CHAPTER VIII

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

THE LOVERS' TRYST

JULIEN'S RUSE

A DISTURBED CONFERENCE

JULIEN ESCORTS MADAME D'ESTRELLE

JULIE AT THE CONVENT AT CHAILLOT

THE CHRISTENING OF THE LILY

ANTONIA

_To M. EDOUARD RODRIGUES_

To you who adopt orphan children, and who do good

modestly, with both hands and at sight, as you read Mozart

and Beethoven.

GEORGE SAND

I

The time was the month of April, 1785, and the place Paris, where the

spring that year was a genuine spring. The garden was in holiday attire,

the greensward was studded with marguerites, the birds were singing, and

the lilacs grew so straight and so close to Julien's window, that their

fragrant clusters actually entered his room and strewed the white tiled

floor of his studio with their little violet crosses.

Julien Thierry was a painter of flowers, like his father André Thierry,

renowned under Louis XV. in the art of decorating spaces over doors,

dining-room panels and boudoir ceilings. Those dainty ornaments became,

under his skilful hands, objects of genuine, serious art, so that the

artisan had became an artist, highly esteemed by people of taste,

handsomely paid, and a person of much consideration in society. Julien,

his pupil, had confined himself to painting on canvas. The fashion of

his time frowned upon the fanciful and charming decorations of the

Pompadour style. The Louis XVI. style was more severe; flowers were no

longer strewn upon walls and ceilings, but were framed. Julien, then,

painted flower and fruit pieces of the Mignon variety, mother-of-pearl

shells, multi-colored butterflies, green lizards and drops of dew. He

had much talent, he was handsome, he was twenty-four years old, and his

father had left him nothing but debts.

André Thierry's widow was there in the studio where Julien was at work,

and where the clusters of lilac shed their petals under the soft touch

of a warm breeze. She was a woman of sixty, well-preserved, with eyes

that were still beautiful, hair almost black, and slim, delicate hands.

Short, slight, pale, dressed poorly, but with studied neatness, Madame

Thierry was knitting mittens, and from time to time raised her eyes to

glance at her son, who was absorbed in the study of a rose.

"Julien," she said, "why is it, I wonder, that you don't sing now when

you are working? You might induce the nightingale to let us hear his

voice."

"Listen, mother, there he is now," Julien replied. "He doesn't need

anybody to give him the key."

And at that moment they did in fact hear the pure, sweet and resonant

notes of the nightingale for the first time that year.

"Ah! so he has come!" exclaimed Madame Thierry. "To think that a whole

year has passed!--Can you see him, Julien?" she asked, as the young man,

putting aside his work, scrutinized the shrubs massed in front of the

window.

"I thought I saw him," he replied with a sigh, "but I was mistaken."

And he returned to his easel. His mother watched him more closely, but

she dared not question him.

"Never mind," she began after a few moments, "you have a beautiful voice

too, and I used to love to hear you sing the pretty ballads your poor

father sang so well--only last year at just this time!"

"Yes," Julien replied, "you insist on my singing them, and then you

weep. No, I don't propose to sing any more!"

"I won't weep, I promise you! Sing me a lively one, and I will laugh--as

if he were here!"

"No! don't ask me to sing. It makes me feel sad too! Later, later! it

will come back gradually. Let us not force our sorrow!"

"Julien, we must not talk about sorrow any more," said the mother in a

tone of gentle but indubitably strong determination. "I was a little

weak at the beginning; you will forgive me, won't you? To lose thirty

years of happiness in a day! But I ought to have reflected that you lost

more than I did, because I still have you, while I am good for nothing

except to love you."

"And what more can I want?" said Julien, kneeling in front of his

mother. "You love me as no one else will ever love me, I know! and I do

not say that you were weak. You concealed from me at least half of your

suffering, I saw it and understood it. I gave you full credit for it,

never fear, and I thank you for it, my dear mother! You sustained me

when I needed it sadly; for I suffered on your account at least as much

as on my own, and, when I saw how brave you were, I was always certain

that God would perform a miracle to keep you alive and well for me,

despite the most cruel of trials. He owed us that much, and He did it.

Now, mother, you do not feel weak and disheartened any more, do you?"

"Now, my child, I am really happy. You are right in thinking that God

sustains those who do not despair, and that He gives strength to those

who pray to Him for it with all their hearts. Do not think that I am

unhappy; I have wept bitterly; but how could I do otherwise? he was so

lovely, so kind to us! and he always seemed to be so happy! He might

have lived a long while--but that was not God's will. I have had such a

beautiful life that I really had no right to ask for anything more. And

see what the divine goodness has left me! the best and most dearly loved

of sons! Should I complain? Should I pray for death? No, no! I will join

your dear father when my time comes, and he will say to me: 'You did

well to remain on earth as long as you could, and not leave our beloved

son too soon.'"

"So you see," said Julien, putting his arms around his mother, "that we

are no longer unhappy, and that there is no need for me to sing to

divert our thoughts. We can think of him without bitterness and of each

other without selfishness."

They remained in a close embrace for an instant, then returned to their

respective occupations.

This took place in Rue de Babylone, in a sort of pavilion, already very

old, for it dated from the reign of Louis XIII., and stood by itself at

the end of the street, whose most modest structure--and at the same time

the one nearest the said pavilion--was the house, to-day torn down,

which was then called the hôtel d'Estrelle.

While Julien and his mother were engaged in the conversation we have

just reported, two other persons were talking in a dainty little salon

of the aforesaid hôtel d'Estrelle, a cool, homelike apartment,

decorated in the style of the last years of Louis XVI., a pretty bastard

Greek style, a little stiff in outline, but harmonious in tone and set

off by much gilding against a pearl-white ground. The Comtesse

d'Estrelle was simply dressed in a half-mourning gown of gray silk, and

her friend the Baronne d'Ancourt in a morning visiting costume--that is

to say, in an elaborate combination of muslins, ribbons and lace.

"Dear heart," she was saying to the countess, "I don't understand you at

all. You are twenty years old; you are as beautiful as the Loves, and

you persist in living in solitude like the wife of a petty bourgeois!

You have put off your mourning, and everybody knows that you had no

reason to regret your husband, the least regrettable of mankind. He left

you a fortune; that is the only reasonable thing he ever did in his

life."

"And as to that, my dear baroness, you are entirely mistaken. The

fortune the count left me is overburdened with debts; I was told that,

by making a few sacrifices and depriving myself of some luxuries, I

might clear myself in a few years. So I accepted the succession without

looking into it very carefully, and the result is that to-day, after two

years of uncertainty and long explanations of which I did not understand

a word, my new solicitor, who is a very honorable man, assures me that I

have been deceived and that I am much nearer being poor than rich. The

case is so serious, my dear, that I have been in consultation with him

this morning to decide whether or not I could keep this house."

"What! sell your house! Why, that is impossible, my dear! It would be a

stain on your husband's memory. His family will never consent to that."

"His family say that they will not consent, but they also say that they

will not help me in any way. What do they want, and what do they expect

me to do?"

"They are a detestable family!" cried the baroness, "but I ought not to

be astonished at anything that the old marquis and his bigot of a wife

may do!"

At that moment Monsieur Marcel Thierry was announced.

"Show him in," said the countess; and she added, addressing the

baroness: "it is the very person of whom I was just speaking--my

solicitor."

"In that case I will leave you."

"That is not necessary. He has but a word to say to me, and as you know

my plight----"

"And am deeply interested in it. I will remain."

The solicitor entered.

He was a man of about forty, balder than was natural at his age, but

with a pleasant face, good-humored and frank, although remarkably shrewd

and even satirical. One could see that much experience of the conduct of

men at odds with their selfish interests had made him thoroughly

practical, perhaps sceptical, but that it had not destroyed his ideal of

uprightness and sincerity, which he was all the better able to recognize

and appreciate.

"Well, Monsieur Thierry," said the countess, motioning to a chair, "is

there anything new since this morning that you have taken the trouble to

return?"

"Yes, madame," the solicitor replied, "there is something new. Monsieur

le Marquis d'Estrelle sent his man of business to me with an offer which

I have accepted in your behalf, subject to your assent, which I have

come to obtain. He suggests coming to your assistance by turning over a

few unimportant pieces of property, the total value of which, to be

sure, will not pay all the debts which are hanging over you, but which

will allay your anxieties for a moment and delay the sale of your house

by enabling you to give your creditors something on account."

"Something _on account!_ Is that all?" cried the Baroness d'Ancourt

indignantly. "That is all that the Estrelle family can do for the widow

of a spendthrift? Why, it is a perfect outrage, monsieur le procureur!"

"It is at the best a pitifully mean performance," rejoined Marcel

Thierry; "I wasted my eloquence, and this is where we stand. As madame

la comtesse has no fortune of her own, she is forced, in order to retain

even a paltry dower, to submit to the conditions imposed by a family

devoid of consideration and generosity."

"Say of heart and honor!" exclaimed the baroness.

"Say nothing at all," added the countess, who had listened with a

resigned expression. "The family is what it is; it is not for me to pass

judgment on them, bearing their name as I do. In every other respect I

am a stranger to them, and lamentations would come with a very bad grace

from me, for I alone am to blame."

"You to blame!" repeated the solicitor, with an incredulous smile.

"Yes," continued Madame d'Estrelle. "I have committed one great sin in

my life. I consented to that marriage, against which my heart and my

instincts rebelled. I was a coward! I was a mere child, and they gave me

my choice between a convent and a disagreeable husband; I was afraid of

everlasting seclusion, so I accepted the everlasting humiliation of an

ill-assorted marriage. I did as so many other women have done, I thought

that wealth would take the place of happiness. Happiness! I did not

know, I have never known what it is. I was told that it consisted, above

all things, in riding in a carriage, wearing diamonds, and having a box

at the opera. My head was turned, I was intoxicated, put to sleep with

presents. I must not say that my hand was forced, for that would not be

true. To be sure there were locks and bolts and bars, imprisonment for

life in the cloister, before me in case of refusal; but there was

neither axe nor executioner, and I might have said no if I had had any

courage. But we have none, my dear baroness, we may as well admit it; we

women cannot make up our minds to resign frankly, and conceal our

spring-time under the veil of a nun, which, however, would be more

dignified, more honest and perhaps pleasanter in the end than to throw

ourselves into the arms of the first stranger who presents himself. That

then was my cowardice, my blindness, my folly, my vanity, my neglect of

myself--in a word, my sin! I hope never to commit another; but I cannot

forget that my punishment has come through my sin. I allowed puerile

ambition to dispose of my life, and to-day I see that I was deceived,

that I am not rich, that I must sell diamonds and horses, and that there

is great danger that before long I shall not have over my head the roof

of a house that bears my crest. That is as it should be--I feel it and

admit it; I am penitent, but I do not want to be pitied, and I shall

accept without discussion such alms as my husband's relations choose to

bestow upon me in order to save his honor."

A pause of amazement and emotion succeeded this declaration from Julie

d'Estrelle. She had spoken with ill-concealed distress, like one weary

of discussing pecuniary interests, who gives way to the craving to pass

her mental life in review and to discover the philosophical formula for

her situation. The proud Amélie d'Ancourt was more scandalized than

moved by an avowal which condemned her own ideas and the customs of her

caste; moreover, she considered this effusive outburst on her friend's

part, in the presence of a petty attorney, a little dangerous.

As for the attorney, he was sincerely touched; but he did not allow it

to appear, being accustomed to see such explosions of secret feeling

override the proprieties, even among people of the highest rank.

"My fair client is a sincere and touching creature," he said to himself;

"she is right to accuse herself; there is no human law which can force a

_yes_ from the mouth which is determined to say _no_. She sinned like

other women, because she longed for glittering gewgaws; but she sadly

admits it, and in that she shows herself superior to most of her

sisters. It is not for me to console her; I will confine myself to

saving her, if I can.--Madame," he said aloud, after turning over these

reflections in his mind, "you can augur better for your interests in the

future than in the past. The present shows that monsieur le marquis will

not easily make up his mind to set you free, but that he will not make

up his mind to abandon you in any event. The paltry assistance which he

offers you is not to be the last, so I was given to understand, and I am

certain of it. Wait a few months, allow his son's creditors to threaten

you, and you will find that he will put his hand in his pocket again to

prevent the sale of this house. Forget these worries, do not think of

moving, trust to time and circumstances."

"Very good, monsieur," said the baroness, who was in haste to give her

opinion and display her pride of rank. "That is very excellent advice of

yours; but, if I were in madame la countesse's place, I would not follow

it. I would flatly refuse these miserable little charities! Yes, indeed,

I should blush to accept them! I would go from this house with head

erect, and live in a convent; or, better still, I would go to some one

of my friends, Baronne d'Ancourt for example, and I would say to the

marquis and marchioness: 'Arrange matters to suit yourselves; I will let

the house be sold. I have incurred no debts, and I do not worry about

those left by monsieur your son. Pay them with the tattered remnants of

a fortune that he left me, and we will see whether you will put up with

the public spectacle of my destitution.'--Yes, my dear Julie, that is

what I would do, and I promise you that the marquis, who is very rich by

his second marriage, would retract these infamous propositions he makes

to-day."

"Does Madame la Comtesse d'Estrelle coincide with that opinion," said

the solicitor, "and am I to burn our bridges?"

"No," replied the countess. "Tell me in two words of what my

father-in-law's contribution consists, and, whatever it may be, I accept

it."

"It consists," replied Marcel Thierry, "of a small farm in the

Beauvoisis, worth about twenty thousand francs, and a very old, but not

badly dilapidated pavilion, situated on your street at the end of the

garden of your hôtel."

"Ah! that old pavilion of Richelieu's day?" said the countess

indifferently.

"A mere hovel!" said the baroness; "it is good for nothing but to pull

down!"

"Possibly," replied Marcel; "but the land has some value, and as the

street is being built up, you might find a purchaser for it."

"And allow a house to be built so near my own," said Julie, "overlooking

my garden, and almost overlooking my apartments."

"No, you would require that the house should turn its back to you and

_take the air_ from the street or from my uncle's garden."

"Who might your uncle be?" queried the baroness, with an indescribable

touch of contempt in her tone.

"Monsieur Marcel Thierry," said the countess, "is a near relative of my

wealthy neighbor, Monsieur Antoine Thierry, of whom you must certainly

have heard."

"Oh! yes, a former tradesman."

"An armorer," rejoined Marcel. "He made his fortune in the colonies

without ever setting foot on a ship, and, thanks to shrewd planning and

good luck, he made several millions in his chimney corner, you might

say."

"I congratulate him," replied the baroness. "And he lives in this

neighborhood?"

"His house faces the new court; but his garden is separated only by a

wall from the Comtesse d'Estrelle's, and the pavilion forms a sort of

elbow between the two estates. Now my uncle might purchase the pavilion,

either to straighten his own lines by destroying it, or to repair it and

turn it into a green-house or gardener's lodge."

"So the wealthy Monsieur Thierry has his eye on the pavilion," observed

the baroness, "and perhaps he has commissioned you----"

"He has commissioned me to do nothing," Marcel interrupted in a firm

tone. "He has no knowledge whatever of the affairs of my other clients."

"Then you are his solicitor also?"

"Naturally, madame la baronne; but that will not prevent me from making

him pay the highest possible price for whatever it may please madame la

comtesse to sell him, and he will not take it ill of me. He is too good

a man of business not to know the value of a piece of real estate that

he really wants."

"But I have not decided to sell the property we are talking about," said

the countess, emerging from a sort of vague reverie. "It does not annoy

me at all. It is occupied, I am told, by a most excellent person of

quiet habits."

"True, madame," said Marcel; "but the rent is so small that it will

increase your income very slightly. However, if you prefer to keep it,

it will be of use to you, in that it represents a substantial security

for the interest on your debts."

"We will talk about this again, Monsieur Thierry. I will think it over

and you will advise me further. Tell me the total amount of the gift to

be made to me."

"About thirty thousand francs."

"Should I express my thanks for it?"

"If I were in your place, I would do nothing of the kind!" cried the

baroness.

"Do so by all means," said the solicitor in an undertone. "A word of

amiable and modest resignation costs a heart like yours nothing at all."

The countess wrote two lines and handed them to Marcel.

"Let us hope," he said, as he rose to go, "that the Marquis d'Estrelle

will be touched by your gentleness."

"He is not a bad man," replied Julie, "but he is very old and feeble,

and his second wife governs him completely."

"She is a genuine plague spot, that ex-Madame d'Orlandes!" cried the

baroness.

"Do not speak ill of her, madame la baronne," retorted Marcel; "she

belongs to that society and entertains those opinions which you

certainly look upon as the law and the prophets."

"What is that, monsieur le procureur?"

"She abhors the new ideas and considers the privileges of birth the

blessed ark of tradition."

"Do not insult me by comparing me to that woman," said the baroness;

"that her ideas are all right is very possible; but her actions are all

wrong. She is miserly, and people say that she would even desert her

opinions for money."

"Oh! in that case," said Marcel, with an equivocal smile which Madame

d'Ancourt took for an act of homage, "I can understand that madame la

baronne must regard her with profound aversion."

He bowed and retired.

"That man is not by any means ill-bred!" said the baroness, who had

observed the dignified and respectful ease of his exit. "His name is

Thierry, you say?"

"Like his uncle's the rich man, and like his other uncle, much more

favorably known, Thierry the painter of flowers."

"Ah! the painter? I almost knew the excellent Thierry. My husband used

to receive him in the morning."

"Everybody received him at all hours, my dear love, at least all people

of taste and intelligence; for he was a charming old man, extremely well

educated and most agreeable in conversation."

"Baron d'Ancourt apparently lacks taste and intelligence, for he did not

choose to have him to dinner."

"I do not say that the baron lacks----"

"Say it, say it, I don't care; I know more about it than you do."

And, having delivered that double-edged retort, the baroness, who had a

sovereign contempt for her husband's intellect, but forgave him in

consideration of his eminent qualities in the matter of noble birth,

indulged in a hearty and good-humored peal of laughter.

"Let us return to these Thierrys," she said. "Do I understand that you

were well acquainted with the artist?"

"No, I did not know him. You know that Comte d'Estrelle fell sick

immediately after our marriage, that I went with him to take the waters,

and that as a matter of fact I have never received visitors at all, for

he simply languished and languished until he died."

"That is why you have never seen society and know nothing about it. Poor

dear, after sacrificing yourself for a brilliant life, you have known

nothing except the duties due to a dying man, the crêpe of mourning,

and the annoyances of business! Come, you must leave all this behind

you, my dear Julie; you must marry again."

"Ah! God forbid!" cried the countess.

"You propose to live alone and bury yourself, at your age? Impossible!"

"I cannot say that is to my taste, for I have no idea. I have

passed so entirely beside everything that goes to make up the life of

young women--marriage, wealth and liberty--that I am hardly acquainted

with myself. I know that I have consumed two years in ennui and

melancholy, and thus far in my solitude, except for these money

troubles, which are exceedingly distasteful to me, but which I do my

best to endure without bitterness, I find myself in a more tolerable

condition than in those through which I have previously passed. It may

be that my character lacks energy just as my mind lacks variety. Being

driven to some occupation to kill time, I have taken a liking to quiet

amusements. I read a great deal, I draw a little, I play on the piano, I

embroider, I write occasional letters to my old friends at the convent.

I receive four or five people of a serious turn of mind, but

good-tempered, and always the same, so that I am habitually placid and

free from excitement. In a word, I do not suffer, and I am not bored;

and that is a good deal to one who has always suffered or yawned with

ennui hitherto. So leave me as I am, my friend. Come to see me as often

as you can without interfering with your pleasures, and do not worry

about my lot, which is not so bad as it might be."

"All this will do very well for a while, my dear, and you act like a

woman of spirit by meeting misfortune with a stout heart; but all things

have their day, and you must not sacrifice too much of the age of beauty

and the advantages which it procures. You are not, be it said without

offence, of very exalted birth, but your unfortunate marriage gave you a

fine name and a title which placed you on a higher social level. You are

a widow, which enables you to go about and be seen and known, and you

have no children; so that you are still in all the bloom of your youth.

You have no fortune; but, as your dower, overladen with debts as it is,

will be no great loss, you can very well hold it cheap, and renounce it

for a more eligible suitor than the first. If you choose to put yourself

in my hands, I will undertake to arrange the sort of marriage for you to

which you have a perfect right to aspire."

"The sort of marriage? You surprise me; explain yourself!"

"I mean to say that you are too fascinating not to be married for love."

"Very good; but will it be someone whom I shall be able to love?"

"If the man, instead of being a spendthrift and a fool, is really rich

and well-born, for that is most important of all, and you cannot descend

socially without blame; if he has breeding, tact, and the instincts of a

man of quality; and, lastly, if he is an honorable man--what more can

you ask? You must not expect that he will be in his first youth, and

built like the hero of a novel.--We see but few of those magnificent

creatures who are disposed to select a person of great merit for her

lovely eyes; everybody is more or less hard up in these days!"

"I understand you," replied Madame d'Estrelle, with a sad smile. "You

wish me to marry some excellent old man, some friend of yours, for I do

not believe that you would propose a monster to me. Thanks, my dear

baroness, I don't propose again to hire myself out to an invalid for

large wages; for, to put things baldly, that is the sort of good-fortune

which you have in mind for me. But, although I should be capable of

waiting upon and nursing a father, if I had one, with the utmost

tenderness, or even an old friend who needed me, I am firmly resolved

never again to put my neck in the yoke of an infirm and morose stranger.

I conscientiously fulfilled those depressing duties to Monsieur

d'Estrelle, and everybody gave me credit for it. Now I am free, and I

propose to remain free. I have no relatives left--only a few friends. I

desire nothing more, and I ask you in all seriousness not to seek

happiness for me according to your ideas, which I do not share. You, my

friend, are still what I was at sixteen, when I was married. You have

retained the illusions which were dinned into my ears; you believe that

one cannot do without wealth and show, and, therefore, are younger than

I. So much the better for you, since fate has bound you to a husband who

denies you nothing. That is all that you need, is it not? But I should

be more exacting; I should like to love. You laugh? Ah! yes, I know your

theories. 'The honeymoon is short,' you have said to me a hundred times;

'but the golden moon is the light which never goes out.' For my part, I

am foolish enough to say to myself that on the first day of my married

life I propose to love and believe, even though it last but a day!

Otherwise, I know by experience, marriage is a shame and a martyrdom."

"If that is so," said the baroness, rising, "I leave you to your

reveries, my dear friend, and humbly beg pardon for interrupting them."

She took her leave somewhat piqued, for she was perspicacious, although

foolish, and she realized that the gentle-mannered Julie, in that

outbreak of rebellion, had told her a home-truth; but she was not

evil-minded, and an hour later had forgotten her spleen. Indeed, she

felt a little depressed, and at times was quite ready to say to herself:

"Perhaps Julie is right!"

Julie, on her part, felt that all her courage failed her as soon as she

was left alone, and her pride melted away in tears. She was strong only

as a result of nervous reactions, and perhaps of a more eager craving

for love than she confessed to herself. Naturally she was timid, even

shrinking. She knew the baroness's kind heart too well to fear a real

rupture with her; but she too said to herself:

"Perhaps Amélie is right! I seek the impossible, the surroundings of

rank and fortune in conjunction with love! Who ever obtains that? No one

in my position. For lack of the best, I may be going to fall into the

worst, which is solitude and sadness."

She took her parasol, one of those flat white parasols which produced a

prettier effect among the shrubbery than our modern mushrooms, and

placing the heels of her little slippers softly on the turf, her skirt

turned gracefully back over the straight petticoat, she strolled

pensively along under the lilac bushes in her garden, inhaling the air

of spring in silent misery, starting at the voice of the nightingale,

thinking of nobody, yet carried outside of herself by a boundless

aspiration.

She went from lilac to lilac until she drew near the pavilion, where, an

hour earlier, Julien Thierry, the painter's son, the rich man's nephew,

the solicitor's cousin, was at work. The garden was large for a garden

in Paris, and was beautiful, both as to its arrangement and its

contents. Every day Madame d'Estrelle walked around it two or three

times, casting a melancholy or loving glance at each of the flower-beds

with which the turf was studded. When she came in sight of the windows

of the Louis XIII. pavilion, she did not turn away nor worry about being

seen, for the pavilion had been long unoccupied. Julien and his mother

had been settled there only a month; Madame d'Estrelle had complained to

Marcel Thierry because the marquis, her father-in-law, being unwilling

to sacrifice the trifling revenue from so worthless a piece of property,

had let it to strange tenants. Marcel had reassured her by informing her

that the new tenant was the venerable and most respectable widow of his

uncle the artist. He had not mentioned Julien. It may be that the

countess did not know that the painter had left a son. At all events it

had not occurred to her to make inquiries about him. She had never seen

him at the windows, in the first place because she was very near-sighted

and the young women in those days did not wear glasses; and secondly,

because Julien, being informed of the proximity of a person of rigid

morals, had taken great pains not to show himself. Sometimes Madame

d'Estrelle had seen at the first floor window a pale, refined face

surmounted by a white cap, which saluted her with deferential reserve.

She had returned the sweet-faced widow's salutation pleasantly, even

with respect; but they had not as yet exchanged a word.

On this day Julie, seeing that the ground-floor window was partly open,

began to ask herself for the first time why she had not entered into

neighborly relations with Madame Thierry. She examined the wall of the

little building, and noticed that the door at the end of the garden was

locked on the outside, as when the house was unoccupied. Madame Thierry

could see nothing but the shrubbery, which concealed the countess's

mansion and a part of the principal lawn. She had no right even to sit

in the sunshine, along the wall of her house, under those flowering

shrubs which actually entered her rooms, and which she had no right to

prune. Moreover, she was forbidden, by the terms of her lease, to walk

on the gravelled walk that ran inside the street wall. In a word, the

door was condemned, and the tenant had made no vexatious demands on that

subject.

It is true that the countess had anticipated such a demand with the

determination to comply with it; but she had not noticed the feeling of

timidity or pride which prevented Madame Thierry from making it. She

thought of it on that day of self-condemnation, and reproached herself

for not forestalling the poor widow's presumed desire.

"If it had been some ruined great lady," she thought, "I should have

been careful not to forget the consideration due to age or misfortune.

There is another proof of what I was just saying to the baroness: our

minds are given a false direction and our hearts are withered by being

brought up in the prejudices of rank. I feel that I have been selfish

and discourteous in my treatment of this lady, who, as I have been told,

is eminently respectable and in very straitened circumstances. How can

I have forgotten a bounden duty? But here is an opportunity to make up

for everything, and I will not throw it away; for I long to make peace

with myself to-day."

The countess resolutely approached the window and coughed two or three

times as if to give notice of her presence; and as no one stirred she

ventured to tap on the glass.

Julien had gone out, but Madame Thierry was at home. Greatly surprised,

she came to the window, and, when she saw that beautiful lady whom she

knew perfectly well by sight, although she had never spoken to her, she

threw it wide open.

"Excuse me, madame," said the countess, "for choosing this method of

making your acquaintance; but I am not quite out of mourning yet, as you

see; I do not pay visits, and I have something to say to you with your

permission. Can you listen to me for a moment where you are?"

"Assuredly, madame, and with very great pleasure," replied Madame

Thierry in a dignified and amiable tone, and with a perfect ease of

manner in which there was nothing of the petty bourgeoise dazzled by an

overture from one of more exalted station.

The countess was deeply impressed by the distinction of her face, by the

excellent taste of her simple dress, by her sweet voice, and by an

indefinable savor of refinement exhaled by her whole person.

"Be seated, I beg," she said, spying the arm-chair in the window recess;

"I do not wish to keep you standing."

"But you, madame?" rejoined the widow with a smile. "Ah! I have an idea.

With your permission I will pass you a chair."

"No, do not take that trouble!"

"Yes, indeed! Here is a very light straw chair; and between us----"

Between them they succeeded in passing the chair over the window-sill,

one holding it, the other receiving it, and smiling both at that

unceremonious performance, which created a sort of intimacy between them

at once.

"This is what I had to say," said Madame d'Estrelle when she was seated.

"Hitherto, you have been living in a house belonging to the Marquis

d'Estrelle, my father-in-law; but to-day you are living in my house,

monsieur le marquis having presented it to me. I do not know as yet the

terms of your lease; but there is one which I presume you will consent

to modify."

"Be kind enough to tell me which one you refer to, madame la comtesse,"

replied the widow, bowing slightly, and with a faint cloud upon her face

in anticipation of some disagreement.

"I refer," said the countess, "to keeping this miserable door always

locked and bolted between us; it is a perfect eyesore to me. If you

consent, I propose to have it opened to-morrow. I will give you the

keys, and I invite you to walk in my garden for exercise or diversion as

much as you please. It will be a great pleasure to me to meet you here.

I live very much alone, and if you are willing to stop and rest

sometimes in the house I live in, I will do my utmost to prevent your

being dissatisfied with me as a neighbor."

Madame Thierry's face had lighted up. The countess's offer gave her

genuine pleasure. To have a beautiful garden under one's eyes every hour

in the day and not be able to set foot inside it, is a sort of torture.

Moreover, she was deeply touched by the graceful way in which the

invitation was given, and she realized at once that she had to do with a

lovable and noble-hearted woman. She thanked her with charming warmth,

abating nothing of the gentle dignity of her manners, and they at once

began to converse as if they had always known each other, the

instinctive sympathy between them was so quick and so entirely

reciprocal.

"You live alone, you say?" said Madame Thierry; "surely it is a merely

temporary condition of affairs, and not a matter of inclination?"

"It is partly because I shrink from society and distrust myself. Do you

like society, madame?"

"I do not hate it," said the widow. "I left it because I was in love; I

forgot it, then returned to it without an effort and without losing my

head. Then I left it again, from necessity and without regret. All this

seems a little obscure to you, does it not?"

"I know that Monsieur Thierry was in very comfortable circumstances and

had most desirable social connections; that he went into society and

received at his own house the very elite of persons of intellect."

"But you do not know of our earlier life? It made some noise at the

time; but that was a long while ago and you are so young!"

"Stay!" said the countess. "I beg your pardon for my forgetfulness. Now,

I remember: you are of noble birth?"

"Yes; I was Mademoiselle de Meuil, of a good old noble family of

Lorraine. Indeed I might have been quite wealthy if I had consented to

marry at the bidding of my guardians. I loved Monsieur Thierry, who was

then only a journeyman painter, without a name and without means. I left

everything, broke with everything, threw everything to the winds to

become his wife. Little by little he became famous, and just as he began

to earn money rapidly, I received my inheritance. So we were repaid for

our constancy, not only by thirty years of happiness, but by more or

less prosperity in our old age."

"And now----?"

"Oh! now it's a different story! I am happy still, but in another way. I

have lost my dearly loved companion, and with him all material comfort;

but I still have such great consolation----"

She was about to mention her son, when a servant in livery came and

informed the countess that her old friend Madame Desmorges was waiting

for her in the house.

"To-morrow," said Julie as she rose to go, "we will talk at our ease, in

your house or mine. I am anxious to know all about you, for I feel that

I love you dearly. Forgive me for saying it so bluntly, but it is the

truth! I must go to receive an elderly lady whom I cannot keep waiting;

but I will give orders now for the workmen to come here to-morrow and

open your prison door."

Madame Thierry was enchanted with Madame d'Estrelle. She was a woman of

keen and spontaneous sympathies, still young in heart and full of

enthusiasm, because she had lived in the enthusiastic atmosphere that

surrounds a beloved artist, and she was more or less romantic, as a

woman must be who has sacrificed everything to love. In the first flush

of excitement, she would have told her son what had happened; but he was

not there, and she exerted her ingenuity to arrange for him the same

surprise she had enjoyed. Many times, as they were passing from

comparative opulence to their present straitened and harassing

condition, Julien had taken alarm at the privations with which his

mother was threatened. They had had a pretty little cottage at Sèvres,

with a fine garden, where Madame Thierry tended lovingly with her own

hands the flowers which her husband and son used as models. They had had

to sell everything. Julien's heart ached when he saw the poor old woman

confined in Paris, in that pavilion, which they hired at a very modest

rate. He hoped at first that they could enjoy the surrounding gardens;

but the lease informed him that neither the Marquis d'Estrelle, their

landlord, nor the wealthy Monsieur Thierry, their near neighbor and near

kinsman, would allow them to walk elsewhere than in the street, which

was always filled with workmen and with materials for buildings under

construction.

"He complained bitterly of that condemned door," said Madame Thierry to

herself, as she thought of her son. "A score of times he has had an idea

of going and asking the countess to remove the prohibition for my

benefit, promising on his honor that he himself would never cross the

threshold of the pavilion. I have always dissuaded him from taking a

step which might have subjected us to humiliation. How glad he will be

to see me at liberty! But how shall I arrange matters to give him a

little surprise? Suppose I should send him on an errand to-morrow

morning, while the workmen are here?"

She was arranging her plan in her head, when Julien came home to dinner.

The straw chair was still in the garden near the window. Madame

d'Estrelle had placed her white parasol on the ground against the chair,

and had forgotten to take it. Madame Thierry had gone into the kitchen

to tell her only servant, a strapping Norman wench, to bring in the

chair. So Julien saw those two objects, without any previous warning. He

divined without comprehending; his head swam, his heart beat fast, and

his mother found him so confused, so excited, so strange, that she was

frightened, thinking that something had happened to him.

"What is it, in heaven's name?" she cried, running to him.

"Nothing, mother," said Julien, after a slight struggle with himself to

overcome his emotion. "I hurried home and I was very warm, so that the

cool air of the studio gave me a chill. I am hungry, let's have dinner;

you can explain to me at the table the meaning of this visit you have

received."

He took in the chair, unfolded and refolded the parasol, and kept it in

his hands a long while, with an affectation of indifference; but his

hands trembled, and he could not meet his mother's eyes.

"_Mon Dieu!_" she said to herself, "can it be that this increase of

melancholy during the past fortnight, this refusal to sing, these

stifled sighs, this peculiar behavior, this sleeplessness and loss of

appetite are due to--But he doesn't know her, he has hardly seen her in

the distance. Oh! my poor child, can it be possible?"

They took their places at the table. Julien questioned his mother calmly

enough. She described the countess's visit with much discretion,

restraining the impulse of her heart, which would have made her eloquent

on the subject, had it not been for the discovery she had made, or the

danger she began to foresee.

Julien felt that his mother was watching him, and he kept a close watch

upon himself. He had never before had any secrets from her; but, during

the last few days he had had one, and the fear of alarming her made him

cunning.

"This step of Madame d'Estrelle," he said, "shows that she is a prudent

and gracious woman. She has realized--a little tardily perhaps--that she

owed you some consideration. Let us be grateful to her for her kindness

of heart. You told her, I presume, that I had sufficient good sense not

to consider myself included in the permission she has given you?"

"That goes without saying. I didn't mention you to her at all."

"Indeed, she probably is not aware of my existence, and perhaps it will

be as well for you never to mention your son to her, so that she may not

repent of her gracious behavior."

"Why shouldn't I mention you to her? I shall or shall not, according to

the turn the conversation happens to take."

"You expect to see her often then? to go to her house perhaps?"

"To meet her in the garden unquestionably; whether I go to her house or

not will depend on the duration of her kindly disposition."

"Was she agreeable?"

"Very agreeable and natural."

"Is she bright?"

"I don't know; she has plenty of good sense, I think."

"None of the arrogance of a _grande dame_?"

"She showed me none of it."

"Is she young?"

"Why, yes."

"And quite pretty, so they say?"

"Fie! do you mean to say you have never seen her?"

"I have, but at a distance. I have never happened to be near the window

when she walked along our path."

"But you know that she walks there every day?"

"It was you who told me so. You must think I am very inquisitive, to

watch all the beautiful women who pass? I am no longer a schoolboy,

little mamma, I am a man, and my mind has been matured by disaster."

"Did you learn any more unpleasant news at Marcel's?"

"On the contrary, Uncle Antoine has agreed to become responsible for

us."

"Ah! at last! and you didn't tell me!"

"You have been talking about something else."

"Which was more interesting to you?"

"Frankly, yes, for the moment! I am really overjoyed to think that you

can walk in yonder garden at any time. I shall not be there to give you

my arm, for naturally, I shall not be allowed to do that; but I shall

see you go out and come back with more color and a little appetite, I

hope!"

"Appetite! you are the one who has no appetite! You have eaten almost

nothing to-day, and yet you said that you were hungry. Where are you

going, pray?"

"To take Madame d'Estrelle's parasol to the porter at the hôtel. It

would not be polite to neglect it."

"You are right, but Babet will take it. It is quite useless to show

yourself to the people there. It might cause talk."

Madame Thierry took the parasol and placed it in her servant's hands

herself.

"Not that way!" cried Julien, taking it from her. "Babet will spot the

silk with her hot hands."

He carefully wrapped the parasol in white paper, and handed it to Babet,

not without regret, but without hesitation. He saw clearly enough the

anxiety of his mother, who was watching him closely.

Babet remained away ten minutes; that was more time than she needed to

walk the length of the garden on the street, enter the courtyard and

return. She reappeared at last with the parasol and a note from the

countess.

"Madame,

"You need a parasol as you will be exposed to the sunshine. Be kind

enough to use mine; I desire to deprive you of every pretext for not

coming to call upon

"Your servant,

"JULIE D'ESTRELLE."

Madame Thierry glanced again at Julien, who controlled himself perfectly

as he removed the paper in which he had wrapped the parasol. As soon as

her back was turned, he covered it with kisses, like the romantic,

excitable child he was, despite his claim to be a mature man. As for the

poor mother, in her distrust and uncertainty she said to herself that

every joy is attended by danger in this world, and that she might

perhaps have reason to regret the amiable overtures of her too

fascinating neighbor.

The next day the door swung on its hinges, and the keys were handed to

Madame Thierry, who, urged on by Julien, ventured timidly to enter the

countess's flowery domain. That lady had determined to do the honors of

her primroses and hyacinths in person, but an inevitable disclosure by

Marcel had changed the course of her ideas and cooled her zeal in some

measure.

The solicitor had called again to discuss her affairs. She made haste to

tell him that she had made his aunt's acquaintance, and spoke of her in

the warmest possible terms. Then she went on to ask questions.

"The charming woman told me of her birth, her love and her past

happiness, and she was on the point of telling me about what she calls

her present happiness, when we were interrupted. I supposed, on the

other hand, that she was very unhappy. Have I not heard that she had

been forced to sell all that she had?"

"That is the truth," Marcel replied; "but there is something in my

excellent aunt's character which not everybody can understand, but which

you will understand perfectly, madame la comtesse. I can tell you her

husband's story and hers in a word. My uncle the artist had a great

heart, much talent and wit, but very little method and no foresight at

all. As he had never had anything in his youth, and earned from day to

day, first the bare necessaries of life, afterward the luxuries, he

allowed himself to be carried along by his natural recklessness; and as

he had some rather extravagant tastes--an artist's tastes, that tells

the whole story--he soon established his outlay upon a very agreeable

but very hazardous footing. He loved society and was popular; he never

went on foot, he had a carriage; he gave exquisite little dinners in

what he called his hut at Sèvres, which was crowded with sumptuous

trinkets and artistic objects, for which he paid great prices; so that

he ran in debt. His wife's property paid his debts, and enabled them to

continue this risky but delightful life. When he died he was over head

and ears in debt once more. My dear aunt knew it, but did not choose to

cast a shadow on his heedless and light-hearted old age by showing the

slightest concern for their son's future. 'My son is sensible,' she

said; 'he is studying his art with passionate zeal. He will have as much

talent as his father. He will be poor, and he will make his fortune. He

will pass through the trials and triumphs which his father passed

through honorably and courageously, and, knowing him as I do, I know

that he will never reproach me for placing all my confidence in his

noble heart.'--It turned out as she had foreseen. On his father's death,

Julien Thierry, discovering that he had inherited nothing but debts, set

bravely to work to pay them all, and, far from complaining of his

mother, he told her that she had done well never to annoy the best of

fathers. I confess that I do not agree with him there. The best of

fathers is the one who sacrifices his tastes and his pleasures to the

welfare of those who will probably survive him. My uncle the painter was

a great man, I might better say a great child. Genius is a very fine

thing; but devotion to those whom one loves is a vastly finer thing,

and, let me say it under my breath, my uncle's widow and son seem to me

to be much greater than he. What is madame la comtesse's opinion?"

The countess had become very thoughtful, although she listened

attentively.

"I think as you do, Monsieur Thierry," she replied, "and I admire your

aunt and cousin with all my heart."

"But my story seems to have saddened you," said Marcel.

"Perhaps; it gives me something to think about. Do you know, I am deeply

impressed by the example set us by some lives? I see that Madame Thierry

is like me, being a widow and ruined; but I see that she is happy none

the less, while I am not. She is proud to pay the debts of a husband

whom she loved dearly,--and I--But I do not propose to retract the

confession that escaped my lips yesterday in your presence. I wish to

ask you one question. This son, this most excellent son of the worthy

widow--where is he?"

"In Paris, madame, where he is working very hard and beginning to pay

off the debts by painting pictures which are already almost as good as

his father's. Some influential friends have become interested in him,

and would push him ahead more rapidly if he were less scrupulous and

proud; but with a little time he will be rich in his turn, indeed he now

owes only a mere trifle, for which our Uncle Antoine has decided to

become responsible, inasmuch as there is no longer any risk in so

doing."

"This rich uncle seems to be about as timid and economical as my

father-in-law the marquis?"

"No, madame; his is an entirely different sort of selfishness. It would

take a long while to tell you about him, and it is time for me to be at

the Palais."

"Of course, of course, some other time, Monsieur Thierry. Go and attend

to your business. Here are the papers all signed; come again soon!"

"As soon as your affairs require it; rely upon my promptitude, madame la

comtesse."

"Do not be so ceremonious. Come to see me when you have time, without

regard to business. I am greatly indebted to you, Monsieur Thierry. You

have not only given me the clear understanding of my position which was

so necessary to me. You have given me good advice and have not led my

honor astray in order to protect my selfish interests. In fact I see

that you feel perhaps a little friendliness for me, and I thank you with

all my heart."

The countess had a way of saying such simple things which made her

extremely charming. Modest and dignified in her every act and every

word, there was in her manners an indefinable suggestion of restrained

emotion which denoted a too full heart, a heart seeking a fit receptacle

for its overflow. The baroness would surely have considered that she was

altogether too grateful and effusive to the pettifogger, who was only

too happy to act for her. She would have told her that one must not

spoil people of that sort by letting them see that they are necessary to

one. Julie, being perfectly sure of herself, notwithstanding her

pathetic humility, was not afraid of placing her friendship too low by

bestowing it on a clever and honorable man; and, moreover, there was

taking place within her, as we have seen, an insensible yet rapid

reaction against the circle in which she had hitherto lived.

"A most delightful woman!" said Marcel Thierry to himself as he left

her. "Deuce take me! if I were not an attorney, married to the best

woman on earth, and the father of a bouncing boy--all of which things

tend to guarantee the strength of a man's brain--I should be in love

with this countess myself! oh! head over heels in love, I verily

believe! I will tell my wife so this evening, and we will have a good

laugh over it."

"How did it happen," Madame d'Estrelle was thinking at that moment,

"that I did not ask Thierry what it is most important for me to know? I

thought of it, and then I forgot it. I must find out, however! If this

young Thierry lives with his mother, it will not be proper for him to

make my garden his usual place of promenade. But perhaps he is not a

young man. Did he say that he was young? His father was very old. But

did he say that he was so very old? I cannot remember at all. However,

my servants must know. Servants know everything."

She rang.

"Camille," she said to her maid, "has this Madame Thierry, who lives in

the old pavilion yonder,--a most excellent person, I know--has she any

children? I talked with her yesterday, but I didn't think of asking

her."

"She has a son," Camille replied.

"About how old?"

"Twenty-five, judging from his face."

"He is married, of course?"

"No, madame."

"Where does he live?"

"At the pavilion, with his mother."

"Is he a good sort of man? What do people say of him?"

"He is a most excellent young man, madame la comtesse. Everybody speaks

well of him. They are very poor, and they pay all their bills, never

keep anybody waiting. And yet they are not stingy, they never do

anything mean. One would say that they must be people of quality."

Camille did not mean to flatter her mistress by speaking in that way.

She, too, claimed to be well-born and to have known better days. She

claimed that some of her ancestors had been sheriffs.

"_Mon Dieu_, Camille, birth is of no consequence," said the countess,

who was often vexed by her maid's airs.

"I beg pardon, madame la comtesse," rejoined Camille, tartly, "I thought

that it was of the greatest consequence."

"As you please, my dear. Go and bring me my gray parasol. There is so

much of this pride on all sides," thought Madame d'Estrelle, "that it

will disgust me with all prejudices; it will make me more fond of

Jean-Jacques Rousseau than I ought to be; and really I am beginning to

wonder if the great are not living a little on their past, and if all

this antiquated nonsense is not becoming useful to amuse our servants."

She took her gray parasol, with a vague feeling of dissatisfaction; then

sat down in her salon, open to the April sun, saying to herself that she

must not go in the direction of the pavilion any more, and perhaps not

into her garden at all.

Then it was that Madame Thierry, finding that she did not come to meet

her as she expected, ventured to go as far as the house, to pay her

respects to her and thank her. Madame d'Estrelle received her with great

courtesy, but the widow was too keen not to detect a shade of

embarrassment in her greeting, and she had hardly seated herself before

she thanked her and rose to go.

"Already?" said the countess. "You find me ungracious, I am sure, and I

confess that I feel some slight embarrassment with you to-day which

makes me act foolishly. So let us have done at once with this nonsense,

which I am sure you will forgive. When I came and spoke to you

yesterday, I had no idea that you had a son, a young and estimable man,

I am told, who lives with you."

"Let me tell the rest, madame la comtesse. You are afraid----"

"Oh! _mon Dieu!_ I am afraid that people will talk, that is all. I am

young, alone in the world, with no immediate protector; a stranger in a

family which accepted me only with regret, as I learned too late, and

which blames me for not choosing to pass my period of mourning in a

convent."

"I know all that, madame la comtesse; my nephew Marcel told me. As I am

most solicitous for your good name, I do not propose that your kindness

of heart shall carry you too far. You must not come to the pavilion so

long as I live there, nor must I come into the garden or to your house.

That is what I came to say to you. It is not necessary for me to add

that my son never for an instant supposed that he was included in the

permission which you so graciously gave me yesterday."

"Very good!" cried the countess, "this last point is all that is

necessary. I thank you for your delicacy, which makes it possible for me

not to return your visits; but as to the other point, I do not agree

with you. You will walk in my garden and you will come to see me."

"Perhaps it would be better that I should not come."

"No, no," replied Julie, earnestly, "you must come, I insist upon it!

and, if you don't come, I shall be obliged to go to fetch you and knock

at your window again, which will compromise me. Tell me," she added with

a smile, "if you wish me to _ruin_ myself for you? I warn you that I am

capable of it."

Madame Thierry could not resist the fascination of this artless

generosity. She yielded, making a mental vow that she would fly to the

other end of Paris, if her presentiment of Julien's passion proved not

to be a dream of her maternal imagination.

"Now," said the countess, "let us arrange the conditions of our

intercourse, in order to put an end to all danger of evil-speaking. The

pavilion has only four windows looking on my garden. The two lower

ones--I do not know the arrangement of the rooms."

"The two lower ones are in the room which my son uses as a studio and I

as a salon. We always sit there; but the lower sash, with four panes of

ground glass, is stationary, and we open only the upper sashes; but they

are often open at this season."

"Then you cannot look into my house, as I was told. But that sash with

the ground glass was not stationary yesterday; it was partly open."

"True, madame la comtesse; there was a broken pane which you may have

noticed."

"No; my sight is bad, consequently I don't look very closely."

"For that reason I had to open that sash, a very unusual thing. But it

was repaired and fastened again this morning. Light from below would be

very inconvenient for my son in his painting, and he stretches a green

cloth over the window on the inside. So he would have to stand on a

chair to look into your garden, and, as he is a serious-minded man, and

not an ill-taught schoolboy----"

"Very well, very well! My mind is at rest concerning the lower floor.

The windows above----"

"Are in my bedroom. My son's room looks on the street."

"And he never sits in your room? No one in my garden will ever see a man

at your windows?"

"It never has happened and never will happen. I will answer for it."

"Nor will he ever come to the garden door, even for an instant? You will

warn him."

"Be perfectly at ease in that respect. My son is a man of honor."

"I do not doubt it. Commend my honor to him, and let us say no more

about him; that is to say let us say no more about me, for to forbid you

to speak of him would be very cruel. I know that he is your pride and

your joy, and I congratulate you."

Madame Thierry had made up her mind not to say another word about

Julien, but it was impossible for her to keep to her determination. Step

by step she finally reached the point where she gave full expression to

her idolatry of that adored son, who well deserved to be adored. The

countess listened without any uncalled-for scruples to her enumeration

of the young artist's talents and virtues. But she became a little

melancholy at the thought that she should probably never have children

to afford occupation for her youth and console her old age. Madame

Thierry divined her secret thought and changed the subject.

[Illustration 02: _JULIEN'S RUSE_

_He went to the window, the lower sash of which

was really nailed in its place and covered with a

green cloth; but there was an imperceptible slit in

that cloth, there was a scratch on the ground glass,

and through that treacherous crevice, cunningly

made and cunningly concealed, he saw Madame

d'Estrelle every day._]

What was Julien doing while they were talking about him in the little

summer salon of the hôtel d'Estrelle? He was working, or was supposed

to be working. He constantly changed his position, he was hot and cold,

he started at the slightest sound. He said to himself that perhaps his

name was on the countess's lips at that moment, that perhaps she was

asking some question about him, merely as a matter of form, without

listening to the answer. He went to the window, the lower sash of which

was really nailed in its place and covered with a green cloth; but there

was an imperceptible slit in that cloth, there was a scratch on the

ground glass, and through that treacherous crevice, cunningly made and

cunningly concealed, he saw Madame d'Estrelle every day, strolling among

the shrubbery in her garden, and walking along the path which was in

full view from the pavilion. Julien knew almost to a minute her regular

hours for that walk. When some accident interfered with her usual

practice, then mysterious presentiments, the divinatory instinct which

belongs only to love, and especially to a first love, warned him of

Julie's approach. Then he invented a thousand pretexts, each more

ingenious than the last, for turning his mother's vigilant eye in some

other direction and gazing at his fair neighbor; or else he would find

that he had to go and get something in his bedroom, and would go

upstairs, his mother remaining below, enter her room and look through

the blind. In fact he had adored Julie for a fortnight, and Julie

thought that he had never seen her, and Madame Thierry lied

unconsciously when she said that her son could see nothing from the

studio, and that he had never looked out of her bedroom windows.

To Julien himself there was something insane, or at all events

inexplicable, in that sudden passion which had taken possession of him,

who was so sensible in all other respects; but as there is a cause for

every effect, it is our place to seek it, and not be too free to admit

the improbability of actual occurrences.

Marcel came very often, with or without his wife, to pass a portion of

the evening with his aunt Thierry. Julien and he were much attached to

each other, and although they often disagreed, Marcel considering Julien

too romantic, and Julien considering Marcel too practical, they would

have died for each other. Marcel talked freely about his practice, which

was rapidly increasing. When Julien asked him: "Is your office

flourishing?" he would answer: "It is budding, my boy, it is budding! I

often have clients who bring me more honor than profit, and they are not

the ones of whom I think the least."--Among those clients who were not

fond of litigation, but to whom he owed pleasant or profitable

connections, Marcel placed the Comtesse d'Estrelle in the first rank. He

mentioned her so often and in such enthusiastic terms, he thought and

spoke so severely of the lovely widow's unworthy husband, he inveighed

so bitterly against the inhuman avarice of the family, he took such a

profound interest in Julie's gentle and noble character, he

involuntarily extolled her charms so warmly, that Julien was curious to

see her; he saw her and loved her, if indeed he did not love her before

he saw her.

Julien had never loved before. He had led a very virtuous life, he had

experienced a great sorrow, he was at the height of his physical and

mental development; his susceptibility was overstrained by the

courageous efforts he had made, by a constant exchange of fervent

affection with his loving mother, by a tendency to enthusiasm which he

derived from long association with an enthusiastic father. He lived in

seclusion, he denied himself all diversion and worked with intense

eagerness to preserve the honor of his name and to save his mother from

want. All this must inevitably find a vent, and that generous heart

discharge its surplus emotion. We will say no more about it; indeed we

have already said far too much in explanation of that impossible

phenomenon which we see every day--a persistent, violent, boundless

aspiration toward an object which is known to be unattainable. Long,

long before, La Fontaine had written this refrain, which had passed into

a proverb:

"Love, love! when thou dost hold us,

Well may we say: 'Prudence, farewell!'"

II

Now, while the countess was talking to Madame Thierry, and Julien to

himself, Marcel Thierry was talking not far away with his uncle Antoine,

the old bachelor, the ex-armorer, the rich man of the family.

Gentle reader--as they used to say at the time when these events took

place--be kind enough to accompany us to Rue Blomet from the hôtel

d'Estrelle on Rue de Babylone; skirting the garden wall for five

minutes, passing in front of the Louis XIII. pavilion, then skirting the

wall of another garden much larger than Madame d'Estrelle's, along a

lane grass-grown on the edges, muddy and full of holes in the centre,

destined at some time to be an extension of Rue de Babylone; then

turning to the left and passing along another street in embryo to the

corner of Rue Blomet, where stands a large house of the Louis XIV. style

of architecture, formerly the hôtel de Melcy, recently purchased and

occupied by Monsieur Antoine Thierry. If Monsieur Antoine Thierry would

have allowed us to pass through his extensive grounds, we might have

started from Julien's house and walked straight through the nursery to

the rear of the mansion; but Uncle Antoine is determined to be master on

his own estate, and he will not grant any easement whatsoever, even in

favor of his brother's widow and son. Marcel, therefore, on leaving the

countess, had taken this walk, half in the city, half in the country;

and now behold him seated in the rich man's study, formerly a boudoir

with painted and gilded ceiling, now filled with shelves and tables

covered with bags of seeds, specimens of fruit moulded in wax, and

baskets of tools and other articles connected with horticulture.

To reach this study, the proprietor's favorite retreat, he has had to

pass through galleries and immense salons overweighted with gilt

decorations in relief, grand in conception, but blackened by neglect and

dampness; for the windows are shut and the shutters tightly closed in

all weathers; the rich man never tarries in those majestic apartments,

he never receives visitors there, he never gives parties or banquets, he

cares for no one, he is suspicious of everybody. He loves rare flowers

and exotic shrubs, he also esteems the product of fruit trees, and he is

constantly deliberating upon the trimming and grafting of his

_subjects_. He overlooks and directs in person a score of gardeners,

whom he pays handsomely, and whose families he takes under his

protection. Never attempt to interest him in any other people than those

who flatter or subserve his caprices or his vanity.

This passion for gardening he acquired by a mere chance. One of the

vessels which sailed to the far east on his account and for his profit

brought from China a parcel of seeds which he carelessly dropped in an

urn filled with earth. The seeds sprouted, the plants grew and were

covered with lovely flowers. The armorer, who did not anticipate that

result, and who, moreover, had never in his life looked at a plant, paid

very little heed at first; but another accident brought to his house a

connoisseur who went into ecstasies, and declared the priceless plant to

be absolutely new and unknown to science.

This discovery exerted a decisive influence on Monsieur Antoine's life.

He had always despised flowers: it was probable that he would never

really understand them, for he was entirely devoid of the artistic

sense; but his vanity, which was stifling him for lack of nourishment,

pounced upon that windfall and pointed out to him the only way in which

he could attain renown. He had a brother who painted flowers, who

interpreted them, who loved them and gave his life to them. His brother

was much admired; a trivial sketch from his brush made more noise than

all of his older brother's great wealth. The older brother knew it, and

was jealous of him. He could never hear the word art mentioned without

shrugging his shoulders. He considered that the world was unjust and

idiotic to be amused by trifles and not to admire the shrewdness of a

man who, having started from nothing, counted his gold-pieces by the

shovelful. He was disappointed, perturbed in mind.--But suddenly all was

changed; he, too, was going to become a celebrity. The flowers which his

brother summoned forth from the canvas he would summon from the earth,

and they would not be mere every-day flowers which everybody knew and

could name at sight; they would be rarities, plants from the four

corners of the world, which scholars would have to cudgel their brains

to define and classify and baptize. The most wonderful should bear his

name! It had been suggested that his name should be given to several of

his nurslings, but there was no hurry, since his collection was enriched

every year by some marvel from the metropolis. He determined to wait,

and was still waiting for a certain lily, which was likely to surpass

all the rest, and which should bear, in addition to its generic name,

the specific designation of _Antonia Thierrii._

There was still time enough, for the uncle, although seventy-five years

old, was still hale and hearty. He was a short man, rather slight, with

a very good figure, but the hands hardened by constant contact with the

soil, the skin tanned by constant exposure to the air, the neglected

hair and dusty clothes, the back bent by bodily toil, presented the

incongruous image of a villager with rustic manners, tenacious in his

ideas, of an overbearing and surly disposition, ungrammatical, imperious

and peremptory, planted in the heart of Paris, in a mansion of which he

was the heedless and preoccupied master.

Marcel saluted his uncle with more familiarity than deference. He knew

that flattery would be a waste of time; that the ex-armorer could be

brought to terms on any subject only by a contest in obstinacy, in harsh

language at need. He knew that his first impulse would be to say no;

that no perhaps would be his last word; but that, in order to obtain one

poor _yes_ among a hundred _noes_ he must fight without losing heart for

a moment. Marcel was of a stout temper--it was a family trait--and he

was so accustomed to fighting, especially against his uncle, that he

derived a sort of painful pleasure from that occupation, which would

have disgusted an artist in an instant.

"I have brought you something to sign," he began.

"I will not sign anything; my word is good enough."

"True, with those who know you."

"Everybody knows me."

"Almost everybody; but I am dealing with idiots. Come, sign, sign!"

"No, you might just as well sign it. My word's as good as gold; all the

worse for the man who doubts it."

"Then you will see the creditor take possession of the house at Sèvres.

He will be satisfied then, no doubt, but until then he will doubt my

authority."

"So you have a bad reputation, have you?"

"Apparently."

"The idea of your saying that!"

"What do you want me to say? If I should say no, you would not sign, and

I want to induce you to sign."

"Oh! you do! Why, I should like to know?"

"Because it bores me, tires me and annoys me to return to Sèvres and

wait for them to make up their minds to come to see you, when the

despatch of this paper by my clerk will remove all difficulties and save

me expense and many steps. Do you understand?"

"You do whatever you please with me," replied the armorer, taking his

pen. He dipped it in the ink three times before deciding, read and

reread the document whereby he guaranteed the payment of the last six

thousand francs of his brother's debts, looked Marcel in the eye to see

if he was anxious or impatient, and, seeing that he was unmoved,

regretfully renounced the pleasure of driving him into a passion. He

signed the paper and tossed it in his face, with a wicked laugh, saying:

"Off with you, rascal! You never come to my house unless you want to get

something out of me. You might have guaranteed the debts in my place,

for you're rich enough!"

"If I were, be sure that it would be done already; but I am making the

final payments for my practice, and I cannot deceive Julien any longer

as to the sacrifices I am making for him. He is deeply concerned; his

mother is in despair----"

"Oh! his mother, his mother!" sneered the rich man in a tone of profound

aversion.

"You are not fond of her, as everyone knows; so she will never ask you

for anything, never fear; but I am fond of my aunt, if you have no

objection, and Julien adores her. Between them--between us three, if

necessary--we will have everything paid within two years, and I flatter

myself that you will not have to spend a sou."

"Well, I don't flatter myself that I shall not! No matter! I will do

them this favor, which will be the last."

"And the first, too, my dear uncle!"

And, as the document was signed, folded and safely in his pocket, Marcel

added, resting his elbows on the table and looking his uncle straight in

the face:

"Do you know, my dear uncle of the good Lord, you must be a very mean

fellow to allow your brother's country house to be sold."

"Ah! there we are again!" shouted Monsieur Antoine, rising and smiting

the table a genuine peasant's blow with his fist. "You would like to see

me use my money, earned by the sweat of my brow, to pay for the follies

of a spendthrift! Since when have artists needed to have houses of their

own and fill them with a heap of gimcracks that cost the eyes out of

your head, and make gardens for themselves, with bridges and

summer-houses, when they don't even know how to grow a bit of milkweed?

What difference does it make to me whether my brother's folly is sold,

and his widow doesn't now have any great chefs in her kitchen and great

noblemen at her table? They made all the trouble for themselves when

they chose to receive counts and marquises, and madame would say: 'My

house, my servants, my horses!'--I knew well enough where all that

nonsense would bring them up! And now to-day they find they need the old

rat who lives in his corner like a wise man and a philosopher, despising

society, scorning luxury and giving all his time to useful work! They

lower their crests and put out their paws, and he--he wouldn't give

anything from pity--those people don't deserve it--he gives from pride,

and that's how he gets his revenge. Go and tell that to your aunt, the

beautiful princess in distress: that's the errand your mean dog of an

uncle gives you to do. Go, I say, you dog of a pettifogger! What are you

standing there for, staring at me?"

Marcel was in fact studying his uncle's expression and attitude with his

sharp gray eyes, as if he would search the lowest depths of his

conscience.

"Bah!" he exclaimed abruptly, as he rose, "you are very harsh, very

mean, I say it again; but you are not so cruel as that! You have some

reason for hating your sister-in-law which nobody has ever been able to

understand, which you don't understand very clearly yourself, I fancy,

but which I shall succeed in unearthing, my dear uncle, never fear, for

I propose to go to work upon it, and you know that when I have set my

heart upon a thing, I am like you, I never let go."

As he spoke Marcel kept his eyes fixed on the rich man, and he detected

a notable change in his manner. A sudden pallor drove the coarse flush

from his face, which was already burned afresh by the sun of the new

spring. His lips trembled, he pulled his hat down to his bushy black

eyebrows, turned his back, and went out into his garden without a word.

It was not a garden with little pieces of rockery, little summer-houses,

and little terra cotta cows lying in the grass, like those which were so

common at that period, in imitation of the rustic style adopted at

Trianon. Nor was there an undulating lawn with winding paths, clumps of

trees at regular intervals, and truncated columns reflected in limpid

ponds, like the garden of the hôtel d'Estrelle, one of the first

picturesque attempts at the modern garden _à l'anglaise_. Nor were there

the old-fashioned flower-beds and long regular borders of the time of

Louis XIV.; everywhere the ground was turned up and cut by Monsieur

Antoine's experiments. On all sides were beds in the shape of baskets,

hearts, stars, triangles, ovals, shields and trefoils, surrounded by

green borders and narrow paths forming a perfect labyrinth. There were

flowers of all sorts, beautiful or curious, but deprived of all their

national grace by cages made of rushes, nets of wire, umbrellas of

reeds, supports and props of all sorts, to protect them from being

marred by the dirt, burned by the sun or broken by the wind. His

rosebushes, being constantly trimmed and watered, had an artificial

look, they were so exceedingly tidy and shiny. His peonies were

ball-shaped at the top, like a grenadier's _pompon_, and his tulips

shone like metal in the sun. Around the flower-garden were immense,

melancholy-looking nurseries, like rows of stakes with scraggy bunches

of leaves at the top. All this rejoiced the horticulturist's eyes and

banished his gloom.

A single corner of his garden, nearest the pavilion occupied by Madame

Thierry, afforded a pleasant promenade. That corner he had devoted for

twenty years to the acclimatation of exotic ornamental trees. They were

beautiful now, and cast considerable shade; but Monsieur Antoine, as it

was no longer necessary to take particular pains with them, had almost

lost his interest in them, and much preferred a shoot of pine or acacia

just raised under glass.

His hothouse was wonderfully beautiful. He hurried thither to bury the

bitter memories which Marcel had recalled. He went in and out among his

favorite plants, the lilies, and, after assuring himself of the good

health of those which were in bloom, he halted beside a small porcelain

vase wherein an unknown bulb was just beginning to put forth shoots of a

dark and glossy green.

"What will this be?" he thought. "Will it mark an epoch in the history

of gardening, like so many others that owe their fame to me? It seems a

long while since anything has happened in my garden, and people don't

talk about me so much as they ought to."

Meanwhile Marcel went away, deep in thought, for Monsieur Antoine

Thierry's miserliness was of a very curious sort. The curious thing

about it was that Monsieur Thierry was not miserly. He did not hoard his

money, he did not lend money and never had done so, he denied himself

nothing that caught his fancy, and he even did a good deed sometimes

under the spur of self-love. How did it happen that he had let slip so

excellent an opportunity of purchasing his late brother's property for

his nephew? That generous performance would have given him much more

celebrity than the future _Antonia Thierrii._ That is precisely the

problem which Marcel was trying to solve. He knew that the old armorer

had always been jealous, not of his artist brother's talent, which he

despised, but of his renown and social success; but should not that

jealousy have died with old André? Ought his widow and son to have that

unfortunate inheritance forced upon them?

An idea passed through Marcel's mind; he retraced his steps and

interrupted Monsieur Antoine's horticultural reveries.

"By the way, my gallant uncle," he said in a playful tone, "don't you

want to buy the hôtel d'Estrelle pavilion?"

"The pavilion is for sale, and you didn't tell me, you idiot?"

"I forgot it. Well, how much will you give for it?"

"What is it worth?"

"I have told you a hundred times: to Comtesse d'Estrelle, who has just

accepted it as a gift, it is worth ten thousand francs; to you, who want

it and need it, it is worth twice that. It remains to be seen whether

the countess won't ask three times ten thousand."

"Ah! that's like your great folk! sharper and stingier than the parvenus

they despise!"

"The Comtesse d'Estrelle despises no one."

"Yes, she does! she's a fool like all the others. We are separated by a

wall, and in the four years she's been living in the hôtel d'Estrelle,

she's never had the curiosity to look into my garden."

"Perhaps she doesn't know anything about rare plants."

"Say rather that she would consider herself dishonored if she put her

foot inside a _plebeian's_ door!"

"Bah! do you expect a young woman in mourning to compromise herself by

strolling about in the garden of a bachelor of your age?"

"Of my age? You are joking, I suppose! Am I of an age to make people

talk?"

"Why, who can say? you used to be a volcano once!"

"I! What are you saying, you brute?"

"You cannot make me believe that you were never in love."

"What's that? I have never been in love! No such fool!"

"Yes, you have been in love, a fool if you please, at least once in your

life! Try to insist that you haven't," added Marcel, as he saw that the

horticulturist turned pale and seemed perturbed once more.

"Enough of this nonsense!" retorted the uncle, tapping the floor angrily

with his foot. "You are Madame d'Estrelle's attorney; are you instructed

to sell the pavilion?"

"No, but I have the right to suggest it. How much will you give?"

"Not a sou. Let me alone."

"Then I can offer it to another purchaser?"

"What other?"

"There is no other in view at this moment. I am not given to lying, and

I shall not deal falsely with you in the matters you have placed in my

charge; but you are well aware that the street is being built up, and

that by to-morrow, perhaps to-night, people will be fighting for the

pavilion."

"Let Madame d'Estrelle take the trouble to enter into negotiations with

me."

"Do you want her to receive you? Very good!"

"Would she receive me?" said Monsieur Antoine, and his round eyes

gleamed for an instant.

"Why not?" said Marcel.

"Oh! yes, she would receive me in her courtyard, or at best in her

ante-chamber, standing up, between two doors, as she receives a dog or

an attorney!"

"You are a great stickler for manners, aren't you, for a man who won't

take his hat off his head for anybody? But never fear: Madame d'Estrelle

is as courteous to decent people of our class as to the greatest

aristocrats. To prove it, she is on the best of terms with my aunt

Thierry, and they are almost friends already."

"Ah!--Well, that is because madame your aunt is noble! The nobles

understand each other like thieves at a fair!"

"_Sapristi!_ uncle, once more I ask you what in heaven's name you have

against your sister-in-law?"

"I have--Well, I detest her!"

"So I see; but why?"

"Because she is noble. Don't talk to me about your nobles! They are all

heartless and ungrateful!"

"Did you love her, I wonder?"

This direct question was too much for Monsieur Antoine. He turned

deathly pale, then flushed with anger, swore, tore his hair and shouted

in a frenzy of rage:

"Did she tell you that? She pretends, she dares to say----"

"Nothing at all. I have never been able to extort a word from her about

you; but I have had my suspicions, and now you have confessed. Tell me

everything, uncle; that will be the best way, for it will relieve you,

and you will have had a good heart-searching for once in your life."

Fully half an hour passed before the ex-armorer had exhausted all the

spleen and bile of which his heart was full against Marcel, against

Madame Thierry and against his deceased brother. When Marcel, who

worried him cruelly, had succeeded in exhausting him, he carried his

point, and old Antoine told him what follows, by fits and starts,

forcing his nephew to extract from him bit by bit the secret of his

life, which was also the secret of his character.

Forty years prior to the period of this narrative, Mademoiselle de

Meuil, having eloped with André Thierry, had gone with her fiancé to

seek shelter with Antoine Thierry, who was already rich and still quite

young. Until that time the two brothers had lived on good terms with

each other. While she remained in hiding at the hôtel de Melcy,

Mademoiselle de Meuil had manifested sincere friendship for the armorer

and perfect confidence in him. André, being prosecuted by the Meuil

family and in danger of being consigned to the Bastille, had been

compelled to leave Paris, to avert suspicion from the right quarter,

while certain influential friends of his endeavored to adjust his

affairs and gradually succeeded in so doing.

During this separation of several months, Mademoiselle de Meuil,

constantly beset by the most painful anxiety, was more than once tempted

to return to her parents in order to relieve the man she loved from the

dangers and misfortunes which threatened him. More than once she

discussed the subject frankly with André's brother, setting forth her

fears and asking his advice. Then it was that Antoine conceived a

strange idea, not treacherous and in no wise induced by passion, but in

which his sensitive self-esteem was soon deeply involved. We will allow

him to speak for a moment.

"The girl was ruined, although she had not lived with my brother as his

wife. She was too far compromised to be taken back into the family, and

the very best that she could hope for was to end her days in a convent.

My brother seemed to me even more completely ruined than she was. A

_lettre de cachet_ had been issued against him, and that was no joke in

those days. He might be shut up for twenty years, or for his whole

life--who could say? And as the young lady told me all this herself,

crying out every minute: 'What shall I do, Monsieur Antoine? _Mon Dieu!_

what shall I do?' the idea came into my head of saving them both by

marrying the girl. I was not in love with her, no! the devil take me if

I lie! I should have loved any other woman as much, and I had never

given a thought to marriage. If she had not been of noble birth, which

gave her--not in my eyes, for I have no prejudices--in many people's

eyes a sort of distinction, I shouldn't have paid much attention to her.

Are you laughing? What are you laughing at, you ass of an attorney?"

"I am not laughing," said Marcel. "Go on. You were telling me about the

bright idea that came into your head."

"So it did, and it wasn't any more foolish than my excellent brother's

idea. Was he an eagle in those days, I would ask? No, he was a little

dauber, who hadn't succeeded in laying by four sous, and no one thought

anything of him. Was he any better looking than I was, or younger, or

better bred? We were both brought up just alike; I was five years older,

that's all. I wasn't the ugliest, and he wasn't a beauty by any means!

He knew how to talk; he was always a chatterer. I said less, but what I

said was solid. Neither one of us was more of a plebeian than the other,

for we had the same father and mother. I had already saved nearly a

million which no one knew anything about! With a million a man can do

many things that my brother couldn't do: he can put the law to sleep and

appease angry parents, and obtain patrons who never sleep; with a

million one can even reach the king's ear, and surely one can marry a

girl who has nothing at all. If society makes a fuss, it's because

everyone would like to have the million in his own pocket. In fact, my

million proved that even if I was not quite so fine a talker as my

brother, it wasn't for want of wit and genius. That is what the girl

ought to have understood. I didn't ask her to love me right away, but to

love her André enough to forget him and keep him from going to prison

and rotting there. Very good; instead of appreciating my good sense and

generosity, lo and behold! the prude loses her temper, calls me a boor

and a wicked brother and a dishonorable man, and decamps from my house

without telling me where she's going, staking all to win all, and

leaving a letter for me in which all the thanks she gives me is a

promise never to betray my treachery to Monsieur André! I confess that

I have never forgiven her for that, and that I never shall forgive her.

As for my excellent brother, he behaved in a way that disgusted me

almost as much as madame did. I didn't choose to wait till his prude of

a wife had sold me. When I saw that he was out of his difficulties and

married, I told him the whole story, just as I have told it to you. He

didn't lose his temper; on the contrary, he thanked me for my good

intentions, but then he began to laugh. You know what a frivolous,

weak-brained creature he was! Well, my idea struck him as very comical,

and he made fun of me. Thereupon I broke with him, and I would never see

the wife or the husband again."

"At last!" said Marcel, "now I know where we are. But Julien? Why do you

bear Julien a grudge, for he wasn't born at the time of your grievance?"

"I don't bear Julien a grudge; but he is his mother's son, and I am sure

that he hates me."

"Upon my honor, Julien knows nothing of what you have told me, and he

knows you only by your conduct of late. Do you think that he can

possibly approve it? Shouldn't you have redeemed his mother's house,

when he swore by all that is most sacred that he would devote his life

to the payment of his debt to you?"

"A fine security, the life of a painter! Where did painting land his

father, who was _famous?_"

"And suppose you had lost a matter of fifty thousand francs, you who

certainly have more than----"

"Hush! you should never mention the amount of a man's fortune. When such

figures are in the air, the walls and trees, even the flower-pots, have

ears."

"You agree that the amount is so large that the Sèvres affair would

have been a mere trifle, don't you?"

"Do you propose to make me out a miser?"

"I know that you are not one, but I shall believe that you are cruel,

and that you like to see people suffer whom you believe to be your

enemies."

"Well, isn't that my right? Since when have we been forbidden to seek

revenge?"

"Since we began to be something more than savages."

"Am I a savage then?"

"Yes."

"Be off, you are tiresome after a while! Look out that I don't set

myself against you too?"

"I defy you to do it."

"Why so?"

"Because you know that I am the only person on earth who is just a

little attached to you and devoted to you, in spite of all your

shortcomings."

"You see! You admit now that Julien detests me."

"Make him love you; then you will have two friends instead of one."

"Ah! yes! you want me to redeem the house! Very good, when Julien is an

orphan, I will look after him, on condition that he never mentions his

mother to me."

"Perhaps you would like to have him kill her, would you? I tell you,

uncle, you are mad, nothing more nor less. You are immeasurably vain,

and you have the prejudices of the nobility in a more virulent form than

any of the people who have ancestors. You were not in love with

Mademoiselle de Meuil, I am sure; but her rank made you long to supplant

your brother with her. You were frantically jealous of poor André, not

because of that lovely and lovable young woman, but because of the

parchments which she brought him with her dowry, and because of the sort

of lustre that was reflected on him. In a word, you do not hate the

nobles, you adore them, you envy them, you would give all your millions

to have been _born_ somebody, and your outbreaks of rage against them on

every occasion are simply the spleen of a discarded lover, just as your

hatred of my aunt is the spleen of a wounded and humiliated plebeian.

That is your mania, my poor uncle; every man has his own, they say, but

this one makes you cruel, and I am very sorry for you."

Perhaps the ex-armorer felt that Marcel was right; consequently he was

about to get more angry than ever, but Marcel turned his back on him

with a shrug, and went away, paying no heed to his invectives.

In reality Marcel was very glad to be in possession at last of the ideas

and recollections which underlay his uncle's actions. He promised

himself that he would take advantage of his knowledge to induce him to

mend his ways. Did he succeed? The sequel will tell us.

"Madame," said Marcel to the Comtesse d'Estrelle the next morning, "you

must sell the pavilion."

"Why?" said Julie. "It is so old and such a paltry affair, and of such

trifling value too!"

"It has a value due to its location, which you must not overlook. My

uncle will give you thirty thousand francs for it, perhaps more."

"This is the first time, my dear adviser, that you have advised me ill.

I am very reluctant to extort money from a neighbor. What is it but

speculating on the need he may have of that old building?"

"Wait a moment, my noble client! My uncle does not need the pavilion; he

wants it, which is a very different matter. He is rich enough to pay for

his whims. And what would you say if he were grateful to you for your

extortion?"

"How can that be?"

"Enter into personal relations with him and he will offer you a bonus

over and above the price."

"Fie! Monsieur Thierry! you would have me pay court to his gold?"

"No, but simply bestow upon it a kindly, patronizing smile, and it will

come to you of itself. Moreover, you will do a kind deed."

"Tell me what you mean."

"You will show my uncle that you have much esteem and affection for my

aunt and cousin, and thus you will induce the old Crœsus to assist them

seriously in their distress."

"Then I will do it with all my heart, Monsieur Thierry; but, while I am

already able to appreciate the worth of madame your aunt, what can I say

of your cousin, whom I do not know?"

"No matter, speak of him with perfect confidence. My Julien has a heart

of gold, the high spirit of a man of birth, and a mind above his

condition; he is the best of sons, the truest of friends, the most

honorable of men, and the most reasonable of artists. Say all that,

madame la comtesse, and if Julien's life ever offers the slightest

contradiction to your words, drive me from your presence, and never

again give me your esteem or confidence."

Marcel spoke so vehemently that Julie was impressed. She abstained from

asking questions, but she listened, without losing a word, to what

followed this eulogy, when Marcel entered into details by which only the

hardest of hearts could have failed to be moved. He told of Julien's

care of his mother, of the privations which he endured without her

knowledge, even going without proper food so that she might have enough.

Therein Marcel, like Madame Thierry, unwittingly said what was not true.

Julien had lost his appetite because he was in love, and Marcel, who had

no suspicion of it, thought that he had divined the cause of that

involuntary abstemiousness. But Julien was capable of doing much more

for his mother than holding his appetite in check. He would have given

the last drop of his blood for her; thus, while he did not tell the

exact truth at that moment, Marcel said far less than the truth.

His panegyric of Julien was so generous and so affecting that the

countess authorized Marcel to say to Uncle Antoine from her that she

would like very much to see his rare flowers and inspect his extensive

and interesting grounds. Uncle Antoine received this message with a

haughty and sceptical air.

"I see," said he, "she wants to sell at a high price, and this

condescension will cost me the eyes out of my head."

Marcel allowed him to talk, but was not deceived. The rich man's

gratification was too evident.

On the appointed day Madame d'Estrelle resumed her deep mourning,

entered her carriage and drove to the hôtel de Melcy. Marcel was at the

door awaiting her. He offered her his hand, and as they went up the

steps Uncle Antoine appeared in all his glory, in gardening costume.

That was by no means ill-advised on the part of so stupid a man. He had

duly considered, without mentioning it to Marcel, the plan of appearing

in magnificent array; he was rich enough to have every seam stitched

with gold; but the dread of ridicule deterred him, and, as he prided

himself on being a great horticulturist before everything, he had the

wit to appear in a strictly rustic costume.

Despite the asperity of his disposition and of his ordinary manners,

despite his secret longing to assert his independence of mind and his

philosophical pride before Marcel, he suddenly lost countenance before

the fair Julie's gracious salutation and her sincere and limpid glance,

and for the first time in thirty years removed his three-cornered hat

and, instead of replacing it at once on his head, held it awkwardly, but

respectfully, under his arm throughout the visit.

Julie did not resort to the vulgar ruse of trying to flatter his

caprice; she was really interested in the treasures of horticulture

which were exhibited to her. Herself a flower, she loved flowers. This

is no madrigal,--to use a phrase then in vogue. There is a natural

affinity between all divine creations, and in all ages symbols have been

used to express realities.

The rich man, although he had little of the rose about him, bloomed

resplendent at the sincere admiration bestowed on his beloved plants.

Little by little his assumed haughtiness vanished before the sylph whose

feet hardly grazed his lawns, and who flitted among his flower-beds like

a caressing breeze. He awaited with entire resignation the announcement

of the price fixed for the pavilion.

"Come, my dear uncle," said Marcel, seeing that Madame d'Estrelle had

apparently forgotten the affair, "tell madame la comtesse of your desire

to purchase--"

"True," said the rich man, careful not to commit himself too far, "I

have had some idea of buying the pavilion; but now if madame does not

wish to part with it----"

"I have but one reason for not wishing to part with it. It is occupied

by some people whom I esteem, and whom I would not disturb on any

consideration."

"They have a lease, I suppose?" said Monsieur Thierry, who knew all

about it.

"Why, of course," said Marcel; "you would have to pay them a fair

indemnity in case they should consent to cancel the lease, for you know

they took it very recently."

"A fair indemnity!" repeated the uncle, with a frown.

"I would gladly undertake to pay that," said Madame d'Estrelle, "if----"

"If I would pay more for the place in proportion!"

"That is not what I was about to say," rejoined Julie, in a dignified

tone which cut short all discussion. "I intended to say, and I say now

that, if Madame Thierry, your sister-in-law, has the slightest objection

to leaving that house, I propose to uphold her right to remain

throughout the term of the lease; and that is a condition which the

purchaser cannot evade on any pretext."

"That will delay the transaction and make it less advantageous to

madame," said Monsieur Antoine, who, was consumed with longing to utter

the fascinating title of _countess_, but could not quite make up his

mind to do it.

"I do not say no to that, Monsieur Thierry," replied Julie, with an

indifference which the rich man considered a fair artifice.

"However," he began after a pause, "what price does----"

Marcel was about to reply. Julie, who evidently knew nothing about

business, paid no heed to him, but answered ingenuously:

"Oh! I know nothing about that. You are well-known to be a shrewd and

fair-minded man; you may fix the price yourself."

Regardless of her solicitor's reproachful glance, she continued:

"You cannot believe, Monsieur Thierry, that the purpose of my visit to

your garden was to haggle with you over the price of my small property.

I know that it will probably be of advantage to you to own it, and you

know that I am in straitened circumstances; that is no reason why we

should be unreasonable in our demands upon each other; but in justice to

myself I must tell you this, that I would not for a million francs

consent to distress madame your sister-in-law, because I love and honor

her especially. That being understood, you can think it over and let me

know your decision; for you owe me a call now, my dear neighbor, and I

shall not release you from the debt, whether we come to terms or not."

The countess withdrew, leaving the rich man dazzled by her charms; but,

as he did not choose to allow Marcel to see his emotion, he pretended to

exult for another reason.

"Well, attorney," he said triumphantly, "so you are fairly caught, and

sheepish enough! What did you say about that lady's demands? She has

more sense than you, and is willing to take my valuation----"

"Very good, very good, rejoice at her charming manners," replied Marcel,

"and make the most of the praise which you owe to her politeness; but

try to understand and to rise to the level of the rôle which she

ascribes to you!"

"After all," rejoined Antoine, who was a very shrewd man of business,

"when you say to a man like me: 'Pay what you choose,' it means: 'Pay

like a great nobleman!' Very good, I will pay you a good price, _mordi!_

and the great lady shall see whether I'm an old curmudgeon like her

father-in-law the marquis! There is one thing that surprises me on the

part of a woman who seems to be no fool: and that is the fuss she makes

about my sister-in-law! I am not quite sure whether she meant to be

agreeable to me or to make sport of me when she was talking about her."

"She meant to be agreeable to you."

"Of course, as she needs me; but then my sister-in-law must have made me

out a miser?"

"My aunt has not mentioned you. Act in such a way that she will have no

reason to complain."

"Let her complain if she chooses! what do I care? What do I want of this

countess's esteem and friendship?"

"True," said Marcel, taking his hat, "it is all a matter of the utmost

indifference to you! No matter, don't try to make yourself out a boor,

and let us agree on a day so that I can announce your visit."

Antoine selected the second day thereafter, and they parted; but on the

next day, without a word to Marcel, he took measures, indirectly but

adroitly, to repurchase the house at Sèvres without loss to himself.

Had he decided to make his nephew that present, to give his

sister-in-law that pleasure? No indeed. There never was a more

vindictive man, because nothing had occurred to wear out his passions,

good or evil. There had been nothing in his narrow life of sufficient

importance to soften the asperities of his nature. But a blow had been

dealt at his secret vanity, and Julie d'Estrelle, without artifice,

without scheming to that end, had subdued that savage spirit. He found

in her an irresistible charm and an unaffected tone of equality, which,

to be sure, he attributed to her need of money, but which flattered him

as he had never been flattered in his life before. He had determined

therefore to pretend to feel something like compassion for Madame

Thierry. He was afraid that she would really do him an injury in Julie's

estimation, and by purchasing the house at Sèvres in his own name, he

persuaded himself that he would hold his foe in respect by the hope that

that transaction would prove to be for Julien's benefit.

Meanwhile Marcel continued his efforts to relieve Madame d'Estrelle

gradually from her burden, and on the evening of the day of her visit to

Monsieur Antoine, he called upon her to scold her for her recklessness,

and to insist that she should make the purchaser jump high for the

sugar-plum. He found her disinclined to assent to any manœuvring to

secure the desired result.

"Do as you think best, my dear Monsieur Thierry," she said; "but do not

ask me to assist you. You told me that your uncle was a little vain,

that I could easily gain some influence over him by virtue of my title,

and that, by means of that influence, I could arouse his interest in his

sister-in-law's lot. I made haste to test my power. You tell me that you

hope for some good result; I did what my heart dictated, do not ask me

to do anything more. Why are you in such a hurry to sell the pavilion?

Didn't you tell me that my husband's creditors would be patient when

they found that I was provided with an additional piece of real estate,

that the marquis would never allow the hôtel d'Estrelle to be sold, and

that I might venture to forget my troubles for some time? Keep your word

and let your uncle hover about the pavilion, for that will give me an

excuse for pleading Madame Thierry's cause. I told the truth when I said

that I did not propose that she should be turned out of her present

quarters against her will, and I tell you now that I should regret

exceedingly to lose her as a neighbor."

Marcel, being unable to shake her determination, went to see his aunt

Thierry and told her and Julien of the countess's generous action and of

her kindly feeling for them. Madame Thierry was affected to tears, and,

as Julien was careful to play his part well, so that certain suspicions

might be dissipated, she ventured to express herself freely in praise of

Julie d'Estrelle. Her heart was overflowing with gratitude which she had

with difficulty restrained for two days past. Thus did the poor mother

herself pour oil on the flame.

However, her suspicions came to life again more than once. She watched

Julien furtively at every word that she uttered, and he seemed always

perfectly tranquil; but suddenly there came a revelation. As she was

saying to Marcel that she did not wish to stand in the way of Julie's

selling the pavilion, and that she would pretend not to regret the

necessity of moving, Julien warmly remonstrated.

"Move again?" he said. "We cannot do it. We spent a great deal,

considering our income, in getting settled here."

"Our uncle will attend to that," said Marcel; "if he makes you move, I

will undertake to make him pay----"

"My dear fellow," replied Julien, still very earnest, "you are full of

zeal and kindness for us; but you know very well that my mother does not

like your appeals to Uncle Antoine, that you have made them in a measure

against her will, and that, if my interests were not involved, she would

have peremptorily forbidden them. Whether she is right or wrong in

considering Monsieur Thierry a detestable creature is not for us to

judge. For my own part, however painful it may be to me, I will make all

possible concessions to our kinsman's extraordinary character; but I do

not propose that my mother's pride shall be wounded in her relations

with him."

"No, no! I have no pride," cried Madame Thierry. "I have none now,

Julien! You work too hard, you will surely be sick if we refuse to treat

with Monsieur Antoine. Whatever Marcel does, I approve, and if I must

humble myself, I shall be happy to do it! Let us do our duty, pay all

our debts before everything. Let us say to the countess that it makes

little difference to us whether we live here or somewhere else, so that

she can sell at once; and let Marcel say to Monsieur Thierry that we

demand our rights or that we appeal to his generosity--anything will

satisfy me that will restore your health and peace of mind."

"My health is excellent," replied Julien warmly, "and nothing except

moving again would disturb my peace of mind. I like my studio, I have a

picture under way."

"But you are talking selfishly, my child! You forget that the countess

is having trouble with her creditors as we are, even more than we are

just now."

"And do you think that Monsieur Antoine will save her by buying this old

barrack? Marcel knows better."

"What I think," said Marcel, "is that Uncle Antoine will submit to any

conditions that the Comtesse d'Estrelle chooses to impose on him; he

will pay a high price and he won't turn you out. Leave it to me and I

may bring him to something even better."

"To what, pray?"

"That is my secret. You shall know later, if I do not fail."

"Bless my soul!" said Madame Thierry, abruptly changing the subject, "I

forgot to bring my snuff-box; go and get it for me, Julien."

Julien went upstairs and his mother took advantage of the opportunity to

say hastily to Marcel:

"Be careful, my dear child! a great disaster is hanging over us: Julien

is in love with the countess!"

"Nonsense!" cried Marcel in utter stupefaction; "you are dreaming, my

dear aunt, it isn't possible!"

"Speak lower. It is possible, it is a fact. Arrange for us to leave

these dangerous quarters at once. Find some way without letting him

suspect what I say. Save him and save me! Hush! he is coming down

again!"

Julien had done the errand in a moment. He was in a hurry to resume the

conversation; but he noticed a shade of constraint in his mother's

glance, a suggestion of bewilderment and surprise in Marcel's manner. He

suspected that he had betrayed himself, and he at once assumed a

cheerful and indifferent air, which did not deceive Madame Thierry, but

which reassured the solicitor. So Marcel took his leave, saying to

himself that he would sound his cousin some day, but fully persuaded

that his aunt was losing her wits a little, in the midst of all her

excitement.

But Marcel made a much more astonishing discovery, a discovery so truly

astonishing that we beg our readers to prepare themselves for it a long

while beforehand.

Uncle Antoine paid his visit to Madame d'Estrelle. Madame d'Estrelle,

without preparation or effort, was as charming, perhaps more charming

than at their first interview. She received the horticulturist with

neither more nor less affability than a person of her own station. Being

gifted with a penetration which made up for his lack of experience, he

realized that his reception was unexceptionable, and felt that he had

never been so well treated by a person of such high rank. He recognized,

moreover, that she was entirely indifferent to the question of money,

and that her condescension concealed no ulterior motive, not even the

motive of effecting a reconciliation between himself and Madame Thierry,

as she avowed it frankly and with a most earnest and confident

expression of her desire.

Marcel, seeing the gratification which his uncle derived from that

interview, and which he almost forgot to conceal, realized that perfect

sincerity was in some cases the shrewdest diplomacy, and that Madame

d'Estrelle had accomplished more for her protégés and herself than if

she had attempted to use craft.

"Now," said Monsieur Antoine, without waiting to be questioned, "we must

settle this business of the pavilion. It is worth forty thousand francs

to me, I know; I will give that amount, and as I propose to take

possession at once, I owe it to Madame Thierry to submit to any claims

she may make. I don't propose to have any discussion with that woman. So

tell her that I will pay the six thousand francs for which I made myself

responsible, and release her from any claim on that account; here is my

receipt. And if she needs a few more francs to pay the expenses of

moving, I won't refuse to let her have them. Go, and don't let me hear

any more of her troubles; but, first of all, take the countess my offer,

which I think is rather generous, and tell her of my promise to

indemnify her protégés to their satisfaction."

Marcel, amazed but overjoyed, carried the good news first to Madame

Thierry, who thanked heaven, and was very near blessing her

brother-in-law for his determination to make her move instantly and at

any price.

Madame d'Estrelle was not so well pleased; she had seen the attractive

widow again, and had already become very fond of talking with her;

moreover, she had some scruples; Monsieur Antoine's munificence seemed

to her the foolish act of a parvenu and therefore humiliating to her.

"He will think," she said, "that I schemed to induce him to make this

sacrifice, and that idea is abhorrent to me. No, I will accept only half

of that sum. I much prefer to retain his esteem and my influence in

behalf of the poor Thierrys. Go and tell him that I want but twenty

thousand francs and a renewal of your aunt's lease."

"But my aunt is most anxious to move," Marcel replied. "Remember that a

sum of considerable importance to her is involved."

"In that case give no more attention to her affairs in my name, but take

special care of my dignity, which I place in your hands."

This reply, being duly transmitted to Monsieur Antoine, caused an

explosion which astonished Marcel.

"So she declines my services," cried the rich man, "for I did intend to

do her a service, knowing her embarrassment, and I went to her as a

friend, since she had treated me like a friend! Ah! you see, Marcel, she

is proud, she despises me, and she lied when she told me that she

esteemed me! Very good, if that's how it is, I'll have my revenge. Yes,

I'll have a cruel revenge, and she shall have only what she deserves,

and, death of my life! I'll force her to go on her knees to me!"

Marcel silently scrutinized the angry rich man's still handsome and

decidedly cruel face.

"What is this new mystery?" he said to himself, as he watched the black

eyes, made larger by the fierce wrath which caused them to emit

threatening flames. "Can wounded vanity cause such an outbreak? Can it

be that my uncle is on the verge of madness? Is this solitary,

monotonous, preoccupied life too much for his strength, and has his

persistent turning of his back on everything that gives light and warmth

to the lives of other men finally caused derangement in his brain?"

Antoine continued vehemently, heedless of Marcel's careful study of his

person:

"I see what the game is! She wants my sacrifices to help Madame Thierry.

Well, I tell you that I snap my fingers at Mademoiselle de Meuil! It's a

long time since I ceased to have either hatred or affection for her. Let

her go to the devil, and don't let me hear her name again! I will pay

forty thousand francs for the pavilion, or I won't buy it. That's my way

of thinking."

Matters remained in this position for several days; Madame d'Estrelle

laughing at what she considered an attack of madness on the part of the

old parvenu, and he, without Marcel's knowledge, acting in such a way as

to put the finishing touch to that madness.

He purchased secretly all the debts which were hanging over the Comte

d'Estrelle's widow, and, without saying a word, placed himself in a

position where he could ruin her or save her, according to the attitude

she might assume with respect to him. He purchased on his own account,

but under a fictitious name, and with a deed of defeasance, the house at

Sèvres with all its beautiful and costly contents. He did not let it,

but placed a caretaker there to keep it in order. All this was done in a

few days and without regard to cost; then, having artfully made

inquiries of Marcel as to Madame d'Estrelle's intimate friends, he

called upon the Baronne d'Ancourt, who received him with her grandest

manner, but condescended to listen attentively when she learned that he

had come to place her in a position to save Madame d'Estrelle from

certain ruin.

Their interview was long and mysterious. The servants at the hôtel

d'Ancourt, who were exceedingly puzzled by such a conference between

their haughty mistress and a man dressed like a peasant, heard the

baroness's shrill tones, then the rustic voice in labored and emphatic

declamation--a dispute, in short, with intervals of raillery or

merriment; for at times the baroness laughed until the windows shook.

An hour later the baroness hurried to Madame d'Estrelle.

"My dear," she said in great excitement, "I bring you five millions or

poverty; choose."

"Ah! an old husband, I suppose?" said Julie; "you cling to your idea, do

you?"

"A very old husband; but five millions!"

"With a great name, of course?"

"Not the faintest shadow of a name! a downright plebeian; but five

millions, Julie!"

"An honorable man, at all events?"

"He is so considered. Have you decided?"

"Yes, I refuse. Wouldn't you do as much? Would you think well of me if I

should accept?"

"I said just what you say: I sent my man about his business, I laughed

at him. He replied obstinately; 'Five millions, madame, five millions!'"

"And he must have convinced you, since you are here?"

"Convinced or not, I was surprised, dazzled. I said, like the queen:

'You persuade me strongly!'"

"Then you advise me to say yes?"

"Don't say yes, say _perhaps_; then you can reflect and I will reflect

for you; for at this moment my brain is a little confused: those

millions intoxicated me. What would you have? The man is old, and before

long you will be free and people will have done crying out against the

misalliance; besides, everybody knows that your own descent is not very

distinguished. You will open a salon which will eclipse all Paris, and

where all Paris will trample upon itself to take part in your

entertainments; for, when all is said, all Paris has only one thing in

its head, which is to be amused and to go where people are amused. You

will give balls, concerts and theatricals; you will have artists, fine

singers and fine talkers; in a word, bright people to stir up and amuse

the people of quality, who are not bright. Ah! if I had millions--if I

had just two--I should know what to do with them! Come, don't think I am

mad, and don't be cowardly. Accept the plebeian and opulence."

"And what about the husband's old age?"

"An additional reason!"

Julie was indignant, Amélie was offended; they had a falling-out.

Madame d'Ancourt had not mentioned the suitor's name--it had not

occurred to Julie to inquire. She placed the matter in Marcel's hands,

desiring that her refusal should be placed beyond question. She was

afraid that her impulsive friend, in her anger, would compromise her by

giving her protégé some reason to hope. Marcel went to Madame

d'Ancourt to learn the name of the man with the five millions.

"Ah! she thinks better of it, does she?" cried the baroness.