Renardet's face. The Mayor's cheeks were purple, his eyes were glaring
with black circles round them as if they were sunk in his head, his hair
was all tangled, his beard untrimmed, his necktie unfastened. It was
evident that he had not gone to bed.
The postman asked:
"Are you ill, M'sieur le Maire?"
The other, suddenly comprehending that his appearance must be unusual,
lost countenance, and faltered--
"Oh! no--oh! no. Only I jumped out of bed to ask you for this letter. I
was asleep. You understand?"
He said in reply:
"What letter?"
"The one you are going to give back to me."
Mederic now began to hesitate. The Mayor's attitude did not strike him
as natural. There was perhaps a secret in that letter, a political
secret. He knew Renardet was not a Republican, and he knew all the
tricks and chicaneries employed at elections.
He asked:
"To whom is it addressed, this letter of yours?"
"To M. Putoin, the examining magistrate--you know my friend, M. Putoin,
well!"
The postman searched through the papers, and found the one asked for.
Then he began looking at it, turning it round and round between his
fingers, much perplexed, much troubled by the fear of committing a
grave offense or of making an enemy for himself of the Mayor.
Seeing his hesitation, Renardet made a movement for the purpose of
seizing the letter and snatching it away from him. This abrupt action
convinced Mederic that some important secret was at stake and made him
resolve to do his duty, cost what it may.
So he flung the letter into his bag and fastened it up, with the reply:
"No, I can't, M'sieur le Maire. From the moment it goes to the
magistrate, I can't."
A dreadful pang wrung Renardet's heart, and he murmured:
"Why, you know me well. You are even able to recognize my handwriting. I
tell you I want that paper."
"I can't."
"Look here, Mederic, you know that I'm incapable of deceiving you--I
tell you I want it."
"No, I can't."
A tremor of rage passed through Renardet's soul.
"Damn it all, take care! You know that I don't go in for chaffing, and
that I could get you out of your job, my good fellow, and without much
delay either. And then, I am the Mayor of the district, after all; and I
now order you to give me back that paper."
The postman answered firmly:
"No, I can't, M'sieur le Maire."
Thereupon, Renardet, losing his head, caught hold of the postman's arms
in order to take away his bag; but, freeing himself by a strong effort,
and springing backwards, the letter carrier raised his big holly stick.
Without losing his temper, he said emphatically:
"Don't touch me, M'sieur le Maire, or I'll strike. Take care, I'm only
doing my duty!"
Feeling that he was lost, Renardet suddenly became humble, gentle,
appealing to him like a crying child:
"Look here, look here, my friend, give me back that letter, and I'll
recompense you--I'll give you money. Stop! Stop! I'll give you a hundred
francs, you understand--a hundred francs!"
The postman turned on his heel and started on his journey.
Renardet followed him, out of breath, faltering:
"Mederic, Mederic, listen! I'll give you a thousand francs, you
understand--a thousand francs."
The postman still went on without giving any answer.
Renardet went on:
"I'll make your fortune, you understand--whatever you wish--fifty
thousand francs--fifty thousand francs for that letter! What does it
matter to you? You won't? Well, a hundred thousand--I say--a hundred
thousand francs. Do you understand? A hundred thousand francs--a hundred
thousand francs."
The postman turned back, his face hard, his eye severe:
"Enough of this, or else I'll repeat to the magistrate everything you
have just said to me."
Renardet stopped abruptly. It was all over. He turned back and rushed
towards his house, running like a hunted animal.
Then, in his turn, Mederic stopped, and watched this flight with
stupefaction. He saw the Mayor re-entering his own house, and he waited
still as if something astonishing was about to happen.
In fact, presently the tall form of Renardet appeared on the summit of
the Fox's tower. He ran round the platform, like a madman. Then he
seized the flagstaff and shook it furiously without succeeding in
breaking it, then, all of a sudden, like a swimmer taking a plunge, he
dashed into the air with his two hands in front of him.
Mederic rushed forward to give succor. As he crossed the park, he saw
the woodcutters going to work. He called out to them telling them an
accident had occurred, and at the foot of the walls they found a
bleeding body the head of which was crushed on a rock. The Brindelle
surrounded this rock, and over its clear, calm waters, swollen at this
point, could be seen a long red stream of mingled brains and blood.
* * * * *
MOTHER AND DAUGHTER
"The Comtesse Samoris."
"That lady in black over there?"
"The very one. She's wearing mourning for her daughter, whom she
killed."
"Come now! You don't mean that seriously?"
"Oh! it is a very simple story, without any crime in it, any violence."
"Then what really happened?"
"Almost nothing. Many courtesans were born to be virtuous women, they
say; and many women called virtuous were born to be courtesans--is that
not so? Now, Madame Samoris, who was born a courtesan, had a daughter
born a virtuous woman, that's all."
"I don't quite understand you."
"I'll explain what I mean. The Comtesse Samoris is one of those tinsel
foreign women hundreds of whom are rained down every year on Paris. A
Hungarian or Wallachian countess, or I know not what, she appeared one
winter in apartments she had taken in the Champs Elysees, that quarter
for adventurers and adventuresses, and opened her drawing-room to the
first comer or to anyone that turned up.
"I went there. Why? you will say. I really can't tell you. I went there,
as everyone goes to such places because the women are facile and the men
are dishonest. You know that set composed of filibusters with varied
decorations, all noble, all titled, all unknown at the embassies, with
the exception of those who are spies. All talk of their honor without
the slightest occasion for doing so, boast of their ancestors, tell you
about their lives, braggarts, liars, sharpers, as dangerous as the false
cards they have up their sleeves, as delusive as their name--in short,
the aristocracy of the bagnio.
"I adore these people. They are interesting to study, interesting to
know, amusing to understand, often clever, never commonplace like public
functionaries. Their wives are always pretty, with a slight flavor of
foreign roguery, with the mystery of their existence, half of it perhaps
spent in a house of correction. They have, as a rule, magnificent eyes
and incredible hair. I adore them also.
"Madame Samoris is the type of these adventuresses, elegant, mature, and
still beautiful. Charming feline creatures, you feel that they are
vicious to the marrow of their bones. You find them very amusing when
you visit them; they give card-parties; they have dances and suppers; in
short, they offer you all the pleasures of social life.
"And she had a daughter--a tall, fine-looking girl, always ready for
entertainments, always full of laughter and reckless gayety--a true
adventuress's daughter--but, at the same time, an innocent,
unsophisticated, artless girl, who saw nothing, knew nothing, understood
nothing of all the things that happened in her father's house."
"How do you know about him?"
"How do I know? That's the funniest part of the business! One morning,
there was a ring at my door, and my valet came up to tell me that M.
Joseph Bonenthal wanted to speak to me. I said directly: 'And who is
this gentleman?' My valet replied: 'I don't know, monsieur; perhaps
'tis someone that wants employment.' And so it was. The man wanted me to
take him as a servant. I asked him where he had been last. He answered:
'With the Comtesse Samoris.' 'Ah!' said I, 'but my house is not a bit
like hers.' 'I know that well, monsieur,' he said, 'and that's the very
reason I want to take service with monsieur. I've had enough of these
people: a man may stay a little while with them, but he won't remain
long with them.' I required an additional man servant at the time, and
so I took him.
"A month later, Mademoiselle Yveline Samoris died mysteriously, and here
are all the details of her death I could gather from Joseph, who got
them from his sweetheart, the Comtesse's chambermaid:
"It was a ball-night, and two newly-arrived guests were chatting behind
a door. Mademoiselle Yveline, who had just been dancing, leaned against
this door to get a little air.
"They did not see her approaching; but she heard what they were saying.
And this was what they said:
"'But who is the father of the girl?'
"'A Russian, it appears, Count Rouvaloff. He never comes near the mother
now.'
"'And who is the reigning prince to-day?'
"'That English prince standing near the window; Madame Samoris adores
him. But her adoration of anyone never lasts longer than a month or six
weeks. Nevertheless, as you see, she has a large circle of admirers. All
are called--and nearly all are chosen. That kind of thing costs a good
deal, but--hang it, what can you expect?'
"'And where did she get this name of Samoris?'
"'From the only man perhaps that she ever loved--a Jewish banker from
Berlin who goes by the name of Samuel Morris.'
"'Good. Thanks. Now that I know all about her, and see her sort, I'm
off!'
"What a start there was in the brain of the young girl endowed with all
the instincts of a virtuous woman! What despair overwhelmed that simple
soul! What mental tortures quenched her endless gayety, her delightful
laughter, her exulting satisfaction with life! What a conflict took
place in that youthful heart up to the moment when the last guest had
left! Those were things that Joseph could not tell me. But, the same
night, Yveline abruptly entered her mother's room just as the Comtesse
was getting into bed, sent out the waiting-maid, who was close to the
door, and, standing erect and pale, and with great staring eyes, she
said:
"'Mamma, listen to what I heard a little while ago during the ball.'
"And she repeated word for word the conversation just as I told it to
you.
"The Comtesse was so stupefied that she did not know what to say in
reply, at first. When she recovered her self-possession, she denied
everything, and called God to witness that there was no truth in the
story.
"The young girl went away, distracted but not convinced. And she watched
her mother.
"I remember distinctly the strange alteration that then took place in
her. She was always grave and melancholy. She used to fix on us her
great earnest eyes as if she wanted to read what was at the bottom of
our hearts. We did not know what to think of her, and we used to
maintain that she was looking out for a husband.
"One evening her doubts were dispelled. She caught her mother with a
lover. Thereupon she said coldly, like a man of business laying down the
terms of an agreement:
"'Here is what I have determined to do, mamma: We will both go away to
some little town--or rather into the country. We will live there quietly
as well as we can. Your jewelry alone may be called a fortune. If you
wish to marry some honest man, so much the better; still better will it
be if I can find one. If you don't consent to do this, I will kill
myself.'
"This time, the Comtesse ordered her daughter to go to bed, and never to
administer again this lecture so unbecoming in the mouth of a child
towards her mother.
"Yveline's answer to this was: 'I give you a month to reflect. If, at
the end of that month, we have not changed our way of living, I will
kill myself, since there is no other honorable issue left to my life.'
"Then she took herself off.
"At the end of a month, the Comtesse Samoris was giving balls and
suppers just the same as ever. Yveline then, under the pretext that she
had a bad toothache purchased a few drops of chloroform from a
neighboring chemist. The next day she purchased more; and, every time
she went out, she managed to procure small doses of the narcotic. She
filled a bottle with it.
"One morning she was found in bed, lifeless, and already quite cold,
with a cotton mask over her face.
"Her coffin was covered with flowers, the church was hung in white.
There was a large crowd at the funeral ceremony.
"Ah! well, if I had known--but you never can know--I would have married
that girl, for she was infernally pretty."
"And what became of the mother?"
"Oh! she shed a lot of tears over it. She has only begun to receive
visits again for the past week."
"And what explanation is given of the girl's death?"
"Oh! 'tis pretended that it was an accident caused by a new stove, the
mechanism of which got out of order. As a good many such accidents have
happened, the thing looks probable enough."
* * * * *
A PASSION
The sea was brilliant and unruffled, scarcely stirred, and on the pier
the entire town of Havre watched the ships as they came on.
They could be seen at a distance, in great numbers; some of them, the
steamers, with plumes of smoke; the others, the sailing vessels, drawn
by almost invisible tugs, lifting towards the sky their bare masts, like
leafless trees.
They hurried from every end of the horizon towards the narrow mouth of
the jetty which devoured these monsters; and they groaned, they
shrieked, they hissed while they spat out puffs of steam like animals
panting for breath.
Two young officers were walking on the landing-stage, where a number of
people were waiting, saluting or returning salutes, and sometimes
stopping to chat.
Suddenly, one of them, the taller, Paul d'Henricol, pressed the arm of
his comrade, Jean Renoldi, then, in a whisper, said:
"Hallo, here's Madame Poincot; give a good look at her. I assure you
that she's making eyes at you."
She was moving along on the arm of her husband. She was a woman of about
forty, very handsome still, slightly stout, but, owing to her graceful
fullness of figure, as fresh as she was at twenty. Among her friends she
was known as the Goddess on account of her proud gait, her large black
eyes, and the entire air of nobility of her person. She remained
irreproachable; never had the least suspicion cast a breath on her
life's purity. She was regarded as the very type of a virtuous,
uncorrupted woman. So upright that no man had ever dared to think of
her.
And yet for the last month Paul d'Henricol had been assuring his friend
Renoldi that Madame Poincot was in love with him, and he maintained that
there was no doubt of it.
"Be sure I don't deceive myself. I see it clearly. She loves you--she
loves you passionately, like a chaste woman who had never loved. Forty
years is a terrible age for virtuous women when they possess senses;
they become foolish, and commit utter follies. She is hit, my dear
fellow; she is falling like a wounded bird, and is ready to drop into
your arms. I say--just look at her!"
The tall woman, preceded by her two daughters, aged twelve and fifteen
years, suddenly turned pale, on her approach, as her eyes lighted on the
officer's face. She gave him an ardent glance, concentrating her gaze
upon him, and no longer seemed to have any eyes for her children, her
husband, or any other person around her. She returned the salutation of
the two young men without lowering her eyes, glowing with such a flame
that a doubt, at last, forced its way into Lieutenant Renoldi's mind.
His friend said, in the same hushed voice: "I was sure of it. Did you
not notice her this time? By Jove, she is a nice tit-bit!"
* * * * *
But Jean Renoldi had no desire for a society intrigue. Caring little for
love, he longed, above all, for a quiet life, and contented himself with
occasional amours such as a young man can always have. All the
sentimentality, the attentions, and the tenderness which a well-bred
woman exacts bored him. The chain, however slight it might be, which is
always formed by an adventure of this sort, filled him with fear. He
said: "At the end of a month I'll have had enough of it, and I'll be
forced to wait patiently for six months through politeness."
Then, a rupture exasperated him, with the scenes, the allusions, the
clinging attachment, of the abandoned woman.
He avoided meeting Madame Poincot.
But, one evening he found himself by her side at a dinner-party, and he
felt on his skin, in his eyes, and even in his heart, the burning glance
of his fair neighbor. Their hands met, and almost involuntarily were
pressed together in a warm clasp. Already the intrigue was almost begun.
He saw her again, always in spite of himself. He realized that he was
loved. He felt himself moved by a kind of pitying vanity when he saw
what a violent passion for him swayed this woman's breast. So he allowed
himself to be adored, and merely displayed gallantry, hoping that the
affair would be only sentimental.
But, one day, she made an appointment with him for the ostensible
purpose of seeing him and talking freely to him. She fell, swooning,
into his arms; and he had no alternative but to be her lover.
And this lasted six months. She loved him with an unbridled, panting
love. Absorbed in this frenzied passion, she no longer bestowed a
thought on anything else. She surrendered herself to it utterly--her
body, her soul, her reputation, her position, her happiness--all she
had cast into that fire of her heart, as one casts, as a sacrifice,
every precious object into a funeral pier.
He had for some time grown tired of her, and deeply regretted his easy
conquest as a fascinating officer; but he was bound, held prisoner. At
every moment she said to him: "I have given you everything. What more
would you have?" He felt a desire to answer:
"But I have asked nothing from you, and I beg of you to take back what
you gave me."
Without caring about being seen, compromised, ruined, she came to see
him every evening, her passion becoming more inflamed each time they
met. She flung herself into his arms, strained him in a fierce embrace,
fainted under the force of rapturous kisses which to him were now
terribly wearisome.
He said in a languid tone: "Look here! be reasonable!"
She replied:
"I love you," and sank on her knees gazing at him for a long time in an
attitude of admiration. At length, exasperated by her persistent gaze,
he tried to make her rise.
"I say! Sit down. Let us talk."
She murmured:
"No, leave me;" and remained there, her soul in a state of ecstasy.
He said to his friend d'Henricol:
"You know, 'twill end by my beating her. I won't have any more of it! It
must end, and that without further delay!" Then he went on:
"What do you advise me to do?"
The other replied:
"Break it off."
And Renoldi added, shrugging his shoulders:
"You speak indifferently about the matter; you believe that it is easy
to break with a woman who tortures you with attention, who annoys you
with kindnesses, who persecutes you with her affection, whose only care
is to please you, and whose only wrong is that she gave herself to you
in spite of you."
But suddenly, one morning the news came that the regiment was about to
be removed from the garrison; Renoldi began to dance with joy. He was
saved! Saved without scenes, without cries! Saved! All he had to do now
was to wait patiently for two months more. Saved!
In the evening she came to him more excited than she had ever been
before. She had heard the dreadful news, and, without taking off her hat
she caught his hands and pressed them nervously, with her eyes fixed on
his, and her voice vibrating and resolute.
"You are leaving," she said; "I know it. At first, I felt heart-broken;
then, I understood what I had to do. I don't hesitate about doing it. I
have come to give you the greatest proof of love that a woman can offer.
I follow you. For you I am abandoning my husband, my children, my
family. I am ruining myself, but I am happy. It seems to me that I am
giving myself to you over again. It is the last and the greatest
sacrifice. I am yours for ever!"
He felt a cold sweat down his back, and was seized with a dull and
violent rage, the anger of weakness. However, he became calm, and, in a
disinterested tone, with a show of kindness, he refused to accept her
sacrifice, tried to appease her, to bring her to reason, to make her see
her own folly! She listened to him, staring at him with her great black
eyes and with a smile of disdain on her lips, and said not a word in
reply. He went on talking to her, and when, at length, he stopped, she
said merely:
"Can you really be a coward? Can you be one of those who seduce a woman,
and then throw her over, through sheer caprice?"
He became pale, and renewed his arguments; he pointed out to her the
inevitable consequences of such an action to both of them as long as
they lived--how their lives would be shattered and how the world would
shut its doors against them. She replied obstinately: "What does it
matter when we love each other?" Then, all of a sudden, he burst out
furiously:
"Well, then, I will not. No--do you understand? I will not do it, and I
forbid you to do it." Then, carried away by the rancorous feeling which
had seethed within him so long, he relieved his heart:
"Ah, damn it all, you have now been sticking on to me for a long time in
spite of myself, and the best thing for you now is to take yourself off.
I'll be much obliged if you do so, upon my honor!"
She did not answer him, but her livid countenance began to look
shriveled up, as if all her nerves and muscles had been twisted out of
shape. And she went away without saying good-bye.
The same night she poisoned herself.
For a week she was believed to be in a hopeless condition. And in the
city people gossiped about the case, and pitied her, excusing her sin on
account of the violence of her passion, for overstrained emotions,
becoming heroic through their intensity, always obtain forgiveness for
whatever is blameworthy in them. A woman who kills herself is, so to
speak, not an adulteress. And ere long there was a feeling of general
reprobation against Lieutenant Renoldi for refusing to see her again--a
unanimous sentiment of blame.
It was a matter of common talk that he had deserted her, betrayed her,
ill-treated her. The Colonel, overcome by compassion, brought his
officer to book in a quiet way. Paul d'Henricol called on his friend:
"Deuce take it, Renoldi, it's not good enough to let a woman die; it's
not the right thing anyhow."
The other, enraged, told him to hold his tongue, whereupon d'Henricol
made use of the word "infamy." The result was a duel, Renoldi was
wounded, to the satisfaction of everybody, and was for some time
confined to his bed.
She heard about it, and only loved him the more for it, believing that
it was on her account he had fought the duel; but, as she was too ill to
move, she was unable to see him again before the departure of the
regiment.
He had been three months in Lille when he received one morning, a visit
from the sister of his former mistress.
After long suffering and a feeling of dejection, which she could not
conquer, Madame Poincot's life was now despaired of, and she merely
asked to see him for a minute, only for a minute, before closing her
eyes for ever.
Absence and time had appeased the young man's satiety and anger; he was
touched, moved to tears, and he started at once for Havre.
She seemed to be in the agonies of death. They were left alone together;
and by the bedside of this woman whom he now believed to be dying, and
whom he blamed himself for killing, though it was not by his own hand,
he was fairly crushed with grief. He burst out sobbing, embraced her
with tender, passionate kisses, more lovingly than he had ever done in
the past. He murmured in a broken voice:
"No, no, you shall not die! You shall get better! We shall love each
other for ever--for ever!"
She said in faint tones:
"Then it is true. You do love me, after all?"
And he, in his sorrow for her misfortunes, swore, promised to wait till
she had recovered, and full of loving pity, kissed again and again the
emaciated hands of the poor woman whose heart was panting with feverish,
irregular pulsations.
The next day he returned to the garrison.
Six weeks later she went to meet him, quite old-looking, unrecognizable,
and more enamored than ever.
In his condition of mental prostration, he consented to live with her.
Then, when they remained together as if they had been legally united,
the same colonel who had displayed indignation with him for abandoning
her, objected to this irregular connection as being incompatible with
the good example officers ought to give in a regiment. He warned the
lieutenant on the subject, and then furiously denounced his conduct, so
Renoldi retired from the army.
He went to live in a village on the shore of the Mediterranean, the
classic sea of lovers.
And three years passed. Renoldi, bent under the yoke, was vanquished,
and became accustomed to the woman's persevering devotion. His hair had
now turned white.
He looked upon himself as a man done for, gone under. Henceforth, he had
no hope, no ambition, no satisfaction in life, and he looked forward to
no pleasure in existence.
But one morning a card was placed in his hand, with the name--"Joseph
Poincot, Shipowner, Havre."
The husband! The husband, who had said nothing, realizing that there was
no use in struggling against the desperate obstinacy of women. What did
he want?
He was waiting in the garden, having refused to come into the house. He
bowed politely, but would not sit down, even on a bench in a
gravel-path, and he commenced talking clearly and slowly.
"Monsieur, I did not come here to address reproaches to you. I know too
well how things happened. I have been the victim of--we have been the
victims of--a kind of fatality. I would never have disturbed you in your
retreat if the situation had not changed. I have two daughters,
Monsieur. One of them, the elder, loves a young man, and is loved by
him. But the family of this young man is opposed to the marriage, basing
their objection on the situation of--my daughter's mother. I have no
feeling of either anger or spite, but I love my children, Monsieur. I
have, therefore, come to ask my wife to return home. I hope that to-day
she will consent to go back to my house--to her own house. As for me, I
will make a show of having forgotten, for--for the sake of my
daughters."
Renoldi felt a wild movement in his heart, and he was inundated with a
delirium of joy like a condemned man who receives a pardon.
He stammered: "Why, yes--certainly, Monsieur--I myself--be assured of
it--no doubt--it is right, it is only quite right."
This time M. Poincot no longer declined to sit down.
Renoldi then rushed up the stairs, and pausing at the door of his
mistress's room, to collect his senses, entered gravely.
"There is somebody below waiting to see you," he said. "'Tis to tell you
something about your daughters."
She rose up. "My daughters? What about them? They are not dead?"
He replied: "No; but a serious situation has arisen, which you alone can
settle."
She did not wait to hear more, but rapidly descended the stairs.
Then, he sank down on a chair, greatly moved, and waited.
He waited a long long time. Then he heard angry voices below stairs, and
made up his mind to go down.
Madame Poincot was standing up exasperated, just on the point of going
away, while her husband had seized hold of her dress, exclaiming: "But
remember that you are destroying our daughters, your daughters, our
children!"
She answered stubbornly:
"I will not go back to you!"
Renoldi understood everything, came over to them in a state of great
agitation, and gasped:
"What, does she refuse to go?"
She turned towards him, and, with a kind of shame-facedness, addressed
him without any familiarity of tone, in the presence of her legitimate
husband, said:
"Do you know what he asks me to do? He wants me to go back, and live
under one roof with him!"
And she tittered with a profound disdain for this man, who was appealing
to her almost on his knees.
Then Renoldi, with the determination of a desperate man playing his last
card, began talking to her in his turn, and pleaded the cause of the
poor girls, the cause of the husband, his own cause. And when he
stopped, trying to find some fresh argument, M. Poincot, at his wits'
end, murmured, in the affectionate style in which he used to speak to
her in days gone by:
"Look here, Delphine! Think of your daughters!"
Then she turned on both of them a glance of sovereign contempt, and,
after that, flying with a bound towards the staircase, she flung at them
these scornful words:
"You are a pair of wretches!"
Left alone, they gazed at each other for a moment, both equally
crestfallen, equally crushed. M. Poincot picked up his hat, which had
fallen down near where he sat, dusted off his knees the signs of
kneeling on the floor, then raising both hands sorrowfully, while
Renoldi was seeing him to the door, remarked with a parting bow:
"We are very unfortunate, Monsieur."
Then he walked away from the house with a heavy step.
* * * * *
NO QUARTER
The broad sunlight threw its burning rays on the fields, and under this
shower of flame life burst forth in glowing vegetation from the earth.
As far as the eye could see, the soil was green; and the sky was blue to
the verge of the horizon. The Norman farms scattered through the plain
seemed at a distance like little doors enclosed each in a circle of thin
beech trees. Coming closer, on opening the worm-eaten stile, one fancied
that he saw a giant garden, for all the old apple-trees, as knotted as
the peasants, were in blossom. The weather-beaten black trunks, crooked,
twisted, ranged along the enclosure, displayed beneath the sky their
glittering domes, rosy and white. The sweet perfume of their blossoms
mingled with the heavy odors of the open stables and with the fumes of
the steaming dunghill, covered with hens and their chickens. It was
midday. The family sat at dinner in the shadow of the pear-tree planted
before the door--the father, the mother, the four children, the two
maid-servants, and the three farm laborers. They scarcely uttered a
word. Their fare consisted of soup and of a stew composed of potatoes
mashed up in lard.
From time to time one of the maid-servants rose up and went to the
cellar to fetch a pitcher of cider.
The husband, a big fellow of about forty, stared at a vine-tree, quite
exposed to view, which stood close to the farm-house twining like a
serpent under the shutters the entire length of the wall.
He said, after a long silence:
"The father's vine-tree is blossoming early this year. Perhaps it will
bear good fruit."
The peasant's wife also turned round, and gazed at the tree without
speaking.
This vine-tree was planted exactly in the place where the father of the
peasant had been shot.
* * * * *
It was during the war of 1870. The Prussians were in occupation of the
entire country. General Faidherbe, with the Army of the North, was at
their head.
Now the Prussian staff had taken up its quarters in this farm-house. The
old peasant who owned it, Pere Milon Pierre, received them, and gave
them the best treatment he could.
For a whole month the German vanguard remained on the look-out in the
village. The French were posted ten leagues away without moving; and yet
each night, some of the Uhlans disappeared.
All the isolated scouts, those who were sent out on patrol, whenever
they started in groups of two or three, never came back.
They were picked up dead in the morning in a field, near a farm-yard, in
a ditch. Their horses even were found lying on the roads with their
throats cut by a saber-stroke. These murders seemed to have been
accomplished by the same men, who could not be discovered.
The country was terrorized. Peasants were shot on mere information,
women were imprisoned, attempts were made to obtain revelations from
children by fear.
But, one morning, Pere Milon was found stretched in his stable, with a
gash across his face.
Two Uhlans ripped open were seen lying three kilometers away from the
farm-house. One of them still grasped in his hand his blood-stained
weapon. He had fought and defended himself.
A council of war having been immediately constituted, in the open air,
in front of the farm-house, the old man was brought before it.
He was sixty-eight years old. He was small, thin, a little crooked, with
long hands resembling the claws of a crab. His faded hair, scanty and
slight, like the down on a young duck, allowed his scalp to be plainly
seen. The brown, crimpled skin of his neck showed the big veins which
sank under his jaws and reappeared at his temples. He was regarded in
the district as a miser and a hard man in business transactions.
He was placed standing between four soldiers in front of the kitchen
table, which had been carried out of the house for the purpose. Five
officers and the Colonel sat facing him. The Colonel was the first to
speak.
"Pere Milon," he said, in French, "since we came here, we have had
nothing to say of you but praise. You have always been obliging, and
even considerate towards us. But to-day a terrible accusation rests on
you, and the matter must be cleared up. How did you get the wound on
your face?"
The peasant gave no reply.
The Colonel went on:
"Your silence condemns you, Pere Milon. But I want you to answer me, do
you understand. Do you know who has killed the two Uhlans who were found
this morning near the cross-roads?"
The old man said in a clear voice:
"It was I!"
The Colonel, surprised, remained silent for a second, looking
steadfastly at the prisoner. Pere Milon maintained his impassive
demeanor, his air of rustic stupidity, with downcast eyes, as if he were
talking to his curé. There was only one thing that could reveal his
internal agitation, the way in which he slowly swallowed his saliva with
a visible effort, as if he were choking.
The old peasant's family--his son Jean, his daughter-in-law, and two
little children stood ten paces behind scared and dismayed.
The Colonel continued:
"Do you know also who killed all the scouts of our Army, whom we have
found every morning, for the past month, lying here and there in the
fields?"
The old man answered with the same brutal impassiveness:
"It was I!"
"It is you, then, that killed them all?"
"All of them--yes, it was I."
"You alone?"
"I alone."
"Tell me the way you managed to do it?"
This time the peasant appeared to be affected; the necessity of speaking
at some length incommoded him.
"I know myself. I did it the way I found easiest."
The Colonel proceeded:
"I warn you, you must tell me everything. You will do well, therefore,
to make up your mind about it at once. How did you begin it?"
The peasant cast an uneasy glance towards his family, who remained in a
listening attitude behind him. He hesitated for another second or so,
then all of a sudden, he came to a resolution on the matter.
"I came home one night about ten o'clock and the next day you were here.
You and your soldiers gave me fifty crowns for forage with a cow and two
sheep. Said I to myself: 'As long as I get twenty crowns out of them,
I'll sell them the value of it.' But then I had other things in my
heart, which I'll tell you about now. I came across one of your
cavalrymen smoking his pipe near my dike, just behind my barn. I went
and took my scythe off the hook, and I came back with short steps from
behind, while he lay there without hearing anything. And I cut off his
head with one stroke, like a feather, while he only said 'Oof!' You have
only to look at the bottom of the pond; you'll find him there in a
coal-bag, with a big stone tied to it.
"I got an idea into my head. I took all he had on him from his boots to
his cap, and I hid them in the bake-house in the Martin wood behind the
farm-yard."
The old man stopped. The officers, speechless, looked at one another.
The examination was resumed, and this is what they were told.
* * * * *
Once he had accomplished this murder, the peasant lived with only one
thought: "To kill the Prussians!" He hated them with the sly and
ferocious hatred of a countryman who was at the same time covetous and
patriotic. He had got an idea into his head, as he put it. He waited for
a few days.
He was allowed to go and come freely, to go out and return just as he
pleased, as long as he displayed humility, submissiveness, and
complaisance towards the conquerors.
Now, every evening he saw the cavalrymen bearing dispatches leaving the
farmhouse; and he went out one night after discovering the name of the
village to which they were going, and after picking up by associating
with the soldiers the few words of German he needed.
He made his way through his farm-yard slipped into the wood, reached the
bake-house, penetrated to the end of the long passage, and having found
the clothes of the soldier which he had hidden there, he put them on.
Then, he went prowling about the fields, creeping along, keeping to the
slopes so as to avoid observation, listening to the least sounds,
restless as a poacher.
When he believed the time had arrived he took up his position at the
roadside, and hid himself in a clump of brushwood. He still waited. At
length, near midnight, he heard the galloping of a horse's hoofs on the
hard soil of the road. The old man put his ear to the ground to make
sure that only one cavalryman was approaching; then he got ready.
The Uhlan came on at a very quick pace, carrying some dispatches. He
rode forward with watchful eyes and strained ears. As soon as he was no
more than ten paces away, Pere Milon dragged himself across the road,
groaning: "Hilfe! Hilfe!" ("Help! help!")
The cavalryman drew up, recognized a German soldier dismounted, believed
that he was wounded, leaped down from his horse, drew near the prostrate
man, never suspecting anything, and, as he stooped over the stranger, he
received in the middle of the stomach the long curved blade of the
saber. He sank down without any death throes, merely quivering with a
few last shudders.
Then, the Norman radiant with the mute joy of an old peasant, rose up,
and merely to please himself, cut the dead soldier's throat. After that,
he dragged the corpse to the dike and threw it in.
The horse was quietly waiting for its rider. Pere Milon got on the
saddle, and started across the plain at the gallop.
At the end of an hour, he perceived two more Uhlans approaching the
staff-quarters side by side. He rode straight towards them, crying,
"Hilfe! hilfe!" The Prussians let him come on, recognizing the uniform
without any distrust.
And like a cannon-ball, the old man shot between the two, bringing both
of them to the ground with his saber and a revolver. The next thing he
did was to cut the throats of the horses--the German horses! Then,
softly he re-entered the bake-house, and hid the horse he had ridden
himself in the dark passage. There he took off the uniform, put on once
more his own old clothes, and going to his bed, slept till morning.
For four days he did not stir out, awaiting the close of the open
inquiry as to the cause of the soldiers' deaths; but, on the fifth day,
he started out again, and by a similar stratagem killed two more
soldiers.
Thenceforth he never stopped. Each night he wandered about, prowled
through the country at random, cutting down some Prussians, sometimes
here, sometimes there, galloping through the deserted fields under the
moonlight, a lost Uhlan, a hunter of men. Then when he had finished his
task, leaving behind the corpses lying along the roads, the old horseman
went to the bake-house, where he concealed both the animal and the
uniform. About midday he calmly returned to the spot to give the horse a
feed of oats and some water, and he took every care of the animal,
exacting therefore the hardest work.
But, the night before his arrest, one of the soldiers he attacked put
himself on his guard, and cut the old peasant's face with a slash of a
saber.
He had, however, killed both of them. He had even managed to go back and
hide his horse and put on his everyday garb, but, when he reached the
stable, he was overcome by weakness, and was not able to make his way
into the house.
He had been found lying on the straw, his face covered with blood.
* * * * *
When he had finished his story, he suddenly lifted his head, and glanced
proudly at the Prussian officers.
The Colonel, tugging at his moustache, asked:
"Have you anything more to say?"
"No, nothing more; we are quits. I killed sixteen, not one more, not one
less."
"You know you have to die?"
"I ask for no quarter!"
"Have you been a soldier?"
"Yes, I served at one time. And 'tis you killed my father, who was a
soldier of the first Emperor, not to speak of my youngest son, Francois,
whom you killed last month near Exreux. I owed this to you, and I've
paid you back. 'Tis tit for tat!"
The officers stared at one another.
The old man went on:
"Eight for my father, eight for my son--that pays it off! I sought for
no quarrel with you. I don't know you! I only know where you came from.
You came to my house here, and ordered me about as if the house was
yours. I have had my revenge, and I'm glad of it!"
And stiffening up his old frame, he folded his arms in the attitude of a
humble hero.
The Prussians held a long conference. A captain, who had also lost a son
the month before, defended the brave old scoundrel.
Then the Colonel rose up, and, advancing towards Pere Milon, he said,
lowering his voice:
"Listen, old man! There is perhaps one way of saving your life--it is--"
But the old peasant was not listening to him, and fixing his eyes
directly on the German officer, while the wind made the scanty hair move
to and fro on his skull, he made a frightful grimace, which shriveled up
his pinched countenance scarred by the saber-stroke, and, puffing out
his chest, he spat, with all his strength, right into the Prussian's
face.
The Colonel, stupefied, raised his hand, and for the second time the
peasant spat in his face.
All the officers sprang to their feet and yelled out orders at the same
time.
In less than a minute, the old man, still as impassive as ever, was
stuck up against the wall, and shot while he cast a smile at Jean, his
eldest son, and then at his daughter-in-law and the two children, who
were staring with terror at the scene.
* * * * *
THE IMPOLITE SEX
Madame de X. to Madame de L.
Etretat, Friday.
My dear Aunt,--I am going to pay you a visit without making much fuss
about it. I shall be at Les Fresnes on the 2nd of September, the day
before the hunting season opens, as I do not want to miss it, so that I
may tease these gentlemen. You are very obliging, aunt, and I would like
you to allow them to dine with you, as you usually do when there are no
strange guests, without dressing or shaving for the occasion, on the
ground that they are fatigued.
They are delighted, of course, when I am not present. But I shall be
there, and I shall hold a review, like a general, at the dinner-hour;
and, if I find a single one of them at all careless in dress, no matter
how little, I mean to send him down to the kitchen to the servant-maids.
The men of to-day have so little consideration for others and so little
good manners that one must be always severe with them. We live indeed in
an age of vulgarity. When they quarrel with one another, they attack one
another with insults worthy of street-porters, and, in our presence,
they do not conduct themselves even as well as our servants. It is at
the seaside that you see this most clearly. They are to be found there
in battalions, and you can judge them in the lump.
Oh! what coarse beings they are!
Just imagine in a train, one of them, a gentleman who looked well, as I
thought, at first sight, thanks to his tailor, was dainty enough to take
off his boots in order to put on a pair of old shoes! Another, an old
man, who was probably some wealthy upstart (these are the most
ill-bred), while sitting opposite to me, had the delicacy to place his
two feet on the seat quite close to me. This is a positive fact.
At the water-places, there is an unrestrained outpouring of
unmannerliness. I must here make one admission--that my indignation is
perhaps due to the fact that I am not accustomed to associate, as a
rule, with the sort of people one comes across here, for I should be
less shocked by their manners if I had the opportunity of observing them
oftener. In the inquiry-office of the hotel, I was nearly thrown down by
a young man who snatched the key over my head. Another knocked against
me so violently without begging my pardon or lifting his hat, coming
away from a ball at the Casino, that he gave me a pain in the chest. It
is the same way with all of them. Watch them addressing ladies on the
terrace; they scarcely ever bow. They merely raise their hands to their
head-gear. But indeed, as they are all more or less bald, it is their
best plan.
But what exasperates and disgusts me specially is the liberty they take
of talking publicly without any precaution whatsoever about the most
revolting adventures. When two men are together, they relate to each
other, in the broadest language and with the most abominable comments
really horrible stories without caring in the slightest degree whether a
woman's ear is within reach of their voices. Yesterday, on the beach I
was forced to go away from the place where I sat in order not to be any
longer the involuntary confidante of an obscene anecdote, told in such
immodest language that I felt just as much humiliated as indignant at
having heard it. Would not the most elementary good-breeding have taught
them to speak in a lower tone about such matters when we are near at
hand. Etretat is, moreover, the country of gossip and scandal. From five
to seven o'clock you can see people wandering about in quest of nasty
stories about others which they retail from group to group. As you
remarked to me, my dear aunt, tittle-tattle is the mark of petty
individuals and petty minds. It is also the consolation of women who are
no longer loved or sought after. It is enough for me to observe the
women who are fondest of gossiping to be persuaded that you are quite
right.
The other day I was present at a musical evening at the Casino, given by
a remarkable artist, Madame Masson, who sings in a truly delightful
manner. I took the opportunity of applauding the admirable Coquelin, as
well as two charming boarders of the Vaudeville, M---- and Meillet. I
was able, on the occasion, to see all the bathers collected together
this year on the beach. There were not many persons of distinction among
them.
Next day I went to lunch at Yport. I noticed a tall man with a beard who
was coming out of a large house like a castle. It was the painter, Jean
Paul Laurens. He is not satisfied apparently with imprisoning the
subjects of his pictures he insists on imprisoning himself.
Then, I found myself seated on the shingle close to a man still young,
of gentle and refined appearance, who was reading some verses. But he
read them with such concentration, with such passion, I may say, that he
did not even raise his eyes towards me. I was somewhat astonished, and I
asked the conductor of the baths without appearing to be much concerned,
the name of this gentleman. I laughed inwardly a little at this reader
of rhymes; he seemed behind the age, for a man. This person, I thought,
must be a simpleton. Well, aunt, I am now infatuated about this
stranger. Just fancy, his name is Sully Prudhomme! I turned round to
look at him at my ease, just where I sat. His face possesses the two
qualities of calmness and elegance. As somebody came to look for him, I
was able to hear his voice, which is sweet and almost timid. He would
certainly not tell obscene stories aloud in public, or knock against
ladies without apologizing. He is sure to be a man of refinement, but
his refinement is of an almost morbid, vibrating character. I will try
this winter to get an introduction to him.
I have no more news to tell you, my dear aunt, and I must interrupt this
letter in haste, as the post-hour is near. I kiss your hands and your
cheeks.--Your devoted niece,
Berthe De X.
P. S.--I should add, however, by way of justification of French
politeness, that our fellow-countrymen are, when traveling, models of
good manners in comparison with the abominable English, who seem to have
been brought up by stable-boys, so much do they take care not to
incommode themselves in any way, while they always incommode their
neighbors.
* * * * *
Madame de L. to Madame de X.
Les Fresnes, Saturday.
My Dear Child,--Many of the things you have said to me are very
reasonable, but that does not prevent you from being wrong. Like you, I
used formerly to feel very indignant at the impoliteness of men, who, as
I supposed, constantly treated me with neglect; but, as I grew older and
reflected on everything, putting aside coquetry, and observing things
without taking any part in them myself, I perceived this much--that if
men are not always polite, women are always indescribably rude.
We imagine that we should be permitted to do anything, my darling, and
at the same time we consider that we have a right to the utmost respect,
and in the most flagrant manner we commit actions devoid of that
elementary good-breeding of which you speak with passion.
I find, on the contrary, that men have, for us, much consideration, as
compared with our bearing towards them. Besides, darling, men must needs
be, and are, what we make them. In a state of society, where women are
all true gentlewomen, all men would become gentlemen.
Mark my words; just observe and reflect.
Look at two women meeting in the street. What an attitude each assumes
towards the other! What disparaging looks! What contempt they throw into
each glance! How they toss their heads while they inspect each other to
find something to condemn! And, if the footpath is narrow, do you think
one woman would make room for another, or will beg pardon as she sweeps
by? Never! When two men jostle each other by accident in some narrow
lane, each of them bows and at the same time gets out of the other's
way, while we women press against each other stomach to stomach, face to
face, insolently staring each other out of countenance.
Look at two women who are acquaintances meeting on a stair case before
the drawing-room door of a friend of theirs to whom one has just paid a
visit, and to whom the other is about to pay a visit. They begin to talk
to each other, and block up the passage. If anyone happens to be coming
up behind them, man or woman, do you imagine that they will put
themselves half-an-inch out of their way? Never! never!
I was waiting myself, with my watch in my hands, one day last winter, at
a certain drawing-room door. And behind two gentlemen were also waiting
without showing any readiness to lose their temper, like me. The reason
was that they had long grown accustomed to our unconscionable insolence.
The other day, before leaving Paris, I went to dine with no less a
person than your husband in the Champs Elysees in order to enjoy the
open air. Every table was occupied. The waiter asked us not to go, and
there would soon be a vacant table.
At that moment, I noticed an elderly lady of noble figure, who, having
paid the amount of her docket, seemed on the point of going away. She
saw me, scanned me from head to foot, and did not budge. For more than a
full quarter-of-an-hour she sat there, immovable, putting on her gloves,
and calmly staring at those who were waiting like myself. Now, two young
men who were just finishing their dinner, having seen me in their turn,
quickly summoned the waiter in order to pay whatever they owed, and at
once offered me their seats, even insisting on standing while waiting
for their change. And, bear in mind, my fair niece, that I am no longer
pretty, like you, but old and white-haired.
It is we (do you see?) who should be taught politeness, and the task
would be such a difficult one that Hercules himself would not be equal
to it. You speak to me about Etretat, and about the people who indulged
in "tittle-tattle" along the beach of that delightful watering-place. It
is a spot now lost to me, a thing of the past, but I found much
amusement there in days gone by.
There were only a few of us, people in good society, really good
society, and a few artists, and we all fraternized. We paid little
attention to gossip in those days.
Well, as we had no insipid Casino, where people only gather for show,
where they talk in whispers, where they dance stupidly, where they
succeed in thoroughly boring one another, we sought some other way of
passing our evenings pleasantly. Now, just guess what came into the head
of one of our husbandry? Nothing less than to go and dance each night in
one of the farm-houses in the neighborhood.
We started out in a group with a street-organ, generally played by Le
Poittevin, the painter, with a cotton nightcap on his head. Two men
carried lanterns. We followed in procession, laughing and chattering
like a pack of fools.
We woke up the farmer and his servant-maids and laboring men. We got
them to make onion-soup (horror!), and we danced under the apple-trees,
to the sound of the barrel-organ. The cocks waking up began to crow in
the darkness of the out-houses; the horses began prancing on the straw
of their stables. The cool air of the country caressed our cheeks with
the smell of grass and of new-mown hay.
How long ago it is! How long ago it is. It is thirty years since then!
I do not want you, my darling, to come for the opening of the hunting
season. Why spoil the pleasure of our friends by inflicting on them
fashionable toilets on this day of vigorous exercise in the country?
This is the way, child, that men are spoiled. I embrace you.--Your old
aunt
Genevieve De Z.
* * * * *
WOMAN'S WILES
"Women?"
"Well, what do you say about women?"
"Well, there are no conjurors more subtle in taking us in at every
available opportunity with or without reason, often for the sole
pleasure of playing tricks on us. And they play these tricks with
incredible simplicity, astonishing audacity, unparalleled ingenuity.
They play tricks from morning till night, and they all do it--the most
virtuous, the most upright, the most sensible of them. You may add that
sometimes they are to some extent driven to do these things. Man has
always idiotic fits of obstinacy and tyrannical desires. A husband is
continually giving ridiculous orders in his own house. He is full of
caprices; his wife plays on them even while she makes use of them for
the purpose of deception. She persuades him that a thing costs so much
because he would kick up a row if its price were higher. And she always
extricates herself from the difficulty cunningly by a means so simple
and so sly that we gape with amazement when by chance we discover them.
We say to ourselves in a stupefied state of mind 'How is it we did not
see this till now?'"
* * * * *
The man who uttered the words was an ex-Minister of the Empire, the
Comte de L----, a thorough profligate, it was said, and a very
accomplished gentleman. A group of young men were listening to him.
He went on:
"I was outwitted by an ordinary uneducated woman in a comic and
thorough-going fashion. I will tell you about it for your instruction.
"I was at the time Minister for Foreign Affairs, and I was in the habit
of taking a long walk every morning in the Champs Elysees. It was the
month of May; I walked along, sniffing in eagerly that sweet odor of
budding leaves.
"Ere long, I noticed, that I used to meet every day a charming little
woman, one of those marvelous, graceful creatures, who bear the
trade-mark of Paris. Pretty? Well, yes and no. Well-made? No, better
than that: her waist was too slight, her shoulders too narrow, her
breast too full, no doubt; but I prefer those exquisite human dolls to
that great statuesque corpse, the Venus of Milo.
"And then this sort of woman trots along in an incomparable fashion, and
the very rustle of her skirt fills the marrow of your bones with desire.
She seemed to give me a side-glance as she passed me. But these women
give you all sorts of looks--you never can tell....
"One morning, I saw her sitting on a bench with an open book between her
hands. I came across, and sat down beside her. Five minutes later, we
were friends. Then, each day, after the smiling salutation 'Good day,
Madame,' 'Good day, Monsieur,' we began to chat. She told me that she
was the wife of a Government clerk, that her life was a sad one, that in
it pleasures were few and cares numerous, and a thousand other things.
"I told her who I was, partly through thoughtlessness, and partly
perhaps through vanity. She pretended to be much astonished.
"Next day, she called at the Ministry to see me; and she came again
there so often that the ushers, having their attention drawn to her
appearance, used to whisper to one another, as soon as they saw her, the
name with which they had christened her 'Madame Leon' that is my
Christian name.
"For three months I saw her every morning without growing tired of her
for a second, so well was she able incessantly to give variety and
piquancy to her physical attractiveness. But one day I saw that her eyes
were bloodshot and glowing with suppressed tears, that she could
scarcely speak, so much was she preoccupied with secret troubles.
"I begged of her, I implored of her, to tell me what was the cause of
her agitation.
"She faltered out at length with a shudder: 'I am--I am pregnant!'
"And she burst out sobbing. Oh! I made a dreadful grimace, and I have no
doubt I turned pale, as men generally do at hearing such a piece of
news. You cannot conceive what an unpleasant stab you feel in your
breast at the announcement of an unexpected paternity of this kind. But
you are sure to know it sooner or later. So, in my turn, I gasped:
'But--but--you are married, are you not?'
"She answered: 'Yes, but my husband has been away in Italy for the last
two months, and he will not be back for some time.'
"I was determined at any cost to get out of my responsibility.
"I said: 'You must go and join him immediately.'
"She reddened to her very temples, and with downcast eyes, murmured:
'Yes--but--' She either dared not or would not finish the sentence.
"I understood, and I prudently enclosed her in an envelope the expenses
of the journey.
* * * * *
"Eight days later, she sent me a letter from Genoa. The following week,
I received one from Florence. Then letters reached me from Leghorn,
Rome, and Naples.
"She said to me: 'I am in good health, my dear love, but I am looking
frightful. I would not care to have you see me till it is all over; you
would not love me. My husband suspects nothing. As his business in this
country will require him to stay there much longer, I will not return to
France till after my confinement.'
"And, at the end of about eight months, I received from Venice these few
words: 'It is a boy.'
"Some time after, she suddenly entered my study one morning, fresher and
prettier than ever, and flung herself into my arms.
"And our former connection was renewed.
"I left the Ministry, and she came to live in my house in the Rue de
Grenelle. She often spoke to me about the child, but I scarcely listened
to what she said about it; it did not concern me. Now and then I placed
a rather large sum of money in her hand, saying: 'Put that by for him.'
"Two more years glided by; and she was more eager to tell me some news
about the youngster--'about Leon.'
"Sometimes she would say in the midst of tears: 'You don't care about
him; you don't even wish to see him. If you know what grief you cause
me!'
"At last I was so much harassed by her that I promised, one day, to go,
next morning, to the Champs Elysees, when she took the child there for
an airing.
"But at the moment when I was leaving the house, I was stopped by a
sudden apprehension. Man is weak and foolish. What if I were to get fond
of this tiny being of whom I was the father--my son?
"I had my hat on my head, my gloves in my hands. I flung down the gloves
on my desk, and my hat on a chair:
"No. Decidedly I will not go; it is wiser not to go.'
"My door flew open. My brother entered the room. He handed me an
anonymous letter he had received that morning:
"'Warn the Comte de L----, your brother, that the little woman of the
Rue Casette is impudently laughing at him. Let him make some inquiries
about her.'
"I had never told anybody about this intrigue, and I now told my brother
the history of it from the beginning to the end. I added:
"For my part, I don't want to trouble myself any further about the
matter; but will you, like a good fellow, go and find out what you can
about her?
"When my brother had left me, I said to myself: 'In what way can she
have deceived me? She has other lovers? What does it matter to me? She
is young, fresh, and pretty; I ask nothing more from her. She seems to
love me, and as a matter of fact, she does not cost me much. Really, I
don't understand this business.'
"My brother speedily returned. He had learned from the police all that
was to be known about her husband: 'A clerk in the Home Department, of
regular habits and good repute, and, moreover, a thinking man, but
married to a very pretty woman, whose expenses seemed somewhat
extravagant for her modest position.' That was all.
"Now, my brother having sought for her at her residence, and finding
that she was gone out, succeeded, with the assistance of a little gold,
in making the doorkeeper chatter: 'Madame D----, a very worthy woman,
and her husband a very worthy man, not proud, not rich, but generous.'
"My brother asked for the sake of saying something:
"'How old is her little boy now?'
"'Why, she has not got any little boy, monsieur.'
"'What? Little Leon?'
"'No, monsieur, you are making a mistake.'
"'I mean the child she had while she was in Italy, two years ago?'
"'She has never been in Italy, monsieur; she has not quitted the house
she is living in for the last five years.'
"My brother, in astonishment, questioned the doorkeeper anew, and then
he pushed his investigation of the matter further. No child, no journey.
"I was prodigiously astonished, but without clearly understanding the
final meaning of this comedy.
"'I want,' said I to him, 'to have my mind perfectly clear about the
affair. I will ask her to come here to-morrow. You shall receive her
instead of me. If she has deceived me, you will hand her these ten
thousand francs, and I will never see her again. In fact, I am beginning
to find I have had enough of her.'
"Would you believe it? I had been grieved the night before because I had
a child by this woman; and I was now irritated, ashamed, wounded at
having no more of her. I found myself free, released from all
responsibility, from all anxiety, and yet I felt myself raging at the
position in which I was placed.
"Next morning my brother awaited her in my study. She came in as quickly
as usual, rushing towards him with outstretched arms, but when she saw
who it was she at once drew back.
"He bowed, and excused himself.
"'I beg your pardon, madame, for being here instead of my brother, but
he has authorized me to ask you for some explanations which he would
find it painful to seek from you himself.'
"Then, fixing on her face a searching glance, he said abruptly:
"'We know you have not a child by him.'
"After the first moment of stupor, she regained her composure, took a
seat, and gazed with a smile at this man who was sitting in judgment on
her.
"She answered simply:
"'No; I have no child.'
"'We know also that you have never been in Italy.'
"This time she burst out laughing in earnest.
"'No, I have never been in Italy.'
"My brother, quite stunned, went on:
"'The Comte has requested me to give you this money, and tell you that
it is all broken off.'
"She became serious again, calmly putting the money into her pocket,
and, in an ingenuous tone asked:
"'And I am not, then, to see the Comte any more?'
"'No, madame.'
"She appeared to be annoyed, and in a passionless voice she said:
"'So much the worse; I was very fond of him.'
"Seeing that she had made up her mind on the subject so resolutely, my
brother, smiling in his turn, said to her:
"'Look here, now, tell me why you invented all this tricky yarn,
complicating it by bringing in the sham journey to Italy and the child?'"
She gazed at my brother in amazement, as if he had asked her a stupid
question, and replied:
"'I say! How spiteful you are! Do you believe a poor little woman of the
people such as I am--nothing at all--could have for three years kept on
my hands the Comte de L----, Minister, a great personage, a man of
fashion, wealthy and seductive, if she had not taken a little trouble
about it? Now it is all over. So much the worse. It couldn't last for
ever. None the less I succeeded in doing it for three years. You will
say many things to him on my behalf.'
"She rose up. My brother continued questioning her:
"'But--the child? You had one to show him?'
"'Certainly--my sister's child. She lent it to me. I'd bet it was she
gave you the information.'
"'Good! And all those letters from Italy?'
"She sat down again so as to laugh at her ease.
"'Oh! those letters--well, they were a bit of poetry. The Comte was not
a Minister of Foreign Affairs for nothing.'
"'But--another thing?'
"Oh! the other thing is my secret. I don't want to compromise anyone.'
"And bowing to him with a rather mocking smile, she left the room
without any emotion, an actress who had played her part to the end."
And the Comte de L---- added by way of moral:
"So take care about putting your trust in that sort of turtle dove!"
* * * * *
Transcriber's Notes:
Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been maintained.
Page 13, "pentrating" changed to "penetrating".
Page 25, "parishoner" changed to "parishioner".
Page 130, "consiousness" changed to "consciousness".
Page 133, "dinning" changed to "dining".
Page 178, "inns" changed to "ins".
Page 193, "delirous" changed to "delirious".
Page 218, Parenthesis added after "five thousand francs."
Page 283, Double quote added after "You will come to lunch. Won't you?"
Page 374, "moveover" changed to "moreover".
Ligatures removed in ASCII Version: S[oe]urs to Soeurs, C[oe]ur to Coeur.