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 drink 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 each

of them was to eat a piece of it, 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 Fecamp. Rose went with the crowd and

prostrated herself in the abbey, and, mingling her prayers with the

coarse desires 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

quarrelled all day long, and when they were in their room together at

night he flung insults and obscenities at her, choking 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. 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 amid her tears she continued: “That was the reason why

I did not want to marry you. I could not 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 took 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 the 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 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 cure about an orphan

some time ago.”

Then, still laughing, he kissed his weeping and agitated wife on both

cheeks, and shouted out, as though 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 downstairs; and while she was

kneeling in front of the fireplace and lighting the fire under the

saucepan, he continued to walk up and down the kitchen with long

strides, repeating:

“Well, I am really glad of this; I am not saying it for form's sake, but

I am glad, I am really very glad.”

THE WRECK

It was yesterday, the 31st of December.

I had just finished breakfast with my old friend Georges Garin when the

servant handed him a letter covered with seals and foreign stamps.

Georges said:

“Will you excuse me?”

“Certainly.”

And so he began to read the letter, which was written in a large English

handwriting, crossed and recrossed in every direction. He read them

slowly, with serious attention and the interest which we only pay to

things which touch our hearts.

Then he put the letter on the mantelpiece and said:

“That was a curious story! I've never told you about it, I think. Yet it

was a sentimental adventure, and it really happened to me. That was a

strange New Year's Day, indeed! It must have been twenty years ago, for

I was then thirty and am now fifty years old.

“I was then an inspector in the Maritime Insurance Company, of which I

am now director. I had arranged to pass New Year's Day in Paris—since it

is customary to make that day a fete—when I received a letter from the

manager, asking me to proceed at once to the island of Re, where a

three-masted vessel from Saint-Nazaire, insured by us, had just been

driven ashore. It was then eight o'clock in the morning. I arrived at

the office at ten to get my advices, and that evening I took the

express, which put me down in La Rochelle the next day, the 31st of

December.

“I had two hours to wait before going aboard the boat for Re. So I made

a tour of the town. It is certainly a queer city, La Rochelle, with

strong characteristics of its own streets tangled like a labyrinth,

sidewalks running under endless arcaded galleries like those of the Rue

de Rivoli, but low, mysterious, built as if to form a suitable setting

for conspirators and making a striking background for those old-time

wars, the savage heroic wars of religion. It is indeed the typical old

Huguenot city, conservative, discreet, with no fine art to show, with no

wonderful monuments, such as make Rouen; but it is remarkable for its

severe, somewhat sullen look; it is a city of obstinate fighters, a city

where fanaticism might well blossom, where the faith of the Calvinists

became enthusiastic and which gave birth to the plot of the 'Four

Sergeants.'

“After I had wandered for some time about these curious streets, I went

aboard the black, rotund little steamboat which was to take me to the

island of Re. It was called the Jean Guiton. It started with angry

puffings, passed between the two old towers which guard the harbor,

crossed the roadstead and issued from the mole built by Richelieu, the

great stones of which can be seen at the water's edge, enclosing the

town like a great necklace. Then the steamboat turned to the right.

“It was one of those sad days which give one the blues, tighten the

heart and take away all strength and energy and force-a gray, cold day,

with a heavy mist which was as wet as rain, as cold as frost, as bad to

breathe as the steam of a wash-tub.

“Under this low sky of dismal fog the shallow, yellow, sandy sea of all

practically level beaches lay without a wrinkle, without a movement,

without life, a sea of turbid water, of greasy water, of stagnant water.

The Jean Guiton passed over it, rolling a little from habit, dividing

the smooth, dark blue water and leaving behind a few waves, a little

splashing, a slight swell, which soon calmed down.

“I began to talk to the captain, a little man with small feet, as round

as his boat and rolling in the same manner. I wanted some details of the

disaster on which I was to draw up a report. A great square-rigged

three-master, the Marie Joseph, of Saint-Nazaire, had gone ashore one

night in a hurricane on the sands of the island of Re.

“The owner wrote us that the storm had thrown the ship so far ashore

that it was impossible to float her and that they had to remove

everything which could be detached with the utmost possible haste.

Nevertheless I must examine the situation of the wreck, estimate what

must have been her condition before the disaster and decide whether all

efforts had been used to get her afloat. I came as an agent of the

company in order to give contradictory testimony, if necessary, at the

trial.

“On receipt of my report, the manager would take what measures he might

think necessary to protect our interests.

“The captain of the Jean Guiton knew all about the affair, having been

summoned with his boat to assist in the attempts at salvage.

“He told me the story of the disaster. The Marie Joseph, driven by a

furious gale lost her bearings completely in the night, and steering by

chance over a heavy foaming sea—'a milk-soup sea,' said the captain—had

gone ashore on those immense sand banks which make the coasts of this

country look like limitless Saharas when the tide is low.

“While talking I looked around and ahead. Between the ocean and the

lowering sky lay an open space where the eye could see into the

distance. We were following a coast. I asked:

“'Is that the island of Re?'

“'Yes, sir.'

“And suddenly the captain stretched his right hand out before us,

pointed to something almost imperceptible in the open sea, and said:

“'There's your ship!'

“'The Marie Joseph!'

“'Yes.'

“I was amazed. This black, almost imperceptible speck, which looked to

me like a rock, seemed at least three miles from land.

“I continued:

“'But, captain, there must be a hundred fathoms of water in that place.'

“He began to laugh.

“'A hundred fathoms, my child! Well, I should say about two!'

“He was from Bordeaux. He continued:

“'It's now nine-forty, just high tide. Go down along the beach with your

hands in your pockets after you've had lunch at the Hotel du Dauphin,

and I'll wager that at ten minutes to three, or three o'clock, you'll

reach the wreck without wetting your feet, and have from an hour and

three-quarters to two hours aboard of her; but not more, or you'll be

caught. The faster the sea goes out the faster it comes back. This coast

is as flat as a turtle! But start away at ten minutes to five, as I tell

you, and at half-past seven you will be again aboard of the Jean Guiton,

which will put you down this same evening on the quay at La Rochelle.'

“I thanked the captain and I went and sat down in the bow of the steamer

to get a good look at the little city of Saint-Martin, which we were now

rapidly approaching.

“It was just like all small seaports which serve as capitals of the

barren islands scattered along the coast—a large fishing village, one

foot on sea and one on shore, subsisting on fish and wild fowl,

vegetables and shell-fish, radishes and mussels. The island is very low

and little cultivated, yet it seems to be thickly populated. However, I

did not penetrate into the interior.

“After breakfast I climbed across a little promontory, and then, as the

tide was rapidly falling, I started out across the sands toward a kind

of black rock which I could just perceive above the surface of the

water, out a considerable distance.

“I walked quickly over the yellow plain. It was elastic, like flesh and

seemed to sweat beneath my tread. The sea had been there very lately.

Now I perceived it at a distance, escaping out of sight, and I no longer

could distinguish the line which separated the sands from ocean. I felt

as though I were looking at a gigantic supernatural work of enchantment.

The Atlantic had just now been before me, then it had disappeared into

the sands, just as scenery disappears through a trap; and I was now

walking in the midst of a desert. Only the feeling, the breath of the

salt-water, remained in me. I perceived the smell of the wrack, the

smell of the sea, the good strong smell of sea coasts. I walked fast; I

was no longer cold. I looked at the stranded wreck, which grew in size

as I approached, and came now to resemble an enormous shipwrecked whale.

“It seemed fairly to rise out of the ground, and on that great, flat,

yellow stretch of sand assumed wonderful proportions. After an hour's

walk I at last reached it. It lay upon its side, ruined and shattered,

its broken bones showing as though it were an animal, its bones of

tarred wood pierced with great bolts. The sand had already invaded it,

entering it by all the crannies, and held it and refused to let it go.

It seemed to have taken root in it. The bow had entered deep into this

soft, treacherous beach, while the stern, high in air, seemed to cast at

heaven, like a cry of despairing appeal, the two white words on the

black planking, Marie Joseph.

“I climbed upon this carcass of a ship by the lowest side; then, having

reached the deck, I went below. The daylight, which entered by the

stove-in hatches and the cracks in the sides, showed me dimly long dark

cavities full of demolished woodwork. They contained nothing but sand,

which served as foot-soil in this cavern of planks.

“I began to take some notes about the condition of the ship. I was

seated on a broken empty cask, writing by the light of a great crack,

through which I could perceive the boundless stretch of the strand. A

strange shivering of cold and loneliness ran over my skin from time to

time, and I would often stop writing for a moment to listen to the

mysterious noises in the derelict: the noise of crabs scratching the

planking with their crooked claws; the noise of a thousand little

creatures of the sea already crawling over this dead body or else boring

into the wood.

“Suddenly, very near me, I heard human voices. I started as though I had

seen a ghost. For a second I really thought I was about to see drowned

men rise from the sinister depths of the hold, who would tell me about

their death. At any rate, it did not take me long to swing myself on

deck. There, standing by the bows, was a tall Englishman with three

young misses. Certainly they were a good deal more frightened at seeing

this sudden apparition on the abandoned three-master than I was at

seeing them. The youngest girl turned and ran, the two others threw

their arms round their father. As for him, he opened his mouth—that was

the only sign of emotion which he showed.

“Then, after several seconds, he spoke:

“'Mosieu, are you the owner of this ship?'

“'I am.'

“'May I go over it?'

“'You may.'

“Then he uttered a long sentence in English, in which I only

distinguished the word 'gracious,' repeated several times.

“As he was looking for a place to climb up I showed him the easiest way,

and gave him a hand. He climbed up. Then we helped up the three girls,

who had now quite recovered their composure. They were charming,

especially the oldest, a blonde of eighteen, fresh as a flower, and very

dainty and pretty! Ah, yes! the pretty Englishwomen have indeed the look

of tender sea fruit. One would have said of this one that she had just

risen out of the sands and that her hair had kept their tint. They all,

with their exquisite freshness, make you think of the delicate colors of

pink sea-shells and of shining pearls hidden in the unknown depths of

the ocean.

“She spoke French a little better than her father and acted as

interpreter. I had to tell all about the shipwreck, and I romanced as

though I had been present at the catastrophe. Then the whole family

descended into the interior of the wreck. As soon as they had penetrated

into this sombre, dimly lit cavity they uttered cries of astonishment

and admiration. Suddenly the father and his three daughters were holding

sketch-books in their hands, which they had doubtless carried hidden

somewhere in their heavy weather-proof clothes, and were all beginning

at once to make pencil sketches of this melancholy and weird place.

“They had seated themselves side by side on a projecting beam, and the

four sketch-books on the eight knees were being rapidly covered with

little black lines which were intended to represent the half-opened hulk

of the Marie Joseph.

“I continued to inspect the skeleton of the ship, and the oldest girl

talked to me while she worked.

“They had none of the usual English arrogance; they were simple honest

hearts of that class of continuous travellers with which England covers

the globe. The father was long and thin, with a red face framed in white

whiskers, and looking like a living sandwich, a piece of ham carved like

a face between two wads of hair. The daughters, who had long legs like

young storks, were also thin-except the oldest. All three were pretty,

especially the tallest.

“She had such a droll way of speaking, of laughing, of understanding and

of not understanding, of raising her eyes to ask a question (eyes blue

as the deep ocean), of stopping her drawing a moment to make a guess at

what you meant, of returning once more to work, of saying 'yes' or

'no'—that I could have listened and looked indefinitely.

“Suddenly she murmured:

“'I hear a little sound on this boat.'

“I listened and I immediately distinguished a low, steady, curious

sound. I rose and looked out of the crack and gave a scream. The sea had

come up to us; it would soon surround us!

“We were on deck in an instant. It was too late. The water circled us

about and was running toward the coast at tremendous speed. No, it did

not run, it glided, crept, spread like an immense, limitless blot. The

water was barely a few centimeters deep, but the rising flood had gone

so far that we no longer saw the vanishing line of the imperceptible

tide.

“The Englishman wanted to jump. I held him back. Flight was impossible

because of the deep places which we had been obliged to go round on our

way out and into which we should fall on our return.

“There was a minute of horrible anguish in our hearts. Then the little

English girl began to smile and murmured:

“'It is we who are shipwrecked.'

“I tried to laugh, but fear held me, a fear which was cowardly and

horrid and base and treacherous like the tide. All the danger which we

ran appeared to me at once. I wanted to shriek: 'Help!' But to whom?

“The two younger girls were clinging to their father, who looked in

consternation at the measureless sea which hedged us round about.

“The night fell as swiftly as the ocean rose—a lowering, wet, icy night.

“I said:

“'There's nothing to do but to stay on the ship:

“The Englishman answered:

“'Oh, yes!'

“And we waited there a quarter of an hour, half an hour, indeed I don't

know how long, watching that creeping water growing deeper as it swirled

around us, as though it were playing on the beach, which it had

regained.

“One of the young girls was cold, and we went below to shelter ourselves

from the light but freezing wind that made our skins tingle.

“I leaned over the hatchway. The ship was full of water. So we had to

cower against the stern planking, which shielded us a little.

“Darkness was now coming on, and we remained huddled together. I felt

the shoulder of the little English girl trembling against mine, her

teeth chattering from time to time. But I also felt the gentle warmth of

her body through her ulster, and that warmth was as delicious to me as a

kiss. We no longer spoke; we sat motionless, mute, cowering down like

animals in a ditch when a hurricane is raging. And, nevertheless,

despite the night, despite the terrible and increasing danger, I began

to feel happy that I was there, glad of the cold and the peril, glad of

the long hours of darkness and anguish that I must pass on this plank so

near this dainty, pretty little girl.

“I asked myself, 'Why this strange sensation of well-being and of joy?'

“Why! Does one know? Because she was there? Who? She, a little unknown

English girl? I did not love her, I did not even know her. And for all

that, I was touched and conquered. I wanted to save her, to sacrifice

myself for her, to commit a thousand follies! Strange thing! How does it

happen that the presence of a woman overwhelms us so? Is it the power of

her grace which enfolds us? Is it the seduction of her beauty and youth,

which intoxicates one like wine?

“Is it not rather the touch of Love, of Love the Mysterious, who seeks

constantly to unite two beings, who tries his strength the instant he

has put a man and a woman face to face?

“The silence of the darkness became terrible, the stillness of the sky

dreadful, because we could hear vaguely about us a slight, continuous

sound, the sound of the rising tide and the monotonous plashing of the

water against the ship.

“Suddenly I heard the sound of sobs. The youngest of the girls was

crying. Her father tried to console her, and they began to talk in their

own tongue, which I did not understand. I guessed that he was reassuring

her and that she was still afraid.

“I asked my neighbor:

“'You are not too cold, are you, mademoiselle?'

“'Oh, yes. I am very cold.'

“I offered to give her my cloak; she refused it.

“But I had taken it off and I covered her with it against her will. In

the short struggle her hand touched mine. It made a delicious thrill run

through my body.

“For some minutes the air had been growing brisker, the dashing of the

water stronger against the flanks of the ship. I raised myself; a great

gust of wind blew in my face. The wind was rising!

“The Englishman perceived this at the same time that I did and said

simply:

“'This is bad for us, this——'

“Of course it was bad, it was certain death if any breakers, however

feeble, should attack and shake the wreck, which was already so

shattered and disconnected that the first big sea would carry it off.

“So our anguish increased momentarily as the squalls grew stronger and

stronger. Now the sea broke a little, and I saw in the darkness white

lines appearing and disappearing, lines of foam, while each wave struck

the Marie Joseph and shook her with a short quiver which went to our

hearts.

“The English girl was trembling. I felt her shiver against me. And I had

a wild desire to take her in my arms.

“Down there, before and behind us, to the left and right, lighthouses

were shining along the shore—lighthouses white, yellow and red,

revolving like the enormous eyes of giants who were watching us, waiting

eagerly for us to disappear. One of them in especial irritated me. It

went out every thirty seconds and it lit up again immediately. It was

indeed an eye, that one, with its lid incessantly lowered over its fiery

glance.

“From time to time the Englishman struck a match to see the hour; then

he put his watch back in his pocket. Suddenly he said to me, over the

heads of his daughters, with tremendous gravity:

“'I wish you a happy New Year, Mosieu.'

“It was midnight. I held out my hand, which he pressed. Then he said

something in English, and suddenly he and his daughters began to sing

'God Save the Queen,' which rose through the black and silent air and

vanished into space.

“At first I felt a desire to laugh; then I was seized by a powerful,

strange emotion.

“It was something sinister and superb, this chant of the shipwrecked,

the condemned, something like a prayer and also like something grander,

something comparable to the ancient 'Ave Caesar morituri te salutant.'

“When they had finished I asked my neighbor to sing a ballad alone,

anything she liked, to make us forget our terrors. She consented, and

immediately her clear young voice rang out into the night. She sang

something which was doubtless sad, because the notes were long drawn out

and hovered, like wounded birds, above the waves.

“The sea was rising now and beating upon our wreck. As for me, I thought

only of that voice. And I thought also of the sirens. If a ship had

passed near by us what would the sailors have said? My troubled spirit

lost itself in the dream! A siren! Was she not really a siren, this

daughter of the sea, who had kept me on this worm-eaten ship and who was

soon about to go down with me deep into the waters?

“But suddenly we were all five rolling on the deck, because the Marie

Joseph had sunk on her right side. The English girl had fallen upon me,

and before I knew what I was doing, thinking that my last moment was

come, I had caught her in my arms and kissed her cheek, her temple and

her hair.

“The ship did not move again, and we, we also, remained motionless.

“The father said, 'Kate!' The one whom I was holding answered 'Yes' and

made a movement to free herself. And at that moment I should have wished

the ship to split in two and let me fall with her into the sea.

“The Englishman continued:

“'A little rocking; it's nothing. I have my three daughters safe.'

“Not having seen the oldest, he had thought she was lost overboard!

“I rose slowly, and suddenly I made out a light on the sea quite close

to us. I shouted; they answered. It was a boat sent out in search of us

by the hotelkeeper, who had guessed at our imprudence.

“We were saved. I was in despair. They picked us up off our raft and

they brought us back to Saint-Martin.

“The Englishman began to rub his hand and murmur:

“'A good supper! A good supper!'

“We did sup. I was not gay. I regretted the Marie Joseph.

“We had to separate the next day after much handshaking and many

promises to write. They departed for Biarritz. I wanted to follow them.

“I was hard hit. I wanted to ask this little girl to marry me. If we had

passed eight days together, I should have done so! How weak and

incomprehensible a man sometimes is!

“Two years passed without my hearing a word from them. Then I received a

letter from New York. She was married and wrote to tell me. And since

then we write to each other every year, on New Year's Day. She tells me

about her life, talks of her children, her sisters, never of her

husband! Why? Ah! why? And as for me, I only talk of the Marie Joseph.

That was perhaps the only woman I have ever loved—no—that I ever should

have loved. Ah, well! who can tell? Circumstances rule one. And then—and

then—all passes. She must be old now; I should not know her. Ah! she of

the bygone time, she of the wreck! What a creature! Divine! She writes

me her hair is white. That caused me terrible pain. Ah! her yellow hair.

No, my English girl exists no longer. How sad it all is!”

THEODULE SABOT'S CONFESSION

When Sabot entered the inn at Martinville it was a signal for laughter.

What a rogue he was, this Sabot! There was a man who did not like

priests, for instance! Oh, no, oh, no! He did not spare them, the scamp.

Sabot (Theodule), a master carpenter, represented liberal thought in

Martinville. He was a tall, thin man, with gray, cunning eyes, and thin

lips, and wore his hair plastered down on his temples. When he said:

“Our holy father, the pope” in a certain manner, everyone laughed. He

made a point of working on Sunday during the hour of mass. He killed his

pig each year on Monday in Holy Week in order to have enough black

pudding to last till Easter, and when the priest passed by, he always

said by way of a joke: “There goes one who has just swallowed his God

off a salver.”

The priest, a stout man and also very tall, dreaded him on account of

his boastful talk which attracted followers. The Abbe Maritime was a

politic man, and believed in being diplomatic. There had been a rivalry

between them for ten years, a secret, intense, incessant rivalry. Sabot

was municipal councillor, and they thought he would become mayor, which

would inevitably mean the final overthrow of the church.

The elections were about to take place. The church party was shaking in

its shoes in Martinville.

One morning the cure set out for Rouen, telling his servant that he was

going to see the archbishop. He returned in two days with a joyous,

triumphant air. And everyone knew the following day that the chancel of

the church was going to be renovated. A sum of six hundred francs had

been contributed by the archbishop out of his private fund. All the old

pine pews were to be removed, and replaced by new pews made of oak. It

would be a big carpentering job, and they talked about it that very

evening in all the houses in the village.

Theodule Sabot was not laughing.

When he went through the village the following morning, the neighbors,

friends and enemies, all asked him, jokingly:

“Are you going to do the work on the chancel of the church?”

He could find nothing to say, but he was furious, he was good and angry.

Ill-natured people added:

“It is a good piece of work; and will bring in not less than two or

three per cent. profit.”

Two days later, they heard that the work of renovation had been

entrusted to Celestin Chambrelan, the carpenter from Percheville. Then

this was denied, and it was said that all the pews in the church were

going to be changed. That would be well worth the two thousand francs

that had been demanded of the church administration.

Theodule Sabot could not sleep for thinking about it. Never, in all the

memory of man, had a country carpenter undertaken a similar piece of

work. Then a rumor spread abroad that the cure felt very grieved that he

had to give this work to a carpenter who was a stranger in the

community, but that Sabot's opinions were a barrier to his being

entrusted with the job.

Sabot knew it well. He called at the parsonage just as it was growing

dark. The servant told him that the cure was at church. He went to the

church.

Two attendants on the altar of the Virgin, two sour old maids, were

decorating the altar for the month of Mary, under the direction of the

priest, who stood in the middle of the chancel with his portly paunch,

directing the two women who, mounted on chairs, were placing flowers

around the tabernacle.

Sabot felt ill at ease in there, as though he were in the house of his

greatest enemy, but the greed of gain was gnawing at his heart. He drew

nearer, holding his cap in his hand, and not paying any attention to the

“demoiselles de la Vierge,” who remained standing startled, astonished,

motionless on their chairs.

He faltered:

“Good morning, monsieur le cure.”

The priest replied without looking at him, all occupied as he was with

the altar:

“Good morning, Mr. Carpenter.”

Sabot, nonplussed, knew not what to say next. But after a pause he

remarked:

“You are making preparations?”

Abbe Maritime replied:

“Yes, we are near the month of Mary.”

“Why, why,” remarked Sabot and then was silent. He would have liked to

retire now without saying anything, but a glance at the chancel held him

back. He saw sixteen seats that had to be remade, six to the right and

eight to the left, the door of the sacristy occupying the place of two.

Sixteen oak seats, that would be worth at most three hundred francs, and

by figuring carefully one might certainly make two hundred francs on the

work if one were not clumsy.

Then he stammered out:

“I have come about the work.”

The cure appeared surprised. He asked:

“What work?”

“The work to be done,” murmured Sabot, in dismay.

Then the priest turned round and looking him straight in the eyes, said:

“Do you mean the repairs in the chancel of my church?”

At the tone of the abbe, Theodule Sabot felt a chill run down his back

and he once more had a longing to take to his heels. However, he replied

humbly:

“Why, yes, monsieur le cure.”

Then the abbe folded his arms across his large stomach and, as if filled

with amazement, said:

“Is it you—you—you, Sabot—who have come to ask me for this . . . You—the

only irreligious man in my parish! Why, it would be a scandal, a public

scandal! The archbishop would give me a reprimand, perhaps transfer me.”

He stopped a few seconds, for breath, and then resumed in a calmer tone:

“I can understand that it pains you to see a work of such importance

entrusted to a carpenter from a neighboring parish. But I cannot do

otherwise, unless—but no—it is impossible—you would not consent, and

unless you did, never.”

Sabot now looked at the row of benches in line as far as the entrance

door. Christopher, if they were going to change all those!

And he asked:

“What would you require of me? Tell me.”

The priest, in a firm tone replied:

“I must have an extraordinary token of your good intentions.”

“I do not say—I do not say; perhaps we might come to an understanding,”

faltered Sabot.

“You will have to take communion publicly at high mass next Sunday,”

declared the cure.

The carpenter felt he was growing pale, and without replying, he asked:

“And the benches, are they going to be renovated?”

The abbe replied with confidence:

“Yes, but later on.”

Sabot resumed:

“I do not say, I do not say. I am not calling it off, I am consenting to

religion, for sure. But what rubs me the wrong way is, putting it in

practice; but in this case I will not be refractory.”

The attendants of the Virgin, having got off their chairs had concealed

themselves behind the altar; and they listened pale with emotion.

The cure, seeing he had gained the victory, became all at once very

friendly, quite familiar.

“That is good, that is good. That was wisely said, and not stupid, you

understand. You will see, you will see.”

Sabot smiled and asked with an awkward air:

“Would it not be possible to put off this communion just a trifle?”

But the priest replied, resuming his severe expression:

“From the moment that the work is put into your hands, I want to be

assured of your conversion.”

Then he continued more gently:

“You will come to confession to-morrow; for I must examine you at least

twice.”

“Twice?” repeated Sabot.

“Yes.”

The priest smiled.

“You understand perfectly that you must have a general cleaning up, a

thorough cleansing. So I will expect you to-morrow.”

The carpenter, much agitated, asked:

“Where do you do that?”

“Why—in the confessional.”

“In—that box, over there in the corner? The fact is—is—that it does not

suit me, your box.”

“How is that?”

“Seeing that—seeing that I am not accustomed to that, and also I am

rather hard of hearing.”

The cure was very affable and said:

“Well, then! you shall come to my house and into my parlor. We will have

it just the two of us, tete-a-tete. Does that suit you?”

“Yes, that is all right, that will suit me, but your box, no.”

“Well, then, to-morrow after the days work, at six o'clock.”

“That is understood, that is all right, that is agreed on. To-morrow,

monsieur le cure. Whoever draws back is a skunk!”

And he held out his great rough hand which the priest grasped heartily

with a clap that resounded through the church.

Theodule Sabot was not easy in his mind all the following day. He had a

feeling analogous to the apprehension one experiences when a tooth has

to be drawn. The thought recurred to him at every moment: “I must go to

confession this evening.” And his troubled mind, the mind of an atheist

only half convinced, was bewildered with a confused and overwhelming

dread of the divine mystery.

As soon as he had finished his work, he betook himself to the parsonage.

The cure was waiting for him in the garden, reading his breviary as he

walked along a little path. He appeared radiant and greeted him with a

good-natured laugh.

“Well, here we are! Come in, come in, Monsieur Sabot, no one will eat

you.”

And Sabot preceded him into the house. He faltered:

“If you do not mind I should like to get through with this little matter

at once.”

The cure replied:

“I am at your service. I have my surplice here. One minute and I will

listen to you.”

The carpenter, so disturbed that he had not two ideas in his head,

watched him as he put on the white vestment with its pleated folds. The

priest beckoned to him and said:

“Kneel down on this cushion.”

Sabot remained standing, ashamed of having to kneel. He stuttered:

“Is it necessary?”

But the abbe had become dignified.

“You cannot approach the penitent bench except on your knees.”

And Sabot knelt down.

“Repeat the confiteor,” said the priest.

“What is that?” asked Sabot.

“The confiteor. If you do not remember it, repeat after me, one by one,

the words I am going to say.” And the cure repeated the sacred prayer,

in a slow tone, emphasizing the words which the carpenter repeated after

him. Then he said:

“Now make your confession.”

But Sabot was silent, not knowing where to begin. The abbe then came to

his aid.

“My child, I will ask you questions, since you don't seem familiar with

these things. We will take, one by one, the commandments of God. Listen

to me and do not be disturbed. Speak very frankly and never fear that

you may say too much.

“'One God alone, thou shalt adore, And love him perfectly.'

“Have you ever loved anything, or anybody, as well as you loved God?

Have you loved him with all your soul, all your heart, all the strength

of your love?”

Sabot was perspiring with the effort of thinking. He replied:

“No. Oh, no, m'sieu le cure. I love God as much as I can. That is —yes—I

love him very much. To say that I do not love my children, no—I cannot

say that. To say that if I had to choose between them and God, I could

not be sure. To say that if I had to lose a hundred francs for the love

of God, I could not say about that. But I love him well, for sure, I

love him all the same.” The priest said gravely “You must love Him more

than all besides.” And Sabot, meaning well, declared “I will do what I

possibly can, m'sieu le cure.” The abbe resumed:

“'God's name in vain thou shalt not take Nor swear by any other thing.'

“Did you ever swear?”

“No-oh, that, no! I never swear, never. Sometimes, in a moment of anger,

I may say sacre nom de Dieu! But then, I never swear.”

“That is swearing,” cried the priest, and added seriously:

“Do not do it again.

“'Thy Sundays thou shalt keep In serving God devoutly.'

“What do you do on Sunday?”

This time Sabot scratched his ear.

“Why, I serve God as best I can, m'sieu le cure. I serve him—at home. I

work on Sunday.”

The cure interrupted him, saying magnanimously:

“I know, you will do better in future. I will pass over the following

commandments, certain that you have not transgressed the two first. We

will take from the sixth to the ninth. I will resume:

“'Others' goods thou shalt not take Nor keep what is not thine.'

“Have you ever taken in any way what belonged to another?”

But Theodule Sabot became indignant.

“Of course not, of course not! I am an honest man, m'sieu le cure, I

swear it, for sure. To say that I have not sometimes charged for a few

more hours of work to customers who had means, I could not say that. To

say that I never add a few centimes to bills, only a few, I would not

say that. But to steal, no! Oh, not that, no!”

The priest resumed severely:

“To take one single centime constitutes a theft. Do not do it again.

'False witness thou shalt not bear, Nor lie in any way.'

“Have you ever told a lie?”

“No, as to that, no. I am not a liar. That is my quality. To say that I

have never told a big story, I would not like to say that. To say that I

have never made people believe things that were not true when it was to

my own interest, I would not like to say that. But as for lying, I am

not a liar.”

The priest simply said:

“Watch yourself more closely.” Then he continued:

“'The works of the flesh thou shalt not desire Except in marriage only.'

“Did you ever desire, or live with, any other woman than your wife?”

Sabot exclaimed with sincerity:

“As to that, no; oh, as to that, no, m'sieu le Cure. My poor wife,

deceive her! No, no! Not so much as the tip of a finger, either in

thought or in act. That is the truth.”

They were silent a few seconds, then, in a lower tone, as though a doubt

had arisen in his mind, he resumed:

“When I go to town, to say that I never go into a house, you know, one

of the licensed houses, just to laugh and talk and see something

different, I could not say that. But I always pay, monsieur le cure, I

always pay. From the moment you pay, without anyone seeing or knowing

you, no one can get you into trouble.”

The cure did not insist, and gave him absolution.

Theodule Sabot did the work on the chancel, and goes to communion every

month.

THE WRONG HOUSE

Quartermaster Varajou had obtained a week's leave to go and visit his

sister, Madame Padoie. Varajou, who was in garrison at Rennes and was

leading a pretty gay life, finding himself high and dry, wrote to his

sister saying that he would devote a week to her. It was not that he

cared particularly for Mme. Padoie, a little moralist, a devotee, and

always cross; but he needed money, needed it very badly, and he

remembered that, of all his relations, the Padoies were the only ones

whom he had never approached on the subject.

Pere Varajou, formerly a horticulturist at Angers, but now retired from

business, had closed his purse strings to his scapegrace son and had

hardly seen him for two years. His daughter had married Padoie, a former

treasury clerk, who had just been appointed tax collector at Vannes.

Varajou, on leaving the train, had some one direct him to the house of

his brother-in-law, whom he found in his office arguing with the Breton

peasants of the neighborhood. Padoie rose from his seat, held out his

hand across the table littered with papers, murmured, “Take a chair. I

will be at liberty in a moment,” sat down again and resumed his

discussion.

The peasants did not understand his explanations, the collector did not

understand their line of argument. He spoke French, they spoke Breton,

and the clerk who acted as interpreter appeared not to understand

either.

It lasted a long time, a very long time. Varajou looked at his brother-

in-law and thought: “What a fool!” Padoie must have been almost fifty.

He was tall, thin, bony, slow, hairy, with heavy arched eyebrows. He

wore a velvet skull cap with a gold cord vandyke design round it. His

look was gentle, like his actions. His speech, his gestures, his

thoughts, all were soft. Varajou said to himself, “What a fool!”

He, himself, was one of those noisy roysterers for whom the greatest

pleasures in life are the cafe and abandoned women. He understood

nothing outside of these conditions of existence.

A boisterous braggart, filled with contempt for the rest of the world,

he despised the entire universe from the height of his ignorance. When

he said: “Nom d'un chien, what a spree!” he expressed the highest degree

of admiration of which his mind was capable.

Having finally got rid of his peasants, Padoie inquired:

“How are you?”

“Pretty well, as you see. And how are you?”

“Quite well, thank you. It is very kind of you to have thought of coming

to see us.”

“Oh, I have been thinking of it for some time; but, you know, in the

military profession one has not much freedom.”

“Oh, I know, I know. All the same, it is very kind of you.”

“And Josephine, is she well?”

“Yes, yes, thank you; you will see her presently.” “Where is she?”

“She is making some calls. We have a great many friends here; it is a

very nice town.”

“I thought so.”

The door opened and Mme. Padoie appeared. She went over to her brother

without any eagerness, held her cheek for him to kiss, and asked:

“Have you been here long?”

“No, hardly half an hour.”

“Oh, I thought the train would be late. Will you come into the parlor?”

They went into the adjoining room, leaving Padoie to his accounts and

his taxpayers. As soon as they were alone, she said:

“I have heard nice things about you!”

“What have you heard?”

“It seems that you are behaving like a blackguard, getting drunk and

contracting debts.”

He appeared very much astonished.

“I! never in the world!”

“Oh, do not deny it, I know it.”

He attempted to defend himself, but she gave him such a lecture that he

could say nothing more.

She then resumed:

“We dine at six o'clock, and you can amuse yourself until then. I cannot

entertain you, as I have so many things to do.”

When he was alone he hesitated as to whether he should sleep or take a

walk. He looked first at the door leading to his room and then at the

hall door, and decided to go out. He sauntered slowly through the quiet

Breton town, so sleepy, so calm, so dead, on the shores of its inland

bay that is called “le Morbihan.” He looked at the little gray houses,

the occasional pedestrians, the empty stores, and he murmured:

“Vannes is certainly not gay, not lively. It was a sad idea, my coming

here.”

He reached the harbor, the desolate harbor, walked back along a lonely,

deserted boulevard, and got home before five o'clock. Then he threw

himself on his bed to sleep till dinner time. The maid woke him,

knocking at the door.

“Dinner is ready, sir:”

He went downstairs. In the damp dining-room with the paper peeling from

the walls near the floor, he saw a soup tureen on a round table without

any table cloth, on which were also three melancholy soup-plates.

M. and Mme. Padoie entered the room at the same time as Varajou. They

all sat down to table, and the husband and wife crossed themselves over

the pit of their stomachs, after which Padoie helped the soup, a meat

soup. It was the day for pot-roast.

After the soup, they had the beef, which was done to rags, melted,

greasy, like pap. The officer ate slowly, with disgust, weariness and

rage.

Mme. Padoie said to her husband:

“Are you going to the judge's house this evening?”

“Yes, dear.”

“Do not stay late. You always get so tired when you go out. You are not

made for society, with your poor health.”

She then talked about society in Vannes, of the excellent social circle

in which the Padoies moved, thanks to their religious sentiments.

A puree of potatoes and a dish of pork were next served, in honor of the

guest. Then some cheese, and that was all. No coffee.

When Varajou saw that he would have to spend the evening tete-a-tete

with his sister, endure her reproaches, listen to her sermons, without

even a glass of liqueur to help him to swallow these remonstrances, he

felt that he could not stand the torture, and declared that he was

obliged to go to the police station to have something attended to

regarding his leave of absence. And he made his escape at seven o'clock.

He had scarcely reached the street before he gave himself a shake like a

dog coming out of the water. He muttered:

“Heavens, heavens, heavens, what a galley slave's life!”

And he set out to look for a cafe, the best in the town. He found it on

a public square, behind two gas lamps. Inside the cafe, five or six men,

semi-gentlemen, and not noisy, were drinking and chatting quietly,

leaning their elbows on the small tables, while two billiard players

walked round the green baize, where the balls were hitting each other as

they rolled.

One heard them counting:

“Eighteen-nineteen. No luck. Oh, that's a good stroke! Well played!

Eleven. You should have played on the red. Twenty. Froze! Froze! Twelve.

Ha! Wasn't I right?”

Varajou ordered:

“A demi-tasse and a small decanter of brandy, the best.” Then he sat

down and waited for it.

He was accustomed to spending his evenings off duty with his companions,

amid noise and the smoke of pipes. This silence, this quiet, exasperated

him. He began to drink; first the coffee, then the brandy, and asked for

another decanter. He now wanted to laugh, to shout, to sing, to fight

some one. He said to himself:

“Gee, I am half full. I must go and have a good time.”

And he thought he would go and look for some girls to amuse him. He

called the waiter:

“Hey, waiter.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Tell me, where does one amuse oneself here?”

The man looked stupid, and replied:

“I do not know, sir. Here, I suppose!”

“How do you mean here? What do you call amusing oneself, yourself?”

“I do not know, sir, drinking good beer or good wine.”

“Ah, go away, dummy, how about the girls?”

“The girls, ah! ah!”

“Yes, the girls, where can one find any here?”

“Girls?”

“Why, yes, girls!”

The boy approached and lowering his voice, said: “You want to know where

they live?”

“Why, yes, the devil!”

“You take the second street to the left and then the first to the right.

It is number fifteen.”

“Thank you, old man. There is something for you.”

“Thank you, sir.”

And Varajou went out of the cafe, repeating, “Second to the left, first

to the right, number 15.” But at the end of a few seconds he thought,

“second to the left yes. But on leaving the cafe must I walk to the

right or the left? Bah, it cannot be helped, we shall see.”

And he walked on, turned down the second street to the left, then the

first to the right and looked for number 15. It was a nice looking

house, and one could see behind the closed blinds that the windows were

lighted up on the first floor. The hall door was left partly open, and a

lamp was burning in the vestibule. The non-commissioned officer thought

to himself:

“This looks all right.”

He went in and, as no one appeared, he called out:

“Hallo there, hallo!”

A little maid appeared and looked astonished at seeing a soldier. He

said:

“Good-morning, my child. Are the ladies upstairs?”

“Yes, sir.”

“In the parlor?”

“Yes, sir.”

“May I go up?”

“Yes, sir.”

“The door opposite the stairs?”

“Yes, sir.”

He ascended the stairs, opened a door and saw sitting in a room well

lighted up by two lamps, a chandelier, and two candelabras with candles

in them, four ladies in evening dress, apparently expecting some one.

Three of them, the younger ones, remained seated, with rather a formal

air, on some crimson velvet chairs; while the fourth, who was about

forty-five, was arranging some flowers in a vase. She was very stout,

and wore a green silk dress with low neck and short sleeves, allowing

her red neck, covered with powder, to escape as a huge flower might from

its corolla.

The officer saluted them, saying:

“Good-day, ladies.”

The older woman turned round, appeared surprised, but bowed.

“Good-morning, sir.”

He sat down. But seeing that they did not welcome him eagerly, he

thought that possibly only commissioned officers were admitted to the

house, and this made him uneasy. But he said:

“Bah, if one comes in, we can soon tell.”

He then remarked:

“Are you all well?”

The large lady, no doubt the mistress of the house, replied:

“Very well, thank you!”

He could think of nothing else to say, and they were all silent. But at

last, being ashamed of his bashfulness, and with an awkward laugh, he

said:

“Do not people have any amusement in this country? I will pay for a

bottle of wine.”

He had not finished his sentence when the door opened, and in walked

Padoie dressed in a black suit.

Varajou gave a shout of joy, and rising from his seat, he rushed at his

brother-in-law, put his arms round him and waltzed him round the room,

shouting:

“Here is Padoie! Here is Padoie! Here is Padoie!”

Then letting go of the tax collector he exclaimed as he looked him in

the face:

“Oh, oh, oh, you scamp, you scamp! You are out for a good time, too. Oh,

you scamp! And my sister! Are you tired of her, say?”

As he thought of all that he might gain through this unexpected

situation, the forced loan, the inevitable blackmail, he flung himself

on the lounge and laughed so heartily that the piece of furniture

creaked all over.

The three young ladies, rising simultaneously, made their escape, while

the older woman retreated to the door looking as though she were about

to faint.

And then two gentlemen appeared in evening dress, and wearing the ribbon

of an order. Padoie rushed up to them.

“Oh, judge—he is crazy, he is crazy. He was sent to us as a

convalescent. You can see that he is crazy.”

Varajou was sitting up now, and not being able to understand it all, he

guessed that he had committed some monstrous folly. Then he rose, and

turning to his brother-in-law, said:

“What house is this?”

But Padoie, becoming suddenly furious, stammered out:

“What house—what—what house is this? Wretch—scoundrel—villain—what

house, indeed? The house of the judge—of the judge of the Supreme

Court—of the Supreme Court—of the Supreme Court—Oh, oh—rascal!

—rascal!—rascal!”

THE DIAMOND NECKLACE

The girl was one of those pretty and charming young creatures who

sometimes are born, as if by a slip of fate, into a family of clerks.

She had no dowry, no expectations, no way of being known, understood,

loved, married by any rich and distinguished man; so she let herself be

married to a little clerk of the Ministry of Public Instruction.

She dressed plainly because she could not dress well, but she was

unhappy as if she had really fallen from a higher station; since with

women there is neither caste nor rank, for beauty, grace and charm take

the place of family and birth. Natural ingenuity, instinct for what is

elegant, a supple mind are their sole hierarchy, and often make of women

of the people the equals of the very greatest ladies.

Mathilde suffered ceaselessly, feeling herself born to enjoy all

delicacies and all luxuries. She was distressed at the poverty of her

dwelling, at the bareness of the walls, at the shabby chairs, the

ugliness of the curtains. All those things, of which another woman of

her rank would never even have been conscious, tortured her and made her

angry. The sight of the little Breton peasant who did her humble

housework aroused in her despairing regrets and bewildering dreams. She

thought of silent antechambers hung with Oriental tapestry, illumined by

tall bronze candelabra, and of two great footmen in knee breeches who

sleep in the big armchairs, made drowsy by the oppressive heat of the

stove. She thought of long reception halls hung with ancient silk, of

the dainty cabinets containing priceless curiosities and of the little

coquettish perfumed reception rooms made for chatting at five o'clock

with intimate friends, with men famous and sought after, whom all women

envy and whose attention they all desire.

When she sat down to dinner, before the round table covered with a

tablecloth in use three days, opposite her husband, who uncovered the

soup tureen and declared with a delighted air, “Ah, the good soup! I

don't know anything better than that,” she thought of dainty dinners, of

shining silverware, of tapestry that peopled the walls with ancient

personages and with strange birds flying in the midst of a fairy forest;

and she thought of delicious dishes served on marvellous plates and of

the whispered gallantries to which you listen with a sphinxlike smile

while you are eating the pink meat of a trout or the wings of a quail.

She had no gowns, no jewels, nothing. And she loved nothing but that.

She felt made for that. She would have liked so much to please, to be

envied, to be charming, to be sought after.

She had a friend, a former schoolmate at the convent, who was rich, and

whom she did not like to go to see any more because she felt so sad when

she came home.

But one evening her husband reached home with a triumphant air and

holding a large envelope in his hand.

“There,” said he, “there is something for you.”

She tore the paper quickly and drew out a printed card which bore these

words:

The Minister of Public Instruction and Madame Georges Ramponneau request

the honor of M. and Madame Loisel's company at the palace of the

Ministry on Monday evening, January 18th.

Instead of being delighted, as her husband had hoped, she threw the

invitation on the table crossly, muttering:

“What do you wish me to do with that?”

“Why, my dear, I thought you would be glad. You never go out, and this

is such a fine opportunity. I had great trouble to get it. Every one

wants to go; it is very select, and they are not giving many invitations

to clerks. The whole official world will be there.”

She looked at him with an irritated glance and said impatiently:

“And what do you wish me to put on my back?”

He had not thought of that. He stammered:

“Why, the gown you go to the theatre in. It looks very well to me.”

He stopped, distracted, seeing that his wife was weeping. Two great

tears ran slowly from the corners of her eyes toward the corners of her

mouth.

“What's the matter? What's the matter?” he answered.

By a violent effort she conquered her grief and replied in a calm voice,

while she wiped her wet cheeks:

“Nothing. Only I have no gown, and, therefore, I can't go to this ball.

Give your card to some colleague whose wife is better equipped than I

am.”

He was in despair. He resumed:

“Come, let us see, Mathilde. How much would it cost, a suitable gown,

which you could use on other occasions—something very simple?”

She reflected several seconds, making her calculations and wondering

also what sum she could ask without drawing on herself an immediate

refusal and a frightened exclamation from the economical clerk.

Finally she replied hesitating:

“I don't know exactly, but I think I could manage it with four hundred

francs.”

He grew a little pale, because he was laying aside just that amount to

buy a gun and treat himself to a little shooting next summer on the

plain of Nanterre, with several friends who went to shoot larks there of

a Sunday.

But he said:

“Very well. I will give you four hundred francs. And try to have a

pretty gown.”

The day of the ball drew near and Madame Loisel seemed sad, uneasy,

anxious. Her frock was ready, however. Her husband said to her one

evening:

“What is the matter? Come, you have seemed very queer these last three

days.”

And she answered:

“It annoys me not to have a single piece of jewelry, not a single

ornament, nothing to put on. I shall look poverty-stricken. I would

almost rather not go at all.”

“You might wear natural flowers,” said her husband. “They're very

stylish at this time of year. For ten francs you can get two or three

magnificent roses.”

She was not convinced.

“No; there's nothing more humiliating than to look poor among other

women who are rich.”

“How stupid you are!” her husband cried. “Go look up your friend, Madame

Forestier, and ask her to lend you some jewels. You're intimate enough

with her to do that.”

She uttered a cry of joy:

“True! I never thought of it.”

The next day she went to her friend and told her of her distress.

Madame Forestier went to a wardrobe with a mirror, took out a large

jewel box, brought it back, opened it and said to Madame Loisel:

“Choose, my dear.”

She saw first some bracelets, then a pearl necklace, then a Venetian

gold cross set with precious stones, of admirable workmanship. She tried

on the ornaments before the mirror, hesitated and could not make up her

mind to part with them, to give them back. She kept asking:

“Haven't you any more?”

“Why, yes. Look further; I don't know what you like.”

Suddenly she discovered, in a black satin box, a superb diamond

necklace, and her heart throbbed with an immoderate desire. Her hands

trembled as she took it. She fastened it round her throat, outside her

high-necked waist, and was lost in ecstasy at her reflection in the

mirror.

Then she asked, hesitating, filled with anxious doubt:

“Will you lend me this, only this?”

“Why, yes, certainly.”

She threw her arms round her friend's neck, kissed her passionately,

then fled with her treasure.

The night of the ball arrived. Madame Loisel was a great success. She

was prettier than any other woman present, elegant, graceful, smiling

and wild with joy. All the men looked at her, asked her name, sought to

be introduced. All the attaches of the Cabinet wished to waltz with her.

She was remarked by the minister himself.

She danced with rapture, with passion, intoxicated by pleasure,

forgetting all in the triumph of her beauty, in the glory of her

success, in a sort of cloud of happiness comprised of all this homage,

admiration, these awakened desires and of that sense of triumph which is

so sweet to woman's heart.

She left the ball about four o'clock in the morning. Her husband had

been sleeping since midnight in a little deserted anteroom with three

other gentlemen whose wives were enjoying the ball.

He threw over her shoulders the wraps he had brought, the modest wraps

of common life, the poverty of which contrasted with the elegance of the

ball dress. She felt this and wished to escape so as not to be remarked

by the other women, who were enveloping themselves in costly furs.

Loisel held her back, saying: “Wait a bit. You will catch cold outside.

I will call a cab.”

But she did not listen to him and rapidly descended the stairs. When

they reached the street they could not find a carriage and began to look

for one, shouting after the cabmen passing at a distance.

They went toward the Seine in despair, shivering with cold. At last they

found on the quay one of those ancient night cabs which, as though they

were ashamed to show their shabbiness during the day, are never seen

round Paris until after dark.

It took them to their dwelling in the Rue des Martyrs, and sadly they

mounted the stairs to their flat. All was ended for her. As to him, he

reflected that he must be at the ministry at ten o'clock that morning.

She removed her wraps before the glass so as to see herself once more in

all her glory. But suddenly she uttered a cry. She no longer had the

necklace around her neck!

“What is the matter with you?” demanded her husband, already half

undressed.

She turned distractedly toward him.

“I have—I have—I've lost Madame Forestier's necklace,” she cried.

He stood up, bewildered.

“What!—how? Impossible!”

They looked among the folds of her skirt, of her cloak, in her pockets,

everywhere, but did not find it.

“You're sure you had it on when you left the ball?” he asked.

“Yes, I felt it in the vestibule of the minister's house.”

“But if you had lost it in the street we should have heard it fall. It

must be in the cab.”

“Yes, probably. Did you take his number?”

“No. And you—didn't you notice it?”

“No.”

They looked, thunderstruck, at each other. At last Loisel put on his

clothes.

“I shall go back on foot,” said he, “over the whole route, to see

whether I can find it.”

He went out. She sat waiting on a chair in her ball dress, without

strength to go to bed, overwhelmed, without any fire, without a thought.

Her husband returned about seven o'clock. He had found nothing.

He went to police headquarters, to the newspaper offices to offer a

reward; he went to the cab companies—everywhere, in fact, whither he was

urged by the least spark of hope.

She waited all day, in the same condition of mad fear before this

terrible calamity.

Loisel returned at night with a hollow, pale face. He had discovered

nothing.

“You must write to your friend,” said he, “that you have broken the

clasp of her necklace and that you are having it mended. That will give

us time to turn round.”

She wrote at his dictation.

At the end of a week they had lost all hope. Loisel, who had aged five

years, declared:

“We must consider how to replace that ornament.”

The next day they took the box that had contained it and went to the

jeweler whose name was found within. He consulted his books.

“It was not I, madame, who sold that necklace; I must simply have

furnished the case.”

Then they went from jeweler to jeweler, searching for a necklace like

the other, trying to recall it, both sick with chagrin and grief.

They found, in a shop at the Palais Royal, a string of diamonds that

seemed to them exactly like the one they had lost. It was worth forty

thousand francs. They could have it for thirty-six.

So they begged the jeweler not to sell it for three days yet. And they

made a bargain that he should buy it back for thirty-four thousand

francs, in case they should find the lost necklace before the end of

February.

Loisel possessed eighteen thousand francs which his father had left him.

He would borrow the rest.

He did borrow, asking a thousand francs of one, five hundred of another,

five louis here, three louis there. He gave notes, took up ruinous

obligations, dealt with usurers and all the race of lenders. He

compromised all the rest of his life, risked signing a note without even

knowing whether he could meet it; and, frightened by the trouble yet to

come, by the black misery that was about to fall upon him, by the

prospect of all the physical privations and moral tortures that he was

to suffer, he went to get the new necklace, laying upon the jeweler's

counter thirty-six thousand francs.

When Madame Loisel took back the necklace Madame Forestier said to her

with a chilly manner:

“You should have returned it sooner; I might have needed it.”

She did not open the case, as her friend had so much feared. If she had

detected the substitution, what would she have thought, what would she

have said? Would she not have taken Madame Loisel for a thief?

Thereafter Madame Loisel knew the horrible existence of the needy. She

bore her part, however, with sudden heroism. That dreadful debt must be

paid. She would pay it. They dismissed their servant; they changed their

lodgings; they rented a garret under the roof.

She came to know what heavy housework meant and the odious cares of the

kitchen. She washed the dishes, using her dainty fingers and rosy nails

on greasy pots and pans. She washed the soiled linen, the shirts and the

dishcloths, which she dried upon a line; she carried the slops down to

the street every morning and carried up the water, stopping for breath

at every landing. And dressed like a woman of the people, she went to

the fruiterer, the grocer, the butcher, a basket on her arm, bargaining,

meeting with impertinence, defending her miserable money, sou by sou.

Every month they had to meet some notes, renew others, obtain more time.

Her husband worked evenings, making up a tradesman's accounts, and late

at night he often copied manuscript for five sous a page.

This life lasted ten years.

At the end of ten years they had paid everything, everything, with the

rates of usury and the accumulations of the compound interest.

Madame Loisel looked old now. She had become the woman of impoverished

households—strong and hard and rough. With frowsy hair, skirts askew and

red hands, she talked loud while washing the floor with great swishes of

water. But sometimes, when her husband was at the office, she sat down

near the window and she thought of that gay evening of long ago, of that

ball where she had been so beautiful and so admired.

What would have happened if she had not lost that necklace? Who knows?

who knows? How strange and changeful is life! How small a thing is

needed to make or ruin us!

But one Sunday, having gone to take a walk in the Champs Elysees to

refresh herself after the labors of the week, she suddenly perceived a

woman who was leading a child. It was Madame Forestier, still young,

still beautiful, still charming.

Madame Loisel felt moved. Should she speak to her? Yes, certainly. And

now that she had paid, she would tell her all about it. Why not?

She went up.

“Good-day, Jeanne.”

The other, astonished to be familiarly addressed by this plain good-

wife, did not recognize her at all and stammered:

“But—madame!—I do not know—You must have mistaken.”

“No. I am Mathilde Loisel.”

Her friend uttered a cry.

“Oh, my poor Mathilde! How you are changed!”

“Yes, I have had a pretty hard life, since I last saw you, and great

poverty—and that because of you!”

“Of me! How so?”

“Do you remember that diamond necklace you lent me to wear at the

ministerial ball?”

“Yes. Well?”

“Well, I lost it.”

“What do you mean? You brought it back.”

“I brought you back another exactly like it. And it has taken us ten

years to pay for it. You can understand that it was not easy for us, for

us who had nothing. At last it is ended, and I am very glad.”

Madame Forestier had stopped.

“You say that you bought a necklace of diamonds to replace mine?”

“Yes. You never noticed it, then! They were very similar.”

And she smiled with a joy that was at once proud and ingenuous.

Madame Forestier, deeply moved, took her hands.

“Oh, my poor Mathilde! Why, my necklace was paste! It was worth at most

only five hundred francs!”

THE MARQUIS DE FUMEROL

Roger de Tourneville was whiffing a cigar and blowing out small clouds

of smoke every now and then, as he sat astride a chair amid a party of

friends. He was talking.

“We were at dinner when a letter was brought in which my father opened.

You know my father, who thinks that he is king of France ad interim. I

call him Don Quixote, because for twelve years he has been running a

tilt against the windmill of the Republic, without quite knowing whether

it was in the cause of the Bourbons or the Orleanists. At present he is

bearing the lance in the cause of the Orleanists alone, because there is

no one else left. In any case, he thinks himself the first gentleman of

France, the best known, the most influential, the head of the party; and

as he is an irremovable senator, he thinks that the thrones of the

neighboring kings are very insecure.

“As for my mother, she is my father's soul, she is the soul of the

kingdom and of religion, and the scourge of all evil-thinkers.

“Well, a letter was brought in while we were at dinner, and my father

opened and read it, and then he said to mother: 'Your brother is dying.'

She grew very pale. My uncle was scarcely ever mentioned in the house,

and I did not know him at all; all I knew from public talk was, that he

had led, and was still leading, a gay life. After having spent his

fortune in fast living, he was now in small apartments in the Rue des

Martyrs.

“An ancient peer of France and former colonel of cavalry, it was said

that he believed in neither God nor devil. Not believing, therefore, in

a future life he had abused the present life in every way, and had

become a live wound in my mother's heart.

“'Give me that letter, Paul,' she said, and when she read it, I asked

for it in my turn. Here it is:

'Monsieur le Comte, I think I ought to let you know that your brother-

in-law, the Comte Fumerol, is going to die. Perhaps you would like to

make some arrangements, and do not forget I told you. Your servant,

'MELANIE.'

“'We must take counsel,' papa murmured. 'In my position, I ought to

watch over your brother's last moments.'

“Mamma continued: 'I will send for Abbe Poivron and ask his advice, and

then I will go to my brother with the abbe and Roger. Remain here, Paul,

for you must not compromise yourself; but a woman can, and ought to do

these things. For a politician in your position, it is another matter.

It would be a fine thing for one of your opponents to be able to bring

one of your most laudable actions up against you.' 'You are right,' my

father said. 'Do as you think best, my dear wife.'

“A quarter of an hour, later, the Abbe Poivron came into the drawing-

room, and the situation was explained to him, analyzed and discussed in

all its bearings. If the Marquis de Fumerol, one of the greatest names

in France, were to die without the ministrations of religion, it would

assuredly be a terrible blow to the nobility in general, and to the

Count de Tourneville in particular, and the freethinkers would be

triumphant. The liberal newspapers would sing songs of victory for six

months; my mother's name would be dragged through the mire and brought

into the prose of Socialistic journals, and my father's name would be

smirched. It was impossible that such a thing should be.

“A crusade was therefore immediately decided upon, which was to be led

by the Abbe Poivron, a little, fat, clean, priest with a faint perfume

about him, a true vicar of a large church in a noble and rich quarter.

“The landau was ordered and we all three set out, my mother, the cure

and I, to administer the last sacraments to my uncle.

“It had been decided first of all we should see Madame Melanie who had

written the letter, and who was most likely the porter's wife, or my

uncle's servant, and I dismounted, as an advance guard, in front of a

seven-story house and went into a dark passage, where I had great

difficulty in finding the porter's den. He looked at me distrustfully,

and I said:

“'Madame Melanie, if you please.' 'Don't know her!' 'But I have received

a letter from her.' 'That may be, but I don't know her. Are you asking

for a lodger?' 'No, a servant probably. She wrote me about a place.' 'A

servant?—a servant? Perhaps it is the marquis'. Go and see, the fifth

story on the left.'

“As soon as he found I was not asking for a doubtful character he became

more friendly and came as far as the corridor with me. He was a tall,

thin man with white whiskers, the manners of a beadle and majestic

gestures.

“I climbed up a long spiral staircase, the railing of which I did not

venture to touch, and I gave three discreet knocks at the left-hand door

on the fifth story. It opened immediately, and an enormous dirty woman

appeared before me. She barred the entrance with her extended arms which

she placed against the two doorposts, and growled:

“'What do you want?' 'Are you Madame Melanie?' 'Yes.' 'I am the Visconte

de Tourneville.' 'Ah! All right! Come in.' 'Well, the fact is, my mother

is downstairs with a priest.' 'Oh! All right; go and bring them up; but

be careful of the porter.'

“I went downstairs and came up again with my mother, who was followed by

the abbe, and I fancied that I heard other footsteps behind us. As soon

as we were in the kitchen, Melanie offered us chairs, and we all four

sat down to deliberate.

“'Is he very ill?' my mother asked. 'Oh! yes, madame; he will not be

here long.' 'Does he seem disposed to receive a visit from a priest?'

'Oh! I do not think so.' 'Can I see him?' 'Well—yes madame—only

—only—those young ladies are with him.' 'What young ladies?'

'Why—why—his lady friends, of course.' 'Oh!' Mamma had grown scarlet,

and the Abbe Poivron had lowered his eyes.

“The affair began to amuse me, and I said: 'Suppose I go in first? I

shall see how he receives me, and perhaps I shall be able to prepare him

to receive you.'

“My mother, who did not suspect any trick, replied: 'Yes, go, my dear.'

But a woman's voice cried out: 'Melanie!'

“The servant ran out and said: 'What do you want, Mademoiselle Claire?'

'The omelette; quickly.' 'In a minute, mademoiselle.' And coming back to

us, she explained this summons.

“They had ordered a cheese omelette at two o'clock as a slight

collation. And she at once began to break the eggs into a salad bowl,

and to whip them vigorously, while I went out on the landing and pulled

the bell, so as to formally announce my arrival. Melanie opened the door

to me, and made me sit down in an ante-room, while she went to tell my

uncle that I had come; then she came back and asked me to go in, while

the abbe hid behind the door, so that he might appear at the first

signal.

“I was certainly very much surprised at the sight of my uncle, for he

was very handsome, very solemn and very elegant, the old rake.

“Sitting, almost lying, in a large armchair, his legs wrapped in

blankets, his hands, his long, white hands, over the arms of the chair,

he was waiting for death with the dignity of a patriarch. His white

beard fell on his chest, and his hair, which was also white, mingled

with it on his cheeks.

“Standing behind his armchair, as if to defend him against me, were two

young women, who looked at me with bold eyes. In their petticoats and

morning wrappers, with bare arms, with coal black hair twisted in a knot

on the nape of their neck, with embroidered, Oriental slippers, which

showed their ankles and silk stockings, they looked like the figures in

some symbolical painting, by the side of the dying man. Between the

easy-chair and the bed, there was a table covered with a white cloth, on

which two plates, two glasses, two forks and two knives, were waiting

for the cheese omelette which had been ordered some time before of

Melanie.

“My uncle said in a weak, almost breathless, but clear voice:

“'Good-morning, my child; it is rather late in the day to come and see

me; our acquaintanceship will not last long.' I stammered out, 'It was

not my fault, uncle:' 'No; I know that,' he replied. 'It is your father

and mother's fault more than yours. How are they?' 'Pretty well, thank

you. When they heard that you were ill, they sent me to ask after you.'

'Ah! Why did they not come themselves?'

“I looked up at the two girls and said gently: 'It is not their fault if

they could not come, uncle. But it would be difficult for my father, and

impossible for my mother to come in here.' The old man did not reply,

but raised his hand toward mine, and I took the pale, cold hand and held

it in my own.

“The door opened, Melanie came in with the omelette and put it on the

table, and the two girls immediately sat down at the table, and began to

eat without taking their eyes off me. Then I said: 'Uncle, it would give

great pleasure to my mother to embrace you.' 'I also,' he murmured,

'should like——' He said no more, and I could think of nothing to propose

to him, and there was silence except for the noise of the plates and

that vague sound of eating.

“Now, the abbe, who was listening behind the door, seeing our

embarrassment, and thinking we had won the game, thought the time had

come to interpose, and showed himself. My uncle was so stupefied at

sight of him that at first he remained motionless; and then he opened

his mouth as if he meant to swallow up the priest, and shouted to him in

a strong, deep, furious voice: 'What are you doing here?'

“The abbe, who was used to difficult situations, came forward into the

room, murmuring: 'I have come in your sister's name, Monsieur le

Marquis; she has sent me. She would be happy, monsieur—'

“But the marquis was not listening. Raising one hand, he pointed to the

door with a proud, tragic gesture, and said angrily and breathing hard:

'Leave this room—go out—robber of souls. Go out from here, you violator

of consciences. Go out from here, you pick-lock of dying men's doors!'

“The abbe retreated, and I also went to the door, beating a retreat with

the priest; the two young women, who had the best of it, got up, leaving

their omelette only half eaten, and went and stood on either side of my

uncle's easy-chair, putting their hands on his arms to calm him, and to

protect him against the criminal enterprises of the Family, and of

Religion.

“The abbe and I rejoined my mother in the kitchen, and Melanie again

offered us chairs. 'I knew quite well that this method would not work;

we must try some other means, otherwise he will escape us.' And they

began deliberating afresh, my mother being of one opinion and the abbe

of another, while I held a third.

“We had been discussing the matter in a low voice for half an hour,

perhaps, when a great noise of furniture being moved and of cries

uttered by my uncle, more vehement and terrible even than the former had

been, made us all four jump up.

“Through the doors and walls we could hear him shouting: 'Go out—out

—rascals—humbugs, get out, scoundrels—get out—get out!'

“Melanie rushed in, but came back immediately to call me to help her,

and I hastened in. Opposite to my uncle, who was terribly excited by

anger, almost standing up and vociferating, stood two men, one behind

the other, who seemed to be waiting till he should be dead with rage.

“By his ridiculous long coat, his long English shoes, his manners of a

tutor out of a position, his high collar, white necktie and straight

hair, his humble face of a false priest of a bastard religion, I

immediately recognized the first as a Protestant minister.

“The second was the porter of the house, who belonged to the reformed

religion and had followed us, and having seen our defeat, had gone to

fetch his own pastor, in hopes that he might meet a better reception. My

uncle seemed mad with rage! If the sight of the Catholic priest, of the

priest of his ancestors, had irritated the Marquis de Fumerol, who had

become a freethinker, the sight of his porter's minister made him

altogether beside himself. I therefore took the two men by the arm and

threw them out of the room so roughly that they bumped against each

other twice, between the two doors which led to the staircase; and then

I disappeared in my turn and returned to the kitchen, which was our

headquarters in order to take counsel with my mother and the abbe.

“But Melanie came back in terror, sobbing out:

“'He is dying—he is dying—come immediately—he is dying.'

“My mother rushed out. My uncle had fallen to the ground, and lay full

length along the floor, without moving. I fancy he was already dead. My

mother was superb at that moment! She went straight up to the two girls

who were kneeling by the body and trying to raise it up, and pointing to

the door with irresistible authority, dignity and majesty, she said:

'Now it is time for you to leave the room.'

“And they went out without a word of protest. I must add, that I was

getting ready to turn them out as unceremoniously as I had done the

parson and the porter.

“Then the Abbe Poivron administered the last sacraments to my uncle with

all the customary prayers, and remitted all his sins, while my mother

sobbed as she knelt near her brother. Suddenly, however, she exclaimed:

'He recognized me; he pressed my hand; I am sure he recognized me!!!—and

that he thanked me! Oh, God, what happiness!'

“Poor mamma! If she had known or guessed for whom those thanks were

intended!

“They laid my uncle on his bed; he was certainly dead this time.

“'Madame,' Melanie said, 'we have no sheets to bury him in; all the

linen belongs to these two young ladies,' and when I looked at the

omelette which they had not finished, I felt inclined to laugh and to

cry at the same time. There are some humorous moments and some humorous

situations in life, occasionally!

“We gave my uncle a magnificent funeral, with five speeches at the

grave. Baron de Croiselles, the senator, showed in admirable terms that

God always returns victorious into well-born souls which have

temporarily been led into error. All the members of the Royalist and

Catholic party followed the funeral procession with the enthusiasm of

victors, as they spoke of that beautiful death after a somewhat

troublous life.”

Viscount Roger ceased speaking; his audience was laughing. Then somebody

said: “Bah! That is the story of all conversions in extremis.”

THE TRIP OF LE HORLA

On the morning of July 8th I received the following telegram: “Fine day.

Always my predictions. Belgian frontier. Baggage and servants left at

noon at the social session. Beginning of manoeuvres at three. So I will

wait for you at the works from five o'clock on. Jovis.”

At five o'clock sharp I entered the gas works of La Villette. It might

have been mistaken for the colossal ruins of an old town inhabited by

Cyclops. There were immense dark avenues separating heavy gasometers

standing one behind another, like monstrous columns, unequally high and,

undoubtedly, in the past the supports of some tremendous, some fearful

iron edifice.

The balloon was lying in the courtyard and had the appearance of a cake

made of yellow cloth, flattened on the ground under a rope. That is

called placing a balloon in a sweep-net, and, in fact, it appeared like

an enormous fish.

Two or three hundred people were looking at it, sitting or standing, and

some were examining the basket, a nice little square basket for a human

cargo, bearing on its side in gold letters on a mahogany plate the

words: Le Horla.

Suddenly the people began to stand back, for the gas was beginning to

enter into the balloon through a long tube of yellow cloth, which lay on

the soil, swelling and undulating like an enormous worm. But another

thought, another picture occurs to every mind. It is thus that nature

itself nourishes beings until their birth. The creature that will rise

soon begins to move, and the attendants of Captain Jovis, as Le Horla

grew larger, spread and put in place the net which covers it, so that

the pressure will be regular and equally distributed at every point.

The operation is very delicate and very important, for the resistance of

the cotton cloth of which the balloon is made is figured not in

proportion to the contact surface of this cloth with the net, but in

proportion to the links of the basket.

Le Horla, moreover, has been designed by M. Mallet, constructed under

his own eyes and made by himself. Everything had been made in the shops

of M. Jovis by his own working staff and nothing was made outside.

We must add that everything was new in this balloon, from the varnish to

the valve, those two essential parts of a balloon. Both must render the

cloth gas-proof, as the sides of a ship are waterproof. The old

varnishes, made with a base of linseed oil, sometimes fermented and thus

burned the cloth, which in a short time would tear like a piece of

paper.

The valves were apt to close imperfectly after being opened and when the

covering called “cataplasme” was injured. The fall of M. L'Hoste in the

open sea during the night proved the imperfection of the old system.

The two discoveries of Captain Jovis, the varnish principally, are of

inestimable value in the art of ballooning.

The crowd has begun to talk, and some men, who appear to be specialists,

affirm with authority that we shall come down before reaching the

fortifications. Several other things have been criticized in this novel

type of balloon with which we are about to experiment with so much

pleasure and success.

It is growing slowly but surely. Some small holes and scratches made in

transit have been discovered, and we cover them and plug them with a

little piece of paper applied on the cloth while wet. This method of

repairing alarms and mystifies the public.

While Captain Jovis and his assistants are busy with the last details,

the travellers go to dine in the canteen of the gas-works, according to

the established custom.

When we come out again the balloon is swaying, enormous and transparent,

a prodigious golden fruit, a fantastic pear which is still ripening,

covered by the last rays of the setting sun. Now the basket is attached,

the barometers are brought, the siren, which we will blow to our hearts'

content, is also brought, also the two trumpets, the eatables, the

overcoats and raincoats, all the small articles that can go with the men

in that flying basket.

As the wind pushes the balloon against the gasometers, it is necessary

to steady it now and then, to avoid an accident at the start.

Captain Jovis is now ready and calls all the passengers.

Lieutenant Mallet jumps aboard, climbing first on the aerial net between

the basket and the balloon, from which he will watch during the night

the movements of Le Horla across the skies, as the officer on watch,

standing on starboard, watches the course of a ship.

M. Etierine Beer gets in after him, then comes M. Paul Bessand, then M.

Patrice Eyries and I get in last.

But the basket is too heavy for the balloon, considering the long trip

to be taken, and M. Eyries has to get out, not without great regret.

M. Joliet, standing erect on the edge of the basket, begs the ladies, in

very gallant terms, to stand aside a little, for he is afraid he might

throw sand on their hats in rising. Then he commands:

“Let it loose,” and, cutting with one stroke of his knife the ropes that

hold the balloon to the ground, he gives Le Horla its liberty.

In one second we fly skyward. Nothing can be heard; we float, we rise,

we fly, we glide. Our friends shout with glee and applaud, but we hardly

hear them, we hardly see them. We are already so far, so high! What? Are

we really leaving these people down there? Is it possible? Paris spreads

out beneath us, a dark bluish patch, cut by its streets, from which

rise, here and there, domes, towers, steeples, then around it the plain,

the country, traversed by long roads, thin and white, amidst green

fields of a tender or dark green, and woods almost black.

The Seine appears like a coiled snake, asleep, of which we see neither

head nor tail; it crosses Paris, and the entire field resembles an

immense basin of prairies and forests dotted here and there by

mountains, hardly visible in the horizon.

The sun, which we could no longer see down below, now reappears as

though it were about to rise again, and our balloon seems to be lighted;

it must appear like a star to the people who are looking up. M. Mallet

every few seconds throws a cigarette paper intospace and says quietly:

“We are rising, always rising,” while Captain Jovis, radiant with joy,

rubs his hands together and repeats: “Eh? this varnish? Isn't it good?”

In fact, we can see whether we are rising or sinking only by throwing a

cigarette paper out of the basket now and then. If this paper appears to

fall down like a stone, it means that the balloon is rising; if it

appears to shoot skyward the balloon is descending.

The two barometers mark about five hundred meters, and we gaze with

enthusiastic admiration at the earth we are leaving and to which we are

not attached in any way; it looks like a colored map, an immense plan of

the country. All its noises, however, rise to our ears very distinctly,

easily recognizable. We hear the sound of the wheels rolling in the

streets, the snap of a whip, the cries of drivers, the rolling and

whistling of trains and the laughter of small boys running after one

another. Every time we pass over a village the noise of children's

voices is heard above the rest and with the greatest distinctness. Some

men are calling us; the locomotives whistle; we answer with the siren,

which emits plaintive, fearfully shrill wails like the voice of a weird

being wandering through the world.

We perceive lights here and there, some isolated fire in the farms, and

lines of gas in the towns. We are going toward the northwest, after

roaming for some time over the little lake of Enghien. Now we see a

river; it is the Oise, and we begin to argue about the exact spot we are

passing. Is that town Creil or Pontoise—the one with so many lights? But

if we were over Pontoise we could see the junction of the Seine and the

Oise; and that enormous fire to the left, isn't it the blast furnaces of

Montataire? So then we are above Creil. The view is superb; it is dark

on the earth, but we are still in the light, and it is now past ten

o'clock. Now we begin to hear slight country noises, the double cry of

the quail in particular, then the mewing of cats and the barking of

dogs. Surely the dogs have scented the balloon; they have seen it and

have given the alarm. We can hear them barking all over the plain and

making the identical noise they make when baying at the moon. The cows

also seem to wake up in the barns, for we can hear them lowing; all the

beasts are scared and moved before the aerial monster that is passing.

The delicious odors of the soil rise toward us, the smell of hay, of

flowers, of the moist, verdant earth, perfuming the air-a light air, in

fact, so light, so sweet, so delightful that I realize I never was so

fortunate as to breathe before. A profound sense of well-being, unknown

to me heretofore, pervades me, a well-being of body and spirit, composed

of supineness, of infinite rest, of forgetfulness, of indifference to

everything and of this novel sensation of traversing space without any

of the sensations that make motion unbearable, without noise, without

shocks and without fear.

At times we rise and then descend. Every few minutes Lieutenant Mallet,

suspended in his cobweb of netting, says to Captain Jovis: “We are

descending; throw down half a handful.” And the captain, who is talking

and laughing with us, with a bag of ballast between his legs, takes a

handful of sand out of the bag and throws it overboard.

Nothing is more amusing, more delicate, more interesting than the

manoeuvring of a balloon. It is an enormous toy, free and docile, which

obeys with surprising sensitiveness, but it is also, and before all, the

slave of the wind, which we cannot control. A pinch of sand, half a

sheet of paper, one or two drops of water, the bones of a chicken which

we had just eaten, thrown overboard, makes it go up quickly.

A breath of cool, damp air rising from the river or the wood we are

traversing makes the balloon descend two hundred metres. It does not

vary when passing over fields of ripe grain, and it rises when it passes

over towns.

The earth sleeps now, or, rather, men sleep on the earth, for the beasts

awakened by the sight of our balloon announce our approach everywhere.

Now and then the rolling of a train or the whistling of a locomotive is

plainly distinguishable. We sound our siren as we pass over inhabited

places; and the peasants, terrified in their beds, must surely tremble

and ask themselves if the Angel Gabriel is not passing by.

A strong and continuous odor of gas can be plainly observed. We must

have encountered a current of warm air, and the balloon expands, losing

its invisible blood by the escape-valve, which is called the appendix,

and which closes of itself as soon as the expansion ceases.

We are rising. The earth no longer gives back the echo of our trumpets;

we have risen almost two thousand feet. It is not light enough for us to

consult the instruments; we only know that the rice paper falls from us

like dead butterflies, that we are rising, always rising. We can no

longer see the earth; a light mist separates us from it; and above our

head twinkles a world of stars.

A silvery light appears before us and makes the sky turn pale, and

suddenly, as if it were rising from unknown depths behind the horizon

below us rises the moon on the edge of a cloud. It seems to be coming

from below, while we are looking down upon it from a great height,

leaning on the edge of our basket like an audience on a balcony. Clear

and round, it emerges from the clouds and slowly rises in the sky.

The earth no longer seems to exist, it is buried in milky vapors that

resemble a sea. We are now alone in space with the moon, which looks

like another balloon travelling opposite us; and our balloon, which

shines in the air, appears like another, larger moon, a world wandering

in the sky amid the stars, through infinity. We no longer speak, think

nor live; we float along through space in delicious inertia. The air

which is bearing us up has made of us all beings which resemble itself,

silent, joyous, irresponsible beings, intoxicated by this stupendous

flight, peculiarly alert, although motionless. One is no longer

conscious of one's flesh or one's bones; one's heart seems to have

ceased beating; we have become something indescribable, birds who do not

even have to flap their wings.

All memory has disappeared from our minds, all trouble from our

thoughts; we have no more regrets, plans nor hopes. We look, we feel, we

wildly enjoy this fantastic journey; nothing in the sky but the moon and

ourselves! We are a wandering, travelling world, like our sisters, the

planets; and this little world carries five men who have left the earth

and who have almost forgotten it. We can now see as plainly as in

daylight; we look at each other, surprised at this brightness, for we

have nothing to look at but ourselves and a few silvery clouds floating

below us. The barometers mark twelve hundred metres, then thirteen,

fourteen, fifteen hundred; and the little rice papers still fall about

us.

Captain Jovis claims that the moon has often made balloons act thus, and

that the upward journey will continue.

We are now at two thousand metres; we go up to two thousand three

hundred and fifty; then the balloon stops: We blow the siren and are

surprised that no one answers us from the stars.

We are now going down rapidly. M. Mallet keeps crying: “Throw out more

ballast! throw out more ballast!” And the sand and stones that we throw

over come back into our faces, as if they were going up, thrown from

below toward the stars, so rapid is our descent.

Here is the earth! Where are we? It is now past midnight, and we are

crossing a broad, dry, well-cultivated country, with many roads and well

populated.

To the right is a large city and farther away to the left is another.

But suddenly from the earth appears a bright fairy light; it disappears,

reappears and once more disappears. Jovis, intoxicated by space,

exclaims: “Look, look at this phenomenon of the moon in the water. One

can see nothing more beautiful at night!”

Nothing indeed can give one an idea of the wonderful brightness of these

spots of light which are not fire, which do not look like reflections,

which appear quickly here or there and immediately go out again. These

shining lights appear on the winding rivers at every turn, but one

hardly has time to see them as the balloon passes as quickly as the

wind.

We are now quite near the earth, and Beer exclaims:—“Look at that! What

is that running over there in the fields? Isn't it a dog?” Indeed,

something is running along the ground with great speed, and this

something seems to jump over ditches, roads, trees with such ease that

we could not understand what it might be. The captain laughed: “It is

the shadow of our balloon. It will grow as we descend.”

I distinctly hear a great noise of foundries in the distance. And,

according to the polar star, which we have been observing all night,

'and which I have so often watched and consulted from the bridge of my

little yacht on the Mediterranean, we are heading straight for Belgium.

Our siren and our two horns are continually calling. A few cries from

some truck driver or belated reveler answer us. We bellow: “Where are

we?” But the balloon is going so rapidly that the bewildered man has not

even time to answer us. The growing shadow of Le Horla, as large as a

child's ball, is fleeing before us over the fields, roads and woods. It

goes along steadily, preceding us by about a quarter of a mile; and now

I am leaning out of the basket, listening to the roaring of the wind in

the trees and across the harvest fields. I say to Captain Jovis: “How

the wind blows!”

He answers: “No, those are probably waterfalls.” I insist, sure of my

ear that knows the sound of the wind, from hearing it so often whistle

through the rigging. Then Jovis nudges me; he fears to frighten his

happy, quiet passengers, for he knows full well that a storm is pursuing

us.

At last a man manages to understand us; he answers: “Nord!” We get the

same reply from another.

Suddenly the lights of a town, which seems to be of considerable size,

appear before us. Perhaps it is Lille. As we approach it, such a

wonderful flow of fire appears below us that I think myself transported

into some fairyland where precious stones are manufactured for giants.

It seems that it is a brick factory. Here are others, two, three. The

fusing material bubbles, sparkles, throws out blue, red, yellow, green

sparks, reflections from giant diamonds, rubies, emeralds, turquoises,

sapphires, topazes. And near by are great foundries roaring like

apocalyptic lions; high chimneys belch forth their clouds of smoke and

flame, and we can hear the noise of metal striking against metal.

“Where are we?”

The voice of some joker or of a crazy person answers: “In a balloon!”

“Where are we?”

“At Lille!”

We were not mistaken. We are already out of sight of the town, and we

see Roubaix to the right, then some well-cultivated, rectangular fields,

of different colors according to the crops, some yellow, some gray or

brown. But the clouds are gathering behind us, hiding the moon, whereas

toward the east the sky is growing lighter, becoming a clear blue tinged

with red. It is dawn. It grows rapidly, now showing us all the little

details of the earth, the trains, the brooks, the cows, the goats. And

all this passes beneath us with surprising speed. One hardly has time to

notice that other fields, other meadows, other houses have already

disappeared. Cocks are crowing, but the voice of ducks drowns

everything. One might think the world to be peopled, covered with them,

they make so much noise.

The early rising peasants are waving their arms and crying to us: “Let

yourselves drop!” But we go along steadily, neither rising nor falling,

leaning over the edge of the basket and watching the world fleeing under

our feet.

Jovis sights another city far off in the distance. It approaches;

everywhere are old church spires. They are delightful, seen thus from

above. Where are we? Is this Courtrai? Is it Ghent?

We are already very near it, and we see that it is surrounded by water

and crossed in every direction by canals. One might think it a Venice of

the north. Just as we are passing so near to a church tower that our

long guy-rope almost touches it, the chimes begin to ring three o'clock.

The sweet, clear sounds rise to us from this frail roof which we have

almost touched in our wandering course. It is a charming greeting, a

friendly welcome from Holland. We answer with our siren, whose raucous

voice echoes throughout the streets.

It was Bruges. But we have hardly lost sight of it when my neighbor,

Paul Bessand, asks me: “Don't you see something over there, to the

right, in front of us? It looks like a river.”

And, indeed, far ahead of us stretches a bright highway, in the light of

the dawning day. Yes, it looks like a river, an immense river full of

islands.

“Get ready for the descent,” cried the captain. He makes M. Mallet leave

his net and return to the basket; then we pack the barometers and

everything that could be injured by possible shocks. M. Bessand

exclaims: “Look at the masts over there to the left! We are at the sea!”

Fogs had hidden it from us until then. The sea was everywhere, to the

left and opposite us, while to our right the Scheldt, which had joined

the Moselle, extended as far as the sea, its mouths vaster than a lake.

It was necessary to descend within a minute or two. The rope to the

escape-valve, which had been religiously enclosed in a little white bag

and placed in sight of all so that no one would touch it, is unrolled,

and M. Mallet holds it in his hand while Captain Jovis looks for a

favorable landing.

Behind us the thunder was rumbling and not a single bird followed our

mad flight.

“Pull!” cried Jovis.

We were passing over a canal. The basket trembled and tipped over

slightly. The guy-rope touched the tall trees on both banks. But our

speed is so great that the long rope now trailing does not seem to slow

down, and we pass with frightful rapidity over a large farm, from which

the bewildered chickens, pigeons and ducks fly away, while the cows,

cats and dogs run, terrified, toward the house.

Just one-half bag of ballast is left. Jovis throws it overboard, and Le

Horla flies lightly across the roof.

The captain once more cries: “The escape-valve!”

M. Mallet reaches for the rope and hangs to it, and we drop like an

arrow. With a slash of a knife the cord which retains the anchor is cut,

and we drag this grapple behind us, through a field of beets. Here are

the trees.

“Take care! Hold fast! Look out for your heads!”

We pass over them. Then a strong shock shakes us. The anchor has taken

hold.

“Look out! Take a good hold! Raise yourselves by your wrists. We are

going to touch ground.”

The basket does indeed strike the earth. Then it flies up again. Once

more it falls and bounds upward again, and at last it settles on the

ground, while the balloon struggles madly, like a wounded beast.

Peasants run toward us, but they do not dare approach. They were a long

time before they decided to come and deliver us, for one cannot set foot

on the ground until the bag is almost completely deflated.

Then, almost at the same time as the bewildered men, some of whom showed

their astonishment by jumping, with the wild gestures of savages, all

the cows that were grazing along the coast came toward us, surrounding

our balloon with a strange and comical circle of horns, big eyes and

blowing nostrils.

With the help of the accommodating and hospitable Belgian peasants, we

were able in a short time to pack up all our material and carry it to

the station at Heyst, where at twenty minutes past eight we took the

train for Paris.

The descent occurred at three-fifteen in the morning, preceding by only

a few seconds the torrent of rain and the blinding lightning of the

storm which had been chasing us before it.

Thanks to Captain Jovis, of whom I had heard much from my colleague,

Paul Ginisty—for both of them had fallen together and voluntarily into

the sea opposite Mentone—thanks to this brave man, we were able to see,

in a single night, from far up in the sky, the setting of the sun, the

rising of the moon and the dawn of day and to go from Paris to the mouth

of the Scheldt through the skies.

[This story appeared in “Figaro” on July 16, 1887, under the title:

“From Paris to Heyst.”]

FAREWELL!

The two friends were getting near the end of their dinner. Through the

cafe windows they could see the Boulevard, crowded with people. They

could feel the gentle breezes which are wafted over Paris on warm summer

evenings and make you feel like going out somewhere, you care not where,

under the trees, and make you dream of moonlit rivers, of fireflies and

of larks.

One of the two, Henri Simon, heaved a deep sigh and said:

“Ah! I am growing old. It's sad. Formerly, on evenings like this, I felt

full of life. Now, I only feel regrets. Life is short!”

He was perhaps forty-five years old, very bald and already growing

stout.

The other, Pierre Carnier, a trifle older, but thin and lively,

answered:

“Well, my boy, I have grown old without noticing it in the least. I have

always been merry, healthy, vigorous and all the rest. As one sees

oneself in the mirror every day, one does not realize the work of age,

for it is slow, regular, and it modifies the countenance so gently that

the changes are unnoticeable. It is for this reason alone that we do not

die of sorrow after two or three years of excitement. For we cannot

understand the alterations which time produces. In order to appreciate

them one would have to remain six months without seeing one's own face

—then, oh, what a shock!

“And the women, my friend, how I pity the poor beings! All their joy,

all their power, all their life, lies in their beauty, which lasts ten

years.

“As I said, I aged without noticing it; I thought myself practically a

youth, when I was almost fifty years old. Not feeling the slightest

infirmity, I went about, happy and peaceful.

“The revelation of my decline came to me in a simple and terrible

manner, which overwhelmed me for almost six months—then I became

resigned.

“Like all men, I have often been in love, but most especially once.

“I met her at the seashore, at Etretat, about twelve years ago, shortly

after the war. There is nothing prettier than this beach during the

morning bathing hour. It is small, shaped like a horseshoe, framed by

high white cliffs, which are pierced by strange holes called the

'Portes,' one stretching out into the ocean like the leg of a giant, the

other short and dumpy. The women gather on the narrow strip of sand in

this frame of high rocks, which they make into a gorgeous garden of

beautiful gowns. The sun beats down on the shores, on the multicolored

parasols, on the blue-green sea; and all is gay, delightful, smiling.

You sit down at the edge of the water and you watch the bathers. The

women come down, wrapped in long bath robes, which they throw off

daintily when they reach the foamy edge of the rippling waves; and they

run into the water with a rapid little step, stopping from time to time

for a delightful little thrill from the cold water, a short gasp.

“Very few stand the test of the bath. It is there that they can be

judged, from the ankle to the throat. Especially on leaving the water

are the defects revealed, although water is a powerful aid to flabby

skin.

“The first time that I saw this young woman in the water, I was

delighted, entranced. She stood the test well. There are faces whose

charms appeal to you at first glance and delight you instantly. You seem

to have found the woman whom you were born to love. I had that feeling

and that shock.

“I was introduced, and was soon smitten worse than I had ever been

before. My heart longed for her. It is a terrible yet delightful thing

thus to be dominated by a young woman. It is almost torture, and yet

infinite delight. Her look, her smile, her hair fluttering in the wind,

the little lines of her face, the slightest movement of her features,

delighted me, upset me, entranced me. She had captured me, body and

soul, by her gestures, her manners, even by her clothes, which seemed to

take on a peculiar charm as soon as she wore them. I grew tender at the

sight of her veil on some piece of furniture, her gloves thrown on a

chair. Her gowns seemed to me inimitable. Nobody had hats like hers.

“She was married, but her husband came only on Saturday, and left on

Monday. I didn't cencern myself about him, anyhow. I wasn't jealous of

him, I don't know why; never did a creature seem to me to be of less

importance in life, to attract my attention less than this man.

“But she! how I loved her! How beautiful, graceful and young she was!

She was youth, elegance, freshness itself! Never before had I felt so

strongly what a pretty, distinguished, delicate, charming, graceful

being woman is. Never before had I appreciated the seductive beauty to

be found in the curve of a cheek, the movement of a lip, the pinkness of

an ear, the shape of that foolish organ called the nose.

“This lasted three months; then I left for America, overwhelmed with

sadness. But her memory remained in me, persistent, triumphant. From far

away I was as much hers as I had been when she was near me. Years passed

by, and I did not forget her. The charming image of her person was ever

before my eyes and in my heart. And my love remained true to her, a

quiet tenderness now, something like the beloved memory of the most

beautiful and the most enchanting thing I had ever met in my life.

“Twelve years are not much in a lifetime! One does not feel them slip

by. The years follow each other gently and quickly, slowly yet rapidly,

each one is long and yet so soon over! They add up so rapidly, they

leave so few traces behind them, they disappear so completely, that,

when one turns round to look back over bygone years, one sees nothing

and yet one does not understand how one happens to be so old. It seemed

to me, really, that hardly a few months separated me from that charming

season on the sands of Etretat.

“Last spring I went to dine with some friends at Maisons-Laffitte.

“Just as the train was leaving, a big, fat lady, escorted by four little

girls, got into my car. I hardly looked at this mother hen, very big,

very round, with a face as full as the moon framed in an enormous,

beribboned hat.

“She was puffing, out of breath from having been forced to walk quickly.

The children began to chatter. I unfolded my paper and began to read.

“We had just passed Asnieres, when my neighbor suddenly turned to me and

said:

“'Excuse me, sir, but are you not Monsieur Garnier?'

“'Yes, madame.'

“Then she began to laugh, the pleased laugh of a good woman; and yet it

was sad.

“'You do not seem to recognize me.'

“I hesitated. It seemed to me that I had seen that face somewhere; but

where? when? I answered:

“'Yes—and no. I certainly know you, and yet I cannot recall your name.'

“She blushed a little:

“'Madame Julie Lefevre.'

“Never had I received such a shock. In a second it seemed to me as

though it were all over with me! I felt that a veil had been torn from

my eyes and that I was going to make a horrible and heartrending

discovery.

“So that was she! That big, fat, common woman, she! She had become the

mother of these four girls since I had last her. And these little beings

surprised me as much as their mother. They were part of her; they were

big girls, and already had a place in life. Whereas she no longer

counted, she, that marvel of dainty and charming gracefulness. It seemed

to me that I had seen her but yesterday, and this is how I found her

again! Was it possible? A poignant grief seized my heart; and also a

revolt against nature herself, an unreasoning indignation against this

brutal, infarious act of destruction.

“I looked at her, bewildered. Then I took her hand in mine, and tears

came to my eyes. I wept for her lost youth. For I did not know this fat

lady.

“She was also excited, and stammered:

“'I am greatly changed, am I not? What can you expect—everything has its

time! You see, I have become a mother, nothing but a good mother.

Farewell to the rest, that is over. Oh! I never expected you to

recognize me if we met. You, too, have changed. It took me quite a while

to be sure that I was not mistaken. Your hair is all white. Just think!

Twelve years ago! Twelve years! My oldest girl is already ten.'

“I looked at the child. And I recognized in her something of her

mother's old charm, but something as yet unformed, something which

promised for the future. And life seemed to me as swift as a passing

train.

“We had reached. Maisons-Laffitte. I kissed my old friend's hand. I had

found nothing but the most commonplace remarks. I was too much upset to

talk.

“At night, alone, at home, I stood in front of the mirror for a long

time, a very long time. And I finally remembered what I had been,

finally saw in my mind's eye my brown mustache, my black hair and the

youthful expression of my face. Now I was old. Farewell!”

THE WOLF

This is what the old Marquis d'Arville told us after St. Hubert's dinner

at the house of the Baron des Ravels.

We had killed a stag that day. The marquis was the only one of the

guests who had not taken part in this chase. He never hunted.

During that long repast we had talked about hardly anything but the

slaughter of animals. The ladies themselves were interested in bloody

and exaggerated tales, and the orators imitated the attacks and the

combats of men against beasts, raised their arms, romanced in a

thundering voice.

M. d Arville talked well, in a certain flowery, high-sounding, but

effective style. He must have told this story frequently, for he told it

fluently, never hesitating for words, choosing them with skill to make

his description vivid.

Gentlemen, I have never hunted, neither did my father, nor my

grandfather, nor my great-grandfather. This last was the son of a man

who hunted more than all of you put together. He died in 1764. I will

tell you the story of his death.

His name was Jean. He was married, father of that child who became my

great-grandfather, and he lived with his younger brother, Francois

d'Arville, in our castle in Lorraine, in the midst of the forest.

Francois d'Arville had remained a bachelor for love of the chase.

They both hunted from one end of the year to the other, without stopping

and seemingly without fatigue. They loved only hunting, understood

nothing else, talked only of that, lived only for that.

They had at heart that one passion, which was terrible and inexorable.

It consumed them, had completely absorbed them, leaving room for no

other thought.

They had given orders that they should not be interrupted in the chase

for any reason whatever. My great-grandfather was born while his father

was following a fox, and Jean d'Arville did not stop the chase, but

exclaimed: “The deuce! The rascal might have waited till after the view

—halloo!”

His brother Francois was still more infatuated. On rising he went to see

the dogs, then the horses, then he shot little birds about the castle

until the time came to hunt some large game.

In the countryside they were called M. le Marquis and M. le Cadet, the

nobles then not being at all like the chance nobility of our time, which

wishes to establish an hereditary hierarchy in titles; for the son of a

marquis is no more a count, nor the son of a viscount a baron, than a

son of a general is a colonel by birth. But the contemptible vanity of

today finds profit in that arrangement.

My ancestors were unusually tall, bony, hairy, violent and vigorous. The

younger, still taller than the older, had a voice so strong that,

according to a legend of which he was proud, all the leaves of the

forest shook when he shouted.

When they were both mounted to set out hunting, it must have been a

superb sight to see those two giants straddling their huge horses.

Now, toward the midwinter of that year, 1764, the frosts were excessive,

and the wolves became ferocious.

They even attacked belated peasants, roamed at night outside the houses,

howled from sunset to sunrise, and robbed the stables.

And soon a rumor began to circulate. People talked of a colossal wolf

with gray fur, almost white, who had eaten two children, gnawed off a

woman's arm, strangled all the watch dogs in the district, and even come

without fear into the farmyards. The people in the houses affirmed that

they had felt his breath, and that it made the flame of the lights

flicker. And soon a panic ran through all the province. No one dared go

out any more after nightfall. The darkness seemed haunted by the image

of the beast.

The brothers d'Arville determined to find and kill him, and several

times they brought together all the gentlemen of the country to a great

hunt.