PART I

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

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THE WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT

VOLUME II

Monsieur Parent and Other Stories

Copyright, 1909, by

Bigelow, Smith & Co.

CONTENTS

MONSIEUR PARENT

THE FATHER

A VAGABOND

USELESS BEAUTY

FLY

THE MAD WOMAN

THAT PIG OF A MORIN

THE WOODEN SHOES

A NORMANDY JOKE

A COCK CROWED

JULOT'S OPINION

MADEMOISELLE

THE MOUNTEBANKS

THE SEQUEL TO A DIVORCE

THE MAN WITH THE DOGS

THE CLOWN

BABETTE

SYMPATHY

THE DEBT

AN ARTIST

MADEMOISELLE FIFI

THE STORY OF A FARM GIRL

MAMMA STIRLING

LILIE LALA

MADAME TELLIER'S ESTABLISHMENT

THE BANDMASTER'S SISTER

FALSE ALARM

WIFE AND MISTRESS

MAD

AN UNFORTUNATE LIKENESS

THE NEW SENSATION

MONSIEUR PARENT

I

Little George was making hills of sand in one of the walks; he took it

up with both his hands, made it into a pyramid, and then put a chestnut

leaf on the top, and his father, sitting on an iron chair was looking at

him with concentrated and affectionate attention, and saw nobody but him

in that small public garden which was full of people. All along the

circular road other children were occupied in the same manner, or else

were indulging in childish games, while nursemaids were walking two and

two, with their bright cap ribbons floating behind them, and carrying

something wrapped up in lace, on their arms, and little girls in short

petticoats and bare legs were talking seriously together, during the

intervals of trundling their hoops.

The sun was just disappearing behind the roofs of the _Rue

Saint-Lazare_, but still shed its rays obliquely on that little

over-dressed crowd. The chestnut trees were lighted up with its yellow

rays, and the three fountains before the lofty porch of the church, had

the appearance of liquid silver.

Monsieur Parent looked at his son sitting in the dusk, he followed his

slightest movements with affection, but accidentally looking up at the

church clock, he saw that he was five minutes late, so he got up, took

the child by the arm and shook his dress which was covered with sand,

wiped his hands and led him in the direction of the _Rue Blanche_, and

he walked quickly, so as not to get in after his wife, but as the child

could not keep up with him, he took him up and carried him, though it

made him pant when he had to walk up the steep street. He was a man of

forty, turning gray already, rather stout, and had married, a few years

previously, a young woman whom he dearly loved, but who now treated him

with the severity and authority of an all-powerful despot. She found

fault with him continually for everything that he did, or did not do,

reproached him bitterly for his slightest acts, his habits, his simple

pleasures, his tastes, his movements and walk, and for having a round

stomach and a placid voice.

He still loved her, however, but above all he loved the child which he

had had by her, and George, who was now three, had become the greatest

joy, and had preoccupation of his heart. He himself had a modest private

fortune, and lived without doing anything on his twenty thousand francs

a year, and his wife, who had been quite portionless, was constantly

angry at her husband's inactivity.

At last he reached his house, put down the child, wiped his forehead and

walked upstairs, and when he got to the second floor, he rang. An old

servant who had brought him up, one of those mistress-servants who are

the tyrants of families, opened the door to him, and he asked her

anxiously: "Has Madame come in yet?" The servant shrugged her shoulders:

"When have you ever known Madame to come home at half past six,

Monsieur?" And he replied with some embarrassment: "Very well; all the

better; it will give me time to change my things, for I am very hot."

The servant looked at him with angry and contemptuous pity, and

grumbled: "Oh! I can see that well enough, you are covered with

perspiration, Monsieur. I suppose you walked quickly and carried the

child, and only to have to wait until half past seven, perhaps, for

Madame. I have made up my mind not to have it ready at the time. Shall

get it for eight o'clock, and if you have to wait, I cannot help it;

roast meat ought not to be burnt!" Monsieur Parent, however, pretended

not to hear, but only said: "All right! all right. You must wash

George's hands, for he has been making sand pits. I will go and change

my clothes; tell the maid to give the child a good washing."

And he went into his own room, and as soon as he got in he locked the

door, so as to be alone, quite alone. He was so used now to being abused

and badly treated, that he never thought himself safe, except when he

was locked in. He no longer ventured even to think, reflect and reason

with himself, unless he had guarded himself against her looks and

insinuations, by locking himself in. Having thrown himself into a chair,

in order to rest for a few minutes before he put on clean linen, he

remembered that Julie was beginning to be a fresh danger in the house.

She hated his wife, that was quite plain, but she hated his friend Paul

Limousin still more, who had continued to be the familiar and intimate

friend of the house, after having been the inseparable companion of his

bachelor days, which is very rare. It was Limousin who acted as a buffer

between his wife and himself, and who defended him ardently, and even

severely, against her undeserved reproaches, against crying scenes, and

against all the daily miseries of his existence.

But now for six months, Julie had constantly been saying things against

her mistress, and repeated twenty times a day: "If I were you, Monsieur,

I should not allow myself to be led by the nose like that. Well, well...

There, ... everyone according to his nature." And one day, she had even

ventured to be insolent to Henriette, who, however, merely said to her

husband, at night: "You know, the next time she speaks to me like that,

I shall turn her out of doors." But she, who feared nothing; seemed to

be afraid of the old servant, and Parent attributed her mildness to her

consideration for the old domestic who had brought him up, and who had

closed his mother's eyes. Now, however, it was finished, matters could

not go on like that much longer, and he was frightened at the idea of

what was going to happen. What could he do? To get rid of Julie seemed

to him to be such a formidable thing to do, that he hardly ventured to

think of it, but it was just as impossible to uphold her against his

wife, and before another month now, the situation would become

unbearable between the two. He remained sitting there, with his arms

hanging down, vaguely trying to discover some means to set matters

straight, but without success, and he said to himself: "It is only lucky

that I have George ... without him I should be very miserable."

Then he thought he would consult Limousin, but the recollection of the

hatred that existed between his friend and the servant made him fear

lest the former should advise him to turn her away, and again he was

lost in doubts and unhappy uncertainty. Just then the clock struck

seven, and he started up. Seven o'clock, and he had not even changed his

clothes yet! Then nervous and breathless, he undressed, put on a clean

shirt, and hastily finished his toilet, as if he had been expected in

the next room for some event of extreme importance, went into the

drawing-room, happy at having nothing to fear. He glanced at the

newspaper, went and looked out of the window, and then sat down on the

sofa again, when the door opened, and the boy came in, washed, brushed

and smiling, and Parent took him up in his arms and kissed him

passionately; then he tossed him into the air, and held him up to the

ceiling, but soon sat down again, as he was tired with all his efforts,

and taking George onto his knee, he made him ride a cock-horse, and the

child laughed and clapped his hands, and shouted with pleasure, as his

father did also, for he laughed until his big stomach shook, for it

amused him almost more than it did the child.

He loved him with all the heart of a weak, resigned, ill-used man. He

loved with mad bursts of affection, with caresses and with all the

bashful tenderness which was hidden in him, and which had never found an

outlet, even at the early period of his married life, for his wife had

always shown herself cold and reserved. Just then, however, Julie came

to the door, with a pale face and glistening eyes, and she said in a

voice which trembled with exasperation: "It is half past seven,

Monsieur." Parent gave an uneasy and resigned look at the clock and

replied: "Yes, it certainly is half past seven." "Well, my dinner is

quite ready, now."

Seeing the storm which was coming, he tried to turn it aside. "But did

you not tell me when I came in that it would not be ready before eight?"

"Eight! what are you thinking about? You surely do not mean to let the

child dine at eight o'clock? It would ruin his stomach. Just suppose

that he only had his mother to look after him! She cares a great deal

about her child. Oh! yes, we will speak about her; she is a mother. What

a pity it is that there should be any mothers like her!"

Parent thought it was time to cut short a threatened scene, and so he

said: "Julie, I will not allow you to speak like that of your mistress.

You understand me, do you not? Do not forget it for the future."

The old servant, who was nearly choked with surprise, turned round and

went out, slamming the door so violently after her, that the lusters on

the chandelier rattled, and for some seconds it sounded as if a number

of little invisible bells were ringing in the drawing room.

George who was surprised at first, began to clap his hands merrily, and

blowing out his cheeks, he gave a great _boum_ with all the strength of

his lungs, to imitate the noise of the door banging. Then his father

began to tell him stories, but his mind was so preoccupied that he every

moment lost the thread of his story, and the child, who could not

understand him, opened his eyes wide, in astonishment.

Parent never took his eyes off the clock; he thought he could see the

hands move, and he would have liked to have stopped them, until his

wife's return. He was not vexed with her for being late, but he was

frightened, frightened of her and of Julie, frightened at the thought of

all that might happen. Ten minutes more, would suffice to bring about an

irreparable catastrophe, explanations and acts of violence that he did

not dare to picture to himself. The mere idea of a quarrel, of their

loud voices, of insults flying through the air like bullets, the two

women standing face to face, looking at each other and flinging abuse at

one another, made his heart beat, and his tongue as parched as if he had

been walking in the sun, and made him as limp as a rag, so limp that he

no longer had the strength to lift up the child, and to dance him on his

knee.

Eight o'clock struck, the door opened once more and Julie came in again.

She had lost her look of exasperation, but now she put on an air of cold

and determined resolution, which was still more formidable. "Monsieur,"

she said, "I served your mother until the day of her death, and I have

attended to you from your birth until now, and I think it may be said

that I am devoted to the family." She waited for a reply, and Parent

stammered: "Why yes, certainly, my good Julie." She continued: "You know

quite well that I have never done anything for the sake of money, but

always for your sake; that I have never deceived you nor lied to you,

that you have never had to find fault with me..." "Certainly, my good

Julie." "Very well, then, Monsieur, it cannot go on any longer like

this. I have said nothing, and left you in your ignorance, out of

respect and liking for you, but it is too much, and everyone in the

neighborhood is laughing at you. Everybody knows about it, and so I must

tell you also, although I do not like to repeat it. The reason why

Madame comes in at any time she chooses is, that she is doing abominable

things."

He seemed stupefied, and not to understand, and could only stammer out:

"Hold your tongue, you know I have forbidden you ..." But she

interrupted him with irresistible resolution. "No, Monsieur, I must tell

you everything, now. For a long time Madame has been doing wrong with

Monsieur Limousin, I have seen them kiss scores of times behind the

doors. Ah! you may be sure that if Monsieur Limousin had been rich,

Madame would never have married Monsieur Parent. If you remember how the

marriage was brought about, you would understand the matter from

beginning to end." Parent had risen, and stammered out, deadly pale:

"Hold your tongue hold your tongue or ..." She went on, however: "No, I

mean to tell you everything. She married you from interest, and she

deceived you from the very first day. It was all settled between them

beforehand. You need only reflect for a few moments to understand it,

and then, as she was not satisfied with having married you, as she did

not love you, she has made your life miserable, so miserable that it has

almost broken my heart when I have seen it ..."

He walked up and down the room with his hands clenched, repeating: "Hold

your tongue ... hold your tongue ..." for he could find nothing else to

say; the old servant, however, would not yield; she seemed resolved on

everything, but George, who had been at first astonished, and then

frightened at those angry voices, began to utter shrill screams, and

remained behind his father, and he roared with his face puckered up and

his mouth open.

His son's screams exasperated Parent and filled him with rage and

courage. He rushed at Julie with both arms raised, ready to strike

her, and exclaiming: "Ah! you wretch! you will send the child out of

his senses." He was already touching her, when she said: "Monsieur, you

may beat me if you like, me who reared you, but that will not prevent

your wife from deceiving you, or alter the fact that your child is not

yours ..." He stopped suddenly, and let his arms fall, and he remained

standing opposite to her, so overwhelmed that he could understand

nothing more, and she added: "You need only look at the child to know

who is its father! He is the very image of Monsieur Limousin, you need

only look at his eyes and forehead, why, a blind man could not be

mistaken in him...."

But he had taken her by the shoulders, and was now shaking her with

all his might, while he said: "Viper ... viper! Go out the room,

viper! ... go out, or I shall kill you! ... Go out! Go out! ..."

And with a desperate effort he threw her into the next room. She fell

onto the table which was laid for dinner, breaking the glasses, and

then, getting up, she put it between her master and herself, and while

he was pursuing her, in order to take hold of her again, she flung

terrible words at him: "You need only go out this evening after dinner,

and come in again immediately ... and you will see! ... you will see

whether I have been lying! Just try it ... and you will see." She had

reached the kitchen door and escaped, but he ran after her, up the back

stairs to her bedroom into which she had locked herself, and knocking

at the door, he said! "You will leave my house this very instant." "You

may be certain of that, Monsieur," was her reply. "In an hour's time I

shall not be here any longer."

He then went slowly downstairs again, holding on to the banister, so as

not to fall, and went back to the drawing-room, where little George was

sitting on the floor, crying; he fell into a chair, and looked at the

child with dull eyes. He understood nothing, be knew nothing more, he

felt dazed, stupefied, mad, as if he had just fallen on his head, and he

scarcely even remembered the dreadful things the servant had told him.

Then, by degrees his reason grew clearer like muddy water, and the

abominable revelation began to work in his heart.

Julie had spoken so clearly, with so much force, assurance and

sincerity, that he did not doubt her good faith, but he persisted in not

believing her penetration. She might have been deceived, blinded by her

devotion to him, carried away by unconscious hatred for Henriette.

However, in measure as he tried to reassure and to convince himself, a

thousand small facts recurred to his recollection, his wife's words,

Limousin's looks, a number of unobserved, almost unseen trifles, her

going out late, their simultaneous absence, and even some almost

insignificant, but strange gestures, which he could not understand, now

assumed an extreme importance for him and established a connivance

between them. Everything that had happened since his engagement, surged

through his over-excited brain, in his misery, and he obstinately went

through his five years of married life, trying to recollect every detail

month by month, day by day, and every disquieting circumstance that he

remembered stung him to the quick like a wasp's sting.

He was not thinking of George any more, who was quiet now and on the

carpet, but seeing that no notice was being taken of him the boy began

to cry. Then his father ran up to him, took him into his arms, and

covered him with kisses. His child remained to him at any rate! What did

the rest matter? He held him in his arms and pressed his lips onto his

light hair, and relieved and composed, he whispered: "George, ... my

little George, ... my dear little George ..." But he suddenly remembered

what Julie had said! ... Yes! she had said that he was Limousin's

child... Oh! It could not be possible, surely! He could not believe it,

could not doubt, even for a moment, that he was his own child. It was

one of those low scandals which spring from servants' brains! And he

repeated: "George ... my dear little George." The youngster was quiet

again, now that his father was fondling him.

Parent felt the warmth of the little chest penetrate to his through

their clothes, and it filled him with love, courage and happiness; that

gentle heat soothed him, fortified him and saved him. Then he put the

small, curly head away from him a little and looked at it

affectionately, still repeating: "George! ... Oh! my little George! ..."

But suddenly he thought, "Suppose he were to resemble Limousin, ...

after all!"

There was something strange working within him, a fierce feeling, a

poignant and violent sensation of cold in his whole body, in all his

limbs, as if his bones had suddenly been turned to ice. Oh! if he were

to resemble Limousin and he continued to look at George, who was

laughing now. He looked at him with haggard, troubled eyes, and he tried

to discover whether there was any likeness in his forehead, in his nose,

mouth or cheeks. His thoughts wandered like they do when a person is

going mad, and his child's face changed in his eyes, and assumed a

strange look, and unlikely resemblances.

Julie had said: "A blind man could not be mistaken in him." There must,

therefore, be something striking, an undeniable likeness! But what? The

forehead? Yes, perhaps, Limousin's forehead, however, was narrower. The

mouth then? But Limousin wore a beard, and how could any one verify the

likeness between the fat chin of the child, and the hairy chin of that

man?

Parent thought: "I cannot see anything now, I am too much upset;

I could not recognize anything at present ... I must wait; I must

look at him well to-morrow morning, when I am getting up." And

immediately afterwards he said to himself: "But if he is like me,

I shall be saved! saved!" And he crossed the drawing-room in two strides,

to examine the child's face by the side of his own in the looking-glass.

He had George on his arm, so that their faces might be close together,

and he spoke out loud almost without knowing it. "Yes ... we have the

same nose ... the same nose ... perhaps, but that is not sure ... and

the same look ... But no, he has blue eyes ... Then good heavens! I shall

go mad ... I cannot see anything more ... I am going mad!..."

He went away from the glass to the other end of the drawing-room, and

putting the child into an easy chair, he fell into another and began to

cry; and he sobbed so violently that George, who was frightened at

hearing him, immediately began to scream.

The hall bell rang, and Parent gave a bound as if a bullet had gone

through him. "There she is," he said ... "What shall I do? ..." And he

ran and locked himself up in his room, so at any rate to have time to

bathe his eyes. But in a few moments another ring at the bell made him

jump again, and he remembered that Julie had left, without the housemaid

knowing it, and so nobody would go to open the door. What was he to do?

He went himself, and suddenly he felt brave, resolute, ready for

dissimulation and the struggle. The terrible blow had matured him in a

few moments, and then he wished to know the truth, he wished it with the

rage of a timid man, and with the tenacity of an easy-going man, who has

been exasperated.

But nevertheless he trembled! Was it fear? Yes . . . Perhaps he was

still frightened of her? Does one know how much excited cowardice there

often is in boldness? He went to the door with furtive steps, and

stopped to listen; his heart beat furiously, and he heard nothing but

the noise of that dull throbbing in his chest, and George's shrill

voice, who was still crying in the drawing room. Suddenly, however, the

noise of the bell over his head startled him like an explosion; then he

seized the lock, turned the key and opening the door, saw his wife and

Limousin standing before him on the stairs.

With an air of astonishment, which also betrayed a little irritation

she said: "So you open the door now? Where is Julie?" His throat

felt tight, and his breathing was labored and he tried to reply,

without being able to utter a word, so she continued: "Are you

dumb? I asked you where Julie is?" And then he managed to say:

"She ... she ... has ... gone ..." Whereupon his wife began to get

angry. "What do you mean by _gone_? Where has she gone? Why?" By

degrees he regained his coolness, and he felt immense hatred for that

insolent woman who was standing before him, rise up in him: "Yes,

she has gone altogether ... I sent her away ..." "You have sent away

Julie?... Why you must be mad." "Yes, I have sent her away because she

was insolent ... and because, because she was ill-using the child."

"Julie?" "Yes ... Julie." "What was she insolent about?" "About you."

"About me?" "Yes, because the dinner was burnt, and you did not come in."

"And she said ...?" "She said ... offensive things about you ... which

I ought not ... which I could not listen to ..." "What did she say?"

"It is no good repeating them." "I want to hear them." "She said it

was unfortunate for a man like me to be married to a woman like you,

unpunctual, careless, disorderly, a bad mother and a bad wife ..."

The young woman had gone into the anteroom followed by Limousin, who did

not say a word at this unexpected position of things. She shut the door

quickly, threw her cloak onto a chair, and going straight up to her

husband, she stammered out: "You say? ... you say? ... that I am ...?"

He was very pale and calm and replied: "I say nothing, my dear. I am

simply repeating what Julie said to me, as you wanted to know what it

was, and I wish you to remark that I turned her off just on account of

what she said."

She trembled with a violent longing to tear out his beard and scratch

his face. In his voice and manner she felt that he was asserting his

position as master, although she had nothing to say by way of reply, and

she tried to assume the offensive, by saying something unpleasant: "I

suppose you have had dinner?" she asked.

"No, I waited for you." She shrugged her shoulders impatiently. "It is

very stupid of you to wait after half past seven," she said. "You might

have guessed that I was detained, that I had a good many things to do,

visits and shopping."

And then suddenly, she felt that she wanted to explain how she had spent

her time, and she told him in abrupt, haughty words, that having to buy

some furniture in a shop a long distance off, very far off, in the _Rue

de Rennes_, she had met Limousin at past seven o'clock on the _Boulevard

Saint-Germain_, and that then she had gone with him to have something to

eat in a restaurant, as she did not like to go to one by herself,

although she was faint with hunger. That was how she had dined, with

Limousin, if it could be called dining, for they had only had some soup

and half a fowl, as they were in a great hurry to get back, and Parent

replied simply: "Well, you were quite right. I am not finding fault with

you."

Then Limousin, who had not spoken till then, and who had been half

hidden behind Henriette, came forward, and put out his hand, saying:

"Are you very well?" Parent took his hand, and shaking it gently,

replied: "Yes, I am very well." But the young woman had felt a reproach

in her husband's last words. "Finding fault! ... Why do you speak of

finding fault? ... One might think that you meant to imply something."

"Not at all," he replied, by way of excuse. "I simply meant, that I was

not at all anxious although you were late, and that I did not find fault

with you for it." She, however, took the high hand, and tried to find a

pretext for a quarrel. "Although I was late? ... One might really think

that it was one o'clock in the morning, and that I spent my nights away

from home." "Certainly not, my dear. I said _late_, because I could find

no other word. You said you should be back at half past six, and you

returned at half past eight. That was surely being late! I understand it

perfectly well ... I am not at all surprised ... even. But ... but ... I

can hardly use any other word." "But you pronounce them, as if I had

been out all night." "Oh! no, ... oh! no ..."

She saw that he would yield on every point, and she was going into her

own room, when at last she noticed that George was screaming, and then

she asked, with some feeling: "Whatever is the matter with the child?"

"I told you, that Julie had been rather unkind to him?" "What has the

wretch been doing to him?" "Oh! Nothing much. She gave him a push, and

he fell down."

She wanted to see her child, and ran into the dining-room but stopped

short at the sight of the table covered with spilt wine, with broken

decanters and glasses and overturned salt-cellars. "Who did all that

mischief?" she asked. "It was Julie who ..." But she interrupted him

furiously: "That is too much, really! Julie speaks of me as if I were a

shameless woman, beats my child, breaks my plates and dishes, turns my

house upside down, and it appears that you think it all quite natural."

"Certainly not, as I have got rid of her!" "Really ... you have got rid

of her! ... But you ought to have given her in charge. In such cases,

one ought to call in the Commissary of Police!" "But ... my dear ... I

really could not ... there was no reason ... It would have been very

difficult." She shrugged her shoulders disdainfully.

"There, you will never be anything but a poor, wretched fellow, a man

without a will, without any firmness or energy. Ah! she must have said

some nice things to you, your Julie, to make you turn her off like that.

I should like to have been here for a minute, only for a minute." Then

she opened the drawing-room door and ran to George, took him into her

arms and kissed him, and said: "Georgie, what is it, my darling, my

pretty one, my treasure?" But as she was fondling him he did not speak,

and she repeated: "What is the matter with you?" And he having seen,

with his child's eyes, that something was wrong, replied: "Julie beat

papa."

Henriette turned towards her husband, in stupefaction at first, but then

an irresistible desire to laugh shone in her eyes, passed like a slight

shiver over her delicate cheeks, made her upper lip curl and her

nostrils dilate, and at last a clear, bright burst of mirth came from

her lips, a torrent of gayety which was lively and sonorous as the song

of a bird. She repeated, with little mischievous exclamations which

issued from between her white teeth, and hurt Parent as much as a bite

would have done: "Ha!... ha!... ha!... ha! she beat ... she beat ... my

husband ... ha!... ha! ha!... How funny!... Do you hear, Limousin? Julie

has beaten ... has beaten ... my ... husband ... Oh! dear oh! dear ...

how very funny!"

But Parent protested: "No ... no ... it is not true, it is not true ...

It was I, on the contrary, who threw her into the dining room so

violently that she knocked the table over. The child did not see

clearly, I beat her!" "Here, my darling." Henriette said to her boy "did

Julie beat papa?" "Yes, it was Julie," he replied. But then, suddenly

turning to another idea, she said, "But the child has had no dinner?

You have had nothing to eat, my pet?" "No, mamma." Then she again turned

furiously onto her husband. "Why, you must be mad, utterly mad! It is

half past eight, and George has had no dinner!"

He excused himself as best he could, for he had nearly lost his wits by

the overwhelming scene and the explanation, and felt crushed by this

ruin of his life. "But, my dear, we were waiting for you, as I did not

wish to dine without you. As you come home late every day, I expected

you every moment."

She threw her bonnet, which she had kept on till then, into an easy

chair, and in an angry voice she said: "It is really intolerable to have

to do with people who can understand nothing, who can divine nothing,

and do nothing by themselves. So, I suppose, if I were to come in at

twelve o'clock at night, the child would have had nothing to eat? Just

as if you could not have understood that, as it was after half past

seven, I was prevented from coming home, that I had met with some

hindrance!..."

Parent trembled, for he felt that his anger was getting the upper hand,

but Limousin interposed and turning towards the young woman, he said:

"My dear friend, you are altogether unjust. Parent could not guess that

you would come here so late, as you never do so, and then, how would you

expect him to get over the difficulty all by himself, after having sent

away Julie?"

But Henriette was very angry and replied "Well, at any rate, he must

get over the difficulty himself, for I will not help him. Let him settle

it". And she went into her own room, quite forgetting that her child had

not had anything to eat.

Then Limousin immediately set to work to help his friend. He picked up

the broken glass which strewed the table and took them out. He replaced

the plates, knives and forks and put the child into his high chair.

While Parent went to look for the lady's maid, to wait at table; who

came in great astonishment. As she had heard nothing in George's room,

where she had been working. She soon however, brought in the soup, a

burnt leg of mutton, and mashed potatoes.

Parent sat by the side of the child, very much upset and distressed at

all that had happened. He gave the boy his dinner, and endeavored to eat

something him self. But he could only swallow with an effort, as if his

throat had been paralyzed. By degrees, he was seized by an insane desire

of looking at Limousin who was sitting opposite to him and making bread

pellets, to see whether George was like him, but he did not venture to

raise his eyes for some time; at last, however, he made up his mind to

do so, and gave a quick, sharp look at the face which he knew so well,

although he almost fancied that he had never looked at it carefully, as

it looked so different to what he had fancied. From time to time he

looked at him, trying to recognize a likeness in the smallest lines of

his face, in the slightest features, and then he looked at his son,

under the pretext of feeding him.

Two words were sounding in his ears "His father! his father! his

father!" They buzzed in his temples at every beat of his heart. Yes,

that man, that tranquil man who was sitting on the other side of the

table was, perhaps, the father of his son, of George, of his little

George. Parent left off eating; he could not manage any more; a terrible

pain, one of those attacks of pain which make men scream, roll on the

ground and bite the furniture, was tearing at his entrails, and he felt

inclined to take a knife and plunge it into his stomach. It would ease

him and save him, and all would be over.

For could he live now? Could he get up in the morning, join in the

meals, go out into the streets, go to bed at night and sleep with that

idea dominating him: "Limousin is Little George's father!" No, he would

not have the strength to walk a step, to dress himself, to think of

anything, to speak to anybody! Every day, every hour, every moment, he

should be trying to know, to guess, to discover this terrible secret.

And the little boy, his dear little boy, he could not look at him any

more without enduring the terrible pains of that doubt, of being

tortured by it to the very marrow of his bones. He would be obliged to

live there, to remain in that house, with that child whom he should love

and hate! Yes, he should certainly end by hating him. What torture! Oh!

If he were sure that Limousin was his father, he might, perhaps, grow

calm, become accustomed to his misfortune and his pain, but not to know,

was intolerable.

Not to know, to be always trying to find out, to be continually

suffering, to kiss the child every moment, another man's child, to take

him out for walks, to carry him, to caress him, to love him, and to

think continually: "Perhaps he is not my child? Would it not be better

not to see him, to abandon him,--to lose him in the streets, or to go

away, far away, himself so far away that he should never hear anything

more spoken about, never!"

He started when he heard the door open. His wife came. "I am hungry,"

she said; "are not you also, Limousin?" He hesitated a little, and then

said: "Yes, I am, upon my word." And she had the leg of mutton brought

in again, while Parent asked himself: "Have they had dinner? Or are they

late because they have had a lovers' meeting?"

They both ate with a very good appetite. Henriette was very calm, but

laughed and joked, and her husband watched her furtively. She had on a

pink dressing gown trimmed with white lace, and her fair head, her white

neck and her plump hands stood out from that coquettish and perfumed

dress, like from a sea shell, edged with foam. What had she been doing

all day with that man? Parent could see them kissing, and stammering out

words of ardent love! How was it that he could not manage to know

everything, to guess the whole truth, by looking at them, sitting side

by side, opposite to him?

What fun they must be making of him, if he had been their dupe since the

first day? Was it possible to make a fool of a man, of a worthy man,

because his father had left him a little money? Why could one not see

these things in people's souls, how was it that nothing revealed to

upright hearts the deceits of infamous hearts, how was it that voices

had the same sound for adoring as for lying, why was a false, deceptive

look the same as a sincere one? And he watched them waiting to catch a

gesture, a word, an intonation; then suddenly he thought: "I will

surprise them this evening," and he said: "My dear, as I have dismissed

Julie, I will see about getting another this very day, and I shall go

out immediately to procure one by to-morrow morning, so I may not be in

until late."

"Very well," she replied; "go, I shall not stir from here. Limousin will

keep me company. We will wait for you." And then, turning to the maid,

she said: "You had better put George to bed, and then you can clear away

and go up to your own room."

Parent had got up; he was unsteady on his legs, dazed and giddy, and

saying: "I shall see you again later on," he went out, holding onto the

wall, for the floor seemed to roll, like a ship. George had been carried

out by his nurse, whilst Henriette and Limousin went into the

drawing-room, and as soon as the door was shut, he said: "You must be

mad, surely, to torment your husband as you do?" She immediately turned

on him: "Ah! Do you know that I think the habit you have got into

lately, of looking upon Parent as a martyr, is very unpleasant?"

Limousin threw himself into an easy-chair, and crossed his legs: "I am

not setting him up as a martyr in the least, but I think that, situated

as we are, it is ridiculous to defy this man as you do, from morning

till night." She took a cigarette from the mantel-piece, lighted it, and

replied: "But I do not defy him, quite the contrary; only, he irritates

me by his stupidity ... and I treat him as he deserves." Limousin

continued impatiently: "What you are doing is very foolish! However, all

women are alike. Look here: he is an excellent, kind fellow, stupidly

confiding and good, who never interferes with us, who does not suspect

us for a moment, who leaves us quite free and undisturbed, whenever we

like, and you do all you can to put him into a rage and to spoil our

life."

She turned to him: "I say, you worry me. You are a coward, like all

other men are! You are frightened of that poor creature!" He immediately

jumped up and said, furiously: "I should like to know what he does, and

why you are so set against him? Does he make you unhappy? Does he beat

you? Does he deceive you and go with another woman? No, it is really too

bad to make him suffer, merely because he is too kind, and to hate him

merely because you are unfaithful to him." She went up to Limousin, and

looking him full in the face, she said: "And you reproach me with

deceiving him? You? You? What a filthy heart you must have?"

He felt rather ashamed, and tried to defend himself: "I am not

reproaching you, my dear; I am only asking you to treat your husband

gently, because we both of us require him to trust us. I think that you

ought to see that."

They were close together; he, tall, dark, with long whiskers, and the

rather vulgar manners of a good-looking man, who is very well satisfied

with himself; she, small, fair and pink, a little Parisian, half

shopkeeper, half one of those of easy virtue, born behind a shop,

brought up at its door to entice customers by her looks, and married,

accidentally, in consequence to a simple, unsophisticated man, who saw

her outside the door every morning when he went out, and every evening

when he came home.

"But do you not understand, you great booby," she said, "that I hate him

just because he married me, because he bought me; in fact, because

everything that he says and does, everything that he thinks, acts on my

nerves? He exasperates me every moment by his stupidity, which you call

his kindness, by his dullness, which you call his confidence, and then,

above all, because he is my husband, instead of you! I feel him between

us, although he does not interfere with us much. And then?... and

then?... No, it is, after all, too idiotic of him not to guess anything!

I wish he would at any rate be a little jealous. There are moments when

I feel inclined to say to him: 'Do you not see, you stupid creature,

that Paul is my lover?'"

Limousin began to laugh: "Meanwhile, it would be a good thing if you

were to keep quiet, and not disturb our life." "Oh! I shall not disturb

it, you may be sure! There is nothing to fear, with such a fool. No; but

it is quite incomprehensible that you cannot understand how hateful he

is to me, how he irritates me. You always seem to like him, and you

shake hands with him cordially. Men are very surprising at times."

"One must know how to dissimulate, my dear." "It is no question of

dissimulation, but of feeling. One might think that, when you men

deceive another, you liked him all the more on that account, while we

women hate the man from the moment that we have betrayed him." "I do not

see why one should hate an excellent fellow, because one has his wife."

"You do not see it?... You do not see it?... You all of you are wanting

in that fineness of feeling! However, that is one of those things which

one feels, and which one cannot express. And then, moreover, one ought

not.... No, you would not understand; it is quite useless. You men have

no delicacy of feeling."

And smiling, with the gentle contempt of a debauched woman, she put both

her hands onto his shoulders and held up her lips to him, and he stooped

down and clasped her closely in his arms, and their lips met. And as

they stood in front of the chimney glass, another couple exactly like

them, embraced behind the clock.

They heard nothing, neither the noise of the key, nor the creaking of

the door, but suddenly Henriette, with a loud cry, pushed Limousin away

with both her arms, and they saw Parent, who was looking at them, livid

with rage, without his shoes on, and his hat over his forehead. He

looked at them, one after the other, with a quick glance of his eyes

without moving his head. He appeared mad, and then, without saying a

word, he threw himself on Limousin; he seized him as if he were going to

strangle him, and flung him into the opposite corner of the room so

violently that the other lost his balance, and beating the air with his

hand, cracked against the wall with his head.

But when Henriette saw that her husband was going to murder her lover,

she threw herself onto Parent, seized him by the neck and digging her

ten delicate and rosy fingers into his neck, she squeezed him so

tightly, with all the vigor of a desperate woman, that the blood spurted

out under her nails, and she bit his shoulder, as if she wished to tear

it with her teeth. Parent, half-strangled and choked, loosened his hold

on Limousin, in order to shake off his wife, who was hanging onto his

neck; and putting his arms around her waist, he flung her also to the

other end of the drawing-room.

Then, as his passion was short-lived, like that of most good-tempered

men, and his strength was soon exhausted, he remained standing between

the two, panting, worn out, not knowing what to do next. His brutal fury

had expended itself in that effort, like the froth of a bottle of

champagne, and his unwonted energy ended in a want of breath. As soon as

he could speak, however he said: "Go away ... both of you ...

immediately ... go away!..."

Limousin remained motionless in his corner, against the wall, too

startled to understand anything as yet, too frightened to move a finger,

while Henriette, with her hands resting on a small, round table, her

head bent forward, with her hair hanging down, the bodice of her dress

unfastened and bosom bare, waited like a wild animal which is about to

spring, and Parent went on, in a stronger voice: "Go away

immediately.... Get out of the house!"

His wife, however, seeing that he had got over his first exasperation,

grew bolder, drew herself up, took two steps towards him, and grown

almost insolent already, she said: "Have you lost your head?... What is

the matter with you?... What is the meaning of this unjustifiable

violence?" But he turned towards her, and raising his fist to strike

her, he stammered out: "Oh!... oh!... this is too much!... too much!...

I ... heard everything! Everything!... do you understand?...

Everything!... you wretch ... you wretch ... you are two wretches!...

Get out of the house!... both of you!... Immediately ... or I shall

kill you!... Leave the house!..."

She saw that it was all over, and that he knew everything, that she

could not prove her innocence, and that she must comply, but all her

impudence had returned to her, and her hatred for the man, which was

exasperated now, drove her to audacity, made her feel the need of

bravadoes, and of defying him, and so she said in a clear voice: "Come,

Limousin, as he is going to turn me out of doors, I will go to your

lodgings with you."

But Limousin did not move, and Parent, in a fresh access of rage, cried

out: "Go, will you! go, you wretches!... or else!... or else!..." and he

seized a chair and whirled it over his head.

Then Henriette walked quickly across the room, took her lover by the

arm, dragged him from the wall to which he appeared fixed, and dragged

him towards the door, saying: "Do come, my friend ... you see that the

man is mad.... Do come!"

As she went out, she turned round to her husband, trying to think of

something that she could do, something that she could invent to wound

him to the heart as she left the house, and an idea struck her, one of

those venomous, deadly ideas in which all a woman's perfidy shows

itself, and she said resolutely: "I am going to take my child with me."

Parent was stupefied and stammered: "Your ... your ... child? You dare

to talk of your child?... You venture ... you venture to ask for your

child ... after ... after ... Oh! oh! that is too much!... Go, you

horrid wretch!... Go!..." She went up to him again, almost smiling,

almost avenged already, and defying him, standing close to him, and face

to face, she said: "I want my child, and you have no right to keep him,

because he is not yours ... do you understand?... he is not yours ... he

is Limousin's." And Parent cried out in bewilderment: "You lie ... you

lie you wretch!"

But she continued: "You fool! Everybody knows it, except you. I tell

you, this is his father. You need only look at him, to see it...."

Parent staggered back from her, and then he suddenly turned round, took

a candle and rushed into the next room; almost immediately, however, he

returned, carrying little George, wrapped up in his bed clothes, and the

child, who had been suddenly awakened, was crying with fright. Parent

threw him into his wife's arms, and then, without saying anything more,

he pushed her roughly out, towards the stairs, where Limousin was

waiting, from motives of prudence.

Then he shut the door again, double-locked it, and bolted it, and he had

scarcely got into the drawing-room, when he fell onto the floor at full

length.

II

Parent lived alone, quite alone. During the five weeks that followed

their separation, the feeling of surprise at his new life, prevented him

from thinking much. He had resumed his bachelor life, his habits of

lounging about, and he took his meals at a restaurant, as he had done

formerly. As he had wished to avoid any scandal, he made his wife an

allowance, which was settled by their lawyers. By degrees, however, the

thoughts of the child began to haunt him. Often, when he was at home

alone at night, he suddenly thought he heard George calling out _papa_,

and his heart used to begin to beat, and he got up quickly and opened

the door to see whether, by chance, the child might have returned, like

dogs or pigeons do. Why should a child have less instinct than an

animal?

After finding that he was mistaken, he went and sat down in his armchair

again and thought of the boy, and he thought of him for hours, and whole

days. It was not only a moral, but still more a physical obsession, a

nervous longing to kiss him, to hold and fondle him, to take him onto

his knees and dance him. He felt the child's little arms round his neck,

his little mouth pressing a kiss on his beard, his soft hair tickling

his cheeks, and the remembrance of all those childish ways, made him

suffer like the desire for some beloved woman, who has run away, and

then twenty or a hundred times a day he asked himself the question,

whether he was or was not George's father, and at night, especially, he

indulged in interminable speculations on the point, and almost before he

was in bed, he every night recommenced the same series of despairing

arguments.

After his wife's departure, he had at first not felt the slightest

doubt; certainly the child was Limousin's, but by degrees he began to

waver. Henriette's words could not be of any value. She had merely

braved him, and tried to drive him to desperation, and calmly weighing

the _pros_ and _cons_, there seemed to be every chance that she had

lied, though perhaps only Limousin could tell the truth. But how was he

to find it out, how could he question him or persuade him to confess the

real facts?

Sometimes Parent would get up in the middle of the night, fully

determined to go and see Limousin and to beg him, to offer him anything

he wanted, to put an end to this intolerable misery. Then he went back

to bed in despair, reflecting that her lover would also lie, no doubt!

He would be even sure to lie, in order to prevent him from taking away

the child, if he were really his father. What could he do, then?

Absolutely nothing!

And he was sorry that he had thus suddenly brought about the crisis,

that he had not taken time for reflection, that he had not waited and

dissimulated for a month or two, so as to find out for himself. He ought

to have pretended to suspect nothing, and have allowed them to betray

themselves at their leisure. It would have been enough for him, to see

the other kiss the child, to guess and to understand. A friend does not

kiss a child as a father does. He should have watched them behind the

doors. Why had he not thought of that? If Limousin, when left alone with

George, had not at once taken him up, clasped him in his arms and kissed

him passionately; if he had looked on indifferently while he was

playing, without taking any notice of him, no doubt or hesitation could

have been possible; in that case he would not have been the father, he

would not have thought that he was, would not have felt that he was.

Thus Parent would have kept the child, while he got rid of the mother,

and he would have been happy, perfectly happy.

He tossed about in bed, hot and unhappy, trying to recollect Limousin's

ways with the child. But he could not remember anything suspicious, not

a gesture, not a look, neither word nor caress. And the child's mother

took very little notice of him, and if she had had him by her lover, she

would, no doubt, have loved him more.

They had, therefore, separated him from his son, from vengeance, from

cruelty, to punish him for having surprised them, and he made up his

mind to go the next morning and obtain the magistrate's assistance to

gain possession of George, but almost as soon as he had formed that

resolution, he felt assured of the contrary. From the moment that

Limousin had been Henriette's lover, her adored lover, she would

certainly have given herself up to him, from the very first, with that

ardor of self-abandonment which makes women conceive. The cold reserve

which she had always shown in her intimate relations with him, Parent,

was surely also an obstacle to her having been fecundated by his

embrace.

In that case he would be claiming, he would take with him, constantly

keep and look after, the child of another man. He would not be able to

look at him, kiss him, hear him say "Papa" without being struck and

tortured by the thought, "he is not my child." He was going to condemn

himself to that torture, and that wretched life every moment! No, it

would be better to live alone, to grow old alone, and to die alone.

And every day and every night, these dreadful doubts and sufferings,

which nothing could calm or end, recommenced. He especially dreaded the

darkness of the evening, the melancholy feeling of the twilight. Then a

flood of sorrow invaded his heart, a torrent of despair, which seemed to

overwhelm him and drive him mad. He was as frightened of his own

thoughts as men are of criminals, and he fled before them as one does

from wild beasts. Above all things he feared his empty, dark, horrible

dwelling, and the deserted streets, in which, here and there, a gas lamp

flickers, where the isolated foot passenger whom one hears in the

distance seems to be a night-prowler, and makes one walk faster or

slower, according to whether he is coming towards you or following you.

And in spite of himself, and by instinct, Parent went in the direction

of the broad, well-lighted, populous streets. The light and the crowd

attracted him, occupied his mind and distracted his thoughts, and when

he was tired of walking aimlessly about amongst the moving crowd, when

he saw the foot passengers becoming more scarce, and the pavements less

crowded, the fear of solitude and silence drove him into some large

_café_ full of drinkers and of light. He went there like flies go to a

candle, and he used to sit down at one of the little round tables, and

ask for a _bock_[1], which he used to drink slowly, feeling uneasy every

time that a customer got up to go. He would have liked to take him by

the arm, hold him back and beg him to stay a little longer, so much did

he dread the time when the waiter would come up to him and say angrily:

"Come, Monsieur, it is closing time!"

[Footnote 1: Glass of Bavarian beer]

For every evening he stopped last. He saw them carry in the tables, turn

out the gas jets one by one, except his and that at the counter. He

looked unhappily at the cashier counting the money and locking it up in

the drawer, and then he went, being usually pushed out by the waiters,

who murmured: "Another one who has too much! One might think he had no

place to sleep in."

As soon as he was alone in the dark street, he began to think of George

again, and to rack his brains in trying to discover whether or not he

was this child's father.

He thus became in the habit of going to the beer houses, where the

continual elbowing of the drinkers brings you in contact with a familiar

and silent public, where the heavy clouds of tobacco smoke lulls

disquietude, while the heavy beer dulls the mind and calms the heart. He

almost lived there. He was scarcely up, before he went there to find

people to occupy his looks and his thoughts, and soon, as he felt too

idle to move, he took his meals there. About twelve o'clock he used to

rap on the marble table, and the waiter quickly brought a plate, a

glass, a table napkin, and his lunch when he had ordered it. When he had

done, he slowly drank his cup of black coffee, with his eyes fixed on

the decanter of brandy, which would soon procure him an hour or two of

forgetfulness. First of all he dipped his lips into the cognac, as if to

get the flavor of it with the tip of his tongue. Then he threw his head

back and poured it into his mouth, drop by drop, and turned the strong

liquor over on his palate, his gums and the mucous membrane of his

cheeks, and then he swallowed it slowly, and felt it going down his

throat, and into his stomach.

After every meal he thus during more than an hour, sipped three or four

small glasses of brandy, which stupefied him by degrees, and then his

head dropped onto his chest, he shut his eyes and went to sleep: then,

having drunk it, he raised himself on the seat covered with red velvet,

pulled his trousers up, and his waistcoat down, so as to cover the linen

which appeared between the two, drew down his shirt sleeves and took up

the newspapers again, which he had already read in the morning, and read

them all through again, from beginning to end, and between four and five

o'clock he went for a walk on the boulevards, to get a little fresh air,

as he used to say, and then came back to the seat which had been

reserved for him, and asked for his absinthe. He used to talk to the

regular customers, whose acquaintance he had made. They discussed the

news of the day, and political events, and that carried him on till

dinner-time, and he spent the evening like he had the afternoon, until

it was time to close. That was a terrible moment for him, when he was

obliged to go out into the dark, into the empty room full of dreadful

recollections, of horrible thoughts and of mental agony. He no longer

saw any of his old friends, none of his relations, nobody who might

remind him of his past life. But as his apartments were a hell to him,

he took a room in a large hotel, a good room on the ground floor, so as

to see the passers-by. He was no longer alone in that great building, he

felt people swarming round him, he heard voices in the adjoining rooms,

and when his former sufferings tormented him too much at the sight of

his bed which was turned back, and of his solitary fire-place, he went

out into the wide passages and walked up and down them like a sentinel,

before all the closed doors, and looked sadly at the shoes standing in

couples outside each, women's little boots by the side of men's thick

ones, and he thought that no doubt all these people were happy, and were

sleeping sweetly side by side or in each other's arms, in their warm

bed.

Five years passed thus; five miserable years with no other events

except from time to time a passing love affair which lasted a couple of

hours at the cost of forty francs. But one day when he was taking his

usual walk between the _Madeleine_ and the _Rue Drouot_, he suddenly saw

a lady, whose bearing struck him. A tall gentleman and a child were with

her, and all three were walking in front of him. He asked himself where

he had seen them before, when suddenly he recognized a movement of her

hand: it was his wife, his wife with Limousin and his child, his little

George.

His heart beat as if it would suffocate him, but he did not stop, for he

wished to see them and he followed them. They looked like a family of

the better middle class. Henriette was leaning on Paul's arm and

speaking to him in a low voice and looking at him sideways occasionally.

Parent saw her side face, and recognized its graceful outlines, the

movements of her lips, her smile and her caressing looks, but the child

chiefly took up his attention. How tall and strong he was! Parent could

not see his face, but only his long, fair curls. That tall boy with bare

legs, who was walking by his mother's side like a little man, was

George.

He saw them suddenly, all three, as they stopped in front of a shop.

Limousin had grown very gray, had aged, and was thinner; his wife, on

the contrary, was as young looking as ever, and had grown stouter;

George he would not have recognized, he was so different to what he had

been formerly.

They went on again, and Parent followed them, then walked on quickly,

passed them and then turned round, so as to meet them face to face. As

he passed the child he felt a mad longing to take him into his arms and

run off with him, and he knocked against him as if it were

accidentally. The boy turned round and looked at the clumsy man angrily,

and Parent went off hastily, struck and hurt by the look. He went off

like a thief, seized by a horrible fear lest he should have been seen

and recognized by his wife and her lover, and he went to his _café_

without stopping, and fell breathless into his chair, and that evening

he drank three absinthes.

For four months he felt the pain of that meeting in his heart. Every

night he saw the three again, happy and tranquil, father, mother and

child walking on the boulevard before going in to dinner, and that new

vision effaced the old one. It was another matter, another hallucination

now, and also a fresh pain. Little George, his little George, the child

he had so much loved and so often kissed formerly, disappeared in the

far distance, and he saw a new one, like a brother of the first, a

little boy with bare legs, who did not know him! He suffered terribly at

that thought. The child's love was dead; there was no bond between them;

the child would not have held out his arms when he saw him. He had even

looked at him angrily.

Then, by degrees he grew calmer, his mental torture diminished, the

image that had appeared to his eyes and which haunted his nights became

more indistinct and less frequent. He began once more to live nearly

like everybody else, like all those idle people who drink beer off

marble topped tables and wear out the seats of their trousers on the

threadbare velvet of the couches.

He grew old amidst the smoke from the pipes, lost his hair under the gas

lights, looked upon his weekly bath, on his fortnightly visit to the

barber's to have his hair cut, and on the purchase of a new coat or hat,

as an event. When he got to his _café_ in a new hat covering he used to

look at himself in the glass for a long time before sitting down, and

took it off and put it on again several times following, and at last

asked his friend, the lady at the bar, who was watching him with

interest, whether she thought it suited him.

Two or three times a year he went to the theater, and in the summer he

sometimes spent his evenings at one of the open air concerts in the

_Champs-Elysées_. He brought back from them some airs which ran in his

head for several weeks, and which he even hummed, beating time with his

foot, while he was drinking his beer, and so the years followed each

other, slow, monotonous and short, because they were quite uneventful.

He did not feel them glide past him. He went on towards death without

fear or agitation, sitting at a table in a _café_, and only the great

glass against which he rested his head, which was every day becoming

balder, reflected the ravages of time which flies and devours men, poor

men.

He only very rarely now thought of the terrible drama which had wrecked

his life, for twenty years had passed since that terrible evening, but

the life he had led since then had worn him out, and the landlord of his

café would often say to him: "You ought to pull yourself together a

little, Monsieur Parent; you should get some fresh air and go into the

country; I assure you that you have changed very much within the last

few months." And when his customer had gone out, he used to say to the

barmaid: "That poor Monsieur Parent is booked for another world; it is

no good never to go out of Paris. Advise him to go out of town for a day

occasionally; he has confidence in you. It is nice weather, and will do

him good." And she, full of pity and good will for such a regular

customer, said to Parent every day: "Come, Monsieur, make up your mind

to get a little fresh air; it is so charming in the country when the

weather is fine. Oh! If I could, I would spend my life there."

And she told him her dreams, the simple and poetical dreams of all the

poor girls who are shut up from one year's end to the other in a shop

and who see the noisy life of the streets go while they think of the

calm and pleasant life in the country, of life under the trees, under

the bright sun shining on the meadows, of deep woods and clear rivers,

of cows lying in the grass, and of all the different flowers, blue, red,

yellow, purple, lilac, pink and white, which are so pretty, so fresh, so

sweet, all the wild flowers which one picks as one walks, and makes into

large nosegays.

She liked to speak to him frequently of her continual, unrealized and

unrealizable longing, and he, an old man without hope, was fond of

listening to her, and used to go and sit near the counter to talk to

Mademoiselle Zoé and to discuss the country with her. Then, by degrees

he was seized by a vague desire to go just once and see whether it was

really so pleasant there, as she said, outside the walls of the great

city, and so one morning he said to her: "Do you know where one can get

a good lunch in the neighborhood of Paris?" "Go to the Terrace at

Saint-Germain; it is delightful there!"

He had been there formerly, just when he had got engaged, and so he made

up his mind to go there again, and he chose a Sunday without any special

reason, but merely because people generally do go out on Sundays, even

when they have nothing to do all the week, and so one Sunday morning he

went to Saint-Germain. It was at the beginning of July, on a very bright

and hot day. Sitting by the door of the railway-carriage, he watched the

trees and the strangely built little houses in the outskirts of Paris

fly past. He felt low-spirited, and vexed at having yielded to that new

longing, and at having broken through his usual habits. The view, which

was continually changing, and always the same, wearied him. He was

thirsty; he would have liked to get out at every station and sit down in

the _café_ which he saw outside and drink a _bock_ or two, and then take

the first train back to Paris. And then, the journey seemed very long to

him. He used to remain sitting for whole days, as long as he had the

same motionless objects before his eyes, but he found it very trying and

fatiguing to remain sitting while he was being whirled along, and to see

the whole country fly by, while he himself was motionless.

However, he found the Seine interesting, every time he crossed it. Under

the bridge at Chatou he saw some skiffs going at great pace under the

vigorous strokes of the bare-armed oarsmen, and he thought: "There are

some fellows who are certainly enjoying themselves!" And then the train

entered the tunnel just before you get to the station at Saint-Germain,

and soon stopped at the arrival platform, where Parent got out, and

walked slowly, for he already felt tired, towards the _Terrace_, with

his hands behind his back, and when he got to the iron balustrade, he

stopped to look at the distant horizon. The vast plain spread out before

him like the sea, green, and studded with large villages, almost as

populous as towns. White roads crossed it, and it was well wooded in

places; the ponds at Vesinet glistened like plates of silver, and the

distant ridges of Sannois and Argenteuil were covered with light, bluish

mist, so that they could scarcely be distinguished. The sun bathed the

whole landscape in its full, warm light, and the Seine, which twined

like an endless serpent through the plain, flowed round the villages and

along the slopes, and Parent inhaled the warm breeze which seemed to

make his heart young again, to enliven his spirits and to vivify his

blood, and said to himself: "It is very nice here."

Then he went on a few steps, and stopped again to look about him, and

the utter misery of his existence seemed to be brought out into full

relief, by the intense light which inundated the country. He saw his

twenty years of _café_-life, dull, monotonous, heart-breaking. He might

have traveled like others did, have gone amongst foreigners, to unknown

countries beyond the sea, have interested himself somewhat in everything

which other men are passionately devoted to, in arts and sciences, he

might have enjoyed life in a thousand forms, that mysterious life which

is either charming or painful, constantly changing, always inexplicable

and strange. Now, however, it was too late. He would go on drinking

_bock_ after _bock_ until he died, without any family, without friends,

without hope, without any curiosity about anything, and he was seized

with a feeling of misery and a wish to run away, to hide himself in

Paris, in his _café_ and his befuddlement! All the thoughts, all the

dreams, all the desires which are dormant in the sloth of stagnating

hearts, had reawakened, being brought to life by those rays of sunlight

on the plain.

He felt that if he were to remain there any longer, he should lose his

head, and so he made haste to get to the _Pavillon Henri IV_ for lunch,

to try and forget his troubles under the influence of wine and alcohol,

and at any rate to have someone to speak to.

He took a small table in one of the arbors, from which one can see all

the surrounding country, ordered his lunch and asked to be served at

once. Then some more people arrived and sat down at tables near him and

he felt more comfortable; he was no longer alone. Three persons were

lunching near him, and he had looked at them two or three times without

seeing them clearly, as one looks at total strangers, but suddenly a

woman's voice sent a shiver through him, which seemed to penetrate to

his very marrow. "George," it had said, "will you carve the chicken?"

And another replied: "Yes, Mamma."

Parent looked up, and he understood, he guessed immediately who those

people were! He should certainly not have known them again. His wife had

grown quite white and very stout, an old, serious, respectable lady, and

she held her head forwards as she ate, for fear of spotting her dress,

although she had a table napkin tucked under her chin. George had become

a man; he had a slight beard, that unequal and almost colorless beard

which becurls the cheeks of youths. He wore a high hat, a white

waistcoat and a single eyeglass, because it looked dandified, no doubt.

Parent looked at him in astonishment! Was that George, his son? No, he

did not know that young man; there could be nothing in common between

them. Limousin had his back to him, and was eating, with his shoulders

rather bent.

Well, all three of them seemed happy and satisfied; they came and dined

in the country, at well-known restaurants. They had had a calm and

pleasant existence, a family existence in a warm and comfortable house,

filled with all those trifles which make life agreeable, with affection,

with all those tender words which people exchange continually when they

love each other. They had lived thus, thanks to him, Parent, on his

money, after having deceived him, robbed him, ruined him! They had

condemned him, the innocent, the simple-minded, the jovial man to all

the miseries of solitude, to that abominable life which he had led

between the pavement and the counter, every moral torture and every

physical misery! They had made him a useless being, who was lost and

wretched amongst other people, a poor old man without any pleasures, or

anything to look forward to, and who hoped for nothing from anyone. For

him, the world was empty, because he loved nothing in the world. He

might go among other nations or go about the streets, go into all the

houses in Paris, open every room, but he would not find the beloved

face, the face of wife or child, that he was in search of, and which

smiles when it sees you, behind any door. And that idea worked upon him

more than any other, the idea of a door which one opens, to see and to

embrace somebody behind it.

And that was the fault of those three wretches! the fault of that

worthless woman, of that infamous friend and of that tall, light-haired

lad who put on insolent airs. Now, he felt as angry with the child as he

did with the other two! Was he not Limousin's son? Would Limousin have

kept him and loved him, otherwise would not Limousin very quickly have

got rid of the mother and of the child if he had not felt sure that it

was his, certainly his? Does anybody bring up other people's children?

And now they were there, quite close to him, those three who had made

him suffer so much.

Parent looked at them, irritated and excited at the recollection of all

his sufferings and of his despair, and was especially exasperated at

their placid and satisfied looks. He felt inclined to kill them, to

throw his syphon of Seltzer water at them, to split open Limousin's

head, which he every moment bent over his plate and raised it up again

immediately. And they continued to live like that, without cares or

anxiety of any kind. No! no! That was really too much, after all! He

would avenge himself, he would have his revenge now, on the spot, as he

had them under his hand. But how? He tried to think of some means, he

pictured such dreadful things as one reads of in the newspapers

occasionally, but could not hit on anything practical. And he went on

drinking to excite himself, to give himself courage not to allow such an

occasion to escape him, as he should certainly not meet with it again.

Suddenly an idea struck him, a terrible idea, and he left off drinking

to mature it. A smile rose to his lips, and he murmured: "I have got

them, I have got them. We will see; we will see." A waiter asked him:

"What would you like now, Monsieur?" "Nothing. Coffee and cognac. The

best." And he looked at them, as he sipped his brandy. There were too

many people in the restaurant for what he wanted to do, so he would wait

and follow them, for they would be sure to walk on the terrace or in the

forest. When they had got a little distance off, he would join them,

and then he would have his revenge, yes, he would have his revenge! It

was certainly not too soon, after twenty-three years of suffering. Ah!

They little guessed what was to happen to them.

They finished their luncheon slowly, and they talked in perfect

security. Parent could not hear what they were saying, but he saw their

calm movements, and his wife's face, especially, exasperated him. She

had assumed a haughty air, the air of a stout, devout woman, of an

irreproachably devout woman, sheathed in principles, iron-clad in

virtue. Then they paid the bill and got up, and then he saw Limousin. He

might have been taken for a retired diplomatist, for he looked a man of

great importance with his soft, white whiskers, the tips of which fell

onto the facings of his coat.

They went out. George was smoking a cigar and had his hat on one side,

and Parent followed them. First of all they went up and down the

terrace, and calmly admired the landscape, like people who have well

satisfied their hunger, and then they went into the forest, and Parent

rubbed his hands and followed them at a distance, hiding himself, so as

not to excite their suspicion too soon. They walked slowly, enjoying the

fresh green, and the warm air. Henriette was holding Limousin's arm and

walked upright at his side, like a wife who is sure, and proud of

herself. George was cutting off the leaves with his stick, and

occasionally jumped over the ditches by the road side, like a fiery

young horse ready to gallop off through the trees.

Parent came up to them by degrees, panting rather from excitement and

fatigue, for he never walked now. He soon came up to them, but he was

seized by fear, an inexplicable fear, and he passed them, so as to turn

round and meet them face to face. He walked on, his heart beating, for

he knew that they were just behind him now, and he said to himself:

"Come, now is the time. Courage! courage! Now is the moment!"

He turned round. They were all three sitting on the grass, at the foot

of a huge tree, and they were still talking, and he made up his mind,

and came back rapidly, and then stopping in front of them in the middle

of the road, he said abruptly, in a voice broken by emotion: "It is I!

Here I am! I suppose you did not expect me?" They all three looked at

him carefully, for they thought that he was mad, and he continued: "One

might think that you did not know me again. Just look at me! I am

Parent, Henri Parent. You did not expect me, eh? You thought it was all

over, and that you would never see me again. Ah! But here I am once

more, you see, and now we will have an explanation."

Henriette was terrified and hid her face in her hands, murmuring: "Oh!

Good Heavens!" And seeing this stranger who seemed to be threatening his

mother, George sprang up, ready to seize him by the collar, while

Limousin, who was thunderstruck, looked at this specter in horror, who,

after panting for a few moments, continued: "So now we will have an

explanation; the proper moment for it has come! Ah! you deceived me, you

condemned me to the life of a convict, and you thought that I should

never catch you!"

But the young man took him by the shoulders and pushed him back: "Are

you mad?" he asked. "What do you want? Go on your way immediately, or I

shall give you a thrashing!" But Parent replied: "What do I want? I want

to tell you who these people are." George, however, was in a rage and

shook him; was even going to strike him, but the other said: "Just let

me go. I am your father ... There, look whether they recognize me now,

the wretches!" And the alarmed young man, removed his hands, and turned

to his mother, while Parent, as soon as he was released, went towards

her.

"Well," he said, "tell him who I am, you! Tell him that my name is Henri

Parent, that I am his father because his name is George Parent, because

you are my wife, because you are all three living on my money, on the

allowance of ten thousand francs which I have made you, since I drove

you out of my house. Will you tell him also why I drove you out? Because

I surprised you with this beggar, this wretch, your lover! Tell him what

I was, an honorable man, whom you married for my money, and whom you

deceived from the very first day. Tell him who you are, and who I

am ..."

He stammered and panted for breath, in his rage, and the woman exclaimed

in a heartrending voice: "Paul, Paul, stop him; make him be quiet; do

not let him say this before my son!" Limousin had also got up, and he

said in a quite low voice: "Hold your tongue! Hold your tongue! Do

understand what you are doing!" But Parent continued furiously: "I quite

know what I am doing, and that is not all. There is one thing that I

will know, something that has tormented me for twenty years." And then

turning to George, who was leaning against a tree in consternation, he

said: "Listen to me. When she left my house, she thought it was not

enough to have deceived me, but she also wanted to drive me to despair.

You were my only consolation, and she took you with her, swearing that

I was not your father, but that he was your father! Was she lying? I do

not know, and I have been asking myself the question for the last twenty

years."

He went close up to her, tragic and terrible, and pulling away her hands

with which she had covered her face, he continued: "Well, I call upon

you now to tell me which of us two is the father of this young man; he

or I, your husband or your lover. Come! Come! tell us." Limousin rushed

at him, but Parent pushed him back, and sneering in his fury, he said:

"Ah! you are brave now! You are braver than you were that day when you

ran downstairs because I was going to half murder you. Very well! If she

will not reply, tell me yourself. You ought to know as well as she. Tell

me, are you this young fellow's father? Come! Come! Tell me!"

Then he turned to his wife again: "If you will not tell me, at any rate

tell your son. He is a man, now, and he has the right to know who is his

father. I do not know, and I never did know, never, never! I cannot tell

you, my boy." He seemed to be losing his senses, his voice grew shrill

and he worked his arms about as if he had an epileptic attack. "Come!...

Give me an answer.... She does not know.... I will make a bet that she

does not know ... No ... she does not know, by Jove!... She used to go

to bed with both of us! Ha! ha! ha!... nobody knows ... nobody.... How

can any one know such things?... You will not know, either, my boy, you

will not know any more than I do.... never.... Look here.... Ask her ...

you will find that she does not know.... I do not know either.... You

can choose ... yes, you can choose ... him or me.... Choose.... Good

evening.... It is all over.... If she makes up her mind to tell you,

come and let me know, will you? I am living at the _Hôtel des

Continents_.... I should be glad to know.... Good evening.... I hope you

will enjoy yourselves very much...."

And he went away gesticulating, and talking to himself under the tall

trees, into the empty, cool air, which was full of the smell of the sap.

He did not turn round to look at them, but went straight on, walking

under the stimulus of his rage, under a storm of passion, with that one

fixed idea in his mind, and presently he found himself outside the

station. A train was about to start and he got in. During the journey,

his anger calmed down, he regained his senses and returned to Paris,

astonished at his own boldness, and feeling as aching and knocked up, as

if he had broken some bones, but nevertheless he went to have a _bock_

at his brewery.

When she saw him come in, Mademoiselle Zoé was surprised and said:

"What! back already? are you tired?" "I am tired ... very tired.... You

know, when one is not used to going out.... But I have done with it. I

shall not go into the country again. I had better have stopped here. For

the future, I shall not stir out again."

But she could not persuade him to tell her about his little excursion,

although she wanted very much to hear all about it, and for the first

time in his life he got thoroughly drunk that night, and had to be

carried home.

THE FATHER

I

As he lived at Batignolles and was a clerk in the Public Education

Office, he took the omnibus every morning, when he went to the center of

Paris, sitting opposite a girl with whom he fell in love.

She went to the shop where she was employed, at the same time every day.

She was a little brunette, one of those dark girls whose eyes are so

dark that they look like spots, and whose complexion has a look like

ivory. He always saw her coming at the corner of the same street, and

she generally had to run to catch the heavy vehicle, and sprang upon the

steps before the horses had quite stopped. Then she got inside, rather

out of breath, and sitting down, she looked round her.

The first time that he saw her, François Tessier felt that her face

pleased him extremely. One sometimes meets one of those women whom one

longs to clasp madly in one's arms immediately, without even knowing

her. That girl answered to his inward desires, to his secret hopes, to

that sort of ideal of love which one cherishes in the depths of the

heart, without knowing it.

He looked at her intently, in spite of himself, and she grew embarrassed

at his looks and blushed. He saw it and tried to turn away his eyes; but

he involuntarily fixed them upon her again every moment, although he

tried to look in another direction, and in a few days they knew each

other without having spoken. He gave up his place to her when the

omnibus was full, and got outside, though he was very sorry to do it. By

this time, she had got so far as to greet him with a little smile; and

although she always dropped her eyes under his looks, which she felt

were too ardent, yet she did not appear offended at being looked at in

such a manner.

They ended by speaking. A kind of rapid intimacy had become established

between them, a daily intimacy of half an hour, and that was certainly

one of the most charming half hours in his life, to him. He thought of

her all the rest of the time, saw her continually during the long office

hours, for he was haunted and bewitched by that floating and yet

tenacious recollection which the image of a beloved woman leaves in us,

and it seemed to him that the entire possession of that little person

would be maddening happiness to him, almost above human realization.

Every morning now she shook hands with him, and he preserved the feeling

of that touch, and the recollection of the gentle pressure of her little

fingers, until the next day, and he almost fancied that he preserved the

imprint of it, on his skin, and he anxiously waited for this short

omnibus ride, all the rest of the time, while Sundays seemed to him

heart-breaking days. However, there was no doubt that she loved him, for

one Saturday, in spring, she promised to go and lunch with him at

Maisons-Laffitte the next day.

II

She was at the railway station first, which surprised him, but she said:

"Before going, I want to speak to you. We have twenty minutes, and that

is more than I shall take for what I have to say."

She trembled as she hung onto his arm, and she looked down, while her

cheeks were pale, but she continued: "I do not want to be deceived in

you, and I shall not go there with you, unless you promise, unless

you swear ... not to do ... not to do anything ... that is at all

improper ..."

She had suddenly become as red as a poppy, and said no more. He did not

know what to reply, for he was happy and disappointed at the same time.

At the bottom of his heart, he perhaps preferred that it should be so,

and yet ... yet during the night he had indulged in anticipations that

sent the hot blood flowing through his veins. He should love her less,

certainly, if he knew that her conduct was light, but then it would be

so charming, so delicious for him! And he made all a man's usual selfish

calculations in love affairs.

As he did not say anything, she began to speak again in an agitated

voice, and with tears in her eyes. "If you do not promise to respect me

altogether, I shall return home." And so he squeezed her arm tenderly

and replied: "I promise, you shall only do what you like." She appeared

relieved in mind, and asked with a smile: "Do you really mean it?" And

he looked into her eyes and replied: "I swear it." "Now you may take the

tickets," she said.

During the journey they could hardly speak, as the carriage was full,

and when they got to Maison-Laffitte they went towards the Seine. The

sun, which shone full onto the river, onto the leaves and onto the turf

seemed to be reflected in them in his brightness, and they went, hand

in hand, along the bank, looking at the shoals of little fish swimming

near the bank, and they went on brimming over with happiness, as if they

were raised from the earth in their lightness of heart.

At last she said: "How foolish you must think me!"

"Why?" he asked. "To come out like this, all alone with you?" "Certainly

not; it is quite natural." "No, no; it is not natural for me--because I

do not wish to commit a fault, and yet this is how girls fall. But if

you only knew how wretched it is, every day the same thing, every day in

the month, and every month in the year. I live quite alone with Mamma,

and as she has had a great deal of trouble, she is not very cheerful. I

do the best I can, and try to laugh in spite of everything, but I do not

always succeed. But all the same, it was wrong in me to come, though

you, at any rate, will not be sorry."

By way of an answer he kissed her ardently on her ear that was nearest

him, but she moved from him with an abrupt movement, and getting

suddenly angry, she exclaimed: "Oh! Monsieur François, after what you

swore to me!" And they went back to Maison-Laffitte.

They had lunch at the _Petit-Havre_, a low house, buried under four

enormous poplar trees, by the side of the river. The air, the heat, the

light wine, and the sensation of being so close together, made them red

and silent, with a feeling of oppression, but after the coffee, they

regained all their high spirits, and having crossed the Seine, they

started off along the bank, towards the village of La Frette, and

suddenly he asked: "What is your name?" "Louise." "Louise," he

repeated, and said nothing more.

The river, which described a long curve, bathed a row of white houses in

the distance, which were reflected in the water. The girl picked the

daisies and made them into a great bunch, whilst he sang vigorously, as

intoxicated as a colt that has been turned into a meadow. On their left,

a vine-covered slope followed the river, but suddenly François stopped

motionless with astonishment: "Oh! look there!" he said.

The vines had come to an end, and the whole slope was covered with lilac

bushes in flower. It was a violet colored wood! A kind of great carpet

stretched over the earth, reaching as far as the village, more than two

miles off. She also stood, surprised and delighted, and murmured: "Oh!

how pretty!" And crossing a meadow they ran towards that curious low

hill, which every year furnishes all the lilac which is drawn through

Paris on the carts of the street sellers.

A narrow path went beneath the trees, so they took it, and when they

came to a small clearing, they sat down.

Swarms of flies were buzzing around them and making a continuous, gentle

sound, and the sun, the bright sun of a perfectly still day, shone over

the bright slopes, and from that wood of flowers, a powerful aroma was

borne towards them, a breath of perfume, of that sweat of the flowers.

A church clock struck in the distance, and they embraced gently, then

clasped each other close, lying on the grass, without the knowledge of

anything except of that kiss. She had closed her eyes and held him in

her arms, pressing him to her closely, without a thought, with her

reason bewildered, and from head to foot in passionate expectation. And

she surrendered herself altogether, without knowing that she had given

herself to him. But she soon came to herself with the feeling of a great

misfortune, and she began to cry and sob with grief, with her face

buried in her hands.

He tried to console her, but she wanted to start, to return, and to go

home immediately, and she kept saying as she walked along quickly: "Good

heavens! good heavens!" He said to her: "Louise! Louise! Please let us

stop here." But now her cheeks were red and her eyes hollow, and as

soon as they got to the railway station in Paris, she left him, without

even saying good-bye.

III

When he met her in the omnibus next day, she appeared to him to be

changed and thinner, and she said to him: "I want to speak to you; we

will get down at the Boulevard."

As soon as they were on the pavement, she said: "We must bid each other

good-bye; I cannot meet you again after what has happened." "But why?"

he asked. "Because I cannot; I have been culpable, and I will not be so

again."

Then he implored her, tortured by desire, maddened by the wish of having

her entirely, in the absolute freedom of nights of love, but she replied

firmly: "No, I cannot, I cannot." He, however, only grew all the more

excited, and promised to marry her, but she said again: "No." And left

him.

For a week he did not see her. He could not manage to meet her, and as

he did not know her address, he thought that he had lost her altogether.

On the ninth day, however, there was a ring at his bell, and when he

opened it, she was there. She threw herself into his arms, and did not

resist any longer, and for three months she was his mistress. He was

beginning to grow tired of her, when she told him she was pregnant, and

then he had one idea and wish: To break with her at any price. As,

however, he could not do that, not knowing how to begin or what to say,

full of anxiety through the fear of that child which was growing, he

took a decisive step: One night he changed his lodgings, and

disappeared.

The blow was so heavy that she did not look for the man who had

abandoned her, but threw herself at her mother's knees and confessed her

misfortune, and some months after, she gave birth to a boy.

IV

Years passed, and François Tessier grew old without there having been

any alteration in his life. He led the dull, monotonous life of

_bureaucrates_, without hopes and without expectations. Every day he got

up at the same time, went through the same streets, went through the

same door, passed the same porter, went into the same office, sat in the

same chair, and did the same work. He was alone in the world, alone,

during the day in the midst of his colleagues, and alone at night in his

bachelor's lodgings, and he laid by a hundred francs a month, against

old age.

Every Sunday he went to the _Champs-Elysées_, to watch the elegant

people, the carriages and the pretty women, and the next day he used to

say to one of his colleagues: "The return of the carriages from the

_Bois de Boulogne_ was very brilliant yesterday." One fine Sunday

morning, however, he went into the _Parc Monceau_, where the mothers and

nurses, sitting on the sides of the walks, watched the children playing,

and suddenly François Tessier started. A woman passed by, holding two

children by the hand; a little boy of about ten and a little girl of

four. It was she.

He walked another hundred yards, and then fell into a chair, choking

with emotion. She had not recognized him, and so he came back, wishing

to see her again. She was sitting down now, and the boy was standing by

her side very quietly, while the little girl was making sand castles. It

was she, it was certainly she, but she had the serious looks of a lady,

was dressed simply, and looked self-possessed and dignified. He looked

at her from a distance, for he did not venture to go near, but the

little boy raised his head, and François Tessier felt himself tremble.

It was his own son, there could be no doubt of that. And as he looked at

him, he thought he could recognize himself as he appeared in an old

photograph taken years ago. He remained hidden behind a tree, waiting

for her to go, that he might follow her.

He did not sleep that night. The idea of the child especially harrassed

him. His son! Oh! If he could only have known, have been sure? But what

could he have done? However, he went to the house where she had lived,

and asked about her. He was told that a neighbor, an honorable man of

strict morals, had been touched by her distress, and had married her;

he knew the fault she had committed and had married her, and had even

recognized the child, his, François Tessier's child, as his own.

He returned to the _Parc Monceau_ every Sunday, for then he always saw

her, and each time he was seized with a mad, an irresistible longing, to

take his son into his arms, cover him with kisses and to steal him, to

carry him off.

He suffered horribly in his wretched isolation as an old bachelor, with

nobody to care for him, and he also suffered atrocious mental torture,

torn by paternal tenderness springing from remorse, longing and

jealousy, and from that need of loving one's own children, which nature

has implanted into all, and so at last he determined to make a

despairing attempt, and going up to her, as she entered the park, he

said, standing in the middle of the path, pale and with trembling lips:

"You do not recognize me." She raised her eyes, looked at him, uttered

an exclamation of horror, of terror, and, taking the two children by the

hand she rushed away, dragging them after her, whilst he went home and

wept, inconsolably.

Months passed without his seeing her again, but he suffered, day and

night, for he was a prey to his paternal love. He would gladly have

died, if he could only have kissed his son, he would have committed

murder, performed any task, braved any danger, ventured anything. He

wrote to her, but she did not reply, and after writing her some twenty

letters he saw that there was no hope of altering her determination, and

then he formed the desperate resolution of writing to her husband,

being quite prepared to receive a bullet from a revolver, if need be.

His letter only consisted of a few lines, as follows:

"Monsieur,

"You must have a perfect horror of my name, but I am so miserable,

so overcome by misery, that my only hope is in you, and therefore I

venture to request you to grant me an interview of only five

minutes."

"I have the honor, etc."

The next day he received the reply:

"Monsieur,

"I shall expect you to-morrow, Tuesday, at five o'clock."

V

As he went up the staircase, François Tessier's heart beat so violently

that he had to stop several times. There was a dull and violent noise in

his breast, the noise as of some animal galloping, and he could only

breathe with difficulty, and had to hold on to the banisters in order

not to fall.

He rang the bell on the third floor, and when a maidservant had opened

the door, he asked "Does Monsieur Flamel live here?" "Yes. Monsieur.

Kindly come in."

He was shown into the drawing-room; he was alone and waited, feeling

bewildered, as in the midst of a catastrophe, until a door opened and a

man came in. He was tall, serious, and rather stout, and wore a black

frock-coat, and pointed to a chair with his hand. François Tessier sat

down, and then said, panting: "Monsieur ... Monsieur ... I do not know

whether you know my name ... whether you know ..."

Monsieur Flamel interrupted him. "You need not tell it me, Monsieur, I

know it. My wife has spoken to me about you." He spoke in the dignified

tone of voice of a good man who wishes to be severe, and with the

common-place stateliness of an honorable man, and François Tessier

continued: "Well, Monsieur, I want to say this: I am dying of grief, of

remorse, of shame, and I would like once, only once to kiss ... the

child ..."

Monsieur Flamel got up and rang the bell, and when the servant came in,

he said: "Will you bring Louis here." When she had gone out, they

remained face to face, without speaking, as they had nothing more to say

to one another, and waited. Then, suddenly, a little boy of ten rushed

into the room, and ran up to the man whom he believed to be his father,

but he stopped when he saw a stranger, and Monsieur Flamel kissed him

and said: "Now go and kiss that gentleman, my dear." And the child went

up to him nicely, and looked at the stranger.

François Tessier had risen, he let his hat fall, and was ready to fall

himself as he looked at his son, while Monsieur Flamel had turned away,

from a feeling of delicacy, and was looking out of the window.

The child waited in surprise, but he picked up the hat and gave it to

the stranger. Then François, taking the child up in his arms, began to

kiss him wildly all over his face, on his eyes, his cheeks, on his

mouth, on his hair, and the youngster, frightened at the shower of

kisses tried to avoid them, turned away his head and pushed away the

man's face with his little hands. But suddenly, François Tessier put him

down, and cried: "Good-bye! Good-bye!" And he rushed out of the room as

if he had been a thief.

A VAGABOND

For more than a month he had been walking, seeking for work everywhere.

He had left his native place, Ville-Avary, in the department of la

Manche, because there was no work to be had. He was a journeyman

carpenter, twenty-seven years old, a steady fellow and good workman, but

for two months, he, the eldest son, had been obliged to live on his

family, with nothing to do but to cross his arms in the general stoppage

of work. Bread was getting scarce with them; the two sisters went out as

charwomen, but earned little, and he, Jacques Randel, the strongest of

them all, did nothing because he had nothing to do, and ate the others'

soup.

Then he went and inquired at the town-hall, and the mayor's secretary

told him that he would find work at the Labor-center, and so he started,

well provided with papers and certificates, and carrying another pair of

shoes, a pair of trousers and a shirt, in a blue handkerchief at the end

of his stick.

And he had walked almost without stopping, day and night, along

interminable roads, in the sun and rain, without ever reaching that

mysterious country where workmen find work. At first he had the fixed

idea that he must only work because he was a carpenter, but at every

carpenter's shop where he applied he was told that they had just

dismissed men on account of work being so slack, and finding himself at

the end of his resources, he made up his mind to undertake any job that

he might come across on the road. And so by turns he was a navvy,

stableman, stone sawer; he split wood, lopped the branches of trees, dug

wells, mixed mortar, tied up faggots, tended goats on a mountain, and

all for a few pence, for he only obtained two or three days work

occasionally, by offering himself at a shamefully low price, in order to

tempt the avarice of employers and peasants.

And now, for a week he had found nothing, and he had no money left, and

was eating a piece of bread, thanks to the charity of some women from

whom he had begged at house doors, on the road. It was getting dark, and

Jacques Randel, jaded, his legs failing him, his stomach empty, and with

despair in his heart, was walking barefoot on the grass by the side of

the road, for he was taking care of his last pair of shoes, as the other

pair had already ceased to exist for a long time. It was a Saturday,

towards the end of autumn. The heavy gray clouds were being driven

rapidly through the sky by the gusts of wind which whistled among the

trees, and one felt that it would rain soon. The country was deserted at

that time of the evening, and on the eve of Sunday. Here and there in

the fields there rose up stacks of thrashed out corn, like huge yellow

mushrooms, and the fields looked bare, as they had already been sown for

the next year.

Randel was hungry, with the hunger of some wild animal, such a hunger as

drives wolves to attack men. Worn out and weakened with fatigue, he took

longer strides, so as not to take so many steps, and with heavy head,

the blood throbbing in his temples, with red eyes and dry mouth, he

grasped his stick tightly in his hand, with a longing to strike the

first passer-by whom he should meet, and who might be going home to

supper, with all his force.

He looked at the sides of the road with the image of potatoes dug up and

lying on the ground before his eyes; if he had found any, he would have

gathered some dead wood, made a fire in the ditch, and have had a

capital supper off the warm, round vegetables, which he would first of

all have held burning hot, in his cold hands. But it was too late in the

year, and he would have to gnaw a raw beetroot, as he had done the day

before, which he picked up in a field.

For the last two days he had spoken aloud as he quickened his steps,

under the influence of his thoughts. He had never thought, hitherto, as

he had given all his mind, all his simple faculties, to his industrial

requirements. But now, fatigue, and this desperate search for work which

he could not get, refusals and rebuffs, nights spent in the open-air,

lying on the grass, long fasting, the contempt which he knew people with

a settled abode felt for a vagabond, and that question which he was

continually asked: "Why do you not remain at home?" Now, distress at not

being able to use his strong arms which he felt so full of vigor, the

recollection of his relations who had remained at home and who also had

not a half-penny, filled him by degrees with rage, which had been

accumulating every day, every hour, every minute, and which now escaped

his lips in spite of himself in short growling sentences.

As he stumbled over the stones which rolled beneath his bare feet, he

grumbled, "How wretched! how miserable!... A set of hogs ... to let a

man die of hunger ... a carpenter ... a set of hogs ... not two

pence ... not two pence ... and now it is raining ... a set of hogs!..."

He was indignant at the injustice of fate, and cast the blame on men, on

all men, because nature, that great, blind mother, is unjust, cruel and

perfidious, and he repeated through his clenched teeth: "A set of hogs,"

as he looked at the thin gray smoke which rose from the roofs, for it

was the dinner hour. And without thinking about that other injustice,

which is human, and which is called robbery and violence, he felt

inclined to go into one of those houses to murder the inhabitants, and

to sit down to table, in their stead.

He said to himself: "I have a right to live, now ... as they are letting

me die of hunger ... and yet I only ask for work ... a set of hogs!" And

the pain in his limbs, the gnawing in his heart rose to his head like

terrible intoxication, and gave rise to this simple thought in his

brain: "I have the right to live because I breathe, and because the air

is the common property of everybody, and so nobody has a right to leave

me without bread!"

A fine, thick, icy cold rain was coming down and he stopped and

murmured: "How miserable!... another month of walking before I get

home...." He was indeed returning home then; for he saw that he should

more easily find work in his native town where he was known,--and he did

not mind what he did,--than on the high roads, where everybody suspected

him. As the carpentering business was not going well he would turn

day-laborer, be a mason's hodman, ditcher, break stones on the road. If

he only earned tenpence a day, that would at any rate find him something

to eat.

He tied the remains of his last pocket handkerchief round his neck, to

prevent the cold water from running down his back and chest; but he soon

found that it was penetrating the thin material of which his clothes

were made, and he glanced round him with the agonized look of a man who

does not know where to hide his body and to rest his head, and has no

place of shelter in the whole world.

Night came on, and wrapped the country in obscurity, and in the

distance, in a meadow, he saw a dark spot on the grass; it was a cow,

and so he got over the ditch by the roadside and went up to her, without

exactly knowing what he was doing. When he got close to her, she raised

her great head to him, and he thought: "If I only had a jug, I could get

a little milk." He looked at the cow, and the cow looked at him, and

then suddenly giving her a violent kick in the side, he said: "Get up!"

The animal got up slowly, letting her heavy udders hang down below her;

then the man lay down on his back between the animal's legs, and he

drank for a long time, squeezing her warm swollen teats which tasted of

the cow stall, with both hands, and he drank as long as any milk

remained in that living well. But the icy rain began to fall more

heavily, and he saw no place of shelter on the whole of that bare plain.

He was cold, and he looked set a light which was shining among the

trees, in the window of a house.

The cow had lain down again, heavily, and he sat down by her side and

stroked her head, grateful for the nourishment she had given him. The

animal's strong, thick breath, which came out of her nostrils like two

jets of steam in the evening air, blew onto the workman's face, who

said: "You are not cold, inside there!" He put his hands onto her chest

and under her legs to find some warmth there, and then the idea struck

him, that he might pass the night against that large, warm stomach. So

he found a comfortable place and laid his forehead against the great

udder which had quenched his thirst just previously, and then, as he was

worn-out with fatigue, he fell asleep immediately.

He woke up, however, several times, with his back or his stomach half

frozen, according as he put one or the other to the animal's flank. Then

he turned over to warm and dry that part of his body which had remained

exposed to the night air, and he soon went soundly to sleep again.

The crowing of a cock woke him; the day was breaking, it was no longer

raining and the sky was bright. The cow was resting, with her muzzle on

the ground, and he stooped down, resting on his hands, to kiss those

wide nostrils of moist flesh, and said: "Good-bye, my beauty ... until

next time ... you are a nice animal ... Good-bye ..." Then he put on his

shoes and went off, and for two hours he walked straight on before him,

always following the same road, and then he felt so tired that he sat

down on the grass. It was broad daylight by that time, and the church

bells were ringing; men in blue blouses, women in white caps, some on

foot, some in carts, began to pass along the road, going to the

neighboring villages to spend Sunday with friends or relations.

A stout peasant came in sight, drawing a score of frightened, bleating

sheep in front of him, whom an active dog kept together, so Randel got

up and raising his cap, he said: "You do not happen to have any work

for a man who is dying of hunger?" But the other giving an angry look at

the vagabond, replied: "I have no work for fellows whom I meet on the

road."

And the carpenter went back, and sat down by the side of the ditch

again. He waited there for a long time, watching the country people

pass, and looking for a kind compassionate face, before he renewed his

request, and finally selected a man in an overcoat, whose stomach was

adorned with a gold chain. "I have been looking for work," he said, "for

the last two months and cannot find any, and I have not a half-penny in

my pocket." But the semi-gentleman replied: "You should have read the

notice which is stuck up at the beginning of the village: _Begging is

prohibited within the boundaries of this parish._ Let me tell you I am

the mayor, and if you do not get out of here pretty quickly, I shall

have you arrested."

Randel, who was getting angry, replied: "Have me arrested if you like; I

should prefer it, for at any rate I should not die of hunger." And he

went back and sat down by the side of his ditch again, and in about a

quarter of an hour two gendarmes appeared on the road. They were walking

slowly, side by side, well in sight, glittering in the sun with their

shining hats, their yellow accouterments and their metal buttons, as if

to frighten evildoers, and to put them to flight at a distance. He knew

that they were coming after him, but he did not move, for he was seized

with a sudden desire to defy them, to be arrested by them, and to have

his revenge later.

They came on without appearing to have seen him, walking with military

steps, heavily and balancing themselves as if they were doing _the

goose_ steps; and then suddenly as they passed him, they appeared to

have noticed him, and stopped and looked at him angrily and

threateningly, and the brigadier came up to him and asked: "What are you

doing here?" "I am resting," the man replied, calmly. "Where do you come

from?" "If I had to tell you all the places I have been to, it would

take me more than an hour." "Where are you going to?" "To Ville-Avary."

"Where is that?" "In La Manche." "Is that where you belong to?" "It is."

"Why did you leave it?" "To try for work."

The brigadier turned to his gendarme, and said, in the angry voice of a

man who is exasperated at last by the same trick: "They all say that,

these scamps. I know all about it." And then he continued: "Have you any

papers?" "Yes, I have some." "Give them to me."

Randel took his papers out of his pockets; his certificates, those poor

worn-out, dirty papers which were falling to pieces, and gave them to

the soldier, who spelled them through, hemming and hawing and then

having seen that they were all in order, he gave them back to Randel

with the dissatisfied look of a man whom someone cleverer than himself

has tricked.

After a few moments' further reflection, he asked him: "Have you any

money on you?" "No." "None whatever?" "None." "Not even a sou?" "Not

even a sou!" "How do you live then?" "On what people give me." "Then you

beg?" And Randel answered resolutely: "Yes, when I can."

Then the gendarme said: "I have caught you on the highroad in the act of

vagabondage and begging, without any resources or trade, and so I

command you to come with me." The carpenter got up and said: "Wherever

you please." And placing himself between the two soldiers, even before

he had received the order to do so, he added: "Come, lock me up; that

will at any rate put a roof over my head when it rains."

And they set off towards the village, whose red tiles could be seen

through the leafless trees a quarter of a league off. Service was just

going to begin when they went through the village. The square was full

of people, who immediately formed two hedges to see the criminal, who

was being followed by a crowd of excited children, pass. Male and female

peasants looked at the prisoner between the two gendarmes, with hatred

in their eyes, and a longing to throw stones at him, to tear his skin

with their nails, to trample him under their feet. They asked each other

whether he had committed murder or robbery. The butcher, who was an

ex-Spahl, declared that he was a deserter. The tobacconist thought that

he recognized him as the man who had that very morning passed a bad half

franc piece off on him, and the ironmonger declared that he was the

murderer of widow Malet, whom the police had been looking for, for six

months.

In the hall of the municipal council, into which his custodians took

him, Randel saw the mayor again, sitting on the magisterial bench, with

the schoolmaster by his side. "Ah! ah!" the magistrate exclaimed, "so

here you are again, my fine fellow. I told you I should have you locked

up. Well, brigadier, what is he charged with?"

"He is a vagabond without house or home, Monsieur le Maire, without any

resources or money, so he says, who was arrested in the act of begging,

but he is provided with good testimonials, and his papers are all in

order."

"Show me his papers," the mayor said. He took them, read them, reread,

returned them, and then said: "Search him;" so they searched him, but

found nothing, and the Mayor seemed perplexed, and asked the workman:

"What were you doing on the road this morning?" "I was looking for

work." "Work?... On the highroad?" "How do you expect me to find any, if

I hid in the woods?"

They looked at each other, with the hatred of two wild beasts which

belong to different, hostile species, and the magistrate continued: "I

am going to have you set at liberty but do not be brought up before me

again." To which the carpenter replied: "I would rather you locked me

up; I have had enough running about the country." But the magistrate

replied severely: "Be silent." And then he said to the two gendarmes:

"You will conduct this man two hundred yards from the village, and let

him continue his journey."

"At any rate, give me something to eat," the workman said; but the other

grew indignant: "It only remains for us to feed you! Ah! ah! ah! that is

rather strong!" But Randel went on firmly: "If you let me nearly die of

hunger again, you will force me to commit a crime, and then, so much the

worse for you other fat fellows."

The Mayor had risen, and he repeated: "Take him away immediately, or I

shall end by getting angry."

The two gendarmes thereupon seized the carpenter by the arms and

dragged him out. He allowed them to do it without resistance, passed

through the village again, and found himself on the highroad once more;

and when the men had accompanied him two hundred yards beyond the

village, the brigadier said: "Now off with you, and do not let me catch

you about here again, for if I do you will know it."

Randel went off without replying, or knowing where he was going. He

walked on for a quarter of an hour or twenty minutes, so stupefied that

he no longer thought of anything. But suddenly, as he was passing a

small house, where the window was half open, the smell of the soup and

boiled meat stopped him suddenly in front of it, and hunger, fierce,

devouring, maddening hunger seized him, and almost drove him against the

walls of the house, like a wild beast.

He said aloud, in a grumbling voice: "In heaven's name! they must give

me some, this time." And he began to knock at the door vigorously with

his stick, and as nobody came he knocked louder and called out: "He! he!

you people in there, open the door!" And then, as nothing moved, he went

up to the window, and pushed it open with his hand, and the close warm

air of the kitchen, full of the smell of hot soup, meat and cabbage

escaped into the cold, outer air, and with a bound the carpenter was in

the house. Two covers were laid on the table, and no doubt the

proprietors of the house, on going to church, had left their dinner on

the fire, their nice, Sunday boiled beef and vegetable soup, while there

was a loaf of new bread on the chimney-piece, between two bottles which

seemed full.

Randel seized the bread first of all, and broke it with as much violence

as if he were strangling a man, and then he began to eat it

voraciously, swallowing great mouthfuls quickly. But almost immediately

the smell of the meat attracted him to the fire-place, and having taken

off the lid of the saucepan, he plunged a fork into it and brought out a

large piece of beef tied with a string. Then he took more cabbage,

carrots and onions until his plate was full, and having put it onto the

table, he sat down before it, cut the meat into four pieces, and dined

as if he had been at home. When he had eaten nearly all the meat besides

a quantity of vegetables, he felt thirsty, and took one of the bottles

off the mantel-piece.

Scarcely had he poured the liquor into his glass, than he saw it was

brandy. So much the better; it was warming and would instill some fire

into his veins, and that would be all right, after being so cold; and he

drank some. He found it very good, certainly, for he had grown

unaccustomed to it, and he poured himself out another glassful, which he

drank at two gulps. And then, almost immediately he felt quite merry and

light-hearted from the effect of the alcohol, just as if some great

happiness were flowing through his system.

He continued to eat, but more slowly, and dipping his bread into the

soup. His skin had become burning, and especially his forehead, where

the veins were throbbing. But suddenly the church bells began to ring;

Mass was over, and instinct rather than fear, the instinct of prudence

which guides all beings, and makes them clear-sighted in danger, made

the carpenter get up. He put the remains of the loaf into one pocket,

and the brandy bottle into the other, and he furtively went to the

window and looked out into the road. It was still deserted, so he jumped

out and set off walking again, but instead of following the highroad,

he ran across the fields towards a wood which he saw a little way off.

He felt alert, strong, light-hearted, glad of what he had done, and so

nimble that he sprang over the enclosures of the fields at a single

bound and as soon as he was under the trees, he took the bottle out of

his pocket again and began to drink once more, swallowing it down as he

walked, and then his ideas began to get confused, his eyes grew dim and

his legs as elastic as springs and he started singing the old popular

song.

_Oh! how nice, how nice it is,

To pick the sweet, wild strawberries._

He was now walking on thick, damp, cool moss and that soft carpet under

his feet made him feel absurdly inclined to turn head over heels, like

he used to do as a child, so he took a run, turned a somersault, got up

and began over again. And between each time, he began to sing again:

_Oh! how nice, how nice it is,

To pick the sweet, wild strawberries._

Suddenly he found himself on the edge of a deep road and in the road he

saw a tall girl, a servant who was returning to the village with two

pails of milk. He watched, stooping down and with his eyes as bright as

those of a dog who scents a quail, but she saw him, raised her head and

said: "Was that you singing like that?" He did not reply, however, but

jumped down into the road, although it was at least six feet down, and

when she saw him suddenly standing in front of her, she exclaimed: "Oh!

dear, how you frightened me!"

But he did not hear her for he was drunk, he was mad, excited by another

requirement which was more imperative than hunger, more feverish than

alcohol; by the irresistible fury of the man who has been in want of

everything for two months, and who is drunk; who is young, ardent and

inflamed by all the appetites which nature has implanted in the vigorous

flesh of men.

The girl started back from him, frightened at his face, his eyes, his

half open mouth, his outstretched hands, but he seized her by the

shoulders, and without a word, threw her down in the road.

She let her two pails fall and they rolled over noisily, all the milk

was spilt and then she screamed, but comprehending that it would be of

no use to call for help in that lonely spot and seeing that he was not

going to make an attempt on her life, she yielded without much

difficulty, and not very angry neither, for he was a strong young

fellow, but really not too rough.

When she got up, the thought of her overturned pails suddenly filled

her with fury and taking off one of her wooden clogs, she threw it, in

her turn, at the man to break his head, if he did not pay her for her

milk.

But he, mistaking the reason for this sudden violent attack, somewhat

sobered, and frightened at what he had done, ran off as fast as he could

while she threw stones at him, some of which hit him in the back.

He ran for a long time, very long, until he felt more tired than he had

ever done before. His legs were so weak that they could scarcely carry

him; all his ideas were confused, he lost the recollection of

everything, and could no longer think about anything; and so he sat

down at the foot of a tree, and in five minutes was fast asleep. He was

soon awakened, however, by a rough shake and on opening his eyes he saw

two cocked hats of polished leather bending over him, and the two

gendarmes of the morning, who were holding him and binding his arms.

"I knew I should catch you again," said the brigadier, jeeringly. But

Randel got up without replying. The two men shook him, quite ready to

ill treat him if he made a movement, for he was their prey now, he had

become a jail-bird, caught by those hunters of criminals who would not

let him go again.

"Now start!" the brigadier said, and they set off, It was getting

evening and the autumn twilight was settling heavy and dark over the

land, and in half an hour they reached the village, where every door was

open, for the people had heard what had happened. Peasants and peasant

women and girls, excited with anger as if every man had been robbed and

every woman violated, wished to see the wretch brought back so that they

might overwhelm him with abuse. They hooted him from the first house in

the village until they reached the Mansion-house, where the Mayor was

waiting for him, being himself avenged on this vagabond and as soon as

he saw him, he cried from far:

"Ah! my fine fellow! here we are!" And he rubbed his hands, more pleased

than he usually was and he continued: "I said so. I said so the moment I

saw him in the road."

And then with increased satisfaction:

"Oh! you blackguard! Oh! you dirty blackguard! You will get your twenty

years, my fine fellow!"

USELESS BEAUTY

I

A very elegant victoria with two beautiful black horses was drawn up in

front of the mansion. It was the end of June at about half past five in

the afternoon, and the sun shone warm and bright into the large

courtyard.

The Countess de Mascaret came down just as her husband, who was coming

home, appeared in the carriage entrance. He stopped for a few moments to

look at his wife and grew rather pale. She was very beautiful, graceful

and distinguished looking, with her long oval face, her complexion like

gilt ivory, her large gray eyes and her black hair; and she got into her

carriage without looking at him, without even seeming to have noticed

him, with such a particularly high-bred air, that the furious jealousy

by which he had been devoured for so long, again gnawed at his heart. He

went up to her and said: "You are going for a drive?" She merely replied

disdainfully: "You see I am!" "In the Bois de Boulogne?" "Most

probably." "May I come with you?" "The carriage belongs to you."

Without being surprised at the tone of voice in which she answered him,

he got in and sat down by his wife's side, and said: "Bois de Boulonge."

The footman jumped up by the coachman's side, and the horses as usual

pawed the ground and shook their heads until they were in the street.

Husband and wife sat side by side, without speaking. He was thinking how

to begin a conversation, but she maintained such an obstinately hard

look, that he did not venture to make the attempt. At last, however, he

cunningly, accidentally as it were, touched the Countess's gloved hand

with his own, but she drew her arm away with a movement which was so

expressive of disgust, that he remained thoughtful, in spite of his

usual authoritative and despotic character, and he said: "Gabrielle!"

"What do you want?" "I think you are looking adorable."

She did not reply, but remained lying back in the carriage, looking like

an irritated queen. By that time they were driving up the _Champs

Elysées_, towards the _Arc de Triomphe_. That immense monument, at the

end of the long avenue, raised its colossal arch against the red sky,

and the sun seemed to be descending onto it, showering fiery dust on it

from the sky.

The stream of carriages, with the sun reflecting from the bright, plated

harness and the shining lamps, caused a double current to flow towards

the town and towards the wood, and the Count de Mascaret continued: "My

dear Gabrielle!"

But then, unable to bear it any longer, she replied in an exasperated

voice: "Oh! do leave me in peace, pray; I am not even at liberty to have

my carriage to myself, now." He, however, pretended not to hear her, and

continued: "You have never looked so pretty as you do to-day."

Her patience was decidedly at an end, and she replied with irrepressible

anger: "You are wrong to notice it, for I swear to you, that I will

never have anything to do with you in that way again." He was decidedly

stupefied and agitated, and his violent nature gaining the upper hand,

he exclaimed: "What do you mean by that?" in such a manner as revealed

rather the brutal master, than the amorous man. But she replied in a

low voice, so that the servants might not hear amidst the deafening

noise of the wheels: "Ah! What do I mean by that? What do I mean by

that? Now I recognize you again! Do you want me to tell everything?"

"Yes." "Everything that has been on my heart, since I have been the

victim of your terrible selfishness?"

He had grown red with surprise and anger, and he growled between his

closed teeth: "Yes, tell me everything."

He was a tall, broad-shouldered man, with a big, red beard, a handsome

man, a nobleman, a man of the world, who passed as a perfect husband and

an excellent father, and now for the first time since they had started

she turned towards him, and looked him full in the face: "Ah! You will

hear some disagreeable things, but you must know that I am prepared for

everything, that I fear nothing, and you less than anyone, to-day."

He also was looking into her eyes, and already he was shaking with

passion, and he said in a low voice: "You are mad." "No, but I will no

longer be the victim of the hateful penalty of maternity, which you have

inflicted on me for eleven years! I wish to live like a woman of the

world, as I have a right to do, as all women have the right to do."

He suddenly grew pale again, and stammered: "I do not understand you."

"Oh! yes; you understand me well enough. It is now three months since I

had my last child, and as I am still very beautiful, and as, in spite of

all your efforts you cannot spoil my figure, as you just now perceived,

when you saw me on the outside flight of steps, you think it is time

that I should become pregnant again." "But you are talking nonsense!"

"No, I am not. I am thirty, and I have had seven children, and we have

been married eleven years, and you hope that this will go on for ten

years longer, after which you will leave off being jealous."

He seized her arm and squeezed it, saying: "I will not allow you to talk

to me like that, for long." "And I shall talk to you till the end, until

I have finished all I have to say to you, and if you try to prevent me,

I shall raise my voice so that the two servants, who are on the box, may

hear. I only allowed you to come with me for that object, for I have

these witnesses who will oblige you to listen to me, and to contain

yourself; so now, pay attention to what I say. I have always felt an

antipathy for you, and I have always let you see it, for I have never

lied, Monsieur. You married me in spite of myself; you forced my

parents, who were in embarrassed circumstances, to give me to you,

because you were rich, and they obliged me to marry you, in spite of my

tears.

"So you bought me, and as soon as I was in your power, as soon as I had

become your companion, ready to attach myself to you, to forget your

coercive and threatening proceedings, in order that I might only

remember that I ought to be a devoted wife and to love you as much as it

might be possible for me to love you, you became jealous, you, as no man

has ever been before, with the base, ignoble jealousy of a spy, which

was as degrading for you as it was for me. I had not been married eight

months, when you suspected me of every perfidiousness, and you even told

me so. What a disgrace! And as you could not prevent me from being

beautiful, and from pleasing people, from being called in drawing-rooms,

and also in the newspapers, one of the most beautiful women in Paris,

you tried everything you could think of to keep admirers from me, and

you hit upon the abominable idea of making me spend my life in a

constant state of pregnancy, until the time when I should disgust every

man. Oh! do not deny it! I did not understand it for some time, but then

I guessed it. You even boasted about it to your sister, who told me of

it, for she is fond of me and was disgusted at your boorish coarseness.

"Ah! Remember our struggles, doors smashed in, and locks forced! For

eleven years you have condemned me to the existence of a brood mare on a

studfarm. Then as soon as I was pregnant, you grew disgusted with me,

and I saw nothing of you for months, and I was sent into the country, to

the family mansion, among fields and meadows, to bring forth my child.

And when I reappeared, fresh, pretty and indestructible, still seductive

and constantly surrounded by admirers, hoping that at last I should live

a little like a young rich woman who belongs to society, you were seized

by jealousy again, and you recommenced to persecute me with that

infamous and hateful desire from which you are suffering at this moment,

by my side. And it is not desire of possessing me, for I should never

have refused myself to you, but it is the wish to make me unsightly.

"Besides this, that abominable and mysterious circumstance took place,

which I was a long time in penetrating (but I grew acute by dint of

watching your thoughts and actions): You attached yourself to your

children with all the security which they gave you while I bore them in

my womb. You felt affection for them, with all your aversion for me, and

in spite of your ignoble fears, which were momentarily allayed by your

pleasure in seeing me grow stouter.

"Oh! How often have I noticed that joy in you! I have seen it in your

eyes and guessed it. You loved your children as victories, and not

because they were of your own blood. They were victories over me, over

my youth, over my beauty, over my charms, over the compliments which

were paid me, and over those who whispered round me, without paying them

to me. And you are proud of them, you make a parade of them, you take

them out for drives in your break in the Bois de Boulogne, and you give

them donkey rides at Montmorency. You take them to theatrical matinees

so that you may be seen in the midst of them, so that people may say:

'What a kind father,' and that it may be repeated...."

He had seized her wrist with savage brutality, and he squeezed it so

violently that she was quiet, and nearly cried out with the pain, and he

said to her in a whisper:

"I love my children. Do you hear? What you have just told me is

disgraceful in a mother. But you belong to me; I am master ... your

master ... I can exact from you what I like and when I like ... and I

have the law ... on my side."

He was trying to crush her fingers in the strong grip of his large,

muscular hand, and she, livid with pain, tried in vain to free them from

that vice which was crushing them; the agony made her pant, and the

tears came into her eyes. "You see that I am the master, and the

stronger," he said. And when he somewhat loosened his grasp, she asked

him: "Do you think that I am a religious woman?"

He was surprised and stammered: "Yes." "Do you think that I could lie if

I swore to the truth of anything to you, before an altar on which

Christ's body is?" "No." "Will you go with me to some church?" "What

for?" "You shall see. Will you?" "If you absolutely wish it, yes."

She raised her voice and said: "Philip!" And the coachman, bending down

a little, without taking his eyes from his horses, seemed to turn his

ear alone towards his mistress, who went on: "Drive to St.

Philip-du-Roule's." And the victoria, which had got to the entrance of

the Bois de Boulogne, returned to Paris.

Husband and wife did not exchange a word during the drive, and when the

carriage stopped before the church, Madame de Mascaret jumped out, and

entered it, followed by the count, a few yards behind her. She went,

without stopping, as far as the choir-screen, and falling on her knees

at a chair, she buried her face in her hands. She prayed for a long

time, and he, standing behind her, could see that she was crying. She

wept noiselessly, like women do weep when they are in great, poignant

grief. There was a kind of undulation in her body, which ended in a

little sob, which was hidden and stifled by her fingers.

But Count de Mascaret thought that the situation was lasting too long,

and he touched her on the shoulder. That contact recalled her to

herself, as if she had been burnt, and getting up, she looked straight

into his eyes. "This is what I have to say to you. I am afraid of

nothing, whatever you may do to me. You may kill me if you like. One of

your children is not yours, and one only; that I swear to you before

God, who hears me here. That is the only revenge which was possible for

me, in return for all your abominable tyrannies of the male, in return

for the penal servitude of childbearing to which you have condemned me.

Who was my lover? That you will never know! You may suspect everyone,

but you will never find out. I gave myself up to him, without love and

without pleasure, only for the sake of betraying you, and he also made

me a mother. Which is his child? That also you will never know. I have

seven; try and find out! I intended to tell you this later, for one has

not avenged oneself on a man by deceiving him, unless he knows it. You

have driven me to confess it to-day. I now have finished."

She hurried through the church, towards the open door, expecting to hear

behind her the quick steps of her husband whom she had defied, and to be

knocked to the ground by a blow of his fist, but she heard nothing, and

reached her carriage. She jumped into it at a bound, overwhelmed with

anguish, and breathless with fear; so she called out to the coachman:

"Home!" and the horses set off at a quick trot.

II

Countess de Mascaret was waiting in her room for dinner time, like a

criminal sentenced to death, awaits the hour of his execution. What was

he going to do? Had he come home? Despotic, passionate, ready for any

violence as he was, what was he meditating, what had he made up his

mind to do? There was no sound in the house, and every moment she looked

at the clock. Her lady's maid had come and dressed her for the evening,

and had then left the room again. Eight o'clock struck and almost at the

same moment there were two knocks at the door, and the butler came in

and told her that dinner was ready.

"Has the Count come in?" "Yes, Madame la Comtesse; he is in the

dining-room."

For a little moment she felt inclined to arm herself with a small

revolver which she had bought some time previously, foreseeing the

tragedy which was being rehearsed in her heart. But she remembered that

all the children would be there, and she took nothing except a smelling

bottle. He rose somewhat ceremoniously from his chair. They exchanged a

slight bow, and sat down. The three boys, with their tutor, Abbé Martin,

were on her right, and the three girls, with Miss Smith, their English

governess, were on her left. The youngest child, who was only three

months old, remained upstairs with his nurse.

The Abbé said grace as usual, when there was no company, for the

children did not come down to dinner when there were guests present;

then they began dinner. The Countess, suffering from emotion, which she

had not at all calculated upon, remained with her eyes cast down, while

the Count scrutinized, now the three boys, and now the three girls, with

uncertain, unhappy looks, which traveled from one to the other.

Suddenly, pushing his wine-glass from him, it broke, and the wine was

spilt on the tablecloth, and at the slight noise caused by this little

accident, the Countess started up from her chair, and for the first time

they looked at each other. Then, almost every moment, in spite of

themselves, in spite of the irritation of their nerves caused by every

glance, they did not cease to exchange looks, rapid as pistol shots.

The Abbé, who felt that there was some cause for embarrassment which he

could not divine, tried to get up the conversation, and he started

various subjects, but his useless efforts gave rise to no ideas and did

not bring out a word. The Countess, with feminine tact and obeying her

instincts of a woman of the world, tried to answer him two or three

times, but in vain. She could not find words, in the perplexity of her

mind, and her own voice almost frightened her in the silence of the

large room, where nothing else was heard except the slight sound of

plates and knives and forks.

Suddenly, her husband said to her, bending forward: "Here, amidst your

children, will you swear to me that what you told me just now, is true?"

The hatred which was fermenting in her veins, suddenly roused her, and

replying to that question with the same firmness with which she had

replied to his looks, she raised both her hands, the right pointing

towards the boys and the left towards the girls, and said in a firm,

resolute voice, and without any hesitation: "On the head of my children,

I swear that I have told you the truth."

He got up, and throwing his table napkin onto the table with an

exasperated movement, he turned round and flung his chair against the

wall, and then went out without another word, while she, uttering a deep

sigh, as if after a first victory, went on in a calm voice: "You must

not pay any attention to what your father has just said, my darlings; he

was very much upset a short time ago, but he will be all right again,

in a few days."

Then she talked with the Abbé and with Miss Smith, and had tender,

pretty words for all her children; those sweet spoiling mother's ways

which unfold little hearts.

When dinner was over, she went into the drawing-room with all her little

following. She made the elder ones chatter, and when their bedtime came

she kissed them for a long time, and then went alone into her room.

She waited, for she had no doubt that he would come, and she made up her

mind then, as her children were not with her, to defend her human skin,

as she defended her life as a woman of the world; and in the pocket of

her dress she put the little loaded revolver, which she had bought a few

days previously. The hours went by, the hours struck, and every sound

was hushed in the house. Only the cabs continued to rumble through the

streets, but their noise was only heard vaguely through the shuttered

and curtained windows.

She waited, energetic and nervous, without any fear of him now, ready

for anything, and almost triumphant, for she had found means of

torturing him continually, during every moment of his life.

But the first gleams of dawn came in through the fringe at the bottom of

her curtains, without his having come into her room, and then she awoke

to the fact, much to her stupefaction, that he was not coming. Having

locked and bolted her door, for greater security, she went to bed at

last, and remained there, with her eyes open, thinking, and barely

understanding it all, without being able to guess what he was going to

do.

When her maid brought her tea, she at the same time gave her a letter

from her husband. He told her that he was going to undertake a long

journey, and in a postscript he added that his lawyer would provide her

with any sums of money she might require for all her expenses.

III

It was at the Opéra, between two of the acts in _Robert the Devil_. In

the stalls, the men were standing up, with their hats on, their

waistcoats cut very low so as to show a large amount of white shirt

front, in which the gold and precious stones of their studs glistened,

and were looking at the boxes full of ladies in low dresses, covered

with diamonds and pearls, and who were expanding like flowers in that

illuminated hothouse, where the beauty of the faces and the whiteness of

their shoulders seemed to bloom in order to be looked at, in the midst

of the music and of human voices.

Two friends, with their backs to the orchestra were scanning those rows

of elegance, that exhibition of real or false charms, of jewels, of

luxury and of pretensions which showed itself off all round the

Grand-Théâtre, and one of them Roger de Salnis, said to his companion,

Bernard Grandin: "Just look how beautiful Countess de Mascaret still

is."

Then the older, in turn, looked through his opera glasses at a tall lady

in a box opposite, who appeared to be still very young, and whose

striking beauty seemed to appeal to the eyes in every corner of the

house. Her pale complexion, of an ivory tint, gave her the appearance

of a statue, while a small, diamond coronet glistened on her black hair

like a milky way.

When he had looked at her for some time, Bernard Grandin replied with a

jocular accent of sincere conviction: "You may well call her beautiful."

"How old do you think she is?" "Wait a moment. I can tell you exactly,

for I have known her since she was a child, and I saw her make her

_debut_ into society when she was quite a girl. She is ... she is ...

thirty ... thirty-six." "Impossible!" "I am sure of it." "She looks

twenty-five." "She has had seven children." "It is incredible." "And

what is more, they are all seven alive, as she is a very good mother. I

go to the house, which is a very quiet and pleasant one, occasionally,

and she realizes the phenomenon of the family in the midst of the

world." "How very strange! And have there never been any reports about

her?" "Never." "But what about her husband? He is peculiar, is he not?"

"Yes, and no. Very likely there has been a little drama between them,

one of those little domestic dramas which one suspects, which one never

finds out exactly, but which one guesses pretty nearly." "What is it?"

"I do not know anything about it. Mascaret leads a very fast life now,

after having been a model husband. As long as he remained a good spouse,

he had a shocking temper and was crabbed and easily took offense, but

since he has been leading his present, rackety life, he has become quite

indifferent; but one would guess that he has some trouble, a worm

gnawing somewhere, for he has aged very much."

Thereupon the two friends talked philosophically for some minutes about

the secret, unknowable troubles, which differences of character or

perhaps physical antipathies, which were not perceived at first, give

rise to in families, and then Roger de Salnis, who was still looking at

Madame de Mascaret through his opera-glasses, said: "It is almost

incredible that that woman has had seven children!" "Yes, in eleven

years; after which, when she was thirty, she put a stop to her period of

production in order to enter into the brilliant period of

representation, which does not seem near coming to an end." "Poor

women!" "Why do you pity them?"

"Why? Ah! my dear fellow, just consider! eleven years of pregnancy, for

such a woman! What a hell! All her youth, all her beauty, every hope of

success, every poetical ideal of a bright life, sacrificed to that

abominable law of reproduction which turns the normal woman into a mere

machine for reproduction." "What would you have? It is only nature!"

"Yes, but I say that nature is our enemy, that we must always fight

against nature, for she is continually bringing us back to an animal

state. You may be sure that God has not put anything onto this earth

that is clean, pretty, elegant, or accessory to our ideal, but the human

brain has done it. It is we who have introduced a little grace, beauty,

unknown charm and mystery into creation by singing about it,

interpreting it, by admiring it as poets, idealizing it as artists, and

by explaining it as learned men who make mistakes, but who find

ingenious reasons, some grace and beauty, some unknown charm and mystery

in the various phenomena of nature. God only created coarse beings, full

of the germs of disease, and who, after a few years of bestial

enjoyment, grow old and infirm, with all the ugliness and all the want

of power of human decrepitude. He only seems to have made them in order

that they may reproduce their species in a dirty manner, and then die

like ephemeral insects. I said, _reproduce their species in a dirty

manner_, and I adhere to that expression. What is there, as a matter of

fact, more ignoble and more repugnant than that filthy and ridiculous

act of the reproduction of living beings, against which all delicate

minds always have revolted, and always will revolt? Since all the organs

which have been invented by this economical and malicious Creator serve

two purposes, why did he not choose others that were not dirty and

sullied, in order to entrust them with that sacred mission, which is the

noblest and the most exalted of all human functions? The mouth, which

nourishes the body by means of material food, also diffuses abroad

speech and thought. Our flesh revives itself by means of itself, and at

the same time, ideas are communicated by it. The sense of smell, which

gives the vital air to the lungs, imparts all the perfumes of the world

to the brain: the smell of flowers, of woods, of trees, of the sea. The

ear, which enables us to communicate with our fellow men, has also

allowed us to invent music, to create dreams, happiness, the infinite

and even physical pleasure, by means of sounds! But one might say that

the cynical and cunning Creator wished to prohibit man from ever

ennobling and idealizing his commerce with women. Nevertheless, man has

found love, which is not a bad reply to that sly Deity, and he has

ornamented it so much with literary poetry, that woman often forgets the

contact she is obliged to submit to. Those among us who are powerless to

deceive themselves, have invented vice and refined debauchery, which is

another way of laughing at God, and of paying homage, immodest homage,

to beauty.

"But the normal man makes children; just a beast that is coupled with

another by law.

"Look at that woman! Is it not abominable to think that such a jewel,

such a pearl, born to be beautiful, admired, fêted and adored, has spent

eleven years of her life in providing heirs for the Count de Mascaret?"

Bernard Grandin replied with a laugh: "There is a great deal of truth in

all that, but very few people would understand you."

Salnis got more and more animated. "Do you know how I picture God

myself?" he said. "As am enormous creative organ, unknown to us, who

scatters millions of worlds into space, just as one single fish would

deposit its spawn in the sea. He creates, because it is His function as

God to do so, but He does not know what He is doing, and is stupidly

prolific in His work, and is ignorant of the combinations of all kinds

which are produced by his scattered germs. Human thought is a lucky

little local, passing accident, which was totally unforeseen and

condemned to disappear with this earth, and to recommence perhaps here

or elsewhere, the same or different, with fresh combinations of

eternally new beginnings. We owe it to this slight accident which has

happened to His intellect, that we are very uncomfortable in this world,

which was not made for us, which had not been prepared to receive us, to

lodge and feed us or to satisfy reflecting beings, and we owe it to Him

also that we have to struggle without ceasing against what are still

called the designs of Providence, when we are really refined and

civilized beings."

Grandin, who was listening to him attentively, as he had long known the

surprising outbursts of his fancy, asked him: "Then you believe that

human thought is the spontaneous product of blind, divine parturition?"

"Naturally? A fortuitous function of the nerve-centers of our brain,

like some unforeseen chemical action which is due to new mixtures, and

which also resemble a product of electricity, caused by friction, or the

unexpected proximity of some substance, which lastly resemble the

phenomena caused by the infinite and fruitful fermentations of living

matter.

"But, my dear fellow, the truth of this must be evident to any one who

looks about him. If human thought, ordained by an omniscient Creator,

had been intended to be what it has become, altogether different from

mechanical thoughts and resignation, so exacting, inquiring, agitated,

tormented, would the world which was created to receive the beings which

we now are, have been this unpleasant little dwelling place for poor

fools, this salad plot, this rocky wooded and spherical kitchen garden

where your improvident Providence had destined us to live naked, in

caves or under trees, nourished on the flesh of slaughtered animals, our

brethren, or on raw vegetables nourished by the sun and the rain?

"But it is sufficient to reflect for a moment, in order to understand

that this world was not made for such creatures as we are. Thought,

which is developed by a miracle in the nerves of the cells in our brain,

powerless, ignorant and confused as it is, and as it will always remain,

makes all of us, who are intellectual beings, eternal and wretched

exiles on earth.

"Look at this earth, as God has given it to those who inhabit it. Is it

not visibly and solely made, planted and covered with forests, for the

sake of animals? What is there for us? Nothing. And for them,

everything, and they have nothing to do but to eat, or go hunting and

eat each other, according to their instincts, for God never foresaw

gentleness and peaceable manners; He only foresaw the death of creatures

which were bent on destroying and devouring each other. Are not the

quail, the pigeon and the partridge the natural prey of the hawk? the

sheep, the stag and the ox that of the great flesh-eating animals,

rather than meat that has been fattened to be served up to us with

truffles, which have been unearthed by pigs, for our special benefit?

"As to ourselves, the more civilized, intellectual and refined we are,

the more we ought to conquer and subdue that animal instinct, which

represents the will of God in us. And so, in order to mitigate our lot

as brutes, we have discovered and made everything, beginning with

houses, then exquisite food, sauces, sweetmeats, pastry, drink, stuffs,

clothes, ornaments, beds, mattresses, carriages, railways, and

innumerable machines, besides arts and sciences, writing and poetry.

Every ideal comes from us and all the amenities of life, in order to

make our existence as simple reproducers, for which divine Providence

solely intended us, less monotonous and less hard.

"Look at this theater. Is there not here a human world created by us,

unforeseen and unknown by Eternal destinies, comprehensible by our minds

alone, a sensual and intellectual distraction, which has been invented

solely by and for that discontented and restless little animal that we

are.

"Look at that woman, Madame de Mascaret. God intended her to live in a

cave naked, or wrapped up in the skins of wild animals, but is she not

better as she is? But, speaking of her, does anyone know why and how her

brute of a husband, having such a companion by his side, and especially

after having been boorish enough to make her a mother seven times, has

suddenly left her, to run after bad women?"

Grandin replied: "Oh! my dear fellow, this is probably the only reason.

He found that always sleeping with her was becoming too expensive in the

end, and from reasons of domestic economy, he has arrived at the same

principles which you lay down as a philosopher."

Just then the curtain rose for the third act, and they turned round,

took off their hats, and sat down.

IV

The Count and Countess Mascaret were sitting side by side in the

carriage which was taking them home from the opera, without speaking.

But suddenly the husband said to his wife: "Gabrielle!" "What do you

want?" "Don't you think that this has lasted long enough?" "What?" "The

horrible punishment to which you have condemned me for the last six

years." "What do you want? I cannot help it." "Then tell me which of

them it is!" "Never!" "Think that I can no longer see my children or

feel them round me, without having my heart burdened with this doubt.

Tell me which of them it is, and I swear that I will forgive you, and

treat it like the others." "I have not the right to." "You do not see

that I can no longer endure this life, this thought which is wearing me

out, or this question which I am constantly asking myself, this question

which tortures me each time I look at them. It is driving me mad."

"Then you have suffered a great deal?" she said.

"Terribly. Should I, without that, have accepted the horror of living by

your side, and the still greater horror of feeling and knowing that

there is one among them whom I cannot recognize, and who prevents me

from loving the others." She repeated: "Then you have really suffered

very much?" And he replied in a constrained and sorrowful voice:

"Yes, for do I not tell you every day that it is intolerable torture for

me? Should I have remained in that house, near you and them, if I did

not love them? Oh! You have behaved abominably towards me. All the

affection of my heart I have bestowed upon my children, and that you

know. I am for them a father of the olden time, as I was for you a

husband of one of the families of old, for by instinct I have remained a

natural man, a man of former days. Yes, I will confess it, you have made

me terribly jealous, because you are a woman of another race, of another

soul, with other requirements. Oh! I shall never forget the things that

you told me, but from that day, I troubled myself no more about you. I

did not kill you, because then I should have had no means on earth of

ever discovering which of our ... of your children is not mine. I have

waited, but I have suffered more than you would believe, for I can no

longer venture to love them, except, perhaps, the two eldest; I no

longer venture to look at them, to call them to me, to kiss them; I

cannot take them onto my knee without asking myself: 'Can it be this

one?' I have been correct in my behavior towards you for six years, and

even kind and complaisant; tell me the truth, and I swear that I will do

nothing unkind."

He thought, in spite of the darkness of the carriage, that he could

perceive that she was moved, and feeling certain that she was going to

speak at last, he said: "I beg you, I beseech you to tell me...." "I

have been more guilty than you think, perhaps," she replied; "but I

could no longer endure that life of continual pregnancy, and I had only

one means of driving you from my bed. I lied before God, and I lied,

with my hand raised to my children's head, for I have never wronged

you."

He seized her arm in the darkness, and squeezing it as he had done on

that terrible day of their drive in the Bois de Boulogne, he stammered:

"Is that true?" "It is true." But he, in terrible grief, said with a

groan: "I shall have fresh doubts that will never end! When did you lie,

the last time or now? How am I to believe you at present? How can one

believe a woman after that? I shall never again know what I am to think.

I would rather you had said to me: 'It is Jacques, or, it is Jeanne.'"

The carriage drove them into the courtyard of their mansion, and when it

had drawn up in front of the steps, the Count got down first, as usual,

and offered his wife his arm, to help her up. And then, as soon as they

had reached the first floor, he said: "Can I speak to you for a few

moments longer?" And she replied: "I am quite willing."

They went into a small drawing-room, while a footman in some surprise,

lit the wax candles. As soon as he had left the room and they were

alone, he continued: "How am I to know the truth? I have begged you a

thousand times to speak, but you have remained dumb, impenetrable,

inflexible, inexorable, and now to-day, you tell me that you have been

lying. For six years you have actually allowed me to believe such a

thing! No, you are lying now; I do not know why, but out of pity for me,

perhaps!"

She replied in a sincere and convincing manner: "If I had not done so, I

should have had four more children in the last six years!" And he

exclaimed: "Can a mother speak like that?" "Oh!" she replied, "I do not

at all feel that I am the mother of children who have never been born.

It is enough for me to be the mother of those that I have, and to love

them with all my heart. I am, we are women who belong to the civilized

world, Monsieur, and we are no longer, and we refuse to be, mere females

who restock the earth."

She got up, but he seized her hands. "Only one word, Gabrielle. Tell me

the truth!" "I have just told you. I have never dishonored you."

He looked her full in the face, and how beautiful she was, with her gray

eyes, like the cold sky. In her dark hair dress, on that opaque night of

black hair, there shone the diamond coronet, like a milky way. Then he

suddenly felt, felt by a kind of intuition, that this grand creature was

not merely a being destined to perpetuate his race, but the strange and

mysterious product of all our complicated desires which have been

accumulating in us for centuries, but which have been turned aside from

their primitive and divine object, and which have wandered after a

mystic, imperfectly seen and intangible beauty. There are some women

like that, who blossom only for our dreams, adorned with every poetical

attribute of civilization, with that ideal luxury, coquetry and

aesthetic charm which surrounds woman, that living statue who brightens

our life, like sensual fevers and immaterial appetites.

Her husband remained standing before her, stupefied at that tardy and

obscure discovery, confusedly hitting on the cause of his former

jealousy, and understanding it all very imperfectly; and at last he

said: "I believe you, for I feel at this moment that you are not lying,

and formerly, I really thought that you were." She put out her hand to

him: "We are friends, then?" He took her hand and kissed it, and

replied: "We are friends. Thank you, Gabrielle."

Then he went out, still looking at her, and surprised that she was still

so beautiful, and feeling a strange emotion arising in him, which was,

perhaps, more formidable than antique and simple love.

FLY

RECOLLECTIONS OF A BOATMAN

He said to us: "I saw some very funny things and some funny girls when I

was a boatman, and I have often been tempted to write a little book to

be called _On the Seine_, telling all about that careless and vigorous,

that merry and poor life, a life of robust and noisy enjoyment, which I

led from the time I was twenty until I was thirty.

"I was a mere understrapper without a half-penny, and now I am a man who

has made his money, who has spent large sums on a momentary caprice. In

my heart, I had a thousand modest and unrealizable desires which gilded

my existence with imaginary hopes, though now, I really do not know that

any fancy would make me get out of my armchair where I am dozing. How

simple and nice and good it is to live like this, between my office in

Paris, and the river at Argenteuil. For ten years, the Seine was my

only, my absorbing passion. Ah! that beautiful, calm, diversified and

stinking river, full of mirage and filth. I think I loved it so much

because it seemed to give me a sense of life. Oh! what walks I had along

the grassy banks, where my friends the frogs were dreaming on the leaf

of a nenuphar, and where the coquettish and delicate water lilies

suddenly opened to me, behind a willow, a leaf of a Japanese album, and

when the kingfisher flashed past me like a blue flame! How I loved it

all, with the instinctive love of eyes which seemed to be all over my

body, and with a natural and profound joy.

"Just as other men keep the recollection of sweet and tender nights, so I

remember sunrises in the morning mist, floating, wandering vapors, which

were as pale as death, before the sun rose, and then as its first rays

glided over the meadows, lighted up with a rosy tint, which delighted

the heart. And then again, I have recollections of the moon silvering

the running, trembling water, with a brightness which made dreams

flourish. And all this, the symbol of eternal illusions, rose up in me

on that turbid water, which was carrying all the filth of Paris towards

the sea.

"And then, what a merry life it was, with my companions. There were five

of us, a band of grave men we are now; and as we were all poor, we had

founded an inexpressible colony in a horrible eating house at

Argenteuil, and which possessed only one bedroom, where I have

certainly spent some of the maddest nights of my life. We cared for

nothing except for amusing ourselves and rowing, for we all worshiped

the oar, with one exception. I remember such singular adventures, such

unlikely tricks invented by those five rascals, that no one would

believe them at present. People do not live like that any longer, even

on the Seine, for our mad fancies which we kept up, have died out now.

"We five only possessed one boat, which we had bought with great

difficulty, and on which we laughed, as we shall never laugh again. It

was a large yawl, called _The Leaf Turned Upside Down_, rather heavy,

but spacious and comfortable. I shall not describe my companions to you.

There was one little fellow, called _Petit Bleu_, who was very sharp; a

tall man, with a savage look, gray eyes and black hair, who was

nick-named _Tomahawk_, the only one who never touched an oar, as he said

he should upset the boat; a slender, elegant man, who was very careful

about his person, and whom we called _Only-One-Eye_, in remembrance of a

recent story about Cladel, and because he wore a single eyeglass, and,

lastly, I, who had been baptized Joseph Prunier. We lived together in

perfect harmony, and our only regret was that we had no boatwoman, for a

woman's presence is almost indispensable on a boat, because it keeps the

men's wits and hearts on the alert, because it animates them, and wakes

them up and she looks well walking on the green banks with a red

parasol. But we did not want an ordinary boatwoman for us five, for we

were not very like the rest of the world. We wanted something

unexpected, funny, ready for everything, something, in short, which it

would be almost impossible to find. We had tried many without success,

girls who had held the tiller, imbecile boatwomen who always preferred

wine that intoxicates to water which flows and carries the yawls. We

kept them for one Sunday, and then got rid of them in disgust.

"Well, one Saturday afternoon, Only-One-Eye brought us a little thin,

lively, jumping, chattering girl, full of drollery, of that drollery

which is the substitute for wit among the youthful male and female

workpeople who have developed in the streets of Paris. She was nice

looking without being pretty, the outline of a woman who had some of

everything, one of those silhouettes which draftsmen draw in three

strokes on the table in a café after dinner, between a glass of brandy

and a cigarette. Nature is like that, sometimes.

"The first evening she surprised us, amused us, and we could not form

any opinion about her, so unexpectedly had she come among us; but having

fallen into this nest of men, who were all ready for any folly, she was

soon mistress of the situation, and the very next day she made a

conquest of each one of us. She was quite cracked, into the bargain, and

must have been born with a glass of absinthe in her stomach, which her

mother drank at the moment she was being delivered, and she never got

sober since, for her wet nurse, so she said, recruited her strength with

draughts of rum, and she never called the bottles which were standing in

a line at the back of the wine merchant's shop anything but 'My holy

family.'

"I do not know which of us gave her the name of _Fly_, nor why it was

given her, but it suited her very well, and stuck to her, and our yawl

every week carried five merry, strong young fellows on the Seine between

Asnières and Maison Lafitte, who were ruled from under a parasol of

colored paper, by a lively and madcap young person, who treated us like

slaves whose business it was to row her about, and whom we were all very

fond of.

"We were all very fond of her, for a thousand reasons first of all, but

for only one, afterwards. In the stern of our boat, she was a kind of

small word mill, chattering to the wind which blew on the water. She

chattered ceaselessly, with that slight, continuous noise of those

pieces of winged mechanism which turn in the breeze, and she

thoughtlessly said the most unexpected, the funniest, the most

astonishing things. In that mind, all the parts of which seemed

dissimilar, like rags of all kinds and of every color, not sewn, but

merely tacked together, there appeared to be as much imagination as in

a fairy tale, a good deal of coarseness, indecency, impudence and of the

unexpected, and as much breeziness and landscapes as in a balloon

voyage.

"We put questions to her, in order to call forth answers which she had

found, no one could tell where, and the one with which we teased her

most frequently was: 'Why are you called Fly?' And she gave us such

unlikely reasons that we left off rowing, in order to laugh. But she

pleased us also as a woman; and La Toque, who never rowed, and who sat

by her side at the tiller the whole day long, once replied to the usual

question: 'Why are you called Fly?' 'Because she is a little Spanish

fly.'

"Yes, a little buzzing, exciting fly, not the classical, poisonous,

brilliant and mantled Spanish fly, but a little Spanish fly with red

wings, which began to disturb the whole crew of _The Leaf Turned Upside

Down_. And what stupid jokes were also made about this leaf where this

fly had alighted!

"Since the arrival of Fly on our boat, Only-One-Eye had taken a leading,

superior part among us, the part of a gentleman who has a wife, towards

four others who have not got one, and he abused that privilege so far as

to kiss Fly in our presence, when he put her on his knee after meals,

and by other prerogatives, which were as humiliating as they were

irritating.

"They had been isolated in the sleeping-room by means of a curtain, but I

soon perceived that my companions and I had the same arguments in our

minds, in our solitude: 'Why, and in virtue of what law of exception, or

of what unacceptable principle, should Fly, who does not appear

troubled by any prejudices, remain faithful to her lover, while wives in

the best are not faithful to their husbands.'

"Our reflections were quite right, and we were soon convinced of it, and

we ought only to have made them sooner, so as not to have needed to

regret any lost time, for Fly deceived Only-One-Eye, with all the others

of the crew of the _Leaf Turned Upside Down_, and she deceived him

without making any difficulties, without any resistance, the first time

any of us asked her.

"Of course, modest people will be terribly shocked! But why? What

courtesan who happens to be in the fashion, but has a dozen lovers, and

which of those lovers is stupid enough not to know it? Is it not the

correct thing to have an evening at the house of a celebrated and marked

courtesan, just as one has an evening at the _Opéra, the Théâtre

Français or the Odeon_? Ten men subscribe together to keep a mistress

just as they do to possess a race horse, which only one jockey mounts,

and this is a correct picture of the favored lover who does not pay

anything.

"From delicacy they left Fly to Only-One-Eye from Saturday night to

Monday morning, and we only deceived him during the week, in Paris, from

the Seine, which, for boatmen like us, was hardly deceiving him at all.

The situation had this peculiarity, that the four freebooters of Fly's

favors were quite aware of this partition of her among themselves, and

that they spoke of it to each other, and even then, with allusions that

made her laugh very much. Only-One-Eye alone seemed to know nothing, and

that peculiar position gave rise to some embarrassment between him and

us, and seemed to separate him from us, to isolate him, to raise a

barrier across our former confidence and our former intimacy. That gave

him a difficult and a rather ridiculous part to play towards us, the

part of a deceived lover, almost a husband's part.

"As he was very clever and gifted with the special faculty of not showing

what he felt, we sometimes asked each other whether he did not guess

anything, and he took care to let us know, in a manner that was painful

for us. We were going to breakfast at Bougival, and we were rowing

vigorously, when La Toque, who had, that morning, the triumphant look of

a man who was satisfied, and who, sitting by the steers-woman, seemed to

squeeze himself rather too close to her, in our estimation, stopped the

rowing by calling out: 'Stop!'

"The four oars were drawn out of the water, and then, turning to his

neighbor, he said to her: 'Why were you called Fly?' But before she

could reply, the voice of Only-One-Eye, who was sitting in the bows,

said dryly: 'Because she settles on all the carrion.'

"There was a dead silence, and an embarrassed pause, which was followed

by an inclination to laugh, while Fly herself looked very much confused,

and La Toque gave the order: 'Row on, all;' and the boat started again.

The incident was closed, and light let in upon the subject, and that

little adventure made no difference in our habits, but it only

re-established cordiality between Only-One-Eye and us. He once more

became the honored proprietor of the Fly from Saturday night until

Monday morning, as his superiority over all of us had been thoroughly

established by that definition, which, moreover, closed one of the

questions about the word Fly. For the future we were satisfied with

playing the secondary part of grateful and polite friends who profited

discreetly by the week days, without any contention of any kind among

ourselves.

"That answered very well for about three months, but then suddenly Fly

assumed a strange attitude towards us. She was less merry, nervous,

uneasy, and almost irritable, and we frequently asked her: 'What is the

matter with you?' And she replied: 'Nothing; leave me alone.'

"Only-One-Eye told us what was the matter with her, one Saturday evening.

We had just sat down to table in the little dining-room which our eating

house keeper, Barbichon, reserved for us at his inn, and, the soup being

finished, we were waiting for the fried fish, when our friend, who also

appeared thoughtful, took Fly's hand and said: 'My dear comrades, I have

a very grave communication to make to you, and one that may, perhaps,

give rise to a prolonged discussion, but we shall have to argue between

the courses. Poor Fly has announced a piece of disastrous news to me,

and at the same time has asked me to tell it to you: She is pregnant,

and I will only add two words. This is not the moment to abandon her,

and it is forbidden to try and find out who is the father.'[2]

[Footnote 2: _La recherche de la paternité est interdite._ A celebrated

clause in the Code Napoleon, whereby a man cannot be made chargeable for

a bastard.--TRANSLATOR.]

"At first we were stupefied, and felt as if some disaster had befallen

us, and we looked at each other with the longing to accuse some one, but

whom? Oh! Which of us? I have never felt as I did at that moment, the

perfidy of that cruel joke of nature, which never allows a man to know

for certainty whether he is the father of his child. Then, however, by

degrees a sort of feeling of consolation came over us and gave us

comfort, which sprung from a confused idea of joint responsibility.

"Tomahawk, who spoke but little, formulated a beginning of reassurance by

these words: 'Well, so much the worse, by Jove: _Union is Strength_,

however.' At that moment a scullion brought in the fried gudgeons, but

they did not fall to on them like they generally did, for they all had

the same trouble on their mind, and Only-One-Eye continued: 'Under these

circumstances she has had the delicacy to confess everything to me. My

friends, we are all equally guilty, so let us shake hands and adopt the

child.'

"That was decided upon unanimously; they raised their hands to the dish

of fried fish and swore: 'We will adopt it.' Then, when she was thus

suddenly saved, and delivered from the weight of the terrible anxiety

that had been tormenting her for a month, this pretty, crazy, poor child

of love, Fly, exclaimed: 'Oh! my friends! my friends! You have kind,

good hearts ... good hearts.... Thank you, all of you!' And she shed

tears for the first time before us all.

"From that time we spoke in the boat about the child, as if it were

already born, and each of us took an exaggerated interest, because of

our share in the matter, in the slow and regular development of our

mistress's waist, and we stopped rowing in order to say: 'Fly?' 'Here I

am,' she replied. 'Boy or girl?' 'Boy.' 'What will he be when he grows

up?'

"Then she indulged in the most fantastic flights of fancy. They were

interminable stories, astounding inventions, from the day of his birth

until his final triumph. In the unsophisticated, passionate and moving

fancy of this extraordinary little creature, who now lived chastely in

the midst of us five, whom she called 'her five papas.' She saw him as a

sailor, and told us that he would discover another America; as a

general, restoring Alsace and Lorraine to France, then as an emperor,

founding a dynasty of wise and generous rulers who would bestow settled

welfare on our country; then as a learned man and natural philosopher,

revealing, first of all, the secret of the manufacture of gold, then

that of living forever; then as an aeronaut, who invented the means of

soaring up to the stars, and of making the skies an immense promenade

for men; the realization of the most unforeseen and magnificent dreams.

"How nice and how amusing she was, poor little girl, until the end of the

summer, but the twentieth of September dissipated her dream. We had come

back from breakfasting at the Maison Lafitte and were passing

Saint-Germain, when she felt thirsty and asked us to stop at Pecq.

"For some time past, she had been getting very heavy, and that

inconvenienced her very much. She could not run about as she used to do,

nor jump from the boat to the shore, as she had formerly done. She would

try, in spite of our warnings and efforts to stop her, and she would

have fallen a dozen times, had it not been that our restraining arms

kept her back. On that day, she was imprudent enough to wish to land

before the boat had stopped; it was one of those pieces of bravado by

which athletes, who are ill or tired, sometimes kill themselves, and at

the very moment when we were going to come alongside, she got up, took a

spring and tried to jump onto the landing-stage. She was not strong

enough, however, and only just touched the stones with her foot, struck

the sharp angle with her stomach, uttered a cry and disappeared into the

water.

"We all five plunged in at the same moment, and pulled out the poor,

fainting woman, who was as pale as death, and was already suffering

terrible pain, and we carried her as quickly as possible to the nearest

inn, and sent for a medical man. For the six hours that her miscarriage

lasted, she suffered the most terrible pain with the courage of a

heroine, while we were grieving round her, feverish with anxiety and

fear. Then she was delivered of a dead child, and for some days we were

in the greatest fear for her life; at last, however, the doctor said to

us one morning: 'I think her life is saved. That girl is made of steel,'

and we all of us went into her room, with radiant hearts, and

Only-One-Eye, as spokesman for us all, said to her: 'The danger is all

over, little Fly, and we are all happy again.'

"Then, for the second time, she wept in our presence, and, with her eyes

full of tears, she said, hesitatingly:

"'Oh! If you only knew, if you only knew ... what a grief it is ... what

a grief it is to me ... I shall never get over it.' 'Over what, little

Fly?' 'Over having killed it, for I did kill it! Oh! Without intending

to! Oh! how grieved I am!...'

"She was sobbing, and we stood round, deeply touched, but without knowing

what to say, and she went on: 'Have you seen it?' And we replied with

one voice: 'Yes.' 'It was a boy, was it not?' 'Yes.' 'Beautiful, was it

not?' We hesitated a good deal, but Petit-Bleu, who was less scrupulous

than the rest of us, made up his mind to affirm it, and said: 'Very

beautiful.'

"He committed a mistake, however, for she began to sob, and almost to

scream with grief, and Only-One-Eye, who perhaps loved her more than the

rest of us did, had a happy thought. Kissing her eyes, that were dimmed

with tears, he said: 'Console yourself, little Fly, console yourself; we

will make another for you.'

"Her innate sense of the ridiculous was suddenly excited, and

half-convinced, and half-joking, still tearful and her heart sore with

grief, she said, looking at us all: 'Do you really mean it?' And we

replied all at once:

"'We really mean it.'"

THE MAD WOMAN

"I can tell you a terrible story about the Franco-Prussian war,"

Monsieur d'Endolin said to some friends assembled in the smoking-room of

Baron de Ravot's château. "You know my house in the Faubourg de Cormeil.

I was living there when the Prussians came, and I had for a neighbor a

kind of a mad woman, who had lost her senses in consequence of a series

of misfortunes, as at the age of seven and twenty she had lost her

father, her husband and her newly born child, all in the space of a

month.

"When death has once entered into a house, it almost invariably returns

immediately, as if it knew the way, and the young woman, overwhelmed

with grief, took to her bed and was delirious for six weeks. Then, a

species of calm lassitude succeeded that violent crisis, and she

remained motionless, eating next to nothing, and only moving her eyes.

Every time they tried to make her get up, she screamed as if they were

about to kill her, and so they ended by leaving her continually in bed,

and only taking her out to wash her, to change her linen and to turn her

mattress.

"An old servant remained with her, who gave her something to drink, or

a little cold meat, from time to time. What passed in that despairing

mind? No one ever knew, for she did not speak at all now. Was she

thinking of the dead? Was she dreaming sadly, without any precise

recollection of anything that had happened? Or was her memory as

stagnant as water without any current? But however this may have been,

for fifteen years she remained thus inert and secluded.

"The war broke out, and in the beginning of December the Germans came to

Cormeil. I can remember it as if it were but yesterday. It was freezing

hard enough to split the stones, and I, myself, was lying back in an

armchair, being unable to move on account of the gout, when I heard

their heavy and regular tread; I could see them pass, from my window.

"They defiled past interminably, with that peculiar motion of a puppet on

wires, which belongs to them. Then the officers billeted their men on

the inhabitants, and I had seventeen of them. My neighbor, the crazy

woman, had a dozen, one of whom was the Commandant, a regular violent,

surly swashbuckler.

"During the first few days everything went on as usual. The officers next

door had been told that the lady was ill, and they did not trouble

themselves about that in the least, but soon, that woman whom they never

saw, irritated them. They asked what her illness was, and were told that

she had been in bed for fifteen years, in consequence of terrible grief.

No doubt they did not believe it, and thought that the poor mad creature

would not leave her bed out of pride, so that she might not come near

the Prussians, not speak to them, nor even see them.

"He insisted upon her receiving him, and he was shown into the room, and

said to her roughly: 'I must beg you to get up, Madame, and to come

downstairs so that we may all see you,' but she merely turned her vague

eyes on him, without replying, and so he continued: 'I do not intend to

tolerate any insolence, and if you do not get up of your own accord, I

can easily find means to make you walk without any assistance.'

"But she did not give any signs of having heard him, and remained quite

motionless, and then he got furious, as he took that calm silence for a

mark of supreme contempt, and so he added: 'If you do not come

downstairs to-morrow....' And then he left the room."

* * * * *

"The next day the terrified old servant wished to dress her, but the mad

woman began to scream violently, and resisted with all her might. The

officer ran upstairs quickly, and the servant threw herself at his feet

and cried: 'She will not come down, Monsieur, she will not. Forgive her,

for she is so unhappy.'

"The soldier was embarrassed, as in spite of his anger, he did not

venture to order his soldiers to drag her out, but suddenly he began to

laugh, and gave some orders in German, and soon a party of soldiers was

seen coming out supporting a mattress as if they were carrying a wounded

man. On that bed, which had not been unmade, the mad woman, who was

still silent, was lying quite quietly, for she was quite indifferent to

anything that went on, as long as they let her lie. Behind her, a

soldier was carrying a parcel of feminine attire, and the officer said,

rubbing his hands: 'We will just see whether you cannot dress yourself

alone, and take a little walk.'

"And then the procession went off in the direction of the forest of

Imauville; in two hours the soldiers came back alone, and nothing more

was seen of the mad woman. What had they done with her? Where had they

taken her to? No one knew.

"The snow was falling day and night, and enveloped the plain and the

woods in a shroud of frozen foam, and the wolves came and howled at our

very doors.

"The thought of that poor lost woman haunted me, and I made several

applications to the Prussian authorities in order to obtain some

information, and was nearly shot for doing so. When spring returned, the

army of occupation withdrew, but my neighbor's house remained closed;

the grass grew thick in the garden walks. The old servant had died

during the winter, and nobody troubled himself any longer about the

occurrence; I alone thought about it constantly. What had they done with

the woman? Had she escaped through the forest? Had somebody found her,

and taken her to a hospital, without being able to obtain any

information from her? Nothing happened to relieve my doubts; but, by

degrees, time assuaged my fears.

"Well, in the following autumn the woodcock were very plentiful, and as

my gout had left me for a time, I dragged myself as far as the forest. I

had already killed four or five of the long-billed birds, when I knocked

over one, which fell into a ditch full of branches, and I was obliged to

get into it, in order to pick it up, and I found that it had fallen

close to a dead human body, and immediately the recollection of the mad

woman struck me, like a blow in the chest. Many other people had perhaps

died in the wood during that disastrous year, but I do not know why, yet

I was sure, sure, I tell you, that I should see the head of that

wretched maniac.

"And suddenly I understood, I guessed everything. They had abandoned her

on that mattress in the cold, deserted wood; and, faithful to her fixed

idea, she had allowed herself to perish under that thick and light

counterpane of snow, without moving either arms or legs.

"Then the wolves had devoured her, and the birds had built their nests

with the wool from her torn bed, and I took charge of her remains, and I

only pray that our sons may never see any wars again."

THAT PIG OF A MORIN

I

"There, my friend," I said to Labarbe, "you have just repeated those

five words, _that pig of a Morin_. Why on earth do I never hear Morin's

name mentioned without his being called _a pig_?"

Labarbe, who is a Deputy, looked at me with eyes like an owl's, and

said: "Do you mean to say that you do not know Morin's story, and you

come from La Rochelle?" I was obliged to declare that I did not know

Morin's story, and then Labarbe rubbed his hands, and began his recital.

"You knew Morin, did you not, and you remember his large linen-draper's

shop on the _Quai de la Rochelle_?" "Yes, perfectly."

"All right, then. You must know that in 1862 or 63 Morin went to spend a

fortnight in Paris for pleasure, or for his pleasures, but under the

pretext of renewing his stock, and you also know what a fortnight in

Paris means for a country shopkeeper: it makes his blood grow hot. The

theater every evening, women's dresses rustling up against you, and

continual excitement; one goes almost mad with it. One sees nothing but

dancers in skin-tights, actresses in very low dresses, round legs, fat

shoulders, all nearly within reach of one's hands, without daring or

being able, to touch it, and one scarcely tastes some inferior dish,

once or twice. And one leaves it, one's heart still all in a flutter,

and one's mind still exhilarated by a sort of longing for kisses which

tickles one's lips."

* * * * *

Morin was in that state when he took his ticket for La Rochelle by the

8:40 night express. And he was walking up and down the waiting-room at

the station, when he stopped suddenly in front of a young lady who was

kissing an old one. She had her veil up, and Morin murmured with

delight: "By Jove, what a pretty woman!"

When she had said "Good-bye" to the old lady, she went into the

waiting-room, and Morin followed her; then she went onto the platform,

and Morin still followed her; then she got into an empty carriage, and

he again followed her. There were very few travelers by the express, the

engine whistled, and the train started. They were alone. Morin devoured

her with his eyes. She appeared to be about nineteen or twenty, and was

fair, tall and with bold looks. She wrapped a railway rug round her

legs, and stretched herself on the seat to sleep.

Morin asked himself: "I wonder who she is?" And a thousand conjectures,

a thousand projects went through his head. He said to himself: "So many

adventures are told as happening on railway journeys that this may be

one that is going to present itself to me. Who knows? A piece of good

luck like that happens very quickly, and perhaps I need only be a little

venturesome. Was it not Danton who said: _Audacity, more audacity, and

always audacity_. If it was not Danton it was Mirabeau, but that does

not matter. But then, I have no audacity, and that is the difficulty.

Oh! If one only knew, if one could only read peoples' minds! I will bet

that every day one passes by magnificent opportunities without knowing

it, though a gesture would be enough to let me know that she did not ask

for anything better...."

Then he imagined to himself combinations which conducted him to triumph.

He pictured some chivalrous deed, or merely some slight service which he

rendered her, a lively, gallant conversation which ended in ... in what

do you think.

But he could find no opening; had no pretext, and he waited for some

fortunate circumstance, with his heart ravaged, and his mind

topsy-turvy. The night passed, and the pretty girl still slept, while

Morin was meditating his own fall. The day broke and soon the first ray

of sunlight appeared in the sky, a long, clear ray which shone on the

face of the sleeping girl, and woke her, so she sat up, looked at the

country, then at Morin and smiled. She smiled like a happy woman, with

an engaging and bright look, and Morin trembled. Certainly that smile

was intended for him, it was a discreet invitation, the signal which he

was waiting for. That smile meant to say: "How stupid, what a ninny,

what a dolt, what a donkey you are, to have sat there on your seat like

a post all night.

"Just look at me, am I not charming? And you have sat like that for the

whole night, when you have been alone with a pretty woman, you great

simpleton!"

She was still smiling as she looked at him, she even began to laugh; and

he lost his head, trying to find something suitable to say, no matter

what. But he could think of nothing, nothing, and then, seized with a

coward's courage, he said to himself: "So much the worse, I will risk

everything," and suddenly, without the slightest warning, he went

towards her, his arms extended, his lips protruding, and seizing her in

his arms, he kissed her.

She sprang up with a bound, crying out: "_Help! Help!_" and screaming

with horror, and then she opened the carriage door, and waved her arm

out, mad with terror, and trying to jump out, while Morin, who was

almost distracted, and feeling sure that she would throw herself out,

held her by the skirt and stammered: "Oh! Madame!... Oh! Madame!"

The train slackened speed, and then stopped. Two guards rushed up at the

young woman's frantic signals, who threw herself into their arms,

stammering: "That man wanted ... wanted ... to ... to ..." And then she

fainted.

They were at Mauzé station, and the gendarme on duty arrested Morin.

When the victim of his brutality had regained her consciousness, she

made her charge against him, and the police drew it up. The poor

linen-draper did not reach home till night, with a prosecution hanging

over him, for an outrage to morals in a public place.

II

At that time I was editor of the _Fanal des Charentes_, and I used to

meet Morin every day at the _Café du Commerce_, and the day after his

adventure he came to see me, as he did not know what to do. I did not

hide my opinion from him, but said to him: "You are no better than a

pig. No decent man behaves like that."

He cried. His wife had given him a beating, and he foresaw his trade

ruined, his name dragged through the mire and dishonored, his friends

outraged and taking no more notice of him. In the end he excited my

pity, and I sent for my colleague Rivet, a bantering, but very sensible

little man, to give us his advice.

He advised me to see the Public Prosecutor, who was a friend of mine,

and so I sent Morin home, and went to call on the magistrate. He told me

that the young woman who had been insulted was a young lady,

Mademoiselle Henriette Bonnel, who had just received her certificate as

governess in Paris, and spent her holidays with her uncle and aunt, who

were very respectable tradespeople in Mauzé, and what made Morin's case

all the more serious was, that the uncle had lodged a complaint; for the

public official had consented to let the matter drop if this complaint

were withdrawn, so we must try and get him to do this.

I went back to Morin's and found him in bed, ill with excitement and

distress. His wife, a tall raw-boned woman with a beard, was abusing him

continually, and she showed me into the room, shouting at me: "So you

have come to see that pig of a Morin. Well, there he is, the darling!"

And she planted herself in front of the bed, with her hands on her hips.

I told him how matters stood, and he begged me to go and see her uncle

and aunt. It was a delicate mission, but I undertook it, and the poor

devil never ceased repeating: "I assure you I did not even kiss her, no,

not even that. I will take my oath to it!"

I replied: "It is all the same; you are nothing but a pig." And I took a

thousand francs which he gave me, to employ them as I thought best, but

as I did not care venturing to her uncle's house alone, I begged Rivet

to go with me, which he agreed to do, on the condition that we went

immediately, for he had some urgent business at La Rochelle that

afternoon. So two hours later we rang at the door of a nice country

house. A pretty girl came and opened the door to us, who was assuredly

the young lady in question, and I said to Rivet in a low voice:

"Confound it! I begin to understand Morin!"

The uncle, Monsieur Tonnelet subscribed to _The Fanal_, and a fervent

political co-religionist of ours, who received us with open arms and

congratulated us and wished us joy; he was delighted at having the two

editors in his house and Rivet whispered to me: "I think we shall be

able to arrange the matter of that _Pig of a Morin_ for him."

The niece had left the room, and I introduced the delicate object. I

waved the scepter of scandal before his eyes: I accentuated the

inevitable depreciation which the young lady would suffer if such an

affair got known, for nobody would believe in a simple kiss, and the

good man seemed undecided, but he could not make up his mind about

anything without his wife, who would not be in until late that evening,

but suddenly he uttered an exclamation of triumph: "Look here, I have an

excellent idea. I will keep you here to dine and sleep, and when my wife

comes home, I hope we shall be able to arrange matters."

Rivet resisted at first, but the wish to extricate that _Pig of a

Morin_, decided him, and we accepted the invitation, and so the uncle

got up radiant, called his niece, and proposed that we should take a

stroll in his grounds, saying: "We will leave serious matters until the

morning." Rivet and he began to talk politics, while I soon found myself

lagging a little behind with the girl, who was really charming!

charming! and with the greatest precaution I began to speak to her about

her adventure, and try to make her my ally. She did not, however, appear

the least confused, and listened to me like a person who was enjoying

the whole thing very much.

I said to her: "Just think, Mademoiselle, how unpleasant it will be for

you. You will have to appear in Court, to encounter malicious looks, to

speak before everybody, and to recount that unfortunate occurrence in

the railway carriage, in public. Do you not think, between ourselves,

that it would have been much better for you to have put that dirty

scoundrel back into his place without calling for assistance, and merely

to have changed your carriage." She began to laugh, and replied: "What

you say is quite true! but what could I do? I was frightened, and when

one is frightened, one does not stop to reason with oneself. As soon as

I realized the situation, I was very sorry that I had called out, but

then it was too late. You must also remember that the idiot threw

himself upon me like a madman, without saying a word and looking like a

lunatic. I did not even know what he wanted of me."

She looked me full in the face, without being nervous or intimidated,

and I said to myself: "She is a funny sort of a girl, that; I can quite

see how that pig Morin came to make a mistake," and I went on, jokingly:

"Come, Mademoiselle, confess that he was excusable, for after all, a man

cannot find himself opposite such a pretty girl as you are without

feeling a legitimate desire to kiss her."

She laughed more than ever, and showed her teeth, and said: "Between the

desire and the act, Monsieur, there is room for respect." It was a funny

expression to use, although it was not very clear, and I asked

abruptly: "Well now, supposing I were to kiss you now, what would you

do?" She stopped to look at me from head to foot, and then said calmly:

"Oh! you? That is quite another matter."

I knew perfectly well, by Jove, that it was not the same thing at all,

as everybody in the neighborhood called me, _Handsome Labarbe_. I was

thirty years old in those days, but I asked her: "And why, pray?" She

shrugged her shoulders, and replied: "Well! because you are not so

stupid as he is." And then she added, looking at me shyly: "Nor so ugly,

either." And before she could make a movement to avoid me, I had

implanted a hearty kiss on her cheek. She sprang aside, but it was too

late, and then she said: "Well, you are not very bashful, either! But

don't do that sort of thing again."

I put on a humble look and said in a low voice: "Oh! Mademoiselle, as

for me, if I long for one thing more than another, it is to be summoned

before a magistrate for the same reason as Morin."

"Why?" she asked. And looking steadily at her, I replied: "Because you

are one of the most beautiful creatures living; because it would be an

honor and a glory for me to have wished to offer you violence, and

because people would have said, after seeing you: Well, Labarbe has

richly deserved what he has got, but he is a lucky fellow, all the

same."

She began to laugh heartily again, and said: "How funny you are!" And

she had not finished the word _funny_, before I had her in my arms, and

was kissing her ardently wherever I could find a place, on her forehead,

on her eyes, on her lips occasionally, on her cheeks, all over her

head, some part of which she was obliged to leave exposed, in spite of

herself, to defend others, but at last she managed to release herself,

blushing and angry. "You are very unmannerly, Monsieur," she said, "and

I am sorry I listened to you."

I took her hand in some confusion, and stammered out: "I beg your

pardon. I beg your pardon, Mademoiselle. I have offended you; I have

acted like a brute! Do not be angry with me for what I have done. If you

knew ..." I vainly sought for some excuse, and in a few moments she

said: "There is nothing for me to know, Monsieur." But I had found

something to say, and I cried: "Mademoiselle, I love you!"

She was really surprised, and raised her eyes to look at me, and I went

on: "Yes, Mademoiselle, and pray listen to me. I do not know Morin, and

I do not care anything about him. It does not matter to me the least if

he is committed for trial and locked up meanwhile. I saw you here last

year, and I was so taken with you, that the thought of you has never

left me since, and it does not matter to me whether you believe me or

not. I thought you adorable, and the remembrance of you took such a hold

on me that I longed to see you again, and so I made use of that fool

Morin as a pretext, and here I am. Circumstances have made me exceed the

due limits of respect, and I can only beg you to pardon me."

She read the truth in my looks, and was ready to smile again; then she

murmured; "You humbug!" But I raised my hand, and said in a sincere

voice, (and I really believe that I was sincere): "I swear to you that

I am speaking the truth," and she replied quite simply: "Really?"

We were alone, quite alone, as Rivet and her uncle had disappeared in a

sidewalk, and I made her a real declaration of love, while I squeezed

and kissed her hands, and she listened to it as something new and

agreeable, without exactly knowing how much of it she was to believe,

while in the end I felt agitated, and at last really myself believed

what I said: I was pale, anxious and trembling, and I gently put my arms

round her waist, and spoke to her softly, whispering into the little

curls over her ears. She seemed dead, so absorbed in thought was she.

Then her hand touched mine, and she pressed it, and I gently squeezed

her waist with a trembling, and gradually firmer, grasp. She did not

move now, and I touched her cheeks with my lips, and suddenly without

seeking them, mine met hers. It was a long, long kiss, and it would have

lasted longer still, if I had not heard a _hum! hum!_ just behind me, at

which she made her escape through the bushes, and turning round I saw

Rivet coming towards me, and standing in the middle of the path, he said

without even smiling: "So, that is the way in which you settle the

affair of _that pig Morin_." And I replied, conceitedly: "One does what

one can, my dear fellow. But what about the uncle? How have you got on

with him? I will answer for the niece." "I have not been so fortunate

with him," he replied.

Whereupon I took his arm, and we went indoors.

III

Dinner made me lose my head altogether. I sat beside her, and my hand

continually met hers under the table cloth, my foot touched hers, and

our looks encountered each other.

After dinner we took a walk by moonlight, and I whispered all the tender

things I could think of, to her. I held her close to me, kissed her

every moment, moistening my lips against hers, while her uncle and Rivet

were disputing as they walked in front of us. They went in, and soon a

messenger brought a telegram from her aunt, saying that she would not

return until the next morning at seven o'clock, by the first train.

"Very well, Henriette," her uncle said, "go and show the gentlemen their

rooms." She showed Rivet his first, and he whispered to me: "There was

no danger of her taking us into yours first." Then she took me to my

room, and as soon as she was alone with me, I took her in my arms again,

and tried to excite her senses and overcome her resistance, but when she

felt that she was near succumbing, she escaped out of the room, and I

got between the sheets, very much put out and excited and feeling rather

foolish, for I knew that I should not sleep much, and I was wondering

how I could have committed such a mistake, when there was a gentle knock

at my door, and on my asking who was there, a low voice replied: "I."

I dressed myself quickly, and opened the door, and she came in. "I

forgot to ask you what you take in the morning," she said: "chocolate,

tea or coffee?" I put my arms round her impetuously and said, devouring

her with kisses: "I will take ... I will take...." But she freed

herself from my arms, blew out my candle and disappeared, and left me

alone in the dark, furious, trying to find some matches, and not able to

do so. At last I got some and I went into the passage, feeling half mad,

with my candlestick in my hand.

What was I going to do? I did not stop to reason, I only wanted to find

her, and I would. I went a few steps without reflecting, but then I

suddenly thought to myself. "Supposing I should go into the uncle's

room, what should I say?...." And I stood still, with my head a void,

and my heart beating. But in a few moments, I thought of an answer: "Of

course, I shall say that I am looking for Rivet's room, to speak to him

about an important matter, and I began to inspect all the doors, trying

to find hers, and at last I took hold of a handle at a venture, turned

it and went in ... there was Henriette, sitting on her bed and looking

at me in tears. So I gently turned the key, and going up to her on

tip-toe, I said: "I forgot to ask you for something to read,

Mademoiselle." She struggled and resisted, but I soon opened the book I

was looking for. I will not tell you its title, but it is the most

wonderful of romances, the most divine of poems. And when once I had

turned the first page, she let me turn over as many leaves as I liked,

and I got through so many chapters that our candles were quite burnt

out. Then, after thanking her, I was stealthily returning to my room,

when a rough hand seized me, and a voice, it was Rivet's, whispered in

my ear: 'So you have not yet quite settled that affair of Morin's?'"

At seven o'clock the next morning, she herself brought me a cup of

chocolate. I have never drunk anything like it, soft, velvety,

perfumed, delicious. I could scarcely take my lips away from the cup,

and she had hardly left the room when Rivet came in. He seemed nervous

and irritable, like a man who had not slept, and he said to me crossly:

"If you go on like this, you will end by spoiling the affair of _that

pig of a Morin_!"

At eight o'clock the aunt arrived. Our discussion was very short, for

they withdrew their complaint, and I left five hundred francs for the

poor of the town. They wanted to keep us for the day, and they arranged

an excursion to go and see some ruins. Henriette made signs to me to

stay, behind her parents' back, and I accepted, but Rivet was determined

to go, and though I took him aside, and begged and prayed him to do this

for me, he appeared quite exasperated and kept saying to me: "I have had

enough of that pig Morin's affair, do you hear?"

Of course I was obliged to go also, and it was one of the hardest

moments of my life. I could have gone on arranging that business as long

as I lived, and when we were in the railway carriage, after shaking

hands with her in silence, I said to Rivet: "You are a mere brute!" And

he replied: "My dear fellow, you were beginning to excite me

confoundedly."

On getting to the _Fanal_ office, I saw a crowd waiting for us, and as

soon as they saw us they all exclaimed: "Well, have you settled the

affair of _that pig of a Morin_?" All La Rochelle was excited about it,

and Rivet, who had got over his ill-humor on the journey, had great

difficulty in keeping himself from laughing as he said: "Yes, we have

managed it, thanks to Labarbe." And we went to Morin's.

He was sitting in an easy chair, with mustard plasters on his legs, and

cold bandages on his head, nearly dead with misery. He was coughing with

the short cough of a dying man, without any one knowing how he had

caught it, and his wife looked at him like a tigress ready to eat him,

and as soon as he saw us he trembled so violently as to make his hands

and knees shake, so I said to him immediately: "It is all settled, you

dirty scamp, but don't do such a thing again."

He got up, choking, took my hands and kissed them as if they had

belonged to a prince, cried, nearly fainted, embraced Rivet and even

kissed Madame Morin, who gave him such a push as to send him staggering

back into his chair, but he never got over the blow: his mind had been

too much upset. In all the country round, moreover, he was called

nothing but, "that pig of a Morin," and that epithet went through him

like a sword thrust every time he heard it. When a street boy called

after him: "Pig!" he turned his head instinctively. His friends also

overwhelmed him with horrible jokes, and used to ask him, whenever they

were eating ham: "It's a bit of you?" He died two years later.

As for myself, when I was a candidate for the Chamber of Deputies in

1875, I called on the new notary at Fouserre, Monsieur Belloncle, to

solicit his vote, and a tall, handsome and evidently wealthy lady

received me. "You do not know me again?" she said. And I stammered out:

"But ... no Madame." "Henriette Bonnel." "Ah!" And I felt myself turning

pale, while she seemed perfectly at her ease, and looked at me with a

smile.

As soon as she had left me alone with her husband, he took both my

hands, and squeezing them as if he meant to crush them, he said: "I have

been intending to go and see you for a long time, my dear sir, for my

wife has very often talked to me about you. I know ... yes, I know under

what painful circumstances you made her acquaintance, and I know also

how perfectly you behaved, how full of delicacy, tact and devotion you

showed yourself in the affair...." He hesitated, and then said in a

lower tone, as if he had been saying something low and coarse.... "In

the affair of that pig of a Morin."

THE WOODEN SHOES

The old priest was sputtering out the last words of his sermon over the

white caps of the peasant women, and the rough or pomatumed heads of the

men. The large baskets of the farmer's wives who had come from a

distance to attend mass, were on the ground beside them, and the heavy

heat of a July day caused them all to exhale a smell like that of

cattle, or of a flock of sheep, and the cocks could be heard crowing

through the large west door, which was wide open, as well as the lowing

of the cows in a neighboring field.... "As God wishes. Amen!" the priest

said. Then he ceased, opened a book, and, as he did every week, he began

to give notice of all the small parish events for the following week. He

was an old man with white hair who had been in the parish for over forty

years, and from the pulpit he was in the habit of discoursing familiarly

to them all, and so he went on: "I recommend Désiré Vallin, who is very

ill, to your prayers, and also la Paumelle, who is not recovering from

her confinement satisfactorily."

He had forgotten the rest, and so he looked for the slips of paper which

were put away in a breviary, and at last he found two and continued: "I

will not have the lads and the girls come into the churchyard in the

evening, as they do; otherwise I shall inform the rural policeman.

Monsieur Césaire Omont would like to find a respectable girl servant."

He reflected for a few moments, and then added: "That is all, my

brethren, and I wish that all of you may find the Divine mercy."

And he came down from the pulpit, to finish mass.

When the Malandains had returned to their cottage, which was the last in

the village of La Sablière, on the road to Fourville, the father, a

thin, wrinkled old peasant, sat down at the table, while his wife took

the saucepan off the fire, and Adelaide, the daughter, took the glasses

and plates out of the sideboard, and he said: "I think that place at

Maître Omont's ought to be a good one, as he is a widower and his

daughter-in-law does not like him. He is all alone and has money. I

think it would be a good thing to send Adelaide there."

His wife put the black saucepan onto the table, took the lid off, and

while the steam, which smelt strongly of cabbage, rose into the air she

reflected, and he presently continued: "He has got some money, that is

certain, but any one going there ought to be very sharp, and Adelaide is

not that at all." And his wife replied: "I might go and see, all the

same," and turning to her daughter, a strapping, silly looking girl with

yellow hair and fat red cheeks like apples, she said: "Do you hear, you

great silly? You are to go to Maître Omont's and offer yourself as his

servant, and you will do whatever he tells you."

The girl began to laugh in a foolish manner, without replying, and then

all the three began their dinner. In ten minutes, the father continued:

"Listen to me, girl, and try not to make a mistake about what I am going

to say to you ..." And slowly and minutely he laid down for her her line

of conduct, anticipating the minutest details, and preparing her for the

conquest of an old widower who was on unfriendly terms with his family.

The mother ceased eating to listen to him, and she sat there, with her

fork in her hand, looking at her husband and her daughter by turns, and

following every word with concentrated and silent attention, while

Adelaide remained listless, docile and stupid, with vague and wandering

eyes.

As soon as their meal was over, her mother made her put her cap on, and

they both started off to see Monsieur Césaire Omont. He lived in a small

brick house adjoining his tenants' cottages, for he had retired, and was

living by subdividing and letting his land.

He was about fifty-five years old, and was stout, jovial and rough

mannered, as rich men often are. He laughed and shouted loud enough to

make the walls fall down, drank brandy and cider by the glassful, and

was still said to be of an amorous disposition, in spite of his age. He

liked to walk about his fields with his hands behind his back, digging

his wooden shoes into the fat soil, looking at the sprouting corn or the

flowering colza with the eye of an amateur at his ease, who likes to see

it, but does not trouble himself about it too much any longer, and they

used to say of him: "There is a Mr. Merry-man, who does not get up in a

good temper every day."

He received the two women, with his fat stomach against the table, as he

was finishing his coffee, and turning round he said: "What do you want?"

The mother was spokeswoman. "This is our girl Adelaide, and I have come

to ask you to take her as servant, as Monsieur le curé told us you

wanted one." Maître Omont looked at the girl, and then he said roughly:

"How old is the great she-goat?" "Twenty last Michaelmas-Day, Monsieur

Omont." "That is settled, she will have fifteen francs a month and her

food. I shall expect her to-morrow, to make my soup in the morning."

And he dismissed the two women.

The next day Adelaide entered upon her duties, and began to work hard,

without saying a word, as she was in the habit of doing at home, and at

about nine o'clock, as she was scrubbing the kitchen floor, Monsieur

Omont called her: "Adelaide!" She came immediately, saying: "Here I am,

master." As soon as she was opposite him, with her red and neglected

hands, and her troubled looks, he said: "Now just listen to me, so that

there may be no mistake between us. You are my servant, but nothing

else; you understand what I mean. We shall keep our shoes apart." "Yes,

master." "Each in our own place, my girl, you in your kitchen; I in my

dining room, and with that exception, everything will be for you just as

it is for me. Is that settled?" "Yes, master." "Very well; that is all

right, and now go to your work."

And she went out to attend to her duties and at midday she served up her

master's dinner in the little drawing-room with the flowered paper on

the walls, and then, when the soup was on the table, she went to tell

him. "Dinner is ready, master."

He went in, and sat down, looked round, unfolded his table napkin,

hesitated for a moment and then in a voice of thunder he shouted:

"Adelaide!" She rushed in terribly frightened, for he had shouted as if

he meant to murder her. "Well, in heaven's name, where is your place?"

"But, ... master ..." "I do not like to eat alone," he roared; "you will

sit there, or go to the devil, if you don't choose to do so. Go and get

your plate and glass."

She brought them in, feeling very frightened, and stammered: "Here I

am, master," and then sat down opposite to him, and he grew jovial;

clinked glasses with her, rapped the table, and told her stories to

which she listened with downcast eyes, without daring to say a word, and

from time to time she got up to fetch some bread, cider or plates. When

she brought in the coffee she only put one cup before him, and then he

grew angry again, and growled: "Well, what about yourself?" "I never

take any, master." "Why not?" "Because I do not like it."

Then he burst out afresh: "I am not fond of having my coffee by myself,

confound it! If you will not take it here, you can go to the devil. Go

and get a cup, and make haste about it."

So she went and fetched a cup, sat down again, tasted the black liquor

and made faces over it, but swallowed it to the last drop, under her

master's furious looks. Then he made her also drink her first glass of

brandy as an extra drop, the second as a livener and the third as a kick

behind, and then he told her to go and wash up her plates and dishes,

adding, that she was "a good sort of a girl."

It was the same at dinner, and then she had to play dominoes with him,

after which he sent her to bed, saying that he should come upstairs

soon. And she went to her room, a garret under the roof, and after

saying her prayers, she undressed and got into bed, but very soon she

sprung up in a fright, for a furious shout had shaken the house.

"Adelaide!" She opened her door, and replied from her attic: "Here I am,

master." "Where are you?" "In bed, of course, master." Then he roared

out: "Will you come downstairs, in heaven's name? I do not like to sleep

alone, and by G---- and if you object, you can just go at once."

Then in her terror, she replied from upstairs: "I will come, master," as

she looked for her candle, and he heard her small clogs pattering down

the stairs, and when she had got to the bottom steps, he seized her by

the arm, and as soon as she had left her light wooden shoes by the side

of her master's heavy boots, he pushed her into his room, growling out:

"Quicker than that, confound it!"

And she repeated continually, without knowing what she was saying: "Here

I am, here I am, master."

* * * * *

Six months later, when she went to see her parents one Sunday, her

father looked at her curiously, and then said: "Are you not in the

family way?" She remained thunderstruck, and looked at her waist, and

then said: "No, I do not think so."

Then he asked her, for he wanted to know everything: "Just tell me,

didn't you mix your clogs together, one night?" "Yes, I mixed them the

first night, and then every other night." "Well, then you are full, you

great tub!"

On hearing that, she began to sob, and stammered: "How could I know? How

was I to know?" Old Malandain looked at her knowingly, and appeared very

pleased, and then he asked: "What did you not know?" And amid tears she

replied: "How was I to know that children were made in that way?" And

when her mother came back, the man said, without any anger: "There, she

is in the family way, now."

But the woman was furious, her woman's instinct revolted, and she called

her daughter, who was in tears, every name she could think of, "a

trollop" and "a strumpet." Then, however, the old man made her hold her

tongue, and as he took up his cap to go and talk the matter over with

Master Césaire Omont, he remarked: "She is actually more stupid than I

thought she was; she did not even know what he was doing, the fool!"

On the next Sunday, after the sermon, the old _Curé_ published the banns

between Monsieur Onufre-Césaire Omont and Celesté-Adelaide Malandain.

A NORMANDY JOKE

The procession came in sight in the hollow road which was shaded by tall

trees which grew on the slopes of the farms. The newly married couple

came first, then the relations, then the invited guests, and lastly the

poor of the neighborhood, while the village urchins, who hovered about

the narrow road like flies, ran in and out of the ranks, or climbed onto

the tree to see it better.

The bridegroom was a good looking young fellow, Jean Patu, the richest

farmer in the neighborhood, but he was, above all things, an ardent

sportsman who seemed to lose all common sense in order to satisfy that

passion, and who spent large sums on his dogs, his keepers, his ferrets

and his guns. The bride, Rosalie Roussel, had been courted by all the

likely young fellows in the district, for they all thought her

prepossessing, and they knew that she would have a good dowry, but she

had chosen Patu, partly, perhaps, because she liked him better than she

did the others, but still more, like a careful Normandy girl, because he

had more crown pieces.

When they went in at the white gateway of the husband's farm, forty

shots resounded without their seeing those who fired, as they were

hidden in the ditches, and the noise seemed to please the men, who were

sprawling about heavily in their best clothes, very much; and Patu left

his wife, and running up to a farm servant whom he perceived behind a

tree, he seized his gun and fired a shot himself, kicking his heels

about like a colt. Then they went on, beneath the apple-trees which

were heavy with fruit, through the high grass and through the midst of

the calves, who looked at them with their great eyes, got up slowly and

remained standing, with their muzzles turned towards the wedding party.

The men became serious when they came within measurable distance of the

wedding dinner. Some of them, the rich ones, had on tall, shining silk

hats, which seemed altogether out of place there; others had old

head-coverings with a long nap, which might have been taken for

moleskin, while the humblest among them wore caps. All the women had on

shawls, which they wore loose on their backs, and they held the tips

ceremoniously under their arms. They were red, parti-colored, flaming

shawls, and their brightness seemed to astonish the black fowls on the

dung-heap, the ducks on the side of the pond, and the pigeons on the

thatched roofs.

The extensive farm buildings seemed to be waiting there, at the end of

that archway of apple trees, and a sort of vapor came out of the open

door and windows, and an almost overwhelming smell of eatables was

exhaled from the vast building, from all its openings and from all its

very walls. The string of guests extended through the yard; when the

foremost of them reached the house, they broke the chain and dispersed,

while behind they were still coming in at the open gate. The ditches

were now lined with urchins and poor curious people, and the shots did

not cease, but came from every side at once, and mingled a cloud of

smoke, and that smell which has the same intoxicating effects as

absinthe, with the atmosphere.

The women were shaking their dresses outside the door, to get rid of

the dust, were undoing their cap strings and pulling their shawls over

their arms, and then they went into the house to lay them aside

altogether for the time. The table was laid in the great kitchen, that

would hold a hundred persons; they sat down to dinner at two o'clock and

at eight o'clock they were still eating, and the men, in their shirt

sleeves, with their waistcoats unbuttoned, and with red faces, were

swallowing the food and drink down, as if they had been whirlpools. The

cider sparkled merrily, clear and golden in the large glasses, by the

side of the dark, blood-colored wine, and between every dish they made

the hole, the Normandy hole, with a glass of brandy which inflamed the

body, and put foolish notions into the head.

From time to time, one of the guests, being as full as a barrel, would

go out for a few moments to get a mouthful of fresh air, as they said,

and then return with redoubled appetite. The farmers' wives, with

scarlet faces and their stays nearly bursting, did not like to follow

their example, until one of them, feeling more uncomfortable than the

others, went out, when all the rest followed her example, and they came

back quite ready for any fun, and the rough jokes began afresh.

Broad-sides of obscenities were exchanged across the table, and all

about the wedding-night, until the whole arsenal of peasant wit was

exhausted. For the last hundred years, the same broad jokes had served

for similar occasions, and although every one knew them, they still hit

the mark, and made both rows of guests roar with laughter.

At the bottom of the table four young fellows, who were neighbors, were

preparing some practical jokes for the newly married couple, and they

seemed to have got hold of a good one, by the way they whispered and

laughed, and suddenly, one of them profiting by a moment of silence,

exclaimed: "The poachers will have a good time to-night, with this

moon!... I say, Jean, you will not be looking at the moon, will you?"

The bridegroom turned to him quickly and replied: "Only let them come,

that's all!" But the other young fellow began to laugh, and said: "I do

not think you will neglect your business for them!"

The whole table was convulsed with laughter, so that the glasses shook,

but the bridegroom became furious at the thought that anybody would

profit by his wedding to come and poach on his land, and repeated: "I

only say: Just let them come!"

Then there was a flood of talk with a double meaning which made the

bride blush somewhat, although she was trembling with expectation, and

when they had emptied the kegs of brandy they all went to bed; the young

couple went into their own room, which was on the ground floor, as most

rooms in farmhouses are. As it was very warm, they opened the window and

closed the shutters. A small lamp in bad taste, a present from the

bride's father, was burning on the chest of drawers, and the bed stood

ready to receive the young people, who did not stand upon all the

ceremony which is usual among towns-people, in their first embraces.

The young woman had already taken off her wreath and her dress, and she

was in her petticoat, unlacing her boots, while Jean was finishing his

cigar, and looking at her out of the corners of his eyes. It was an

ardent look, more sensual than tender, for he felt more desire than

love for her, and suddenly with a brusque movement, like a man who is

going to set to work, he took off his coat. She had already taken off

her boots, and was now pulling off her stockings, and then she said to

him: "Go and hide yourself behind the curtains while I get into bed."

He seemed as if he were going to refuse, but then with a cunning look he

went and hid himself with the exception of his head. She laughed and

tried to cover up his eyes, and they romped in an amorous and happy

manner, without shame or embarrassment. At last he did as she asked him,

and in a moment she unfastened her petticoat, which slipped down her

legs, fell at her feet and lay on the ground in a circle. She left it

there, stooped over it, naked with the exception of her floating

chemise, and slipped into the bed, whose springs creaked beneath her

weight. He immediately went up to her, without his shoes and in his

trousers, and stooping over his wife he sought her lips, which she hid

beneath the pillow, when a shot was heard in the distance, in the

direction of the forest of Râpées, as he thought.

He raised himself anxiously and with his heart beating, and running to

the window, he opened the shutters. The full moon flooded the yard with

yellow light, and the reflection of the apple trees made black shadows

at their feet, while in the distance the fields gleamed, covered with

the ripe corn. But as he was leaning out, listening to every sound in

the still night, two bare arms were put round his neck, and his wife

whispered, trying to pull him back: "Do leave them alone; it has nothing

to do with you. Come to bed."

He turned round, put his arms round her, and drew her towards him,

feeling her warm skin through the thin material, and lifting her up in

his vigorous arms, he carried her towards their couch, but just as he

was laying her on the bed, which yielded beneath her weight, they heard

another report, considerably nearer this time, and Jean, giving way to

his tumultuous rage, swore aloud: "God, G...! Do you think I shall not

go out and see what it is, because of you?... Wait, wait a few minutes!"

He put on his shoes again, took down his gun, which was always hanging

within reach, against the wall, and, as his wife threw herself on her

knees in her terror to implore him not to go, he hastily freed himself,

ran to the window and jumped into the yard.

She waited one hour, two hours, until daybreak, but her husband did not

return. Then she lost her head, aroused the house, related how angry

Jean was, and said that he had gone after the poachers, and immediately

all the male farm-servants, even the boys, went in search of their

master. They found him two leagues from the farm, tied hand and foot,

half dead with rage, his gun broken, his trousers turned inside out, and

with three dead hares hanging round his neck, and a placard on his

chest, with these words: _Who goes on the chase, loses his place._

And later on, when he used to tell this story of his wedding night, he

generally added: "Ah! As far as a joke went, it was a good joke. They

caught me in a snare, as if I had been a rabbit, the dirty brutes, and

they shoved my head into a bag. But if I can only catch them some day,

they had better look out for themselves!"

That is how they amuse themselves in Normandy on a wedding day.

A COCK CROWED

Madame Berthe d'Avancelles had up till that time resisted all the

prayers of her despairing adorer, Baron Joseph de Croissard. He had

pursued her ardently in Paris during the winter, and now he was giving

fêtes and shooting parties in her honor at his Château at Carville, in

Normandy.

Monsieur d'Avancelles, her husband, saw nothing and knew nothing, as

usual. It was said that he lived apart from his wife on account of

physical weakness, for which Madame d'Avancelles would not pardon him.

He was a short, stout, bald man, with short arms, legs, neck, nose and

everything else, while Madame d'Avancelles, on the contrary, was a tall,

dark and determined young woman, who laughed in her husband's face with

sonorous laughter, while he called her openly _Mrs. Housewife_, who

looked at the broad shoulders, strong build and fair moustaches of her

titled admirer, Baron Joseph de Croissard, with a certain amount of

tenderness.

She had not, however, granted him anything as yet. The baron was ruining

himself for her, and there was a constant round of fêting, hunting

parties and new pleasures, to which he invited the neighboring nobility.

All day long the hounds gave tongue in the woods, as they followed the

fox or the wild boar, and every night dazzling fireworks mingled their

burning plumes with the boars, while the illuminated windows of the

drawing-room cast long rays of light onto the wide lawns, where shadows

were moving to and fro.

It was autumn, the russet-colored season of the year, and the leaves

were whirling about on the grass like flights of birds. One noticed the

smell of damp earth in the air, of the naked earth, like one smells the

odor of the bare skin, when a woman's dress falls off her, after a ball.

One evening, in the previous spring, during an entertainment, Madame

d'Avancelles had said to Monsieur de Croissard, who was worrying her by

his importunities: "If I do succumb to you, my friend, it will not be

before the fall of the leaf. I have too many things to do this summer to

have any time for it." He had not forgotten that bold and amusing

speech, and every day he became more pressing, every day he pushed his

approaches nearer--to use a military phrase--and gained a step in the

heart of the fair, audacious woman, who seemed only to be resisting for

form's sake.

It was the day before a large wild-boar hunt, and in the evening Madame

Berthe said to the baron with a laugh: "Baron, if you kill the brute, I

shall have something to say to you." And so, at dawn he was up and out,

to try and discover where the solitary animal had its lair. He

accompanied his huntsmen, settled the places for the relays, and

organized everything personally to insure his triumph, and when the

horns gave the signal for setting out, he appeared in a closely fitting

coat of scarlet and gold, with his waist drawn in tight, his chest

expanded, his eyes radiant, and as fresh and strong as if he had just

got out of bed. They set off, and the wild boar set off through the

underwood as soon as he was dislodged, followed by the hounds in full

cry, while the horses set off at a gallop through the narrow sides cut

in the forest, while the carriage which followed the chase at a

distance, drove noiselessly along the soft roads.

From mischief, Madame d'Avancelles kept the baron by her side, and

lagging behind at a walk in an interminably long and straight drive,

over which four rows of oaks hung, so as to form almost an arch, while

he, trembling with love and anxiety, listened with one ear to the young

woman's bantering chatter, while with the other he listened to the blast

of the horns and to the cry of the hounds as they receded in the

distance.

"So you do not love me any longer?" she observed. "How can you say such

things?" he replied. And she continued: "But you seem to be paying more

attention to the sport than to me." He groaned, and said: "Did you not

order me to kill the animal myself?" And she replied gravely: "Of course

I reckon upon it. You must kill it under my eyes."

Then he trembled in his saddle, spurred his horse until it reared, and,

losing all patience, exclaimed: "But, by Jove, Madame, that is

impossible if we remain here." Then she spoke tenderly to him, laying

her hand on his arm, or stroking his horse's mane, as if from

abstraction, and said with a laugh: "But you must do it ... or else ...

so much the worse for you."

Just then they turned to the right, into a narrow path which was

overhung by trees, and suddenly, to avoid a branch which barred their

way, she leaned towards him so closely, that he felt her hair tickling

his neck, and he suddenly threw his arms brutally round her, and

putting his thick moustache onto her forehead, he gave her a furious

kiss.

At first she did not move, and remained motionless under that mad

caress; then she turned her head with a jerk, and either by accident or

design her little lips met his, under their wealth of light hair, and a

moment afterwards, either from confusion or remorse, she struck her

horse with her riding-whip, and went off at full gallop, and they rode

on like that for some time, without exchanging a look.

The noise of the hunt came nearer, the thickets seemed to tremble, and

suddenly the wild boar broke through the bushes, covered with blood, and

trying to shake off the hounds who had fastened onto him, and the baron,

uttering a shout of triumph, exclaimed: "Let him who loves me, follow

me!" And he disappeared in the copse, as if the wood had swallowed him

up.

When she reached an open glade a few minutes later, he was just getting

up, covered with mud, his coat torn, and his hands bloody, while the

brute was lying stretched out at full length, with the baron's hunting

knife driven into its shoulder up to the hilt.

The quarry was cut at night by torchlight. It was a warm and dull

evening, and the wan moon threw a yellow light onto the torches which

made the night misty with their resinous smoke. The hounds devoured the

wild boar's stinking entrails, and snarled and fought for them, while

the prickers and the gentlemen, standing in a circle round the spoil,

blew their horns as loud as they could. The flourish of the

hunting-horns resounded beyond the woods on that still night and was

repeated by the echoes of the distant valleys, awaking the timid stags,

rousing the yelping foxes, and disturbing the little rabbits in their

gambols at the edge of the rides.

The frightened night-birds flew over the eager pack of hounds, while the

women, who were moved by all these gentle and violent things, leaned

rather heavily on the men's arms; and turned aside into the forest

rides, before the hounds had finished their meal, and Madame

d'Avancelles, feeling languid after that day of fatigue and tenderness,

said to the baron: "Will you take a turn in the park, my friend?" And

without replying, but trembling and nervous, he went with her, and

immediately they kissed each other. They walked slowly under the almost

leafless trees through which the moonbeams filtered, and their love,

their desires, their longing for a closer embrace became so vehement,

that they nearly yielded to it at the foot of a tree.

The horns were not sounding any longer, and the tired hounds were

sleeping in the kennels. "Let us return," the young woman said, and they

went back.

When they got to the château and before they went in, she said in a weak

voice: "I am so tired that I shall go to bed, my friend." And as he

opened his arms for a last kiss, she ran away, saying as a last good-bye:

"No.... I am going to sleep.... Let him who loves me follow me!"

An hour later, when the whole silent château seemed dead; the baron

crept stealthily out of his room, and went and scratched at her door,

and as she did not reply, he tried to open it, and found that it was not

locked.

She was in a reverie, resting her arms against the window ledge, and he

threw himself at her knees, which he kissed madly, through the

nightdress. She said nothing, but buried her delicate fingers

caressingly in his hair, and suddenly, as if she had formed some great

resolution, she whispered with her daring look: "I shall come back, wait

for me." And stretching out her hand, she pointed with her finger to an

indistinct white spot at the end of the room; it was her bed.

Then, with trembling hands and scarcely knowing what he was doing, he

quickly undressed, got into the cool sheets, and stretching himself out

comfortably, he almost forgot his love in the pleasure he found, tired

out as he was, in the contact of the linen. She did not return, however,

no doubt finding amusement in making him languish. He closed his eyes

with a feeling of exquisite comfort, and reflected peaceably while

waiting for what he so ardently longed for. But by degrees his limbs

grew languid and his thoughts became indistinct and fleeting, until his

fatigue gained the upper hand and he fell asleep.

He slept that unconquerable, heavy sleep of the worn-out hunter, and he

slept until daylight; and then, as the window had remained half open,

the crowing of a cock suddenly woke him, and the baron opened his eyes,

and feeling a woman's body against his, finding himself, much to his

surprise, in a strange bed, and remembering nothing for a moment, he

stammered:

"What? Where am I? What is the matter?"

Then she, who had not been asleep at all, looking at this unkempt man,

with red eyes and swollen lips, replied in the haughty tone of voice in

which she occasionally spoke to her husband:

"It is nothing; it is only a cock crowing. Go and sleep again, Monsieur,

it has nothing to do with you."

JULOT'S OPINION

The Duchess Huguette de Lionzac was very much infatuated with herself,

but then she had a perfect right to be, and who, in her place, would not

have shown a spice of conceit? There was no success which she had wished

for, that she had not attained. She had received a medal for sculpture

at the _Salon_, and at the _Exhibition of Excessives_ she had shown a

water-color which looked eccentric, even there.

She had published a collection of poems which was crowned by the French

Academy, and a small volume of _Rhythmic Prose_ of which the _Revue de

lemain_ said, "That it showed the most subtle and evanescent performance

of those fugitive pieces which was sure to descend to posterity," and

when she acted in private theatricals, some exclaimed:

"It is better than the _Comedié Française_," while others, who were more

refined, went so far as to utter the supreme praise: "Better than the

_Théâtre Libre_."

At one time, there had been a report, which had been propagated by the

newspapers, that she was going to come out at the _Opéra Comique_, in a

part that had been written especially for her extraordinary voice, for

it appeared that Massenet would not hear of anybody else for the part.

She was the circus-rider, Miss Edith, who, under that assumed name gave

that unique and never-to-be-forgotten exhibition of horsemanship, and

you remember what cheers there were, and what quantities of flowers

covered the arena! And you must not forget that this was before a

_paying public_!

Then, it was notorious that she had carried off the lovers of several

celebrated courtesans, which was not one of the smallest of her

triumphs, for she had chosen as her rivals some of those terrible and

hitherto unconquered women, of whom it was said:

"Oh! When she has got hold of a man, she does not let him go again. She

has some secrets that attach them to her."

There was, therefore, nothing surprising in the fact that the Duchess

Huguette should have been so proud of so many victories, and in such

various sports; but now, for the first time, a doubt had entered her

mind. In turning over the _Notules Psychologiques_[3] of her favorite

novel-writer, she had just read these two sentences which disturbed her:

[Footnote 3: Psychological Notes.]

"If anyone wishes to excel in an art, he must have gained a living by

it."

"What pleases us in a woman of the world who gives herself up to

debauchery, is the contrast between what she is, and what she would like

to be."

And she asked herself whether she could really have lived by those arts

in which she excelled, and whether the successes that she had obtained,

did not chiefly depend on her charm of a woman of the world, who wished

to be what she was not. The last _whether_, especially, made her

anxious. For was not it precisely that special charm which had given her

an advantage over courtesans who employed secrets?

Would she have been victorious if she had been deprived of that weapon?

How could she find out?

"And yet," she said to herself, "I must know, for everything depends on

this point. If I can win the game without playing that card, I am sure

of all my other triumphs; my mind will be easy then, whatever it may

cost."

She consulted her old god-father, Viscount Hugues de Pierras, on the

subject, and, after a few complimentary words, as she had begged him to

be sincere, he said:

"Good heavens! my dear child, I must confess that your psychologist is

not altogether wrong, nor your apprehensions either. I have, before now,

left many learned mistresses for women who were not in the least

learned, and who pleased me all the better on that account. But that did

not prevent the mistresses I had sacrificed from being women of

incomprehensible talents, in spite of their defeat. But what does that

matter? It ought to be enough for you, that you conquer, without

troubling yourself about the means by which you obtain your victory. I

do not suppose that you have any pretensions to being a _virtuosa_

in ..."

"In everything, yes. Excuse me, god-father, I have such pretensions. And

what I ask of you, is the means of obtaining absolute proof that my

pretensions are justified."

"Hum! Hum!" the viscount said, in some embarrassment, "I do not know of

any means, my dear child, unless we get together a jury...."

"Please do not joke about it!" Huguette exclaimed. "I am perfectly

serious."

"I am very serious also, I assure you, I think that a jury..."

"Composed of whom? Of men of the world, I suppose?"

"And what does this Julot do?"

"Oh! really, Duchess, you force me to speak of persons and things,

which ..."

"Yes, yes, I force you to; we understand that. But tell me! Bluntly,

without mincing matters, if necessary. You know that I have no objection

to that sort of thing, so go on. Do not keep me in suspense like this. I

am burning with curiosity. What does Julot do?"

"Very well, little volunteer, if you insist on knowing, I will tell you.

Julot, generally called _Fine-Gueule_, is a trier of women."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I will explain it to you. There are a few of us old amateurs in Paris,

who are too old and impatient to hunt for truffles, but who want them of

such and such a flavor, exactly to our taste. Now, Julot knows our

tastes, our various fancies, and he undertakes ..."

"Capital! Capital!"

MADEMOISELLE

He had been registered under the names of Jean Marie Mathieu Valot, but

he was never called anything but _Mademoiselle_. He was the idiot of the

district, but not one of those wretched, ragged idiots who live on

public charity. He lived comfortably on a small income which his mother

had left him, and which his guardian paid him regularly, and so he was

rather envied than pitied. And then, he was not one of those idiots with

wild looks, and the manners of an animal, for he was by no means an

unpleasing object, with his half-open lips and smiling eyes, and

especially in his constant make-up in female dress. For he dressed like

a girl, and showed by that, how little he objected to being called

_Mademoiselle_.

And why should he not like the nickname which his mother had given him

affectionately, when he was a mere child, and so delicate and weak, with

such a fair complexion, a poor little diminutive lad, that he was not as

tall as many girls of the same age? It was in pure love that, in his

earlier years, his mother whispered that tender _Mademoiselle_ to him,

while his old grandmother used to say jokingly:

"The fact is, that as for the _tip-cat_ he has got, it is really not

worth mentioning in a Christian. No offense to God in saying so." And

his grandfather who was equally fond of a joke, used to add: "I only

hope he will not lose it, as he grows bigger, like tadpoles do their

tails!"

And they treated him as if he had really been a girl and coddled him,

the more so as they were very prosperous, and did not require a man to

keep things together.

When his mother and grandparents were dead, _Mademoiselle_ was almost as

happy with his paternal uncle, an unmarried man, who had carefully

attended the idiot, and who had grown more and more attached to him by

dint of looking after him; and the worthy man continued to call Jean

Marie Mathieu Valot, _Mademoiselle_.

He was called so in all the country round as well, not with the

slightest intention of hurting his feelings, but, on the contrary,

because all thought they would please the poor gentle creature who

harmed nobody.

The very street boys meant no harm by it, accustomed as they were to

call the tall idiot in a frock and cap, so; but it would have struck

them as very extraordinary, and would have led them to in rude fun, if

they had seen him dressed like a boy.

_Mademoiselle_, however, took care of that, for his dress was as dear to

him as his nickname. He delighted in wearing it, and, in fact, cared for

nothing else, and what gave it a particular zest was, that he knew that

he was not a girl, and that he was living in disguise. And this was

evident, by the exaggerated feminine bearing and walk he put on, as if

to show that it was not natural to him. His enormous, carefully frilled

cap was adorned with large variegated ribbons. His petticoat, with

numerous flounces, was distended behind by many hoops. He walked with

short steps, and with exaggerated swaying of the hips, while his folded

arms and crossed hands were distorted into pretensions of comical

coquetry.

On such occasions, if anybody wished to make friends with him, it was

necessary to say:

"Ah! _Mademoiselle_, what a nice girl you make."

That put him into a good humor, and he used to reply, much pleased:

"Don't I? But people can see I only do it for a joke."

But, nevertheless, when they were dancing at village festivals in the

neighborhood, he would always be invited to dance as _Mademoiselle_, and

would never ask any of the girls to dance with him; and one evening when

somebody asked him the reason for this, he opened his eyes wide, laughed

as if the man had said something very stupid, and replied:

"I cannot ask the girls because I am not dressed like a lad. Just look

at my dress, you fool!"

As his interrogator was a judicious man, he said to him:

"Then dress like one, _Mademoiselle_."

He thought for a moment, and then said with a cunning look:

"But if I dress like a lad, I shall no longer be a girl; but then, I am

a girl;" and he shrugged his shoulders as he said it.

But the remark seemed to make him think.

For some time afterwards, when he met the same person, he asked him

abruptly:

"If I dress like a lad, will you still call me _Mademoiselle_?"

"Of course, I shall," the other replied. "You will always be called so."

The idiot appeared delighted, for there was no doubt that he thought

more of his nickname than he did of his dress, and the next day he made

his appearance in the village square without his petticoats and dressed

as a man. He had taken a pair of trousers, a coat and a hat, from his

guardian's clothes-press, and this created quite a revolution in the

neighborhood, for the people, who had been in the habit of smiling at

him kindly when he was dressed as a woman, looked at him in astonishment

and almost in fear, while the indulgent could not help laughing, and

visibly making fun of him.

The involuntary hostility of some, and the too evident ridicule of

others, the disagreeable surprise of all, were too palpable for him not

to see it, and to be hurt by it, and it was still worse when a street

urchin said to him in a jeering voice, as he danced round him:

"Oh! oh! _Mademoiselle_, you wear trousers! Oh! oh! _Mademoiselle_!"

And it grew worse and worse, when a whole band of these vagabonds were

on his heels, hooting and yelling after him, as if he had been somebody

in a masquerading dress, during the carnival.

It was quite certain that the unfortunate creature looked much more as

if he were in a disguise now than he had done formerly. By dint of

living like a girl, and by even exaggerating the feminine walk and

manners, he had totally lost all masculine looks and ways. His smooth

face, his long flax like hair, required a cap with ribbons, and became a

caricature under the high chimney-pot hat of the old doctor, his

grandson.

_Mademoiselle's_ shoulders, and especially her swelling stern danced

about wildly in this old fashioned coat and wide trousers. And nothing

was as funny as the contrast between his quiet dress and slow trotting

pace, the winning way he combed his head, and the conceited movements

of his hands, with which he fanned himself, like a silly girl.

Soon the older lads and the girls, the old women, men of ripe age and

even the Judicial Councilor joined the little brats, and hooted

_Mademoiselle_, while the astonished idiot ran away, and rushed into the

house with terror. There he took his poor head between both hands, and

tried to comprehend the matter. Why were they angry with him? For it was

quite evident that they were angry with him. What wrong had he done, and

whom had he injured, by dressing as a boy? Was he not a boy, after all?

For the first time in his life, he felt a horror for his nickname, for

had he not been insulted through it? But immediately he was seized with

a horrible doubt.

"Suppose that, after all, I was a girl?"

He would have liked to ask his guardian about it but he did not want to,

for he somehow felt, although only obscurely, that he, worthy man, might

not tell him the truth, out of kindness. And, besides, he preferred to

find out for himself, without asking anyone.

All his idiot's cunning, which had been lying latent up till then,

because he never had any occasion to make use of it, now came out and

urged him to a solitary and dark action.

The next day he dressed himself as a girl again, and made his appearance

as if he had perfectly forgotten his escapade of the day before, but the

people, especially the street boys, had not forgotten it. They looked at

him sideways, and, even the best of them, could not help smiling, while

the little blackguards ran after him and said:

"Oh! oh! _Mademoiselle_, you had on a pair of breeches!"

But he pretended to hear, moreover, to guess to whom they were alluding.

He seemed as happy, and glad to look about him as he usually did, with

half open lips and smiling eyes. As usual, he wore an enormous cap with

variegated ribbons, and large petticoats as usual, he walked with short,

mincing steps, swaying and wriggling his hips and crupper, and he

gesticulated like a coquette, and licked his lips, when they called him

_Mademoiselle_, while in his head, he would have liked too have jumped

at the throat of those who called him so.

Days and months passed, and by degrees these about him forgot all about

his strange escapade, but he had never left off thinking about it, nor

trying to find out, for which he was ever on the alert--how he could

find out what were his qualities as a boy, and how could he assert them

victoriously. Really innocent, he had reached the age of twenty without

knowing anything about it, or without ever having any natural impulse to

discover it, but being tenacious of purpose, curious and dissembling, he

asked no questions, but observed all that was said and done.

Often at their village dances, he had heard young fellows boasting about

girls whom they had seduced, and praising such and such a young fellow,

and often, also, after a dance, he saw the couples go away together,

with their arms round each other's waists. They had no suspicions of

him, and he listened and watched, until, at last, he discovered what was

going on.

And, then, one night, when dancing was over, and the couples were going

away with their arms round each other's waists, a terrible screaming was

heard at the corner of the woods through which those going to the next

village, had to pass. It was Josephine, pretty Josephine, for she was

brave as well, and when her screams were heard, they ran to her

assistance, and they arrived only just in time to rescue her, half

strangled from _Mademoiselle's_ clutches.

The idiot had watched her, and had thrown himself upon her in order to

treat her as the other young fellows did the girls, but she resisted him

so stoutly that he took her by the throat and squeezed with all his

might until she could not breathe, and was nearly dead.

In rescuing Josephine from him, they had thrown him on the ground, but

he jumped up again immediately, foaming at the mouth and slobbering, and

exclaimed:

"I am not a girl any longer, I am a young man, I am a young man, I tell

you."

And he proudly essayed to convince them that it was so, but the evidence

that he could adduce was very slight.

THE MOUNTEBANKS

Compardin, the clever manage of the _Eden Réunis Théâtre_, as the

theater critics invariably called him, was reckoning on a great success,

and he had invested his last franc in the affair, without thinking of

the morrow, or of the bad luck which had been pursuing him so inexorably

for months past. For a whole week, the walls, the kiosks, shopfronts,

and even the trees, had been placarded with flaming posters, and from

one end of Paris to the other carriages were to be seen which were

covered with fancy sketches of Chéret, that represented two strong,

well-built men who looked like ancient athletes. The younger of them,

who was standing with his arms folded, had the vacant smile of an

itinerant mountebank on his face, and the other, who was dressed in what

was supposed to be the costume of a Mexican trapper, held a revolver in

his hand. There were large type advertisements in all the papers, that

the Montefiores would appear without fail at the _Eden Réunis_, the next

Monday.

Nothing else was talked about, for the puff and humbug attracted people.

The Montefiores, like fashionable knicknacks, succeeded that whimsical

jade, Rose Péché, who had gone off the preceding autumn, between the

third and fourth acts of the burlesque, _Ousca Iscar_, in order to make

a study of love in company of a young fellow of seventeen, who had just

entered the university. The novelty and difficulty of their performance,

revived and agitated the curiosity of the public, for there seemed to

be an implied threat of death, or, at any rate, of wounds and of blood

in it, and it seemed as if they defied danger with absolute

indifference. And that always pleased women; it holds them and masters

them, and they grow pale with emotion and cruel enjoyment. Consequently,

all the seats in the large theater were let almost immediately, and were

soon taken for several days in advance. And stout Compardin losing his

glass of absinthe over a game of dominoes, was in high spirits, and saw

the future through rosy glasses, and exclaimed in a loud voice: "I think

I have turned up trumps, by George!"

* * * * *

The Countess Regina de Villégby was lying on the sofa in her boudoir,

languidly fanning herself. She had only received three or four intimate

friends that day, Saint Mars Montalvin, Tom Sheffield, and his cousin,

Madame de Rhouel, a Creole, who laughed as incessantly as a bird sings.

It was growing dusk, and the distant rumbling of the carriages in the

Avenue of the Champs-Elysées sounded like some somnolent rhythm. There

was a delicate perfume of flowers; the lamps had not been brought in

yet, and chatting and laughing filled the room with a confused noise.

"Would you pour out the tea?" the Countess said, suddenly, touching

Saint Mars' fingers, who was beginning an amorous conversation in a low

voice, with her fan. And while he slowly filled the little china cup, he

continued: "Are the Montefiores as good as the lying newspapers make

out?"

Then Tom Sheffield and the others all joined in.

They had never seen anything like it, they declared; it was most

exciting, and made one shiver unpleasantly, like when the _espada_

comes to close quarters with the infuriated brute at a bull fight.

Countess Regina listened in silence, and nibbled the petals of a tea

rose.

"How I should like to see them!" giddy Madame de Rhouel exclaimed.

"Unfortunately, cousin," the Countess said, in the solemn tones of a

preacher, "a respectable woman dare not let herself be seen in improper

places."

They all agreeing with her, nevertheless, Madame de Villégby was present

at the Montefiores' performance two days later, dressed all in black,

and wearing a thick veil, at the back of a stage box.

And that woman was as cold as a steel buckler, and had married as soon

as she left the convent in which she had been to school, without any

affection or even liking for her husband, whom the most skeptical

respected as a saint, and who had a look of virgin purity on her calm

face as she went down the steps of the Madeleine on Sundays, after high

mass.

Countess Regina stretched herself nervously, grew pale, and trembled

like the strings of a violin, on which an artist had been playing some

wild symphony, and inhaled the nasty smell of the sawdust, as if it had

been the perfume of a bouquet of unknown flowers, and clenched her

hands, and gazed eagerly at the two mountebanks, whom the public

applauded rapturously at every feat. And contemptuously and haughtily

she compared those two men, who were as vigorous as wild animals that

have grown up in the open air, with the rickety limbs, which look so

awkward in the dress of an English groom, that had tried to inflame her

heart.

* * * * *

Count de Villégby had gone back to the country, to prepare for his

election as Councilor-General, and the very evening that he started,

Regina again took the stage box at the _Eden Réunis_. Consumed by

sensual ardor as if by some love philter, she scribbled a few words on a

piece of paper--the eternal formula that women write on such occasions:

"A carriage will be waiting for you at the stage door after the

performance--An unknown woman who adores you."

And then she gave it to a box opener, who handed it to the Montefiore

who was the champion pistol shot.

Oh! that interminable waiting in a malodorous cab, the overwhelming

emotion, and the nausea of disgust, the fear, the desire of waking the

coachman who was nodding on the box, of giving him her address, and

telling him to drive her home. But she remained with her face against

the window, mechanically looking at the dark passage, that was

illuminated by a gas lamp, at the "actors' entrance," through which men

were continually hurrying, who talked in a loud voice, and chewed the

end of a cigar which had gone out. She remained as if she were glued to

the cushions, and tapped impatiently on the bottom of the cab with her

heels.

When the actor who thought it was a joke, made his appearance, she could

hardly utter a word, for evil pleasure is as intoxicating as adulterated

liquor, so face to face with this immediate surrender, and this

unconstrained immodesty, he at first thought that he had to do with a

street walker.

Regina felt various sensations, and a morbid pleasure throughout her

whole person. She pressed close to him, and raised her veil to show how

young, beautiful, and desirable she was. They did not speak a word, like

wrestlers before a combat. She was eager to be locked up with him, to

give herself to him, and, at last, to know that moral uncleanness, of

which, she was, of course, ignorant, as a chaste wife; and when they

left the room in the hotel together, where they had spent hours like

amorous deer, the man dragged himself along, and almost groped his way

like a blind man, while Regina was smiling, though nevertheless, she

retained her serene candor of an unsullied virgin, like she did almost

always on Sundays, after mass.

Then she took the second. He was very sentimental, and his head was full

of romance. He thought the unknown woman, who merely used him as her

plaything, really loved him, and he was not satisfied with furtive

meetings. He questioned her, besought her, and the Countess made fun of

him. Then she chose the two Mountebanks in turn. They did not know it,

for she had forbidden them ever to talk about her to each other, under

the penalty of never seeing her again, and one night the younger of them

said with humble tenderness, as he knelt at her feet:

"How kind you are, to love and to want me! I thought that such happiness

only existed in novels, and that ladies of rank only made fun of poor

strolling Mountebanks, like us!"

Regina knitted her golden brows.

"Do not be angry," he continued, "because I followed you and found out

where you lived, and your real name, and that you are a countess, and

rich, very rich."

"You fool!" she exclaimed, trembling with anger. "People would make you

believe things, as easily as they would a child!"

She had had enough of him; he knew her name, and might compromise her.

The Count might possibly come back from the country before the

elections, and then, the Mountebank began to love her. She no longer had

any feeling, any desire for those two lovers, whom a fillip from her

rosy fingers could bend to her will. It was time to go on to the next

chapter, and to seek for fresh pleasures elsewhere.

"Listen to me," she said to the champion shot, the next night. "I would

rather not hide anything from you. I like your comrade; I have given

myself to him, and I do not want to have anything more to do with you."

"My comrade!" he repeated.

"Well, what then? The change amuses me!"

He uttered a furious cry, and rushed at Regina with clenched fists. She

thought he was going to kill her, and closed her eyes, but he had not

the courage to hurt that delicate body, which he had so often covered

with caresses, and in despair, and hanging his head, he said hoarsely:

"Very well, we shall not meet again, since it is your wish."

The house at the _Eden Réunis_ was as full as an over-filled basket The

violins were playing a soft and delightful waltz of Gungl's, which the

reports of a revolver accentuated.

The Montefiores were standing opposite to one another, like in Chéret's

picture, and about a dozen yards apart, and an electric light was thrown

on to the youngest, who was leaning against a large white target, and

very slowly the other traced his living outline with bullet after

bullet. He aimed with prodigious skill, and the black dots showed on the

cardboard, and marked the shape of his body. The applause drowned the

orchestra, and increased continually, when suddenly a shrill cry of

horror resounded from one end of the hall to the other. The women

fainted, the violins stopped, and the spectators jostled each other. At

the ninth ball, the younger brother had fallen to the ground, an inert

mass, with a gaping wound in his forehead. His brother did not move, and

there was a look of madness on his face, while the Countess de Villégby

leaned on the ledge of her box, and fanned herself calmly, as implacable

as any cruel goddess of ancient mythology.

The next day, between four and five, when she was surrounded by her

usual friends in her little, warm, Japanese drawing room, it was strange

to hear in what a languid and indifferent voice she exclaimed:

"They say that an accident happened to one of those famous clowns, the

Monta ... the Monti ... what is his name, Tom?"

"The Montefiores, Madame!"

And then they began to talk about the sale at Angéle Velours, who was

going to buy the former follies, at the hotel Drouot, before marrying

Prince Storbeck.

THE SEQUEL TO A DIVORCE

Certainly, although he had been engaged in the most extraordinary, most

unlikely, most extravagant and funniest cases, and had won legal games

without a trump in his hand, although he had worked out the obscure law

of divorce, as if it had been a Californian gold mine Maitre[4]

Garrulier the celebrated, the only Garrulier, could not check a movement

of surprise, nor a disheartening shake of the head, nor a smile when the

Countess de Baudémont explained her affairs to him for the first time.

[Footnote 4: Title given to advocates in France.--TRANSLATOR.]

He had just opened his correspondence, and his long hands, on which he

bestowed the greatest attention, buried themselves in a heap of female

letters, and one might have thought oneself in the confessional of a

fashionable preacher, so impregnated was the atmosphere with delicate

perfumes.

Immediately, even before she had said a word, with the sharp glance of a

practiced man of the world, that look which made beautiful Madame de

Serpenoise say: "He strips your heart bare!" The lawyer had classed her

in the third category. Those who suffer came into his first category,

those who love, into the second, and those who are bored, into the

third, and she belonged to the latter.

She was a pretty windmill, whose sails turned and flew round, and

fretted the blue sky with a delicious shiver of joy, as it were. The

brain of a bird, in which four correct and healthy ideas could not exist

side by side, and in which all dreams and every kind of folly are

engulfed, like a great crevice.

Incapable of hurting a fly, emotional, charitable, with a feeling of

tenderness for the street girl who sold bunches of violets for a penny,

for a cab horse, which a driver was ill using, for a melancholy pauper's

funeral, when the body, without friends or relations to follow it, was

being conveyed to the common grave, doing anything that might afford

five minutes' amusement, not caring if she made men miserable for the

rest of their days, and taking pleasure in kindling passions which

consumed men's whole being, looking upon life as too short to be

anything else than one uninterrupted round of gaiety and enjoyment, she

thought that people might find plenty of time for being serious and

reasonable in the evening of life, when they are at the bottom of the

hill, and their looking glass showed them a wrinkled face, surrounded

with white hair.

A thoroughbred Parisian, whom one would follow to the end of the world

like a poodle; a woman whom one adores with the head, the heart and the

senses until one is nearly driven mad, as soon as one has inhaled the

delicate perfume that emanates from her dress and hair, or touched her

skin, and heard her laugh; a woman for whom one would fight a duel and

risk one's life without a thought; for whom a man would remove

mountains, and sell his soul to the devil several times over, if the

devil were still in the habit of frequenting the places of bad repute on

this earth.

She had perhaps come to see this Garrulier, whom she had so often heard

mentioned at five o'clock tea, near, so as to be able to describe him to

her female friends subsequently in droll phrases, to imitate his

gestures and the unctuous inflections of his voice, perhaps, in order to

experience some new sensation, or, perhaps, for the sake of dressing

like a woman who was going to try for a divorce; and, certainly, the

whole effect was perfect. She wore a splendid cloak embroidered with

jet, which gave an almost serious effect to her golden hair, to her

small slightly turned up nose, with its quivering nostrils, and to her

long eyes, full of enigmas and fun; and a dark stuff dress, which was

fastened at the neck by a sapphire and a diamond pin.

The barrister did not interrupt her, but allowed her to get excited and

to chatter, to enumerate her causes for complaint against poor Count de

Baudémont, who certainly had no suspicion of his wife's escapade, who

would have been very much surprised if any one had told him of it at

that moment, when he was taking his fencing lesson at the club.

When she had quite finished, he said coolly, as if he were throwing a

pail of water on some burning straw.

"But, Madame, there is not the slightest pretext for a divorce in

anything that you have told me, here...the judges would ask me whether I

took the Law Courts for a theater, and intended to make fun of them."

And seeing how disheartened she was, and that she looked like a child

whose favorite toy had been broken, and, also, because she was so

pretty, that he would have liked to kiss her hands in his devotion, and

as she seemed to be witty, and very amusing, and as, moreover, he had no

objection to such visits being prolonged, when papers had to be looked

over, while sitting close together, Maitre Garrulier appeared to be

considering, and, taking his chin in his hand, he said:

"However, I will think it over...there is sure to be some dark spot that

can be made out worse.... Write to me, and come and see me again..."

In the course of her visits, that black spot had increased so much, and

Madame de Baudémont had followed her lawyer's advice so punctually, and

had played on the various cords so skillfully, a few months later, that

after a lawsuit, which is still spoken of in the Courts of Justice, and

during the course of which, the President had to take off his

spectacles, and to use his pocket-handkerchief noisily, the divorce was

pronounced in favor of the Countess Marie Anne Nicole Bournet de

Baudémont, _née_ de Tanchart de Peothus.

The Count, who was nonplussed at such an adventure, which was turning

out so seriously, first of all, flew into a terrible rage, and nearly

rushed off to the lawyer's office, and threatened to cut off his knavish

ears for him, but when his access of fury was over, and thinking better

of it, he shrugged his shoulders and said:

"All the better for her, if it amuses her!"

Then he bought Baron Silberstein's yacht, and with some friends, got up

a cruise, to Ceylon and India.

Marie-Anne began by triumphing, and felt as happy as a schoolgirl going

home for the holidays, who feels the bridle on her neck, committed every

possible folly, and soon, tired, satiated, and disgusted, she began to

yawn, cried and found out that she had sacrificed her happiness, like a

millionaire who had gone mad, and who threw his banknotes and shares

into the river, and that she was nothing more than a disabled waif and

stray. Consequently, she now married again, as the solitude of her home

made her morose from morning till night; and then, besides, a woman

requires a mansion when she goes into society, to race meetings, or to

the theater.

And so, while she became a marchioness, and pronounced her second "Yes,"

before a very few friends, at the office of the mayor of the English

urban district, and malicious ones in the Faurbourg were making fun of

the whole affair, and affirming this and that, whether rightly or

wrongly, and compromising the present husband to the former one, even

declaring that he had partially been the cause of the former divorce,

Monsieur de Baudémont was wandering over the four quarters of the globe

trying to overcome his homesickness, and to deaden his longing for love,

which had taken possession of his heart and of his body, like a slow

poison.

He traveled through the most out of the way places, and the most lovely

countries, and spent months and months at sea, and plunged into every

kind of dissipation and debauchery. But neither the supple backs nor the

luxurious gestures of the _bayaderés_, nor the large, passive eyes of

the Creoles, nor flirtations with English _missives_ with hair the color

of new cider, nor nights of waking dreams, when he saw new

constellations in the sky, nor dangers during which a man thinks it is

all over with him, and mutters a few words of prayer in spite of

himself, when the waves are so high, and the sky so black, nothing was

able to make him forget that little Parisian woman who smelled so

delicious that she might have been taken for a bouquet of rare flowers;

who was so coaxing, so curious, so funny; who never had the same

caprice, the same smile, or the same look twice, and who, at bottom, was

worth more than many others, than the saints and the sinless.

He thought of her constantly, during long hours of sleeplessness. He

carried her portrait about with him in the pocket of his pea-jacket; a

charming portrait in which she was smiling, and showing her white teeth

between her half-open lips, and while her gentle eyes, with their

magnetic look, had a happy, frank expression, and in which, from the

mere reflection of her hair, one could see that she was fair among the

fair.

And he used to kiss that portrait of the woman who had been his wife as

if he wished to efface it, and would look at it for hours, and then

throw himself down on the netting, and sob like a child as he looked at

the infinite expanse before him, and seemed to see in their lost

happiness the joys of their perished affections, and the divine

remembrance of their love in the monotonous waste of green waters. And

he tried to accuse himself for all that had occurred, and not to be

angry with her, to think that his grievances were imaginary, and to

adore her in spite of everything and always.

And that he roamed about the world, tossed to and fro, suffering, and

hoping, he knew not what. He ventured into the greatest dangers, and

sought for death just as a man seeks for his mistress, and death passed

close to him without touching him, and was perhaps amused at his grief

and misery.

For he was as wretched as a stone-breaker, as one of those poor devils

who work and nearly break their backs over the hard flints the whole day

long, under the scorching sun or the cold rain, and Marie-Anne herself

was not happy, for she was pining for the past, and remembered their

former love.

At last, however, he returned to France, changed, tamed by exposure,

sun, and rain, and transformed as if by some witch's filter.

Nobody would have recognized the elegant and effeminate clubman in this

species of corsair, with broad shoulders, a skin the color of blister,

with very red lips, and who rolled a little in his walk; who seemed to

be stifled in his black dress-coat, but who still retained his

distinguished manners, the bearing of a nobleman of the last century,

who, when he was ruined, fitted out a privateer, and fell upon the

English wherever he met them, from St. Malo to Calcutta. And wherever he

showed himself his friends exclaimed:

"Why! Is that you? I should never have known you again!"

He was very nearly starting off again immediately. He even telegraphed

orders to Havre to get the steam-yacht ready for sea again directly,

when he heard that Marie-Anne had married again.

He saw her in the distance, at the _Théâtre Français_ one Tuesday, and

when he noticed how pretty, how fair, how desirable she was, and looking

so melancholy, with all the appearance of an unhappy soul that regrets

something, his determination grew weaker, and he delayed his departure

from week to week, and waited, without knowing why, until, at last, worn

out with the struggle, watching her wherever she went, more in love with

her than he had ever been before, he wrote her long, mad, ardent letters

in which his passion overflowed like a stream of lava.

He altered his handwriting, as he remembered her restless brain and her

many whims. He sent her the flowers which he knew she liked best, and

told her that she was his life, that he was dying of waiting for her, of

longing for her, for her, his idol.

At last, very much puzzled and surprised, guessing--who knows?--from the

instinctive beating of her heart, and her general emotion, that it must

be he this time, he whose soul she had tortured with such cold cruelty,

and knowing that she could make amends for the past and bring back their

former love, she replied to him, and granted him the meeting that he

asked for. She fell into his arms, and they both sobbed with joy and

ecstasy. Their kisses were those which lips only give when they have

lost each other and found each other again at last, when they meet and

exhaust themselves in each other's looks, thirsting for tenderness, love

and enjoyment.

* * * * *

Last week Count de Baudémont carried off Marie-Anne quietly and coolly,

just like one resumes possession of one's house on returning from a

journey, and drives out the intruders. And when _Maitre_ Garrulier was

told of this unheard-of scandal, he rubbed his hands--his long, delicate

hands of a sensual prelate--and exclaimed:

"That is absolutely logical, and I should like to be in their place."

THE MAN WITH THE DOGS

His wife, even when talking to him, always called him Monsieur Bistaud,

but in all the country round, within a radius of ten leagues in France

and Belgium, he was known as _cet homme aux chiens_[5]. It was not a

very valuable reputation, however, and "That man with the dogs" became a

sort of pariah.

[Footnote 5: That man with the dogs.]

In Thierache they are not very fond of the custom-house officers, for

everybody, high or low, profits by smuggling; thanks to which many

articles, and especially coffee, gunpowder and tobacco are to be had

cheap. It may here be stated that on that wooded, broken country, where

the meadows are surrounded by brushwood, and the lanes are dark and

narrow, smuggling is chiefly carried on by means of sporting dogs, who

are broken in to become smuggling dogs. Scarcely an evening passes

without some of them being seen, loaded with contraband, trotting

silently along, pushing their noses through a hole in a hedge, with

furtive and uneasy looks, and sniffing the air to scent the custom-house

officers and their dogs. These dogs also are specially trained, and are

very ferocious, and easily rip up their unfortunate congeners, who

become the game instead of hunting for it.

Now, nobody was capable of imparting this unnatural education to them so

well as "the man with his dogs," whose business consisted in breaking in

dogs for the custom-house authorities, and everybody looked upon it as

a dirty business, a business which could only be performed by a man

without any proper feeling.

"He is a men's robber," the women said, "to take honest dogs into nurse,

and to make a lot of Judas's out of them."

While the boys shouted insulting verses behind his back, the men and the

women abused him, but no one ventured to do it to his face, for he was

not very patient, and was always accompanied by one of his huge dogs,

and that served to make him respected.

Certainly, without that bodyguard, he would have had a bad time of it,

especially at the hands of the smugglers, who had a deadly hatred for

him. By himself, and in spite of his quarrelsome looks, he did not

appear very formidable, for he was short and thin, his back was round,

his legs were bandy, and his arms were as long and as thin as spiders'

legs, and he could easily have been knocked down by a back-handed blow

or a kick. But then, he had those confounded dogs which interfered with

the bravest smugglers. How could they risk even a thrust when he had

those huge brutes, with their fierce and bloodshot eyes, and their

square heads, whose jaws were like a vise, with enormous white teeth,

that were as sharp as daggers, and whose huge molars crunched up

beef-bones to a pulp with them? They were wonderfully broken in, were

always by him, obeyed him by signs, and were taught, not only to worry

the smugglers' dogs, but also to fly at the throats of the smugglers

themselves.

The consequence was that both he and his dogs were left alone, and

people were satisfied in calling them names and sending them all to

Coventry. No peasant ever set foot in his cottage, although Bistaud's

wife kept a small shop and was a handsome woman, and the only persons

who went there were the custom-house officers. The others took their

revenge on them all by saying that the man with the dogs sold his wife

to the custom-house officers, like he did his dogs.

"He keeps her for them, as well as his dogs," they said jeeringly. "You

can see that he is a born cuckold with his yellow beard and eyebrows,

which stick up like a pair of horns."

His hair was certainly red, or rather yellow, his thick eyebrows were

turned up in two points on his temples, and he used to twirl them

mechanically as if they had been a pair of moustaches. And certainly,

with his hair like that, and with his long beard and shaggy eyebrows,

with his sallow face, blinking eyes, and dull looks, with his dogged

mouth, thin lips, and his miserable, deformed body, he was not a

pleasing object.

But he assuredly was not a complaisant cuckold, and those who have said

that of him had never seen him at home. On the contrary, he was always

jealous, and kept as sharp a lookout on his wife as he did on his dogs,

and if he had broken her in at all, it was to be as faithful to him as

they were.

She was a handsome, and what they call in the country, a fine body of a

woman; tall, well-built, with a full bust and broad breech, and she

certainly made more than one excise man squint at her, but it was no use

for them to come and sniff round her too closely, or else there would

have been blows. At least, that is what the custom-house officers said

when anybody joked with them and said to them: "That does not matter, no

doubt, you and she have hunted for your fleas together."

It was no use for them to defend Madame Bistaud's fierce virtue; nobody

believed them, and the only answer they got was: "You are hiding your

game, and are ashamed of going to seduce a woman who belongs to such a

wretched creature."

And, certainly, nobody would have believed that such a buxom woman, who

looked as if her crupper were as warm as her looks, and who assuredly

must have liked to be well attended to, could be satisfied with such a

puny husband; with such an ugly, weak, red-headed fellow, who smelled of

his own hair and of the mustiness of the carrion which he gave to his

hounds.

But they did not know that "the man with the dogs" had some years before

given her, once for all, a lesson in fidelity, and that for a mere

trifle, and that for a venial sin! He had surprised her for allowing

herself to be kissed by some gallant; that was all! He had not taken any

notice, but when the man was gone he brought two of his hounds into the

room, and said:

"If you do not want them to tear your inside out as they would a

rabbit's, go down on your knees so that I may thrash you!"

She obeyed in terror, and "the man with the dogs" had beaten her with a

whip until his arm dropped with fatigue. And she did not venture to

scream, although she was bleeding under the blows of the thong, which

tore her dress, and cut into the flesh; all she dared to do was to utter

low, hoarse groans; for while beating her, he kept on saying:

"Don't make a noise, by ----; don't make a noise, or I will let the dogs

fly at your stern."

From that time she had been faithful to Bistaud, though she had

naturally not told anyone the reason for it, nor for her hatred either,

not even Bistaud himself, who thought that she was subdued for all time,

and who always found her very submissive and respectful. But for six

years she had nourished her hatred in her heart, feeding it on silent

hopes and promises of revenge. And it was that flame of hope and that

longing for revenge which made her so coquettish with the custom-house

officers, for she hoped to find a possible avenger among her inflammable

admirers.

At last she came across the right man. He was a splendid sub-officer of

the customs, built like a Hercules, with fists like a butcher's, and who

had long leased four of his ferocious dogs from her husband.

As soon as they had grown accustomed to their new master, and especially

after they had tasted flesh of the smugglers' dogs, they had, by

degrees, become detached from their former master, who had reared them.

No doubt they still recognized him a little, and would not have sprung

at his throat as if he had been a perfect stranger, but still, they did

not hesitate between his voice and that of their new master, and they

obeyed the latter only.

Although the woman had often noticed this, she had not hitherto been

able to make much use of the circumstance. A custom-house officer, as a

rule, only keeps one dog, and this fellow always had half-a-dozen, at

least, in training, without reckoning a personal guard which he kept for

himself and which was the fiercest of all. Consequently, any duel

between some lover assisted by only one dog, and the dog-breaker

defended by his pack, was impossible.

But on that occasion, the chances were more equal. Just then he had only

five dogs in the kennel, and two of them were quite young, though

certainly old _Bourreau_[6] counted for several, but after all, they

could risk a battle against him and the other three, with the two

couples of the custom-house officer, and they must profit by the

occasion.

[Footnote 6: Executioner, hangman.]

And one fine evening, as the brigadier of the custom-house officers was

alone in the shop with Bistaud's wife and was squeezing her waist, she

said to him abruptly:

"Do you really want to have something to do with me, _Môssieu_[7]

Fernand?"

[Footnote 7: Vulgar for Monsieur.]

He kissed her on the lips as he replied: "Do I really want to? I would

give my stripes for it; so you see...."

"Very well," she replied, "do as I tell you, and upon my word, as an

honest woman, I will be your commodity to do what you like with."

And laying a stress on that word _commodity_, which in that part of the

country means mistress, she whispered hotly into his ear:

"A commodity who knows her business, I can tell you, for my beast of a

husband has trained me up in such a way that I am now absolutely

disgusted with him."

Fernand, who was much excited, promised her everything that she wished,

and feverishly, malignantly, she told him how shamefully her husband had

treated her a short time before, how her fair skin had been cut, told

him her hatred and thirst for revenge; and the brigadier acquiesced, and

that same evening he came to the cottage accompanied by his four hounds,

with their spiked collars on.

"What are you going to do with them?" "the man with the dogs" asked.

"I have come to see whether you did not rob me when you sold them to

me," the brigadier replied.

"What do you mean by 'robbed you'?"

"Well, robbed! I have been told that they could not tackle a dog like

your _Bourreau_, and that many smugglers have dogs who are as good as he

is."

"Impossible."

"Well, in case any of them should have one, I should like to see how the

dogs that you sold me could tackle them."

The woman laughed an evil laugh, and her husband grew suspicious, when

he saw that the brigadier replied to it by a wink. But his suspicions

came too late. The _breaker_ had no time to go to the kennel to let out

his pack, for _Bourreau_ had been seized by the custom-house officer's

four dogs. At the same time the woman locked the door, and already her

husband was lying motionless on the floor, while _Bourreau_ could not go

to his assistance, as he had enough to do to defend himself against the

furious attack of the other dogs, who were almost tearing him to pieces,

in spite of his strength and courage. Five minutes later two of the

attacking hounds were totally disabled with the bowels protruding, but

_Bourreau_ himself was dying, with his throat gaping.

Then the woman and the custom-house officer kissed each other before the

breaker whom they bound firmly, while the two dogs of the custom-house

officer, that were still on their legs, were panting for breath, and the

other three were wallowing in their own blood, and while the amorous

couple were carrying on all sorts of capers, who were still further

excited by the rage of the dog-breaker, who was forced to look at them,

and who shouted in his despair:

"You wretches! You shall pay for this!" And the woman's only reply was,

to say: "Cuckold! Cuckold! Cuckold!"

When she was tired of larking, her hatred was not yet satisfied, and she

said to the brigadier:

"Fernand, go to the kennels and shoot the five other brutes; otherwise

he will make them kill me to-morrow. Off you go, old fellow!"

The brigadier obeyed, and immediately five shots were heard in the

darkness. It did not take long, but that short time had been enough for

"the man with the dogs" to show what he could do. While he was tied, the

two dogs of the custom-house officer had gradually recognized him, and

came and fondled him, and as soon as he was alone with his wife, as she

was insulting him, he said, in his usual voice of command to the dogs:

"At her, Flanbard! At her, Garou!" And the two dogs sprang at the

wretched woman, and one seized her by the throat, while the other caught

her by the side.

When the brigadier came back, she was dying on the ground in a pool of

blood, and "the man with the dogs" said with a laugh: "There, you see,

that is the way I break in my dogs!"

The custom-house officer rushed out in horror, followed by his hounds

who licked his hands as they ran, and made them quite red.

The next morning "the man with the dogs" was found still bound, but

chuckling, in his hovel that was turned into a slaughter-house.

They were both arrested and tried, when "the man with the dogs" was

acquitted, and the brigadier sentenced to a term of imprisonment. The

matter gave much food for talk in the district, and is, indeed, still

talked about, for "the man with the dogs" returned there, and is more

celebrated than ever under his nickname, but his celebrity is not of a

bad kind, for he is now just as much respected and liked as he was

despised and hated formerly. He is still, as a matter of fact, "the man

with the dogs," as he is rightly called, for he has not his equal as a

dog-breaker for leagues around, but now he no longer breaks in mastiffs,

as he has given up teaching honest dogs to "act the part of Judas," as

he says, for those dirty custom-house officers, and now he only devotes

himself to dogs to be used for smuggling, and he is worth listening to

when he says:

"You may depend upon it, that I know how to punish such commodities as

she was, where they have sinned!"

THE CLOWN

The hawkers' cottage stood at the end of the Esplanade, on the little

promontory where the jetty is, where all the winds, all the rain, and

all the spray met. The hut, both walls and roof, was built of old

planks, more or less covered with tar, whose chinks were stopped with

oakum, and dry wreckage was heaped up against it. In the middle of the

room an iron pot stood on two bricks, and served as a stove, when they

had any coal, but as there was no chimney, it filled the room, which was

ventilated only by a low door, with smoke, and there the whole crew

lived, eighteen men and one woman. Some had undergone various terms of

imprisonment, and nobody knew what the others were, but though they were

all, more or less, suffering from some physical defect and were nearly

old men, they were still all strong enough for hauling. For the "Chamber

of Commerce" tolerated them there, and allowed them that hovel to live

in, on condition that they should be ready to haul, by day and by night.

For every vessel they hauled, each got a penny by day and two-pence by

night, but that was not certain, on account of the competition of

retired sailors, fishermen's wives, laborers who had nothing to do, but

who were all stronger than those half-starved wretches in the hut.

And yet they lived there, those eighteen men and one woman. Were they

happy? Certainly not. Hopeless? Not that, either; for they occasionally

got a little besides their scanty pay, and then they stole occasionally,

fish, lumps of coal, things without any value to those who lost them,

but of great value to the poor, beggarly thieves.

The eighteen kept the woman, and there was no jealousy on her account.

She had no special favorite among them.

She was a fat woman of about forty, chubby faced and puffy, and of whom

Daddy La Bretagne, who was one of the eighteen, used to say: "She does

us honor."

If she had had a favorite among them, Daddy La Bretagne would certainly

have had the greatest right to that privilege, for although he was one

of the most crippled among them, as he was partially paralyzed in his

legs, he showed himself skillful and strong-armed as any of them, and in

spite of his infirmities, he always managed to secure a good place in

the row of haulers. None of them knew as well as he did how to inspire

visitors with pity during the season, and to make them put their hands

into the pockets, and he was a past master at cadging, so that among

those empty stomachs and penniless rascals he had windfalls of victuals

and coppers more frequently than fell to his share. But he did not make

use of them in order to monopolize their common mistress.

"I am just," he used to say. "Let each of us have his spoonful in turn,

and no more, when we are all eating out of the same dish."

With the coal he picked up, he used to make a good fire for the whole

band under the iron pot, in which he cooked whatever he brought home

with him, without any complaining about it, for he used to say:

"It gives you a good fire in which to warm yourselves, for nothing, and

the smell of my stew into the bargain."

As for his money, he spent in drink with the trollop, and afterwards,

what was left of it, with the other eighteen.

"You see," he used to say, "I am just, and more than just. I give her up

to you, because it is your right."

The consequence was that they all liked Daddy La Bretagne, so that he

gloried in it, and said proudly:

"What a pity that we are living under the Republic! These fellows would

think nothing of making me king."

And one day, when he said this, his trollop replied: "The king is here,

old fellow!" And at the same time she presented a new comrade to them,

who was no less ragged or wretched looking than the eighteen, but quite

young by the size of him. He was a tall, thin fellow of about forty, and

without a white streak in his long hair. He was dressed only in a pair

of trousers and a shirt, which he wore outside them, like a blouse, and

the trollop said:

"Here, Daddy La Bretagne, you have two knitted vests on, so just give

him one."

"Why should I?" the hauler asked.

"Because I choose you to," the woman replied. "I have been living with

you set of old men for a long time, so now I want to have a young one;

there he is, so you must give him a vest, and keep him here, or I shall

throw you up. You may take it or leave it, as you like. Do you

understand me?"

The eighteen looked at each other open-mouthed, and good Daddy La

Bretagne scratched his head, and then said:

"What she asks is quite right, and we must give way," he replied.

Then they explained themselves, and came to an understanding. The poor

devil did not come like a conqueror, for he was a wretched clown who had

just been released from prison, where he had undergone three years' hard

labor for an attempted outrage on a girl, but, with one exception, the

best fellow in the world, so the people declared.

"And something nice for me," the trollop added, "for I can assure you

that I mean him to reward me for anything I may do for him."

From that time the household of eighteen persons consisted of nineteen,

and at first all went well. The clown was very humble, and tried not to

be burdensome to them. Fed, clothed and supplied with tobacco, he tried

not to be too exacting in the other matter, and if needful, he would

have hauled like the others, but the woman would not allow it.

"You shall not fatigue yourself, my little man," she said. "You must

reserve yourself entirely for me."

And he did as she wished.

And soon, the eighteen, who had never been jealous of each other, grew

jealous of the favored lover. Some tried to pick a quarrel with him. He

resisted. The best fellow in the world, no doubt, but he was not going

to be taken for a mussel shut up in its shell, for all that. Let them

call him as lazy as a priest if they liked; he did not mind that, but

when they put hairs into his coffee, armsful of rushes among his

wreckage, and filth into his soup, they had better look out!

"None of that, all the lot of you, or you will see what I can do," he

used to say.

They repeated the practical jokes, however, and he thrashed them. He did

not try to find out who the culprits were, but attacked the first one he

met, so much the worse for him. With a kick from his wooden clog (it was

his specialty) he smashed their noses into a pulp, and having thus

acquired the knowledge of his strength, and urged on by his trollop, he

soon became a tyrant. The eighteen felt that they were slaves, and their

former paradise where concord and perfect equality had reigned, became a

hell, and that state of things could not last.

"Ah!" Daddy La Bretagne growled, "if only I were twenty years younger I

would nearly kill him! I have my Breton's hot head still, but my

confounded legs are no good any longer."

And he boldly challenged the clown to a duel, in which the latter was to

have his legs tied, and then both of them were to sit on the ground and

hack at each other with knives.

"Such a duel would be perfectly fair!" he replied, kicking him in the

side with one of his clogs, and the woman burst out laughing, and said:

"At any rate, you cannot compete with him on equal terms as regards

myself, so do not worry yourself about it."

Daddy La Bretagne was lying in his corner and spitting blood, and none

of the rest spoke. What could the others do, when he, the blustering of

them all, had been served so? The jade had been right when she had

brought in the intruder, and said:

"The king is here, old fellow."

Only, she ought to have remembered that, after all, she alone kept her

subjects in check, and as Daddy La Bretagne said, by a right object.

With her to console them, they would no doubt have borne anything, but

she was foolish enough to cut down their food, and not to fill their

common dish as full as it used to be. She wanted to keep everything for

her lover, and that raised the exasperation of the eighteen to its

height, and so one night when she and the clown were asleep, among all

these fasting men, the eighteen threw themselves upon them. They wrapped

the despot's arms and legs up in tarpaulin, and in the presence of the

woman, who was firmly bound, they flogged him till he was black and

blue.

"Yes," old Bretagne said to me, himself, "yes, Monsieur, that was our

revenge. The king was guillotined in 1793, and so we guillotined our

king also."

And he concluded with a sneer, and said: "Ah! We wished to be just, and

as it was not his head that had made him our king, so, by Jove, we

settled him."

BABETTE

I was not very fond of going to inspect that asylum for old, infirm

men, officially, as I was obliged to go over it in company of the

superintendent, who was talkative, and a statistician. But then, the

grandson of the foundress accompanied us, who was evidently pleased at

that minute inspection, and he was a charming man, and the owner of a

large forest, where he had given me permission to shoot, and I was, of

course, obliged to pretend to be interested in his grandmother's

philanthropic work. So with a smile on my lips I endured the

superintendent's interminable discourse, punctuating it here and there,

as best I could, by a:

"Ah! really! ... Very strange, indeed! ... I should never have believed

it! ..."

I was absolutely ignorant of the matter to which I replied thus, for my

thoughts were lulled to repose by the constant humming of our loquacious

guide. I was only vaguely conscious that no doubt the persons and things

would have appeared worthy of attention to me if I had been there alone

as an idler, for in that case, I should certainly have asked the

superintendent:

"Who is this Babette, whose name appears so constantly in the complaints

of so many of the inmates?"

Quite a dozen men and women had spoken to us about her, now to complain

of her, now to praise her; and especially the women, as soon as they saw

the superintendent, cried out:

"M'sieur, Babette has again been ..."

"There! that will do, that will do!" he interrupted them, his gentle

voice suddenly becoming harsh.

At other times he would amicably question some old man with a happy

countenance, and say:

"Well, my friend! I suppose you are very happy here?"

Many replied with fervent expressions of gratitude, with which Babette's

name was frequently mingled, and when he heard them speak so, the

superintendent put on an ecstatic air; looking up to heaven with clasped

hands, he said, slowly shaking his head: "Ah! Babette is a very precious

woman, very precious!"

Yes, it would certainly interest one to know who that creature was, but

not under present circumstances, and so, rather than to undergo any more

of this, I made up my mind to remain in ignorance of who Babette was,

for I could pretty well guess what she would be like. I pictured her to

myself as a flower that had sprung up in a corner of these dull

courtyards, like a ray of sun shining through the sepulchral gloom of

these dismal passages.

I pictured her so clearly to myself that I did not even feel any wish to

know her, but yet she was dear to me, because of the happy expression

which they all put on when they spoke of her, and I was angry with the

old women who spoke against her. One thing certainly puzzled me, and

that was, that the superintendent was among those who went into

ecstasies over her, and this made me strongly disinclined to question

him about her, though I had no other reason for this feeling.

But all this passed through my mind in rather a confused manner, and

without my taking the trouble to fix or to formulate any ideas and

sensations, for I continued to dream, rather than to think effectively,

and it is very probable that, when my visit was over, I should not have

remembered much about it, not even with regard to Babette, if I had not

been suddenly awakened by the sight of her in the person, and been quite

upset by the difference that there was between my fancy and the reality.

We had just crossed a small back yard, and had gone into a very dark

passage, when a door suddenly opened at the other end of it, and an

unexpected apparition appeared through another door, and we could

indistinctly see that it was the figure of a woman. At the same moment,

the superintendent called out in a furious voice:

"Babette! Babette!"

He had mechanically quickened his pace, and almost ran, and we followed

him, and he quickly opened the door through which the apparition had

vanished, and which led on to a staircase, and he again called out, and

a burst of stifled laughter was the only reply. I looked over the

balusters, and saw a woman down below, who was looking at us fixedly.

She was an old woman; there could be no doubt of that, from her wrinkled

face and her few straggling gray locks which appeared under her cap. But

one did not think of that when one saw her eyes, which were wonderfully

youthful, for then, one saw nothing but them. They were profound eyes,

of a deep, almost violet blue; the eyes of a child.

Suddenly the superintendent called out to her: "You have been with _la

Friezê_ again!"

The old woman did not reply, but shook with laughter, as she had done

just before, and then she ran off, giving the superintendent a look,

which said as plainly as words could have done: "Do you think I care a

fig for you?"

Those insulting words were clearly written in her face, and at the same

time I noticed that the old woman's eyes had utterly changed, for during

that short moment of bravado the childish eyes had become the eyes of a

monkey, of some ferocious, obstinate baboon.

That time, in spite of any dislike to question him further, I could not

help saying to him: "That is Babette, I suppose?"

"Yes," he replied, growing rather red, as if he guessed that I

understood the old woman's insulting looks.

"Is she the woman who is so precious?" I added, with a touch of irony,

which made him grow altogether crimson.

"That is she," he said, walking on quickly, so as to escape my further

questions.

But I was egged on by curiosity, and I made a direct appeal to our

host's complaisance. "I should like to see this _Friezê_," I said. "Who

is _Friezê_?"

He turned round and said: "Oh! nothing, nothing, he is not at all

interesting. What is the good of seeing him? It is not worth while."

And he ran downstairs, two at a time. He who was usually so delicate,

and so very careful to explain everything, was now in a hurry to get

finished, and our visit was cut short.

The next day I had to leave that part of the country, without hearing

anything more about Babette, but I came back about four months later,

when the shooting season began. I had not forgotten her during that

time, for nobody could ever forget her eyes, and so I was very glad to

have as my traveling companion on my three hours' diligence journey from

the station to my friend's house, a man who talked to me about her all

the time.

He was a young magistrate whom I had already met, and who had much

interested me by his wit and his close manner of observing things, and

by his singularly refined casuistry, and, above all, by the contrast

between his professional severity, and his tolerant philosophy.

But he never appeared so attractive to me as he did on that day, when he

told me the history of that mysterious Babette.

He had inquired into it, and had applied all his faculties as an

examining magistrate to it, for, like me, his visit to the asylum had

roused his curiosity. This is what he had learned and what he told me.

When she was ten years old, Babette had been violated by her own father,

and at thirteen she had been sent to the house of correction for

vagabondage and debauchery. From the time she was twenty until she was

forty she had been a servant in the neighborhood, frequently changing

her situation, and being nearly everywhere her employer's mistress, and

she had ruined several families without getting any money herself, or

without gaining any definite position. A shopkeeper had committed

suicide on her account, and a respectable young fellow had turned thief

and incendiary, and had finished at the hulks.

She had been married twice, and had twice been left a widow, and for ten

years, until she was fifty, she had been the only commodity in the

district, for pleasure, to which five villages came to amuse themselves

on holidays.

"She was very pretty, I suppose?"

"No; she never was that. It seems she was short, thin, with no bust or

hips, at her best, I am told, and nobody can remember that she was

pretty, even when she was young."

"Then how can you explain ...?"

"How?" the magistrate exclaimed. "Well! what about the eyes? You could

not have looked at them?"

"Yes, yes, you are right," I replied. "Those eyes explain many things,

certainly. They are the eyes of an innocent child."

"Ah!" he exclaimed again, enthusiastically, "Cleopatra, Diana of

Poiters, Ninon de L'Enclos, all the queens of love who were adored when

they were growing old, must have had eyes like hers. A woman who has

such eyes can never grow old. But if Babette lives to be a hundred, she

will always be loved as she has been, and as she is."

"As she is! Bah! By whom, pray?"

"By all the old men in the asylum, by all those who have preserved a

fiber that can be touched, a corner of their heart that can be inflamed,

or the least spark of desire left."

"Do you think so?"

"I am sure of it. And the superintendent loves her more than any of them

do."

"Impossible!"

"I would stake my head on it."

"Well, after all, it is possible, and even probable; it is even certain.

I now remember ..."

And again I saw the insulting, ferocious, familiar look which she had

given the superintendent.

"And who is _la Friezê_?" I asked the magistrate "I suppose you know

that also?"

"He is a retired butcher, who had both his legs frozen in the war of

1870, and whom she is very fond of. No doubt he is a cripple, with two

wooden legs, but still a vigorous man enough, in spite of his

fifty-three years. The loins of a Hercules and the face of a satyr. The

superintendent is quite jealous of him!"

I thought the matter over again, and it seemed very probable to me.

"Does she love _la Friezê_?"

"Yes; he is the chosen lover."

When we arrived at the host's house a short time afterwards, we were

surprised to find everybody in a terrible state of excitement. A crime

had been committed in the asylum; the gendarmes were there and our host

was with them, so we instantly joined them. _La Friezê_ had murdered the

superintendent, and they gave us the details, which were horrible. The

former butcher had hidden behind a door, and catching hold of the other,

had rolled onto the ground with him and bitten him in the throat,

tearing out his carotid, from which the blood spurted into the

murderer's face.

I saw him, _la Friezê_. His fat face, which had been badly washed, was

still blood-stained; he had a low forehead, square jaws, pointed ears,

sticking out from his head, and flat nostrils, like the muzzle of some

wild animal; but above all, I saw Babette.

She was smiling, and at that moment, her eyes had not their monkey-like

and ferocious expression, but they were pleading and tender, with all of

their sweetest childlike candor.

"You know," my host said to me in a low voice, "that the poor woman has

fallen into senile imbecility, and that is the cause of her looks, which

are so strange, considering the terrible sight she has seen.

"Do you think so?" the magistrate said. "You must remember that she is

not yet sixty, and I do not think that it is a case of senile

imbecility, but that she is quite conscious of the crime that has been

committed."

"Then why should she smile?"

"Because she is pleased at what she has done."

"Oh! no; you are really too subtle!"

The magistrate suddenly turned to Babette, and, looking at her steadily,

he said:

"I suppose you know what has happened, and why this crime was

committed?"

She left off smiling, and her pretty, childlike eyes became her

abominable monkey's eyes again, and then the answer was, suddenly to

pull up her petticoats and to show us the lower part of her person. Yes,

the magistrate had been quite right. That old woman had been a

Cleopatra, a Diana, a Ninon de L'Enclos, and the rest of her body had

remained like a child's, even more than her eyes. We were thunderstruck

at the sight.

"Pigs! Pigs!" _la Friezê_ shouted to us. "You also wanted to have

something to do with her!"

And I saw that actually the magistrate's face was pale and contracted,

and that his hands and lips trembled like those of a man caught in the

act of doing wrong.

SYMPATHY

He was going up the _Rue des Martyrs_ in a melancholy frame of mind, and

in a melancholy frame of mind she also was going up the _Rue des

Martyrs_. He was already old, nearly sixty, with a bald head under his

seedy, tall hat, a gray beard, half buried in a high shirt collar, with

dull eyes, an unpleasant mouth and yellow teeth.

She was past forty, with thin hair over her pads, and with a false

plait; her linen was doubtful in color, and she had evidently bought her

unfashionable dress at a _reach-me-down shop_. He was thin, while she

was chubby. He had been handsome, proud, ardent, full of

self-confidence, certain of his future, and seeming to hold in his hands

all the trumps with which to win the game on the green table of Parisian

life, while she had been pretty, sought after, fast, and in a fair way

to have horses and carriages, and to win the first prize on the turf of

gallantry, among the favorites of fortune.

At times, in his dark moments, he remembered the time when he had come

to Paris from the country, with a volume of poetry and plays in his

portmanteau, feeling a supreme contempt for all the writers who were

then in vogue, and sure of supplanting them. She often, when she awoke

in the morning to another day's unhappiness, remembered that happy time

when she had been launched onto the world, when she already saw that she

was more sought after than Marie G. or Sophie N. or any other woman of

that class, who had been her companions in vice, and whose lovers she

had stolen from them.

He had had a splendid start. Not, indeed, as a poet and dramatist, as he

had hoped at first, but thanks to a series of scandalous stories which

had made a sensation on the boulevards, so that after an action for

damages and several duels, he had become _our witty and brilliant

colleague who, etc., etc._

She had had her moments of extraordinary good luck, though she certainly

did not eclipse Marie P. or Camille L., whom men compared to Zenobia or

Ninon de l'Enclos, but still enough to cause her to be talked about in

the newspapers, and to cause a resolution at certain _tables-d'hòtes_ at

Montmarte. But one fine day, the newspaper in which _our brilliant and

witty colleague who_ ... used to write, became defunct, having been

killed by a much more cynical rival, thanks to the much more venomous

pen of a much more brilliant and witty colleague who .... Then, the

insults of the latter having become pure and simple mud-pelting, his

style soon became worn out, to the disgust of the public, and the

celebrated _Mr. What's his name_ had great difficulty in getting onto

some obscure paper, where he was transformed into the obscure

penny-a-liner _Machin_.

Now, one evening the quasi-rival of Marie X. and Camille L. had fallen

ill, and consequently into pecuniary difficulties, and the prostitute

_No-matter-who_ was now on the lookout for a dinner, and would have been

only too happy to get it at some _table-d'hòte_ at Montmarte. Machin had

had a return of ambition with regard to his poetry and his dramas, but

then, his verses of former days had lost their freshness, and his

youthful dramas appeared to him to be childish. He would have to write

others, and, by Jove! he felt himself capably of doing it, for he had

plenty of ideas and plans in his head, and he could easily demolish many

successful writers if he chose to try! But then, the difficulty was, how

to set about it, and to find the necessary leisure and time for thought.

He had his daily bread to gain, and something besides: his coffee, his

game of cards and other little requirements; and the incessant writing

article upon article barely sufficed for that, and so days and years

went by, and Machin was Machin still.

She also longed for former years, and surely it could not be so very

hard to find a lover to start her on her career once more, for many of

her female friends, who were not nearly so nice as she was, had

unearthed one, so why should not she be equally fortunate? But there,

her youth had gone and she had lost all her chances; other women had

their fancy men, and she had to take them on, every day at reduced

prices, so that she was reduced from taking up with any man she met, and

so day after day and months and years passed, and the prostitute

_No-matter-who_ had remained the prostitute _No-matter-who_.

Often, in a fit of despondency, he used to say to himself, thinking of

some one who had succeeded in life: "But, after all, I am cleverer than

that fellow." And she always said to herself, when she got up to her

miserable, daily round, when she thought of such and such a woman, who

was now settled in life: "In what respect is that woman better than I

am?"

And Machin, who was nearly sixty, and whose head was bald under his

shabby tall hat, and whose gray beard was half-buried in a high shirt

collar, who had dull eyes, an unpleasant mouth and yellow teeth, was

mad with his fellow men, while the prostitute _No-matter-who_, with

thin hair over her pads, and with a false plait, with her linen of a

doubtful color, and with her unfashionable dress, which she had

evidently bought at a _reach-me-down_ shop, was enraged with society.

Ah! Those miserable, dark hours, and the wretched awakenings! And that

evening he was more than usually wretched, as he had just lost all his

pay for the next month, that miserable screw which he earned so hardly

by almost editing the newspaper, for three hundred francs a month, in a

brothel.

And that evening she was in a state of semi-stupidity, as she had had

too many glasses of beer which a charitable female friend had given her,

and was almost afraid to go back to her room, as her landlord had told

her in the morning that unless she paid the fortnight's back rent that

she owed at the rate of a franc a day, he would turn her out of doors

and keep her things.

And this was the reason why they were both going up the _Rue des

Martyrs_ in a melancholy frame of mind. There was scarcely a soul in the

muddy streets; it was getting dark, and beginning to rain, and the

drains smelled horribly.

He passed her, and in a mechanical voice she said: "Will you not come

home with me, you handsome dark man?" "I have no money," he replied. But

she ran after him, and catching hold of his arm, she said: "Only a

franc; that is having it for nothing." And he turned round, looked at

her, and seeing that she must have been pretty, and that she was still

stout (and he was fond of fat women), he said: "Where do you live? Near

here?" "In the _Rue Lepic_." "Why! So do I." "Then that is all right, eh?

Come along, old fellow."

He felt in his pockets and pulled out all the money he found there,

which amounted to thirteen sous, and said: "That is all I have, upon my

honor!" "All right," she said; "come along."

And they continued their melancholy walk along the _Rue des Martyrs_,

side by side now, but without speaking, and without guessing that their

two existences harmonized and corresponded with each other, and that by

huddling up together, they would be merely accomplishing the acme of

their twin destinies.

THE DEBT

"Pst! Pst! Come with me, you handsome, dark fellow. I am very nice, as

you will see. Do come up. At any rate you will be able to warm yourself,

for I have a capital fire at home."

But nothing enticed the foot-passengers, neither being called a

handsome, dark fellow, which she applied quite impartially to old or fat

men also, nor the promise of pleasure which was emphasized by a

caressing ogle and smile, nor even the promise of a good fire, which was

so attractive in the bitter December wind. And tall Fanny continued her

useless walk, and the night advanced and foot-passengers grew scarcer.

In another hour the streets would be absolutely deserted, and unless she

could manage to pick up some belated drunken man, she would be obliged

to return home alone.

And yet, tall Fanny was a beautiful woman! With her head like a

_Bacchante_, and her body like a goddess, in all the full splendor of

her twenty-three years, she deserved something better than this

miserable pavement, where she could not even pick up the five francs

which she wanted for the requirements of the next day. But there! In

this infernal Paris, in this swarming crowd of competitors who all

jostled each other, courtesans, like artists, did not attain to eminence

until their later years. In that they resembled precious stones, as the

most valuable of them are those that have been set the oftenest.

And that was why tall Fanny, who was later to become one of the richest

and most brilliant stars of Parisian gallantry, was walking about the

streets on this bitter December night, without a half-penny in her

pocket, in spite of her head like a Bacchante, and her body like a

goddess, and in all the full splendor of her twenty-three years.

However, it was too late now to hope to meet anybody; there was not a

single foot passenger about; the street was decidedly empty, dull and

lifeless. Nothing was to be heard, except the whistling of sudden gusts

of wind, and nothing was to be seen, except the flickering gas lights,

which looked like dying butterflies. Well! The only thing was to return

home alone.

But suddenly, tall Fanny saw a human form standing on the pavement at

the next crossing, and whoever it was, seemed to be hesitating and

uncertain which way to go. The figure, which was very small and slight,

was wrapped in a long cloak, which reached almost to the ground.

"Perhaps he is a hunchback," the girl said to herself. "They like tall

women!" And she walked quickly towards him, from habit, already saying:

"_Pst! Pst!_ Come home with me, you handsome, dark fellow!" What luck!

The man did not go away, but came towards Fanny, although somewhat

timidly, while she went to meet him, repeating her wheedling words, so

as to reassure him. She went all the quicker, as she saw that he was

staggering with the zig-zag walk of a drunken man, and she thought to

herself: "When once they sit down, there is no possibility of getting

these beggars up again, and they want to go to sleep just where they

are. I only hope I shall get to him before he tumbles down."

Luckily she reached him, just in time to catch him in her arms, but as

soon as she had done so, she almost let him fall, in her astonishment.

It was neither a drunken man nor a hunchback, but a child of twelve or

thirteen in an overcoat, who was crying, and who said in a weak voice:

"I beg your pardon, madame, I beg your pardon. If you only knew how

hungry and cold I am! I beg your pardon! Oh! I am so cold."

"Poor child!" she said, putting her arms around him and kissing him.

And she carried him off, with a full, but happy heart, and while he

continued to sob, she said to him mechanically: "Don't be frightened, my

little man. You will see how nice I can be! And then, you can warm

yourself; I have a capital fire." But the fire was out; the room,

however, was warm, and the child said, as soon as they got in: "Oh! How

comfortable it is here! It is a great deal better than in the streets, I

can tell you! And I have been living in the streets for six days." He

began to cry again, and added: "I beg your pardon, madame. I have eaten

nothing for two days."

Tall Fanny opened her cupboard, which had glass doors. The middle shelf

held all her linen, and on the upper one there was a box of Albert

biscuits, a drop of brandy at the bottom of a bottle, and a few small

lumps of sugar in a cup. With that, and some water out of the bottle,

she concocted a sort of broth, which he swallowed ravenously, and when

he had done, he wished to tell his story, which he did, yawning all the

time.

His grandfather, (the only one of his relations whom he had ever known,)

who had been painter and decorator at Soisson, had died about a month

before; but before his death he had said to him: "When I am gone,

little man, you will find a letter to my brother, who is in business in

Paris, among my papers. You must take it to him, and he will be certain

to take care of you. However, in any case you must go to Paris, for you

have an aptitude for painting, and only there can you hope to become an

artist."

When the old man was dead (he died in the hospital), the child started,

dressed in an old coat of his grandfather's and with thirty francs,

which was all that the old man had left behind him in his pocket. But

when he got to Paris, there was nobody of the name at the address

mentioned on the letter. The dead man's brother had left there six

months before, and nobody knew where he had gone to, and so the child

was alone, and for a few days he managed to exist on what he had over,

after paying for his journey. After he had spent his last franc, he had

wandered about the streets, as he had no money with which to pay for a

bed, buying his bread by the half-penny-worth, until for the last

forty-eight hours, he had been without anything, absolutely without

anything.

He told her all this while he was half asleep, amidst sobs and yawns, so

that the girl did not venture to ask him any more questions, in spite of

her curiosity, but, on the contrary, cut him short, and undressed him

while she listened, and only interrupted him to kiss him, and to say to

him: "There, there, my poor child! You shall tell me the rest to-morrow.

You cannot go on now, so go to bed and have a good sleep." And as soon

as he had finished, she put him to bed, where he immediately fell into a

profound sleep. Then she undressed herself quickly, got into bed by his

side, so she might keep him warm, and went to sleep, crying to herself,

without exactly knowing why.

The next day they breakfasted and dined together at a common eating

house, on money that she had borrowed, and when it was dark, she said to

the child: "Wait for me here; I will come for you at closing time." She

came back sooner, however about ten o'clock. She had twelve francs,

which she gave him, telling him that she had _earned them_, and she

continued, with a laugh: "I feel that I shall make some more. I am in

luck this evening, and you have brought it me. Do not be impatient, but

have some milk-posset while you are waiting for me."

She kissed him before she went, and the kind girl felt real maternal

happiness as she went out. An hour later, however, she was _run in_ by

the police for having been found in a prohibited place, and off she

went, game for _St. Lazare_[8].

[Footnote 8: Prison in Paris.]

And the child, who was turned out by the proprietor at closing time, and

then driven from the furnished lodgings the next morning, where they

told him that _Tall Fanny was in quod_, began his wretched vagabond life

in the streets again, with only the twelve francs to depend on.

* * * * *

Fifteen years afterwards the newspapers announced one morning that the

famous Fanny Clairet, the celebrated _horizontal_, whose caprices had

caused a revolution in high life, that queen of frail beauties for whom

three men had committed suicide, and so many others had ruined

themselves, that incomparable living statue, who had attracted all Paris

to the theater where she impersonated Venus in her transparent skin

tights, made of woven air and knitted nothing had been shut up in a

lunatic asylum. She had been seized suddenly; it was an attack of general

paralysis, and as her debts were enormous, when her estate had been

liquidated, she would have to end her days at _La Salpêtrière_.

"No, certainly not!" François Guerland, the painter, said to himself,

when he read the notice of it in the papers. "No, the great Fanny shall

certainly not end like that." For it was certainly she; there could be

no doubt about it. For a long time after she had shown him that act of

charity, which he could never forget, the child had tried to see his

benefactress again. But Paris is a very mysterious place, and he himself

had had many adventures before he grew up to be a man, and, eventually,

almost somebody! But he only found her in the distance; he had

recognized her at the theater, on the stage, or as she was getting into

her carriage, which was fit for a princess. And how could he approach

her then? Could he remind her of the time when her price was five

francs? No, assuredly not; and so he had followed her, thanked her, and

blessed her, from a distance.

But now the time had come for him to pay his debt, and he paid it.

Although tolerably well known as a painter with a future in store for

him, he was not rich. But what did that matter? He mortgaged that future

which people prophesied for him, and gave himself over, bound hand and

foot, to a picture dealer. Then he had the poor woman taken to an

excellent asylum, where she could have not only every care, but every

necessary comfort and even luxury. Alas! however, general paralysis

never forgives. Sometimes it releases its prey, like the cruel cat

releases the mouse, for a brief moment, only to lay hold of it again

later, more fiercely than ever. Fanny had that period of abatement in

her symptoms, and one morning the physician was able to say to the young

man: "You are anxious to remove her? Very well! But you will soon have

to bring her back, for the cure is only apparent, and her present state

will only endure for a month, at most, and then, only if the patient is

kept free from every excitement and excess!"

"And without that precaution?" Guerland asked him. "Then," the doctor

replied; "the final crisis will be all the nearer; that is all. But

whether it would be nearer or more remote, it will not be the less

fatal." "You are sure of that?" "Absolutely sure."

François Guerland took tall Fanny out of the asylum, installed her in

splendid apartments, and went to live with her there. She had grown old,

bloated, with white hair, and sometimes wandered in her mind, and she

did not recognize in him the poor little lad on whom she had taken pity

in the days gone by, nor did he remind her of the circumstance. He

allowed her to believe that she was adored by a rich young man, who was

passionately devoted to her. He was young, ardent, and caressing. Never

had a mistress such a lover, and for three weeks, before she relapsed

into the horrors of madness, which were happily soon terminated by her

death, she intoxicated herself with the ecstasy of his kisses, and thus

bade farewell to conscient life in an apotheosis of love.

The other day, at dessert, after an artists' dinner, they were speaking

of François Guerland, whose last picture at the _Salon_ had been so

deservedly praised. "Ah! yes," one of them said, with a contemptuous

voice and look. "That handsome fellow Guerland!" And another,

accentuating the insinuation, added boldly: "Yes, that is exactly it!

That handsome, too handsome fellow Guerland, the man who allows himself

to be kept by women."

AN ARTIST

"Bah! Monsieur," the old mountebank said to me; "it is a matter of

exercise and habit, that is all! Of course, one requires to be a little

gifted that way, and not to be butter-fingered, but what is chiefly

necessary is patience and daily practice for long, long years."

His modesty surprised me all the more, because of all those performers

who are generally infatuated with their own skill, he was the most

wonderfully clever one that I had ever met. Certainly, I had frequently

seen him, and everybody had seen him in some circus or other, or even in

traveling shows, performing the trick that consists of putting a man or

a woman with extended arms against a wooden target, and in throwing

knives between their fingers and round their head, from a distance.

There is nothing very extraordinary in it, after all, when one knows

_the tricks of the trade_, and that the knives are not the least sharp,

and stick into the wood at some distance from the flesh. It is the

rapidity of the throws, the glitter of the blades, the curve which the

handles make towards their living aim, which give an air of danger to an

exhibition that has become common-place, and only requires very middling

skill.

But here there was no trick and no deception, and no dust thrown into

the eyes. It was done in good earnest and in all sincerity. The knives

were as sharp as razors, and the old mountebank planted them close to

the flesh, exactly in the angle between the fingers, and surrounded the

head with a perfect halo of knives, and the neck with a collar, from

which nobody could have extricated himself without cutting his carotid

artery, while to increase the difficulty, the old fellow went through

the performance without seeing, his whole face being covered with a

close mask of thick oil-cloth.

Naturally, like other great artists, he was not understood by the crowd,

who confounded him with vulgar tricksters, and his mask only appeared to

them a trick the more, and a very common trick into the bargain. "He

must think us very stupid," they said. "How could he possibly aim

without having his eyes open?" And they thought there must be

imperceptible holes in the oil-cloth, a sort of lattice work concealed

in the material. It was useless for him to allow the public to examine

the mask for themselves before the exhibition began. It was all very

well that they could not discover any trick, but they were only all the

more convinced that they were being tricked. Did not the people know

that they ought to be tricked?

I had recognized a great artist in the old mountebank, and I was quite

sure that he was altogether incapable of any trickery, and I told him

so, while expressing my admiration to him; and he had been touched, both

by my admiration, and above all by the justice I had done him. Thus we

became good friends, and he explained to me, very modestly, the real

trick which the crowd cannot understand, the eternal trick compromised

in these simple words: "To be gifted by nature, and to practice every

day for long, long years."

He had been especially struck by the certainty which expressed, that any

trickery must become impossible to him. "Yes," he said to me; "quite

impossible! Impossible to a degree which you cannot imagine. If I were

to tell you! But where would be the use?"

His face clouded over, and his eyes filled with tears, but I did not

venture to force myself into his confidence. My looks, however, were no

doubt not so discreet as my silence, and begged him to speak, and so he

responded to their mute appeal. "After all," he said: "why should I not

tell you about it? You will understand me." And he added, with a look of

sudden ferocity: "She understood it at any rate!" "Who?" I asked. "My

unfaithful wife," he replied. "Ah! Monsieur, what an abominable creature

she was, if you only knew! Yes, she understood it too well, too well,

and that is why I hate her so; even more on that account, than for

having deceived me. For that is a natural fault, is it not, and may be

pardoned? But the other thing was a crime, a horrible crime."

The woman who stood against the wooden target every night with her arms

stretched out and her fingers extended, and whom the old mountebank

fitted with gloves and with a halo formed of his knives which were as

sharp as razors, and which he planted close to her, was his wife. She

might have been a woman of forty, and must have been fairly pretty, but

with perverse prettiness, an impudent mouth, a mouth that was at the

same time sensual and bad, with the lower lip too thick for the thin,

dry upper lip.

I had several times noticed that every time he planted a knife in the

board, she uttered a laugh, so low as scarcely to be heard, but which

was very significant when one heard it, for it was a hard and very

mocking laugh, but I had always attributed that sort of reply to an

artifice which the occasion required. It was intended, I thought, to

accentuate the danger she incurred and the contempt that she felt for

it, thanks to the sureness of the thrower's hands, and so I was very

surprised when the mountebank said to me:

"Have you observed her laugh, I say? Her evil laugh which makes fun of

me, and her cowardly laugh, which defies me? Yes, cowardly, because she

knows nothing can happen to her, nothing, in spite of all she deserves,

in spite of all that I ought to do to her, in spite of all that I want

to do to her." "What do you want to do?" "Confound it! Cannot you guess?

I want ... to kill her," "To kill her, because she has ..." "Because she

has deceived me? No, no, not that, I tell you again. I have forgiven her

for that, a long time ago, and I am too much accustomed to it! But the

worst of it is, that the first time I forgave her, when I told her that

all the same, I might some day have my revenge by cutting her throat, if

I chose, without seeming to do it on purpose, as if it were an accident,

mere awkwardness." "Oh! So you said that to her?" "Of course I did, and

I meant it. I thought I might be able to do it, for you see I had the

perfect right to do so. It was so simple, so easy, so tempting! Just

think! A mistake of less than half an inch, and her skin would be cut at

the neck where the jugular vein is, and the jugular would be severed. My

knives cut very well! And when once the jugular is cut ... good-by. The

blood would spurt out, and one, two, three red jets, and all would be

over; she would be dead, and I should have had my revenge!"

"That is true, certainly, horribly true!" "And without any risk to me,

eh? An accident, that is all; bad luck, one of those mistakes which

happen every day in our business. What could they accuse me of? Whoever

would think of accusing me, even? Homicide through imprudence, that

would be all! They would even pity me, rather than accuse me. 'My wife!

My poor wife!' I should say, sobbing. 'My wife, who is so necessary to

me, who is half the bread-winner, who takes part in my performance!' You

must acknowledge that I should be pitied!"

"Certainly; there is not the least doubt about that." "And you must

allow that such a revenge would be a very nice revenge, the best

possible revenge, which I could have with assured impunity?" "Evidently

that is so." "Very well! But when I told her so, just as I have told

you, and better still; threatening her, as I was mad with rage, and

ready to do the deed that I had dreamt of, on the spot; what do you

think she said?" "That you were a good fellow, and would certainly not

have the atrocious courage to ..."

"Tut! tut! tut! I am not such a good fellow as you think. I am not

frightened of blood, and that I have proved already, though it would be

useless to tell you how and where. But I had no necessity to prove it to

her, for she knows that I am capable of a good many things; even of

crime; especially of a crime." "And she was not frightened?" "No. She

merely replied that I could not do what I said; you understand." "That I

could not do it!" "Why not?" "Ah! Monsieur, so you do not understand? Why

do you not? Have I not explained to you by what constant, long, daily

practice I have learnt to plant my knives without seeing what I am

doing?" "Yes, well, what then?" "Well! Cannot you understand what she

has understood with such terrible results, that now my hand would no

longer obey me, if I wished to make a mistake as I threw?" "Is it

possible?" "Nothing is truer, I am sorry to say. For I really have

wished to have my revenge, which I have dreamt of, and which I thought

so easy. Exasperated by that bad woman's insolence and confidence in her

own safety, I have several times made up my mind to kill her, and have

exerted all my energy and all my skill, to make my knives fly aside when

I threw them to make a border round her neck. I tried with all my might

to make them deviate half an inch, just enough to cut her throat. I

wanted to, and I have never succeeded, never. And always the horrible

laugh makes fun of me, always, always."

And with a deluge of tears, with something like a roar of unsatiated and

muzzled rage, he ground his teeth as he wound up: "She knows me, the

jade; she is in the secret of my work, of my patience, of my trick,

routine, whatever you may call it! She lives in my innermost being, and

sees into it more closely than you do, or than I do myself. She knows

what a faultless machine I have become, the machine of which she makes

fun, the machine which is too well wound up, the machine which cannot

get out of order, and she knows that I _cannot_ make a mistake."

MADEMOISELLE FIFI

The Major, Graf von Farlsberg, the Prussian commandant, was reading his

newspaper, lying back in a great armchair, with his booted feet on the

beautiful marble fire-place, where his spurs had made two holes, which

grew deeper every day, during the three months that he had been in the

château of Urville.

A cup of coffee was smoking on a small, inlaid table, which was stained

with liquors, burnt by cigars, notched by the pen-knife of the

victorious officer, who occasionally would stop while sharpening a

pencil, to jot down figures, or to make a drawing on it, just as it took

his fancy.

When he had read his letters and the German newspapers, which his

baggage-master had brought him, he got up, and after throwing three or

four enormous pieces of green wood on to the fire, for those gentlemen

were gradually cutting down the park in order to keep themselves warm,

he went to the window. The rain was descending in torrents, a regular

Normandy rain, which looked as if it were being poured out by some

furious hand, a slanting rain, which was as thick as a curtain, and

which formed a kind of wall with oblique stripes, and which deluged

everything, a regular rain, such as one frequently experiences in the

neighborhood of Rouen, which is the watering-pot of France.

For a long time the officer looked at the sodden turf, and at the

swollen Andelle beyond it, which was overflowing its banks; and he was

drumming a waltz from the Rhine on the window-panes, with his fingers,

when a noise made him turn round; it was his second in command, Captain

Baron von Kelweinstein.

The major was a giant, with broad shoulders, and a long, fair-like

beard, which hung like a cloth on his chest. His whole, solemn person

suggested the idea of a military peacock, a peacock who was carrying his

tail spread out on to his breast. He had cold, gentle, blue eyes, and

the scar from a sword-cut, which he had received in the war with

Austria; he was said to be an honorable man, as well as a brave officer.

The captain, a short, red-faced man, who was tightly girthed in at the

waist, had his red hair cropped quite close to his head, and in certain

lights he almost looked as if he had been rubbed over with phosphorus.

He had lost two front teeth one night, though he could not quite

remember how, and this made him speak so that he could not always be

understood, and he had a bald patch on the top of his head, which made

him look rather like a monk, with a fringe of curly, bright, golden hair

round the circle of bare skin.

The commandant shook hands with him, and drank his cup of coffee (the

sixth that morning), at a draught, while he listened to his

subordinate's report of what had occurred; and then they both went to

the window, and declared that it was a very unpleasant outlook. The

major, who was a quiet man, with a wife at home, could accommodate

himself to everything; but the captain, who was rather fast, who was in

the habit of frequenting low resorts, and who was much given to women,

was mad at having been shut up for three months in the compulsory

chastity of that wretched hole.

There was a knock at the door, and when the commandant said: "_Come

in_," one of their automatic soldiers appeared, and by his mere presence

announced that breakfast was ready. In the dining-room, they met three

other officers of lower rank: a lieutenant, Otto von Grossling, and two

sub-lieutenants, Fritz Scheunebarg, and Baron von Eyrick, a very short,

fair-haired man, who was proud and brutal towards men, harsh towards

prisoners, and as violent as a rifle.

Since he had been in France, his comrades had called him nothing but

Mademoiselle Fifi. They had given him that nickname on account of his

dandified style and small waist, which looked as if he wore stays, of

his pale face, on which his budding moustache scarcely showed, and on

account of the habit he had acquired of employing the French expression,

_fi, fi donc_, which he pronounced with a slight whistle, when he wished

to express his sovereign contempt for persons or things.

The dining-room of the château was a magnificent long room, whose fine

old mirrors, that were cracked by pistol bullets, and whose Flemish

tapestry, which was cut to ribbons, and hanging in rags in places, from

sword-cuts, told too well what Mademoiselle Fifi's occupation was during

his spare time.

There were three family portraits on the walls: a steel-clad knight, a

cardinal, and a judge, who were all smoking long porcelain pipes, which

had been inserted into holes in the canvas, while a lady in a long,

pointed waist proudly exhibited an enormous moustache, drawn with a

piece of charcoal. The officers ate their breakfast almost in silence in

that mutilated room, which looked dull in the rain, and melancholy under

its vanquished appearance, although its old, oak floor had become as

solid as the stone floor of a public house.

When they had finished eating, and were smoking and drinking they began,

as usual, to talk about the dull life they were leading. The bottles of

brandy and of liquors passed from hand to hand, and all sat back in

their chairs and took repeated sips from their glasses, scarcely

removing the long, bent stems, which terminated in china bowls, that

were painted in a manner to delight a Hottentot, from their mouths.

As soon as their glasses were empty, they filled them again, with a

gesture of resigned weariness, but Mademoiselle Fifi emptied his every

minute, and a soldier immediately gave him another. They were enveloped

in a thick cloud of strong tobacco smoke, and they seemed to be sunk in

a state of drowsy, stupid intoxication, in that dull state of

drunkenness of men who have nothing to do, when suddenly, the baron sat

up, and said: "By heavens! This cannot go on; we must think of something

to do." And on hearing this, lieutenant Otto and sub-lieutenant Fritz,

who pre-eminently possessed the grave, heavy German countenance, said:

"What, captain?"

He thought for a few moments, and then replied: "What? Well, we must get

up some entertainment, if the commandant will allow us." "What sort of

an entertainment, captain?" the major asked, taking his pipe out of his

mouth. "I will arrange all that, commandant," the Baron said. "I will

send _Le Devoir_ to Rouen, who will bring us some ladies. I know where

they can be found. We will have supper here, as all the materials are at

hand, and, at least, we shall have a jolly evening."

Graf von Farlsberg shrugged his shoulders with a smile: "You must

surely be mad, my friend."

But all the other officers got up, ran round their chief, and said: "Let

the captain have his own way, commandant; it is terribly dull here." And

the major ended by yielding. "Very well," he replied, and the baron

immediately sent for _Le Devoir_. He was an old non-commissioned

officer, who had never been seen to smile, but who carried out all the

orders of his superiors to the letter, no matter what they might be. He

stood there, with an impassive face, while he received the baron's

instructions, and then went out, and five minutes later a large wagon

belonging to the military train, covered with a miller's till, galloped

off as fast as four horses could take it, under the pouring rain, and

the officers all seemed to awaken from their lethargy, their looks

brightened, and they began to talk.

Although it was raining as hard as ever, the major declared that it was

not so dull, and Lieutenant von Grossling said with conviction, that the

sky was clearing up, while Mademoiselle Fifi did not seem to be able to

keep in his place. He got up, and sat down again, and his bright eyes

seemed to be looking for something to destroy. Suddenly, looking at the

lady with the moustache, the young fellow pulled out his revolver, and

said: "You shall not see it." And without leaving his seat he aimed, and

with two successive bullets cut out both the eyes of the portrait.

"Let us make a mine!" he then exclaimed, and the conversation was

suddenly interrupted, as if they had found some fresh and powerful

subject of interest. The mine was his invention, his method of

destruction, and his favorite amusement.

When he left the château, the lawful owner, Count Fernand d'Amoys

d'Uville, had not had time to carry away or to hide anything, except the

plate, which had been stowed away in a hole made in one of the walls, so

that, as he was very rich and had good taste, the large drawing-room,

which opened into the dining-room, had looked like the gallery in a

museum, before his precipitate flight.

Expensive oil-paintings, water colors, and drawings hung against the

walls, while on the tables, on the hanging shelves, and in elegant glass

cupboards, there were a thousand knick-knacks; small vases, statuettes,

groups in Dresden china, and grotesque Chinese figures, old ivory, and

Venetian glass, which filled the large room with their precious and

fantastical array.

Scarcely anything was left now; not that the things had been stolen, for

the major would not have allowed that, but Mademoiselle Fifi _would have

a mine_, and on that occasion all the officers thoroughly enjoyed

themselves for five minutes. The little marquis went into the

drawing-room to get what he wanted, and he brought back a small,

delicate china teapot, which he filled with gunpowder, and carefully

introduced a piece of German tinder into it, through the spout. Then he

lighted it, and took this infernal machine into the next room; but he

came back immediately, and shut the door. The Germans all stood

expectantly, their faces full of childish, smiling curiosity, and as

soon as the explosion had shaken the château, they all rushed in at

once.

Mademoiselle Fifi, who got in first, clapped his hands in delight at the

sight of a terra-cotta Venus, whose head had been blown off, and each

picked up pieces of porcelain, and wondered at the strange shape of the

fragments, while the major was looking with a paternal eye at the large

drawing-room, which had been wrecked in such a Neronic fashion, and

which was strewn with the fragments of works of art. He went out first,

and said, with a smile: "He managed that very well!"

But there was such a cloud of smoke in the dining-room, mingled with the

tobacco smoke, that they could not breathe, so the commandant opened the

window, and all the officers, who had gone into the room for a glass of

cognac, went up to it.

The moist air blew into the room, and brought a sort of moist dust with

it, which powdered their beards. They looked at the tall trees, which

were dripping with the rain, at the broad valley, which was covered with

mist, and at the church spire in the distance, which rose up like a gray

point in the beating rain.

The bells had not rung since their arrival. That was the only resistance

which the invaders had met with in the neighborhood. The parish priest

had not refused to take in and to feed the Prussian soldiers; he had

several times even drunk a bottle of beer or claret with the hostile

commandant, who often employed him as a benevolent intermediary; but it

was no use to ask him for a single stroke of the bells; he would sooner

have allowed himself to be shot. That was his way of protesting against

the invasion, a peaceful and silent protest, the only one, he said,

which was suitable to a priest, who was a man of mildness and not of

blood; and everyone, for twenty-five miles around, praised Abbé

Chantavoine's firmness and heroism, in venturing to proclaim the public

morning by the obstinate silence of his church bells.

The whole village grew enthusiastic over his resistance, and was ready

to back up their pastor and to risk anything, as they looked upon that

silent protest as the safeguard of the national honor. It seemed to the

peasants that thus they had deserved better of their country than

Belfort and Strassburg, that they had set an equally valuable example,

and that the name of their little village would become immortalized by

that; but with that exception, they refused their Prussian conquerors

nothing.

The commandant and his officers laughed among themselves at that

inoffensive courage, and as the people in the whole country round showed

themselves obliging and compliant towards them, they willingly tolerated

their silent patriotism. Only little Baron Wilhelm would have liked to

have forced them to ring the bells. He was very angry at his superior's

politic compliance with the priest's scruples, and every day he begged

the commandant to allow him to sound "ding-dong, ding-dong," just once,

only just once, just by way of a joke. And he asked it like a wheedling

woman, in the tender voice of some mistress who wishes to obtain

something, but the commandant would not yield, and to console _herself_,

Mademoiselle Fifi made _a mine_ in the château.

The five men stood there together for some minutes, drawing in the moist

air, and at last, Lieutenant Fritz said, with a laugh: "The ladies will

certainly not have fine weather for their drive." Then they separated,

each to his own duties, while the captain had plenty to do in seeing

about the dinner.

When they met again, as it was growing dark, they began to laugh at

seeing each other as dandified and smart as on the day of a grand

review. The commandant's hair did not look so gray as it was in the

morning, and the captain had shaved, and had only kept his moustache

on, which made him look as if he had a streak of fire under his nose.

In spite of the rain, they left the window open, and one of them went to

listen from time to time, and at a quarter past six the baron said he

heard a rumbling in the distance. They all rushed down, and soon the

wagon drove up at a gallop with its four horses, which were splashed up

to their backs, steaming and panting, and five women got out at the

bottom of the steps, five handsome girls whom a comrade of the captain,

to whom _Le Devoir_ had taken his card, had selected with care.

They had not required much pressing, as they were sure of being well

paid, for they had got to know the Prussians in the three months during

which they had had to do with them, and so they resigned themselves to

the men as they did the state of affairs. "It is a part of our business,

so it must be done," they said as they drove along; no doubt to allay

some slight, secret scruples of conscience.

They went into the dining-room immediately, which looked still more

dismal in its dilapidated state, when it was lighted up; while the

table, covered with choice dishes, the beautiful china and glass, and

the plate, which had been found in the hole in the wall where its owner

had hidden it, gave the look of a bandit's inn, where they were supping

after committing a robbery, to the place. The captain was radiant, and

took hold of the women as if he were familiar with them; appraising

them, kissing them, sniffing them, valuing them for what they were worth

as _ladies of pleasure_; and when the three young men wanted to

appropriate one each, he opposed them authoritatively, reserving to

himself the right to apportion them justly, according to their several

ranks, so as not to wound the hierarchy. Therefore, so as to avoid all

discussion, jarring, and suspicion of partiality, he placed them all in

a line according to height, and addressing the tallest, he said in a

voice of command:

"What is your name?" "Pamela," she replied, raising her voice. And then

he said: "Number one, called Pamela, is adjudged to the commandant."

Then, having kissed Blondina, the second, as a sign of proprietorship,

he proffered stout Amanda to Lieutenant Otto, Eva, _the Tomato_, to

Sub-Lieutenant Fritz, and Rachel, the shortest of them all, a very

young, dark girl, with eyes as black as ink, a Jewess, whose snub nose

confirmed the rule which allots hooked noses to all her race, to the

youngest officer, frail Count Wilhelm d'Eyrick.

They were all pretty and plump, without any distinctive features, and

all were very much alike in look and person, from their daily practice

of love, and their life in common in houses of public accommodation.

The three younger men wished to carry off their women immediately, under

the pretext of finding them brushes and soap; but the captain wisely

opposed this, for he said they were quite fit to sit down to dinner, and

that those who went up would wish for a change when they came down, and

so would disturb the other couples, and his experience in such matters

carried the day. There were only many kisses; expectant kisses.

Suddenly Rachel choked, and began to cough until the tears came into her

eyes, while smoke came through her nostrils. Under pretense of kissing

her, the count had blown a whiff of tobacco into her mouth. She did not

fly into a rage, and did not say a word, but she looked at her possessor

with latent hatred in her dark eyes.

They sat down to dinner. The commandant seemed delighted; he made Pamela

sit on his right, and Blondina on his left, and said, as he unfolded his

table napkin: "That was a delightful idea of yours, Captain."

Lieutenants Otto and Fritz, who were as polite as if they had been with

fashionable ladies, rather intimidated their neighbors, but Baron von

Kelweinstein gave the reins to all his vicious propensities, beamed,

made obscene remarks, and seemed on fire with his crown of red hair. He

paid them compliments in French from the other side of the Rhine, and

sputtered out gallant remarks, only fit for a low pot-house, from

between his two broken teeth.

They did not understand him, however, and their intelligence did not

seem to be awakened until he uttered nasty words and broad expressions,

which were mangled by his accent. Then all began to laugh at once, like

mad women, and fell against each other, repeating the words, which the

baron then began to say all wrong, in order that he might have the

pleasure of hearing them say dirty things. They gave him as much of that

stuff as he wanted, for they were drunk after the first bottle of wine,

and, becoming themselves once more, and opening the door to their usual

habits, they kissed the moustaches on the right and left of them,

pinched their arms, uttered furious cries, drank out of every glass, and

sang French couplets, and bits of German songs, which they had picked up

in their daily intercourse with the enemy.

Soon the men themselves, intoxicated by that female flesh which was

displayed to their sight and touch, grew very amorous, shouted and

broke the plates and dishes, while the soldiers behind them waited on

them stolidly. The commandant was the only one who put any restraint

upon himself.

Mademoiselle Fifi had taken Rachel onto his knees, and, getting excited,

at one moment kissed the little black curls on her neck, inhaling the

pleasant warmth of her body, and all the savor of her person, through

the slight space there was between her dress and her skin, and at

another he pinched her furiously through the material, and made her

scream, for he was seized by a species of ferocity, and tormented by his

desire, to hurt her. He often held her close to him, as if to make her

part of himself, and put his lips in a long kiss on the Jewess's rosy

mouth, until she lost her breath; and at last he bit her until a stream

of blood ran down her chin and onto her bodice.

For the second time, she looked him full in the face, and as she bathed

the wound, she said: "You will have to pay for that!" But he merely

laughed a hard laugh, and said: "I will pay."

At dessert, champagne was served, and the commandant rose, and in the

same voice in which he would have drunk to the health of the Empress

Augusta, he drank: "To our ladies!" And a series of toasts began, toasts

worthy of the lowest soldiers and of drunkards, mingled with obscene

jokes, which were made still more brutal by their ignorance of the

language. They got up, one after another, trying to say something witty,

forcing themselves to be funny, and the women, who were so drunk that

they almost fell off their chairs, with vacant looks and clammy tongues,

applauded madly each time.

The captain, who no doubt wished to impart an appearance of gallantry to

the orgy, raised his glass again, and said: "To our victories over

hearts!" And thereupon Lieutenant Otto, who was a species of bear from

the Black Forest, jumped up, inflamed and saturated with drink, and

suddenly seized by an excess of alcoholic patriotism, he cried: "To our

victories over France!"

Drunk as they were, the women were silent, and Rachel turned round with

a shudder, and said: "Look here, I know some Frenchmen, in whose

presence you would not dare to say that." But the little count, still

holding her on his knee, began to laugh, for the wine had made him very

merry, and said: "Ha! ha! ha! I have never met any of them, myself. As

soon as we show ourselves, they run away!" The girl, who was in a

terrible rage, shouted into his face: "You are lying, you dirty

scoundrel!"

For a moment, he looked at her steadily with his bright eyes upon her,

like he had looked at the portrait before he destroyed it with revolver

bullets, and then he began to laugh: "Ah! yes, talk about them, my dear!

Should we be here now, if they were brave?" And getting excited, he

exclaimed: "We are the masters! France belongs to us!" She jumped off

his knees with a bound, and threw herself into her chair, while he rose,

held out his glass over the table, and repeated: "France and the French,

the woods, the fields, and the houses of France belong to us!"

The others, who were quite drunk, and who were suddenly seized by

military enthusiasm, the enthusiasm of brutes, seized their glasses, and

shouting: "Long live Prussia!" they emptied them at a draught.

The girls did not protest, for they were reduced to silence, and were

afraid. Even Rachel did not say a word, as she had no reply to make, and

then, the little marquis put his champagne glass, which had just been

refilled, onto the head of the Jewess, and exclaimed: "All the women in

France belong to us, also!"

At that, she got up so quickly that the glass upset and poured

the amber-colored wine onto her black hair as if to baptize her,

and broke into a hundred fragments, as it fell onto the floor. With

trembling lips, she defied the looks of the officer who was still

laughing, and she stammered out, in a voice choked with rage:

"That ... that ... that ... is not true for you shall certainly not

have any French women."

He sat down again, so as to laugh at his ease, and trying ineffectually

to speak in the Parisian accent, he said: "That is good, very good!

Then, what did you come here for, my dear?" She was thunderstruck, and

made no reply for a moment, for in her agitation she did not understand

him at first; but as soon as she grasped his meaning, she said to him

indignantly and vehemently: "I! I! I am not a woman; I am only a

strumpet, and that is all that Prussians want."

Almost before she had finished, he slapped her full in the face; but as

he was raising his hand again, as if he would strike her, she, almost

mad with passion, took up a small dessert knife with a silver blade from

the table, and stabbed him in the neck, just above the breast bone.

Something that he was going to say was cut short in his throat, and he

sat there, with his mouth half open, and a terrible look in his eyes.

All the officers shouted in horror, and leaped up tumultuously; but

throwing her chair between Lieutenant Otto's legs, who fell down at

full length, she ran to the window, opened it before they could seize

her, and jumped out into the night and pouring rain.

In two minutes, Mademoiselle Fifi was dead, and Fritz and Otto drew

their swords and wanted to kill the women, who threw themselves at their

feet and clung to their knees. With some difficulty the major stopped

the slaughter, and had the four terrified girls locked up in a room

under the care of two soldiers, and then he organized the pursuit of the

fugitive, as carefully as if they were about to engage in a skirmish,

feeling quite sure that she would be caught.

The table, which had been cleared immediately, now served as a bed on

which to lay him out, and the four officers stood at the windows, rigid

and sobered, with the stern faces of soldiers on duty, and tried to

pierce through the darkness of the night, amid the steady torrent of

rain. Suddenly, a shot was heard, and then another, a long way off; and

for four hours they heard from time to time near or distant reports and

rallying cries, strange words uttered as a call, in guttural voices.

In the morning they all returned. Two soldiers had been killed, and

three others wounded by their comrades in the ardor of that chase, and

in the confusion of such a nocturnal pursuit, but they had not caught

Rachel.

Then the inhabitants of the district were terrorized, the houses were

turned topsy-turvy, the country was scoured and beaten up, over and over

again, but the Jewess did not seem to have left a single trace of her

passage behind her.

When the general was told of it, he gave orders to hush up the affair,

so as not to set a bad example to the army, but he severely censured

the commandant, who in turned punished his inferiors. The general had

said: "One does not go to war in order to amuse oneself, and to caress

prostitutes." And Graf von Farlsberg, in his exasperation, made up his

mind to have his revenge on the district, but as he required a pretext

for showing severity, he sent for the priest, and ordered him to have

the bell tolled at the funeral of Baron von Eyrick.

Contrary to all expectation, the priest showed himself humble and most

respectful, and when Mademoiselle Fifi's body left the Château d'Ville

on its way to the cemetery, carried by soldiers, preceded, surrounded,

and followed by soldiers, who marched with loaded rifles, for the first

time, the bell sounded its funereal knell in a lively manner, as if a

friendly hand were caressing it. At night it sounded again, and the next

day, and every day; it rang as much as any one could desire. Sometimes

even, it would start at night, and sound gently through the darkness,

seized by strange joy, awakened, one could not tell why. All the

peasants in the neighborhood declared that it was bewitched, and nobody,

except the priest and the sacristan would now go near the church tower,

and they went because a poor girl was living there in grief and

solitude, and secretly nourished by those two men.

She remained there until the German troops departed, and then one

evening the priest borrowed the baker's cart, and himself drove his

prisoner to Rouen. When they got there, he embraced her, and she quickly

went back on foot to the establishment from which she had come, where

the proprietress, who thought that she was dead, was very glad to see

her.

A short time afterwards, a patriot who had no prejudices, and who liked

her because of her bold deed, and who afterwards loved her for herself,

married her, and made a lady of her, who was quite as good as many

others.

THE STORY OF A FARM-GIRL

PART I

As the weather was very fine, the people on the farm had dined more

speedily than usual, and had returned to the fields.

The female servant, Rose, remained alone in the large kitchen, where the

fire on the hearth was dying out, under the large boiler of hot water.

From time to time she took some water out of it, and slowly washed her

plates and dishes, stopping occasionally to look at the two streaks of

light which the sun threw onto the long table through the window, and

which showed the defects in the glass.

Three venturesome hens were picking up the crumbs under the chairs,

while the smell of the poultry yard, and the warmth from the cow-stall

came in through the half-open door, and a cock was heard crowing in the

distance.

When she had finished her work, wiped down the table, dusted the

mantel-piece, and put the plates onto the high dresser, close to the

wooden clock, with its enormous _tic-tac_, she drew a long breath, as

she felt rather oppressed, without exactly knowing why. She looked at

the black clay walls, the rafters that were blackened with smoke, from

which spiders' webs were hanging, amid pickled herrings and strings of

onions, and then she sat down, rather overcome by the stale emanations

which the floor, onto which so many things had been continually spilt,

gave out. With this, there was mingled the pungent smell of the pans of

milk, which were set out to raise the cream in the adjoining dairy.

She wanted to sew, as usual, but she did not feel strong enough for it,

and so she went to get a mouthful of fresh air at the door, which seemed

to do her good.

The fowls were lying on the smoking dung-hill; some of them were

scratching with one claw in search of worms, while the cock stood up

proudly among them. Every moment he selected one of them, and walked

round her with a slight cluck of amorous invitation. The hen got up in a

careless way as she received his attentions, and only supported herself

on her legs and spread out her wings; then she shook her feathers to

shake out the dust, and stretched herself out on the dung-hill again,

while he crowed, in sign of triumph, and the cocks in all the

neighboring farmyards replied to him, as if they were uttering amorous

challenges from farm to farm.

The girl looked at them without thinking, and then she raised her eyes

and was almost dazzled at the sight of the apple-trees in blossom, which

looked almost like powdered heads. But just then, a colt, full of life

and friskiness, galloped past her. Twice he jumped over the ditches, and

then stopped suddenly, as if surprised at being alone.

She also felt inclined to run; she felt inclined to move and to stretch

her limbs, and to repose in the warm, breathless air. She took a few

undecided steps, and closed her eyes, for she was seized with a feeling

of animal comfort; and then she went to look for the eggs in the hen

loft. There were thirteen of them, which she took in and put into the

store-room; but the smell from the kitchen incommoded her again, and

she went out to sit on the grass for a time.

The farmyard, which was surrounded by trees, seemed to be asleep. The

tall grass, among which the tall yellow dandelions rose up like streaks

of yellow light, was of a vivid green, fresh spring green. The

apple-trees threw their shade all round them, and the thatched houses,

on which the blue and yellow iris flowers with their swordlike leaves

grew, smoked as if the moisture of the stables and barns were coming

through the straw.

The girl went to the shed where the carts and traps were kept. Close to

it, in a ditch, there was a large patch of violets, whose scent was

perceptible all round, while beyond it, the open country could be seen

where the corn was growing, with clumps of trees in the distance, and

groups of laborers here and there, who looked as small as dolls, and

white horses like toys, who were pulling a child's cart, driven by a man

as tall as one's finger.

She took up a bundle of straw, and threw it into the ditch and sat down

upon it; then, not feeling comfortable, she undid it, spread it out and

lay down upon it at full length, on her back, with both arms under her

head, and her legs stretched out.

Gradually her eyes closed, and she was falling into a state of

delightful languor. She was, in fact, almost asleep, when she felt two

hands on her bosom, and then she sprang up at a bound. It was Jacques,

one of the farm laborers, a tall fellow from Picardy, who had been

making love to her for a long time. He had been looking after the sheep,

and seeing her lying down in the shade, he had come stealthily, and

holding his breath, with glistening eyes, and bits of straw in his hair.

He tried to kiss her, but she gave him a smack in the face, for she was

as strong as he, and he was shrewd enough to beg her pardon; so they sat

down side by side and talked amicably. They spoke about the favorable

weather, of their master, who was a good fellow, then of their

neighbors, of all the people in the country round, of themselves, of

their village, of their youthful days, of their recollections, of their

relations, who had left them for a long time, and it might be for ever.

She grew sad as she thought of it, while he, with one fixed idea in his

head, rubbed against her with a kind of a shiver, overcome by desire.

"I have not seen my mother for a long time," she said. "It is very hard

to be separated like that." And she directed her looks into the

distance, towards the village in the North, which she had left.

Suddenly, however, he seized her by the neck and kissed her again; but

she struck him so violently in the face with her clenched fist, that his

nose began to bleed, and he got up and laid his head against the stem of

a tree. When she saw that, she was sorry, and going up to him, she said:

"Have I hurt you?" He, however, only laughed. "No, it was a mere

nothing;" only, she had hit him right on the middle of the nose. "What a

devil!" he said, and he looked at her with admiration, for she had

inspired him with a feeling of respect and of a very different kind of

admiration, which was the beginning of real love for that tall, strong

wench.

When the bleeding had stopped, he proposed a walk, as he was afraid of

his neighbor's heavy hand, if they remained side by side like that much

longer; but she took his arm of her own accord, in the avenue, as if

they had been out for an evening walk, and said: "It is not nice of you

to despise me like that, Jacques." He protested, however. No, he did not

despise her. He was in love with her, that was all. "So you really want

to marry me?" she asked.

He hesitated, and then looked at her aside, while she looked straight

ahead of her. She had fat, red cheeks, a full, protuberant bust under

her muslin dress, thick, red lips, and her neck, which was almost bare,

was covered with small beads of perspiration. He felt a fresh access of

desire, and putting his lips to her ear, he murmured: "Yes, of course I

do."

Then she threw her arms round his neck, and kissed for such a long time

that they both of them lost their breath. From that moment the eternal

story of love began between them. They plagued one another in corners;

they met in the moonlight under a haystack, and gave each other bruises

on the legs with their heavy nailed boots. By degrees, however, Jacques

seemed to grow tired of her; he avoided her; scarcely spoke to her, and

did not try any longer to meet her alone, which made her sad and

anxious; and soon she found that she was pregnant.

At first, she was in a state of consternation, but then she got angry,

and her rage increased every day, because she could not meet him, as he

avoided her most carefully. At last, one night when everyone in the

farmhouse was asleep, she went out noiselessly in her petticoat, with

bare feet, crossed the yard and opened the door of the stable, where

Jacques was lying in a large box of straw, over his horses. He pretended

to snore when he heard her coming, but she knelt down by his side and

shook him until he sat up.

"What do you want?" he then asked her. And she, with clenched teeth, and

trembling with anger, replied: "I want ... I want you to marry me, as

you promised." But he only laughed, and replied: "Oh! If a man were to

marry all the girls with whom he has made a slip, he would have more

than enough to do."

Then she seized him by the throat, threw him onto his back, so that he

could not disengage himself from her, and half strangling him, she

shouted into his face: "I am in the family way! Do you hear? I am in the

family way?"

He gasped for breath, as he was nearly choked, and so they remained,

both of them, motionless and without speaking, in the dark silence,

which was only broken by the noise that a horse made as he pulled the

hay out of the manger, and then slowly chewed it.

When Jacques found that she was the stronger, he stammered out: "Very

well, I will marry you, as that is the case." But she did not believe

his promises. "It must be at once," she said. "You must have the banns

put up." "At once," he replied. "Swear solemnly that you will." He

hesitated for a few moments, and then said: "I swear it, by heaven."

Then she released her grasp, and went away, without another word.

She had no chance of speaking to him for several days, and as the stable

was now always locked at night, she was afraid to make any noise, for

fear of creating a scandal. One morning, however, she saw another man

come in at dinner-time, and so she said: "Has Jacques left?" "Yes," the

man replied; "I have got his place."

This made her tremble so violently that she could not take the saucepan

off the fire; and later when they were all at work, she went up into her

room and cried, burying her head in her bolster, so that she might not

be heard. During the day, however, she tried to obtain some information

without exciting any suspicions, but she was so overwhelmed by the

thoughts of her misfortune, that she fancied that all the people whom

she asked, laughed maliciously. All she learned, however, was, that he

had left the neighborhood altogether.

PART II

Then a cloud of constant misery began for her. She worked mechanically,

without thinking of what she was doing, with one fixed idea in her head:

"Suppose people were to know."

This continual feeling made her so incapable of reasoning, that she did

not even try to think of any means of avoiding the disgrace that she

knew must ensue, which was irreparable, and drawing nearer every day,

and which was as sure as death itself. She got up every morning long

before the others, and persistently tried to look at her figure in a

piece of broken looking-glass at which she did her hair, as she was very

anxious to know whether anybody would notice a change in her, and during

the day she stopped working every few minutes to look at herself from

top to toe, to see whether the size of her stomach did not make her

apron look too short.

The months went on, and she scarcely spoke now, and when she was asked

a question, she did not appear to understand, but she had a frightened

look, with haggard eyes and trembling hands, which made her master say

to her occasionally: "My poor girl, how stupid you have grown lately."

In church, she hid behind a pillar, and no longer ventured to go to

confession, as she feared to face the priest, to whom she attributed

superhuman powers, which enabled him to read people's consciences; and

at meal times, the looks of her fellow servants almost made her faint

with mental agony, and she was always fancying that she had been found

out by the cowherd, a precocious and cunning little lad, whose bright

eyes seemed always to be watching her.

One morning the postman brought her a letter, and as she had never

received one in her life before, she was so upset by it that she was

obliged to sit down. Perhaps it was from him? But as she could not read,

she sat anxious and trembling, with that piece of paper covered with ink

in her hand; after a time, however, she put it into her pocket, as she

did not venture to confide her secret to anyone. She often stopped in

her work to look at those lines written at regular intervals, and which

terminated in a signature, imagining vaguely that she would suddenly

discover their meaning, until at last, as she felt half mad with

impatience and anxiety, she went to the schoolmaster, who told her to

sit down, and read to her, as follows:

MY DEAR DAUGHTER: I write to tell you that I am very ill. Our

neighbor, Monsieur Dentu, begs you to come, if you can. For your

affectionate mother,

CESAIRE DENTU,

DEPUTY MAYOR.

She did not say a word, and went away, but as soon as she was alone,

her legs gave way, and she fell down by the roadside, and remained there

till night.

When she got back, she told the farmer her trouble, who allowed her to

go home for as long as she wanted, and promised to have her work done by

a char-woman, and to take her back when she returned.

Her mother died soon after she got there, and the next day Rose gave

birth to a seven months' child, a miserable little skeleton, thin enough

to make anybody shudder, and which seemed to be suffering continually,

to judge from the painful manner in which it moved its poor little hands

about, which were as thin as a crab's legs, but it lived, for all that.

She said that she was married, but that she could not saddle herself

with the child, so she left it with some neighbors, who promised to take

great care of it, and she went back to the farm.

But then, in her heart, which had been wounded so long, there arose

something like brightness, an unknown love for that frail little

creature which she had left behind her, but there was fresh suffering in

that very love, suffering which she felt every hour and every minute,

because she was parted from her child. What pained her most, however,

was a mad longing to kiss it, to press it in her arms, to feel the

warmth of its little body against her skin. She could not sleep at

night; she thought of it the whole day long, and in the evening, when

her work was done, she used to sit in front of the fire and look at it

intently, like people do whose thoughts are far away.

They began to talk about her, and to tease her about her lover. They

asked her whether he was tall, handsome and rich. When was the wedding

to be, and the christening? And often she ran away, to cry by herself,

for these questions seemed to hurt her, like the prick of a pin, and in

order to forget their jokes, she began to work still more energetically,

and still thinking of her child, she sought for the means of saving up

money for it, and determined to work so that her master would be obliged

to raise her wages.

Then, by degrees, she almost monopolized the work, and persuaded him to

get rid of one servant girl, who had become useless since she had taken

to working like two; she economized in the bread, oil and candles, in

the corn, which they gave to the fowls too extravagantly, and in the

fodder for the horses and cattle, which was rather wasted. She was as

miserly about her master's money, as if it had been her own, and by dint

of making good bargains, of getting high prices for all their produce,

and by baffling the peasants' tricks when they offered anything for

sale, he at last entrusted her with buying and selling everything, with

the direction of all the laborers, and with the quantity of provisions

necessary for the household, so that in a short time she became

indispensable to him. She kept such a strict eye on everything about

her, that under her direction the farm prospered wonderfully, and for

five miles round people talked of "Master Vallin's servant," and the

farmer himself said everywhere: "That girl is worth more than her weight

in gold."

But time passed by, and her wages remained the same. Her hard work was

accepted as something that was due from every good servant, and as a

mere token of her good-will; and she began to think rather bitterly,

that if the farmer could put fifty or a hundred crowns extra into the

bank every month, thanks to her, she was still only earning her two

hundred francs a year, neither more nor less, and so she made up her

mind to ask for an increase of wages. She went to see the schoolmaster

three times about it, but when she got there, she spoke about something

else. She felt a kind of modesty in asking for money, as if it was

something disgraceful; but at last, one day, when the farmer was having

breakfast by himself in the kitchen, she said to him, with some

embarrassment, that she wished to speak to him particularly. He raised

his head in surprise, with both his hands on the table, holding his

knife, with its point in the air, in one, and a piece of bread in the

other, and he looked fixedly at the girl, who felt uncomfortable under

his gaze, but asked for a week's holiday, so that she might get away, as

she was not very well. He acceded to her request immediately, and then

added, in some embarrassment, himself:

"When you come back, I shall have something to say to you, myself."

PART III

The child was nearly eight months old, and she did not know it again. It

had grown rosy and chubby all over like a little bundle of living fat.

She threw herself onto it as if it had been some prey, and kissed it so

violently that it began to scream with terror, and then she began to cry

herself, because it did not know her, and stretched out its arms to its

nurse, as soon as it saw her. But the next day, it began to get used to

her, and laughed when it saw her, and she took it into the fields and

ran about excitedly with it, and sat down under the shade of the trees,

and then, for the first time in her life, she opened her heart to

somebody, and told him her troubles, how hard her work was, her

anxieties and her hopes, and she quite tired the child with the violence

of her caresses.

She took the greatest pleasure in handling it, in washing and dressing

it, for it seemed to her that all this was the confirmation of her

maternity, and she would look at it, almost feeling surprised that it

was hers, and she used to say to herself in a low voice, as she danced

it in her arms: "It is my baby, it is my baby."

She cried all the way home as she returned to the farm, and had scarcely

got in, before her master called her into his room, and she went,

feeling astonished and nervous, without knowing why.

"Sit down there," he said. She sat down, and for some moments they

remained side by side, in some embarrassment, with their arms hanging at

their sides, as if they did not know what to do with them, and looking

each other in the face, after the manner of peasants.

The farmer, a stout, jovial, obstinate man of forty-five, who had lost

two wives, evidently felt embarrassed, which was very unusual with him,

but at last he made up his mind, and began to speak vaguely, hesitating

a little, and looking out of the window as he talked. "How is it, Rose,"

he said, "that you have never thought of settling in life?" She grew as

pale as death, and seeing that she gave him no answer, he went on: "You

are a good, steady, active and economical girl, and a wife like you

would make a man's fortune."

She did not move, but looked frightened; she did not even try to

comprehend his meaning, for her thoughts were in a whirl, as if at the

approach of some great danger; so after waiting for a few seconds, he

went on: "You see, a farm without a mistress can never succeed, even

with a servant like you are." Then he stopped, for he did not know what

else to say, and Rose looked at him with the air of a person who thinks

that he is face to face with a murderer, and ready to flee at the

slightest movement he may make; but after waiting for about five

minutes, he asked her: "Well, will it suit you?" "Will what suit me,

master?" And he said, quickly: "Why, to marry me, by Jove!"

She jumped up, but fell back onto her chair as if she had been struck,

and there she remained motionless, like a person who is overwhelmed by

some great misfortune, but at last the farmer grew impatient, and said:

"Come, what more do you want?" She looked at him almost in terror; then

suddenly the tears came into her eyes, and she said twice, in a choking

voice: "I cannot, I cannot!" "Why not?" he asked. "Come, don't be silly;

I will give you until to-morrow to think it over."

And he hurried out of the room, very glad to have got the matter, which

had troubled him a good deal, over; for he had no doubt that she would

the next morning accept a proposal which she could never have expected,

and which would be a capital bargain for him, as he thus bound a woman

to himself who would certainly bring him more than if she had the best

dowry in the district.

Neither could there be any scruples about an unequal match between them,

for in the country everyone is very nearly equal; the farmer works just

like his laborers do, who frequently become masters in their turn, and

the female servants constantly become the mistresses of the

establishments, without its making any change in their lives or habits.

Rose did not go to bed that night. She threw herself, dressed as she

was, onto her bed, and she had not even the strength to cry left in her,

she was so thoroughly dumbfounded. She remained quite inert, scarcely

knowing that she had a body, and without being at all able to collect

her thoughts, though at moments she remembered some of what had

happened, and then she was frightened at the idea of what might happen.

Her terror increased, and every time the great kitchen clock struck the

hour she broke into a perspiration from grief. She lost her head, and

had the nightmare; her candle went out, and then she began to imagine

that someone had thrown a spell over her, like country people so often

fancy, and she felt a mad inclination to run away, to escape and to flee

before her misfortune, like a ship scuds before the wind.

An owl hooted, and she shivered, sat up, put her hands to her face, into

her hair, and all over her body, and then she went downstairs, as if she

were walking in her sleep. When she got into the yard, she stooped down,

so as not to be seen by any prowling scamp, for the moon, which was

setting, shed a bright light over the fields. Instead of opening the

gate, she scrambled over the fence, and as soon as she was outside, she

started off. She went on straight before her, with a quick, elastic

trot, and from time to time, she unconsciously uttered a piercing cry.

Her long shadow accompanied her, and now and then some night bird flew

over her head, while the dogs in the farmyards barked, as they heard her

pass; one even jumped over the ditch and followed her and tried to bite

her, but she turned round at it, and gave such a terrible yell, that the

frightened animal ran back and cowered in silence in its kennel.

The stars grew dim, and the birds began to twitter; day was breaking.

The girl was worn out and panting, and when the sun rose in the purple

sky, she stopped, for her swollen feet refused to go any further; but

she saw a pond in the distance, a large pond whose stagnant water looked

like blood under the reflection of this new day, and she limped on with

short steps and with her hand on her heart, in order to dip both her

legs in it. She sat down on a tuft of grass, took off her heavy shoes,

which were full of dust, pulled off her stockings and plunged her legs

into the still water, from which bubbles were rising here and there.

A feeling of delicious coolness pervaded her from head to foot, and

suddenly, while she was looking fixedly at the deep pool, she was seized

with giddiness, and with a mad longing to throw herself into it. All her

sufferings would be over in there; over for ever. She no longer thought

of her child; she only wanted peace, complete rest, and to sleep for

ever, and she got up with raised arms and took two steps forward. She

was in the water up to her thighs, and she was just about to throw

herself in, when sharp, pricking pains in her ankles made her jump back,

and she uttered a cry of despair, for, from her knees to the tips of her

feet, long, black leeches were sucking in her life blood, and were

swelling, as they adhered to her flesh. She did not dare to touch them,

and screamed with horror, so that her cries of despair attracted a

peasant, who was driving along at some distance, to the spot. He pulled

off the leeches one by one, applied herbs to the wounds, and drove the

girl to her master's farm, in his gig.

She was in bed for a fortnight, and as she was sitting outside the door

on the first morning that she got up, the farmer suddenly came and

planted himself before her. "Well," he said, "I suppose the affair is

settled, isn't it?" She did not reply at first, and then, as he remained

standing and looking at her intently with his piercing eyes, she said

with difficulty: "No, master, I cannot." But he immediately flew into a

rage.

"You cannot, girl; you cannot? I should just like to know the reason

why?" She began to cry, and repeated: "I cannot." He looked at her and

then exclaimed, angrily: "Then, I suppose you have a lover?" "Perhaps

that is it," she replied, trembling with shame.

The man got as red as a poppy, and stammered out in a rage: "Ah! So you

confess it, you slut! And pray, who is the fellow? Some penniless,

half-starved rag-a-muffin, without a roof to his head, I suppose? Who is

it, I say?" And as she gave him no answer, he continued: "Ah! So you

will not tell me. Then I will tell you; it is Jean Bauda?" "No, not he,"

she exclaimed. "Then it is Pierre Martin?" "Oh, no, master."

And he angrily mentioned all the young fellows in the neighborhood,

while she denied that he had hit upon the right one, and every moment

wiped her eyes with the corner of her big blue apron. But he still tried

to find it out, with his brutish obstinacy, and, as it were, scratched

her heart to discover her secret, just like a terrier scratches at a

hole, to try and get at the animal which he scents in it. Suddenly,

however, the man shouted: "By George! It is Jacques, the man who was

here last year. They used to say that you were always talking together,

and that you thought about getting married."

Rose was choking, and she grew scarlet, while her tears suddenly

stopped, and dried up on her cheeks, like drops of water on hot iron,

and she exclaimed: "No, it is not he, it is not he!" "Is that really a

fact?" the cunning peasant, who partly guessed the truth, asked; and she

replied, hastily: "I will swear it; I will swear it to you...." She

tried to think of something by which to swear, as she did not venture to

invoke sacred things, but he interrupted her: "At any rate, he used to

follow you into every corner, and devoured you with his eyes at meal

times. Did you ever give him your promise, eh?"

This time she looked her master straight in the face. "No, never, never;

I will solemnly swear to you, that if he were to come to-day and ask me

to marry him, I would have nothing to do with him." She spoke with such

an air of sincerity that the farmer hesitated, and then he continued, as

if speaking to himself: "What, then? You have not had _a misfortune_, as

they call it, or it would have been known, and as it has no

consequences, no girl would refuse her master on that account. There

must be something at the bottom of it, however."

She could say nothing; she had not the strength to speak, and he asked

her again: "You will not?" "I cannot, master," she said, with a sigh,

and he turned on his heel.

She thought she had got rid of him altogether, and spent the rest of

the day almost tranquilly, but as worn out as if she had been turning

the threshing machine all day, instead of the old white horse, and she

went to bed as soon as she could, and fell asleep immediately. In the

middle of the night, however, two hands touching the bed, woke her. She

trembled with fear, but she immediately recognized the farmer's voice,

when he said to her: "Don't be frightened, Rose; I have come to speak to

you." She was surprised at first, but when he tried to take liberties

with her, she understood what he wanted, and began to tremble violently,

as she felt quite alone in the darkness, still heavy from sleep, and

quite unprotected, by the side of that man, who stood near her. She

certainly did not consent, but she resisted carelessly, herself

struggling against that instinct which is always strong in simple

natures, and very imperfectly protected, by the undecided will of inert

and feeble natures. She turned her head now to the wall, and now towards

the room, in order to avoid the attentions which the farmer tried to

press on her, and her body writhed a little under the coverlet, as she

was weakened by the fatigue of the struggle, while he became brutal,

intoxicated by desire.

They lived together as man and wife, and one morning he said to her: "I

have put up our banns, and we will get married next month."

She did not reply, for what could she say? She did not resist, for what

could she do?

PART IV

She married him. She felt as if she were in a pit with inaccessible

edges, from which she could never get out, and all kinds of misfortunes

remained hanging over her head, like huge rocks, which would fall on the

first occasion. Her husband gave her the impression of a man whom she

had stolen, and who would find it out some day or other. And then she

thought of her child, who was the cause of her misfortunes, but who was

also the cause of all her happiness on earth, and whom she went to see

twice a year, though she came back more unhappy each time. But she

gradually grew accustomed to her life, her fears were allayed, her heart

was at rest, and she lived with an easier mind, though still with some

vague fear floating in her mind, and so years went on, and the child was

six. She was almost happy now, when suddenly the farmer's temper grew

very bad.

For two or three years he seemed to have been nursing some secret

anxiety, to be trouble by some care, some mental disturbance, which was

gradually increasing. He remained at table a long time after dinner,

with his head in his hands, sad and devoured by sorrow. He always spoke

hastily, sometimes even brutally, and it even seemed as if he bore a

grudge against his wife, for at times he answered her roughly, almost

angrily.

One day, when a neighbor's boy came for some eggs, and she spoke very

crossly to him, as she was very busy, her husband suddenly came in, and

said to her in his unpleasant voice: "If that were your own child you

would not treat him so." She was hurt, and did not reply, and then she

went back into the house, with all her grief awakened afresh, and at

dinner, the farmer neither spoke to her, nor looked at her, and he

seemed to hate her, to despise her, to know something about the affair

at last. In consequence, she lost her head, and did not venture to

remain alone with him after the meal was over, but she left the room

and hastened to the church.

It was getting dusk; the narrow nave was in total darkness, but she

heard footsteps in the choir, for the sacristan was preparing the

tabernacle lamp for the night. That spot of trembling light, which was

lost in the darkness of the arches, looked to Rose like her last hope,

and with her eyes fixed on it, she fell on her knees. The chain rattled

as the little lamp swung up into the air, and almost immediately the

small bell rang out the _Angelus_ through the increasing mist. She went

up to him, as he was going out.

"Is Monsieur le Curé at home?" she asked. "Of course he is; this is his

dinner-time." She trembled as she rang the bell of the parsonage. The

priest was just sitting down to dinner, and he made her sit down also.

"Yes, yes, I know all about it; your husband has mentioned the matter to

me that brings you here." The poor woman nearly fainted, and the priest

continued: "What do you want, my child?" And he hastily swallowed

several spoonfuls of soup, some of which dropped onto his greasy

cassock. But Rose did not venture to say anything more, and she got up

to go, but the priest said: "Courage...."

And she went out, and returned to the farm, without knowing what she was

doing. The farmer was waiting for her, as the laborers had gone away

during her absence, and she fell heavily at his feet, and shedding a

flood of tears, she said to him: "What have you got against me?"

He began to shout and to swear: "What have I got against you? That I

have no children by ----! When a man takes a wife, he does not want to be

left alone with her until the end of his days. That is what I have

against you. When a cow has no calves, she is not worth anything, and

when a woman has no children, she is also not worth anything."

She began to cry, and said: "It is not my fault! It is not my fault!" He

grew rather more gentle when he heard that, and added: "I do not say

that it is, but it is very annoying, all the same."

PART V

From that day forward, she had only one thought; to have a child,

another child; she confided her wish to everybody, and in consequence of

this, a neighbor told her of an infallible method. This was, to make her

husband a glass of water with a pinch of ashes in it, every evening. The

farmer consented to try it, but without success; so they said to each

other: "Perhaps there are some secret ways?" And they tried to find out.

They were told of a shepherd who lived ten leagues off, and so Vallin

one day drove off to consult him. The shepherd gave him a loaf on which

he had made some marks; it was kneaded up with herbs, and both of them

were to eat a piece of it before and after their mutual caresses: but

they ate the whole loaf without obtaining any results from it.

Next, a schoolmaster unveiled mysteries, and processes of love which

were unknown in the country, but, infallible, so he declared; but none

of them had the desired effect. Then the priest advised them to make a

pilgrimage to the shrine at Fécamp. Rose went with the crowd and

prostrated herself in the abbey, and mingling her prayers with the

coarse wishes of the peasants around her, she prayed that she might be

fruitful a second time; but it was in vain, and then she thought that

she was being punished for her first fault, and she was seized by

terrible grief. She was wasting away with sorrow; her husband was also

aging prematurely, and was wearing himself out in useless hopes.

Then war broke out between them; he called her names and beat her. They

quarreled all day long, and when they were in bed together at night he

flung insults and obscenities at her, panting with rage, until one

night, not being able to think of any means of making her suffer more,

he ordered her to get up and go and stand out of doors in the rain,

until daylight. As she did not obey him, he seized her by the neck, and

began to strike her in the face with his fists, but she said nothing,

and did not move. In his exasperation he knelt on her stomach, and with

clenched teeth, and mad with rage, he began to beat her. Then in her

despair she rebelled, and flinging him against the wall with a furious

gesture, she sat up, and in an altered voice, she hissed: "I have had a

child, I have had one! I had it by Jacques; you know Jacques well. He

promised to marry me, but he left this neighborhood without keeping his

word."

The man was thunderstruck, and could hardly speak, but at last he

stammered out: "What are you saying? What are you saying?" Then she

began to sob, and amidst her tears she said: "That was the reason why I

did not want to marry you. I could never tell you, for you would have

left me without any bread for my child. You have never had any children,

so you cannot understand, you cannot understand!"

He said again, mechanically, with increasing surprise: "You have a

child? You have a child?" "You had me by force, as I suppose you know?

I did not want to marry you," she said, still sobbing.

Then he got up, lit the candle, and began to walk up and down, with his

arms behind him. She was cowering on the bed and crying, and suddenly he

stopped in front of her, and said: "Then it is my fault that you have no

children?" She gave him no answer, and he began to walk up and down

again, and then, stopping again, he continued: "How old is your child?"

"Just six," she whispered. "Why did you not tell me about it?" he asked.

"How could I?" she replied, with a sigh.

He remained standing, motionless. "Come, get up," he said. She got up,

with some difficulty, and then, when she was standing on the floor, he

suddenly began to laugh, with his hearty laugh of his good days, and

seeing how surprised she was, he added: "Very well, we will go and fetch

the child, as you and I can have none together."

She was so scared that, if she had the strength, she would assuredly

have run away, but the farmer rubbed his hands and said: "I wanted to

adopt one, and now we have found one. I asked the Curé about an orphan,

some time ago."

Then, still laughing, he kissed his weeping and agitated wife on both

cheeks, and shouted out, as if she could not hear him: "Come along,

mother, we will go and see whether there is any soup left; I should not

mind a plateful."

She put on her petticoat, and they went down stairs; and while she was

kneeling in front of the fire-place, and lighting the fire under the

saucepan, he continued to walk up and down the kitchen in long strides,

and said:

"Well, I am really glad at this: I am not saying it for form's sake, but

I am glad, I am really very glad."

MAMMA STIRLING

Tall, slim, looking almost naked under her transparent dress of gauze,

which fell in straight folds as far as the gold bracelets on her slender

wrists, with languor in her rich voice, and something undulating and

feline in the rhythmical swing of her wrist and hips. Tatia Caroly was

singing one of those sweet Creole songs which call up some far distant

fairy-like country, and unknown caresses, for which the lips remain

always thirsting.

Footit, the clown, was leaning against the piano with a blackened face,

and with his mouth that looked like a red gash from a saber cut, and his

wide open eyes, he expressed feelings of the most extravagant emotion,

while some niggers squatted on the ground, and accompanied the orchestra

by strumming on some yellow, empty gourds.

But what made the woman and the children in the pantomime of the "New

Circus" laugh most, was the incessant quarrel between an enormous Danish

hound and a poor old supernumerary, who was blackened like a negro

minstrel, and dressed like a Mulatto woman. The dog was always annoying

him, followed him, snapped at his legs, and at his old wig, with his

sharp teeth, and tore his coat and his silk pocket-handkerchief,

whenever he could get hold of it, to pieces. And the man used positively

to allow himself to be molested and bitten, played his part with dull

resignation, with mechanical unconsciousness of a man who has come down

in the world, and who gains his livelihood as best he can, and who has

already endured worse things than that.

And when half turning round to the two club men, with whom she had just

been dining at the _Café Anglais_, as she used her large fan of black

feathers, in a pretty, supple pose, with the light falling on to the

nape of her fair neck, Noele de Fréjus exclaimed: "Wherever did they

unearth that horrible, grotesque figure?"

Lord Shelley, who was a pillar of the circuses, and who knew the

performances, the length of time the acrobats had been performing, and

the private history of all of them, whether clowns or circus riders,

replied: "Do not you recognize him, my dear?" "That lump of soot?... Are

you having a joke with me?"

"He certainly has very much changed, poor fellow, and not to his

advantage...Nevertheless James Stirling was a model of manly beauty and

elegance, and he led such an extravagant life that all sorts of stories

were rife about him, and many people declared that he was some

high-class adventurer...At any rate he thought no more of danger than he

did of smoking a good cigar.

"Do you not remember him at the Hippodrome, when he stood on the bare

back of a horse, and drove five other tandem fashion at full gallop and

without making a mistake, but checking them, or urging them on with his

thin, muscular hands, just as he pleased. And he seemed to be riveted on

to the horse, and kept on it, as if he had been held on by invisible

hands."

"Yes, I remember him...James Stirling," she said. "The circus rider,

James Stirling, on whose account that tall girl Caro, who was also a

circus rider, gave that old stager Blanche Taupin a cut right and left

across the face with her riding-whip, because she had tried to get him

from her...But what can have happened to him, to have brought him down

to such a position?"

Horrible, hairy monkeys, grimacing under their red and blue masks, had

invaded the arena, and with their hair hanging down on to their bare

shoulders, looking very funny with their long tails, their gray skin

tights and their velvet breeches, these female dancers twisted, jumped,

hopped and drew their lascivious and voluptuous circle more closely

round _Chocolat_, who shook the red skirts of his coat, rolled his eyes,

and showed his large, white teeth in a foolish smile, as if he were the

prey of irresistible desire, and yet terribly afraid of what might

happen, and Lord Shelley taking some grapes out of a basket that Noele

de Fréjus offered him, said: "It is not a very cheerful story, but then

true stories rarely are. At the time when he was still unknown, and when

he used to have to tighten his belt more frequently than he got enough

to eat and drink, James Stirling followed the destinies of a circus

which traveled with its vans from fair to fair and from place to place,

and fell in love with a gipsy columbine, who also formed part of this

wandering, half starved company.

"She was not twenty, and astonished the others by her rash boldness, her

absolute contempt for danger and obstacles, and her strange and adroit

strength. She charmed them also by a magic philter which came from her

hair, which was darker that a starless night, from her large, black,

coaxing, velvety eyes, that were concealed by the fringe of such long

lashes that they curled upwards, from her scented skin, that was as

soft as rice paper, and every touch of which was a suggestive and

tempting caress, from her firm, full, smiling, childlike mouth, which

uttered nothing but laughter, jokes, and love songs, and gave promise of

kisses.

"She rode bare-backed horses, without bit or bridle, stretched herself

out on their backs, as if on a bed, and mingled her disheveled hair with

their manes, swaying her supple body to their most impetuous movements,

and at other times standing almost on their shoulders or on the crupper,

while she juggled with looking-glasses, brass balls, knives that flashed

as they twirled rapidly round in the smoky light of the paraffin lamps

that were fastened to the tent poles.

"Her name was _Sacha_, that pretty Slavonic name which has such a sweet

and strange sound, and she gave herself to him entirely, because he was

handsome, strong, and spoke to women very gently, like one talks to

quite little children, who are so easily frightened, and made to cry,

and it was on her account that in a quarrel in Holland he knocked down

an Italian wild beast tamer, by a blow between the two eyes.

"They adored each other so, that they never thought of their poverty,

but redoubled their caresses when they had nothing to eat, not even an

unripe apple stolen from an orchard, nor a lump of bread which they had

begged on the road, of some charitable soul. And they embraced each

other more ardently still, when they were obliged to stop for the night

in the open country, and shivered in the old, badly-closed vans, and had

to be very sparing with the wood, and could not illuminate the snow with

those large bivouac fires, whose smoke rises in such fantastic, spiral

curls, and whose flames look like a spot of blood, at a distance, seen

through the mist.

"It was one of those Bohemian quasi-matrimonial arrangements, which are

often more enduring than ours, and in which a man and a woman do not

part for a mere caprice, a dream, or a piece of folly.

"But by-and-bye she was no longer good for anything, and had to give up

appearing on the program, for she was in the family way. James Stirling

worked for both, and thought that he should die of grief when she was

brought to bed, and after three days of intense suffering, died with her

hand in his.

"And now, all alone, crushed by grief, so ill that at times he thought

his heart had stopped, the circus rider lived for the child which the

dead woman had left him as a legacy. He bought a goat, so that it might

have pure milk, and brought it up with such infinite, deep, womanly

tenderness, that the child called him 'Mamma,' and in the circus they

nick-named him: _Mamma Stirling_.

"The boy was like his mother, and one might have said that he had

brought James luck, for he had made his mark, was receiving a good

income, and appeared in every performance. Well-made and agile, and

profiting by the lessons which he received at the circus, little

Stirling was soon fit to appear on the posters, and the night when he

made his first appearance at Franconi's, old Tom Pears, the clown, who

understood such matters better than most, exclaimed: 'My boy, you will

make your way, if you don't break your neck first!' 'I will take care of

that, Monsieur Pears,' the lad replied, with a careless shrug of the

shoulder.

"He was extremely daring, and when he threw himself from one trapeze to

the other, in a bold flight through the air, one might almost have

fancied in the silvery electric light, that he was some fabulous bird

with folded wings, and he executed all his feats with unequalled,

natural grace, without seeming to make an effort, but he unbraced his

limbs of steel, and condensed all his strength in one supreme, mad leap.

His chest, under its pearl-gray tights, hardly rose, and there was not a

drop of perspiration on his forehead, among the light curls which framed

it, like a golden halo.

"He had an almost disdainful manner of smiling at the public, as if he

had been working like an artist, who loves his profession, and who is

amused at danger, rather than like an acrobat who is paid to amuse

people after dinner; and during his most difficult feats he often

uttered a shrill cry, like that of some wild beast which defies the

sportsman, as it falls on its prey. But that sportsman is always on the

alert, and he is the _Invisible_, which closes the brightest eyes, and

the most youthful lips for ever.

"And in spite of oneself, one was excited by it, and could have wished,

from a superstitious instinct, that he would not continually have that

defiant cry, which seemed to give him pleasure, on his lips. James

Stirling watched over him like the mother of an actress does, who knows

that she is in some corner, and fears dangerous connections, in which

the strongest are entangled and ruined, and they lived together in a

boarding-house near the _Arc de Triumph_.

"It was a very simple apartment, with immense posters of every color and

in every language pinned to the wall, on which the name of Stirling

appeared in large, striking letters; photographs with inscriptions, and

tinsel wreaths, though there were two of real laurel, that were covered

with dust, and were gradually falling to pieces.

"One night, the young fellow for the first time did not come home, and

only returned in time for rehearsal, tired, with blue rims under his

eyes, his lips cracked with feverish heat, and with pale cheeks, but

with such a look of happiness, and such a peculiar light in his eyes,

that _Mamma Stirling_ felt as if he had been stabbed, and had not the

strength to find fault with him; and emboldened, radiant, longing to

give vent to the mad joy which filled his whole being, to express his

sensations, and recount his happiness, like a lad talking to his elder

brother, he told James Stirling his love intrigue from beginning to end,

and how much in love he was with the light-haired girl who had clasped

him in her arms, and initiated him into the pleasures of the flesh.

"It had been coming for some time, he said. She went to every

performance, and always occupied the same box. She used to send him

letters by the boxopener, letters which smelt like bunches of violets,

and always smiled at him when he came into the ring to bow to the

public, amidst the applause and recalls, and it was that smile, those

red, half-open lips, which seemed to promise so many caresses and

delicious words, that had attracted him like some strange, fragrant

fruit. Sometimes she came with gentlemen in evening dress, and with

gardenias in their button-holes, who seemed to bore her terribly, if not

to disgust her. And he was happy, although he had never yet spoken to

her, that she had not that smile for them which she had for him, and

that she appeared dull and sad, like somebody who is homesick, or who

has got a great longing for something.

"On other evenings, she used to be quite alone, with black pearls in the

lobes of her small ears, that were like pink shells, and got up and left

her box as soon as he had finished his performance on the trapeze ...

while the evening before she carried him off almost forcibly in her

carriage, without even giving him time to get rid of his tights, and the

india-rubber armlets that he wore on his wrists. Oh! that return to the

cold, in the semi-obscurity, through which the trembling light of the

street lamps shone, that warm, exciting clasp of her arms round him,

which imprisoned him, and by degrees drew him close to that warm body,

whose slightest throb and shiver he felt, as if she had been clothed in

impalpable gauze, and whose odor mounted to his head like fumes of

whisky, an odor in which there was something of everything, of the

animal, of the woman, of spices, of flowers, and something that he did

not yet know.

"And they were despotic, imperious, divine kisses, when she put her lips

to his and kept them there, as if to make him dream of an eternity of

bliss, sucking in his breath, hurting his lips, intoxicating,

overwhelming him with delight, exhausting him, while she held his head

in both her hands, as if in a vice. And the carriage rolled on at a

quick trot, through the silence of the snow, and they did not even hear

the noise of the wheels, which buried themselves in that white carpet,

as if it had been cotton-wool. Suddenly, however, tired and exhausted

she leant against him with closed eyes and moist lips, and then they

talked at random, like people who are not quite themselves, and who have

uncorked too many bottles of champagne on a benefit night.

"She questioned him, and laughed at his theatrical slang, wrapped her

otter-skin rug round his legs, and murmured: 'Come close to me, darling;

at any rate, you are not cold, I hope?' When they reached her pretty

little house, with old tapestry and delicate colored plush hangings,

they found supper waiting for them, and she amused herself by attending

to him herself, with the manners of a saucy waitress... And then there

were kisses, constant, insatiable, maddening kisses, and the lad

exclaimed, with glistening eyes, at the thoughts of future meetings: 'If

you only knew how pretty she is! And then, it is nicer than anything

else in the world to obey her, to do whatever she wants, and to allow

oneself to be loved as she wishes!'

"_Mamma Stirling_ was very uneasy, but resigned himself to the

inevitable, and seeing how infatuated the boy was, he took care not to

be too sharp with him, or to keep too tight a hand upon the reins. The

woman who had debauched the lad was a fast woman, and nothing else, and

after all, the old stager preferred that to one of those excitable women

who are as dangerous for a man as the plague, whereas a girl of that

sort can be taken and left again, and one does not risk one's heart at

the same time as one does one's skin, for a man knows what they are

worth. He was mistaken, however. Nelly d'Argine, she is married to a

Yankee, now, and has gone to New York with him, was one of those vicious

women whom a man can only wish his worst enemy to have, and she had

merely taken a fancy to the young fellow because she was bored to

death, and because her senses were roused like the embers which break

out again, when a fire is nearly out.

"Unfortunately, he had taken the matter seriously, and was very jealous,

and as suspicious as a deer, and had never imagined that this love

affair could come to an end, and proud, with his hot gipsy blood, he

wished to be the only lover, the only master who paid, and who could not

be shown the door, like a troublesome and importunate parasite.

"Stirling had saved some money, by dint of a hard struggle, and had

invested it in the Funds against a rainy day, when he should be too old

to work, and to gain a livelihood, and when he saw how madly in love his

son was, and how obstinate in his lamentable folly, he gave him all his

savings and deprived himself of his stout and gin, so that the boy might

have money to give to his mistress, and might continue to be happy, and

not have any cares, and so between them, they kept Nelly.

"Stirling's debts accumulated, and he mortgaged his salary for years in

advance to the usurers who haunt circuses as if they were gambling

hells, who are on the watch for passions, poverty and disappointments,

who keep plenty of ready stamped bill paper in their pockets, as well as

money, which they haggle over, coin by coin. But in spite of all this,

the lad sang, made a show, and amused himself, and used to say to him,

as he kissed him on both cheeks: 'How kind you are, in spite of

everything!'

"In a month's time, as he was becoming too exacting, he followed her,

questioned her and worried her with perpetual scenes, Nelly found that

she had had enough of her gymnast; he was a toy which she had done with

and worn out, and which was now only in her way, and only worth throwing

into the gutter. She was satiated with him, and became once more the

tranquil woman whom nothing can move, and who baits her ground quite

calmly, in order to find a husband and to make a fresh start. And so she

turned the young fellow out of doors, as if he had been some beggar

soliciting alms. He did not complain, however, and did not say anything

to _Mamma Stirling_, but worked as he had done in the past, and mastered

himself with superhuman energy, so as to hide the grief that was gnawing

at his heart and killing him, and the disenchantment with everything

that was making him sick of life.

"Some time afterwards, when there was to be a special display for the

officers, seeing Nelly d'Argine there in a box surrounded by her usual

admirers, appearing indifferent to everything that was going on, and not

even apparently noticing that he was performing, and was being heartily

applauded, he threw his trapeze forward as far as he could, at the end

of his performance, and exerting all his strength, and certain that he

should fall beyond the protecting net, he flung himself furiously into

space.

"A cry of horror resounded from one end of the house to the other, when

he was picked up disfigured, and with nearly every bone in his body

broken. The unfortunate young fellow was no longer breathing, his chest

was crushed in, and blood-stained froth was issuing from his lips, and

Nelly d'Argine made haste to leave the house with her friends, saying in

a very vexed voice:

"'It is very disgusting to come in the hopes of being amused, and to

witness an accident!'

"And _Mamma Stirling_, who was ruined and in utter despair, and who

cared for nothing more in this world, after that took to drinking, used

to get constantly drunk, and rolled from public-house to public-house,

and bar to bar, and as the worst glass of vitrol still cost a penny, he

became reduced to undertaking the part which you have seen, to dabble in

the water, to blacken himself, and to allow himself to be bitten.

"Ah! What a wretched thing life is for those who are kind, and who have

too much heart!"

LILIE LALA

"When I saw her for the first time," Louis d'Arandel said, with the look

of a man who was dreaming and trying to recollect something, "I thought

of some slow and yet passionate music that I once heard, though I do not

remember who was the composer, where there was a fair-haired woman,

whose hair was so silky, so golden, and so vibrating, that her lover had

it cut off after her death, and had the strings of the magic bow of a

violin made out of it, which afterwards emitted such superhuman

complaints and love melodies that they made its hearers love until

death.

"In her eyes there lay the mystery of deep waters, and one was lost in

them, drowned in them like in fathomless depths, and at the corners of

her mouth there lurked that despotic and merciless smile of those women

who do not fear that they may be conquered, who rule over men like cruel

queens, whose hearts remain as virgin as those of the strictest

Carmelite nuns, amidst a flood of lewdness.

"I have seen her angelic head, the bands of her hair, that looked like

plates of gold, her tall, graceful figure, her white, slender, childish

hands, in stained glass windows in churches. She suggested pictures of

the Annunciation, where the Archangel Gabriel descends with ultra-marine

colored wings, and Mary is sitting at her spinning-wheel and spinning,

while uttering pious prayers, and looks like the tall sister of the

white lilies that are growing beside her and the roses.

"When she went through the acacia alley, she appeared on some First

Night in the stage box at one of the theaters, nearly always alone, and

apparently feeling life a great burden, and angry because she could not

change the eternal, dull round of human enjoyment, nobody would have

believed that she went in for a fast life, and that in the annals of

gallantry she was catalogued under the strange name of _Lilie Lala_, and

that no man could rub against her without being irretrievably caught,

and spending his last half-penny on her.

"But with all that, Lilie had the voice of a schoolgirl, of some little

innocent creature who still uses a skipping-rope and wears short

dresses, and had that clear, innocent laugh which reminds people of

wedding bells. Sometimes, for fun, I would kneel down before her, like

before the statue of a saint, and clasping my hands as if in prayer, I

used to say: '_Sancta Lilie, ora pro nobis!_'

"One evening, at Biarritz, when the sky had the dull glare of intense

heat and the sea was of a sinister, inky black, and was swelling and

rolling enormous phosphorescent waves onto the beach at _Port-Vieux_,

Lilie, who was listless and strange, and was making holes in the sand

with the heels of her boots, suddenly exclaimed in one of those longings

for confidence which women sometimes feel, and for which they are sorry

as soon as their story is done:

"'Ah! My dear fellow, I do not deserve to be canonized, and my life is

rather a subject for a drama than a chapter from the Gospels or the

Golden Legend. As long as I can remember anything, I can remember

seeing myself wrapped in lace, being carried by a woman, and

continually being made a fuss with, like children are who have been

waited for for a long time, and who are spoiled more than others.

"'Those kisses were so nice, that I still seem to feel their sweetness,

and I preserve the remembrance of them in a little place in my heart,

like one preserves some lucky talisman in a reliquary. I still seem to

remember an indistinct landscape lost in the mist, outlines of trees

which frightened me as they creaked and groaned in the wind, and ponds

on which swans were sailing. And when I look in the glass for a long

time, merely for the sake of seeing myself, it seems to me as if I

recognized the woman who formerly used to kiss me most frequently, and

speak to me in a more loving voice than anyone else did. But what

happened afterwards?

"'Was I carried off, or sold to some strolling circus owner by a

dishonest servant? I do not know; I have never been able to find out;

but I remember that my whole childhood was spent in a circus which

traveled from fair to fair, and from place to place, with files of vans,

processions of animals, and noisy music.

"'I was as tiny as an insect, and they taught me difficult tricks, to

dance on the tight-rope and to perform on the slack-rope.... I was

beaten as if I had been a bit of plaster, and I more frequently had a

piece of dry bread to gnaw, than a slice of meat. But I remember that

one day I slipped under one of the vans, and stole a basin of soup as my

share, which one of the clowns was carefully making for his three

learned dogs.

"'I had neither friends nor relations; I was employed on the dirtiest

jobs, like the lowest stable-help, and I was tattooed with bruises and

scars. Of the whole company, however, the one who beat me the most, who

was the least sparing of his thumps, and who continually made me suffer,

as if it gave him pleasure, was the manager and proprietor, a kind of

old, vicious brute, whom everybody feared like the plague, a miser who

was continually complaining of the receipts, who hid away the crown

pieces in his mattress, invested his money in the funds, and cut down

the salary of everybody, as far as he could.

"'His name was Rapha Ginestous. Any other child, but myself, would have

succumbed to such constant martyrdom, but I grew up, and the more I

grew, the prettier and more desirable I became, so that when I was

fifteen, men were already beginning to write love letters to me, and to

throw bouquets to me in the arena. I felt also that all the men in the

company were watching me, and were coveting me as their prey; that their

lustful looks rested on my pink tights, and followed the graceful

outlines of my body when I was posing on the rope that stretched from

one end of the circus to the other, or jumped through the paper hoops at

full gallop.

"'They were no longer the same, and spoke to me in a totally different

tone of voice.... They tried to come into my dressing-room when I was

changing my dress, and Rapha Ginestous seemed to have lost his head, and

his heart throbbed audibly when he came near me. Yes, he had the

audacity to propose bargains to me which covered my cheeks and forehead

with blushes, and which filled me with disgust, and as I felt a fierce

hatred for him, and detested him with all my soul and all my strength,

as I wished to make him suffer the tortures which he had inflicted upon

me, a hundred fold, I used him as the target at which I was constantly

aiming.

"'Instinctively, I employed every cunning perfidy, every artful

coquetry, every lie, every artifice which upsets the strongest and most

skeptical, and places them at our mercy, like submissive animals. He

loved me, he really loved me, that lascivious goat, who had never seen

anything in a woman except a soft palliasse, and an instrument of

convenience and of forgetfulness. He loved me like old men do love, with

frenzy, with degrading transports, and with the prostration of his will

and of his strength.... I held him like in a leash, and did whatever I

liked with him.

"'I was much more manageress than he was manager, and the poor wretch

wasted away in vain hopes and in useless transports; he had not even

touched the tips of my fingers, and was reduced to bestowing his

caresses on my columbine shoes, my tights, and my wigs. And I care not

_that_ for it, you understand! Not the slightest familiarity, and he

began to grow thin over it, fell ill, and almost became idiotic. And

while he implored me, and promised to marry me, with his eyes full of

tears, I shouted with laughter; I reminded him of how he had beaten,

abused, and humiliated me, and had often made me wish for death. And as

soon as he left me, he emptied bottles of gin and whisky, and got so

abominably drunk that he rolled under the table, in order to drown his

sorrow and forget his desire.

"'He covered me with jewels, and tried everything he could to tempt me

to become his wife, and in spite of my inexperience in life, he

consulted me with regard to everything he undertook, and one evening,

after I had stroked his face with my hand, I persuaded him without any

difficulty, to make his will, by which he left me all his savings, and

the circus and everything belonging to it.

"'It was in the middle of winter, near Moscow; it snowed continually,

and one almost burned oneself at the stoves in trying to keep warm.

Rapha Ginestous had had supper brought into the largest van, which was

his, after the performance, and for hours we ate and drank. I was very

nice towards him, and filled his glass every moment; I even sat on his

knee and kissed him. And all his love, and the fumes of the alcohol of

the wine mounted to his head, and gradually made him so helplessly

intoxicated, that he fell from his chair inert, and as if he had been

struck by lightning, without opening his eyes or saying a word.

"'The rest of the troupe were asleep, and the lights were out in all the

little windows, and not a sound was to be heard, while the snow

continued to fall in large flakes. So having put out the petroleum lamp,

I opened the door, and taking the drunkard by the feet, as if he had

been a bale of goods, I threw him out into that white shroud.

"'The next morning the stiff and convulsed body of Rapha Ginestous was

picked up, and as everybody knew his inveterate drinking habits, no one

thought of instituting an inquiry, or of accusing me of a crime, and

thus I was avenged, and had a yearly income of nearly fifteen thousand

francs. What, after all, is the good of being honest, and of pardoning

our enemies, as the Gospel bids us?'

"And now," Louis d'Arandal said in conclusion, "suppose we go and have a

cocktail or two at the Casino, for I do not think that I have ever

talked so much in my life before."

MADAME TELLIER'S ESTABLISHMENT

PART I

They used to go there every evening at about eleven o'clock, just like

they went to the _café_. Six or eight of them used to meet there; they

were always the same set, not fast men, but respectable tradesmen, and

young men, in government or some other employ, and they used to drink

their Chartreuse, and tease the girls, or else they would talk seriously

with _Madame_, whom everybody respected, and then they used to go home

at twelve o'clock. The younger men would sometimes stay the night.

It was a small, comfortable house, at the corner of a street behind

Saint Etienne's church, and from the windows one could see the docks,

full of ships which were being unloaded, and the old, gray chapel,

dedicated to the Virgin, on the hill.

_Madame_, who came of a respectable family of peasant proprietors in the

department of the Eure, had taken up that profession, just as she would

have become a milliner or dressmaker. The prejudice against

prostitution, which is so violent and deeply rooted in large towns, does

not exist in the country places in Normandy. The peasant says:

"It is a paying business," and he sends his daughter to keep a harem of

fast girls, just as he would send her to keep a girls' school.

She had inherited the house from an old uncle, to whom it had belonged.

_Monsieur_ and _Madame_, who had formerly been inn-keepers near Yvetot,

had immediately sold their house, as they thought that the business at

Fécamp was more profitable, and they arrived one fine morning to assume

the direction of the enterprise, which was declining on account of the

absence of the proprietors, who were good people enough in their way,

and who soon made themselves liked by their staff and their neighbors.

_Monsieur_ died of apoplexy two years later, for as his new profession

kept him in idleness and without any exercise, he had grown excessively

stout, and his health had suffered. Since she had been a widow, all the

frequenters of the establishment had wanted her; but people said that

personally she was quite virtuous, and even the girls in the house could

not discover anything against her. She was tall, stout and affable, and

her complexion, which had become pale in the dimness of her house, the

shutters of which were scarcely ever opened, shone as if it had been

varnished. She had a fringe of curly, false hair, which gave her a

juvenile look, that contrasted strongly with the ripeness of her figure.

She was always smiling and cheerful, and was fond of a joke, but there

was a shade of reserve about her, which her new occupation had not quite

made her lose. Coarse words always shocked her, and when any young

fellow who had been badly brought up, called her establishment by its

right name, she was angry and disgusted.

In a word, she had a refined mind, and although she treated her women as

friends, yet she very frequently used to say that "she and they were not

made of the same stuff."

Sometimes during the week, she would hire a carriage and take some of

her girls into the country, where they used to enjoy themselves on the

grass by the side of the little river. They were like a lot of girls let

out from a school, and used to run races, and play childish games. They

had a cold dinner on the grass, and drank cider, and went home at night

with a delicious feeling of fatigue, and in the carriage they kissed

_Madame_ as their kind mother, who was full of goodness and

complaisance.

The house had two entrances. At the corner there was a sort of low

_café_, which sailors and the lower orders frequented at night, and she

had two girls whose special duty it was to attend to that part of the

business. With the assistance of the waiter, whose name was Frederic,

and who was a short, light-haired, beardless fellow, as strong as a

horse, they set the half bottles of wine and the jugs of beer on the

shaky marble tables, and then, sitting astride on the customer's knees,

they urged them to drink.

The three other girls (there were only five of them), formed a kind of

aristocracy, and were reserved for the company on the first floor,

unless they were wanted downstairs, and there was nobody on the first

floor. The saloon of Jupiter, where the tradesmen used to meet, was

papered in blue, and embellished with a large drawing representing Leda

stretched out under the swan. That room was reached by a winding

staircase, which ended at a narrow door opening onto the street, and

above it, all night long a little lamp burned, behind wire bars, such as

one still sees in some towns, at the foot of some shrine of a saint.

The house, which was old and damp, rather smelled of mildew. At times

there was an odor of Eau de Cologne in the passages, or a half open door

downstairs admitted the noise of the common men sitting and drinking

downstairs, to the first floor, much to the disgust of the gentlemen who

were there. _Madame_, who was familiar with those of her customers with

whom she was on friendly terms, did not leave the saloon, and took much

interest in what was going on in the town, and they regularly told her

all the news. Her serious conversation was a change from the ceaseless

chatter of the three women; it was a rest from the obscene jokes of

those stout individuals who every evening indulged in the common-place

debauchery of drinking a glass of liquor in company with prostitutes.

The names of the girls on the first floor were Fernande, Raphaele, and

Rosa, the _Jade_. As the staff was limited, _Madame_ had endeavored that

each member of it should be a pattern, an epitome of the feminine type,

so that every customer might find as nearly as possible, the realization

of his ideal. Fernande represented the handsome blonde; she was very

tall, rather fat, and lazy; a country girl, who could not get rid of her

freckles, and whose short, light, almost colorless, tow-like hair, which

was like combed-out flax, barely covered her head.

Raphaele, who came from Marseilles, played the indispensable part of the

handsome Jewess, and was thin, with high cheek bones, which were covered

with rouge, and her black hair, which was always covered with pomatum,

curled onto her forehead. Her eyes would have been handsome, if the

right one had not had a speck in it. Her Roman nose came down over a

square jaw, where two false upper teeth contrasted strangely with the

bad color of the rest.

Rosa, _the Jade_, was a little roll of fat, nearly all stomach, with

very short legs, and from morning till night she sang songs, which were

alternately indecent or sentimental, in a harsh voice, told silly,

interminable tales, and only stopped talking in order to eat, and left

off eating in order to talk; she was never still, and was active as a

squirrel, in spite of her fat, and of her short legs; and her laugh,

which was a torrent of shrill cries, resounded here and there,

ceaselessly, in a bedroom, in the loft, in the _café_, everywhere, and

about nothing.

The two women on the ground floor, Louise, who was nick-named _la

Cocotte_, and Flora, whom they called _Balançiore_, because she limped a

little, the former always dressed as Liberty, with a tri-colored sash,

and the other as a Spanish woman, with a string of copper coins which

jingled at every step she took, in her carrotty hair, looked like cooks

dressed up for the carnival. They were like all other women of the lower

orders, neither uglier nor better looking than they usually are.

They looked just like servants at an inn, and they were generally called

the two pumps.

A jealous peace, which was, however, very rarely disturbed, reigned

among these five women, thanks to _Madame's_ conciliatory wisdom, and to

her constant good humor, and the establishment, which was the only one

of the kind in the little town, was very much frequented. _Madame_ had

succeeded in giving it such a respectable appearance, she was so amiable

and obliging to everybody, her good heart was so well-known, that she

was treated with a certain amount of consideration. The regular

customers spent money on her, and were delighted when she was especially

friendly towards them, and when they met during the day, they would say:

"Until this evening, you know where," just like men say: "At the

_café_, after dinner." In a word, Madame Tellier's house was somewhere

to go to, and they very rarely missed their daily meetings there.

One evening, towards the end of May, the first arrival, Monsieur Poulin,

who was a timber merchant, and had been mayor, found the door shut. The

little lantern behind the grating was not alight; there was not a sound

in the house; everything seemed dead. He knocked, gently at first, but

then more loudly, but nobody answered the door. Then he went slowly up

the street, and when he got to the market place, he met Monsieur Duvert,

the gun maker, who was going to the same place, so they went back

together, but did not meet with any better success. But suddenly they

heard a loud noise close to them, and on going round the house, they saw

a number of English and French sailors, who were hammering at the closed

shutters of the _café_ with their fists.

The two tradesmen immediately made their escape, for fear of being

compromised, but a low _pst_ stopped them; it was Monsieur Tournevau,

the fish curer, who had recognized them, and was trying to attract their

attention. They told him what had happened, and he was all the more

vexed at it, as he, a married man, and father of a family, only went

there on Saturdays, _securítatis causa_, as he said, alluding to a

measure of sanitary policy, which his friend Doctor Borde had advised

him to observe. That was his regular evening, and now he should be

deprived of it for the whole week.

The three men went as far as the quay together, and on the way they met

young Monsieur Philippe, the banker's son, who frequented the place

regularly, and Monsieur Pinipesse, the collector, and they all returned

to the _Rue aux Juifs_ together, to make a last attempt. But the

exasperated sailors were besieging the house, throwing stones at the

shutters, and shouting, and the five first floor customers went away as

quickly as possible, and walked aimlessly about the streets.

Presently they met Monsieur Dupuis, the insurance agent, and then

Monsieur Vasse, the Judge of the Tribunal of Commerce, and they took a

long walk, going to the pier first of all, where they sat down in a row

on the granite parapet, and watched the rising tide, and when the

promenaders had sat there for some time, Monsieur Tournevau said:

"This is not very amusing!"

"Decidedly not," Monsieur Pinipesse replied, and they started off to

walk again.

After going through the street on the top of the hill, they returned

over the wooden bridge which crosses the Retenue, passed close to the

railway, and came out again onto the market place, when suddenly a

quarrel arose between Monsieur Pinipesse, the collector, and Monsieur

Tournevau, about an edible fungus which one of them declared he had

found in the neighborhood.

As they were out of temper already from annoyance, they would very

probably have come to blows, if the others had not interfered. Monsieur

Pinipesse went off furious, and soon another altercation arose between

the ex-major, Monsieur Poulin, and Monsieur Dupuis, the insurance agent,

on the subject of the tax collector's salary, and the profits which he

might make. Insulting remarks were freely passing between them, when a

torrent of formidable cries were heard, and the body of sailors, who

were tired of waiting so long outside a closed house, came into the

square. They were walking arm-in-arm, two and two, and formed a long

procession, and were shouting furiously. The landsmen went and hid

themselves under a gateway, and the yelling crew disappeared in the

direction of the abbey. For a long time they still heard the noise,

which diminished like a storm in the distance, and then silence was

restored, and Monsieur Poulin and Monsieur Dupuis, who were enraged with

each other, went in different directions, without wishing each other

good-bye.

The other four set off again, and instinctively went in the direction of

Madame Tellier's establishment, which was still closed, silent,

impenetrable. A quiet, but obstinate, drunken man was knocking at the

door of the café, and then stopped and called Frederic, the waiter, in a

low voice, but finding that he got no answer, he sat down on the

doorstep, and waited the course of events.

The others were just going to retire, when the noisy band of sailors

reappeared at the end of the street. The French sailors were shouting

the _Marseillaise_, and the Englishmen, _Rule Britannia_. There was a

general lurching against the wall, and then the drunken brutes went on

their way towards the quay, where a fight broke out between the two

nations, in the course of which an Englishman had his arm broken, and a

Frenchman his nose split.

The drunken man, who had stopped outside the door, was crying by that

time, like drunken men and children cry, when they are vexed, and the

others went away. By degrees, calm was restored in the noisy town; here

and there, at moments, the distant sound of voices could be heard, and

then died away in the distance.

One man, only, was still wandering about, Monsieur Tournevau, the fish

curer, who was vexed at having to wait until the next Saturday, and he

hoped for something to turn up, he did not know what; but he was

exasperated at the police for thus allowing an establishment of such

public utility, which they had under their control, to be thus closed.

He went back to it, and examined the walls, and trying to find out the

reason, and on the shutter he saw a notice stuck up, so he struck a wax

vesta, and read the following in a large, uneven hand; "Closed on

account of the Confirmation."

Then he went away, as he saw it was useless to remain, and left the

drunken man lying on the pavement fast asleep, outside that inhospitable

door.

The next day, all the regular customers, one after the other, found some

reason for going through the street with a bundle of papers under their

arm, to keep them in countenance, and with a furtive glance they all

read that mysterious notice:

_Closed on account of the Confirmation._

PART II

Madame had a brother, who was a carpenter in their native place,

Virville, in the department of Eure. When _Madame_ had still kept the

inn at Yvetot, she had stood god-mother to that brother's daughter, who

had received the name of Constance, Constance Rivet; she herself being a

Rivet on her father's side. The carpenter, who knew that his sister was

in a good position, did not lose sight of her, although they did not

meet often, for they were both kept at home by their occupations, and

lived a long way from each other. But as the girl was twelve years old,

and going to be confirmed, he seized that opportunity for writing to

his sister, and asking her to come and be present at the ceremony. Their

old parents were dead, and as she could not well refuse, she accepted

the invitation. Her brother, whose name was Joseph, hoped that by dint

of showing his sister attentions, she might be induced to make her will

in the girl's favor, as she had no children of her own.

His sister's occupation did not trouble his scruples in the least, and,

besides, nobody knew anything about it at Virville. When they spoke of

her, they only said: "Madame Tellier is living at Fécamp," which might

mean that she was living on her own private income. It was quite twenty

leagues from Fécamp to Virville, and for a peasant, twenty leagues on

land are more than is crossing the ocean to an educated person. The

people at Virville had never been further than Rouen, and nothing

attracted the people from Fécamp to a village of five hundred houses, in

the middle of a plain, and situated in another department, and, at any

rate, nothing was known about her business.

But the Confirmation was coming on, and _Madame_ was in great

embarrassment. She had no under mistress, and did not at all care to

leave her house, even for a day, for all the rivalries between the girls

upstairs and those downstairs, would infallibly break out; no doubt

Frederic would get drunk, and when he was in that state he would knock

anybody down for a mere word. At last, however, she made up her mind to

take them all with her, with the exception of the man, to whom she gave

a holiday, until the next day but one.

When she asked her brother, he made no objection, but undertook to put

them all up for a night, and so on Saturday morning, the eight o'clock

express carried off _Madame_ and her companions in a second-class

carriage. As far as Beuzeille, they were alone, and chattered like

magpies, but at that station a couple got in. The man, an old peasant,

dressed in a blue blouse with a folding collar, wide sleeves, tight at

the wrist, and ornamented with white embroidery, wore an old high hat

with long nap, held an enormous green umbrella in one hand, and a large

basket in the other, from which the heads of three frightened ducks

protruded. The woman, who sat stiffly in her rustic finery, had a face

like a fowl, and with a nose that was as pointed as a bill. She sat down

opposite her husband and did not stir, as she was startled at finding

herself in such smart company.

There was certainly an array of striking colors in the carriage.

_Madame_ was dressed in blue silk from head to foot, and had on over her

dress a dazzling red shawl of imitation French cashmere. Fernande was

panting in a Scottish plaid dress, whose bodice, which her companions

had laced as tight as they could, had forced up her falling bosom into a

double dome, that was continually heaving up and down, and which seemed

liquid beneath the material. Raphaele, with a bonnet covered with

feathers, so that it looked like a nest full of birds, had on a lilac

dress with gold spots on it, and there was something Oriental about it

that suited her Jewish face. Rosa, _the Jade_, had on a pink petticoat

with large flounces, and looked like a very fat child, an obese dwarf;

while the two pumps looked as if they had cut their dresses out of old,

flowered curtains, dating from the Restoration.

As soon as they were no longer alone in the compartment, the ladies put

on staid looks, and began to talk of subjects which might give the

others a high opinion of them. But at Bolbec a gentleman with light

whiskers, with a gold chain, and wearing two or three rings, got in, and

put several parcels wrapped in oil cloth into the net over his head. He

looked inclined for a joke, and a good-natured fellow.

"Are you ladies changing your quarters?" he said, and that question

embarrassed them all considerably. _Madame_, however, quickly recovered

her composure, and said sharply, to avenge the honor of her corps:

"I think you might try and be polite!"

He excused himself, and said: "I beg your pardon, I ought to have said

your nunnery."

As _Madame_ could not think of a retort, or perhaps as she thought

herself justified sufficiently, she gave him a dignified bow, and

pinched in her lips.

Then the gentleman, who was sitting between Rose _the Jade_ and the old

peasant, began to wink knowingly at the ducks, whose heads were sticking

out of the basket, and when he felt that he had fixed the attention of

his public, he began to tickle them under their bills, and spoke funnily

to them, to make the company smile.

"We have left our little pond, quack! quack! to make the acquaintance of

the little spit, qu-ack! qu-ack!"

The unfortunate creatures turned their necks away, to avoid his

caresses, and made desperate efforts to get out of their wicker prison,

and then, suddenly, all at once, uttered the most lamentable quacks of

distress. The women exploded with laughter. They leaned forward and

pushed each other, so as to see better; they were very much interested

in the ducks, and the gentleman redoubled his airs, his wits, and his

teasing.

Rosa joined in, and leaning over her neighbor's legs, she kissed the

three animals on the head, and immediately all the girls wanted to kiss

them in turn, and the gentleman took them onto his knees, made them jump

up and down and pinched them. The two peasants, who were even in greater

consternation than their poultry, rolled their eyes as if they were

possessed, without venturing to move, and their old wrinkled faces had

not a smile nor a movement.

Then the gentleman, who was a commercial traveler, offered the ladies

braces by way of a joke, and taking up one of his packages, he opened

it. It was a trick, for the parcel contained garters. There were blue

silk, pink silk, red silk, violet silk, mauve silk garters, and the

buckles were made of two gilt metal Cupids, embracing each other. The

girls uttered exclamations of delight and looked at them with that

gravity which is natural to a woman when she is hankering after a

bargain. They consulted one another by their looks or in a whisper, and

replied in the same manner, and _Madame_ was longingly handling a pair

of orange garters that were broader and more imposing looking than the

rest; really fit for the mistress of such an establishment.

The gentleman waited, for he was nourishing an idea.

"Come, my kittens," he said, "you must try them on."

There was a torrent of exclamations, and they squeezed their petticoats

between their legs, as if they thought he was going to ravish them, but

he quietly waited his time, and said: "Well, if you will not, I shall

pack them up again."

And he added cunningly: "I offer any pair they like, to those who will

try them on."

But they would not, and sat up very straight, and looked dignified.

But the two pumps looked so distressed that he renewed the offer to

them, and Flora especially visibly hesitated, and he possessed her:

"Come, my dear, a little courage! Just look at that lilac pair; it will

suit your dress admirably ..."

That decided her, and pulling up her dress she showed a thick leg fit

for a milk-maid, in a badly-fitting, coarse stocking. The commercial

traveler stooped down and fastened the garter below the knee first of

all and then above it; and he tickled the girl gently, which made her

scream and jump. When he had done, he gave her the lilac pair, and

asked: "Who next?"

"I! I!" they all shouted at once, and he began on Rosa _the Jade_, who

uncovered a shapeless, round thing without any ankle, a regular "sausage

of a leg," as Raphaele used to say.

The commercial traveler complimented Fernande, and grew quite

enthusiastic over her powerful columns.

The thin tibias of the handsome Jewess met less success, and Louise

Cocote, by way of a joke, put her petticoats over his head, so that

_Madame_ was obliged to interfere to check such unseemly behavior.

Lastly, _Madame_ herself put out her leg, a handsome, muscular, Norman

leg, and in his surprise and pleasure, the commercial traveler gallantly

took off his hat to salute that master calf, like a true French

cavalier.

The two peasants, who were speechless from surprise, looked aside, out

of the corners of their eyes, and they looked so exactly like fowls that

the man with the light whiskers, when he sat up, said _co--co--ri--co_,

under their very noses, and that gave rise to another storm of

amusement.

The old people got out at Motteville, with their basket, their ducks,

and their umbrella, and they heard the woman say to her husband, as they

went away:

"They are bad women, who are off to that cursed place Paris."

The funny commercial traveler himself got out at Rouen, after behaving

so coarsely, that _Madame_ was obliged sharply to put him into his

right place, and she added, as a moral: "This will teach us not to talk

to the first comer."

At Oissel they changed trains, and at a little station further on,

Monsieur Joseph Rivet was waiting for them with a large cart and a

number of chairs in it, which was drawn by a white horse.

The carpenter politely kissed all the ladies, and then helped them into

his conveyance.

Three of them sat on three chairs at the back, Raphaele, _Madame_ and

her brother on the three chairs in front, and Rosa, who had no seat,

settled herself as comfortably as she could on tall Fernande's knees,

and then they set off.

But the horse's jerky trot shook the cart so terribly that the chairs

began to dance, and threw the travelers into the air, to the right and

to the left, as if they had been dancing puppets, which made them make

horrible grimaces and screams, which, however, were cut short by another

jolt of the cart.

They clung onto the sides of the vehicle, their bonnets fell onto their

backs, their noses on their shoulders, and the white horse went on

stretching out his head, and holding out his tail quite straight, a

little, hairless rat's tail, with which he whisked his buttocks from

time to time.

Joseph Rivet, with one leg on the shafts and the other bent under him,

held out the reins with his elbows very high, and he kept uttering a

kind of chuckling sound, which made the horse prick up its ears and go

faster.

The green country extended on either side of the road, and here and

there the colza in flower presented a waving expanse of yellow, from

which there arose a strong, wholesome, sweet and penetrating smell,

which the wind carried to some distance.

The cornflowers showed their little blue heads among the rye, and the

women wanted to pick them, but Monsieur Rivet refused to stop.

Then sometimes a whole field appeared to be covered with blood, so

thickly were the poppies growing, and the cart, which looked as if it

were filled with flowers of more brilliant hue, drove on through the

fields colored with wild flowers, and disappeared behind the trees of a

farm, only to reappear and to go on again through the yellow or green

standing crops, which were studded with red or blue.

One o'clock struck as they drove up to the carpenter's door. They were

tired out, and pale with hunger, as they had eaten nothing since they

left home, and Madame Rivet ran out, and made them alight, one after

another, and kissed them as soon as they were on the ground, and she

seemed as if she would never tire of kissing her sister-in-law, whom she

apparently wanted to monopolize. They had lunch in the workshop, which

had been cleared out for the next day's dinner.

A capital omelette, followed by boiled chitterlings, and washed down by

good, sharp cider, made them all feel comfortable.

Rivet had taken a glass so that he might hob-nob with them, and his wife

cooked, waited on them, brought in the dishes, took them out, and asked

all of them in a whisper whether they had everything they wanted. A

number of boards standing against the walls, and heaps of shavings that

had been swept into the corners, gave out a smell of planed wood, or

carpentering, that resinous odor which penetrates the lungs.

They wanted to see the little girl, but she had gone to church, and

would not be back until evening, so they all went out for a stroll in

the country.

It was a small village, through which the high road passed. Ten or a

dozen houses on either side of the single street, were inhabited by the

butcher, the grocer, the carpenter, the inn-keeper, the shoemaker and

the baker.

The church was at the end of the street, and was surrounded by a small

churchyard, and four enormous lime-trees, which stood just outside the

porch, shaded it completely. It was built of flint, in no particular

style, and had a slated steeple. When you got past it, you were in the

open country again, which was broken here and there by clumps of trees

which hid the homestead.

Rivet had given his arm to his sister, out of politeness, although he

was in his working clothes, and was walking with her majestically. His

wife, who was overwhelmed by Raphaele's gold-striped dress, was walking

between her and Fernande, and round-about Rosa was trotting behind with

Louise Cocote and Flora, the see-saw, who was limping along, quite

tired out.

The inhabitants came to their doors, the children left off playing, and

a window curtain would be raised, so as to show a muslin cap, while an

old woman with a crutch, and who was almost blind, crossed herself as if

it were a religious procession, and they all looked for a long time

after those handsome ladies from the town, who had come so far to be

present at the confirmation of Joseph Rivet's little girl, and the

carpenter rose very much in the public estimation.

As they passed the church, they heard some children singing; little

shrill voices were singing a hymn, but _Madame_ would not let them go

in, for fear of disturbing the little cherubs.

After a walk, during which Joseph Rivet enumerated the principal landed

proprietors, spoke about the yield of the land, and productiveness of

the cows and sheep, he took his herd of women home and installed them in

his house, and as it was very small, they had put them into the rooms,

two and two.

Just for once, Rivet would sleep in the workshop on the shavings; his

wife was going to share her bed with her sister-in-law, and Fernande and

Raphaele were to sleep together in the next room. Louise and Flora were

put into the kitchen, where they had a mattress on the floor, and Rosa

had a little dark cupboard at the top of the stairs to herself, close to

the loft, where the candidate for confirmation was to sleep.

When the girl came in, she was overwhelmed with kisses; all the women

wished to caress her, with that need of tender expansion, that habit of

professional wheedling, which had made them kiss the ducks in the

railway carriage.

They all of them took her onto their laps, stroked her soft, light

hair, and pressed her in their arms with vehement and spontaneous

outbursts of affection, and the child, who was very good and religious,

bore it all patiently.

As the day had been a fatiguing one for every body, they all went to bed

soon after dinner. The whole village was wrapped in that perfect

stillness of the country, which is almost like a religious silence, and

the girls, who were accustomed to the noisy evenings of their

establishment, felt rather impressed by the perfect repose of the

sleeping village, and they shivered, not with cold, but with those

little shivers of solitude which come over uneasy and troubled hearts.

As soon as they were in bed, two and two together, they clasped each

other in their arms, as if to protect themselves against this feeling of

the calm and profound slumber of the earth. But Rosa _the Jade_, who

was alone in her little dark cupboard, felt a vague and painful emotion

come over her.

She was tossing about in bed, unable to get to sleep, when she heard the

faint sobs of a crying child close to her head through the partition.

She was frightened, and called out, and was answered by a weak voice,

broken by sobs. It was the little girl, who was always used to sleeping

in her mother's room, and who was frightened in her small attic.

Rosa was delighted, got up softly so as not to awaken anyone, and went

and fetched the child. She took her into her warm bed, kissed her and

pressed her to her bosom, cossetted her, lavished exaggerated

manifestations of tenderness on her, and at last grew calmer herself and

went to sleep. And till morning, the candidate for confirmation slept

with her head on the prostitute's naked bosom.

At five o'clock, the little church bell ringing the _Angelus_, woke the

women up, who usually slept the whole morning long.

The peasants were up already, and the women went busily from house to

house, carefully bringing short, starched, muslin dresses in

band--boxes, or very long wax tapers, with a bow of silk fringed with

gold in the middle, and with dents in the wax for the fingers.

The sun was already high in the blue sky, which still had a rosy tint

towards the horizon, like a faint trace of dawn, remaining. Families of

fowls were walking about outside houses, and here and there a black

cock, with a glistening breast, raised his head, which was crowned by

his red comb, flapped his wings, and uttered his shrill crow, which the

other cocks repeated.

Vehicles of all sorts came from neighboring parishes, and discharged

tall, Norman women, in dark dresses, with neck--handkerchiefs crossed

over the bosom, which were fastened with silver brooches, a hundred

years old.

The men had put on their blouses over their new frock--coats, or over

their old dress--coats of green cloth, the two tails of which hung down

below their blouses. When the horses were in the stable, there was a

double line of rustic conveyances along the road; carts, cabriolets,

tilburies, char--a--bancs, traps of every shape and age, resting on

their shafts, or else with them in the air.

The carpenter's house was as busy as a beehive. The ladies, in

dressing--jackets and petticoats, with their hanging down, thin, short

hair, which looked as if it were faded and worn by use, were busy

dressing the child, who was standing motionless on a table, while

Madame Tellier was directing the movements of her battalion. They washed

her, did her hair, dressed her, and with the help of a number of pins,

they arranged the folds of her dress, and took in the waist, which was

too large.

Then, when she was ready, she was told to sit down and not to move, and

the women hurried off to get ready themselves.

The church bell began to ring again, and its tinkle was lost in the air,

like a feeble voice which is soon drowned in space. The candidates came

out of the houses, and went towards the parochial building which

contained the two--school and the mansion house--and which stood quite

at one end of the village, while the church was situated at the other.

The parents, in their very best clothes, followed their children, with

awkward looks, and those clumsy movements of the body, which is always

bent at work.

The little girls disappeared in a cloud of muslin, which looked like

whipped cream, while the lads, who looked like embryo waiters in a

_café_, and whose heads shone with pomatum, walked with their legs

apart, so as not to get any dust or dirt onto their black trousers.

It was something for the family to be proud of, when a large number of

relations, who had come from a distance, surrounded the child, and,

consequently, the carpenter's triumph was complete.

Madame Tellier's regiment, with its mistress at its head, followed

Constance; her father gave his arm to his sister, her mother walked by

the side of Raphaele, Fernande, with Rosa and the two pumps together,

and thus they walked majestically through the village, like a general's

staff in full uniform, while the effect on the village was startling.

At the school, the girls arranged themselves under the Sister of Mercy,

and the boys under the schoolmaster, and they started off, singing a

hymn as they went. The boys led the way, in two files, between the two

rows of vehicles, from which the horses had been taken out, and the

girls followed in the same order; and as all the people in the village

had given the town ladies the precedence out of politeness, they came

immediately behind the girls, and lengthened the double line of the

procession still more, three on the right and three on the left, while

their dresses were as striking as a bouquet in fireworks.

When they went into the church, the congregation grew quite excited.

They pressed against each other, they turned round, they jostled one

another in order to see, and some of the devout ones spoke almost aloud,

as they were so astonished at the sight of those ladies whose dresses

were more trimmed than the priest's chasuble.

The Mayor offered them his pew, the first one on the right, close to the

choir, and Madame Tellier sat there with her sister-in-law, Fernande and

Raphaele, Rosa _the Jade_, and the two pumps occupied the second seat,

in company with the carpenter.

The choir was full of kneeling children, the girls on one side, and the

boys on the other, and the long wax tapers which they held looked like

lances, pointing in all directions, and three men were standing in front

of the lectern, singing as loud as they could.

They prolonged the syllables of the sonorous Latin indefinitely,

holding onto _Amens_ with interminable _a--a's_, while the serpent of

the organ kept up its monotorious, long drawn out notes, which that

longthroated, copper instrument uttered.

A child's shrill voice took up the reply, and from time to time a priest

sitting in a stall and wearing a biretta, got up, muttered something,

and sat down again, while the three singers continued, with their eyes

fixed on the big book of plain song lying open before them on the

outstretched wings of an eagle, mounted on a pivot.

Then silence ensued, and so the service went on, and towards the end of

it, Rosa, with her head in both her hands, suddenly thought of her

mother and her village church on a similar occasion. She almost fancied

that that day had returned, when she was so small, and almost hidden in

her white dress, and she began to cry.

First of all, she wept silently, and the tears dropped slowly from her

eyes, but her emotion increased with her recollections, and she began to

sob. She took out her pocket-handkerchief, wiped her eyes, and held it

to her mouth, so as not to scream, but it was useless.

A sort of rattle escaped her throat, and she was answered by two other

profound, heart-breaking sobs; for her two neighbors, Louise and Flora,

who were kneeling near her, overcome by similar recollections, were

sobbing by her side, amidst a flood of tears, and as they are

contagious, _Madame_ soon in turn found that her eyes were wet, and on

turning to her sister-in-law, she saw that all the occupants of her seat

were also crying.

Soon, throughout the church, here and there, a wife, a mother, a sister,

seized by the strange sympathy of poignant emotion, and agitated by

those handsome ladies on their knees, who were shaken by their sobs,

was moistening her cambric pocket-handkerchief, and pressing her beating

heart with her left hand.

Just as the sparks from an engine will set fire to dry grass, so the

tears of Rosa and of her companions infected the whole congregation in a

moment. Men, women, old men, and lads in new blouses were soon all

sobbing, and something superhuman seemed to be hovering over their

heads; a spirit, the powerful breath of an invisible and all-powerful

being.

Suddenly a species of madness seemed to pervade the church, the noise of

a crowd in a state of frenzy, a tempest of sobs and stifled cries. It

passed through them like gusts of wind which bow the trees in a forest,

and the priest, paralyzed by emotion, stammered out incoherent prayers,

without finding words, prayers of the soul, when it soars towards

heaven.

The people behind him, gradually grew calmer. The cantors, in all the

dignity of their white surplices, went on in somewhat uncertain voices,

and the serpent itself seemed hoarse, as if the instrument had been

weeping; the priest, however, raised his hand, as a sign for them to be

still, and went and stood on the chancel steps, when everybody was

silent, immediately.

After a few remarks on what had just taken place, which he attributed to

a miracle, he continued, turning to the seats where the carpenter's

guests were sitting:

"I especially thank you, my dear sisters, who have come from such a

distance, and whose presence among us, whose evident faith and ardent

piety have set such a salutary example to all. You have edified my

parish; your emotion has warmed all hearts; without you, this great day

would not, perhaps, have had this really divine character. It is

sufficient, at times, that there should be one chosen to keep in the

flock, to make the whole flock blessed."

His voice failed him again, from emotion, and he said no more, but

concluded the service.

Then they all left the church as quickly as possible, and the children

themselves were restless, as they were tired with such a prolonged

tension of the mind. Besides that, they were hungry, and by degrees they

all left the churchyard, to see about dinner.

There was a crowd outside, a noisy crowd, a babel of loud voices, where

the shrill Norman accent was discernible. The villagers formed two

ranks, and when the children appeared, each family seized its own.

The whole houseful of women caught hold of Constance, surrounded her and

kissed her, and Rosa was especially demonstrative. At last she took hold

of one hand, while Madame Tellier held the other, and Raphaele and

Fernande held up her long muslin petticoat, so that it might not drag in

the dust; Louise and Flora brought up the rear with Madame Rivet, and

the child, who was very silent and thoughtful, set off home, in the

midst of this guard of honor.

The dinner was served in the workshop, on long boards supported by

trestles, and through the open door they could see all the enjoyment

that was going on. Everywhere they were feasting, and through every

window were to be seen tables surrounded by people in their Sunday best,

and a cheerful noise was heard in every house, while the men were

sitting in their shirt-sleeves, drinking cider, glass after glass.

In the carpenter's house, their gaiety maintained somewhat of an air of

reserve, which was the consequence of the emotion of the girls in the

morning, and Rivet was the only one who was in a good cue, and he was

drinking to excess. Madame Tellier was looking at the clock every

moment, for, in order not to lose two days following, they ought to take

the 3:55 train, which would bring them to Fécamp by dark.

The carpenter tried very hard to distract her attention, so as to keep

his guests until the next day, but he did not succeed, for she never

joked when there was business to be done, and as soon as they had had

their coffee she ordered her girls to make haste and get ready, and

then, turning to her brother, she said:

"You must have the horse put in immediately," and she herself went to

finish her last preparations.

When she came down again, her sister-in-law was waiting to speak to her

about the child, and a long conversation took place, in which, however,

nothing was settled. The carpenter's wife finished, and pretended to be

very much moved, and Madame Tellier, who was holding the girl on her

knees, would not pledge herself to anything definite, but merely gave

vague promises ... she would not forget her, there was plenty of time,

and then, they should meet again.

But the conveyance did not come to the door, and the women did not come

downstairs. Upstairs, they even heard loud laughter, falls, little

screams, and much clapping of hands, and so, while the carpenter's wife

went to the stable to see whether the cart was ready, Madame went

upstairs.

Rivet, who was very drunk, and half undressed, was vainly trying to

violate Rosa, who was half choking with laughter. The two pumps were

holding him by the arms and trying to calm him, as they were shocked at

such a scene after that morning's ceremony; but Raphaele and Fernande

were urging him on, writhing and holding their sides with laughter, and

they uttered shrill cries at every useless attempt that the drunken

fellow made.

The man was furious, his face was red, he was all unbuttoned, and he was

trying to shake off the two women who were clinging to him, while he was

pulling Rosa's petticoat with all his might.

But _Madame_, who was very indignant, went up to her brother, seized him

by the shoulders, and threw him out of the room with such violence that

he fell against a wall in the passage, and a minute afterwards they

heard him pumping water onto his head in the yard, and when he came back

with the cart, he was already quite appeased.

They started off in the same way as they had come the day before, and

the little white horse started off with his quick, dancing trot. Under

the hot sun, their fun, which had been checked during dinner, broke out

again. The girls now were amused at the jolts which the wagon gave,

pushed their neighbors' chairs, and burst out laughing every moment, for

they were in the vein for it, after Rivet's vain attempt.

There was a haze over the country, the roads were glaring, and dazzled

their eyes, and the wheels raised up two trails of dust, which followed

the cart for a long time along the high road, and presently Fernande,

who was fond of music, asked Rosa to sing something, and she boldly

struck up the _Gros Curé de Meudon_, but _Madame_ made her stop

immediately, as she thought it a song which was very unsuitable for such

a day, and she added:

"Sing us something of Béranger's." And so, after a moment's hesitation,

she began Béranger's song, _The Grandmother_, in her worn-out voice, and

all the girls, and even _Madame_ herself, joined in the chorus:

"How I regret

My dimpled arms,

My well-made legs,

And my vanished charms."

"That is first rate," Rivet declared, carried away by the rhythm, and

they shouted the refrain to every verse, while Rivet beat time on the

shafts with his foot, and on the horse's back with the reins, who, as if

he himself were carried away by the rhythm, broke into a wild gallop,

and threw all the women in a heap, one on the top of the other, onto the

bottom of the conveyance.

They got up, laughing as if they were mad, and the song went on, shouted

at the top of their voices, beneath the burning sky, among the ripening

grain, to the rapid gallop of the little horse, who set off every time

the refrain was sung, and galloped a hundred yards, to their great

delight, while occasionally a stone breaker by the roadside sat up and

looked at the wild and shouting female load through his wire spectacles.

When they got out at the station, the carpenter said:

"I am sorry you are going; we might have had some fun together." But

_Madame_ replied very sensibly: "Everything has its right time, and we

cannot always be enjoying ourselves." And then he had a sudden

inspiration:

"Look here, I will come and see you at Fécamp next month." And he gave a

knowing look, with a bright and roguish eye.

"Come," _Madame_ said, "you must be sensible; you may come if you like,

but you are not to be up to any of your tricks."

He did not reply, and as they heard the whistle of the train, he

immediately began to kiss them all. When it came to Rosa's turn, he

tried to get to her mouth, which she, however, smiling with her lips

closed, turned away from him each time by a rapid movement of her head

to one side. He held her in his arms, but he could not attain his

object, as his large whip, which he was holding in his hand and waving

behind the girl's back in desperation, interfered with his efforts.

"Passengers for Rouen, take your seats, please!" a guard cried, and they

got in. There was a slight whistle, followed by a loud whistle, from the

engine, which noisily puffed out its first jet of steam, while the

wheels began to turn a little, with a visible effort, and Rivet left the

station and went to the gate by the side of the line to get another look

at Rosa, and as the carriage full of human merchandise passed him, he

began to crack his whip and to jump, while he sang at the top of his

voice:

"How I regret

My dimpled arms,

My well-made legs,

And my vanished charms."

And then he watched a white pocket-handkerchief, which somebody was

waving, as it disappeared in the distance.

PART III

They slept the peaceful sleep of a quiet conscience, until they got to

Rouen, and when they returned to the house, refreshed and rested,

_Madame_ could not help saying:

"It was all very well, but I was already longing to get home."

They hurried over their supper, and then, when they had put on their

usual light evening costume, waited for their usual customers, and the

little colored lamp outside the door told the passers-by that the flock

had returned to the fold, and in a moment the news spread, nobody knew

how or by whom.

Monsieur Philippe, the banker's son, even carried his forgetfulness so

far, as to send a special messenger to Monsieur Tournevau, who was in

the boson of his family.

The fish-curer used every Sunday to have several cousins to dinner, and

they were having coffee, when a man came in with a letter in his hand.

Monsieur Tournevau was much excited, he opened the envelope and grew

pale; it only contained these words in pencil:

_"The cargo of cod has been found; the ship has come into port; good

business for you. Come immediately."_

He felt in his pockets, gave the messenger two-pence, and suddenly

blushing to his ears, he said: "I must go out." He handed his wife the

laconic and mysterious note, rang the bell, and when the servant came

in, he asked her to bring him his hat and overcoat immediately. As soon

as he was in the street, he began to run, and the way seemed to him to

be twice as long as usual, in consequence of his impatience.

Madame Tellier's establishment had put on quite a holiday look. On the

ground floor, a number of sailors were making a deafening noise, and

Louise and Flora drank with one and the other, so as to merit their name

of the two Pumps more than ever. They were being called for everywhere

at once; already they were not quite adequate to their business, and the

night bid fair to be a very jolly one for them.

The upstairs room was full by nine o'clock. Monsieur Vasse, the Judge of

the Tribunal of Commerce, _Madame's_ usual, but Platonic wooer, was

talking to her in a corner, in a low voice, and they were both smiling,

as if they were about to come to an understanding.

Monsieur Poulin, the ex-mayor, was holding Rosa on his knees; and she,

with her nose close to his, was running her hands through the old

gentleman's white whiskers.

Tall Fernande, who was lying on the sofa, had both her feet on Monsieur

Pinipesse, the tax-collector's stomach, and her back on young Monsieur

Philippe's waistcoat; her right arm was round his neck, while she held a

cigarette in her left.

Raphaele appeared to be discussing matters with Monsieur Dupuis, the

insurance agent, and she finished by saying: "Yes, my dear, I will."

Just then, the door opened suddenly, and Monsieur Tournevau came in, who

was greeted with enthusiastic cries of: "Long live Tournevau!" And

Raphaele, who was still twirling round, went and threw herself into his

arms. He seized her in a vigorous embrace, and without saying a word,

lifting her up as if she had been a feather, he went through the room,

opened the door at the other end and disappeared.

Rosa was chatting to the ex-mayor, kissing him every moment, and

pulling both his whiskers at the same time in order to keep his head

straight.

Fernande and _Madame_ remained with the four men, and Monsieur Philippe

exclaimed: "I will pay for some champagne; get three bottles, Madame

Tellier." And Fernande gave him a hug, and whispered to him: "Play us

a waltz, will you?" So he rose and sat down at the old piano in the

corner, and managed to get a hoarse waltz out of the entrails of the

instrument.

The tall girl put her arms round the tax-collector, _Madame_ asked

Monsieur Vasse to take her in his arms, and the two couples turned

round, kissing as they danced. Monsieur Vasse, who had formerly danced

in good society, waltzed with such elegance, that _Madame_ was quite

captivated.

Frederic brought the champagne; the first cork popped, and Monsieur

Philippe played the introduction to a quadrille, through which the four

dancers walked in society fashion, decorously, with propriety,

deportment, bows and curtsies, and then they began to drink.

Monsieur Philippe next struck up a lively polka, and Monsieur Tournevau

started off with the handsome Jewess, whom he held up in the air,

without letting her feet touch the ground. Monsieur Pinipesse and

Monsieur Vasse had started off with renewed vigor, and from time to time

one or other couple would stop to toss off a long glass of sparkling

wine, and that dance was threatening to become never-ending, when Rosa

opened the door.

"I want to dance," she exclaimed. And she caught hold of Monsieur

Dupuis, who was sitting idle on the couch, and the dance began again.

But the bottles were empty. "I will pay for one," Monsieur said. "So

will I," Monsieur Vasse declared. "And I will do the same," Monsieur

Dupuis remarked.

They all began to clap their hands, and it soon became a regular ball,

and from time to time, Louise and Flora ran upstairs quickly, had a few

turns, while their customers downstairs grew impatient, and then they

returned regretfully to the _café_. At midnight they were still dancing.

_Madame_ shut her eyes to what was going on and she had long private

talks in corners with Monsieur Vasse, as if to settle the last details

of something that had already been settled.

At last, at one o'clock, the two married men, Monsieur Tournevau and

Monsieur Pinipesse declared that they were going home, and wanted to

pay. Nothing was charged for except the champagne, and that only cost

six francs a bottle, instead of ten, which was the usual price, and when

they expressed their surprise at such generosity, _Madame_, who was

beaming, said to them:

"We don't have a holiday every day."

THE BANDMASTER'S SISTER

"What a joke!" the bandmaster said, twirling his moustache with the

foolish smile of a good-looking man, who dangles after women's

petticoats, in order that he may get on all the quicker.

His comrades' equivocal allusions puzzled him, though they flattered him

like applause, and he stealthily looked in the large mirrors at the new

lyres embroidered in gold on the collar of his tunic. They fascinated

him by their glitter, and half intoxicated by the doubtful champagne

that he had drunk during dinner, and by the glasses of chartreuse and of

Bavarian beer which he had imbibed afterwards, and excited by the songs,

he was indulging in his usual dreams of success.

He saw himself on the platform of a public garden, standing before his

musicians in a flood of light, and he fancied already that he could hear

the whispers of women, and feel the caress of their look upon him.

He would be invited even into the drawing-rooms of the _Faubourg Saint

Germain_, which was so difficult of access. With his handsome, pale

face, and his wonderful manner of playing Chopin's music, he would

penetrate every where, and perhaps some romantic heiress would fall in

love with him, and consent to forget that he was only a poor musician,

the son of small shopkeepers, who were still in trade at Bayeux.

Lieutenant Varache, who was stirring the punch, shrugged his shoulders,

and continued in a bantering voice:

"Yes, Monsieur Parisel, they are sure to ask you whether you have just

joined the regiment, or whether you have a mistress ..."

"What do I know?"

"But they say that you have, and that her eyes grow so bright when she

speaks to you, that a man would forfeit three months' pay for a glance

of them, by Jove!"

Another traced her likeness in a few words, and described her as if she

had been some knick-knack for sale at an auction. Her hair came low on

her forehead like a golden net, her skin was dazzlingly white, while her

bright eyes threw out glances that were like those flashes of summer

lightning which dart across the sky on a calm night in June.

Her delicate figure, and she did not look very strong, recalled a plant

that has grown too rapidly. She was a droll creature, on the whole, who

at times looked as if she had made a mistake in the door, who buried

herself in the shade, hid herself, and did not surrender either her

heart or her body, and only left the impression of a statue on the bed

in which she slept, who appeared delighted with the ignoble business she

carried on, and who allured men, and surpassed the common streetwalkers

in shamelessness.

Parisel, however, was not listening to them any longer.

He was terribly vexed at meeting with such a common-place adventure at

the first start, and to come across that girl on his road, who would

make him loose, and soil him with unclean love. She would lower him, and

bring him down to the level of rollicking troopers, who are welcome

guests in houses of bad character.

"Well," one of them said suddenly, "suppose we go and finish the night

at that establishment; it will be far jollier, and the chief will not be

obliged to cudgel his brains to remember the name of the girl he loves!"

* * * * *

The officers pushed open the door of the saloon, where a servant was

lighting the chandelier, and Marchessy called out in a loud voice, and

amidst bursts of laughter:

"Here, Lucie! We have brought your sweetheart to you!"

She came in first, slowly, and wrapped in a transparent muslin

dressing-gown, and stopped, as if the beating of her heart were choking

her. The bandmaster did not move or say a word; he resembled a duellist,

who sees his adversary advancing towards him and taking aim at him, and

who is waiting for death.

Great drops of perspiration rolled down his face, and all the blood had

left it, while the woman looked at him, and did not appear to recognize

him, although her eyes wore a look of triumphant pleasure, and when he

started back, and turned his head away, she said to him, in a mocking

voice:

"What, my dear, are you not going to kiss me, after a whole year? ... I

must have altered very much, very much indeed ... Do not my mouth, and

this mark by the side of my ear, bring something to your mind?"

And Varache, who had just lit a cigar, muttered: "Are you going to act

a play until to-morrow?"

Then Lucie threw herself on to a sofa, and with her chin in her hands,

and in the posture of a chimera on the look out for the pleasures she

wishes, continued gravely:

"We lived at the end of a quiet street behind the cathedral, a street in

which pots of carnations stood on the window ledges, through which the

seminarists went twice a day, as if it had been a procession, and where

I was bored to death. Our parents' shop was cold and dark; my mother

thought of nothing but of going to all the services, and of attending

the _novenas_, while my father bent over the counter. There was nobody

to pet me, to advise me, or to teach me what life really was, and

besides that, I had the instinctive feeling that they cared for nobody

in this world but my brother.

"The first kiss that touched my lips nearly sent me mad, and I had not

the force to resist or to say _no_. I did not even ask the man who

seduced me to marry me, to promise me what men do promise girls. We met

in a booth at the fair, and I used to go to meet him every evening in a

meadow bordered by poplar trees. He had a situation as clerk or

collector, I believe, and when he was sent to another town, I was

already three months in the family way. My people soon found it out, and

forced me to acknowledge everything, and they locked me up like a

prisoner who wished to escape from jail.

"My brother was home for his holidays--do you remember now, Monsieur

Parisel? He had just been appointed second head clerk, was reckoning on

still further speedy advancement, and was bursting with pride. He was

harder and more inexorable than the two old people towards me, poor

forsaken girl as I was, although they had never left their home. He

spoke about his future, which would be compromised, of the disgrace

which would fall on all the family, went into a rage, arid pitied

neither my tears nor my prayers, and treated me with the cruelty of a

hangman.

"And they sent me a long way off, like a servant who has committed a

theft, and condemned me to be confined at a farm in a village, where the

peasants treated me harshly. The child died, but the mother lived

through everything.

"One does not have good luck very frequently, confound it, and the only

thing that I could do was to return evil, to strike at the coward whom I

hated, to dishonor and to lower his name, to stick to the fellow who

strutted about in his uniform, and who had won the game, from garrison

to garrison, as if I had been vermin. That is why I, of my own accord,

came to this house, where one belongs to everybody, and have become

almost more vicious than any of the other girls, and why I have told you

this unentertaining story.

"I say, you fellows, who will pay ten francs for the bandmaster's

sister? Upon my honor, you will not regret your money!"

His comrades got Parisel out of the house. He resisted for a week, but

then sold everything he had, borrowed the money to pay Lucie's debts,

and tried in vain to free himself from that weight, and to get her

expelled from the town, but she always returned. She was as implacable

towards him as a gerfalcon that is devouring its prey, and as the

adventure had got wind, and was even talked about at the soldiers' mess,

and as the scandal increased every day, the colonel forced the

bandmaster to resign.

When Lucie heard the news, she looked vexed, and, said spitefully:

"I had hoped that he would have blown his brains out!"

FALSE ALARM

"I have a perfect horror of pianos," Frémecourt said, "of those hateful

boxes that fill up a drawing-room, and which have not even the soft

sound and the queer shape of the mahogany or veneered spinets, to which

our grandmothers sighed out exquisite, long-forgotten ballads, and

allowed their fingers to run over the keys, while around them there

floated a delicate odor of powder and muslin, and some little _Abbé_ or

other turned over the leaves, and was continually making mistakes, as he

was looking at the patches close to the lips on the white skin of the

player instead of at the music.

"I wish there were a tax upon them, or that some evening, during a riot,

the people would make huge bonfires of them, which would illuminate the

whole town. They simply exasperate me, and affect my nerves, and make me

think of the tortures those poor girls must suffer, who are condemned

not to stir for hours, but to keep on constantly strumming away at the

chromatic scales and monotonous arpeggios, and to have no other object

in life except to win a prize at the _Conservatoire_.

"Their incoherent music suggests to me the sufferings of those who are

ill, abandoned, wounded, as it proceeds from every floor of every house,

and irritates you, nearly drives you mad, and makes you break out into

ironical fits of laughter.

"And yet when that madcap Lâlie Spring honored me with her love, as I

never can refuse anything to a woman who smells of fresh scent, and who

has a large store of promises in her looks, and who puts out her red,

smiling lips immediately, as if she were going to offer you handsel

money, I bought a piano, so that she might strum upon it to her heart's

content. I got it, however, on the hire-purchase system, and paid so

much a month, like _grisettes_[9] do for their furniture.

[Footnote 9: Work-girl, a name applied to those whose virtue is not too

rigorous.--TRANSLATOR.]

"At that time, I had the apartments I had so long dreamed of: warm,

elegant, light, well-arranged, with two entrances, and an incomparable

porter's wife; she had been canteen-keeper in a Zouave regiment, and

knew everything and understood everything at a wink.

"It was the kind of apartment from which a woman has not the courage to

escape, so as to avoid temptation, but becomes weak, and rolls herself

up on the soft, eider down cushions like a cat, and so is appeased, and

in spite of herself, thinks of sin at the sight of the low, wide couch,

which is so suitable for caresses, of the heavy curtains, which quite

deaden the sound of voices and of laughter, and of the flowers that

scent the air, and whose smell lingers on the folds of the hangings.

"They were rooms in which a woman forgets time, where she begins by

accepting a cup of tea and nibbling a sweet cake, and abandons her

fingers timidly and with regret to other fingers which tremble, and are

hot, and so by degrees she loses her head and succumbs.

"I do not know whether the piano brought us ill luck, but Lâlie had not

even time to learn four songs before she disappeared like the wind, just

as she had come, _flick-flack_, good-night, good-bye; perhaps from

spite, because she had found letters from other women on my table,

perhaps to renew her advertisement, as she was not one of those to hang

onto one man and become a fixture.

"I had not been in love with her, certainly, but yet it always has some

effect on a man; it breaks a spring when a woman leaves you, and you

think that you must start again, risk it, and go in for forbidden sport

in which one is exposed to knocks, common sport that one has been

through a hundred times before, and which provides you with nothing to

show for it.

"Nothing is more unpleasant than to lend your apartments to a friend, to

have to say to yourself that someone is going to disturb the mysterious

intimacy which really exists between the actual owner and his furniture,

the soul of those past kisses which floats in the air; that the room

whose tints you connect with some recollection, some dream, some sweet

vision, and whose colors you have tried to make harmonize with certain

fair-haired, pink-skinned girls, is going to become a common-place

lodging, like the rooms in an ordinary lodging house, which are suitable

to hidden crime and to evanescent love affairs.

"However, poor Stanis had begged me so urgently to do him that service;

he was so very much in love with Madame de Fréjus, and among the

characters in the play there was a brute of a husband who was terribly

jealous and suspicious; one of those Othellos who have always a flea in

their ear, and come back unexpectedly from shooting or the club, who

pick up pieces of torn paper, listen at doors, smell out meetings with

the nose of a detective, and seem to have been sent into the world only

to be cuckolds, but who know better than most how to lay a snare, and to

play a nasty trick--that when I went to Venice, I consented to let him

have my room.

"I will leave you to guess whether they made up for lost time, although,

after all, it is no business of yours. My journey, however, which was

only to have lasted a few weeks--just long enough to benefit by the

change of air, to rid my brain of the image of my last mistress, and

perhaps to find another among that strange mixture of society which one

meets there, a medley of American, Slav, Viennese and Italian women, who

instill a little artificial life into that old city, which is asleep

amidst the melancholy silence of the lagoons--was prolonged, and Stanis

was as much at home in my rooms as he was in his own.

"Madame Piquignolles, the retired canteen-keeper, took great interest in

this adventure, watched over their little love affair, and, as she used

to say, she was on guard as soon as they arrived one after the other,

the marchioness covered with a thick veil, and slipping in as quickly as

possible, always uneasy, and afraid that Monsieur de Fréjus might be

following her, and Stanis with the assured and satisfied look of an

amorous husband, who is going to meet his little wife after having been

away from home for a few days.

"Well, one day during one of those calm moments when his beloved one,

fresh from her bath, and impregnated with the coolness of the water, was

pressing close to her lover, reclining in his arms, and smiling at him

with half closed eyes, at one of those moments when people do not speak,

but continue their dream, the sentinel, without even asking leave,

suddenly burst into the room, for worthy Madame Piquignolles was in a

terrible fright.

"A few minutes before, a well-dressed gentleman, followed by two others

of seedy appearance, but who looked very strong, and fit to knock

anybody down, had questioned her in a rough manner, and cross-questioned

her, and tried to turn her inside out, as she said, asking her whether

Monsieur de Fréjus lived on the first floor, without giving her any

explanation, and when she declared that there was nobody occupying the

apartments then, as her lodger was not in France, Monsieur de

Fréjus--for it could certainly be nobody but he--had burst out into an

evil laugh, and said: 'Very well; I shall go and fetch the Police

Commissary of the district, and he will make you let us in!'

"And as quickly as possible, while she was telling her story, now in a

low, and then in a shrill voice, the woman picked up the marchioness'

dress, cloak, lace-edged drawers, silk petticoat, and little varnished

shoes, pulled her out of bed, without giving her time to let her know

what she was doing, or to moan, or to have a fit of hysterics, and

carried her off, as if she had been a doll, with all her pretty toggery,

to a large, empty cupboard in the dining room, that was concealed by

Flemish tapestry. 'You are a man... Try to get out of the mess,' she

said to Stanis as she shut the door; 'I will be answerable for Madame.'

And the enormous woman, who was out of breath by hurrying upstairs as

she had done, and whose kind, large red face was dripping with

perspiration, while her ample bosom shook beneath her loose jacket, took

Madame de Fréjus onto her knees as if she had been a baby, whose nurse

was trying to quiet her.

"She felt the poor little culprit's heart beating as if it were going to

burst, while shivers ran over her skin, which was so soft and delicate

that the porter's wife was afraid that she would hurt it with her coarse

hands. She was struck with wonder at the cambric chemise, which a gust

of wind would have carried off as if it had been a pigeon's feather, and

by the delicate odor of that scarce flower which filled the narrow

cupboard, and which rose up in the darkness from that supple body, that

was impregnated with the warmth of the bed.

"She would have liked to be there, in that profaned room, and to tell

them in a loud voice--with her hands upon her lips like at the time when

she used to serve brandy to her comrades at _Daddy l'Arb's_--that they

had no common sense, that they were none of them good for much, neither

the Police Commissary, the husband nor the subordinates, to come and

torment a pretty young thing, who was having a little bit of fun, like

that. It was a nice job, to get over the wall in that way, to be absent

from the second call of names, especially when they were all of the same

sort, and were glad of five francs an hour! She had certainly done quite

right to get out sometimes and to have a sweetheart, and she was a

charming little thing, and that she would say, if she were called before

the Court as a witness!

"And she took Madame de Fréjus in her arms to quiet her, and repeated

the same thing a dozen times, whispered pretty things to her, and

interrupted her occasionally to listen whether they were not searching

all the nooks and corners of the apartment. 'Come, come,' she said, 4

do not distress yourself. Be calm, my dear...It hurts me to hear you cry

like that.... There will be no mischief done, I will vouch for it.'

"The marchioness, who was nearly fainting, and who was prostrate with

terror, could only sob out: 'Good heavens! Good heavens!'

"She scarcely seemed to be conscious of anything; her head seemed

vacant, her ears buzzed, and she felt benumbed, like one does when one

goes to sleep in the snow.

"Oh! Only to forget everything, as her love dream was over, to go out

quickly, like those little rose-colored tapers at Nice, on Shrove

Tuesday evening.

"Oh! Not to awake any more, as the to-morrow would come in, black and

sad, because a whole array of barristers, ushers, solicitors and judges

would be against her, and disturb her usual quietude, would torment her,

cover her with mud, as her delicious, amorous adventure--her

first--which had been so carefully enveloped in mystery, and had been

kept so secret behind closed shutters and thick veils, would become an

everyday episode of adultery, which would get wind, and be discussed

from door to door; the lilac had faded, and she was obliged to bid

farewell to happiness, as if to an old friend who was going far, very

far away, never to return!

"Suddenly, however, she started and sat up, with her neck stretched out

and her eyes fixed, while the excanteen-keeper, who was trembling with

emotion, put her hands to her left ear, which was her best, like a

speaking trumpet, and tried to hear the cries which succeeded each other

from room to room, amidst a noise of opening and shutting of doors.

"'Ah! upon my word, I am not blind....It is Monsieur de Tavernay who is

applying again, and making all that noise....Don't you hear, _Mame

Piquignolles, Mame Piquignolles!_ Saved, saved!' And she dashed out of

the cupboard like an unwieldy mass, with her cap all on one side, an

anxious look and heavy legs.

"Tavernay was still quite pale, and in a panting voice he cried out to

them: 'Nothing serious, only that fool Frémecourt, who lent me the

rooms, has forgotten to pay for his piano for the last five months, a

hundred francs a month....You understand ...they came to claim it, and

as we did not reply ...why, they fetched the Police Commissary, and so,

in the name of the law....

"'A nice fright to give one!' Madame Piquignolles said, throwing herself

onto a chair. 'Confound the nasty piano!'

"It may be useless to add, that the marchioness has quite renounced

_trifles_, as our forefathers used to say, and would deserve a prize for

virtue, if the Academy would only show itself rather more gallant

towards pretty women, who take crossroads in order to become virtuous.

"Emotions like that cure people of running risks of that kind!"

WIFE AND MISTRESS

It was not only her long, silky curls, which covered her small,

fairy-like head, like a golden halo, nor her beautiful complexion, nor

her mouth, which was like some delicate shell, nor was it her supreme

innocence, which was shown by her sudden blushes, and by her somewhat

awkward movements, nor was it her ingenious questions which had assailed

and conquered George d'Harderme's heart. He had a peculiar temper, and

any appearance of a yoke frightened him and put him to flight

immediately, and his unstable heart was ready to yield to any

temptation, and he was incapable of any lasting attachment, while a

succession of women had left no more traces on it than on the seashore,

which is constantly being swept by the waves.

It was not the dream of a life of affection, of peace, the want of

loving and of being loved, which a fast man so often feels between

thirty and forty. His insurmountable lassitude of that circle of

pleasure in which he has turned, like a horse in a circus, the voids in

his existence which the marriage of his bachelor friends cause, and

which in his selfishness he looks upon as desertion, and whom he,

nevertheless, envies, which had at last induced him to listen to the

prayers and advice of his old mother, and to marry Mademoiselle Suzanne

de Gouvres; but the vision that he had had when he saw her playing with

quite little children, covering them with kisses, and looking at them

with ecstacy in her limpid eyes, and in hearing her talk of the

pleasures and the anguish that they must feel who are mothers in the

fullest sense of the word-the vision of a happy home where a man feels

that he is living again in others of that house, which is full of

laughter and of song, and seems as if it were full of birds.

As a matter of fact, he loved children, like some men love animals, and

he was interested in them, as in some delightful spectacle, and they

attracted him.

He was very gentle, kind and thoughtful with them, invented games for

them, took them on his knees, was never tired of listening to their

chatter, or of watching the development of their instincts, of their

intellect, and of their little, delicate souls.

He used to go and sit in the Parc Monceau, and in the squares, to watch

them playing and romping and prattling round him, and one day, as a

joke, somebody, a jealous mistress, or some friends in joke, had sent

him a splendid wet nurse's cap, with long, pink ribbons.

At first, he was under the influence of the charm that springs from the

beginning of an intimacy, from the first kisses, and devoted himself

altogether to that amorous education which revealed a new life to him,

as it were, and enchanted him.

He thought of nothing except of increasing the ardent love that his wife

bestowed on him, and lived in a state of perpetual adoration. Suzanne's

feelings, the metamorphosis of that virginal heart, which was beginning

to glow with love, and which vibrated, her passion, her modesty, her

sensations, were all delicious surprises to him.

He felt that feverish pleasure of a traveler who has discovered some

marvelous Eden, and loses his head over it, and, at times, with a long

affectionate and proud look at her, which grew even warmer on looking

into Suzanne's limpid, blue eyes, he would put his arms round her waist,

and pressing her to him so strongly that it hurt the young woman, he

exclaimed:

"Oh! I am quite sure that nowhere on earth are there two people who love

each other as we do, and who are as happy as you and I are, my darling!"

Months of uninterrupted possession and enchantment succeeded each other

without George altering, and without any lassitude mingling with the

ardor of their love, or the fire of their affection dying out.

Then, however, suddenly he ceased to be happy, and, in spite of all his

efforts to hide his invincible lowness of spirits, he became another

man, restless, being irritated at nothing, morose, and bored at

everything and everywhere; whimsical, and never knowing what he wanted.

But there was certainly something that was now poisoning that affection

which had formerly been his delight, which was coming more and more

between him and his wife every day, and which was giving him a distaste

for home.

By degrees, that vague suffering assumed a definite shape in his heart,

got implanted and fixed there, like a nail. He had not attained his

object, and he felt the weight of chains, understood that he could never

get used to such an existence, that he could not love a woman who seemed

incapable of becoming a mother, who lowered herself to the part of a

lawful mistress, and who was not faithful to him.

Alas! To awake from such a dream, to say to himself that he was reduced

to envying the good fortune of others, that he should never cover a

little, curly, smiling head with kisses, where some striking likeness,

some undecided gleams of growing intellect fill a man with joy, but that

he would be obliged to take the remainder of his journey in solitude,

heart-broken, with nothing but old age around him; that no branch would

again spring from the family tree, and that on his death-bed he should

not have that last consolation of pressing his dear ones, for whom he

struggled and made so many sacrifices, in his failing arms, and who were

sobbing with grief, but that soon he should be the prey of indifferent

and greedy heirs, who were discounting his approaching death like some

valuable security!

George had not told Suzanne the feelings which were tormenting him, and

took care that she should not see his state of unhappiness, and he did

not worry her with trying questions, that only end in some violent and

distressing scene.

But she was too much of a woman, and she loved her husband too much, not

to guess what was making him so gloomy, and was imperiling their love.

And every month there came a fresh disappointment, and hope was again

deferred. She, however, persisted in believing that their wish would be

granted, and grew ill with this painful waiting, and refused to believe

that she should never be a mother.

She would have looked upon it as a humiliation either to consult a

medical man, or to make a pilgrimage to some shrine, like so many women

did, in their despair, and her proud, loyal and loving nature at last

rebelled against that hostility, which showed itself in the angry

outbursts, the painful silence, and the haughty coldness of the man who

could, however, have done anything he liked with her, by a little

kindness.

With death in her soul, she had a presentiment of the way of the cross,

which is an end of love, of all the bitterness, which sooner or later

would end in terrible quarrels, and in words which would put an

impassable barrier between them.

At last, one evening, when George d'Hardermes had lost his temper, had

wounded her by equivocal words and bad jokes, Suzanne, who was very

pale, and who was clutching the arms of her easy chair convulsively,

interrupted him with the accents of farewell in her melancholy face:

"As you do not love me any more, why not tell me so, at once, instead of

wounding me like this by small, traitorous blows, and, above all, why

continue to live together?...You want your liberty, and I will give it

to you; you have your fortune, and I have mine. Let us separate without

a scandal and without a lawsuit, so that, at least, a little friendship

may survive our love...I shall leave Paris and go and live in the

country with my mother.... God is my witness, however, that I still love

you, my poor George, as much as ever, and that I shall remain your wife,

whether I am with you, or separated from you!"

George hesitated for a few moments before replying, with an uneasy, sad

look on his face, and then said, turning away his head:

"Yes, perhaps it will be best for both of us!"

They voluntarily broke their marriage contract, as she had heroically

volunteered to do. She kept her resolution, exiled herself, buried

herself in obscurity, accepted the trial with calm fortitude, and was as

resigned as only faithful and devoted souls can be.

They wrote to each other, and she deluded herself, pursued the chimera

that George would return to her, would call her back to his side, would

escape from his former associates, would understand of what deep love he

had voluntarily deprived himself, and would love her again as he had

formerly loved her; and she resisted all the entreaties and the advice

of her friends, to cut such a false position short, and to institute a

suit for divorce against her husband, as the issue would be certain.

He, at the end of a few months of solitude, of evanescent love affairs,

when to beguile his loneliness, a man passes from the arms of one woman

to those of another, had set up a new home, and had tied himself to a

woman whom he had accidentally met at a party of friends, and who had

managed to please him and to amuse him.

His deserted wife was naturally not left in ignorance of the fact, and,

stifling her jealousy and her grief, she put on a smile, and thought

that it would be the same with this one as it had been with all his

other ephemeral mistresses, whom her husband had successively got rid

of.

Was not that, after all, the best thing to bring about the issue which

she longed and hoped for? Would not that doubtful passion, that close

intimacy certainly make Monsieur d'Hardermes compare the woman he

possessed with the woman he had formerly had, and cause him to invoke

that lost paradise and that heart full of forgiveness, of love and of

goodness, which had not forgotten him, but which would respond to his

first appeal?

And that confidence of hers in a happier future, which neither all the

proofs of that connection, in which Monsieur d'Hardermes was becoming

more and more involved, and which her friends so kindly furnished her

with, nor the disdainful silence with which he treated all her gentle,

indulgent letters could shake, had something touching, angelic in it,

and reminded those who knew her well, of certain passages in the _Lives

of the Saints_.

At length, however, the sympathy of those who had so often tried to save

the young woman, to cure her, and to open her eyes, became exhausted,

and, left to herself, Suzanne proudly continued her dream, and absorbed

herself in it.

Two interminable years had passed since she had lived with Monsieur

d'Hardermes, and since he had put that hateful mistress in her place.

She had lost all trace of them, knew nothing about him, and, in spite of

everything, did not despair of seeing him again, and regaining her hold

over him, who could tell when, or by what miracle, but surely before

those eyes which he had so loved were tired of shedding tears, and her

fair hair, which he had so often covered with kisses, had grown white.

And the arrival of the postman every morning and evening, made her start

and shiver with nervousness.

One day, however, when she was going to Paris, Madame d'Hardermes found

herself alone in the ladies' carriage, into which she had got in a

hurry, with a peasant woman in her Sunday best, who had a child with

pretty pink cheeks and rosy lips, and which was like the dimpled cherubs

that one sees in pictures of the Assumption of the Virgin Mary, on her

lap.

The nurse said affectionate words to the child in a coaxing voice,

wrapped it up in the folds of her large cloak, sometimes gave it a

noisy, hearty kiss, and it beat the air with little hands, and crowed

and laughed with those pretty, attractive babyish movements, that

Suzanne could not help exclaiming: "Oh! the pretty little thing!" and