Whether or not the leading men among the positivists and cosmists of

England to-day are prepared to be as frank as the Baron d'Holbach, we

shall not venture to say; at all events, John Stuart Mill, to whom they

all looked up with the reverence of disciples for the master, has taken

care that the world should not remain in doubt concerning his opinions

on this subject, which, of all others, is of the deepest interest to

man. Among those who in this century have labored most earnestly to

propagate an atheistic philosophy, based on the assumption that the

human mind is incapable of knowing aught beyond relations, he certainly

holds a place of distinction, and, as a representative of what is

called scientific atheism, the history of his opinions is worthy of

serious attention.

It was known some time before his death that he had written an

autobiography; and when it was announced that his step-daughter, Miss

Taylor, whom he had made his literary executrix, was about to publish

the work, the attention of at least those who take interest in the

profounder controversies of the age was awakened.

As an autobiography, the book has but little merit; though this should

not be insisted on, since success in writing of this kind is extremely

rare. If it is almost as difficult in any case to write a life well as

to spend it well, when one attempts to become the historian of his own

life, there is every probability that he will either be ridiculous or

uninteresting. Mill, too, it must be conceded, had but poor material

at his command. His life was uneventful, uninviting even, in its

surroundings; and when the patchwork of his philosophical opinions is

taken away, there is little left in it that is not wholly commonplace.

He was born in London, in 1806, and was the eldest son of James Mill,

who was a charity student of divinity at the University of Edinburgh,

but, becoming disgusted with the doctrines of Presbyterianism, gave up

all idea of studying for the ministry, and in a short while renounced

Christian faith, and became an avowed atheist, though his atheism was

negative; his belief in what is called the relativity of knowledge

not justifying him in affirming positively that there is no God, but

only in holding that the human mind can never know whether there be a

God or not. He, however, did not stop here, but, scandalized by the

suffering which is everywhere in the world, forgot his own principles,

and maintained that it is absurd to suppose that such a world is the

work of an infinitely perfect being, and was rather inclined to accept

the Manichean theory of a good and evil principle, struggling against

each other for the government of the universe. But of God, as revealed

in Christ, he had a hatred as satanical as that of Voltaire.

"I have a hundred times heard him say," writes his son, "that all ages

and nations have represented their gods as wicked, in a constantly

increasing progression; that mankind have gone on, adding trait after

trait, till they reached the most perfect conception of wickedness

which the human mind can devise, and have called this God, and

prostrated themselves before it. This _ne plus ultra_ of wickedness

he considered to be embodied in what is commonly presented to mankind

as the creed of Christianity."[251] In other words--for Mill can mean

nothing less--he held that the character of Christ, as portrayed in the

Gospel, is the highest possible conception of all that is depraved and

repulsive; that Christ, instead of being incarnate God, is the essence

of wickedness clothed in bodily form; that, compared with him, or at

least with the God whom he called his father, Moloch, Astarte, Jupiter,

Venus, Mars, and Bacchus are pure divinities; and from the manner in

which the son narrates these opinions of his father, he evidently

desires that we should infer that they are also his own.

The elder Mill, who seems to have been a natural pedagogue, took the

education of his son exclusively into his own hands, and was most

careful not to allow him to acquire any impressions contrary to his own

sentiments respecting religion. Instead of teaching him to believe that

God created the heavens and the earth, he taught him to believe that we

can know nothing whatever of the manner in which the world came into

existence, and that the question, "Who made you?" is one which cannot

be answered, since we possess no authentic information on the subject.

To show, however, his father's conviction of the logical connection

between Protestantism and infidelity, he records that he taught him

to take the strongest interest in the Reformation, "as the great and

decisive contest against priestly tyranny for liberty of thought."

"I am thus," he adds, "one of the very few examples in this country of

one who has not thrown off religious belief, but never had it; I grew

up in a negative state with regard to it."[252]

How he could grow up in a negative condition with regard to religion is

not easily understood when we consider that his father instilled into

his mind from his earliest years the doctrine that the very essence of

religion is evil, since it is, and ever has been, worship paid to the

demon, the highest possible conception of wickedness; though he was

at the same time careful to impress upon him the duty of concealing

his belief on this subject; and this lesson of parental prudence was,

as the younger Mill himself informs us, attended with some moral

disadvantages.[253]

These moral disadvantages, in his own opinion at least, were without

positive influence upon his character, since through the whole book

there runs the tacit assumption of his own perfect goodness. I am an

atheist, he seems to say, and yet I am a saint; and he is evidently

persuaded that his own life is sufficient proof that the notion that

unbelief is generally connected with bad qualities either of mind or

heart is merely a vulgar prejudice.

"The world would be astonished," he informs us, "if it knew how great a

proportion of its brightest ornaments, of those most distinguished even

in popular estimation for wisdom and virtue, are complete sceptics in

religion.... But the best of them (unbelievers), as no one who has had

opportunities of really knowing them will hesitate to affirm, are more

genuinely religious, in the best sense of the word religion, than those

who exclusively arrogate to themselves the title."[254]

This is probably not more extravagant than the assertion that the God

of Christianity is the embodiment of all that is fiendish and wicked.

We cannot, however, pass so lightly over this portion of Mill's book,

or dismiss without further examination the assumption that the best

are they who refuse to believe in God, and hold that man is merely an

animal.

The real controversy of the age, as thoughtful men have long since

recognized, is not between the church and the sects. Protestantism,

from the beginning, by asserting the supremacy of human reason, denied

the sovereignty of God, and in its postulates, at least, was atheistic.

Hence Catholic theologians have never had any difficulty in showing

that rebellion against the authority of the church is revolt against

that of Christ, which is apostasy from God. To this argument there is

really no reply, and the difficulties which Protestants have sought to

raise against the church are based upon a sophism which underlies all

non-Catholic thought.

The pseudo-reformers objected that the church could not be of Christ,

because in it there was evil; many of its members were sinful; as the

deists hold that the Bible is not the word of God, because of the many

seeming incongruities and imperfections which are everywhere found in

it; as the atheists teach that the universe cannot be the work of an

all-wise and omnipotent Being, since it is filled with suffering and

death; and that love cannot be creation's final law, since nature, "red

in tooth and claw with ravin," shrieks against this creed.

If the imperfections and abuses in the practical workings of the church

are arguments against its divine institution and authority, then

undoubtedly the "measureless ill" which is in the world is reason for

doubting whether a Being infinitely good is its author.

Hence the traditional objections of Protestants to the church are,

in the ultimate analysis, reducible to the atheistic sophism, which,

because there is evil in the creature, seeks to conclude that the

creator cannot be wholly good; not perceiving that it would be as

reasonable to demand that the circle should be square as to ask that

the finite should be without defect.

The church is, both logically and historically, the only defensible

Christianity; as Jean Jacques Rousseau long ago admitted in the

well-known words: "Prove to me that in matters of religion I must

accept authority, and I will become a Catholic to-morrow." There is

no controversy to-day between the church and Protestantism which is

worthy of serious attention. All that is important has been said on

this subject, and Protestants themselves begin to understand that it is

far wiser for them to try to hold on to the shreds of Christian belief

which still remain to them than to waste their strength in attacks on

the church, which, as they are coming to recognize, is after all the

strongest bulwark of faith in the soul and in God.

The ground of debate to-day is back of heterodoxy and orthodoxy; it

lies around the central fact in all religion--God himself.

The scientific theories of the present time, if they do not deny the

existence of God, are at least based upon hypotheses which ignore him

and his action in the world; and the few attempts which have been made

to construct what may be called a philosophy of science all proceed

upon the assumption that, whether there be a God or not, science cannot

recognize his existence.

The faith which the elder Mill taught his son--that of the manner in

which the world came into existence nothing can be known--is that

which most scientists accept. The desire to organize society upon an

atheistic basis is also very manifest and very general.

"Reorganiser, sans Dieu ni roi

Par le culte systematique de l'Humanité."

The idealistic philosophy of Germany, invariably terminating in

pantheism, is another proof of the atheistic tendency of modern thought.

Mill, in his _Autobiography_, has of course made no attempt to prove

that there is no God. On the contrary, as we have already stated,

he has admitted that this proposition cannot be proved; but he

believes there is no God, fails to perceive any evidence of design

in the universe, and, from a morbid sense of the evil which abounds,

feels justified in concluding that the cosmos is not the work of an

infinitely good and omnipotent Being.

Dr. Newman, in his _Apologia_, a work of the same character as the

_Autobiography_ of Mill, but which will be read with delight when Mill

and his book will have been forgotten, has seen this difficulty, and

given expression to it in his own inimitable manner. "To consider

the world," he writes, "in its length and breadth, its various

history, the many races of man, their starts, their fortunes, their

mutual alienation, their conflicts; and then their ways, habits,

governments, forms of worship; their enterprises, their aimless

courses, their random achievements and acquirements, the impotent

conclusion of long-standing facts; the tokens, so faint and broken, of

a superintending design; the blind evolution of what turn out to be

great powers or truths; the progress of things, as if from unreasoning

elements, not toward final causes; the greatness and littleness of man,

his far-reaching aims, his short duration, the curtain hung over his

futurity, the disappointments of life, the defeat of good, the success

of evil, physical pain, mental anguish, the prevalence and intensity of

sin, the pervading idolatries, the corruptions, the dreary, hopeless

irreligion, that condition of the whole race so fearfully yet exactly

described in the apostle's words, 'having no hope, and without God in

the world'--all this is a vision to dizzy and appall, and inflicts upon

the mind the sense of a profound mystery which is absolutely beyond

human solution."[255]

But, as Dr. Newman expresses it, ten thousand difficulties do not

make one doubt. Difficulty and doubt are incommensurate. When we

have sufficient reasons for accepting two seemingly contradictory

propositions, the fact that we are unable to reconcile them should not

be a motive for rejecting them. The human race has accepted, in all

time, the existence of God with an assent as real as that with which

it has believed in the substance that underlies the phenomenon. To a

countless number of minds, the difficulty to which Mill has given such

emphasis has presented itself with a force not less than that with

which it struck him.

Millions have approached the mystery of evil, and have asked themselves

"Are God and nature, then, at strife,

That nature lends such evil dreams?"

But they have not weakly refused to believe in God because they

could not comprehend his works. They saw the evil; but the deepest

instincts of the soul--the longing for immortal life, the craving for

the unattainable, the thirst for a knowledge never given, the sense

of the emptiness of what seems most real; the mother-ideas of human

reason--those of being, of cause, of the absolute, the infinite, the

eternal, the sense of the all-beautiful, the all-perfect--made them fall

"Upon the great world's altar-stairs

That slope through darkness up to God,"

and stretch hands of faith, and trust the larger hope.

We do not propose to offer any arguments to prove that God is, or to

show that his existence is reconcilable with the evil in the world,

since Mill has not attempted to establish the contradictory of this;

but we wish merely to state that his apprehension of the difficulties

which surround this question is not keener than that of thousands

of others who have seen no connection between apprehending these

difficulties and doubting the doctrines to which they are attached.

Whilst admitting that science can never prove that there is no God,

Mill evidently intended his _Autobiography_ to be an argument against

the usefulness of belief in God for moral and social purposes;

"which," he tells us, "of all the parts of the discussion concerning

religion, is the most important in this age, in which real belief in

any religious doctrine is feeble and precarious, but the opinion of

its necessity for moral and social purposes almost universal; and when

those who reject revelation very generally take refuge in an optimistic

deism--a worship of the order of nature and the supposed course of

Providence--at least as full of contradictions and perverting to the

moral sentiments as any of the forms of Christianity, if only it is as

fully realized."[256] Confessing the inability of the scientists to

prove that there is no God, he thinks that they should devote their

efforts to the attempt to show that belief in God is not beneficial

either to the individual or to society. We shall, therefore, turn to

the question of morality, which is enrooted in metaphysics, out of

which it grows, and to which it is indebted both for its meaning and

its strength.

Can the atheistic philosophy give to morality a solid basis? To deny

the existence of an infinitely perfect Being is to affirm that there is

no absolute goodness, no moral law, eternal, immutable, and necessary,

no act that in itself is either good or bad, no certain and fixed

standard of right and wrong.

Hence atheistic philosophy can give to morality no other foundation

than that of pleasure or utility:

"Atque ipsa utilitas justi prope mater et aequi,

Nec natura potest justo secernere iniquum."

And, in fact, this has been the doctrine, we may say, of all those who

have denied the existence of God.

Epicurus, Lucretius, Hobbes, Helvetius, Volney, and the whole

Voltairean tribe in France, have all substantially taken this view

of the question of morality; and Mill's opinion on the subject did

not, except in form, differ from theirs. His father was the friend

of Bentham, an advocate of the utilitarian theory of morality, which

he applied to civil and criminal law; and young Mill became an

enthusiastic disciple of the Benthamic philosophy.

"The principle of utility," he writes, "understood as Bentham

understood it, and applied in the manner in which he applied it through

these three volumes, fell exactly into its place as the keystone which

held together the detached and fragmentary component parts of my

knowledge and beliefs. It gave unity to my conceptions of things. I now

had opinions, a creed, a doctrine, a philosophy; in one among the best

senses of the word, a religion; the inculcation and diffusion of which

could be made the principal outward purpose of a life."[257]

Bentham sought to save the ethics of utility by generalizing the

principle of self-interest into that of the greatest happiness; and it

was this "greatest-happiness principle" that gave Mill what he calls

a religion. Though less grovelling than the theory of self-interest,

yet, equally with it, it deprives morality of a solid foundation,

substitutes force for right, and consecrates all tyranny.

If there be no God, and interest is the sole criterion of what is good,

in the name of what am I commanded to sacrifice my particular interest

to general interest? If interest is the law, then my own interest is

the first and highest. If happiness be the supreme end of life, and

there be no life beyond this life, in order to ask of me the sacrifice

of my happiness, it must be called for in the name of some other

principle than happiness itself.

And if "the thoughts of men are widened with the process of the suns,

"What is that to him that reaps not harvest of his youthful joys,

Tho' the deep heart of existence beat for ever like a boy's?"

Besides being false, this "greatest-happiness principle" is impossible

in practice. Who can tell what is for the greatest good of the greatest

number? It is very difficult, often impossible, when we consider only

our individual interest, to decide what actions will be most conducive

to our happiness, in the utilitarian sense of the word. How, then, are

we to decide when the interests of a whole people, of humanity, and for

all future time, are to be consulted? Would any atheist of the school

of Mill, who is not wholly fanatical, dare affirm that the greatest

number would be happier, even in a low and animal sense, without faith

in God and a future life? And yet, according to his own theory, unless

he is certain of this when he attempts to destroy the religious belief

of his fellow-beings, his act is immoral.

Was it not in the name of, and in strict accordance with, the

principles of this theory that Comte planned what Mill calls "the

completest system of spiritual and temporal despotism which ever

yet emanated from a human brain, unless, possibly, that of Ignatius

Loyola--a system by which the yoke of general opinion, wielded by

an organized body of spiritual teachers and rulers, would be made

supreme over every action, and, as far as is in human possibility,

every thought of every member of the community, as well in the things

which regard only himself as in those which concern the interests of

others"?[258]

There is yet another vice in this system. If the good is the greatest

interest of the greatest number, then there are only public and social

ethics, and personal morality does not exist. Our duties are towards

others, and we have no duties towards ourselves. Thus the very source

of moral life is dried up.

Let us come to considerations less general and more immediately

connected with Mill's life.

Of his father's opinions on this subject he says: "In his views of

life, he partook of the character of the Stoic, the Epicurean, and the

Cynic, not in the modern but the ancient sense of the word. In his

personal qualities the Stoic predominated. His standard of morals was

Epicurean, inasmuch as it was utilitarian, taking as the exclusive

test of right and wrong the tendency of actions to produce pleasure

or pain. But he had (and this was the Cynic element) scarcely any

belief in pleasure, at least in his later years, of which alone, on

this point, I can speak confidently.... He thought human life a poor

thing at best after the freshness of youth and of unsatisfied curiosity

had gone by.... He would sometimes say that if life were made what

it might be by good government and good education, it would be worth

having; but he never spoke with anything like enthusiasm even of that

possibility."[259]

This certainly is a gloomy, not to say hopeless, view of life, and one

which, in spite of Mill's attempt to produce a contrary impression,

pervades the whole book. The thoughtful reader cannot help feeling

that Mill's state of mind was very like that described by the apostle:

"having no hope, and without God in the world." A deep and settled

dissatisfaction with all he saw around him, the feeling that all was

wrong--society, religion, government, the family, human life, the

philosophic opinions of the whole world except himself, together with

an undercurrent of despair, which made him doubt whether they would

ever be right, gave a coloring of melancholy to his character which he

is unable to hide. Life was no boon, and not even the faintest ray of

light pierced the black gloom of the grave.

Of his father he writes: "In ethics, his moral feelings were energetic

and rigid on all points which he deemed important to human well-being,

while he was supremely indifferent in opinion (though his indifference

did not show itself in personal conduct) to all those doctrines of the

common morality which he thought had no foundation but in asceticism

and priest-craft. He looked forward, for example, to a considerable

increase of freedom in the relations between the sexes, though without

pretending to define exactly what would be, or ought to be, the precise

conditions of that freedom."[260]

Here we have an instance of the truth of the inference which we have

already drawn from the principles of the utilitarian ethics--that they

take no account of personal purity of character, and teach that man's

duties are towards others, and not towards himself. There is a still

more striking example of this in Mill's _Autobiography_.

He early in life made the acquaintance of a married lady, for whom

he conceived a very strong affection. He spent a good deal of his

time with her, and says: "I was greatly indebted to the strength of

character which enabled her to disregard the false interpretations

liable to be put on the frequency of my visits to her while living

generally apart from Mr. Taylor, and on our occasionally travelling

together"; though their relation at that time, he tells us, was only

that of strong affection and confidential intimacy. The reason which

he assigns for this is certainly most curious: "For though," he says,

"we did not consider the ordinances of society binding on a subject so

entirely personal, we did feel bound that our conduct should be such

as in no degree to bring discredit on her husband, nor therefore on

herself."[261]

In other words, Mill recognizes no obligation of personal purity,

even in the married, but holds that unchastity is wrong only when it

brings discredit on others; though he was unfaithful even to this

loose ethical code, since, according to his own account, his conduct

was such as to be liable to misinterpretation, and, therefore, such as

might bring disgrace upon the husband of the woman with whom he was

associating.

His hatred of marriage and of the restraints which it imposes is seen

in several parts of the work before us.

Of the Saint-Simonians he says: "I honored them most of all for what

they have been most cried down for--the boldness and freedom from

prejudice with which they treated the subject of the family, the

most important of any, and needing more fundamental alterations than

remain to be made in any other great social institution, but on which

scarcely any reformer has the courage to touch. In proclaiming the

perfect equality of men and women, and an entirely new order of things

in regard to their relations with one another, the Saint-Simonians, in

common with Owen and Fourier, have entitled themselves to the grateful

remembrance of future generations."[262]

A man who puts himself forward as the advocate of free-love should not,

one would think, insist especially on the moralities, or give himself

prominence as a proof that belief in God is not useful either to the

individual or to society.

Mill's social ethics are of the same character. He is a socialist of

the most radical type, and considers the great problem of the future to

be how to unite the greatest individual liberty of action with a common

ownership in the raw material of the globe, and an equal participation

of all in the benefits of combined labor; though the "uncultivated

herd who now compose the laboring masses," as well as the mental and

moral condition of the immense majority of their employers, convince

him that this social transformation is not now either possible or

desirable. Still, his ethics lead him to hope that private property

will be abolished, and that the whole earth will be converted into a

kind of industrial school, in which every man, woman, and child will be

required to do certain work, and receive in remuneration whatever the

controllers of the general capital may see fit to give them. Thus, in

the name of the greatest good of the greatest number, personal purity,

the family, private property, society, are all to be no more, and the

human race is to be managed somewhat like a model stock-farm, in which

everything, from breeding down to the minutest details of food and

exercise, is to be under the control of a supervisory committee.

As we have already seen, Mill, after reading Bentham, got what he

called a religion: he had an object in life--to be a reformer of the

world.

This did very well for a time; but in the autumn of 1826, whilst, as

he expresses it, he was in a dull state of nerves, he awakened as

from a dream. He put the question to himself: "'Suppose that all your

objects in life were realized; that all the changes in institutions and

opinions to which you are looking forward could be effected at this

very instant; would this be a great joy and happiness to you?' And an

irrepressible self-consciousness distinctly answered, 'No!' At this

my heart sank within me; the whole foundation on which my life was

constructed fell down.... I seemed to have nothing left to live for.

"At first I hoped that the cloud would pass away of itself; but it did

not.... I carried it with me into all companies, into all occupations.

Hardly anything had power to cause me even a few minutes' oblivion of

it.... The lines in Coleridge's 'Dejection'--I was not then acquainted

with them--exactly describe my case:

"'A grief without a pang, void, dark, and drear,

A drowsy, stifled, unimpassioned grief,

Which finds no natural outlet or relief

In word, or sigh, or tear.'"[263]

He now felt that his father had committed a blunder in the education

which he had given him; that the habit of analysis has a tendency

to wear away the feelings and dry up the fountains of pleasurable

emotions; that it is a perpetual worm at the root both of the passions

and of the virtues; and, above all, fearfully undermines all desires

and all pleasures which are the effects of association.

"My education, I thought, had failed to create these feelings in

sufficient strength to resist the dissolving influence of analysis,

while the whole course of my intellectual cultivation had made

precocious and premature analysis the inveterate habit of my mind. I

was thus, as I said to myself, left stranded at the commencement of my

voyage, with a well-equipped ship and a rudder, but no sail; without

any real desire for the ends which I had been so carefully fitted out

to work for; no delight in virtue or the general good, but also just as

little in anything else.... I frequently asked myself if I could, or if

I was bound to, go on living, when life must be passed in this manner.

I generally answered to myself that I did not think I could possibly

bear it beyond a year."[264]

This sad state of mind was the protest of the soul against the skeleton

of intellectual formulas into which it had been cramped. A man is

not going to live or die for conclusions, opinions, calculations,

analytical nothings. Man is not and cannot be made to be a mere

reasoning machine, a contrivance to grind out syllogisms. He is a

seeing, feeling, contemplating, believing, acting animal. We cannot

construct a philosophy of life upon abstract conclusions of the

analytical faculty; life is action and for action, and, if we insist

on analyzing and proving everything, we shall never come to action.

Humanity is a mere fiction of the mind, and can be nothing, whilst God,

to most men at least, is a living reality, to be believed in, hoped in,

loved. Were it possible for us to accept the doctrines of Stuart Mill,

we should feel the same interest in his humanitarian projects that we

do in Mr. Bergh's society for the prevention of cruelty to animals. We

pity the poor brutes, but we butcher them and eat them all the same. If

there is nothing but nature and nature's laws, it is perfectly right

that the few should live for the many, and that thousands should sweat

and groan to fill the belly of one animal who is finer and stronger

than those he feeds upon. Neither the law of gravity, nor that of the

conservation of forces, nor that which impels bodies along the line

of least resistance, nor that which causes the fittest--which means

the strongest--to survive, can impose upon us a moral obligation not

to do what we have the strength to do. These infidels talk of the

intellectual cowardice of those who believe. Let them first be frank,

and tell us, without circumlocution or concealment, that there is

nothing but force; that whatever is, must be; and that nothing is

either right or wrong. If we are permitted to swallow oysters whole, to

butcher oxen and imprison monkeys in mere wantonness; and if these are

our forefathers, why may not the strong and intelligent members of the

human race put the weak and ignorant to any use they may see fit; or

why may we not imitate the more natural savage who roasts or boils his

man as his civilized brother would a pig?

It is easy to make a show of despising the argument implied in this

question; but, admitting the atheistic evolutionary hypothesis, it

cannot be answered.

Cannibals hold that it is for the greatest happiness of the greatest

number that their enemies should be eaten; and, after all, what is

happiness, in the utilitarian and animal sense, but an affair of taste,

to a great extent even of imagination? Have not slave-owners in all

times held that it was for the greatest good of the greatest number

that slavery should continue to exist? Or has the greatest-happiness

principle had anything to do with the abolition of slavery among the

Christian nations or elsewhere?

Men appealed in the name of right, of justice, of the inborn dignity of

the human soul, of God-given liberty, and the conscience of the nations

was awakened. They gave no thought to the idle theories of brains, from

which the heart and soul had been strained, about a greatest-happiness

principle. What have atheists ever done but talk, and mock, and

criticise, and seek their own ease whilst discoursing on the general

good?

Mill takes the greatest care to record, in more than one place, that

he and his father occasionally wrote articles for the _Westminster

Review_ without receiving pay for them; thinking it, evidently, worthy

of remark that an atheist should even write except for money. Here we

may note a vice inherent in atheism, which proves at once its untruth

and its impotence. It leaves man without enthusiasm, without hope,

without love, to fall back upon himself, a wilted, shrunken thing, to

mix with matter, or to vanish in lifeless, logical formalism. It has

no heroes, no saints, no martyrs, no confessors. Its advocates either

abandon themselves to lust and the senses, or, making a divinity of

their own imagined superiority, worship the ghost they have conjured

up, whilst looking down upon the rest of mankind as a vulgar herd still

intellectually walking on four feet. Mill makes no effort to conceal

his contempt for the mass of mankind; and contempt does not inspire

love, which alone renders man helpful to man.

The gloom which settled around the life of John Stuart Mill, when he

once fully realized that, holding the intellectual opinions which he

held, nothing was worth living for, and that he was consequently left

without a motive or an object in life, never really left him. He tells

us, indeed, that the cloud gradually drew off, and that, though he had

several relapses which lasted many months, he was never as miserable

as he had been; but it is quite evident, from the whole tone of this

_Autobiography_, that his disappointed soul, like the wounded dove,

drew the wings that were intended to lift it to God close to itself,

and, hopeless, sank into philosophical despair. Happiness he considered

the sole end of life; and yet he says that the enjoyments of life,

which alone make it worth having, when made its principal object, pall

upon us and sicken the heart. "Ask yourself whether you are happy, and

you cease to be so. The only chance is to treat, not happiness, but

some end external to it, as the purpose of life."

In other words, in Mill's philosophy, the end of life is happiness,

which can be possessed only by those who persuade themselves that

this is not the end of life. The doctrine of philosophical necessity,

during the later returns of his despondency, weighed upon him like an

incubus: "I felt as if I was scientifically proved to be the helpless

slave of antecedent circumstances; as if my character and that of all

others had been formed for us by agencies beyond our control, and was

wholly out of our own power. I often said to myself, What a relief

it would be if I could disbelieve the doctrine of the formation of

character by circumstances!"[265]

He tries to escape from the fatal web in which his soul hung helpless;

but sophisms and quibbles of the brain cannot minister to a mind

diseased or pluck sorrow from the heart.

But the saddest part of Mill's _Autobiography_ is the portion devoted

to the woman whose friendship he called the honor and chief blessing of

his existence. The picture which he has drawn of his childhood is at

once painful and ludicrous.

He does not even incidentally allude to a single fact which would lead

one to suppose that he had a mother or had ever known a mother's love.

The father, as described by the son, was cold, fanatical, morose,

almost inhuman, acting as though he thought children are born merely

for the purpose of being crammed with Greek roots and logical formulas.

John Stuart was put at Greek vocables when only three years old. His

father demanded of him not only the utmost that he could do, but much

that it was utterly impossible that he should do. He was guilty, for

instance, of the incredible folly of making him read the _Dialogues_

of Plato when only seven years old. He never knew anything of the

freshness or joyousness of childhood, or what it is to be "boy

eternal." He grew up without the companionship of children, blighted

and dwarfed by the abiding presence of the narrow and unnatural man who

nipped the flower of his life in the bud, and repressed within him all

the sentiments and aspirations which are the spontaneous and healthful

product of youth. He was not taught to delight in sunshine and flowers,

and music and song; but even in his boyish rambles there strode ever

by his side the analytical machine, dissecting, destroying, marring

God's work with his lifeless, hopeless theories. The effect of this

training was, as we have already seen, that when the boy became a man,

he found himself like a ship on the ocean without sail or compass, and

there gathered around his life the settled gloom of despair, which his

philosophical opinions tended only to deepen.

Without a mother's love, without a father whom it was possible to love,

without friends of his own age, without God, dejected, despondent,

hopeless, he met the wife of a friend of his father, who, from the

manner in which she controlled her first and second husbands, must

have been a clever woman, and he became an idolater, giving to her the

adoration which his father had taught him to withhold from God. That

there is no exaggeration in this statement every one who will take the

trouble to read the seventh chapter of Mill's _Autobiography_ will be

ready to confess.

He married this woman in 1851, when he was forty-five and she but

two years younger, and seven years later her death occurred. Mill

wishes the world to believe that this woman was the prodigy of the

XIXth century, surpassing in intellectual vigor and moral strength

all men and all other women; that to her he owed all that is best in

his own writings; and that he is but the interpreter of the wonderful

thoughts of this incomparable woman, whom others have deemed merely a

commonplace woman's rights woman.

"Thus prepared," he writes, "it will easily be believed that when

I came into close intellectual communion with a person of the most

eminent faculties, whose genius, as it grew and unfolded itself in

thought, struck out truths far in advance of me, but in which I could

not, as I had done in those others, detect any mixture of error, the

greatest part of my mental growth consisted in the assimilation of

those truths; and the most valuable part of my intellectual work was in

building the bridges and clearing the paths which connected them with

my general system of thought."[266]

Mill seems to have been incapable of a healthful sentiment of any kind.

The same quality in his stunted and warped moral nature which caused

him to have a false and exaggerated sense of the evil that is in the

world, leading him to atheism, made him a blind and superstitious

worshipper of the imaginary endowments of his wife. But one must read

the book itself to realize how far he carried this idolatry.

When she dies, he again sinks into the gloom which his superstition had

seemed to cause him partially to forget; and if he continues to work,

it is only with the feeble strength "derived from thoughts of her and

communion with her memory." Her death was a calamity which took from

him all hope, and he found some slight alleviation only in the mode of

life which best enabled him to feel her still near him.

She died at Avignon, and he bought a cottage as close as possible to

the place where she was buried; and there he settled down in helpless

misery, feeling that all that remained to him in the world was a memory.

"Her memory," he writes, "is to me a religion, and her approbation the

standard by which, summing up, as it does, all worthiness, I endeavor

to regulate my life."[267]

He did not believe in God, in the soul, in a life beyond life; he had

scarcely any faith in the practical efforts of the age to improve the

condition of the masses, upon whom he looked as the common herd; his

own countrymen especially he despised as selfish and narrow above all

other men, grovelling in their instincts, and low in the objects which

they aim at; happiness he held to be the sole end of existence; and at

the close of his life, an old man, in a foreign land, in immedicable

misery, he stood beside a grave, and sought with feeble fingers to

clutch the shadow of a dream, which he called his religion; and so he

died.

We have never read a sadder book, nor one which to our mind contains

stronger proof that the soul longs with an infinite craving for God,

and, not finding him, will worship anything--a woman, a stone, a memory.

FOOTNOTES:

[249] Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1874, by

Rev. I. T. HECKER, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at

Washington, D. C.

[250] _Autobiography._ By John Stuart Mill. New York: Holt & Co. 1873.

[251] P. 41.

[252] P. 43.

[253] P. 44.

[254] P. 46.

[255] _Apologia_, p. 268.

[256] P. 70.

[257] P. 67.

[258] P. 213.

[259] P. 48.

[260] P. 107.

[261] P. 230.

[262] P. 167.

[263] P. 134.

[264] P. 140.

[265] P. 169.

[266] P. 243.

[267] P. 251.

THE FARM OF MUICERON.

BY MARIE RHEIL.

FROM THE REVUE DU MONDE CATHOLIQUE.

XVI.

However, our good friends at Muiceron had not become, believe me, so

entirely perverted by vanity as to lose all remembrance of the past.

They could not have lived twenty years with a boy as perfect in conduct

and affection as Jean-Louis without missing him as the days rolled on.

I acknowledge, nevertheless, that the first week passed so quickly

in the midst of the flurry and fuss of the marriage contract and

presents--bought on credit--that the absence of the good child was

scarcely felt; but, towards the end of the second week, one evening

Pierrette asked Ragaud if the time had not nearly expired that

Jean-Louis had been lent to Michou for the clearing of the forest of

Montreux; "for," said she, "I cannot live any longer without him, he

was of so much use to me, and the house is so empty without him."

"I gave him for a fortnight," replied Ragaud, "and I would not

disoblige Michou by reclaiming him before; but I think we will see him

next week, and then I hope he will be over his little miff."

"What miff?" asked Pierrette.

"Bless me! wife, you are a little too simple if you have not noticed

long before this how sullen the boy has become."

"He never says much," replied Pierrette, "and we have all been so very

busy lately, it has made him more silent even than usual."

"That is precisely it," said Ragaud. "You have petted him so much,

he fancied everything was his; and when he saw us so occupied with

Jeannette's marriage, he took it in dudgeon, and became offended."

"That would be very wrong in him," replied La Ragaude, "and I don't

believe Jeannet capable of such wicked sentiments. Jealousy is not

one of his faults; on the contrary, he always thinks of others before

himself."

"That may be, that may be, but you cannot judge of wine, no matter how

old you may know it to be, before tasting; and, in the same way, you

cannot answer for any quality of the heart until it has been tried.

So it was very easy for Jeannet not to be jealous when there was no

subject for jealousy; but, if you were not always blind and deaf to his

defects, you would acknowledge that from the day that Isidore put his

foot in this house he has changed as much as milk turned into curds."

"That may all be," said Pierrette, who could not answer her husband's

objections.

"That may all be so easily that it is positively so," replied Ragaud,

"and Jeannet will not re-enter this house until I have spoken very

plainly to him, and made him promise to treat Isidore as a brother."

"That is just what I think," replied good Pierrette, who loved peace

above all things, "and you always speak wisely."

Jeannette, for her part, had a little secret annoyance that she

carefully concealed, but which made her more irritable and less docile

than usual, greatly to the astonishment of Pierrette, who thought

her to be at the summit of happiness. After being rather sullen with

Jeannet, because he did not appear delighted with her marriage, and,

above all, with her intended, she was now displeased to see Isidore

parading before every one--and to her the first--his great satisfaction

at the departure of Jean-Louis. He even seemed to seek every occasion

to speak injuriously of him before her parents, and allowed no one

to praise him in his presence. The child was not very patient, we

already know, and, as Solange truly said, her head alone was dazzled;

her heart was not spoiled enough to make her lose her good sense.

Still further, she began to feel very uneasy on a subject which she

wished to understand clearly before finally engaging herself--it

was that of religion. She had felt the ground around Perdreau, and,

although he was as hypocritical as the devil, he had attempted several

very disagreeable jokes about the church and her ceremonies which, I

must say, provoked Jeannette to such a degree, she openly showed her

displeasure. Thereupon Isidore, seeing that he had gone too far, and

that he must be more careful or he would lose her dowry, tried to play

the part of a saint in his niche; but it was a comedy in which he was

not well skilled from want of practice, and Jeannette, more and more

worried and unhappy, commenced to regret that the good and wise Jeannet

was no longer at her side to aid her with his advice, of which she had

never before felt such urgent need.

So she, in her turn, hazarded the same request as Pierrette, and asked

her father when they might expect the return of Jean-Louis.

Ragaud made her nearly the same reply as he had done to his wife,

without mentioning his ideas in relation to Jeannet's supposed

jealousy; and Jeannette patiently awaited him.

But the fortnight went by without any sign of the boy, and it could

be easily perceived that Jeannette was becoming nervous--a kind

of sickness little known in the country even by name, but which

mademoiselle's example had taught Jeannette to attempt whenever

things did not go on exactly as she wished. However, affairs went on

precisely as those rascally Perdreaux desired. The marriage-contract

was prepared, and, after an immense scrawl of big words, which Ragaud

did not understand, it concluded by making the good man abandon all

his personal and landed property to his daughter, only reserving for

himself a moderate annuity. Ragaud was ashamed to avow that all this

waste paper was entirely above his comprehension. He tried to look

very wise, but proved by his questions that he was caught in a trap;

for, after the reading of the knavish document, which stripped him of

everything, he innocently asked if he would retain the right to manage

Muiceron, and live there as master during his life.

"Undoubtedly," replied the notary; "your children would be unnatural to

let it be otherwise. I have done all for the best, for I suppose you do

not wish to oblige my son to marry under the _dotal law_?"

"What is the _dotal law_?" said Ragaud.

"It is the greatest disgrace that can be imposed on a man," gravely

replied the notary.

"Oh! I beg pardon, M. Perdreau; and so in your paper there is no

question of that?"

"Certainly not," said the notary. "I have drawn up the papers for the

good father and honorable man that you are."

"Then it is all right, and I have nothing more to do but to thank you,"

said the honest farmer.

"We could both sign it this evening," said the head rascal.

"There is no hurry," said Ragaud; "we will do that when all the family

are present, before my wife and the children. I wish Jeannet to sign it

also."

"Sign? Your Jean-Louis can't sign it," said the notary, "as he has no

name; the law, M. Ragaud, does not recognize illegitimate children."

"Really! That is cruel for the boy, monsieur; at least, I would like

him to hear the paper read."

"For what reason?"

"To please him, that is all; he has been like a child to us for twenty

years, and has never deserved to be driven from the family."

"As you please; I think it useless. In business, you see, there is no

such thing as sentiment; however, if you prefer it...."

"I certainly do prefer it," replied Ragaud firmly. "I have been a just

man all my life, monsieur, and I do not wish now to act unjustly toward

a child who has always served me so faithfully."

The notary did not reply, but his ugly weasel-face showed such bitter

displeasure that Ragaud, already dissatisfied with the conversation,

suddenly remembered Jacques Michou's remarks, and promised himself to

keep his eyes open.

Fortunately, the good God gives to honest men a sense of distrust

which is easily sharpened. The peasant, in particular, is never

entirely at ease when spoken to in more difficult language than two and

two make four. Now, Ragaud, on account of his vanity, did not wish to

acknowledge before others that he understood nothing of all the fine

writing on the stamped paper, but he avowed it to himself, and, putting

on a perfectly innocent air, he said to Perdreau:

"Will you have the kindness to let me have the papers for a few days? I

would like to read them over again when I have time."

"Very willingly," replied the notary, well convinced--and there he was

right--that good Ragaud could not decipher the handwriting, and that it

would be all Greek to him. "I was even going to propose it to you. Take

them, M. Ragaud, and read them at your leisure; but I need not tell you

that it must remain a secret between us until the day the contract is

signed."

"I understand," replied Ragaud. "I know how to be discreet, monsieur,

and I am not more desirous than you that my daughter's affairs should

be known all over the neighborhood."

He did not speak falsely in promising it; for to a Christian the word

of a priest is sacred, and he only intended to let the _curé_ read the

contract under the seal of confession.

The next day it so happened that M. Perdreau went to the city, where he

expected to pass two days, to plan an affair still worse than the rest,

which you will know in due time. Ragaud, thus having the field clear,

hurried off to Val-Saint, with the papers carefully folded under his

blouse.

That morning Jeannette was not in good humor. Three weeks had gone

by without any news of Jeannet, who did not even return to sleep

at Muiceron. She received her loving Isidore like a spoiled child,

shrugged her shoulders when he told her she was charmingly pretty, and

ended by telling him he must find out something about Jean-Louis, and

bring him back to her as quickly as possible, or else she would not

believe he loved her.

Isidore, who had every defect--above all, the silly vanity to think

that he was fully capable of turning the heads of all the girls, which

is, in itself, a proof of presumptuous folly--pretended at first to

take it as a joke, imagining that Jeannette wished to provoke his

jealousy. But seeing her serious and resolute, he replied in an angry

tone that such a commission was not to his taste.

"In that case," she replied, "it is not to mine to talk to you to-day."

"Then I will take my leave," said he, touching his hat.

She did not detain him, and contented herself with smiling, which he

thought another little coquettish trick.

"You are like all women," said he slowly, "who do not mind sacrificing

their hearts for a whim."

"What do you call a whim?" replied Jeannette. "Is the desire to see my

brother again a whim? Very well, then, I declare to you that I will

regard nothing decided as to our marriage until Jean-Louis has returned

home."

"Do you think, my little beauty," said he, turning red with anger,

"that I will let you call that vagabond of a foundling brother after

you become my wife?"

"We will see," replied she; "but, meanwhile, I do not intend to

change, and neither will I allow Jeannet to be insulted in my presence;

it is not the first time I have told you so, M. Isidore."

"And so you are capable of becoming seriously angry with me, who adores

you, on account of your pretended brother?"

"If you are unreasonable and unjust," said she resolutely, "I will no

longer love you."

"You scarcely love me now," said he sullenly. "I did not believe that

the day would ever come when you could think so little of me."

"I have always thought," she replied, "that husband and wife should

agree upon all points. Ever since I can remember, I have always had

a respect and friendship for Jean-Louis, and never has he behaved

otherwise than well in this house, where he is looked upon as a son. I

don't know why my marriage should change my feelings in regard to him;

and that is a question I confess we had better settle at once before

going any further.

"Very well," said M. Isidore, speaking like one who had suddenly

decided upon some plan. "I am very sorry to be obliged to pain you, but

I will not bother myself about this bast--about this Jean-Louis, and

that because it is time you should know the truth about him; he is far

from being worthy of your esteem, my dear Jeanne."

"Oh! indeed!" said she. "Here is something very new; and the proof, if

you please?"

"You insist upon knowing it?"

"Absolutely and quickly," replied Jeannette, who began to grow

impatient.

"You will certainly be grieved, and there is reason for it," said

Isidore in a sad tone. "Know, then, that this Jean-Louis, whom you

fancy dying with grief because he no longer sees you, is all the while

enjoying himself immensely."

"How can he amuse himself?" asked Jeannette. "You are telling stories.

Jeannet is in the wood of Montreux, where he has too much to do, in

clearing out the forest, to think of anything else; besides, he is not

naturally very gay, poor boy!"

"_Poor boy!_ Don't pity him so much; he would laugh if he heard you.

Clearing the wood of Montreux--he? It is a mere pretence to hide his

game; he wishes to be more at ease to court Solange Luguet.

"M. Isidore," cried Jeannette, starting up, pale with anger, "keep on

speaking ill of Jean-Louis--he is a man, and can defend himself; but to

speak thus of my cousin Solange is a cowardly falsehood!"

"How pretty you look!" said Isidore insolently. "Anger is so becoming

to you, I would always like to see you so, if it were not so painful

to me to excite you thus. No, Jeanne, I do not lie. M. Jean-Louis, who

owes his life to your parents, and whom you call brother, at this very

instant ridicules the whole household. He is going to marry Solange,

and I don't believe he will even inform you of it."

"Who told you so?" asked Jeannette, amazed. "People will gossip so."

"I had it from Pierre Luguet. It is true it is common talk, but I would

not have believed it, if Solange's own brother had not said it."

"Can you swear it to me?" said she.

"I can swear to it positively. Ask Pierre; you see I am not afraid of

being proved a liar."

"I believe you," said Jeanne, who sought in vain to keep back the

tears that filled her eyes. "Never, I confess, would I have believed

that of Jean-Louis."

"You understand now why I did not care to start in search of that

gentleman. I am indignant at his conduct; it is frightful ingratitude.

To think that he had here a father, a mother, a sister, and that he

abandons all to go off and be secretly married! Is it not proof in

itself that he renounces and despises you?"

"Oh! it is very wrong, very wrong!" said Jeannette, much excited. "You

were right--I can no longer call him brother."

"I hope not; it would be affection very badly bestowed, and which would

make you the laughing-stock of the village. Are you still angry with

me, my dear Jeanne?"

"Pardon me," said she, extending her hand; "you see, I have had good

reason for sorrow."

And then she burst into tears, no longer able to restrain them, but

without exactly knowing the cause of so real a pain.

Isidore did not expect to succeed so well. This time he had not lied;

he really believed Jeannet would be married, as that giddy-brained

Pierre had announced the fact to him. And yet he did not like to

see Jeanne weep for such a little thing. It made him think that the

affection of these two children, who had lived together as brother

and sister for so many years, was much stronger than he had believed,

and he was more determined than ever to put a stop to it after he was

married, and even before, if he could.

He left Muiceron very much dissatisfied. Jeannette was sad; she let him

go off without scarcely noticing him. When she was alone, the wish to

seek some consolation led her to go after her mother, to see if she had

heard the news, and to talk with her about it.

But, behold! just as she left the room she ran against some one, and

who should it be but Jean-Louis, who had come after some changes of

clothes to carry off to the wood, and who, knowing that she was with

her intended, did not wish to disturb her.

At the sight of her brother all the readiness of her character came

back and took the place of her vexation. She assumed an air so haughty

that Jeannet, all ready to embrace her, stepped back, dumb with

astonishment.

"_You there?_" said Jeannette, with a frown on her brow.

"You there? Why do you speak so to me?" asked he, astonished.

"You must not forget," continued Jeanne, who proudly raised her head as

she spoke, "that I am engaged to Isidore Perdreau."

"Yes, I know it," said Jean-Louis.

"Consequently," she replied, "it is no longer possible for me to treat

you as formerly. You know why?"

"I know it," answered he, lowering his head.

"It is no longer proper," said she, "for us to behave as brother and

sister, since we are not so really."

"That is true," said Jeannet, his heart aching with mortal agony.

"That is all I have to say," added Jeannette in a still haughtier tone;

"and now, Jean-Louis, I wish you much joy and happiness--this I say in

remembrance of our friendship!"

"Are you bidding me farewell?" asked he.

"I will see you later--and--and your wife also; but you understand?"

"My wife?" said Jeannet.

"Enough," replied Jeanne; "I do not wish to know your secrets. It is

useless for you to seek my father and my mother."

And with that she rapidly crossed the room, and hurried off; for,

between ourselves, this great anger was not very real, and the longer

she looked at the pale, beautiful face of her brother, whom she had

not seen for such a long time, the more she felt like throwing her

arms around his neck, instead of ill-treating him. But her words had

been too cruel; they had entered the soul of Jean-Louis like so many

sword-thrusts. It was all ended for him. Proud as he was, and always

overwhelmed with the secret grief of his birth, to have it recalled to

him by so dear a mouth was deadly suffering. He remained an instant as

though his senses had left him, not knowing what to do or to think;

then all at once his reason returned. He had just been driven out, and,

after all, they had the right to do it. He made the sign of the cross

on his heart, and left the house, with the intention of never returning.

He went back to Michou, and passed the evening with him at the

Luguets'. He said nothing of what had happened to any one. Dear,

good Solange noticed that he was sadder than usual, but that was not

astonishing; she knew he had been that day to Muiceron, and she very

truly thought he had possibly heard things which could not contribute

to lighten his heart and make him gay.

It is now time to tell you that old Perdreau was one of the leaders of

a band of ruffians who assembled in a lonely field every week in our

city of Issoudun, where, after taking the most frightful oaths, they

plotted, murder, arson, and the robbery of the châteaux and churches.

It was what is called a secret society, and was known by the name of

_la Martine_; and some weeks afterwards, when the Revolution of 1848

broke out, which caused such havoc among us, there was a well-known

man, so I have been told, who bore the same name, and who placed

himself at the head of the insurgents, believing them, in good faith,

to be the most honest men in the world. This man, who was as good

as any one you could find, and even a passable Christian, my father

assured me, bit his thumbs until the blood came when he saw himself

despised and his counsel disregarded. But it was too late; the evil

was done. Undoubtedly you know much more about it than I, and so I

scarcely dare venture to say any more on the subject. You must only

know that the cursed notary had used all the money of M. le Marquis to

pay the rabble of _la Martine_, with the understanding that, when they

pillaged the château, he should have half the estate, including the

dwelling-house.

As for Isidore, he was fully up to the business, and worked at it

assiduously, as much at Paris as elsewhere. The men who worked in the

wood of Montreux belonged to the gang; he knew them all by name, and

kept them all near Val-Saint, so as to be ready for the contemplated

insurrection. But in case the thing should not succeed, or would be

delayed, he did not think it beneath him to provide himself with a pear

to satisfy his thirst, and that was his marriage.

Our good Ragaud returned from his interview with M. le Curé rather

depressed in spirits. The contract, as read by the holy man, did

not appear to him as captivating as when explained by the notary.

He had learned still further, from a few words discreetly uttered,

that it would be well not to place implicit faith in Master Perdreau,

and believe him the personification of honor, as until then he had

innocently imagined. What now could be done to arrange, or rather

disarrange, affairs so far advanced? The poor man was devoured with

care and anxiety. He dared not speak to his daughter, whom he thought

to reduce to desperation at the mere mention of the word rupture; and

then to withdraw from the contract now would lower him tremendously

in the eyes of the world around. No longer able to see clearly,

Ragaud kept quiet, locked the documents safely in his chest, and

waited--which, in many circumstances, is the wisest policy.

A long week passed; then came the festivals of Christmas and New Year.

Old Perdreau was half dead with impatience, but nevertheless dared not

say a word, or even appear too anxious. What bothered him, besides,

was that the rascally gang in the wood of Montreux were constantly

receiving messages from their infernal society to hurry up affairs,

and, therefore, they threatened to commence the dance before the

violins were ready, which would have spoiled all the plans. Pushed to

extremity, he determined, one fine day, to send his son secretly to

allay the storm by speaking to his worthy companions in roguery.

Isidore, who feared nothing and no one, ridiculed his father's anxiety.

He promised to quiet them that very night, and about eleven o'clock, in

spite of the bad weather--for it was snowing, and the wind was very

high--he left for Val-Saint.

The place they were clearing was quite far from M. Michou's little

house, where Jean-Louis slept, together with the game-keeper. The men,

as is customary among wood-cutters, had constructed a large retreat

formed of the trunks of trees, cemented with mud and moss. It was

towards this spot that young Perdreau directed his steps; and never did

a stormier night fall upon an uglier traveller.

XVII.

It is not difficult to conjecture that Jeannet, in spite of his

heart-troubles and sorrows, had not been--sharp as he was--blind to

the character of the men who worked under his orders in the wood of

Montreux. In the first place, Michou warned him from the beginning

to be watchful, and not to allow the slightest infringement of

discipline or drunkenness among men, who were unknown and of decidedly

doubtful appearance. One warning sufficed; he observed for himself,

and caught at random more than one stray expression which he chanced

to overhear. And then, what could be expected from men who seemed

to be without family or friends, who never frequented the church,

and shunned the places where the honest people of the commune were

accustomed to assemble? Certainly, our good Jean-Louis was not wanting

in penetration, and old Michou, who prided himself upon seeing very

far into everything, was as distrustful as he; consequently, they

agreed that every night one or the other should take a turn around the

retreat of the wood-cutters, and see what was going on in this nest

of mischievous rascals. To do this, Jeannet had skilfully managed

to make an opening in the angle opposite to that where the men had

established their fireplace, so that, the room being well lighted

inside, everything could be clearly seen outside.

Usually, and for many nights, all was quiet and orderly; the greater

part of the band of _la Martine_, tired out with the day's labors,

slept soundly all the evening, stretched pell-mell upon heaps of dried

leaves strewed over the floor of their bivouac. Only a few remained

drinking by the hearth; so that the watchers, after a glance around,

went off to sleep in their turn.

On the night of which I speak, Michou should have made the round, but

Jean-Louis, who since the scene at Muiceron had been miserably unhappy,

and could not sleep, asked leave to fulfil the extra duty.

"It is very stormy," said he to his old comrade. "Remain at home, M.

Jacques; I will go to Montreux in your place."

"Be off, then," said the keeper, without waiting to be asked twice,

"you are young and not rheumatic; and I will smoke my pipe while

waiting for you."

Jeannet threw over his shoulders a heavy brown wrapper, and was off in

a flash.

When he reached the retreat, he was surprised to see light shining

through the two or three little windows under the roof, and a big

column of smoke coming out of the chimney. Just at this moment Isidore

entered from his side; he made them open the door, by means of a signal

well known among men of that stamp; they received him with much honor,

and rekindled the fire, which was burning rather low.

Jeannet looked through the opening; judge of his astonishment when he

recognized Jeannette's intended, and saw the cordial welcome extended

to him by the men, who grasped him by the hand, and made room for him

among them. He was dumfounded, almost fancied himself in a dream, but,

at the same time, shook with anger, shame, and sorrow.

But this was only the beginning of his surprise. If the inside could

easily be seen, the conversation was as plainly heard through the

wooden walls, lined with moss; and what he heard froze the blood

in his veins. Isidore first spoke, and made an eloquent discourse,

which was several times interrupted by the bravos of his audience; in

which speech he showed precisely what he was--a pagan, an agrarian,

a complete villain, without either faith or justice. He encouraged

his friends, the ruffianly crew before him, to proceed to arson and

pillage--to murder, if necessary--for the one purpose, said he, of

gaining the triumph of the _holy cause_. This word _holy_, which he did

not scruple to repeat, sounded so horribly in his blasphemous mouth

that poor Jean-Louis shuddered while listening to him; not from fear,

but from the furious desire to avenge the name of holy, which he had

dared to pollute with his tongue.

"O my God!" thought he; "that the husband of Jeannette! And is it on

account of such a vagabond that I have been treated so harshly? Poor,

poor Jeanne!"

After Isidore had finished his frightful speech, his companions began

to curse and swear all at once. Glasses of brandy were passed around,

and their heads, already heated by wicked passions, became still more

excited; so that they began to dispute among themselves as to whom

should belong this and that piece of the estate of Val-Saint. This one

wanted the fields, another the wood, a third such or such a farm, and

so on with the rest, until Isidore, commanding silence, reminded them,

with threats and oaths, that the château should belong to his father,

and that whoever failed to comply with his promise would be answerable

to him personally.

"Come, come," said one of the men, "we will see a little about that;

he is going rather too far. Is it because he is going to marry a

devotee--eh, Isidore?"

Perdreau turned livid with anger at being thus addressed--not that he

respected Jeannette or her principles, but because he was as proud as a

peacock; and as he held every one around him in sovereign contempt, he

did not recognize their right to meddle in his private affairs.

"I will marry whom I please," said he haughtily; "and the first one

that finds fault has only to speak."

"Bah! bah! Isidore, don't be angry," said an old wood-cutter, who went

by the name of _Blackbeard_, on account of his savage look. "What they

say is only for your good; we have heard tell of your marriage, and it

alarms us. The truth is that if the thing is true, you will be tied for

ever to that Ragaud, who belongs to the sacristy clique."

"Ha! ha!" replied Isidore, somewhat pacified; "the moment you talk

sense, I am willing to answer. Tell me, then, what would you do if a

chestful of gold came under your hand?"

"What nonsense even to ask such a question! Why, I would pick it up,

of course."

"That is just what I am doing," replied Isidore, laughing; "and as for

the piety and all that stuff, I don't bother myself. When I will have

the principal, I am capable of regulating the rest."

"Do it, and joy be with you," said Blackbeard; "we understand each

other. So no one will be allowed to interfere with Isidore; he is

worthy of our esteem!"

The rascals applauded, and recommenced their shameful jokes and

infernal proposals. Isidore, once more master of the assembly, spoke

at greater length, and ended by exacting an oath that no one should

move in the cause until a given signal from Paris. They all swore as he

wished, and, as the night was far advanced, honest Perdreau took leave

of his good friends, fearing that daylight might surprise him before he

could regain his house.

Jean-Louis needed all the strength mercifully granted by the good God

in such a trying moment to listen until the end to all these horrors.

The blood boiled in his veins; he felt neither the snow, nor the biting

north wind, and more than once his indignation was so great, he stepped

forward and clenched his fist, as though he would throw himself in the

midst of those demons, without reflecting that a solid wall separated

them from him. Happily, he restrained himself; for courage is not

imprudence, and, if he had failed in coolness, he would have lost all

the results of the important discovery he had just made. He went back

to Michou's cabin, whom he found awaiting his return, according to his

promise, and who had commenced to feel very anxious about his long

absence.

"M. Jacques," said he, on entering, "I came very near not returning...."

And in a few words he recounted all he had heard and seen.

Michou said not a word. He relighted his pipe, and paced the floor,

plunged in thought.

"I knew the Perdreaux were famous scamps," said he at last, "but not

quite so bad as that!"

"Oh!" cried Jeannet, "if my death could have saved Jeannette from that

rascal, I would have broken in the door and fallen in the midst of them

without hesitation."

"A very stupid thing you would have done, then," replied Michou; "they

would have killed you, and to-morrow announced that you had fallen from

a tree. That would have been a lucky thing for Perdreau."

"God watched over me," replied Jean-Louis. "And now, what shall we do?"

"That little Ragaud," said Michou, "deserves it all for her frivolity

and vanity; and, as a punishment, we should let her go to the end of

the rope with her Isidore."

"Never, never!" cried Jean-Louis. "You are not speaking seriously? The

daughter of your old brother-in-arms?"

"Ha!" replied the old fellow, "my old brother-in-arms! Ten years ago I

predicted what would be the end of his nonsense."

"This is not the time to wish it now," replied Jeannet. "Let us save

them, M. Michou; I can do nothing without you."

"Why not? You have a tongue like me; more than that, you saw and heard

all; go to-morrow to Muiceron."

"Impossible," said Jeannet, much embarrassed.

"Impossible? There is something behind that!"

"But was it not you yourself who made me promise not to return to my

parents?"

"Most certainly, my child; but the case is urgent, it seems to me, and

they should know in time, so as to change their minds before it is too

late."

"I will lose my self-control if I meet Isidore face to face."

"Jeannet," said Michou, "you have a good heart. I know all, my boy;

they drove you from Muiceron. Marion heard that little magpie of a

Jeannette dismiss you, and she related the story to me, weeping all

the while, good fat girl that she is. I wished to see how far your

generosity would carry you. Evil be to them who treated you in that

manner; they deserve what has happened."

"No," said Jean-Louis, "they are blinded, that is all; and now I have

forgotten those words, said without reflection. M. Jacques, I beg of

you help me to save Jeannette."

"You will have a fine reward, eh?"

"Oh! what is it to me? After all, can I, for a few cruel words, lose

the memory of twenty years of tenderness and kindness?"

"If you do not have your place in heaven," said the keeper, raising his

shoulders and voice at the same time, to conceal his emotion, which was

very visible, "I think our _curé_ himself cannot answer for his. Come,

let us see what we can do to save this hare-brained Jeannette. In the

first place, to-morrow, at the latest, I intend that M. le Marquis'

place shall be cleared of those rascals that encumber it. The thing

is easy; I will tell them that, owing to the bad weather, we will

postpone the clearing of the forest until spring, as the work advances

too slowly, and give them two weeks' pay ... no, I won't; one week is

enough. And then you--you must write; do you hear? _Write._ Writing

remains, and scenes and conflicts are avoided; you will therefore

write six lines, carefully worded, to Perdreau. You will tell him you

were at the meeting in the wood that night. How? That is none of his

business--it is enough that you were there; then you will add: 'I give

you three days to disappear, after which I will warn the police.' And

for the explanation at Muiceron, I will see to it."

Jean-Louis saw at once the good sense of this arrangement, and obeyed

immediately. In reality, it was the only means of bringing things to

the best possible conclusion.

The next day Michou went to the wood, as usual. He found the men at

their work, as though nothing had happened, and taking aside old

Blackbeard, who appeared to have some control over his companions,

he told him very quietly of his intention. Now, you will have no

difficulty in seeing that for men who reckoned upon dividing a domain

worth five hundred thousand crowns in a few days, to be free from work

and receive a week's pay was a clear and enticing advantage. Michou

was applauded; and, but that it went against the grain, he would have

had the happiness of shaking hands with the whole crew. But as he was

not very desirous of that pleasure with such a set, he was entirely

rewarded for his pains by seeing them file past him arm-in-arm, and

watched them as they went down the road, singing at the top of their

lungs.

That same morning Jean-Louis' letter left for its destination, and in

the evening the letter-carrier deposited it at the notary's house.

It has been remarked that villains are not brave. The good God,

who protects honest men because they scarcely think of defending

themselves, has put cowardice in the hearts of their enemies, and it

serves as a rampart always raised before virtue, which prevents the

wicked blows of vice from piercing it to death. Do not be astonished at

that beautiful phrase; I acknowledge I am not capable of inventing it;

but, in order that I might repeat it to you, I carefully copied it from

a big book, full of wise sayings, formerly lent to me by the Dean of

Aubiers.

If the lightning had fallen upon the notary's house, it would not have

produced a greater shock than Jeannet's simple letter. The Perdreaux,

as they were better educated than the mass of the poor people, whom the

ringleaders of the revolution use for their own purpose, did not doubt

but there would be great trouble and an overthrow of thrones, but were

not the less sure of the universal division of property, which they

looked forward to with such eagerness. But the safest and strongest

plank of salvation for them was the marriage of Isidore, and it was

most important that it should take place now, or else the prison-doors

would soon be opened. Old Perdreau was annihilated. For thirty years

he had had the boldness to calumniate his neighbors on every occasion;

he was on the eve, if he could, of causing the ruin, and perhaps the

death, of our good lord by delivering up his property and betraying

his secrets; but before this paper, which contained only a few lines

without threats or anger, written by a foundling, he turned livid

and trembled with fright, and his ugly face, ordinarily so bold, was

covered with a cold sweat. Isidore also was as pale as he; from time to

time he read Jean-Louis' letter, crushed it in his hand, trampled it

under foot, swore by the holy name of the Lord, and struck the tables

and chairs with his clenched fist. But that did not help the matter.

The father and son dared not speak to each other. At last Isidore took

the paper up again; and as if that scare-crow, by disappearing, could

mend affairs, he tore it into a thousand pieces.

"We are lost, lost!" repeated old Perdreau, clutching his gray hair

with both his hands.

"That remains to be seen!" cried Isidore. "Father, instead of sinking

into such despair, you had better think of some plan. It was by your

order I went to Montreux. I knew there was no need of such hurry."

"What could I do?" asked the unhappy old man, ready to humiliate

himself before his son. "We were menaced on all sides."

"It was only you who saw all that," replied Isidore harshly; "I always

listened to you too much."

"We can deny it all," ventured Perdreau.

"That is easy to say. But I am not sure of our men, if they should be

questioned. That cursed foundling will be believed before all of us."

"Lost! lost!" repeated the notary, in the last state of despair.

"We won't give up," said Isidore. "Go to bed, father; you are in no

condition to talk. I will reflect for both."

"Ah! think of something, no matter what; we must avert the blow," said

old Perdreau, as he staggered to his room.

"Avert the blow!" repeated Isidore; "the devil himself would not

succeed--unless--unless...."

He paused, as if some one would listen to his thought. A frightful

idea entered his head, and all that night the notary, who groaned and

shivered with fever in his bed, heard him walking about, taking great

strides across the floor, whilst he uttered disconnected words.

The next day the servant found her masters in a sad state; one sick,

almost delirious, the other asleep, all dressed, in a chair, with a

face haggard from the effects of the terrible night that had just

passed.

But two hours afterwards, affairs resumed their accustomed train.

Isidore bathed and changed his clothes, drank a bowl of hot wine, in

which he poured a good pint of brandy. He swallowed this comforter,

ate a mouthful, and appeared fresh and well. But an experienced person

would easily have seen that his eyes looked like balls of fire under

the red lids, and that every moment he made a singular movement with

his shoulders; you would have thought he shuddered, but doubtless that

was owing to the heavy frost the night before.

He went to see Jeannette, as usual, and was wonderfully polite; the

little thing was sad, but gentle and quiet. She willingly spoke of the

marriage, of the contemplated journey, and the presents she wished. But

yet it was easy to see that each one of the betrothed was playing a

part in trying to appear at ease, and scarcely succeeded. Jeannette, in

the midst of a fine phrase, would stop and look out of the window, and

Isidore would profit by the opportunity to fall into a reverie, which

certainly was not suitable at such a time. The reason was that the

slight friendship that was felt on one side had taken wings and flown

away; whilst on the other that which perhaps might begin threatened to

be cut short by circumstances: but whose fault was it?

"As you make your bed, so you must lie," said our _curé_, and Isidore,

who had stuffed his with thorns, should not have been surprised if he

felt them. No one can describe, because, very fortunately, no one can

understand, the disordered state of this unhappy young man's mind. He

had formed a resolution whose result you will soon see; and on whatever

side he looked, he saw a bottomless abyss open before his eyes. He was

afraid--this yet can be said in his favor, for indifference to crime

is the state of finished scoundrels--and he would not now have gone so

far, if, as we hope, he had not previously lost his senses.

He prolonged his visit to Muiceron as long as he could. Little

Jeannette was tired out and did not attempt to conceal it, which

sufficiently showed how much pleasure she took in the presence of her

future husband. She even yawned two or three times, which any other day

he would have resented; but now it escaped his notice.

At nightfall he at last decided to leave, and then it could be seen, by

his pallor and the manner that he passed his hand across his brow, that

the great deep pit of which I spoke caused him a greater vertigo than

ever.

Nevertheless, he started resolutely on the road for the wood of

Montreux, and, when he was near the wood-cutters' retreat, he looked

as if he wished to enter it; but suddenly he retraced his steps, and

afterwards appeared so absent and buried in his own reflections, he did

not notice that the cabin was empty, and no work going on inside.

One man, however, was walking among the huge piles of timber, half

ready for delivery; it was Michou. He at once perceived Isidore, and

followed him with his eyes a long distance; but it was not necessary to

accost him, and he let him pass on, with the idea that he was seeking

the high-road to Issoudun, in obedience to the letter of Jean-Louis.

"The hawk is caught," said he to himself. "Well, let him go in peace,

that he may receive his last shot elsewhere."

During this time, Perdreau directed his steps towards the game-keeper's

house. He easily entered, as the door was only closed by a latch;

Michou, in his isolated abode counting more on his gun, which he always

kept loaded at his bedside, than on the protection of bolts.

Isidore knew that each night Jeannet came to eat and sleep in the

little house; but he also knew that he worked until late in the night,

and that there was no risk of meeting him at this early hour.

As he expected, he found the idiot Barbette alone in the house. The

poor girl was preparing the soup Jean-Louis was accustomed to eat on

returning home, and near her was her dog, who never left her, not even

at night, when both went out together to sleep with the sheep.

She knew Isidore, as she had seen him roaming around the country.

Except to say good-morning and good-evening, she scarcely knew how to

speak, and therefore showed neither astonishment nor fear, as is the

case with children deprived of reason, who are not conscious either of

good or evil.

Isidore sank into a chair without speaking; Barbette nodded to him, and

continued stirring her stew-pan.

"What are you making there?" asked Perdreau, after a few moments'

silence.

The idiot burst out laughing, as though the question was very funny.

"Soup," she replied, still laughing loudly.

"Is it for your uncle?"

"No, my uncle has dined."

"Who is it for, then?"

"For the other one."

"The other one? Is it for Jean-Louis?"

"Yes."

"You are very sure?"

"Yes, yes!" said she, laughing louder than ever.

"Very good," muttered Isidore between his teeth. He suddenly arose, and

gave the dog a furious kick.

Barbette uttered a shrill scream. Her dog was her only friend; she

threw herself between Isidore and the poor beast, which she clasped in

her arms.

During this movement, which was very quick, the wretched Perdreau

sprang towards the stove, threw into the soup a paper of white powder,

which he had kept hidden in his hand, and disappeared in a second, like

one who feels his clothes catching fire.

Soon all was again quiet and silent. Little Barbette understood

nothing, except that the wicked man who had beaten her dog without

any cause had left, and that she could return to her cooking. She

recommenced stirring her soup, laughing softly to herself, but taking

care, however, that her dog was close to her side.

Michou entered about a quarter of an hour later. He was fatigued with

his day's work, and thought no more of Isidore, whom he believed far

away. Besides, if he had given him a thought, the idea would never have

entered his head to question Barbette, who was not in a condition to

render an account of anybody or anything.

The game-keeper had his bed and Jeannet's also (straw mattresses, laid

on trestles) placed in a recess at the end of the room, so that, upon

retiring, they could draw the curtains, and be as private as though in

another room. He undressed quietly, and stretched himself upon the bed

to take his much-needed rest, knowing well that Jean-Louis often came

in late, but made so little noise he was never disturbed.

A long time passed. Michou was sleeping soundly, when he heard Barbette

call him.

"What do you want?" he asked, raising himself up in his bed.

"Uncle," said the poor idiot, "Jean-Louis has not returned."

"Well, what of that?"

"I am hungry," she replied, for she never ate supper until her work was

finished.

"Eat," said Michou. "What is there to prevent you?"

"Can I eat Jean-Louis' soup?" she asked.

"Faith," thought the game-keeper, "he must have supped with the

Luguets. Yes," said he aloud, "eat, and be off to bed."

Barbette did not wait to be told twice. She emptied the soup into a

bowl, swallowed half of it with a good appetite, and gave the rest to

her dog.

Then she went out, fastening the latch as well as she could, and Michou

turned over in his bed, where he was soon asleep again, and nothing

else happened to disturb him, as Jeannet that night did not return home.

XVIII.

The night was terribly cold, and the following morning the sky was dark

and heavy from the snow that fell unceasingly; so that our superb wood

of Val-Saint, so delightful in summer, looked horrible and desolate

enough to make one think of death and the grave, all around was so

still and quiet in its white winding-sheet. Michou, who had nothing to

do after he sent off the workmen, rose later than usual, and was rather

astonished to see Jeannet's bed still vacant. It was the first time the

dear boy had slept away from home without giving warning. He knew him

too well to think that it was from want of attention: what could have

happened?

He thought again of Perdreau, whom he had seen roving around the

premises the night before; and for the first time in his life the

game-keeper felt a thrill of terror.

"The good-for-nothing is capable of anything," thought he; "he may have

watched for Jean-Louis in some out-of-the-way place to harm him."

But after this reflection, he reassured himself by thinking of

Jean-Louis' extraordinary strength and great height, which surpassed

Isidore's by at least a head.

"That puppy has no more nerve than a chicken," said he. "Jeannet could

knock him down with one blow; and as for drawing a pistol, he would be

afraid of the noise."

However, good Jacques hurried with his dressing, so that he might go to

the Luguets', to inquire after Jean-Louis. While doing so, he looked

at his big silver watch, which hung on a nail by his bedside, and saw

with astonishment that it was nine o'clock.

"This is something strange!" said he; "it is the first time in ten

years I have slept so late."

He went to the door, but, as he put out his head, he was driven back by

a whirlwind of snow which struck him in the face, and at the same time

a man presented himself upon the threshold.

"M. Michou," said the new-comer, who was no other than the

letter-carrier of the commune, "it is unfortunate you have some

correspondent in this awful weather."

"That is true! You are not very lucky," replied the game-keeper; "for

this is the first letter you have brought me in two years."

It was from Jean-Louis, and contained but a few words:

"M. JACQUES: Do not be uneasy about me. I am in good health, but I

will not return before three days, as I am going to Paris on important

business.

"Your ever-faithful

"JEAN-LOUIS."

"What the devil can that child have to do in Paris?" thought Michou.

"Never mind, this letter is a great relief; I would rather know he was

off there than here."

He gave the carrier a warm drink, and conversed with him some time

before the hearth, upon which burned a good armful of vine-branches.

Then, when he had taken his departure, the thought of Barbette suddenly

entered his head.

"What is she doing?" said he. "The poor child has forgotten my

breakfast; I suppose she has also slept late."

He opened the door; the snow was not falling quite so thick and fast,

and the sky appeared less sombre.

He left the house, and went to the sheepfold, to see what had become of

his idiotic niece.

Alas! If you have listened to me until now, you can well guess what had

taken place in that gloomy night! And yet, upon entering the enclosure,

nothing at first foreboded the misfortune which was about to startle

the good game-keeper. The sheep bleated and tumbled pell-mell, climbing

on one another's backs, browsing contentedly upon the hay scattered

here and there; but down at the end of the sheepfold, in a little

corner, poor Barbette was extended, stark dead and already cold, the

mouth half-opened and the face rigid from its terrible struggle. Close

to her, with his head laid across her feet, her dog also slept, never

more to be awakened.

It was evident the innocent child had suffered fearfully. Her poor body

seemed longer by three inches than before, as though the limbs had been

stretched in her dreadful death-struggle. Her little, shrivelled hands

still clutched bunches of wool that she must have torn from the sheep

in her agony. With all that, she looked tranquil and at peace, as if an

angel of the good God had come at the supreme moment to bear away her

soul, exempt from sin.

Michou fell on his knees beside the little dead body. He tried to raise

her, but she was so stiff he had to move her like a wooden statue.

Certainly, many hours must have elapsed since her death; the dog, also,

was frozen to the touch, and as hard as stone. There was no doubt these

two creatures, so attached to each other during life, had met together

a violent death. Nothing more remained to be done but to make the

necessary declarations and hold the inquest usual in such cases. The

good man bent over the agonized face of the child a few minutes; one

or two tears fell upon his gray beard, and, while wiping them off with

his coat-sleeve, he recited a Pater and a De Profundis; then he brought

several planks and bundles of straw, which he placed around the poor

corpse, so that the sheep should not injure it while playing around.

He left the dog lying on the feet of his mistress, Barbette; and mere

creature, without soul, as the good God had made him, he deserved this

respect, having died faithful as he had lived.

Jacques Michou left the sheepfold, his otter-skin cap in his hand, and

on the threshold turned again and made another sign of the cross. His

old heart was heavy with pain from the shock; but he did not dream

for an instant of what we know, and at that you must not be too much

astonished. The good man was perfectly honest, and could not at first

conjecture that a great crime had caused this extraordinary death.

He rather imagined that Barbette, who had been given to wandering

around like all innocents, had gathered some poisonous weed, or drank

by mistake from a vessel in which remedies were prepared for the

sheep when afflicted with the mange, which are always composed of a

decoction of tobacco or other noxious preparation; which cures, if

applied externally, but is certain death when taken internally, if the

directions are not followed. Thus plunged in sad and bitter meditation,

he arrived, almost before he knew it, at the village of Val-Saint, and

thought to continue still further, to warn Dr. Aubry. "He will be able

to tell me," thought he; "with his learning he can say what killed the

poor child."

Just then he raised his head, and saw that he was before the notary's

house, and recognized the doctor's horse and wagon before the door.

"This is lucky!" thought he. "I will find out all the sooner."

He entered without having to knock, probably because M. Aubry, who was

always absent-minded, had neglected to close the door, ordinarily shut

tight; so that the game-keeper found himself standing in the middle of

Perdreau's dining-room before any one had given notice of his entrance.

Isidore was there, so wan, and haggard, and wild-looking, you would

have doubted, at the first glance, whether it was himself or his

shadow. There was nothing terrifying in Michou's aspect; he appeared

sad and quiet, and only wished to meet the doctor, that he might relate

his lamentable story. But criminals see in every one and everywhere

justice and vengeance ready to fall upon them. Isidore no sooner

recognized the honest game-keeper, than he uttered a cry of terror, and

endeavored to escape.

That movement, the terrified face, and, still further, we must believe,

the inspiration of the good God, made Michou divine, in the twinkling

of an eye, what he had not even suspected the moment before. You will

understand me if you will only recall some remembrances of the past;

for surely you must once or twice in your life have experienced the

same effect. An event takes place--no one knows which way to turn; all

is dark; suddenly a light breaks forth, shedding its brilliant rays on

all around, and in an instant everything is clear to the mind: is it

not so? To explain how this great secret fire is lighted I cannot, but

to affirm that it happens daily you must acknowledge with me, no matter

how poor your memory may be.

The presence of Perdreau the evening before in the neighborhood of

the wood of Montreux, his sombre and agitated look at the time, the

preceding letter of Jean-Louis, finally, that soup, destined for

another than Barbette, and eaten by her--all this passed in a second

before the eyes of the game-keeper, like so many actors playing in the

same piece. As the truth, in all its horror, flashed before him, his

face became terrible, and Isidore, whose eyes, starting from his head

with terror, glared fixedly upon him, saw this time, without mistake,

his judge and the avenger of his crime.

The two men looked at each other a moment. Isidore advanced a step,

in the vague hope of reaching the door. Michou stepped back, his arms

crossed, and barred his passage.

"Let me go out," at last gasped Isidore between his closed teeth.

"Wretch!" said the game-keeper in a deep voice, "whom did you come to

poison at my house last night?"

"Michou, you are crazy!" replied Isidore; "let me out, or I will call."

"Call as loudly as you please," answered Michou, standing straight

and firm with his back against the door; "call Dr. Aubry, who must be

somewhere about. You will tell him that I have come in search of him to

prove the death of Barbette, whom you killed, cowardly villain that you

are!"

"Barbette! What do you mean? You are drunk, Michou," stammered

Isidore, becoming each moment more and more livid.

"Neither drunk nor crazy, you know well, accursed wretch," replied

Jacques. "Your insults do not harm me. Ha! you were not very skilful in

your crime, but you were also mistaken. Jean-Louis is safe and sound;

you only killed a child deprived of reason, and you will finish on a

scaffold; for if I were allowed to kill you with my own hand, I would

not, so as not to stain the hand of an honest man."

"Michou," said Isidore, his teeth chattering with fear, "have mercy on

me; I will explain myself later. I am sick.... My father is dying....

You are not cruel.... Let me go out."

"Ha! ha! you are a coward.... Faith, I am glad of it; it takes from me

the slightest compassion for you. Traitor! scoundrel! you were not so

much afraid yesterday, when you thought of killing a brave, defenceless

boy. To-day it is not repentance that makes you tremble, but the

justice of men, who will not spare you. You feel them on your heels;

you are not deceived. I have you; try to stir."

And he seized him by the arm with so vigorous a hand, the wretch felt

his bones crack.

"You hurt me; let me go!" yelled Isidore, writhing under that iron hand.

"Shut up! Avow your crime; did you come, yes or no, to poison

Jean-Louis?"

"He had provoked me. I was wild, I was mad--let me go...."

"You avow it, then; what poison was it?"

"I don't know; I know nothing further.... Michou, in the name of God,

let me go...."

"Do you dare pronounce the name of God?" cried Michou, grasping

him still more firmly. "Do you believe, then, in him, whom you have

blasphemed since you were able to speak? You don't know what poison you

used? After all, it matters little; M. Aubry will know--yes, he and the

judge also. The case is clear, and, if I could drag you myself before

the police, I would only leave hold of you at the door of the prison."

Isidore, prostrated and speechless from pain--for Michou, whose

strength was trebled, crushed his arm with redoubled force--fell to the

ground in the most miserable state that can be imagined.

"There," said Michou, pushing him aside with his foot, "if I did not

still respect the mark of your baptism, I would wish to see you die

there like a dog. Ah! you can weep now! See to what your life of

debauchery and idleness has brought you; but you are not capable of

understanding my words. Listen; it is not you that I pity, but the

remembrance of an honest girl, who, to the eyes of the neighborhood,

was your betrothed, the unfortunate creature! In the name of Jeanne

Ragaud, I will save you from the scaffold that you deserve; but on one

condition...."

"Speak, speak! I will do whatever you wish," cried the wretch, raising

himself upon his knees. "I promise you, Michou; but save me!"

"Miserable coward!" said the game-keeper with disgust, "your prayers

and your tears cause me as much horror as your crimes. You have not

even the courage to play the part of a murderer! But what I have said

I will do. Get up, if you have still strength to stand on your legs.

Mark what I say. You must disappear. I give you, not three days, like

Jean-Louis, but two hours, in which I will go and remove the body of

your victim, and warn the police. In two hours I will have declared

on oath that Barbette was poisoned by you, and the proofs will not be

wanting. Do what you please--hide yourself in a hole or fly. In two

hours, I repeat, the police will be on your track, and, if the devil

wishes to save you, that is his affair."

"Thanks," said Isidore, rising.

"Your thanks is another insult," said Michou. He opened the door

himself, and pushed the wretch outside with such a tremendous blow of

his fist that he stumbled and fell across the threshold.

Owing to the bad weather, the village street was deserted. Michou

saw Isidore disappear with the quickness of a deer. He closed the

door again, and sat down, resting his head upon his hands, to gather

together his ideas.

"My God," said the excellent man, raising his eyes to heaven with the

honest look of a Christian, "perhaps I have done wrong, but thou art

powerful enough to repair the effect of my too great mercy, and I have

saved from a disgrace that could not be remedied thy servants, the poor

Ragauds."

All this had not taken much time, and Michou was meditating upon the

events of that terrible night, when he felt some one strike him on the

shoulder; it was M. Aubry.

"It is you, M. Jacques?" said the doctor. "What are you doing here, old

fellow?"

"I was waiting for you, monsieur," replied he quietly, for he had

entirely recovered his self-possession. "Is any one sick here?"

"Eh?" said the doctor. "It is the old man, who was seized with a fever

yesterday, and is now delirious. His brain is affected. It is an attack

which I anticipated; I don't think he will recover."

"So much the better!" said Michou.

"What do you say? So much the better? It can be easily seen he is not

in your good graces. Faith! I must say, if I were not his physician, I

would think the same. I don't generally believe all the gossip floating

around; we can take a little on credit, and leave the rest; but, in my

opinion, M. le Marquis did not place his confidence within the pale of

the church when he gave it to that old ape; he may yet have to repent

of it. Well, and you--what can I do for you?"

"Come with me to the wood of Montreux," said the game-keeper, "and I

will tell you on the way."

"Is the case urgent? Between ourselves, Michou, if your patient is

not in danger I would like to put it off until to-morrow. My carriage

is open, and Cocotte is not rough-shod. It is beastly weather to go

through the forest."

"Alas! monsieur," replied Jacques, "the patient who requires you can

wait until the last judgment, for she is dead. But I must carry you off

all the same, as this death does not seem natural to me, and I wish

your opinion."

"Let us be off," said M. Aubry, without hesitating; "you can tell me

the whole story as we go along."

Which Jacques Michou did, whilst Cocotte, with her head down, trotted

along, not very well pleased to receive the snow full in her face.

The poor beast excepted, neither of the travellers in the wagon felt

the horrible weather. The doctor, while listening to the game-keeper,

looked serious and severe, which was not at all his usual custom.

Michou had nothing to hide. He related every detail of the mournful

story, without omitting any fact or thought necessary to enlighten M.

Aubry. When he came to speak of his terrible explanation with Isidore

and the wretch's crime, the doctor swore a round oath, which marked his

disapproval, and Cocotte received such a famous cut with the whip, she

started off on a furious gallop.

"I did not think you were, at your age, such a snivelling, sentimental

baby as that," said he in a rage. "What were you dreaming about? To

have had your hand on the villain, and then to let him go! You deserve

to be locked up in his place!"

"Monsieur," replied Michou, "what I did I would do again. Have you

thought that it would also have been a frightful trial for the Ragauds?

Would they not all have been called upon to testify? And think for a

moment what a disgrace it would have been for that unfortunate young

girl, who was on the eve of marrying the scoundrel. No, no, M. Aubry,

in the bottom of your soul you cannot blame me. Believe that the good

God will bring it all right; but such a scandal in our province, an

execution, perhaps, in the square of Val-Saint--what shame, what

misery!"

"Jeanne Ragaud and her family owe you a fine taper," replied the

doctor, a little softened. "There is some truth in what you say; but,

for all that, I would have been better pleased to have seen that

dangerous animal caged!"

"Be easy," replied Michou; "he will never hurt any one else unless

himself. Without wishing to excuse him, I am inclined to believe he

was out of his mind--pushed to extremity by the great danger in which

Jeannet's discovery had placed him. When a man is accustomed to crime,

monsieur, he bears the consequences more boldly. I saw Isidore Perdreau

so completely demoralized, his crime was written on his brow, where I

read it at the first glance, and which any one else could have done as

easily in my place. So be convinced, neither God nor man can blame me

for letting him go, and I certainly do not regret it."

"All very well," said the doctor; "but that would not prevent me from

acting very differently if I should catch him this evening."

"Nor I either," replied Michou; "for if he should fall under my hand

this evening, I would see clearly that the good God did not wish him to

be saved, at least in this world."

As he finished speaking, they stopped before the sheepfold, and the

doctor, together with Michou, entered, their heads uncovered. All was

as Michou had left it, only that the cold and the hours which had

elapsed had rendered the little body still stiffer than at the moment

of discovery. The effects of the poison began to appear, as great black

spots were visible on the face of the dead girl, which gave her such a

suffering and pitiful look, the tears fell from their eyes.

M. Aubry had not to examine very much to be convinced that the poor

idiot had been poisoned by taking a dose of arsenic capable of killing

three men. As this poison is infallible against rats, nearly all the

country people obtain permission to keep a small quantity on hand; and

nothing had been easier than for Isidore to take a little from his

father's own kitchen, where the servant complained of the ravages of

the mice among the cheeses and other provisions. Thus, step by step,

everything was terribly brought to light, and yet with much simplicity,

as is always the case with events incontestably true; therefore, it

was easy for M. Aubry to prepare his statements, affirmations, and

declarations according to his conscience, in the report which he read

before the official authorities.

One very sad thing, but which they scarcely thought of at the moment,

was to give a rather more decent bed than the straw of the sheepfold

to the poor innocent victim. But this they could not do, as they were

obliged to let her lie as she was until the arrival of the district

attorney, the sheriff, and the chief of police.

Michou would willingly have watched by her side, but this was not

possible either. M. Aubry aided him to construct a solid barrier

of planks; then they covered the body with a blanket; and on the

breast the game-keeper placed, with profound respect, a cross made of

branches. This devout duty accomplished, Jacques Michou locked the

sheepfold, put the key in his pocket, and left with the doctor to warn

the authorities.

You can imagine that in all this coming and going much more time had

elapsed than the two hours accorded to the fugitive. Michou, who

desired it from the bottom of his heart, for the good reasons we

already know, and which he did not regret, was not sorry at the delay.

M. Aubry, on the contrary, growled and stormed, whipped Cocotte with

the full strength of his arm, and tried to hurry up affairs with the

greatest diligence. But impossibilities cannot be performed, and, with

all his efforts, the usual formalities in these sad circumstances were

not fulfilled until late in the afternoon.

Then the news spread from mouth to mouth as rapidly as the waves of our

river during an inundation. The curious assembled in the public square,

where the servants of M. le Marquis, who never were bothered with too

much work, were the first to appear. They talked, they gesticulated,

said heaps of foolish things, mixed with some words of common sense.

Our master learned from public rumor that young Perdreau was suspected,

and that he had disappeared. It can be easily understood that he was

indignant at such a calumny, and generously offered to guarantee his

innocence. Mademoiselle wept, Dame Berthe imitated her, and these

two excellent ladies wished immediately to rush off to Jeannette,

to console her in this great trial. But poor mademoiselle had to be

content with her benevolent wishes, for neither coachman nor footman,

nor even a simple groom, could be found; all had run off to the wood of

Montreux in search of news.