaps, he said to himself, at the bottom of his

heart, that a lass who had erred might very well err again.

They arrived in front of a little and very neat white house.

"There it is," exclaimed the child, and he cried "Mamma."

A woman appeared and the workman instantly left off smiling, for he at

once perceived that there was no more fooling to be done with the tall

pale girl who stood austerely at her door as though to defend from one

man the threshold of that house where she had already been betrayed by

another. Intimidated, his cap in his hand, he stammered out:

"See, madam, I have brought back your little boy who had lost himself

near the river."

But Simon flung his arms about his mother's neck and told her, as he

again began to cry:

"No, mamma, I wished to drown myself, because the others had beaten

me ... had beaten me ... because I have no Papa."

A burning redness covered the young woman's cheeks, and, hurt to the

quick, she embraced her child passionately, while the tears coursed down

her face. The man, much moved, stood there, not knowing how to get away.

But Simon suddenly ran to him and said:

"Will you be my Papa?"

A deep silence ensued. La Blanchotte, dumb and tortured with shame,

leaned herself against the wall, both her hands upon her heart. The child

seeing that no answer was made him, replied:

"If you do not wish it, I shall return to drown myself."

The workman took the matter as a jest and answered laughing:

"Why, yes, I wish it certainly."

"What is your name, then?" went on the child, "so that I may tell the

others when they wish to know your name?"

"Phillip," answered the man.

Simon was silent a moment so that he might get the name well into his

head; then he stretched out his arms quite consoled as he said:

"Well, then, Phillip, you are my Papa."

The workman, lifting him from the ground kissed him hastily on both

cheeks, and then made off very quickly with great strides.

When the child returned to school next day he was received with a

spiteful laugh, and at the end of school when the lads were on the point

of recommencing, Simon threw these words at their heads as he would

have done a stone: "He is named Phillip, my Papa."

Yells of delight burst out from all sides.

"Phillip who? ... Phillip what? What on earth is Phillip? Where did you

pick up your Phillip?"

Simon answered nothing; and immovable in faith he defied them with his

eye, ready to be martyred rather than fly before them. The school-master

came to his rescue and he returned home to his mother.

During three months, the tall workman, Phillip, frequently passed by the

Blanchotte's house, and sometimes he made bold to speak to her when he

saw her sewing near the window. She answered him civilly, always

sedately, never joking with him, nor permitting him to enter her house.

Notwithstanding which, being, like all men, a bit of a coxcomb, he

imagined that she was often rosier than usual when she chatted with him.

But a fallen reputation is so difficult to recover and always remains so

fragile that, in spite of the shy reserve, La Blanchotte maintained they

already gossiped in the neighborhood.

As for Simon, he loved his new Papa much, and walked with him nearly

every evening when the day's work was done. He went regularly to school

and mixed with great dignity with his school-fellows without ever

answering them back.

One day, however, the lad who had first attacked him said to him:

"You have lied. You have not a Papa named Phillip."

"Why do you say that?" demanded Simon, much disturbed.

The youth rubbed his hands. He replied:

"Because if you had one he would be your mamma's husband."

Simon was confused by the truth of this reasoning, nevertheless he

retorted:

"He is my Papa all the same."

"That can very well be," exclaimed the urchin with a sneer, "but that is

not being your Papa altogether."

La Blanchotte's little one bowed his head and went off dreaming in the

direction of the forge belonging to old Loizon, where Phillip worked.

This forge was as though entombed in trees. It was very dark there, the

red glare of a formidable furnace alone lit up with great flashes five

blacksmiths, who hammered upon their anvils with a terrible din. They

were standing enveloped in flame, like demons, their eyes fixed on the

red-hot iron they were pounding; and their dull ideas rose and fell with

their hammers.

Simon entered without being noticed and went quietly to pluck his friend

by the sleeve. He turned himself round. All at once the work came to a

standstill and all the men looked on very attentive. Then, in the midst

of this unaccustomed silence, rose the little slender pipe of Simon:

"Phillip, explain to me what the lad at La Michande has just told me,

that you are not altogether my Papa."

"And why that?" asked the smith.

The child replied with all its innocence:

"Because you are not my mamma's husband."

No one laughed. Philip remained standing, leaning his forehead upon

the back of his great hands, which supported the handle of his hammer

standing upright upon the anvil. He mused. His four companions watched

him, and, quite a tiny mite among these giants, Simon anxiously waited.

Suddenly, one of the smiths, answering to the sentiment of all, said to

Phillip:

"La Blanchotte is all the same a good and honest girl, and stalwart and

steady in spite of her misfortune, and one who would make a worthy wife

for a honest man."

"That is true," remarked the three others.

The smith continued:

"Is it this girl's fault if she has fallen? She had been promised

marriage and I know more than one who is much respected to-day, and who

sinned every bit as much."

"That is true," responded the three men in chorus.

He resumed:

"How hard she has toiled, poor thing, to educate her lad all alone, and

how much she has wept since she no longer goes out, save to go to church,

God only knows."

"This also is true," said the others.

Then no more was heard than the bellows which fanned the fire of the

furnace. Phillip hastily bent himself down to Simon:

"Go and tell your mamma that I shall come to speak to her."

Then he pushed the child out by the shoulders. He returned to his work

and with a single blow the five hammers again fell upon their anvils.

Thus they wrought the iron until nightfall, strong, powerful, happy,

like hammers satisfied. But just as the great bell of a cathedral

resounds upon feast days above the jingling of the other bells, so

Phillip's hammer, dominating the noise of the others, clanged second

after second with a deafening uproar. And he, his eye on fire, plied his

trade vigorously, erect amid the sparks.

The sky was full of stars as he knocked at La Blanchotte's door. He had

his Sunday blouse on, a fresh shirt, and his beard was trimmed. The young

woman showed herself upon the threshold and said in a grieved tone:

"It is ill to come thus when night has fallen, Mr. Phillip."

He wished to answer, but stammered and stood confused before her.

She resumed:

"And still you understand quite well that it will not do that I should be

talked about any more."

Then he said all at once:

"What does that matter to me, if you will be my wife!"

No voice replied to him, but he believed that he heard in the shadow of

the room the sound of a body which sank down. He entered very quickly;

and Simon, who had gone to his bed, distinguished the sound of a kiss and

some words that his mother said very softly. Then he suddenly found

himself lifted up by the hands of his friend, who, holding him at the

length of his herculean arms, exclaimed to him:

"You will tell them, your school-fellows, that your papa is Phillip Remy,

the blacksmith, and that he will pull the ears of all who do you any

harm."

On the morrow, when the school was full and lessons were about to begin,

little Simon stood up quite pale with trembling lips:

"My papa," said he in a clear voice, "is Phillip Remy, the blacksmith,

and he has promised to box the ears of all who do me any harm."

This time no one laughed any longer, for he was very well known, was

Phillip Remy, the blacksmith, and was a papa of whom anyone in the world

would have been proud.

PAUL'S MISTRESS

The Restaurant Grillon, a small commonwealth of boatmen, was slowly

emptying. In front of the door all was a tumult of cries and calls,

while the jolly dogs in white flannels gesticulated with oars on their

shoulders.

The ladies in bright spring toilets stepped aboard the skiffs with

care, and seating themselves astern, arranged their dresses, while the

landlord of the establishment, a mighty individual with a red beard,

of renowned strength, offered his hand to the pretty dears, with great

self-possession, keeping the frail craft steady.

The rowers, bare-armed, with bulging chests, took their places in their

turn, posing for their gallery, as they did so, a gallery consisting of

middle class people dressed in their Sunday clothes, of workmen and

soldiers leaning upon their elbows on the parapet of the bridge, all

taking a great interest in the sight.

The boats one by one cast off from the landing stage. The oarsmen bent

themselves forward and then threw themselves backwards with an even

swing, and under the impetus of the long curved oars, the swift skiffs

glided along the river, got far away, grew smaller and finally

disappeared under the other bridge, that of the railway, as they

descended the stream towards La Grenouillère. One couple only remained

behind. The young man, still almost beardless, slender, and of pale

countenance, held his mistress, a thin little brunette, with the gait of

a grasshopper, by the waist; and occasionally they gazed into each others

eyes. The landlord shouted:

"Come, Mr. Paul, make haste," and they drew near.

Of all the guests of the house, Mr. Paul was the most liked and most

respected. He paid well and punctually, while the others hung back for

a long time, if indeed they did not vanish insolvent. Besides which he

acted as a sort of walking advertisement for the establishment, inasmuch

as his father was a senator. And when a stranger would inquire: "Who on

earth is that little chap who thinks so much of himself because of his

girl?" some habituè would reply, half-aloud, with a mysterious and

important air: "Don't you know? That is Paul Baron, a senator's son."

And invariably the other could not restrain himself from exclaiming:

"Poor devil! He is not half mashed."

Mother Grillon, a worthy and good business woman, described the young man

and his companion as "her two turtle-doves," and appeared quite moved by

this passion, profitable for her house.

The couple advanced at a slow pace; the skiff, Madeleine, was ready, when

at the moment of embarking therein they kissed each other, which caused

the public collected on the bridge to laugh, and Mr. Paul taking the

oars, they left also for La Grenonillère.

When they arrived it was just upon three o'clock and the large floating

café overflowed with people.

The immense raft, sheltered by a tarpaulin roof, is attached to the

charming island of Croissy by two narrow foot bridges, one of which leads

into the center of this aquatic establishment, while the other unites its

end with a tiny islet planted with a tree and surnamed "The Flower Pot,"

and thence leads to land near the bath office.

Mr. Paul made fast his boat alongside the establishment, climbed over the

railing of the café and then grasping his mistress's hand assisted her

out of the boat and they both seated themselves at the end of a table

opposite each other.

On the opposite side of the river along the market road, a long string of

vehicles was drawn up. Fiacres alternated with the fine carriages of the

swells; the first, clumsy, with enormous bodies crushing the springs,

drawn by a broken down hack with hanging head and broken knees; the

second, slightly built on light wheels, with horses slender and straight,

their heads well up, their bits snowy with foam, while the coachman,

solemn in his livery, his head erect in his high collar, waited bolt

upright, his whip resting on his knee.

The bank was covered with people who came off in families, or in gangs,

or two by two, or alone. They plucked blades of grass, went down to the

water, remounted the path, and all having attained the same spot, stood

still awaiting the ferryman. The clumsy punt plied incessantly from bank

to bank, discharging its passengers on to the island. The arm of the

river (named the Dead Arm) upon which this refreshment wharf lay,

appeared asleep, so feeble was the current. Fleets of yawls, of skiffs,

of canoes, of podoscaphs (a light boat propelled by wheels set in motion

by a treadle), of gigs, of craft of all forms and of all kinds, crept

about upon the motionless stream, crossing each other, intermingling,

running foul of one another, stopping abruptly under a jerk of the arms

to shoot off afresh under a sudden strain of the muscles gliding swiftly

along like great yellow or red fishes.

Others arrived incessantly; some from Chaton up the stream; others from

Bougival down it; laughter crossed the water from one boat to another,

calls, admonitions or imprecations. The boatmen exposed the bronzed and

knotted flesh of their biceps to the heat of the day; and similar to

strange flowers, which floated, the silk parasols, red, green, blue, or

yellow, of the ladies seated near the helm, bloomed in the sterns of the

boats.

A July sun flamed high in the heavens; the atmosphere seemed full of

burning merriment: not a breath of air stirred the leaves of the willows

or poplars.

Down there the inevitable Mont-Valerien erected its fortified ramparts,

tier above tier, in the intense light; while on the right the divine

slopes of Louveniennes following the bend of the river disposed

themselves in a semi-circle, displaying in their order across the rich

and shady lawns, of large gardens, the white walls of country seats.

Upon the outskirts of La Grenonillère a crowd of promenaders moved about

beneath the giant trees which make this corner of the island the most

delightful park in the world.

Women and girls with breasts developed beyond all measurement, with

exaggerated bustles, their complexions plastered with rouge, their eyes

daubed with charcoal, their lips blood-red, laced up, rigged out in

outrageous dresses--trailed the crying bad taste of their toilets over

the fresh green sward; while beside them young men postured in their

fashion-plate accouterments with light gloves, varnished boots, canes,

the size of a thread, and single eye-glasses punctuating the insipidity

of their smiles.

The island is narrow opposite La Grenonillère, and on its other side,

where also a ferry-boat plies, bringing people unceasingly across from

Croissy, the rapid branch of the river, full of whirlpools and eddies and

foam, rushes along with the strength of a torrent.

A detachment of pontoon-soldiers, in the uniform of artillerymen, is

encamped upon this bank, and the soldiers seated in a row on a long beam

watched the water flowing.

In the floating establishment there was a boisterous and uproarious

crowd. The wooden tables upon which the spilt refreshments made little

sticky streams, were covered with half empty glasses and surrounded by

half tipsy individuals. All this crowd shouted, sang and brawled. The

men, their hats at the backs of their heads, their faces red, with the

brilliant eyes of drunkards, moved about vociferously in need of a row

natural to brutes. The women, seeking their prey for the night, caused

themselves to be treated, in the meantime; and in the free space between

the tables, the ordinary local public predominated a whole regiment of

boatmen, _Rowkickersup_, with their companions in short flannel

petticoats.

One of them carried on at the piano and appeared to play with his feet

as well as his hands; four couples bounded through a quadrille, and some

young men watched them, polished and correct, who would have looked

proper, if in spite of all, vice itself had appeared.

For there, one tastes in full all the pomp and vanity of the world, all

its well bred debauchery, all the seamy side of Parisian society; a

mixture of counter-jumpers, of strolling players, of the lowest

journalists, of gentlemen in tutelage, of rotten stock-jobbers, of

ill-famed debauchées, of used-up old, fast men; a doubtful crowd of

suspicious characters, half-known, half gone under, half-recognized,

half-cut, pickpockets, rogues, procurers of women, sharpers with

dignified manners, and a bragging air, which seems to say: "I shall

rend the first who treats me as a scoundrel."

This place reeks of folly, stinks of the scum and the gallantry of the

shops. Male and female there give themselves airs. There dwells an odor

of love, and there one fights for a yes, or for a no, in order to sustain

a worm-eaten reputation, which a stroke of the sword or a pistol bullet

would destroy further.

Some of the neighboring inhabitants looked in out of curiosity every

Sunday; some young men, very young, appeared there every year to learn

how to live, some promenaders lounging about showed themselves there;

some greenhorns wandered thither. It is with good reason named La

Grenonillère. At the side of the covered wharf where they drank, and

quite close to the Flower Pot, people bathed. Those among the women

who possessed the requisite roundness of form came there to display their

wares naked and to make clients. The rest, scornful, although well filled

out with wadding, shored up with springs, corrected here and altered

there, watched their sisters dabbling with disdain.

The swimmers crowded on to a little platform to dive thence head

foremost. They are either straight like vine poles, or round like

pumpkins, gnarled like olive branches, they are bowed over in front,

or thrown backwards by the size of their stomachs and are invariably

ugly, they leap into the water which splashes almost over the drinkers

in the café.

Notwithstanding the great trees which overhang the floating-house, and

notwithstanding the vicinity of the water a suffocating heat fills the

place. The fumes of the spilt liquors mix with the effluvium of the

bodies and with that of the strong perfumes with which the skin of the

traders in love is saturated and which evaporate in this furnace. But

beneath all these diverse scents a slight aroma of vice-powder lingered,

which now disappeared and then reappeared, which one was perpetually

encountering as though some concealed hand had shaken an invisible

powder-puff in the air. The show was upon the river whither the perpetual

coming and going of the boats attracts the eyes. The boatwomen sprawled

upon their seats opposite their strong-wristed males, and contemplated

with contempt the dinner hunters prowling about the island.

Sometimes when a train of boats, just started, passed at full speed, the

friends who stayed ashore gave shouts, and all the people suddenly seized

with madness set to work yelling.

At the bend of the river towards Chaton fresh boats showed themselves

unceasingly. They came nearer and grew larger, and if only faces were

recognized, the vociferations broke out anew.

A canoe covered with an awning and manned by four women came slowly down

the current. She who rowed was little, thin, faded, in a cabin boy's

costume, her hair drawn up under an oil-skin cap. Opposite her, a lusty

blonde, dressed as a man, with a white flannel jacket, lay upon her back

at the bottom of the boat, her legs in the air, on the seat at each side

of the rower, and she smoked a cigarette, while at each stroke of the

oars, her chest and stomach quivered, shaken by the shock. Quite at the

back, under the awning, two handsome girls, tall and slender, one dark

and the other fair, held each other by the waist as they unceasingly

watched their companions.

A cry arose from La Grenonillère, "There is Lesbos," and there became all

at once a furious clamor; a terrifying scramble took place; the glasses

were knocked down; people clambered on to the tables; all in a frenzy of

noise bawled: "Lesbos! Lesbos! Lesbos!" The shout rolled along, became

indistinct, was no longer more than a kind of tremendous howl, and then

suddenly it seemed to start anew, to rise into space, to cover the plain,

to fill the foliage of the great trees, to extend itself to the distant

slopes, to go even to the sun.

The rower, in the face of this ovation, had quietly stopped. The handsome

blonde extended upon the bottom of the boat, turned her head with a

careless air, as she raised herself upon her elbows; and the two girls

at the back commenced laughing as they saluted the crowd.

Then the hullaballoo was doubled, making the floating establishment

tremble. The men took off their hats, the women waved their

handkerchiefs, and all voices, shrill or deep, together cried:

"Lesbos."

One would have said that these people, this collection of the corrupt,

saluted a chief like the squadrons which fire guns when an admiral passes

along the line.

The numerous fleet of boats also acclaimed the women's boat, which awoke

from its sleepy motion to land rather farther off.

Mr. Paul, contrary to the others, had drawn a key from his pocket and

whistled with all his might. His nervous mistress grew paler, caught him

by the arm to cause him to be quiet, and upon this occasion she looked

at him with fury in her eyes. But he appeared exasperated, as though

borne away by jealousy of some man by deep anger, instinctive and

ungovernable. He stammered, his lips quivering with indignation:

"It is shameful! They ought to be drowned like dogs with a stone about

the neck."

But Madeleine instantly flew into a rage; her small and shrill voice

became hissing, and she spoke volubly, as though pleading her own cause:

"And what has it to do with you--you indeed? Are they not at liberty to

do what they wish since they owe nobody anything. A truce with your airs

and mind your own business...."

But he cut her speech short:

"It is the police whom it concerns, and I will have them marched off to

St. Lazare; so I will."

She gave a start:

"You?"

"Yes, I! And in the meantime I forbid you to speak to them, you

understand, I forbid you to do so."

Then she shrugged her shoulders and grew calm in a moment:

"My friend, I shall do as I please; if you are not satisfied, be off, and

instantly. I am not your wife, am I? Very well then, hold your tongue."

He made no reply and they stood face to face, their mouths tightly closed

and their breathing rapid.

At the other end of the great café of wood the four women made their

entry. The two in men's costumes marched in front: the one thin like an

oldish tomboy, with yellow lines on her temples; the other filled out her

white flannel garments with her fat, swelling out her big trousers with

her buttocks; she swayed about like a fat goose with enormous legs and

yielding knees. Their two friends followed them, and the crowd of boatmen

thronged about to shake their hands.

They had all four hired a small cottage close to the water's edge, and

they lived there as two households would have lived.

Their vice was public, recognized, patent. People talked of it as a

natural thing, which almost excited their sympathy, and whispered in

very low tones strange stories of dramas begotten of furious feminine

jealousies, of the stealthy visit of well-known women and of actresses

to the little house close to the water's edge.

A neighbor, horrified by these scandalous rumors, apprised the police,

and the inspector, accompanied by a man, had come to make inquiry. The

mission was a delicate one; it was impossible, in short, to reproach

these women, who did not abandon themselves to prostitution with

anything. The inspector, very much puzzled, indeed, ignorant of the

nature of the offenses suspected, had asked questions at random, and

made a lofty report conclusive of their innocence.

They laughed about it all the way to St. Germain. They walked about La

Grenonillère establishment with stately steps like queens; and seemed to

glory in their fame, rejoicing in the gaze that was fixed on them, so

superior to this crowd, to this mob, to these plebeians.

Madeleine and her lover watched them approach and in the girl's eyes a

fire lightened.

When the two first had reached the end of the table, Madeleine cried:

"Pauline!"

The large woman turned herself and stopped, continuing all the time to

hold the arm of her feminine cabin boy:

"Good gracious, Madeleine.... Do come and talk to me, my dear."

Paul squeezed his fingers upon his mistress's wrist; but she said to him,

with such an air:

"You know, my fine fellow, you can be off;" he said nothing and remained

alone.

Then they chatted in low voices, standing all three of them. Many

pleasant jests passed their lips, they spoke quickly; and Pauline looked

now and then at Paul, by stealth, with a shrewd and malicious smile.

At last, putting up with it no longer, he suddenly raised himself and in

a single bound was at their side, trembling in every limb. He seized

Madeleine by the shoulders:

"Come. I wish it," said he. "I have forbidden you to speak to these

scoundrels."

Whereupon Pauline raised her voice and set to work blackguarding him with

her Billingsgate vocabulary. All the bystanders laughed; they drew near

him; they raised themselves on tiptoe in order the better to see him. He

remained dumbfounded under this downpour of filthy abuse. It appeared to

him that these words, which came from that mouth and fell upon him,

defiled him like dirt, and, in presence of the row which was beginning,

he fell back, retraced his steps, and rested his elbows on the railing

towards the river, turning his back upon the three victorious women.

There he stayed watching the water, and sometimes with rapid gesture as

though he plucked it out, he removed with his sinewy fingers the tear

which had formed in his eye.

The fact was that he was hopelessly in love, without knowing why,

notwithstanding his refined instincts, in spite of his reason, in spite,

indeed, of his will. He had fallen into this love as one falls into a

sloughy hole. Of a tender and delicate disposition, he had dreamed of

liaisons, exquisite, ideal and impassioned, and there that little bit of

a woman, stupid like all girls, with an exasperating stupidity, not even

pretty, thin and a spitfire, had taken him prisoner, possessing him from

head to foot, body and soul. He underwent this feminine bewitchery,

mysterious and all powerful, this unknown power, this prodigious

domination, arising no one knows whence, from the demon of the flesh,

which casts the most sensible man at the feet of some girl or other

without there being anything in her to explain her fatal and sovereign

power.

And there at his back he felt that some infamous thing was brewing.

Shouts of laughter cut him to the heart. What should he do? He knew well,

but he could not do it.

He steadily watched an angler upon the bank opposite him, and his

motionless line.

Suddenly, the worthy man jerked a little silver fish, which wriggled at

the end of his line, out of the river. Then he endeavored to extract his

hook, hoisted and turned it, but in vain. At last, losing patience, he

commenced to pull it out, and all the bleeding gullet of the beast, with

a portion of its intestines, came out. Paul shuddered, rent himself to

his heart-strings. It seemed to him that the hook was his love and that

if he should pluck it out, all that he had in his breast would come

out in the same way at the end of a curved iron fixed in the depths of

his being, of which Madeleine held the line.

A hand was placed upon his shoulder; he started and turned; his mistress

was at his side. They did not speak to each other; and she rested, like

him, with her elbows upon the railing, her eyes fixed upon the river.

He sought for what he ought to say to her and could find nothing. He did

not even arrive at disentangling his own emotions; all that he was

sensible of was joy at feeling her there close to him, come back again,

and a shameful cowardice, a craving to pardon everything, to permit

everything, provided she never left him.

At last, at the end of some minutes, he asked her in a very gentle voice:

"Do you wish that we should leave? It will be nicer in the boat."

She answered: "Yes, my puss."

And he assisted her into the skiff, pressing her hands, all softened,

with some tears still in his eyes. Then she looked at him with a smile

and they kissed each other anew.

They re-ascended the river very slowly, skirting the bank planted with

willows, covered with grass, bathed and still in the afternoon warmth.

When they had returned to the Restaurant Grillon, it was barely six

o'clock. Then leaving their boat they set off on foot on the island

towards Bezons, across the fields and along the high poplars which

bordered the river. The long grass ready to be mowed was full of flowers.

The sun, which was sinking, showed himself from beneath a sheet of red

light, and in the tempered heat of the closing day the floating

exhalations from the grass, mingled with the damp scents from the river,

filled the air with a soft languor, with a happy light, as though with a

vapor of well-being.

A soft weakness overtakes the heart, and a species of communion with this

splendid calm of evening, with this vague and mysterious chilliness of

outspread life, with the keen and melancholy poetry which seems to arise

from flowers and things, develops itself revealed at this sweet and

pensive time to the senses.

He felt all that; but she did not understand anything of it, for her

part. They walked side by side; and, suddenly tired of being silent, she

sang. She sang with her shrill and false voice, something which pervaded

the streets, an air catching the memory, which rudely destroyed the

profound and serene harmony of the evening.

Then he looked at her and he felt an unsurpassable abyss between them.

She beat the grass with her parasol, her head slightly inclined,

contemplating her feet and singing, spinning out the notes, attempting

trills, and venturing on shakes. Her smooth little brow, of which he was

so fond, was at that time absolutely empty! empty! There was nothing

therein but this music of a bird-organ; and the ideas which formed there

by chance were like this music. She did not understand anything of him;

they were now separated as if they did not live together. Did then his

kisses never go any further than her lips?

Then she raised her eyes to him and laughed again. He was moved to the

quick and, extending his arms in a paroxysm of love, he embraced her

passionately.

As he was rumpling her dress she ended by disengaging herself, murmuring

by way of compensation as she did so:

"Go; I love you well, my puss."

But he seized her by the waist and seized by madness, carried her rapidly

away. He kissed her on the cheek, on the temple, on the neck, all the

while dancing with joy. They threw themselves down panting at the edge of

a thicket, lit up by the rays of the setting sun, and before they had

recovered breath they became friends again without her understanding his

transport.

They returned, holding each other by the hand, when suddenly, across the

trees, they perceived on the river, the canoe manned by the four women.

The large Pauline also saw them, for she drew herself up and blew kisses

to Madeleine. And then she cried:

"Until to-night!"

Madeleine replied:

"Until to-night!"

Paul believed he suddenly felt his heart enveloped in ice.

They re-entered the house for dinner.

They installed themselves in one of the arbors, close to the water, and

set about eating in silence. When night arrived, they brought a candle

inclosed in a glass globe, which lit them up with a feeble and glimmering

light; and they heard every moment the bursting out of the shouts of the

boatmen in the great saloon on the first floor.

Towards dessert, Paul, taking Madeleine's hand, tenderly said to her:

"I feel very tired, my darling; unless you have any objection, we will go

to bed early."

She, however, understood the ruse, and shot an enigmatical glance at him,

that glance of treachery which so readily appears at the bottom of a

woman's eyes. Then having reflected she answered:

"You can go to bed if you wish, but I have promised to go to the ball at

La Grenonillère."

He smiled in a piteous manner, one of those smiles with which one veils

the most horrible suffering, but he replied in a coaxing but agonized

tone:

"If you were very kind, we should remain here, both of us."

She indicated no with her head, without opening her mouth.

He insisted:

"I beg of you, my Bichette."

Then she roughly broke out:

"You know what I said to you. If you are not satisfied the door is open.

No one wishes to keep you. As for myself, I have promised; I shall go."

He placed his two elbows upon the table, covered his face with his hands

and remained there pondering sorrowfully.

The boat people came down again, bawling as usual. They set off in their

vessels for the ball at La Grenonillère.

Madeleine said to Paul:

"If you are not coming, say so, and I will ask one of these gentlemen to

take me."

Paul rose:

"Let us go!" murmured he.

And they left.

The night was black, full of stars, overpowered by a burning air, by

oppressive breaths of wind, burdened with heat and emanations, with

living germs, which, mixed with the breeze, destroyed its freshness. It

imparted to the face a heated caress, made one breathe more quickly, gasp

a little, so thick and heavy did it seem. The boats started on their way

bearing venetian lanterns at the prow. It was not possible to distinguish

the craft, but only these little colored lights, swift and dancing up and

down like glow-worms in a fit; and voices sounded from all sides in the

shade. The young people's skiff glided gently along. Now and then, when a

fast boat passed near them, they could, for a moment, see the white back

of the rower, lit up by his lantern.

When they turned the elbow of the river, La Grenonillère appeared to them

in the distance. The establishment, en fête, was decorated with sconces,

with colored garlands draped with clusters of lights. On the Seine some

great barges moved about slowly, representing domes, pyramids and

elaborate erections in fires of all colors. Illuminated festoons hung

right down to the water, and sometimes a red or blue lantern, at the end

of an immense invisible fishing-rod, seemed like a great swinging star.

All this illumination spread a light around the café, lit up the great

trees on the bank, from top to bottom, the trunks of which stood out in

pale gray and the leaves in a milky green upon the deep black of the

fields and the heavens. The orchestra, composed of five suburban artists,

flung far its public-house ball-music, poor and jerky, which caused

Madeleine to sing anew.

She desired to enter at once. Paul desired first to take a turn on the

island, but he was obliged to give way. The attendance was more select.

The boatmen, always alone, remained with some thinly scattered citizens,

and some young men flanked by girls. The director and organizer of this

can-can majestic, in a jaded black suit, walked about in every direction,

his head laid waste by his old trade of purveyor of public amusements,

at a cheap rate.

The large Pauline and her companions were not there; and Paul breathed

again.

They danced; couples opposite each other, capered in the most distracted

manner, throwing their legs in the air, until they were upon a level with

the noses of their partners.

The women, whose thighs were disjointed, skipped amid such a flying

upwards of their petticoats that the lower portions of their frames were

displayed. They kicked their feet up above their heads with astounding

facility, balanced their bodies, wagged their backs and shook their

sides, shedding around them a powerful scent of sweating womanhood.

The men were squatted like toads, some making obscene signs; some turned

and twisted themselves, grimacing and hideous; some turned like a wheel

on their hands, or, perhaps, trying to make themselves funny, sketched

the manners of the day with exaggerated gracefulness.

A fat servant-maid and two waiters served refreshments.

This café-boat being only covered with a roof and having no wall

whatever, to shut it in, the hare-brained dance was displayed in the face

of the peaceful night and of the firmament powdered with stars.

Suddenly, Mount Valerien, yonder opposite, appears illumined, as if a

conflagration had been set ablaze behind it. The radiance spreads itself

and deepens upon the sky, describing a large luminous circle of wan and

white light. Then something or other red appeared, grew greater, shining

with a burning red, like that of hot metal upon the anvil. That gradually

developed into a round body which seemed to arise from the earth; and the

moon, freeing herself from the horizon, rose slowly into space. In

proportion as she ascended, the purple tint faded and became yellow,

a shining bright yellow, and the satellite appeared to grow smaller in

proportion as her distance increased.

Paul watched her for sometime, lost in contemplation, forgetting his

mistress, and when he returned to himself the latter had vanished.

He sought for her, but could not find her. He threw his anxious eye over

table after table, going to and fro unceasingly, inquiring after her from

this one and that one. No one had seen her. He was thus tormented with

disquietude, when one of the waiters said to him:

"You are looking for Madame Madeleine, are you not? She has left but

a few moments ago, in company with Madame Pauline." And at the same

instant, Paul perceived the cabin-boy and the two pretty girls standing

at the other end of the café, all three holding each others' waists and

lying in wait for him, whispering to one another. He understood, and,

like a madman, dashed off into the island.

He first ran towards Chatou, but having reached the plain, retraced his

steps. Then he began to search the dense coppices, occasionally roamed

about distractedly, halting to listen.

The toads all round about him poured out their metallic and short notes.

Towards Bougival, some unknown bird warbled some song which reached him

from the distance.

Over the large lawns the moon shed a soft light, resembling powdered

wool; it penetrated the foliage and shone upon the silvered bark of the

poplars, and riddled with its brilliant rays the waving tops of the

great trees. The entrancing poetry of this summer night had, in spite of

himself, entered into Paul, athwart his infatuated anguish, and stirred

his heart with a ferocious irony, increasing even to madness, his craving

for an ideal tenderness, for passionate outpourings of the bosom of an

adored and faithful woman. He was compelled to stop, choked by hurried

and rending sobs.

The crisis over, he started anew.

Suddenly, he received what resembled the stab of a poignard. There,

behind that bush, some people were kissing. He ran thither; and found an

amorous couple whose faces were entwined, united in an endless kiss.

He dared not call, knowing well that she would not respond, and he had

also a frightful dread of discovering them all at once.

The flourishes of the quadrilles, with the ear-splitting solos of the

cornet, the false shriek of the flute, the shrill squeaking of the

violin, irritated his feelings, and exasperated his sufferings. Wild and

limping music was floating under the trees, now feeble, now stronger,

wafted hither and thither by the breeze.

Suddenly, he said to himself, that possibly she had returned. Yes, she

had returned! Why not? He had stupidly lost his head, without cause,

carried away by his fears, by the inordinate suspicions which had for

some time overwhelmed him.

Seized by one of these singular calms which will sometimes occur in cases

of the greatest despair, he returned towards the ball-room.

With a single glance of the eye, he took in the whole room. He made the

round of the tables, and abruptly again found himself face to face with

the three women. He must have had a doleful and queer expression of

countenance, for all three together burst into merriment.

He made off, returned into the island, threw himself across the coppice

panting. He listened again, listened a long time, for his ears were

singing. At last, however, he believed he heard a little farther off a

little, sharp laugh, which he recognized at once; and he advanced very

quietly, on his knees, removing the branches from his path, his heart

beating so rapidly, that he could no longer breathe.

Two voices murmured some words, the meaning of which he did not

understand, and then they were silent.

Next, he was possessed by a frightful longing to fly, to save himself,

for ever, from this furious passion which threatened his existence. He

was about to return to Chatou and take the train, resolved never to come

back again, never again to see her. But her likeness suddenly rushed in

upon him, and he mentally pictured that moment in the morning when she

would wake in their warm bed, and would press herself coaxingly against

him, throwing her arms around his neck, her hair disheveled, and a little

entangled on the forehead, her eyes still shut and her lips apart ready

to receive the first kiss. The sudden recollection of this morning caress

filled him with frantic recollection and the maddest desire.

The couple began to speak again; and he approached, doubled in two. Then

a faint cry rose from under the branches quite close to him. He advanced

again, always as though in spite of himself, invisibly attracted, without

being conscious of anything ... and he saw them.

And he stood there astounded and distracted, as though he had there

suddenly discovered a corpse, dead and mutilated. Then, in an involuntary

flash of thought, he remembered the little fish whose entrails he had

felt being torn out.... But Madeleine murmured to her companion, in the

same tone in which she had often called him by name, and he was seized

by such a fit of anguish that he fled with all his might.

He struck against two trees, fell over a root, set off again and suddenly

found himself near the river, opposite its rapid branch, which was lit up

by the moon. The torrent-like current made great eddies where the light

played upon it. The high bank dominated the river like a cliff, leaving a

wide obscure zone at its foot where the eddies made themselves heard in

the darkness.

On the other bank, the country seats of Croissy ranged themselves and

could be plainly seen.

Paul saw all this as though in a dream, he thought of nothing, understood

nothing, and all things, even his very existence, appeared vague,

far-off, forgotten, done with.

The river was there. Did he know what he was doing? Did he wish to die?

He was mad. He turned himself, however, towards the island, towards her,

and in the still air of the night, in which the faint and persistent

burden of the public house band was borne up and down, he uttered, in

a voice frantic with despair, bitter beyond measure, and superhuman, a

frightful cry:

"Madeleine."

His heartrending call shot across the great silence of the sky, and sped

all around the horizon.

Then, with a tremendous leap, with the bound of a wild animal, he jumped

into the river. The water rushed on, closed over him, and from the place

where he had disappeared a series of great circles started, enlarging

their brilliant undulations, until they finally reached the other bank.

The two women had heard the noise of the plunge. Madeleine drew herself

up and exclaimed:

"It is Paul," a suspicion having arisen in her soul, "he has drowned

himself;" and she rushed towards the bank, where Pauline rejoined her.

A clumsy punt, propelled by two men, turned and returned on the spot. One

of the men rowed, the other plunged into the water a great pole and

appeared to be looking for something. Pauline cried:

"What are you doing? What is the matter?"

An unknown voice answered:

"It is a man who has just drowned himself."

The two ghastly women, squeezing each other tightly, followed the

maneuvers of the boat. The music of La Grenonillère continued to sound in

the distance, and appeared with its cadences to accompany the movements

of the somber fisherman; and the river which now concealed a corpse,

whirled round and round, illuminated. The search was prolonged. The

horrible suspense made Madeleine shiver all over. At last, after at

least half an hour, one of the men announced:

"I have got it."

And he pulled up his long pole very gently, very gently. Then something

large appeared upon the surface. The other mariner left his oars, and

they both uniting their strength and hauling upon the inert weight,

caused it to tumble over into their boat.

Then they made for the land, seeking a place well lighted and low. At the

moment when they landed, the women also arrived. The moment she saw him,

Madeleine fell back with horror. In the moonlight he already appeared

green, with his mouth, his eyes, his nose, his clothes full of slime. His

fingers closed and stiff, were hideous. A kind of black and liquid

plaster covered his whole body. The face appeared swollen, and from his

hair, glued up by the ooze, there ran a stream of dirty water.

"Do you know him?" asked one.

The other, the Croissy ferryman, hesitated:

"Yes, it certainly seems to me that I have seen that head; but you know

when like that one cannot recognize anyone easily." And then, suddenly:

"Why, it's Mr. Paul."

"Who is Mr. Paul?" inquired his comrade.

The first answered:

"Why, Mr. Paul Baron, the son of the senator, the little chap who was so

amorous."

The other added, philosophically:

"Well, his fun is ended now; it is a pity, all the same, when one is so

rich!"

Madeleine sobbed and fell to the ground. Pauline approached the body and

asked:

"Is he indeed quite dead?"

"Quite?"

The men shrugged their shoulders.

"Oh! after that length of time for certain."

Then one of them asked:

"Was it at the Grillon that he lodged?"

"Yes," answered the other; "we had better take him back there, there will

be something to be made of it."

They embarked again in their boat and set out, moving off slowly on

account of the rapid current; and yet, a long time after they were out of

sight, from the place where the women remained, the regular splash of the

oars in the water could be heard.

Then Pauline took the poor weeping Madeleine in her arms, petted her,

embraced her for a long while, consoled her.

"What would you have; it is not your fault, is it? It is impossible to

prevent men committing folly. He wished it, so much the worse for him,

after all!"

And then lifting her up:

"Come, my dear, come and sleep at the house; it is impossible for you to

go back to the Grillon to-night."

And she embraced her again.

"Come, we will cure you," said she.

Madeleine arose, and weeping all the while, but with fainter sobs, her

head upon Pauline's shoulder, as though it had found a refuge in a closer

and more certain affection, more familiar and more confiding, set off

with very slow steps.

THE RABBIT

Old Lecacheur appeared at the door of his house at his usual hour,

between five and a quarter past five in the morning, to look after

his men who were going to work.

With a red face, only half awake, his right eye open and the left nearly

closed, he was buttoning his braces over his fat stomach with some

difficulty while he was all the time looking into every corner of the

farm-yard with a searching glance. The sun was darting his oblique rays

through the beech-trees by the side of the ditch and the apple trees

outside, and was making the cocks crow on the dung-hill, and the pigeons

coo on the roof. The smell of the cow stalls came through the open door,

and mingled in the fresh morning air, with the pungent odor of the stable

where the horses were neighing, with their heads turned towards the

light.

As soon as his trousers were properly fastened, Lecacheur came out, and

went first of all towards the hen-house to count the morning's eggs, for

he had been afraid of thefts for some time; but the servant girl ran up

to him with lifted arms and cried:

"Master! Master! they have stolen a rabbit during the night."

"A rabbit?"

"Yes, Master, the big gray rabbit, from the hutch on the left;" whereupon

the farmer quite opened his left eye, and said, simply:

"I must see that."

And off he went to inspect it. The hutch had been broken open and the

rabbit was gone. Then he became thoughtful, closed his right eye again,

and scratched his nose, and after a little consideration, he said to the

frightened girl, who was standing stupidly before her master:

"Go and fetch the gendarmes; say I expect them as soon as possible."

Lecacheur was mayor of the village, Pairgry-le Gras, and ruled it like a

master, on account of his money and position, and as soon as the servant

had disappeared in the direction of the village, which was only about

five hundred yards off, he went into the house to have his morning coffee

and to discuss the matter with his wife, whom he found on her knees in

front of the fire, trying to get it to burn up quickly, and as soon as he

got to the door, he said:

"Somebody has stolen the gray rabbit."

She turned round so quickly that she found herself sitting on the floor,

and looking at her husband with distressed eyes, she said:

"What is it, Cacheux! Somebody has stolen a rabbit?"

"The big gray one."

She sighed.

"How sad! Who can have done it?"

She was a little, thin, active, neat woman, who knew all about farming,

and Lecacheur had his own ideas about the matter.

"It must be that fellow Polyte."

His wife got up suddenly and said in a furious voice:

"He did it! he did it! You need not look for anyone else. He did it! You

have said it, Cacheux!"

All her peasant's fury, all her avarice, all her rage of a saving woman

against the man of whom she had always been suspicious, and against the

girl whom she had always suspected, showed themselves in the contraction

of her mouth, and the wrinkles in her cheeks and forehead of her thin

exasperated face.

"And what have you done?" she asked.

"I have sent for the gendarmes."

This Polyte was a laborer, who had been employed on the farm for a few

days, and who had been dismissed by Lecacheur for an insolent answer. He

was an old soldier, and was supposed to have retained his habits of

marauding and debauchery, from his campaigns in Africa. He did anything

for a livelihood, but whether he were a mason, a navvy, a reaper, whether

he broke stones or lopped trees, he was always lazy, and so he remained

nowhere, and he had, at times, to change his neighborhood to obtain work.

From the first day that he came to the farm, Lecacheur's wife had

detested him, and now she was sure that he had committed the robbery.

In about half an hour the two gendarmes arrived. Brigadier Sénateur was

very tall and thin, and Gendarme Lenient, short and fat. Lecacheur made

them sit down and told them the affair, and then they went and saw the

scene of the theft, in order to verify the fact that the hutch had been

broken open, and to collect all the proofs they could. When they got back

to the kitchen, the mistress brought in some wine, filled their glasses

and asked with a distrustful look.

"Shall you catch him?"

The brigadier, who had his sword between his legs, appeared thoughtful.

Certainly, he was sure of taking him, if he was pointed out to him, but

if not, he could not answer for being able to discover him, himself, and

after reflecting for a long time, he put this simple question:

"Do you know the thief?"

And Lecacheur replied, with a look of Normandy slyness in his eyes:

"As for knowing him, I do not, as I did not see him commit the robbery.

If I had seen him, I should have made him eat it raw, skin and flesh,

without a drop of cider to wash it down. But as for saying who it is,

I cannot, although I believe it is that good-for-nothing Polyte."

Then he related at length his troubles with Polyte, his leaving his

service, his bad reputation, things which had been told him, accumulating

insignificant and minute proofs, and then, the brigadier, who had been

listening very attentively while he emptied his glass and filled it

again, with an indifferent air, turned to his gendarme and said:

"We must go and look in the cottage of Severin's wife." At which the

gendarme smiled and nodded three times.

Then Madame Lecacheur came to them, and very quietly, with all a

peasant's cunning, questioned the brigadier in her turn. That shepherd

Severin, a simpleton, a sort of a brute who had been brought up and

grown up among his bleating flocks, and who knew scarcely anything

besides them in the world, had nevertheless preserved the peasant's

instinct for saving, at the bottom of his heart. For years and years he

must have hidden in hollow trees and crevices in the rocks, all that he

earned, either as shepherd, or by curing animal's sprains (for the

bone-setter's secret had been handed down to him by the old shepherd

whose place he took), by touch or word, and one day he bought a small

property consisting of a cottage and a field, for three thousand francs.

A few months later, it became known that he was going to marry a servant,

notorious for her bad morals, the innkeeper's servant. The young fellows

said that the girl, knowing that he was pretty well off, had been to his

cottage every night, and had taken him, overcome him, led him on to

matrimony, little by little, night by night.

And then, having been to the mayor's office and to church, she now lived

in the house which her man had bought, while he continued to tend his

flocks, day and night, on the plains.

And the brigadier added:

"Polyte has been sleeping with her for three weeks, for the thief has no

place of his own to go to!"

The gendarme make a little joke:

"He takes the shepherd's blankets."

Madame Lecacheur, who was seized by a fresh access of rage, of rage

increased by a married woman's anger against debauchery, exclaimed:

"It is she, I am sure. Go there. Ah! the blackguard thieves!"

But the brigadier was quite unmoved.

"A minute," he said. "Let us wait until twelve o'clock, as he goes and

dines there every day. I shall catch them with it under their noses."

The gendarme smiled, pleased at his chief's idea, and Lecacheur also

smiled now, for the affair of the shepherd struck him as very funny:

deceived husbands are always amusing.

* * * * *

Twelve o'clock had just struck when the brigadier, followed by his man,

knocked gently three times at the door of a little lonely house, situated

at the corner of a wood, five hundred yards from the village.

They had been standing close against the wall, so as not to be seen from

within, and they waited. As nobody answered, the brigadier knocked again

in a minute or two. It was so quiet, that the house seemed uninhabited;

but Lenient, the gendarme, who had very quick ears, said that he heard

somebody moving about inside, and then Sénateur got angry. He would not

allow anyone to resist the authority of the law for a moment, and,

knocking at the door with the hilt of his sword, he cried out:

"Open the door, in the name of the law."

As this order had no effect, he roared out:

"If you do not obey, I shall smash the lock. I am the brigadier of the

gendarmerie, by G--! Here Lenient."

He had not finished speaking when the door opened and Sénateur saw before

him a fat girl, with a very red color, blowzy, with pendant breasts, a

big stomach and broad hips, a sort of sanguine and bestial female, the

wife of the shepherd Severin, and he went into the cottage.

"I have come to pay you a visit, as I want to make a little search," he

said, and he looked about him. On the table there was a plate, a jug of

cider and a glass half full, which proved that a meal had been going on.

Two knives were lying side by side, and the shrewd gendarme winked at his

superior officer.

"It smells good," the latter said.

"One might swear that it was stewed rabbit," Lenient added, much amused.

"Will you have a glass of brandy?" the peasant woman asked.

"No, thank you; I only want the skin of the rabbit that you are eating."

She pretended not to understand, but she was trembling.

"What rabbit?"

The brigadier had taken a seat, and was calmly wiping his forehead.

"Come, come, you are not going to try and make us believe that you live

on couch grass. What were you eating there all by yourself for your

dinner?"

"I? Nothing whatever, I swear to you. A mite of butter on my bread."

"You are a novice, my good woman, _a mite of butter on your

bread_.... You are mistaken; you ought to have said: a mite of butter on

the rabbit. By G--d, your butter smells good! It is special butter, extra

good butter, butter fit for a wedding; certainly, not household butter!"

The gendarme was shaking with laughter, and repeated:

"Not household butter, certainly."

As brigadier Sénateur was a joker, all the gendarmes had grown facetious,

and the officer continued:

"Where is your butter?"

"My butter?"

"Yes, your butter."

"In the jar."

"Then where is the butter jar?"

"Here it is."

She brought out an old cup, at the bottom of which there was a layer of

rancid, salt butter, and the brigadier smelt it, and said, with a shake

of his head:

"It is not the same. I want the butter that smells of the rabbit. Come,

Lenient, open your eyes; look under the sideboard, my good fellow, and I

will look under the bed."

Having shut the door, he went up to the bed and tried to move it; but it

was fixed to the wall, and had not been moved for more than half a

century, apparently. Then the brigadier stooped, and made his uniform

crack. A button had flown off.

"Lenient," he said.

"Yes, brigadier?"

"Come here my lad and look under the bed; I am too tall. I will look

after the sideboard."

He got up and waited while his man executed his orders.

Lenient, who was short and stout, took off his kepi, laid himself on his

stomach, and putting his face on the floor looked at the black cavity

under the bed, and then, suddenly, he exclaimed:

"All right, here we are!"

"What have you got? The rabbit?"

"No, the thief."

"The thief! Pull him out, pull him out!"

The gendarme had put his arms under the bed and laid hold of something,

and he was pulling with all his might, and at last a foot, shod in a

thick boot, appeared, which he was holding in his right hand. The

brigadier took it, crying:

"Pull! pull!"

And Lenient, who was on his knees by that time, was pulling at the other

leg. But it was a hard job, for the prisoner kicked out hard, and arched

up his back across the bed.

"Courage! courage! pull! pull!" Sénateur cried, and they pulled him with

all their strength so that the wooden bar gave way, and he came out as

far as his head; but at last they got that out also, and they saw the

terrified and furious face of Polyte, whose arms remained stretched out

under the bed.

"Pull away!" the brigadier kept on exclaiming. Then they heard a strange

noise, and as the arms followed the shoulders, and the hands the arms,

and, in the hands the handle of a saucepan, and at the end of the handle

the saucepan itself, which contained stewed rabbit.

"Good Lord! good Lord!" the brigadier shouted in his delight, while

Lenient took charge of the man; and the rabbit's skin, an overwhelming

proof, was discovered under the mattress, and then the gendarmes returned

in triumph to the village with their prisoner and their booty.

* * * * *

A week later, as the affair had made much stir, Lecacheur, on going into

the _Mairie_ to consult the school-master, was told that the shepherd

Severin had been waiting for him for more than an hour, and he found him

sitting on a chair in a corner, with his stick between his legs. When he

saw the mayor, he got up, took off his cap, and said:

"Good morning, Maître Cacheux;" and then he remained standing, timid and

embarrassed.

"What do you want?" the former said.

"This is it, Monsieur. Is it true that somebody stole one of your rabbits

last week?"

"Yes, it is quite true, Severin."

"Who stole the rabbit?"

"Polyte Ancas, the laborer."

"Right! right! And is it also true that it was found under my bed ..."

"What do you mean, the rabbit?"

"The rabbit and then Polyte."

"Yes, my poor Severin, quite true, but who told you?"

"Pretty well everybody. I understand! And I suppose you know all about

marriages, as you marry[11] people?"

[Footnote 11: In France, Civil Marriage is compulsory, though frequently

followed by the religious rite.--TRANSLATOR.]

"What about marriage?"

"With regard to one's rights."

"What rights?"

"The husband's rights and then the wife's rights."

"Of course I do."

"Oh! Then just tell me, M'sieu Cacheux, has my wife the right to go to

bed with Polyte?"

"What do you mean by going to bed with Polyte?"

"Yes, has she any right before the law, and seeing that she is my wife,

to go to bed with Polyte?"

"Why of course not, of course not."

"If I catch him there again, shall I have the right to thrash him and her

also?"

"Why ... why ... why, yes."

"Very well, then; I will tell you why I want to know. One night last

week, as I had my suspicions, I came in suddenly, and they were not

behaving properly. I chucked Polyte out, to go and sleep somewhere else;

but that was all, as I did not know what my rights were. This time I did

not see them; I only heard of it from others. That is over, and we will

not say any more about it; but if I catch them again ... by G--d if I

catch them again, I will make them lose all taste for such nonsense,

Maître Cacheux, as sure as my name is Severin ..."

THE TWENTY-FIVE FRANCS OF THE MOTHER-SUPERIOR

He certainly looked very droll, did Daddy Pavilly, with his great, spider

legs and his little body, his long arms and his pointed head, surrounded

by a flame of red hair on the top of the crown.

He was a clown, a peasant clown by nature, born to play tricks, to act

parts, simple parts, as he was a peasant's son and was himself a peasant,

who could scarcely read. Yes! God had certainly created him to amuse

others, the poor country devils who have neither theaters nor fêtes, and

he amused them conscientiously. In the café people treated him to drink

in order to keep him there, and he drank intrepidly, laughing and joking,

hoaxing everybody without vexing anyone, while the people were laughing

heartily around him.

He was so droll that the very girls could not resist him, ugly as he was,

because he made them laugh so. He would drag them about joking all the

while, and he tickled and squeezed them, saying such funny things that

they held their sides while they pushed him away.

Towards the end of June he engaged himself for the harvest to farmer Le

Harivan, near Rouville. For three whole weeks he amused the harvesters,

male and female, by his jokes, both by day and night. During the day,

when he was in the fields, he wore an old straw hat which hid his red

shock head, and one saw him gathering up the yellow grain and tying it

into bundles with his long, thin arms; and then suddenly stopping to make

a funny movement which made the laborers, who always kept their eyes on

him, laugh all over the field. At night he crept, like some crawling

animal, in among the straw in the barn where the women slept, causing

screams and exciting a disturbance. They drove him off with their wooden

clogs, and he escaped on all fours, like a fantastic monkey, amidst

volleys of laughter from the whole place.

On the last day, as the wagon full of reapers, decked with ribbons and

playing bag-pipes, shouting and singing with pleasure and drink, went

along the white, high road, slowly drawn by six dapple-gray horses,

driven by a lad in a blouse, with a rosette in his cap, Pavilly, in the

midst of the sprawling women, danced like a drunken satyr, and kept the

little dirty-faced boys and astonished peasants, standing staring at him

open-mouthed on the way to the farm.

Suddenly, as they got to the gate of Le Harivan's farm yard, he gave a

leap as he was lifting up his arms, but unfortunately, as he came down,

he knocked against the side of the long wagon, fell over it onto the

wheel, and rebounded into the road. His companions jumped out, but he did

not move; one eye was closed, while the other was open, and he was pale

with fear, while his long limbs were stretched out in the dust, and when

they touched his right leg he began to scream, and when they tried to

make him stand up, he immediately fell down.

"I think one of his legs is broken," one of the men said.

And so it really was. Harivan, therefore, had him laid on a table and

sent off a man on horseback to Rouville to fetch the doctor, who came an

hour later.

The farmer was very generous and said that he would pay for the man's

treatment in the hospital, so that the doctor carried Pavilly off in his

carriage to the hospital, and had him put into a white-washed ward, where

his fracture was reduced.

As soon as he knew that it would not kill him, and that he would be taken

care of, cuddled, cured, and fed without having anything to do except to

lie on his back between the sheets, Pavilly's joy was unbounded, and he

began to laugh silently and continuously, so as to show his decayed

teeth.

Whenever one of the Sisters of Mercy came near his bed he made grimaces

of satisfaction, winking, twisting his mouth awry and moving his nose,

which was very long and mobile. His neighbors in the ward, ill as they

were, could not help laughing, and the Mother-Superior often came to his

bedside, to be amused for a quarter of an hour, and he invented all kinds

of jokes and stories for her, and as he had all the makings of a

strolling actor in him, he would be devout in order to please her, and

spoke of religion with the serious air of a man who knows that there are

times when jokes are out of place.

One day, he took it into his head to sing to her. She was delighted and

came to see him more frequently, and then she brought him a hymn-book, so

as to utilize his voice. Then he might be seen sitting up in bed, for he

was beginning to be able to move, singing the praises of the Almighty and

of Mary, in a falsetto voice, while the kind, stout sister stood by him

and beat time with her finger. When he could walk, the Superior offered

to keep him for some time longer to sing in chapel, to serve at Mass and

to fulfill the duties of sacristan, and he accepted. For a whole month he

might be seen in his surplice, limping and singing the psalms and the

responses, with such movements of his head, that the number of the

faithful increased, and that people deserted the parish Church to attend

Vespers at the hospital.

But as everything must come to an end in this world, they were obliged

to discharge him, when he was quite cured, and the Superior gave him

twenty-five francs in return for his services.

As soon as Pavilly found himself in the street with all that money in his

pocket, he asked himself what he was going to do. Should he return to the

village? Certainly not before having a drink, for he had not had one for

a long time, and so he went into a café. He did not go into the town more

than two or three times a year, and so he had a confused and intoxicating

recollection of an orgie, on one of those visits in particular, and so he

asked for a glass of the best brandy, which he swallowed at a gulp to

grease the passage, and then he had another to see how it tasted.

As soon as the strong and fiery brandy had touched his palate and tongue,

awakening more vividly than ever the sensation of alcohol which he was so

fond of, and so longed for, which caresses, and stings, and burns the

mouth, he knew that he should drink a whole bottle of it, and so he asked

immediately what it cost, so as to spare himself having it in detail.

They charged him three francs, which he paid, and then he began quietly

to get drunk.

However, he was methodical in it, as he wished to keep sober enough for

other pleasures, and so, as soon as he felt that he was on the point of

seeing the fireplace bow to him, he got up and went out with unsteady

steps, with his bottle under his arm, in search of a house where girls

of easy virtue lived.

He found one, with some difficulty, after having asked a carter, who did

not know of one; a postman, who directed him wrong; a baker, who began to

swear and called him an old pig; and lastly, a soldier, who was obliging

enough to take him to it, advised him to choose _La Reine_.

Although it was barely twelve o'clock, Pavilly went into that palace of

delights, where he was received by a servant, who wanted to turn him out

again. But he made her laugh by making a grimace, showed her three

francs, the usual price of the special provisions of the place, and

followed her with difficulty up a dark staircase, which led to the first

floor.

When he had been shown into a room, he asked for _la Reine_, and had

another drink out of the bottle, while he waited. But very shortly, the

door opened and a girl came in. She was tall, fat, red-faced, enormous.

She looked at the drunken fellow, who had fallen into a seat, with the

eye of a judge of such matters, and said:

"Are you not ashamed of yourself, at this time of day?"

"Ashamed of what, Princess?" he stammered.

"Why, of disturbing a lady, before she has even had time to eat her

dinner."

He wanted to have a joke, so he said:

"There is no such thing as time, for the brave."

"And there ought to be no time for getting drunk, either, old guzzler."

At this he got angry:

"I am not a guzzler, and I am not drunk."

"Not drunk?"

"No, I am not."

"Not drunk? Why, you could not even stand straight;" and she looked at

him angrily, thinking that all this time her companions were having their

dinner.

"I ... I could dance a polka," he replied, getting up, and to prove his

stability he got onto the chair, made a pirouette and jumped onto the

bed, where his thick, muddy shoes made two great marks.

"Oh! you dirty brute!" the girl cried, and rushing at him, she struck him

a blow with her fist in the stomach, such a blow that Pavilly lost his

balance, fell and struck the foot of the bed, and making a complete

somersault tumbled onto the night-table, dragging the jug and basin with

him, and then rolled onto the ground, roaring.

The noise was so loud, and his cries so piercing, that everybody in the

house rushed in, the master, mistress, servant, and the staff.

The master picked him up, but as soon as he had put him on his legs, the

peasant lost his balance again, and then began to call out that his leg

was broken, the other leg, the sound one.

It was true, so they sent for a doctor, and it happened to be the same

one who had attended him at Le Harivan's.

"What! Is it you again?" he said.

"Yes, M'sieu."

"What is the matter with you?"

"Somebody has broken my other leg for me, M'sieu."

"Who did it, old fellow?"

"Why, a female."

Everybody was listening. The girls in their dressing gowns, with their

mouths still greasy from their interrupted dinner, the mistress of the

house furious, the master nervous.

"This will be a bad job," the doctor said. "You know that the municipal

authorities look upon you with very unfavorable eyes, so we must try and

hush the matter up."

"How can it be managed?" the master of the place asked.

"Why the best way would be to send him back to the hospital, from which

he has just come out, and to pay for him there."

"I would rather do that," the master of the house replied, "than have any

fuss made about the matter."

So half an hour later, Pavilly returned drunk and groaning to the ward

which he had left an hour before. The Superior lifted up her hands in

sorrow, for she liked him, and with a smile, for she was glad to have

him back.

"Well, my good fellow, what is the matter with you now?"

"The other leg is broken, Madame."

"So you have been getting onto another load of straw, you old joker?"

And Pavilly, in great confusion, but still sly, said, with hesitation:

"No... no.... Not this time, no ... not this time. No ... no.... It was

not my fault, not my fault ...A mattress caused this."

She could get no other explanation out of him, and never knew that his

relapse was due to her twenty-five francs.

THE VENUS OF BRANIZA

Some years ago there lived in Braniza, a celebrated Talmadist, who was

renowned no less on account of his beautiful wife, than of his wisdom,

his learning, and his fear of God. The Venus of Braniza deserved that

name thoroughly, for she deserved it for herself, on account of her

singular beauty, and even more as the wife of a man who was deeply versed

in the Talmud; for the wives of the Jewish philosophers are, as a rule,

ugly, or even possess some bodily defect.

The Talmud explains this, in the following manner. It is well known that

marriages are made in heaven, and at the birth of a boy a divine voice

calls out the name of his future wife, and _vice versâ_. But just as a

good father tries to get rid of his good wares out of doors, and only

uses the damaged stuff at home for his children, so God bestows those

women whom other men would not care to have, on the Talmudists.

Well, God made an exception in the case of our Talmudist, and had

bestowed a Venus on him, perhaps only in order to confirm the rule by

means of this exception, and to make it appear less hard. His wife was

a woman who would have done honor to any king's throne, or to the

pedestal in any sculpture gallery. Tall, and with a wonderful, voluptuous

figure, she carried a strikingly beautiful head, surmounted by thick,

black plaits, on her proud shoulders, while two large, dark eyes

languished and glowed beneath her long lashes, and her beautiful hands

looked as if they were carved out of ivory.

This beautiful woman, who seemed to have been designed by nature to rule,

to see slaves at her feet, to provide occupation for the painter's brush,

the sculptor's chisel and the poet's pen, lived the life of a rare and

beautiful flower, which is shut up in a hot house, for she sat the whole

day long wrapped up in her costly fur jacket and looked down dreamily

into the street.

She had no children; her husband, the philosopher, studied, and prayed,

and studied again from early morning until late at night; his mistress

was _the Veiled Beauty_, as the Talmudists call the Kabbalah. She paid

no attention to her house, for she was rich and everything went of its

own accord, just like a clock, which has only to be wound up once a week;

nobody came to see her, and she never went out of the house; she sat and

dreamed and brooded and--yawned.

* * * * *

One day when a terrible storm of thunder and lightning had spent all its

fury over the town, and all windows had been opened in order to let the

Messiah in, the Jewish Venus was sitting as usual in her comfortable easy

chair, shivering in spite of her fur jacket, and was thinking, when

suddenly she fixed her glowing eyes on the man who was sitting before the

Talmud, swaying his body backwards and forwards, and said suddenly:

"Just tell me, when will Messias, the Son of David, come?"

"He will come," the philosopher replied, "when all the Jews have become

either altogether virtuous or altogether vicious, says the Talmud."

"Do you believe that all the Jews will ever become virtuous," the Venus

continued.

"How am I to believe that!"

"So Messias will come, when all the Jews have become vicious?"

The philosopher shrugged his shoulders and lost himself again in the

labyrinth of the Talmud, out of which, so it is said, only one man

returned unscathed, and the beautiful woman at the window again looked

dreamily out onto the heavy rain, while her white fingers played

unconsciously with the dark fur of her splendid jacket.

* * * * *

One day the Jewish philosopher had gone to a neighboring town, where an

important question of ritual was to be decided. Thanks to his learning,

the question was settled sooner than he had expected, and instead of

returning the next morning, as he had intended, he came back the same

evening with a friend, who was no less learned than himself. He got out

of the carriage at his friend's house, and went home on foot, and was

not a little surprised when he saw his windows brilliantly illuminated,

and found an officer's servant comfortably smoking his pipe in front of

his house.

"What are you doing here?" he asked in a friendly manner, but with some

curiosity, nevertheless.

"I am looking out, in case the husband of the beautiful Jewess should

come home unexpectedly."

"Indeed? Well, mind and keep a good look out."

Saying this, the philosopher pretended to go away, but went into the

house through the garden entrance at the back. When he got into the first

room, he found a table laid for two, which had evidently only been left a

short time previously. His wife was sitting as usual at her bed room

window wrapped in her fur jacket, but her cheeks were suspiciously red,

and her dark eyes had not got their usual languishing look, but now

rested on her husband with a gaze which expressed at the same time

satisfaction and mockery. At that moment he kicked against an object on

the floor, which emitted a strange sound, which he picked up and examined

in the light. It was a pair of spurs.

"Who has been here with you?" the Talmudist said.

The Jewish Venus shrugged her shoulders contemptuously, but did not

reply.

"Shall I tell you? The Captain of Hussars has been with you."

"And why should he not have been here with me?" she said, smoothing the

fur on her jacket with her white hand.

"Woman! are you out of your mind?"

"I am in full possession of my senses," she replied, and a knowing smile

hovered round her red voluptuous lips. "But must I not also do my part,

in order that Messias may come and redeem us poor Jews?"

LA MORILLONNE

They called her _La Morillonne_[12] because of her black hair and of her

complexion, which resembled autumnal leaves, and because of her mouth

with thick purple lips, which were like blackberries, when she curled

them.

[Footnote 12: Black Grapes.]

That she should be born as dark as this in a district where everybody was

fair, and engendered by a father and mother with tow-colored hair and a

complexion like butter was one of the mysteries of atavism. One of her

female ancestors must have had an intimacy with one of those traveling

tinkers who, have gone about the country from time immemorial, with faces

the color of bistre and indigo, crowned by a wisp of light hair.

From that ancestor she derived, not only her dark complexion, but also

her dark soul, her deceitful eyes, whose depths were at times illuminated

by flashes of every vice, her eyes of an obstinate and malicious animal.

Handsome? Certainly not, nor even pretty. Ugly, with an absolute

ugliness! Such a false look! Her nose was flat, and had been smashed by

a blow, while her unwholesome looking mouth was always slobbering with

greediness, or uttering something vile. Her hair was thick and untidy,

and a regular nest for vermin, to which may be added a thin, feverish

body, with a limping walk. In short, she was a perfect monster, and yet

all the young men of the neighborhood had made love to her, and whoever

had been so honored, longed for her society again.

From the time that she was twelve, she had been the mistress of every

fellow in the village. She had corrupted boys of her own age in every

conceivable manner and place.

Young men at the risk of imprisonment, and even steady, old, notable and

venerable men, such as the farmer at Eclausiaux, Monsieur Martin, the

ex-mayor and other highly respectable men, had been taken by the manners

of that creature, and the reason why the rural policeman was not severe

upon them, in spite of his love for summoning people before the

magistrates, was, so people said, that he would have been obliged to take

out a summons against himself.

The consequence was that she had grown up without being interfered with,

and was the mistress of every fellow in the village, as the school-master

said; who had himself been one of _the fellows_. But the most curious

part of the business was that no one was jealous. They handed her on from

one to the other, and when someone expressed his astonishment at this to

her one day, she said to this unintelligent stranger:

"Is everybody not satisfied?"

And then, how could any one of them, even if he had been jealous, have

monopolized her? They had no hold on her. She was not selfish, and though

she accepted all gifts, whether in kind or in money, she never asked for

anything and she even appeared to prefer paying herself after her own

fashion, by stealing. All she seemed to care about as her reward was

pilfering, and a crown put into her hand, gave her less pleasure than

a halfpenny which she had stolen. Neither was it any use to dream of

ruling her as the sole male, or as the proud master of the hen roost,

for which of them, no matter how broad shouldered he was, would have been

capable of it? Some had tried to vanquish her, but in vain.

How then, could any of them claim to be her master? It would have been

the same as wishing to have the sole right of baking their bread in the

common oven, in which the whole village baked.

But there was one man who formed the exception, and that was Bru, the

shepherd.

He lived in the fields in his movable hut, on cakes made of unleavened

dough, which he kneaded on a stone and baked in the hot ashes, now here,

now there, is a hole dug out in the ground, and heated with dead wood.

Potatoes, milk, hard cheese, blackberries, and a small cask of old gin

that he had distilled himself, were his daily pittance; but he knew

nothing about love, although he was accused of all sorts of horrible

things, and therefore nobody dared abuse him to his face; in the first

place, because Bru was a spare and sinewy man, who handled his shepherd's

crook like a drum-major does his staff; next, because of his three sheep

dogs, who had teeth like wolves, and who knew nobody except their master;

and lastly, for fear of the evil eye. For Bru, it appeared, knew spells

which would blight the corn, give the sheep foot rot, the cattle the

_rinder pest_, make cows die in calving, and set fire to the ricks and

stacks.

But as Bru was the only one who did not loll out his tongue after La

Morillonne, naturally one day she began to think of him, and she declared

that she, at any rate, was not afraid of his evil eye, and so she went

after him.

"What do you want?" he said, and she replied boldly:

"What do I want? I want you."

"Very well," he said, "but then you must belong to me alone."

"All right," was her answer, "if you think you can please me."

He smiled and took her into his arms, and she was away from the village

for a whole week. She had, in fact, become entirely Bru's exclusive

property.

The village grew excited. They were not jealous of each other, but they

were of him. What! Could she not resist him. Of course he had charms and

spells against every imaginable thing. And they grew furious. Next they

grew bold, and watched from behind a tree. She was still as lively as

ever, but he, poor fellow, seemed to have become suddenly ill, and

required the most tender nursing at her hands. The villagers, however,

felt no compassion for the poor shepherd, and so, one of them, more

courageous than the rest, advanced towards the hut with his gun in his

hand:

"Tie up your dogs," he cried out from a distance; "fasten them up, Bru,

or I shall shoot them."

"You need not be frightened of the dogs," _La Morillonne_ replied; "I

will be answerable for it that they will not hurt you;" and she smiled as

the young man with the gun went towards her.

"What do you want?" the shepherd said.

"I can tell you," she replied. "He wants me and I am very willing.

There!"

Bru began to cry, and she continued:

"You are a good for nothing."

And she went off with the lad, while Bru seized his crook, seeing which

the young fellow raised his gun.

"Seize him! seize him!" the shepherd shouted, urging on his dogs, while

the other had already got his finger on the trigger to fire at them. But

_La Morillonne_ pushed down the muzzle and called out:

"Here, dogs! here! Prr, prr, my beauties!"

And the three dogs rushed up to her, licked her hands and frisked about

as they followed her, while she called to the shepherd from the distance:

"You see, Bru, they are not at all jealous!"

And then, with a short and evil laugh, she added:

"They are my property now."

WAITER, A "BOCK"[13]

[Footnote 13: A French imitation of German Lager Beer.]

Why did I enter, on this particular evening, a certain beer shop? I

cannot explain it. It was bitterly cold. A fine rain, a watery dust

floated about, which enshrouded the gas jets in a transparent fog, made

the pavements that passed under the shadow of the shop fronts glitter,

and which at once exhibited the soft slush and the soiled feet of the

passers-by.

I was going nowhere in particular; was simply having a short walk after

dinner. I had passed the Credit Lyonnais, the Rue Vivienne, besides

several other streets. Thereupon, I suddenly descried a large public

house, which was more than half full. I walked inside, with no object in

view. I was not the least thirsty.

By a searching sweep of the eye I sought out a place where I would not be

too much crowded, and so I went and sat down by the side of a man who

seemed to me to be old, and who smoked a halfpenny clay pipe, which had

become as black as coal. From six to eight beer saucers were piled up on

the table in front of him, indicating the number of "bocks" he had

already absorbed. With the same sweep of the eye I had recognized a

"regular toper," one of those frequenters of beer-houses, who come in the

morning as soon as the place is open, and only go way in the evening when

it is about to close. He was dirty, bald to about the middle of the

cranium, while his long, powder and salt, gray hair, fell over the neck

of his frock coat. His clothes, much too large for him, appeared to have

been made for him at a time when he carried a great stomach. One could

guess that the pantaloons were not suspended from braces, and that this

man could not take ten paces without his having to stop to pull them up

and to readjust them. Did he wear a vest? The mere thought of his boots

and that which they enveloped filled me with horror. The frayed cuffs

were as perfectly black at the edges as were his nails.

As soon as I had sat down near him, this queer creature said to me in a

tranquil tone of voice:

"How goes it with you?"

I turned sharply round to him and closely scanned his features, whereupon

he continued:

"I see you do not recognize me."

"No, I do not."

"Des Barrets."

I was stupefied. It was Count Jean des Barrets, my old college chum.

I seized him by the hand, and was so dumbfounded that I could find

nothing to say. I, at length, managed to stammer out:

"And you, how goes it with yourself?"

He responded placidly:

"With me? Just as I like."

He became silent. I wanted to be friendly, and I selected this phrase:

"What are you doing now?"

"You see what I am doing," he answered, quite resignedly.

I felt my face getting red. I insisted:

"But every day?"

"Every day is alike to me," was his response accompanied with a thick

puff of tobacco smoke.

He then tapped on the top of the marble table with a sou, to attract the

attention of the waiter, and called out:

"Waiter, two 'bocks.'"

A voice in the distance repeated:

"Two bocks, instead of four."

Another voice, more distant still, shouted out:

"Here they are, sir, here they are."

Immediately there appeared a man with a white apron, carrying two

"bocks," which he sat down foaming on the table, the spouts facing over

the edge, on to the sandy floor.

Des Barrets emptied his glass at a single draught and replaced it on the

table. He next asked:

"What is there new?"

"I know of nothing new, worth mentioning, really," I stammered:

"But nothing has grown old, for me; I am a commercial man."

In an equable tone of voice, he said;

"Indeed ... does that amuse you?"

"No, but what do you mean to assert? Surely you must do something!"

"What do you mean by that?"

"I only mean, how do you pass your time!"

"What's the use of occupying myself with anything. For my part, I do

nothing at all, as you see, never anything. When one has not got a sou

one can understand why one has to go to work. What is the good of

working? Do you work for yourself, or for others? If you work for

yourself you do it for your own amusement, which is all right; if you

work for others, you reap nothing but ingratitude."

Then sticking his pipe into his whiskers, he called out anew:

"Waiter, a 'bock.' It makes me thirsty to keep calling so. I am not

accustomed to that sort of thing. Yes, yes, I do nothing; I let things

slide, and I am growing old. In dying I have nothing to regret. If so, I

should remember nothing, outside this public house. I have no wife, no

children, no cares, no sorrows, nothing. That is the very best thing that

could happen to one."

He then emptied the glass which had meanwhile been fetched to him, passed

his tongue over his lips, and resumed his pipe.

I looked at him stupefied. I asked him:

"But you have not always been like that?"

"Pardon me, sir; ever since I left college."

"That is not a proper life to lead, my dear sir; it is simple horrible.

Come, you must indeed have done something, you must have loved something,

you must have friends."

"No; I get up at noon, I come here, I have my breakfast, I drink my

'bock,' I remain until the evening, I have my dinner, I drink 'bock.'

Then about one in the morning, I return to my couch, because the place

closes up. And it is this latter that embitters me more than anything.

For the last ten years, I have passed six years on this bench, in my

corner; and the other four in my bed, never changing. I talk sometimes

with the habitues."

"But on arriving in Paris what did you do at first?"

"I paid my devoirs to the Café de Medicis."

"What next?"

"Next? I crossed the water and came here."

"Why did you even take that trouble?"

"What do you mean? One cannot remain all one's life in the Latin Quarter.

The students make too much noise. But I do not move about any longer.

Waiter, a 'bock.'"

I now began to think that he was making fun of me, and I continued:

"Come now, be frank. You have been the victim of some great sorrow;

despair in love, no doubt! It is easy to see that you are a man whom

misfortune has hit hard. What age are you?"

"I am thirty years of age, but I look to be forty-five at least."

I regarded him straight in the face. His shrunken figure, so badly cared

for, gave one the impression that he was an old man. On the summit of his

cranium, a few long hairs shot straight up from the skin of doubtful

cleanness. He had enormous eyelashes, a large moustache, and a thick

beard. Suddenly, I had a kind of vision. I know not why; the vision of a

basin filled with noisome water, the water which should have been applied

to that poll. I said to him:

"Verily, you look to be more than that age. Of a certainty you must have

experienced some great disappointment."

He replied:

"I tell you that I have not. I am old because I never take air. There is

nothing that vitiates the life of a man more than the atmosphere of a

café."

I could not believe him.

"You must surely have been married as well? One could not get as

bald-headed as you are without having been much in love."

He shook his head, sending down his back little white things which fell

from the end of his locks:

"No, I have always been virtuous."

And raising his eyes towards the luster, which beat down on our heads, he

said:

"If I am bald-headed, it is the fault of the gas. It is the enemy of

hair. Waiter, a 'bock.' You must be thirsty also?"

"No, thank you. But you certainly interest me. Since when did you have

your first discouragement? Your life is not normal, it is not natural.

There is something under it all."

"Yes, and it dates from my infancy. I received a heavy blow when I was

very young, and that turned my life into darkness, which will last to the

end."

"How did it come about?"

"You wish to know about it? Well, then, listen. You recall, of course,

the castle in which I was brought up, seeing that you used to visit it

for five or six months during the vacations? You remember that large,

gray building, in the middle of a great park, and the long avenues of

oaks, which opened towards the four cardinal points! You remember my

father and mother, both of whom were ceremonious, solemn and severe.

"I worshiped my mother; I was suspicious of my father; but I respected

both, accustomed always as I was to see everyone bow before them. They

were in the country, Monsieur le Comte and Madame la Comtesse; while our

neighbors, the Tannemares', the Ravelets', the Brennevilles', showed the

utmost consideration for my parents.

"I was then thirteen years old. I was happy, satisfied with everything,

as one is at that age, full of joy and vivacity.

"Now towards the end of September, a few days before my entering college,

while I was enjoying myself in the mazes of the park, climbing the trees

and swinging on the branches, I descried in crossing an avenue, my father

and mother, who were walking along.

"I recall the thing as though it were yesterday. It was a very stormy

day. The whole line of trees bent under the pressure of the wind,

groaned, and seemed to utter cries--cries, though dull, yet deep, that

the whole forest rang under the tempest.

"Evening came on. It was dark in the thickets. The agitation of the wind

and the branches excited me, made me bound about like an idiot, and howl

in imitation of the wolves.

"As soon as I perceived my parents, I crept furtively towards them, under

the branches, in order to surprise them, as though I had been a veritable

rodent. But becoming seized with fear, I stopped a few paces from them.

My father, a prey to the most ferocious passion, cried:

"'Your mother is a fool; moreover, it is not your mother that is the

question, it is you. I tell you that I want money, and I will make you

sign this.'

"My mother responded in a firm voice:

"'I will not sign it. It is Jean's fortune, I shall guard it for him and

I will not allow you to devour it with strange women, as you have your

own heritage.'

"Then my father, full of rage, wheeled round and seized his wife by the

throat, and began to slash her full in the face with the disengaged hand.

"My mother's hat fell off, her hair became all disheveled and spread over

her back; she essayed to parry the blows, but she could not escape from

them. And my father, like a madman, banged and banged. My mother rolled

over on the ground, covering her face in both her hands. Then he turned

her over on her back in order to batter her still more, pulling away her

hands which were covering her face.

"As for me, my friend, it seemed as though the world had come to an end,

that the eternal laws had changed. I experienced the overwhelming dread

that one has in presence of things supernatural, in presence of

irreparable disasters. My boyish head whirled round, floated. I began to

cry with all my might, without knowing why, a prey to terror, to grief,

to a dreadful bewilderment. My father heard me, turned round, and, on

seeing me, made as though he would rush towards me. I believed that he

wanted to kill me, and I fled like a haunted animal, running straight in

front of me in the woods.

"I ran perhaps for an hour, perhaps for two, I know not. Darkness had set

in, I tumbled over some thick herb, exhausted, and I lay there lost,

devoured by terror, eaten up by a sorrow capable of breaking for ever the

heart of a poor infant. I became cold, I became hungry. At length day

broke. I dared neither get up, walk, return home, nor save myself,

fearing to encounter my father whom I did not wish to see again.

"I should probably have died of misery and of hunger at the foot of a

tree, if the guard had not discovered me and led me away by force.

"I found my parents wearing their ordinary aspect. My mother alone spoke

to me:

"'How you have frightened me, you naughty boy; I have been the whole

night sleepless.'

"I did not answer, but began to weep. My father did not utter a single

word.

"Eight days later I entered college.

"Well, my friend, it was all over with me. I had witnessed the other side

of things, the bad side; I have not been able to perceive the good side

since that day. What things have passed in my mind, what strange

phenomena has warped my ideas? I do not know. But I no longer have a

taste for anything, a wish for anything, a love for anybody, a desire for

anything whatever, nor ambition, nor hope. And I perceive always my poor

mother on the ground, lying in the avenue, while my father is maltreating

her. My mother died a few years after; my father lives still. I have not

seen him since. Waiter, a 'bock.'"

A waiter brought him his "bock," which he swallowed at a gulp. But, in

taking up his pipe again, trembling as he was he broke it. Then he made a

violent gesture:

"Zounds! This is indeed a grief, a real grief. I have had it for a month,

and it was coloring so beautifully!"

He darted through the vast saloon, which was now full of smoke and of

people drinking, uttering his cry:

"Waiter, a 'bock'--and a new pipe."

REGRET

Monsieur Savel, who was called in Mantes, "Father Savel," had just risen

from bed. He wept. It was a dull autumn day; the leaves were falling.

They fell slowly in the rain, resembling another rain, but heavier and

slower. M. Savel was not in good spirit. He walked from the fireplace

to the window, and from the window to the fireplace. Life has its somber

days. It will no longer have any but somber days for him now, for he has

reached the age of sixty-two. He is alone, an old bachelor, with nobody

about him. How sad it is to die alone, all alone, without the

disinterested affection of anyone!

He pondered over his life, so barren, so void. He recalled the days gone

by, the days of his infancy, the house, the house of his parents; his

college days, his follies, the time of his probation in Paris, the

illness of his father, his death. He then returned to live with his

mother. They lived together, the young man and the old woman, very

quietly, and desired nothing more. At last the mother died. How sad a

thing is life! He has lived always alone, and now, in his turn, he, too,

will soon be dead. He will disappear, and that will be the finish. There

will be no more of Savel upon the earth. What a frightful thing! Other

people will live, they will live, they will laugh. Yes, people will go on

amusing themselves, and he will no longer exist! Is it not strange that

people can laugh, amuse themselves, be joyful under that eternal

certainty of death! If this death were only probable, one could then have

hope; but no, it is inevitable, as inevitable as that night follows the

day.

If, however, his life had been complete! If he had done something; if he

had had adventures, grand pleasures, successes, satisfaction of some kind

or another. But now, nothing. He had done nothing, never anything but

rise from bed, eat, at the same hours, and go to bed again. And he has

gone on like that, to the age of sixty-two years. He had not even taken

unto himself a wife, as other men do. Why? Yes, why was it that he was

not married? He might have been, for he possessed considerable means. Was

it an opportunity which had failed him? Perhaps! But one can create

opportunities. He was indifferent; that was all. Indifference had been

his greatest drawback, his defect, his vice. Have some men missed their

lives through indifference! To certain natures, it is so difficult for

them to get out of bed, to move about, to take long walks, to speak, to

study any question.

He had not even been in love. No woman had reposed on his bosom, in a

complete abandon of love. He knew nothing of this delicious anguish of

expectation, of the divine quivering of the pressed hand, of the ecstacy

of triumphant passion.

What superhuman happiness must inundate your heart, when lips encounter

lips for the first time, when the grasp of four arms makes one being of

you, a being unutterably happy, two beings infatuated with one another.

M. Savel was sitting down, his feet on the fender, in his dressing gown.

Assuredly his life had been spoiled, completely spoiled. He had, however,

loved. He had loved secretly, dolorously and indifferently, just as was

characteristic of him in everything. Yes, he had loved his old friend,

Madame Saudres, the wife of his old companion, Saudres. Ah! if he had

known her as a young girl! But he had encountered her too late; she was

already married. Unquestionably he would have asked her hand; that he

would! How he had loved her, nevertheless, without respite, since the

first day he had set eyes on her!

He recalled, without emotion, all the times he had seen her, his grief on

leaving her, the many nights that he could not sleep, because of his

thinking of her.

In the mornings he always got up somewhat less amorous than in the

evening.

Why?

Seeing that she was formerly pretty, and "crumy," blonde, curl, joyous.

Saudres was not the man she would have selected. She was now fifty-two

years of age. She seemed happy. Ah! if she had only loved him in days

gone by; yes, if she had only loved him! And why should she not have

loved him, he, Savel, seeing that he loved her so much, yes, she, Madame

Saudres!

If only she could have divined something--Had she not divined anything,

had she not seen anything, never comprehended anything? But! Then what

would she have thought? If he had spoken what would she have answered?

And Savel asked himself a thousand other things. He reviewed his whole

life, seeking to grasp again a multitude of details.

He recalled all the long evenings spent at the house of Saudres, when the

latter's wife was young and so charming.

He recalled many things that she had said to him, the sweet intonations

of her voice, the little significant smiles that meant so much.

He recalled the walks that the three of them had had, along the banks of

the Seine, their lunches on the grass on the Sundays, for Saudres was

employed at the sub-prefecture. And all at once the distant recollection

came to him, of an afternoon spent with her in a little plantation on the

banks of the river.

They had set out in the morning, carrying their provisions in baskets.

It was a bright spring morning, one of those days which inebriate one.

Everything smelt fresh, everything seemed happy. The voices of the birds

sounded more joyous, and the flapping of their wings more rapid. They had

lunch on the grass, under the willow trees, quite close to the water,

which glittered in the sun's rays. The air was balmy, charged with the

odors of fresh vegetation; they had drunk the most delicious wines. How

pleasant everything was on that day!

After lunch, Saudres went to sleep on the broad of his back, "The best

nap he had in his life," said he, when he woke up.

Madame Saudres had taken the arm of Savel, and they had started to walk

along the river's bank.

She leaned tenderly on his arm. She laughed and said to him: "I am

intoxicated, my friend, I am quite intoxicated." He looked at her, his

heart going patty-patty. He felt himself grow pale, fearful that he had

not looked too boldly at her, and that the trembling of his hand had not

revealed his passion.

She had decked her head with wild flowers and water-lilies, and she had

asked him: "Do you not like to see me appear thus?"

As he did not answer--for he could find nothing to say, he should rather

have gone down on his knees--she burst out laughing, a sort of

discontented laughter, which she threw straight in his face, saying:

"Great goose, what ails you? You might at least speak!"

He felt like crying, and could not even yet find a word to say.

All these things came back to him now, as vividly as on the day when they

took place. Why had she said this to him, "Great goose. What ails you!

You might at least speak!"

And he recalled how tenderly she had leaned on his arm. And in passing

under a shady tree he had felt her ear leaning against his cheek, and he

had tilted his head abruptly, for fear that she had not meant to bring

their flesh into contact.

When he had said to her: "Is it not time to return?" she darted at him a

singular look. "Certainly," she said, "certainly," regarding him at the

same time in a curious manner. He had not thought of anything then; and

now the whole thing appeared to him quite plain.

"Just as you like, my friend. If you are tired let us go back."

And he had answered: "It is not that I am fatigued; but Saudres has

perhaps woke up now."

And she had said: "If you are afraid of my husband's being awake, that is

another thing. Let us return."

In returning she remained silent and leaned no longer on his arm. Why?

At that time it had never occurred to him to ask himself "why." Now he

seemed to apprehend something that he had not then understood.

What was it?

M. Savel felt himself blush, and he got up at a bound, feeling thirty

years younger, believing that he now understood Madame Saudres then to

say, "I love you."

Was it possible! That suspicion which had just entered his soul, tortured

him. Was it possible that he could not have seen, not have dreamed!

Oh! if that could be true, if he had rubbed against such good fortune

without laying hold of it!

He said to himself: "I wish to know. I cannot remain in this state of

doubt. I wish to know!" He put on his clothes quickly, dressed in hot

haste. He thought: "I am sixty-two years of age, she is fifty-eight;

I may ask her that now without giving offense."

He started out.

The Saudres's house was situated on the other side of the street, almost

directly opposite his own. He went up to it, knocked, and a little

servant came to open the door.

"You there at this hour, ill, Savel! Has some accident happened to you?"

M. Savel responded:

"No, my girl; but go and tell your mistress that I want to speak to her

at once."

"The fact is, Madame is preparing her stock of pear-jams for the winter,

and she is standing in front of the fire. She is not dressed, as you may

well understand."

"Yes, but go and tell her that I wish to see her on an important matter."

The little servant went away, and Savel began to walk, with long, nervous

strides, up and down the drawing-room. He did not feel himself the least

embarrassed, however. Oh! he was merely going to ask her something, as he

would have asked her about some cooking receipt, and that was: "Do you

know that I am sixty-two years of age!"

The door opened; and Madame appeared. She was now a gross woman, fat and

round, with full cheeks, and a sonorous laugh. She walked with her arms

away from her body, and her sleeves tucked up to the shoulders, her bare

arms all smeared with sugar juice. She asked, anxiously:

"What is the matter with you, my friend; you are not ill, are you?"

"No, my dear friend; but I wish to ask you one thing, which to me is of

the first importance, something which is torturing my heart, and I want

you to promise that you will answer me candidly."

She laughed, "I am always candid. Say on."

"Well, then. I have loved you from the first day I ever saw you. Can you

have any doubt of this?"

She responded, laughing, with something of her former tone of voice.

"Great goose! what ails you? I knew it well from the very first day!"

Savel began to tremble. He stammered out: "You knew it? Then--"

He stopped.

She asked:

"Then?... What?"

He answered:

"Then ... what would you think?... what ... what.... What would you

have answered?"

She broke forth into a peal of laughter, which made the sugar juice run

off the tips of her fingers on to the carpet.

"I? But you did not ask me anything. It was not for me to make a

declaration."

He then advanced a step towards her.

"Tell me ... tell me.... You remember the day when Saudres went to sleep

on the grass after lunch ... when we had walked together as far as the

bend of the river, below ..."

He waited, expectantly. She had ceased to laugh, and looked at him,

straight in the eyes.

"Yes, certainly, I remember it."

He answered, shivering all over.

"Well ... that day ... if I had been ... if I had

been ... enterprising ... what would you have done?"

She began to laugh as only a happy woman can laugh, who has nothing to

regret, and responded, frankly, in a voice tinged with irony:

"I would have yielded, my friend."

She then turned on her heels and went back to her jam-making.

Savel rushed into the street, cast down, as though he had encountered

some great disaster. He walked with giant strides, through the rain,

straight on, until he reached the river, without thinking where he was

going. When he reached the bank he turned to the right and followed it.

He walked a long time, as if urged on by some instinct. His clothes were

running with water, his hat was bashed in, as soft as a piece of rag,

and dripping like a thatched roof. He walked on, straight in front of

him. At last, he came to the place where they had lunched so long, long

ago, the recollection of which had tortured his heart. He sat down under

the leafless trees, and he wept.

THE PORT

PART I

Having sailed from Havre on the 3rd of May, 1882, for a voyage in the

China seas, the square-rigged three-master, _Notre Dame des Vents_, made

her way back into the port of Marseilles, on the 8th of August, 1886,

after an absence of four years. When she had discharged her first cargo

in the Chinese port for which she was bound, she had immediately found a

new freight for Buenos Ayres, and from that place had conveyed goods to

Brazil.

Other passages, then damage repairs, calms ranging over several months,

gales which knocked her out of her course--all the accidents, adventures,

and misadventures of the sea, in short--had kept far from her country,

this Norman three-master, which had come back to Marseilles with her hold

full of tin boxes containing American preserves.

At her departure, she had on board, besides the captain and the mate,

fourteen sailors, eight Normans and six Britons. On her return, there

were left only five Britons and four Normans; the other Briton had died

while on the way; the four Normans having disappeared under various

circumstances, had been replaced by two Americans, a negro, and a

Norwegian carried off, one evening, from a tavern in Singapore.

The big vessel, with reefed sails and yards crossed over her masts, drawn

by a tug from Marseilles, rocking over a sweep of rolling waves which

subsided gently on becoming calm, passed in front of the Château d'If,

then under all the gray rocks of the roadstead, which the setting sun

covered with a golden vapor; and she entered the ancient port, in which

are packed together, side by side, ships from every part of the world,

pell mell, large and small, of every shape and every variety of rigging,

soaking like a "bouillabaise" of boats in this basin too limited in

extent, full of putrid water, where shells touch each other, rub against

each other, and seem to be pickled in the juice of the vessels.

_Notre Dame des Vents_ took up her station between an Italian brig and an

English schooner, which made way to let this comrade slip in between

them; then, when all the formalities of the custom-house and of the port

had been complied with, the captain authorized the two-thirds of his crew

to spend the night on shore.

It was already dark. Marseilles was lighted up. In the heat of this

summer's evening a flavor of cooking with garlic floated over the noisy

city, filled with the clamor of voices, of rolling vehicles, of the

crackling of whips, and of southern mirth.

As soon as they felt themselves on shore, the ten men, whom the sea had

been tossing about for some months past, proceeded along quite slowly

with the hesitating steps of persons who are out of their element,

unaccustomed to cities, two by two, procession.

They swayed from one side to another as they walked, looked about them,

smelling out the lanes opening out on the harbor, rendered feverish by

the amorous appetite which had been growing to maturity in their bodies

during their last sixty-six days at sea. The Normans strode on in front,

led by Célestin Duclos, a tall young fellow, sturdy and waggish, who

served as a captain for the others every time they set forth on land. He

divined the places worth visiting, found out by-ways after a fashion of

his own, and did not take much part in the squabbles so frequent among

sailors in seaport towns. But, once he was caught in one, he was afraid

of nobody.

After some hesitation as to which of the obscure streets which lead down

to the waterside, and from which arise heavy smells, a sort of exhalation

from closets, they ought to enter, Célestin gave the preference to a kind

of winding passage, where gleamed over the doors projecting lanterns

bearing enormous numbers on their rough colored glass. Under the narrow

arches at the entrance to the houses, women wearing aprons like servants,

seated on straw chairs, rose up on seeing them coming near, taking three

steps towards the gutter which separated the street into two halves, and

which cut off the path from this file of men, who sauntered along at

their leisure, humming and sneering, already getting excited by the

vicinity of those dens of prostitutes.

Sometimes, at the end of a hall, appeared, behind a second open door,

which presented itself unexpectedly, covered over with dark leather, a

big wench, undressed, whose heavy thighs and fat calves abruptly outlined

themselves under her coarse white cotton wrapper. Her short petticoat had

the appearance of a puffed out girdle; and the soft flesh of her breast,

her shoulders, and her arms, made a rosy stain on a black velvet corsage

with edgings of gold lace. She kept calling out from her distant corner,

"Will you come here, my pretty boys?" and sometimes she would go out

herself to catch hold of one of them, and to drag him towards her door

with all her strength, fastening on to him like a spider drawing forward

an insect bigger than itself. The man, excited by the struggle, would

offer a mild resistance, and the rest would stop to look on, undecided

between the longing to go in at once and that of lengthening this

appetizing promenade. Then when the woman, after desperate efforts, had

brought the sailor to the threshold of her abode, in which the entire

band would be swallowed up after him, Célestin Duclos, who was a judge of

houses of this sort, suddenly exclaimed: "Don't go in there, Marchand!

That's not the place."

The man, thereupon, obeying this direction, freed himself with a brutal

shake; and the comrades formed themselves into a band once more, pursued

by the filthy insults of the exasperated wench, while other women, all

along the alley, in front of them, came out past their doors, attracted

by the noise, and in hoarse voices threw out to them invitations coupled

with promises. They went on, then, more and more stimulated, from the

combined effects of the coaxings and the seductions held out as baits to

them by the choir of portresses of love all over the upper part of the

street, and the ignoble maledictions hurled at them by the choir at the

lower end--the despised choir of disappointed wenches. From time to time,

they met another band--soldiers marching along with spurs jingling at

their heels--sailors again--isolated citizens--clerks in business houses.

On all sides might be seen fresh streets, narrow, and studded all over

with those equivocal lanterns. They pursued their way still through this

labyrinth of squalid habitation, over those greasy pavements through

which putrid water was oozing, between those walls filled with women's

flesh.

At last, Duclos made up his mind, and, drawing up before a house of

rather attractive exterior, made all his companions follow him in there.

PART II

Then followed a scene of thorough going revelry. For four hours the six

sailors gorged themselves with love and wine. Six months' pay was thus

wasted.

In the principal room in the tavern they were installed as masters,

gazing with malignant glances at the ordinary customers, who were seated

at the little tables in the corners, where one of the girls, who was

left free to come and go, dressed like a big baby or a singer at a

café-concert, went about serving them, and then seated herself near them.

Each man, on coming in, had selected his partner, whom he kept all the

evening, for the vulgar taste is not changeable. They had drawn three

tables close up to them; and, after the first bumper, the procession

divided into two parts, increased by as many women as there were seamen,

had formed itself anew on the staircase. On the wooden steps, the four

feet of each couple kept tramping for some time, while this long file of

lovers got swallowed up behind the narrow doors leading into the

different rooms.

Then they came down again to have a drink, and, after they had returned

to the rooms descended the stairs once more.

Now, almost intoxicated, they began to howl. Each of them, with bloodshot

eyes, and his chosen female companion on his knee, sang or bawled, struck

the table with his fist, shouted while swilling wine down his throat, set

free the human brute. In the midst of them, Célestin Duclos, pressing

close to him, a big damsel with red cheeks, who sat astride over his

legs, gazed at her ardently. Less tipsy than the others, not that he had

taken less drink, he was as yet occupied with other thoughts, and, more

tender than his comrades, he tried to get up a chat. His thoughts

wandered a little, escaped him, and then came back, and disappeared

again, without allowing him to recollect exactly what he meant to say.

"What time--what time--how long are you here?"

"Six months," the girl answered.

He seemed to be satisfied with her, as if this were a proof of good

conduct, and he went on questioning her:

"Do you like this life?"

She hesitated, then in a tone of resignation.

"One gets used to it. It is not more worrying than any other kind of

life. To be a servant-girl or else a scrub is always a nasty occupation."

He looked as if he also approved of the truthful remark.

"You are not from this place?" said he.

She answered merely by shaking her head.

"Do you come from a distance?"

She nodded, still without opening her lips.

"Where is it you come from?"

She appeared to be thinking, to be searching her memory, then said

falteringly:

"From Perpignan."

He was once more perfectly satisfied, and said:

"Ah! yes."

In her turn she asked:

"And you, are you a sailor?"

"Yes, my beauty."

"Do you come from a distance?"

"Ah! yes. I have seen countries, ports, and everything."

"You have been round the world, perhaps?"

"I believe you, twice rather than once."

Again she seemed to hesitate, to search in her brain for something that

she had forgotten, then, in a tone somewhat different, more serious:

"Have you met many ships in your voyages?"

"I believe you, my beauty."

"You did not happen to see the _Notre Dame des Vents_?"

He chuckled:

"No later than last week."

She turned pale, all the blood leaving her cheeks, and asked:

"Is that true, perfectly true?"

"'Tis true as I tell you."

"Honor bright! you are not telling me a lie?"

He raised his hand.

"Before God, I'm not!" said he.

"Then do you know whether Célestin Duclos is still on her?"

He was astonished, uneasy, and wished, before answering, to learn

something further.

"Do you know him?"

She became distrustful in turn.

"Oh! 'tis not myself--'tis a woman who is acquainted with him."

"A woman from this place?"

"No, from a place not far off."

"In the street?"

"What sort of a woman?"

"Why, then, a woman--a woman like myself."

"What has she to say to him, this woman?"

"I believe she is a country-woman of his."

They stared into one another's hand, watching one another, feeling,

divining that something of a grave nature was going to arise between

them.

He resumed:

"I could see her there, this woman."

"What would you say to her?"

"I would say to her--I would say to her--that I had seen Célestin

Duclos."

"He is quite well--isn't he?"

"As well as you or me--he is a strapping young fellow."

She became silent again, trying to collect her ideas; then slowly:

"Where has the _Notre Dame des Vents_ gone to?"

"Why, just to Marseilles."

She could not repress a start.

"Is that really true?"

"'Tis really true."

"Do you know Duclos?"

"Yes, I do know him."

She still hesitated; then in a very gentle tone:

"Good! That's good!"

"What do you want with him?"

"Listen!--you will tell him--nothing!"

He stared at her, more and more perplexed. At last, he put this question

to her:

"Do you know him, too, yourself?"

"No," said she.

"Then what do you want with him?"

Suddenly, she made up her mind what to do, left her seat, rushed over to

the bar where the landlady of the tavern presided, seized a lemon, which

she tore open, and shed its juice into a glass, then she filled this

glass with pure water, and carrying it across to him:

"Drink this!"

"Why?"

"To make it pass for wine. I will talk to you afterwards."

He drank it without further protest, wiped his lips with the back of his

hand, then observed:

"That's all right. I am listening to you."

"You will promise not to tell him you have seen me, or from whom you

learned what I am going to tell you. You must swear not to do so."

He raised his hand.

"All right. I swear I will not."

"Before God?"

"Before God."

"Well, you will tell him that his father died, that his mother died, that

his brother died, the whole three in one month, of typhoid fever, in

January, 1883--three years and a half ago."

In his turn, he felt all his blood set in motion through his entire body,

and for a few seconds he was so much overpowered that he could make no

reply; then he began to doubt what she had told him, and asked:

"Are you sure?"

"I am sure."

"Who told it to you?"

She laid her hands on his shoulders, and looking at him out of the depths

of her eyes:

"You swear not to blab?"

"I swear that I will not."

"I am his sister!"

He uttered that name in spite of himself:

"Francoise?"

She contemplated him once more with a fixed stare, then, excited by a

wild feeling of terror, a sense of profound horror, she faltered in a

very low tone, almost speaking into his mouth:

"Oh! oh! it is you, Célestin."

They no longer stirred, their eyes riveted in one another.

Around them, his comrades were still yelling. The sounds made by glasses,

by fists, by heels keeping time to the choruses, and the shrill cries of

the women, mingled with the roar of their songs.

He felt her leaning on him, clasping him, ashamed and frightened, his

sister. Then, in a whisper, lest anyone might hear him, so hushed that

she could scarcely catch his words:

"What a misfortune! I have made a nice piece of work of it!"

The next moment, her eyes filled with tears, and she faltered:

"Is that my fault?"

But, all of a sudden, he said:

"So then, they are dead?"

"They are dead."

"The father, the mother, and the brother?"

"The three in one month, and I told you. I was left by myself with

nothing but my clothes, for I was in debt to the apothecary and the

doctor and for the funeral of the three, and had to pay what I owed with

the furniture."

"After that I went as a servant to the house of Mait'e Cacheux--you know

him well--the cripple. I was just fifteen at the time, for you went away

when I was not quite fourteen. I tripped with him. One is so senseless

when one is young. Then I went as a nursery-maid to the notary who

debauched me also, and brought me to Havre, where he took a room for me.

After a little while, he gave up coming to see me. For three days I lived

without eating a morsel of food; and then, not being able to get

employment, I went to a house, like many others. I, too, have seen

different places--ah! and dirty places! Rouen, Evreux, Lille, Bordeaux,

Perpignan, Nice, and then Marseilles, where I am now!"

The tears started from her eyes, flowed over her nose, wet her cheeks,

and trickled into her mouth.

She went on:

"I thought you were dead, too?--my poor Cèlestin."

He said:

"I would not have recognized you myself--you were such a little thing

then, and here you are so big!--but how is it that you did not recognize

me?"

She answered with a despairing movement of her hands:

"I see so many men that they all seem to me alike."

He kept his eyes still fixed on her intently, oppressed by an emotion

that dazed him, and filled him with such pain as to make him long to cry

like a little child that has been whipped. He still held her in his

arms, while she sat astride on his knees, with his open hands against the

girl's back; and now by sheer dint of looking continually at her, he at

length recognized her, the little sister left behind in the country with

all those whom she had seen die, while he had been tossing on the seas.

Then, suddenly taking between his big seaman's paws this head found once

more, he began to kiss her, as one kisses kindred flesh. And after that,

sobs, a man's deep sobs, heaving like great billows, rose up in his

throat, resembling the hiccoughs of drunkenness.

He stammered:

"And this is you--this is you, Francoise--my little Francoise!"--

Then, all at once, he sprang up, began swearing in an awful voice, and

struck the table such a blow with his fists that the glasses were knocked

down and smashed. After that, he advanced three steps, staggered,

stretched out his arms, and fell on his face. And he rolled on the

ground, crying out, beating the floor with his hands and feet, and

uttering such groans that they seemed like a death-rattle.

All those comrades of his stared at him, and laughed.

"He's not a bit drunk," said one.

"He ought to be put to bed," said another. "If he goes out, we'll all be

run in together."

Then, as he had money in his pockets, the landlady offered to let him

have a bed, and his comrades, themselves so much intoxicated that they

could not stand upright, hoisted him up the narrow stairs to the

apartment of the woman who had just been in his company, and who remained

sitting on a chair, at the foot of that bed of crime, weeping quite as

freely as he had wept, until the morning dawned.

THE HERMIT

We had gone to see, with some friends, the old hermit installed on an

antique mound covered with tall trees, in the midst of the vast plain

which extends from Cannes to La Napoule.

On our return we spoke of those strange lay solitaries, numerous in

former times, but now a vanished race. We sought to find out the moral

causes, and endeavored to determine the nature of the griefs which

in bygone days had driven men into solitudes.

All of a sudden one of our companions said:

"I have known two solitaries--a man and a woman. The woman must be

living still. She dwelt, five years ago, on the ruins of a mountain top

absolutely deserted on the coast of Corsica, fifteen or twenty kilometers

away from every house. She lived there with a maid-servant. I went to see

her. She had certainly been a distinguished woman of the world. She

received me with politeness and even in a gracious manner, but I know

nothing about her, and I could find out nothing about her.

"As for the man, I am going to relate to you his ill-omened adventure:

* * * * *

Look round! You see over there that peaked woody mountain which stands

by itself behind La Napoule in front of the summits of the Esterel; it is

called in the district Snake Mountain. There is where my solitary lived

within the walls of a little antique temple about a dozen years ago.

Having heard about him, I resolved to make his acquaintance, and I set

out for Cannes on horseback one March morning. Leaving my steed at the

inn at La Napoule, I commenced climbing on foot that singular cave, about

one hundred and fifty perhaps, or two hundred meters in height, and

covered with aromatic plants, especially cysti, whose odor is so sharp

and penetrating that it irritates you and causes you discomfort. The soil

is stony, and you can see gliding over the pebbles long adders which

disappear in the grass. Hence this well-deserved appellation of Snake

Mountain. On certain days, the reptiles seem to spring into existence

under your feet when you climb the declivity exposed to the rays of the

sun. They are so numerous that you no longer venture to go on, and

experience a strange sense of uneasiness, not fear, for those creatures

are harmless, but a sort of mysterious terror. I had several times the

peculiar sensation of climbing a sacred mountain of antiquity, a

fantastic hill perfumed and mysterious, covered with cysti and inhabited

by serpents and crowned with a temple.

This temple still exists. They told me, at any rate, that it was a

temple; for I did not seek to know more about it so as not to destroy the

illusion.

So then, one March morning, I climbed up there under the pretext of

admiring the country. On reaching the top, I perceived, in fact, walls

and a man sitting on a stone. He was scarcely more than forty years of

age, though his hair was quite white; but his beard was still almost

black. He was fondling a cat which had cuddled itself upon his knees, and

did not seem to mind me. I took a walk around the ruins, one portion of

which covered over and shut in by means of branches, straw, grass and

stones, was inhabited by him, and I made my way towards the place which

he occupied.

The view here is splendid. On the right is the Esterel with its peaked

summit strangely carved, then the boundless sea stretching as far as the

distant coast of Italy with its numerous capes, facing Cannes, the

Lerins Islands green and flat, which look as if they were floating, and

the last of which shows in the direction of the open sea an old

castellated fortress with battlemented towers built in the very waves.

Then, commanding a view of green mountain-side where you could see, at an

equal distance, like innumerable eggs laid on the edge of the shore the

long chaplet of villas and white villages built among the trees rose the

Alps, whose summits are still shrouded in a hood of snow.

I murmured:

"Good heavens, this is beautiful!"

The man raised his head, and said:

"Yes, but when you see it every day, it is monstrous."

Then he spoke, he chatted, and tired himself with talking--my solitary,

I detained him.

I did not tarry long that day, and only endeavored to ascertain the color

of misanthropy. He created on me especially the impression of being bored

with other people, weary of everything, hopelessly disillusioned and

disgusted with himself as well as the rest.

I left him after a half-hour's conversation. But I came back, eight hours

later, and once again in the following week, then every week, so that

before two months we were friends.

Now, one evening at the close of May, I decided that the moment had

arrived, and I brought provisions in order to dine with him on Snake

Mountain.

It was one of those evenings of the South so odorous in that country

where flowers are cultivated just as wheat is in the North, in that

country where every essence that perfumes the flesh and the dress of

women is manufactured, one of those evenings when the breath of the

innumerable orange-trees with which the gardens and all the recesses of

the dales are planted, excite and cause languor so that old men have

dreams of love.

My solitary received me with manifest pleasure. He willingly consented to

share in my dinner.

I made him drink a little wine, to which he had ceased to be accustomed.

He brightened up and began to talk about his past life. He had always

resided in Paris, and had, it seemed to me, lived a gay bachelor's life.

I asked him abruptly:

"What put into your head this funny notion of going to live on the top of

a mountain?"

He answered immediately:

"Her! it was because I got the most painful shock that a man can

experience. But why hide from you this misfortune of mine? It will make

you pity me, perhaps! And then--I have never told anyone--never--and

I would like to know, for once, what another thinks of it, and how he

judges it."

"Born in Paris, brought up in Paris, I grew to manhood and spent my life

in that city. My parents had left me an income of some thousands of

francs a year, and I procured as a shelter, a modest and tranquil place

which enabled me to pass as wealthy for a bachelor.

"I had, since my youth, led a bachelor's life. You know what that is.

Free and without family, resolved not to take a legitimate wife, I passed

at one time three months with one, at another time six months with

another, then a year without a companion, taking as my prey the mass

of women who are either to be had for the asking or bought.

"This every day, or, if you like the phrase better, commonplace,

existence agreed with me, satisfied my natural tastes for changes and

silliness. I lived on the boulevard, in theaters and cafés, always out of

doors, always without a regular home, though I was comfortably housed. I

was one of those thousands of beings who let themselves float like corks,

through life, for whom the walls of Paris are the walls of the world,

and who have no care about anything, having no passion for anything. I

was what is called a good fellow, without accomplishments and without

defects. That is all. And I judge myself correctly.

"Then, from twenty to forty years, my existence flowed along slowly or

rapidly without any remarkable event. How quickly they pass, the

monstrous years of Paris, when none of those memories worth fixing the

date of find way into the soul, these long and yet hurried years, trivial

and gay, when you eat, drink and laugh without knowing why, your lips

stretched out towards all they can taste and all they can kiss, without

having a longing for anything. You are young, and you grow old without

doing any of the things that others do, without any attachment, any root,

any bond, almost without friends, without family, without wife, without

children.

"So, gently and quickly, I reached my fortieth year; and in order to

celebrate this anniversary, I invited myself to take a good dinner all

alone in one of the principal cafés.

"After dinner, I was in doubt as to what I would do. I felt disposed to

go to a theater; and then the idea came into my head to make a pilgrimage

to the Latin quarters, where I had in former days lived as a law-student.

So I made my way across Paris, and without premeditation went in to one

of those public-houses where you are served by girls.

"The one who attended at my table was quite young, pretty, and

merry-looking. I asked her to take a drink, and she at once consented.

She sat down opposite me, and gazed at me with a practiced eye, without

knowing with what kind of a male she had to do. She was a fair-haired

woman, or rather a fair-haired girl, a fresh, quite fresh young creature,

whom you guessed to be rosy and plump under her swelling bodice. I talked

to her in that flattering and idiotic style which we always adopt with

girls of this sort; and as she was truly charming, the idea suddenly

occurred to me to take her with me--always with a view to celebrating my

fortieth year. It was neither a long nor difficult task. She was free,

she told me, for the past fortnight, and she forthwith accepted my

invitation to come and sup with me in the Halles when her work would be

finished.

"As I was afraid lest she might give me the slip--you never can tell what

may happen, or who may come into those drink-shops, or what wind may blow

into a woman's head--I remained there all the evening waiting for her.

"I, too, had been free for the past month or two, and watching this

pretty debutante of love going from table to table, I asked myself the

question whether it would not be worth my while to make a bargain with

her to live with me for some time. I am here relating to you one of those

ordinary adventures which occur every day in the lives of men in Paris.

"Excuse me for such gross details. Those who have not loved in a poetic

fashion take and choose women, as you choose a chop in a butcher's shop

without caring about anything save the quality of their flesh.

"Accordingly, I took her to her own house--for I had a regard for my own

sheets. It was a little working-girl's lodgings in the fifth story, clean

and poor, and I spent two delightful hours there. This little girl had a

certain grace and a rare attractiveness.

"When I was about to leave the room, I advanced towards the mantelpiece

in order to place there the stipulated present, after having agreed on a

day for a second meeting with the girl, who remained in bed, I got a

vague glimpse of a clock without a globe, two flower-vases and two

photographs, one of them very old, one of those proofs on glass called

daguerreo-types. I carelessly bent forward towards this portrait, and I

remained speechless at the sight, too amazed to comprehend.... It was my

own, the first portrait of myself, which I had got taken in the days when

I was a student in the Latin Quarter.

"I abruptly snatched it up to examine it more closely. I did not deceive

myself--and I felt a desire to burst out laughing, so unexpected and

queer did the thing appear to me.

"I asked:

"'Who is this gentleman?'

"She replied:

"'Tis my father, whom I did not know. Mamma left it to me, telling me to

keep it, as it might be useful to me, perhaps, one day--'

"She hesitated, began to laugh, and went on:

"'I don't know in what way, upon my word. I don't think he'll care to

acknowledge me.'

"My heart went beating wildly, like the mad gallop of a runaway horse. I

replaced the portrait, laying it down flat on the mantelpiece. On top of

it I placed, without even knowing what I was doing, two notes for a

hundred francs, which I had in my pocket, and I rushed away, exclaiming:

"'We'll meet again soon--by-bye, darling--by-bye.'

"I heard her answering:

"'Till Tuesday.'

"I was on the dark staircase, which I descended, groping my way down.

"When I got into the open air, I saw that it was raining, and I started

at a great pace down some street or other.

"I walked straight on, stupefied, distracted, trying to jog my memory!

Was this possible? Yes. I remembered all of a sudden a girl who had

written to me, about a month after our rupture, that she was going

to have a child by me. I had torn or burned the letter, and had forgotten

all about the matter. I should have looked at the woman's photograph over

the girl's mantelpiece. But would I have recognized it? It was the

photograph of an old woman, it seemed to me.

"I reached the quay. I saw a bench, and sat down on it. It went on

raining. People passed from time to time under umbrellas. Life appeared

to me odious and revolting, full of miseries, of shames, of infamies

deliberate or unconscious. My daughter!... I had just perhaps possessed

my own daughter! And Paris, this vast Paris, somber, mournful, dirty,

sad, black, with all those houses shut up, was full of such things,

adulteries, incests, violated children, I recalled to mind what I had

been told about bridges haunted by the infamous votaries of vice.

"I had acted, without wishing it, without being aware of it, in a worse

fashion than these ignoble beings. I had entered my own daughter's bed!

"I was on the point of throwing myself into the water. I was mad! I

wandered about till dawn, then I came back to my own house to think.

"I thereupon did what appeared to me the wisest thing. I desired a notary

to send for this little girl, and to ask her under what conditions her

mother had given her the portrait of him whom she supposed to be her

father, stating that he was intrusted with this duty by a friend.

"The notary executed my commands. It was on her death-bed that this woman

had designated the father of her daughter, and in the presence of a

priest, whose name was given to me.

"Then, still in the name of this unknown friend, I got half of my fortune

sent to this child, about one hundred and forty thousand francs, of which

she could only get the income. Then I resigned my employment--and here I

am.

"While wandering along this shore, I found this mountain, and I stopped

there--up to what time I am unable to say!

"What do you think of me, and of what I have done?"

I replied as I extended my hand towards him:

"You have done what you ought to do. Many others would have attached less

importance to this odious fatality."

He went on:

"I know that, but I was nearly going mad on account of it. It seems I had

a sensitive soul without ever suspecting it. And now I am afraid of

Paris, as believers are bound to be afraid of Hell. I have received a

blow on the head--that is all--a blow resembling the fall of a tile when

one is passing through the street. I am getting better for some time

past."

I quitted my solitary. I was much disturbed by his narrative.

I saw him again twice, then I went away, for I never remain in the South

after the month of May.

When I came back in the following year the man was no longer on Snake

Mountain; and I have never since heard anything about him.

This is the history of my hermit.

THE ORDERLY

The cemetery, filled with officers, looked like a field covered with

flowers. The kepis and the red trousers, the stripes and the gold

buttons, the shoulder-knots of the staff, the braid of the chasseurs and

the hussars, passed through the midst of the tombs, whose crosses, white

or black, opened their mournful arms--their arms of iron, marble, or

wood--over the vanished race of the dead.

Colonel Limousin's wife had just been buried. She had been drowned, two

days before, while taking a bath. It was over. The clergy had left; but

the colonel, supported by two brother-officers, remained standing in

front of the pit, at the bottom of which he saw still the oaken coffin,

wherein lay, already decomposed, the body of his young wife.

He was almost an old man, tall and thin, with white moustache; and, three

years ago, he had married the daughter of a comrade, left an orphan on

the death of her father, Colonel Sortis.

The captain and the lieutenant, on whom their commanding officer was

leaning, attempted to lead him away. He resisted, his eyes full of tears,

which he heroically held back, and murmuring, "No, no, a little while

longer!" he persisted in remaining there, his legs bending under him, at

the side of that pit, which seemed to him bottomless, an abyss into which

had fallen his heart and his life, all that he held dear on earth.

Suddenly, General Ormont came up, seized the colonel by the arm, and

dragging him from the spot almost by force said: "Come, come, my old

comrade! you must not remain here."

The colonel thereupon obeyed, and went back to his quarters. As he opened

the door of his study, he saw a letter on the table. When he took it in

his hands, he was near falling with surprise and emotion; he recognized

his wife's handwriting. And the letter bore the post-mark and the date

of the same day. He tore open the envelope and read:

* * * * *

"Father,

"Permit me to call you still father, as in days gone by. When you receive

this letter, I shall be dead and under the clay. Therefore, perhaps, you

may forgive me.

"I do not want to excite your pity or to extenuate my sin. I only want to

tell the entire and complete truth, with all the sincerity of a woman

who, in an hour's time, is going to kill herself.

"When you married me through generosity, I gave myself to you through

gratitude, and I loved you with all my girlish heart. I loved you as I

loved my own father--almost as much; and one day, while I sat on your

knee, and you were kissing me, I called you 'Father' in spite of myself.

It was a cry of the heart, instinctive, spontaneous. Indeed, you were to

me a father, nothing but a father. You laughed, and you said to me,

'Address me always in that way, my child; it gives me pleasure.'

"We came to the city; and--forgive me, father--I fell in love. Ah! I

resisted long, well, nearly two years--and then I yielded, I sinned, I

became a fallen woman.

"And as to him? You will never guess who he is. I am easy enough about

that matter, since there were a dozen officers always around me and with

me, whom you called my twelve constellations.

"Father, do not seek to know him, and do not hate him. He only did what

any man, no matter whom, would have done in his place, and then I am sure

that he loved me, too, with all his heart.

"But listen! One day we had an appointment in the isle of Becasses--you

know the little isle, close to the mill. I had to get there by swimming,

and he had to wait for me in a thicket, and then to remain there till

nightfall, so that nobody should see him going away. I had just met him

when the branches opened, and we saw Philippe, your orderly, who had

surprised us. I felt that we were lost, and I uttered a great cry.

Thereupon he said to me--he, my lover--'Go, swim back quietly, my

darling, and leave me here with this man.'