They beat the forests and searched the coverts in vain; they never met

him. They killed wolves, but not that one. And every night after a

battue the beast, as if to avenge himself, attacked some traveller or

killed some one's cattle, always far from the place where they had

looked for him.

Finally, one night he stole into the pigpen of the Chateau d'Arville and

ate the two fattest pigs.

The brothers were roused to anger, considering this attack as a direct

insult and a defiance. They took their strong bloodhounds, used to

pursue dangerous animals, and they set off to hunt, their hearts filled

with rage.

From dawn until the hour when the empurpled sun descended behind the

great naked trees, they beat the woods without finding anything.

At last, furious and disgusted, both were returning, walking their

horses along a lane bordered with hedges, and they marvelled that their

skill as huntsmen should be baffled by this wolf, and they were suddenly

seized with a mysterious fear.

The elder said:

“That beast is not an ordinary one. You would say it had a mind like a

man.”

The younger answered:

“Perhaps we should have a bullet blessed by our cousin, the bishop, or

pray some priest to pronounce the words which are needed.”

Then they were silent.

Jean continued:

“Look how red the sun is. The great wolf will do some harm to-night.”

He had hardly finished speaking when his horse reared; that of Franqois

began to kick. A large thicket covered with dead leaves opened before

them, and a mammoth beast, entirely gray, jumped up and ran off through

the wood.

Both uttered a kind of grunt of joy, and bending over the necks of their

heavy horses, they threw them forward with an impulse from all their

body, hurling them on at such a pace, urging them, hurrying them away,

exciting them so with voice and with gesture and with spur that the

experienced riders seemed to be carrying the heavy beasts between their

thighs and to bear them off as if they were flying.

Thus they went, plunging through the thickets, dashing across the beds

of streams, climbing the hillsides, descending the gorges, and blowing

the horn as loud as they could to attract their people and the dogs.

And now, suddenly, in that mad race, my ancestor struck his forehead

against an enormous branch which split his skull; and he fell dead on

the ground, while his frightened horse took himself off, disappearing in

the gloom which enveloped the woods.

The younger d'Arville stopped quick, leaped to the earth, seized his

brother in his arms, and saw that the brains were escaping from the

wound with the blood.

Then he sat down beside the body, rested the head, disfigured and red,

on his knees, and waited, regarding the immobile face of his elder

brother. Little by little a fear possessed him, a strange fear which he

had never felt before, the fear of the dark, the fear of loneliness, the

fear of the deserted wood, and the fear also of the weird wolf who had

just killed his brother to avenge himself upon them both.

The gloom thickened; the acute cold made the trees crack. Francois got

up, shivering, unable to remain there longer, feeling himself growing

faint. Nothing was to be heard, neither the voice of the dogs nor the

sound of the horns-all was silent along the invisible horizon; and this

mournful silence of the frozen night had something about it terrific and

strange.

He seized in his immense hands the great body of Jean, straightened it,

and laid it across the saddle to carry it back to the chateau; then he

went on his way softly, his mind troubled as if he were in a stupor,

pursued by horrible and fear-giving images.

And all at once, in the growing darkness a great shape crossed his path.

It was the beast. A shock of terror shook the hunter; something cold,

like a drop of water, seemed to glide down his back, and, like a monk

haunted of the devil, he made a great sign of the cross, dismayed at

this abrupt return of the horrible prowler. But his eyes fell again on

the inert body before him, and passing abruptly from fear to anger, he

shook with an indescribable rage.

Then he spurred his horse and rushed after the wolf.

He followed it through the copses, the ravines, and the tall trees,

traversing woods which he no longer recognized, his eyes fixed on the

white speck which fled before him through the night.

His horse also seemed animated by a force and strength hitherto unknown.

It galloped straight ahead with outstretched neck, striking against

trees, and rocks, the head and the feet of the dead man thrown across

the saddle. The limbs tore out his hair; the brow, beating the huge

trunks, spattered them with blood; the spurs tore their ragged coats of

bark. Suddenly the beast and the horseman issued from the forest and

rushed into a valley, just as the moon appeared above the mountains. The

valley here was stony, inclosed by enormous rocks.

Francois then uttered a yell of joy which the echoes repeated like a

peal of thunder, and he leaped from his horse, his cutlass in his hand.

The beast, with bristling hair, the back arched, awaited him, its eyes

gleaming like two stars. But, before beginning battle, the strong

hunter, seizing his brother, seated him on a rock, and, placing stones

under his head, which was no more than a mass of blood, he shouted in

the ears as if he was talking to a deaf man: “Look, Jean; look at this!”

Then he attacked the monster. He felt himself strong enough to overturn

a mountain, to bruise stones in his hands. The beast tried to bite him,

aiming for his stomach; but he had seized the fierce animal by the neck,

without even using his weapon, and he strangled it gently, listening to

the cessation of breathing in its throat and the beatings of its heart.

He laughed, wild with joy, pressing closer and closer his formidable

embrace, crying in a delirium of joy, “Look, Jean, look!” All resistance

ceased; the body of the wolf became limp. He was dead.

Francois took him up in his arms and carried him to the feet of the

elder brother, where he laid him, repeating, in a tender voice: “There,

there, there, my little Jean, see him!”

Then he replaced on the saddle the two bodies, one upon the other, and

rode away.

He returned to the chateau, laughing and crying, like Gargantua at the

birth of Pantagruel, uttering shouts of triumph, and boisterous with joy

as he related the death of the beast, and grieving and tearing his beard

in telling of that of his brother.

And often, later, when he talked again of that day, he would say, with

tears in his eyes: “If only poor Jean could have seen me strangle the

beast, he would have died content, that I am sure!”

The widow of my ancestor inspired her orphan son with that horror of the

chase which has transmitted itself from father to son as far down as

myself.

The Marquis d'Arville was silent. Some one asked:

“That story is a legend, isn't it?”

And the story teller answered:

“I swear to you that it is true from beginning to end.”

Then a lady declared, in a little, soft voice

“All the same, it is fine to have passions like that.”

THE INN

Resembling in appearance all the wooden hostelries of the High Alps

situated at the foot of glaciers in the barren rocky gorges that

intersect the summits of the mountains, the Inn of Schwarenbach serves

as a resting place for travellers crossing the Gemini Pass.

It remains open for six months in the year and is inhabited by the

family of Jean Hauser; then, as soon as the snow begins to fall and to

fill the valley so as to make the road down to Loeche impassable, the

father and his three sons go away and leave the house in charge of the

old guide, Gaspard Hari, with the young guide, Ulrich Kunsi, and Sam,

the great mountain dog.

The two men and the dog remain till the spring in their snowy prison,

with nothing before their eyes except the immense white slopes of the

Balmhorn, surrounded by light, glistening summits, and are shut in,

blocked up and buried by the snow which rises around them and which

envelops, binds and crushes the little house, which lies piled on the

roof, covering the windows and blocking up the door.

It was the day on which the Hauser family were going to return to

Loeche, as winter was approaching, and the descent was becoming

dangerous. Three mules started first, laden with baggage and led by the

three sons. Then the mother, Jeanne Hauser, and her daughter Louise

mounted a fourth mule and set off in their turn and the father followed

them, accompanied by the two men in charge, who were to escort the

family as far as the brow of the descent. First of all they passed round

the small lake, which was now frozen over, at the bottom of the mass of

rocks which stretched in front of the inn, and then they followed the

valley, which was dominated on all sides by the snow-covered summits.

A ray of sunlight fell into that little white, glistening, frozen desert

and illuminated it with a cold and dazzling flame. No living thing

appeared among this ocean of mountains. There was no motion in this

immeasurable solitude and no noise disturbed the profound silence.

By degrees the young guide, Ulrich Kunsi, a tall, long-legged Swiss,

left old man Hauser and old Gaspard behind, in order to catch up the

mule which bore the two women. The younger one looked at him as he

approached and appeared to be calling him with her sad eyes. She was a

young, fairhaired little peasant girl, whose milk-white cheeks and pale

hair looked as if they had lost their color by their long abode amid the

ice. When he had got up to the animal she was riding he put his hand on

the crupper and relaxed his speed. Mother Hauser began to talk to him,

enumerating with the minutest details all that he would have to attend

to during the winter. It was the first time that he was going to stay up

there, while old Hari had already spent fourteen winters amid the snow,

at the inn of Schwarenbach.

Ulrich Kunsi listened, without appearing to understand and looked

incessantly at the girl. From time to time he replied: “Yes, Madame

Hauser,” but his thoughts seemed far away and his calm features remained

unmoved.

They reached Lake Daube, whose broad, frozen surface extended to the end

of the valley. On the right one saw the black, pointed, rocky summits of

the Daubenhorn beside the enormous moraines of the Lommern glacier,

above which rose the Wildstrubel. As they approached the Gemmi pass,

where the descent of Loeche begins, they suddenly beheld the immense

horizon of the Alps of the Valais, from which the broad, deep valley of

the Rhone separated them.

In the distance there was a group of white, unequal, flat, or pointed

mountain summits, which glistened in the sun; the Mischabel with its two

peaks, the huge group of the Weisshorn, the heavy Brunegghorn, the lofty

and formidable pyramid of Mount Cervin, that slayer of men, and the

Dent-Blanche, that monstrous coquette.

Then beneath them, in a tremendous hole, at the bottom of a terrific

abyss, they perceived Loeche, where houses looked as grains of sand

which had been thrown into that enormous crevice that is ended and

closed by the Gemmi and which opens, down below, on the Rhone.

The mule stopped at the edge of the path, which winds and turns

continually, doubling backward, then, fantastically and strangely, along

the side of the mountain as far as the almost invisible little village

at its feet. The women jumped into the snow and the two old men joined

them. “Well,” father Hauser said, “good-by, and keep up your spirits

till next year, my friends,” and old Hari replied: “Till next year.”

They embraced each other and then Madame Hauser in her turn offered her

cheek, and the girl did the same.

When Ulrich Kunsi's turn came, he whispered in Louise's ear, “Do not

forget those up yonder,” and she replied, “No,” in such a low voice that

he guessed what she had said without hearing it. “Well, adieu,” Jean

Hauser repeated, “and don't fall ill.” And going before the two women,

he commenced the descent, and soon all three disappeared at the first

turn in the road, while the two men returned to the inn at Schwarenbach.

They walked slowly, side by side, without speaking. It was over, and

they would be alone together for four or five months. Then Gaspard Hari

began to relate his life last winter. He had remained with Michael

Canol, who was too old now to stand it, for an accident might happen

during that long solitude. They had not been dull, however; the only

thing was to make up one's mind to it from the first, and in the end one

would find plenty of distraction, games and other means of whiling away

the time.

Ulrich Kunsi listened to him with his eyes on the ground, for in his

thoughts he was following those who were descending to the village. They

soon came in sight of the inn, which was, however, scarcely visible, so

small did it look, a black speck at the foot of that enormous billow of

snow, and when they opened the door Sam, the great curly dog, began to

romp round them.

“Come, my boy,” old Gaspard said, “we have no women now, so we must get

our own dinner ready. Go and peel the potatoes.” And they both sat down

on wooden stools and began to prepare the soup.

The next morning seemed very long to Kunsi. Old Hari smoked and spat on

the hearth, while the young man looked out of the window at the snow-

covered mountain opposite the house.

In the afternoon he went out, and going over yesterday's ground again,

he looked for the traces of the mule that had carried the two women.

Then when he had reached the Gemmi Pass, he laid himself down on his

stomach and looked at Loeche.

The village, in its rocky pit, was not yet buried under the snow, from

which it was sheltered by the pine woods which protected it on all

sides. Its low houses looked like paving stones in a large meadow from

above. Hauser's little daughter was there now in one of those gray-

colored houses. In which? Ulrich Kunsi was too far away to be able to

make them out separately. How he would have liked to go down while he

was yet able!

But the sun had disappeared behind the lofty crest of the Wildstrubel

and the young man returned to the chalet. Daddy Hari was smoking, and

when he saw his mate come in he proposed a game of cards to him, and

they sat down opposite each other, on either side of the table. They

played for a long time a simple game called brisque and then they had

supper and went to bed.

The following days were like the first, bright and cold, without any

fresh snow. Old Gaspard spent his afternoons in watching the eagles and

other rare birds which ventured on those frozen heights, while Ulrich

returned regularly to the Gemmi Pass to look at the village. Then they

played cards, dice or dominoes and lost and won a trifle, just to create

an interest in the game.

One morning Hari, who was up first, called his companion. A moving, deep

and light cloud of white spray was falling on them noiselessly and was

by degrees burying them under a thick, heavy coverlet of foam. That

lasted four days and four nights. It was necessary to free the door and

the windows, to dig out a passage and to cut steps to get over this

frozen powder, which a twelve hours' frost had made as hard as the

granite of the moraines.

They lived like prisoners and did not venture outside their abode. They

had divided their duties, which they performed regularly. Ulrich Kunsi

undertook the scouring, washing and everything that belonged to

cleanliness. He also chopped up the wood while Gaspard Hari did the

cooking and attended to the fire. Their regular and monotonous work was

interrupted by long games at cards or dice, and they never quarrelled,

but were always calm and placid. They were never seen impatient or ill-

humored, nor did they ever use hard words, for they had laid in a stock

of patience for their wintering on the top of the mountain.

Sometimes old Gaspard took his rifle and went after chamois, and

occasionally he killed one. Then there was a feast in the inn at

Schwarenbach and they revelled in fresh meat. One morning he went out as

usual. The thermometer outside marked eighteen degrees of frost, and as

the sun had not yet risen, the hunter hoped to surprise the animals at

the approaches to the Wildstrubel, and Ulrich, being alone, remained in

bed until ten o'clock. He was of a sleepy nature, but he would not have

dared to give way like that to his inclination in the presence of the

old guide, who was ever an early riser. He breakfasted leisurely with

Sam, who also spent his days and nights in sleeping in front of the

fire; then he felt low-spirited and even frightened at the solitude, and

was seized by a longing for his daily game of cards, as one is by the

craving of a confirmed habit, and so he went out to meet his companion,

who was to return at four o'clock.

The snow had levelled the whole deep valley, filled up the crevasses,

obliterated all signs of the two lakes and covered the rocks, so that

between the high summits there was nothing but an immense, white,

regular, dazzling and frozen surface. For three weeks Ulrich had not

been to the edge of the precipice from which he had looked down on the

village, and he wanted to go there before climbing the slopes which led

to Wildstrubel. Loeche was now also covered by the snow and the houses

could scarcely be distinguished, covered as they were by that white

cloak.

Then, turning to the right, he reached the Loemmern glacier. He went

along with a mountaineer's long strides, striking the snow, which was as

hard as a rock, with his iron-pointed stick, and with his piercing eyes

he looked for the little black, moving speck in the distance, on that

enormous, white expanse.

When he reached the end of the glacier he stopped and asked himself

whether the old man had taken that road, and then he began to walk along

the moraines with rapid and uneasy steps. The day was declining, the

snow was assuming a rosy tint, and a dry, frozen wind blew in rough

gusts over its crystal surface. Ulrich uttered a long, shrill, vibrating

call. His voice sped through the deathlike silence in which the

mountains were sleeping; it reached the distance, across profound and

motionless waves of glacial foam, like the cry of a bird across the

waves of the sea. Then it died away and nothing answered him.

He began to walk again. The sun had sunk yonder behind the mountain

tops, which were still purple with the reflection from the sky, but the

depths of the valley were becoming gray, and suddenly the young man felt

frightened. It seemed to him as if the silence, the cold, the solitude,

the winter death of these mountains were taking possession of him, were

going to stop and to freeze his blood, to make his limbs grow stiff and

to turn him into a motionless and frozen object, and he set off running,

fleeing toward his dwelling. The old man, he thought, would have

returned during his absence. He had taken another road; he would, no

doubt, be sitting before the fire, with a dead chamois at his feet. He

soon came in sight of the inn, but no smoke rose from it. Ulrich walked

faster and opened the door. Sam ran up to him to greet him, but Gaspard

Hari had not returned. Kunsi, in his alarm, turned round suddenly, as if

he had expected to find his comrade hidden in a corner. Then he

relighted the fire and made the soup, hoping every moment to see the old

man come in. From time to time he went out to see if he were not coming.

It was quite night now, that wan, livid night of the mountains, lighted

by a thin, yellow crescent moon, just disappearing behind the mountain

tops.

Then the young man went in and sat down to warm his hands and feet,

while he pictured to himself every possible accident. Gaspard might have

broken a leg, have fallen into a crevasse, taken a false step and

dislocated his ankle. And, perhaps, he was lying on the snow, overcome

and stiff with the cold, in agony of mind, lost and, perhaps, shouting

for help, calling with all his might in the silence of the night.. But

where? The mountain was so vast, so rugged, so dangerous in places,

especially at that time of the year, that it would have required ten or

twenty guides to walk for a week in all directions to find a man in that

immense space. Ulrich Kunsi, however, made up his mind to set out with

Sam if Gaspard did not return by one in the morning, and he made his

preparations.

He put provisions for two days into a bag, took his steel climbing iron,

tied a long, thin, strong rope round his waist, and looked to see that

his iron-shod stick and his axe, which served to cut steps in the ice,

were in order. Then he waited. The fire was burning on the hearth, the

great dog was snoring in front of it, and the clock was ticking, as

regularly as a heart beating, in its resounding wooden case. He waited,

with his ears on the alert for distant sounds, and he shivered when the

wind blew against the roof and the walls. It struck twelve and he

trembled: Then, frightened and shivering, he put some water on the fire,

so that he might have some hot coffee before starting, and when the

clock struck one he got up, woke Sam, opened the door and went off in

the direction of the Wildstrubel. For five hours he mounted, scaling the

rocks by means of his climbing irons, cutting into the ice, advancing

continually, and occasionally hauling up the dog, who remained below at

the foot of some slope that was too steep for him, by means of the rope.

It was about six o'clock when he reached one of the summits to which old

Gaspard often came after chamois, and he waited till it should be

daylight.

The sky was growing pale overhead, and a strange light, springing nobody

could tell whence, suddenly illuminated the immense ocean of pale

mountain summits, which extended for a hundred leagues around him. One

might have said that this vague brightness arose from the snow itself

and spread abroad in space. By degrees the highest distant summits

assumed a delicate, pink flesh color, and the red sun appeared behind

the ponderous giants of the Bernese Alps.

Ulrich Kunsi set off again, walking like a hunter, bent over, looking

for tracks, and saying to his dog: “Seek, old fellow, seek!”

He was descending the mountain now, scanning the depths closely, and

from time to time shouting, uttering aloud, prolonged cry, which soon

died away in that silent vastness. Then he put his ear to the ground to

listen. He thought he could distinguish a voice, and he began to run and

shouted again, but he heard nothing more and sat down, exhausted and in

despair. Toward midday he breakfasted and gave Sam, who was as tired as

himself, something to eat also, and then he recommenced his search.

When evening came he was still walking, and he had walked more than

thirty miles over the mountains. As he was too far away to return home

and too tired to drag himself along any further, he dug a hole in the

snow and crouched in it with his dog under a blanket which he had

brought with him. And the man and the dog lay side by side, trying to

keep warm, but frozen to the marrow nevertheless. Ulrich scarcely slept,

his mind haunted by visions and his limbs shaking with cold.

Day was breaking when he got up. His legs were as stiff as iron bars and

his spirits so low that he was ready to cry with anguish, while his

heart was beating so that he almost fell over with agitation, when he

thought he heard a noise.

Suddenly he imagined that he also was going to die of cold in the midst

of this vast solitude, and the terror of such a death roused his

energies and gave him renewed vigor. He was descending toward the inn,

falling down and getting up again, and followed at a distance by Sam,

who was limping on three legs, and they did not reach Schwarenbach until

four o'clock in the afternoon. The house was empty and the young man

made a fire, had something to eat and went to sleep, so worn out that he

did not think of anything more.

He slept for a long time, for a very long time, an irresistible sleep.

But suddenly a voice, a cry, a name, “Ulrich!” aroused him from his

profound torpor and made him sit up in bed. Had he been dreaming? Was it

one of those strange appeals which cross the dreams of disquieted minds?

No, he heard it still, that reverberating cry-which had entered his ears

and remained in his flesh-to the tips of his sinewy fingers. Certainly

somebody had cried out and called “Ulrich!” There was somebody there

near the house, there could be no doubt of that, and he opened the door

and shouted, “Is it you, Gaspard?” with all the strength of his lungs.

But there was no reply, no murmur, no groan, nothing. It was quite dark

and the snow looked wan.

The wind had risen, that icy wind that cracks the rocks and leaves

nothing alive on those deserted heights, and it came in sudden gusts,

which were more parching and more deadly than the burning wind of the

desert, and again Ulrich shouted: “Gaspard! Gaspard! Gaspard.” And then

he waited again. Everything was silent on the mountain.

Then he shook with terror and with a bound he was inside the inn, when

he shut and bolted the door, and then he fell into a chair trembling all

over, for he felt certain that his comrade had called him at the moment

he was expiring.

He was sure of that, as sure as one is of being alive or of eating a

piece of bread. Old Gaspard Hari had been dying for two days and three

nights somewhere, in some hole, in one of those deep, untrodden ravines

whose whiteness is more sinister than subterranean darkness. He had been

dying for two days and three nights and he had just then died, thinking

of his comrade. His soul, almost before it was released, had taken its

flight to the inn where Ulrich was sleeping, and it had called him by

that terrible and mysterious power which the spirits of the dead have to

haunt the living. That voiceless soul had cried to the worn-out soul of

the sleeper; it had uttered its last farewell, or its reproach, or its

curse on the man who had not searched carefully enough.

And Ulrich felt that it was there, quite close to him, behind the wall,

behind the door which he had just fastened. It was wandering about, like

a night bird which lightly touches a lighted window with his wings, and

the terrified young man was ready to scream with horror. He wanted to

run away, but did not dare to go out; he did not dare, and he should

never dare to do it in the future, for that phantom would remain there

day and night, round the inn, as long as the old man's body was not

recovered and had not been deposited in the consecrated earth of a

churchyard.

When it was daylight Kunsi recovered some of his courage at the return

of the bright sun. He prepared his meal, gave his dog some food and then

remained motionless on a chair, tortured at heart as he thought of the

old man lying on the snow, and then, as soon as night once more covered

the mountains, new terrors assailed him. He now walked up and down the

dark kitchen, which was scarcely lighted by the flame of one candle, and

he walked from one end of it to the other with great strides, listening,

listening whether the terrible cry of the other night would again break

the dreary silence outside. He felt himself alone, unhappy man, as no

man had ever been alone before! He was alone in this immense desert of

Snow, alone five thousand feet above the inhabited earth, above human

habitation, above that stirring, noisy, palpitating life, alone under an

icy sky! A mad longing impelled him to run away, no matter where, to get

down to Loeche by flinging himself over the precipice; but he did not

even dare to open the door, as he felt sure that the other, the dead

man, would bar his road, so that he might not be obliged to remain up

there alone:

Toward midnight, tired with walking, worn out by grief and fear, he at

last fell into a doze in his chair, for he was afraid of his bed as one

is of a haunted spot. But suddenly the strident cry of the other evening

pierced his ears, and it was so shrill that Ulrich stretched out his

arms to repulse the ghost, and he fell backward with his chair.

Sam, who was awakened by the noise, began to howl as frightened dogs do

howl, and he walked all about the house trying to find out where the

danger came from. When he got to the door, he sniffed beneath it,

smelling vigorously, with his coat bristling and his tail stiff, while

he growled angrily. Kunsi, who was terrified, jumped up, and, holding

his chair by one leg, he cried: “Don't come in, don't come in, or I

shall kill you.” And the dog, excited by this threat, barked angrily at

that invisible enemy who defied his master's voice. By degrees, however,

he quieted down and came back and stretched himself in front of the

fire, but he was uneasy and kept his head up and growled between his

teeth.

Ulrich, in turn, recovered his senses, but as he felt faint with terror,

he went and got a bottle of brandy out of the sideboard, and he drank

off several glasses, one after anther, at a gulp. His ideas became

vague, his courage revived and a feverish glow ran through his veins.

He ate scarcely anything the next day and limited himself to alcohol,

and so he lived for several days, like a drunken brute. As soon as he

thought of Gaspard Hari, he began to drink again, and went on drinking

until he fell to the ground, overcome by intoxication. And there he

remained lying on his face, dead drunk, his limbs benumbed, and snoring

loudly. But scarcely had he digested the maddening and burning liquor

than the same cry, “Ulrich!” woke him like a bullet piercing his brain,

and he got up, still staggering, stretching out his hands to save

himself from falling, and calling to Sam to help him. And the dog, who

appeared to be going mad like his master, rushed to the door, scratched

it with his claws and gnawed it with his long white teeth, while the

young man, with his head thrown back drank the brandy in draughts, as if

it had been cold water, so that it might by and by send his thoughts,

his frantic terror, and his memory to sleep again.

In three weeks he had consumed all his stock of ardent spirits. But his

continual drunkenness only lulled his terror, which awoke more furiously

than ever as soon as it was impossible for him to calm it. His fixed

idea then, which had been intensified by a month of drunkenness, and

which was continually increasing in his absolute solitude, penetrated

him like a gimlet. He now walked about the house like a wild beast in

its cage, putting his ear to the door to listen if the other were there

and defying him through the wall. Then, as soon as he dozed, overcome by

fatigue, he heard the voice which made him leap to his feet.

At last one night, as cowards do when driven to extremities, he sprang

to the door and opened it, to see who was calling him and to force him

to keep quiet, but such a gust of cold wind blew into his face that it

chilled him to the bone, and he closed and bolted the door again

immediately, without noticing that Sam had rushed out. Then, as he was

shivering with cold, he threw some wood on the fire and sat down in

front of it to warm himself, but suddenly he started, for somebody was

scratching at the wall and crying. In desperation he called out: “Go

away!” but was answered by another long, sorrowful wail.

Then all his remaining senses forsook him from sheer fright. He

repeated: “Go away!” and turned round to try to find some corner in

which to hide, while the other person went round the house still crying

and rubbing against the wall. Ulrich went to the oak sideboard, which

was full of plates and dishes and of provisions, and lifting it up with

superhuman strength, he dragged it to the door, so as to form a

barricade. Then piling up all the rest of the furniture, the mattresses,

palliasses and chairs, he stopped up the windows as one does when

assailed by an enemy.

But the person outside now uttered long, plaintive, mournful groans, to

which the young man replied by similar groans, and thus days and nights

passed without their ceasing to howl at each other. The one was

continually walking round the house and scraped the walls with his nails

so vigorously that it seemed as if he wished to destroy them, while the

other, inside, followed all his movements, stooping down and holding his

ear to the walls and replying to all his appeals with terrible cries.

One evening, however, Ulrich heard nothing more, and he sat down, so

overcome by fatigue, that he went to sleep immediately and awoke in the

morning without a thought, without any recollection of what had

happened, just as if his head had been emptied during his heavy sleep,

but he felt hungry, and he ate.

The winter was over and the Gemmi Pass was practicable again, so the

Hauser family started off to return to their inn. As soon as they had

reached the top of the ascent the women mounted their mule and spoke

about the two men whom they would meet again shortly. They were, indeed,

rather surprised that neither of them had come down a few days before,

as soon as the road was open, in order to tell them all about their long

winter sojourn. At last, however, they saw the inn, still covered with

snow, like a quilt. The door and the window were closed, but a little

smoke was coming out of the chimney, which reassured old Hauser. On

going up to the door, however, he saw the skeleton of an animal which

had been torn to pieces by the eagles, a large skeleton lying on its

side.

They all looked close at it and the mother said:

“That must be Sam,” and then she shouted: “Hi, Gaspard!” A cry from the

interior of the house answered her and a sharp cry that one might have

thought some animal had uttered it. Old Hauser repeated, “Hi, Gaspard!”

and they heard another cry similar to the first.

Then the three men, the father and the two sons, tried to open the door,

but it resisted their efforts. From the empty cow-stall they took a beam

to serve as a battering-ram and hurled it against the door with all

their might. The wood gave way and the boards flew into splinters. Then

the house was shaken by a loud voice, and inside, behind the side board

which was overturned, they saw a man standing upright, with his hair

falling on his shoulders and a beard descending to his breast, with

shining eyes, and nothing but rags to cover him. They did not recognize

him, but Louise Hauser exclaimed:

“It is Ulrich, mother.” And her mother declared that it was Ulrich,

although his hair was white.

He allowed them to go up to him and to touch him, but he did not reply

to any of their questions, and they were obliged to take him to Loeche,

where the doctors found that he was mad, and nobody ever found out what

had become of his companion.

Little Louise Hauser nearly died that summer of decline, which the

physicians attributed to the cold air of the mountains.

ORIGINAL SHORT STORIES, Vol. 5.

GUY DE MAUPASSANT ORIGINAL SHORT STORIES Translated by ALBERT M. C.

McMASTER, B.A. A. E. HENDERSON, B.A. MME. QUESADA and Others

VOLUME V.

MONSIEUR PARENT

George's father was sitting in an iron chair, watching his little son

with concentrated affection and attention, as little George piled up the

sand into heaps during one of their walks. He would take up the sand

with both hands, make a mound of it, and put a chestnut leaf on top. His

father saw no one but him in that public park full of people.

The sun was just disappearing behind the roofs of the Rue Saint-Lazare,

but still shed its rays obliquely on that little, overdressed crowd. The

chestnut trees were lighted up by its yellow rays, and the three

fountains before the lofty porch of the church had the appearance of

liquid silver.

Monsieur Parent, accidentally looking up at the church clock, saw that

he was five minutes late. He got up, took the child by the arm, shook

his dress, which was covered with sand, wiped his hands, and led him in

the direction of the Rue Blanche. He walked quickly, so as not to get in

after his wife, and the child could not keep up with him. He took him up

and carried him, though it made him pant when he had to walk up the

steep street. He was a man of forty, already turning gray, and rather

stout. At last he reached his house. An old servant who had brought him

up, one of those trusted servants who are the tyrants of families,

opened the door to him.

“Has madame come in yet?” he asked anxiously.

The servant shrugged her shoulders:

“When have you ever known madame to come home at half-past six,

monsieur?”

“Very well; all the better; it will give me time to change my things,

for I am very warm.”

The servant looked at him with angry and contemptuous pity. “Oh, I can

see that well enough,” she grumbled. “You are covered with perspiration,

monsieur. I suppose you walked quickly and carried the child, and only

to have to wait until half-past seven, perhaps, for madame. I have made

up my mind not to have dinner ready on time. I shall get it for eight

o'clock, and if, you have to wait, I cannot help it; roast meat ought

not to be burnt!”

Monsieur Parent pretended not to hear, but went into his own room, and

as soon as he got in, locked the door, so as to be alone, quite alone.

He was so used now to being abused and badly treated that he never

thought himself safe except when he was locked in.

What could he do? To get rid of Julie seemed to him such a formidable

thing to do that he hardly ventured to think of it, but it was just as

impossible to uphold her against his wife, and before another month the

situation would become unbearable between the two. He remained sitting

there, with his arms hanging down, vaguely trying to discover some means

to set matters straight, but without success. He said to himself: “It is

lucky that I have George; without him I should-be very miserable.”

Just then the clock struck seven, and he started up. Seven o'clock, and

he had not even changed his clothes. Nervous and breathless, he

undressed, put on a clean shirt, hastily finished his toilet, as if he

had been expected in the next room for some event of extreme importance,

and went into the drawing-room, happy at having nothing to fear. He

glanced at the newspaper, went and looked out of the window, and then

sat down again, when the door opened, and the boy came in, washed,

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

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

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

Then, taking George on his knee, he made him ride a-cock-horse. The

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

his father, who laughed until his big stomach shook, for it amused him

almost more than it did the child.

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

He loved him with mad bursts of affection, with caresses and with all

the bashful tenderness which was hidden in him, and which had never

found an outlet, even at the early period of his married life, for his

wife had always shown herself cold and reserved.

Just then Julie came to the door, with a pale face and glistening eyes,

and said in a voice which trembled with exasperation: “It is half-past

seven, monsieur.”

Parent gave an uneasy and resigned look at the clock and replied: “Yes,

it certainly is half-past seven.”

“Well, my dinner is quite ready now.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Parent thought it was time to cut short a threatened scene. “Julie,” he

said, “I will not allow you to speak like that of your mistress. You

understand me, do you not? Do not forget it in the future.”

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

out, slamming the door so violently after her that the lustres on the

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

little invisible bells were ringing in the drawing-room.

Eight o'clock struck, the door opened, and Julie came in again. She had

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

determined resolution, which was still more formidable.

“Monsieur,” she said, “I served your mother until the day of her death,

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

be said that I am devoted to the family.” She waited for a reply, and

Parent stammered:

“Why, yes, certainly, my good Julie.”

“You know quite well,” she continued, “that I have never done anything

for the sake of money, but always for your sake; that I have never

deceived you nor lied to you, that you have never had to find fault with

me—”

“Certainly, my good Julie.”

“Very well, then, monsieur; it cannot go on any longer like this. I have

said nothing, and left you in your ignorance, out of respect and liking

for you, but it is too much, and every one in the neighborhood is

laughing at you. Everybody knows about it, and so I must tell you also,

although I do not like to repeat it. The reason why madame comes in at

any time she chooses is that she is doing abominable things.”

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

“Hold your tongue; you know I have forbidden you——”

But she interrupted him with irresistible resolution. “No, monsieur, I

must tell you everything now. For a long time madame has been carrying

on with Monsieur Limousin. I have seen them kiss scores of times behind

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

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

marriage was brought about, you would understand the matter from

beginning to end.”

Parent had risen, and stammered out, his face livid: “Hold your tongue

—hold your tongue, or——”

She went on, however: “No, I mean to tell you everything. She married

you from interest, and she deceived you from the very first day. It was

all settled between them beforehand. You need only reflect for a few

moments to understand it, and then, as she was not satisfied with having

married you, as she did not love you, she has made your life miserable,

so miserable that it has almost broken my heart when I have seen it.”

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

your tongue—hold your tongue——” For he could find nothing else to say.

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

everything.

George, who had been at first astonished and then frightened at those

angry voices, began to utter shrill screams, and remained behind his

father, with his face puckered up and his mouth open, roaring.

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

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

exclaiming: “Ah! you wretch. You will drive the child out of his

senses.” He already had his hand on her, when she screamed in his face:

“Monsieur, you may beat me if you like, me who reared you, but that will

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

child is not yours——”

He stopped suddenly, let his arms fall, and remained standing opposite

to her, so overwhelmed that he could understand nothing more.

“You need only to look at the child,” she added, “to know who is its

father! He is the very image of Monsieur Limousin. You need only look at

his eyes and forehead. Why, a blind man could not be mistaken in him.”

He had taken her by the shoulders, and was now shaking her with all his

might. “Viper, viper!” he said. “Go out the room, viper! Go out, or I

shall kill you! Go out! Go out!”

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

across the table, which was laid for dinner, breaking the glasses. Then,

rising to her feet, she put the table between her master and herself.

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

terrible words at him.

“You need only go out this evening after dinner, and come in again

immediately, and you will see! You will see whether I have been lying!

Just try it, and you will see.” She had reached the kitchen door and

escaped, but he ran after her, up the back stairs to her bedroom, into

which she had locked herself, and knocking at the door, he said:

“You will leave my house this very instant!”

“You may be certain of that, monsieur,” was her reply. “In an hour's

time I shall not be here any longer.”

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

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

sitting on the floor, crying. He fell into a chair, and looked at the

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

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

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

Then, by degrees, his mind, like muddy water, became calmer and clearer,

and the abominable revelations began to work in his heart.

He was no longer thinking of George. The child was quiet now and sitting

on the carpet; but, seeing that no notice was being taken of him, he

began to cry. His father ran to him, took him in his arms, and covered

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

rest matter? He held him in his arms and pressed his lips to his light

hair, and, relieved and composed, he whispered:

“George—my little George—my dear little George——” But he suddenly

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

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

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

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

repeated: “George—my dear little George.” The youngster was quiet again,

now that his father was fondling him.

Parent felt the warmth of the little chest penetrate through his

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

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

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

affectionately, still repeating: “George! Oh, my little George!” But

suddenly he thought:

“Suppose he were to resemble Limousin, after all!” He looked at him with

haggard, troubled eyes, and tried to discover whether there was any

likeness in his forehead, in his nose, mouth, or cheeks. His thoughts

wandered as they do when a person is going mad, and his child's face

changed in his eyes, and assumed a strange look and improbable

resemblances.

The hall bell rang. Parent gave a bound as if a bullet had gone through

him. “There she is,” he said. “What shall I do?” And he ran and locked

himself up in his room, to have time to bathe his eyes. But in a few

moments another ring at the bell made him jump again, and then he

remembered that Julie had left, without the housemaid knowing it, and so

nobody would go to open the door. What was he to do? He went himself,

and suddenly he felt brave, resolute, ready for dissimulation and the

struggle. The terrible blow had matured him in a few moments. He wished

to know the truth, he desired it with the rage of a timid man, and with

the tenacity of an easy-going man who has been exasperated.

Nevertheless, he trembled. Does one know how much excited cowardice

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

stopped to listen; his heart beat furiously. Suddenly, however, the

noise of the bell over his head startled him like an explosion. He

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

Limousin standing before him on the stairs.

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

she said:

“So you open the door now? Where is Julie?”

His throat felt tight and his breathing was labored as he tried to.

reply, without being able to utter a word.

“Are you dumb?” she continued. “I asked you where Julie is?”

“She—she—has—gone——” he managed to stammer.

His wife began to get angry. “What do you mean by gone? Where has she

gone? Why?”

By degrees he regained his coolness. He felt an intense hatred rise up

in him for that insolent woman who was standing before him.

“Yes, she has gone altogether. I sent her away.”

“You have sent away Julie? Why, you must be mad.”

“Yes, I sent her away because she was insolent, and because—because she

was ill-using the child.”

“Julie?”

“Yes—Julie.”

“What was she insolent about?”

“About you.”

“About me?”

“Yes, because the dinner was burnt, and you did not come in.”

“And she said——”

“She said—offensive things about you—which I ought not—which I could not

listen to——”

“What did she, say?”

“It is no good repeating them.”

“I want to hear them.”

“She said it was unfortunate for a man like me to be married to a woman

like you, unpunctual, careless, disorderly, a bad mother, and a bad

wife.”

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

did not say a word at this unexpected condition of things. She shut the

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

husband, she stammered out:

“You say? You say? That I am——”

Very pale and calm, he replied: “I say nothing, my dear. I am simply

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

I wish you to remark that I turned her off just on account of what she

said.”

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

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

position as master. Although she had nothing to say by way of reply, she

tried to assume the offensive by saying something unpleasant. “I suppose

you have had dinner?” she asked.

“No, I waited for you.”

She shrugged her shoulders impatiently. “It is very stupid of you to

wait after half-past seven,” she said. “You might have guessed that I

was detained, that I had a good many things to do, visits and shopping,”

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

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

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

Rue de Rennes, she had met Limousin at past seven o'clock on the

Boulevard Saint-Germain, and that then she had gone with him to have

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

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

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

and half a chicken, as they were in a great hurry to get back.

Parent replied simply: “Well, you were quite right. I am not finding

fault with you.”

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

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

you very well?”

Parent took his hand, and shaking it gently, replied: “Yes, I am very

well.”

But the young woman had felt a reproach in her husband's last words.

“Finding fault! Why do you speak of finding fault? One might think that

you meant to imply something.”

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

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

with you for it.”

She, however, took the high hand, and tried to find a pretext for a

quarrel. “Although I was late? One might really think that it was one

o'clock in the morning, and that I spent my nights away from home.”

“Certainly not, my dear. I said late because I could find no other word.

You said you should be back at half-past six, and you returned at half-

past eight. That was surely being late. I understand it perfectly well.

I am not at all surprised, even. But—but—I can hardly use any other

word.”

“But you pronounce them as if I had been out all night.”

“Oh, no-oh, no!”

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

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

she asked, with some feeling: “What is the matter with the child?”

“I told you that Julie had been rather unkind to him.”

“What has the wretch been doing to him?”

“Oh nothing much. She gave him a push, and he fell down.”

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

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

decanters and glasses and overturned saltcellars. “Who did all that

mischief?” she asked.

“It was Julie, who——” But she interrupted him furiously:

“That is too much, really! Julie speaks of me as if I were a shameless

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

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

“Certainly not, as I have got rid of her.”

“Really! You have got rid of her! But you ought to have given her in

charge. In such cases, one ought to call in the Commissary of Police!”

“But—my dear—I really could not. There was no reason. It would have been

very difficult——”

She shrugged her shoulders disdainfully. “There! you will never be

anything but a poor, wretched fellow, a man without a will, without any

firmness or energy. Ah! she must have said some nice things to you, your

Julie, to make you turn her off like that. I should like to have been

here for a minute, only for a minute.” Then she opened the drawing-room

door and ran to George, took him into her arms and kissed him, and said:

“Georgie, what is it, my darling, my pretty one, my treasure?”

Then, suddenly turning to another idea, she said: “But the child has had

no dinner? You have had nothing to eat, my pet?”

“No, mamma.”

Then she again turned furiously upon her husband. “Why, you must be mad,

utterly mad! It is half-past eight, and George has had no dinner!”

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

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

this ruin of his life. “But, my dear, we were waiting for you, as I did

not wish to dine without you. As you come home late every day, I

expected you every moment.”

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

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

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

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

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

you could not have understood that, as it was after half-past seven, I

was prevented from coming home, that I had met with some hindrance!”

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

but Limousin interposed, and turning toward the young woman, said:

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

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

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

away Julie?”

But Henriette was very angry, and replied:

“Well, at any rate, he must get over the difficulty himself, for I will

not help him,” she replied. “Let him settle it!” And she went into her

own room, quite forgetting that her child had not had anything to eat.

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

broken glasses which strewed the table and took them out, replaced the

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

while Parent went to look for the chambermaid to wait at table. The girl

came in, in great astonishment, as she had heard nothing in George's

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

soup, a burnt leg of mutton, and mashed potatoes.

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

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

something himself, but he could only swallow with an effort, as his

throat felt paralyzed. By degrees he was seized with an insane desire to

look at Limousin, who was sitting opposite to him, making bread pellets,

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

eyes for some time. At last, however, he made up his mind to do so, and

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

almost fancied that he had never examined it carefully. It looked so

different to what he had imagined. From time to time he looked at

Limousin, trying to recognize a likeness in the smallest lines of his

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

the pretext of feeding him.

Two words were sounding in his ears: “His father! his father! his

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

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

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

George. Parent left off eating; he could not swallow any more. A

terrible pain, one of those attacks of pain which make men scream, roll

on the ground, and bite the furniture, was tearing at his entrails, and

he felt inclined to take a knife and plunge it into his stomach. He

started when he heard the door open. His wife came in. “I am hungry,”

she said; “are not you, Limousin?”

He hesitated a little, and then said: “Yes, I am, upon my word.” She had

the leg of mutton brought in again. Parent asked himself “Have they had

dinner? Or are they late because they have had a lovers' meeting?”

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

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

teagown trimmed with white lace, and her fair head, her white neck and

her plump hands stood out from that coquettish and perfumed dress as

though it were a sea shell edged with foam.

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

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

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

into people's souls? How was it that nothing revealed to upright hearts

the deceits of infamous hearts? How was it that voices had the same

sound for adoring as for lying? Why was a false, deceptive look the same

as a sincere one? And he watched them, waiting to catch a gesture, a

word, an intonation. Then suddenly he thought: “I will surprise them

this evening,” and he said:

“My dear, as I have dismissed Julie, I will see about getting another

girl this very day. I will go at once to procure one by to-morrow

morning, so I may not be in until late.”

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

keep me company. We will wait for you.” Then, turning to the maid, she

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

go up to your room.”

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

and saying, “I shall see you again later on,” he went out, holding on to

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

carried out by his nurse, while Henriette and Limousin went into the

drawing-room.

As soon as the door was shut, he said: “You must be mad, surely, to

torment your husband as you do?”

She immediately turned on him: “Ah! Do you know that I think the habit

you have got into lately, of looking upon Parent as a martyr, is very

unpleasant?”

Limousin threw himself into an easy-chair and crossed his legs. “I am

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

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

till night.”

She took a cigarette from the mantelpiece, lighted it, and replied: “But

I do not defy him; quite the contrary. Only he irritates me by his

stupidity, and I treat him as he deserves.”

Limousin continued impatiently: “What you are doing is very foolish! I

am only asking you to treat your husband gently, because we both of us

require him to trust us. I think that you ought to see that.”

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

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

with himself; she, small, fair, and pink, a little Parisian, born in the

back room of a shop, half cocotte and half bourgeoise, brought up to

entice customers to the store by her glances, and married, in

consequence, to a simple, unsophisticated man, who saw her outside the

door every morning when he went out and every evening when he came home.

“But do you not understand; you great booby,” she said, “that I hate him

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

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

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

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

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

us, although he does not interfere with us much. And then—-and then! No,

it is, after all, too idiotic of him not to guess anything! I wish he

would, at any rate, be a little jealous. There are moments when I feel

inclined to say to him: 'Do you not see, you stupid creature, that Paul

is my lover?'

“It is quite incomprehensible that you cannot understand how hateful he

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

shake hands with him cordially. Men are very extraordinary at times.”

“One must know how to dissimulate, my dear.”

“It is no question of dissimulation, but of feeling. One might think

that, when you men deceive one another, you like each other better on

that account, while we women hate a man from the moment that we have

betrayed him.”

“I do not see why one should hate an excellent fellow because one is

friendly with his wife.”

“You do not see it? You do not see it? You all of you are wanting in

refinement of feeling. However, that is one of those things which one

feels and cannot express. And then, moreover, one ought not. No, you

would not understand; it is quite useless! You men have no delicacy of

feeling.”

And smiling, with the gentle contempt of an impure woman, she put both

her hands on his shoulders and held up her lips to him. He stooped down

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

stood in front of the mantel mirror, another couple exactly like them

embraced behind the clock.

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

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

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

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

each, one after the other, with a quick glance of his eyes and without

moving his head. He appeared beside himself. Then, without saying a

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

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

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

hand, struck his head violently against the wall.

When Henriette saw that her husband was going to murder her lover, she

threw herself on Parent, seized him by the neck, and digging her ten

delicate, rosy fingers into his neck, she squeezed him so tightly, with

all the vigor of a desperate woman, that the blood spurted out under her

nails, and she bit his shoulder, as if she wished to tear it with her

teeth. Parent, half-strangled and choking, loosened his hold on

Limousin, in order to shake off his wife, who was hanging to his neck.

Putting his arms round her waist, he flung her also to the other end of

the drawing-room.

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

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

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

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

champagne, and his unwonted energy ended in a gasping for breath. As

soon as he could speak, however, he said:

“Go away—both of you—immediately! Go away!”

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

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

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

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

unfastened, waited like a wild animal which is about to spring. Parent

continued in a stronger voice: “Go away immediately. Get out of the

house!”

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

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

almost insolent, she said: “Have you lost your head? What is the matter

with you? What is the meaning of this unjustifiable violence?”

But he turned toward her, and raising his fist to strike her, he

stammered out: “Oh—oh—this is too much, too much! I heard everything!

Everything—do you understand? Everything! You wretch—you wretch! You are

two wretches! Get out of the house, both of you! Immediately, or I shall

kill you! Leave the house!”

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

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

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

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

bravado, and of defying him, and she said in a clear voice: “Come,

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

lodgings with you.”

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

out: “Go, will you? Go, you wretches! Or else—or else——” He seized a

chair and whirled it over his head.

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

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

toward the door, saying: “Do come, my friend—you see that the man is

mad. Do come!”

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

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

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

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

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

Parent was stupefied, and stammered: “Your—your—child? You dare to talk

of your child? You venture—you venture to ask for your child—after-

after—Oh, oh, that is too much! Go, you vile creature! Go!”

She went up to him again, almost smiling, almost avenged already, and

defying him, standing close to him, and face to face, she said: “I want

my child, and you have no right to keep him, because he is not yours—do

you understand? He is not yours! He is Limousin's!”

And Parent cried out in bewilderment: “You lie—you lie—worthless woman!”

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

this is his father. You need only look at him to see it.”

Parent staggered backward, and then he suddenly turned round, took a

candle, and rushed into the next room; returning almost immediately,

carrying little George wrapped up in his bedclothes. The child, who had

been suddenly awakened, was crying from fright. Parent threw him into

his wife's arms, and then, without speaking, he pushed her roughly out

toward the stairs, where Limousin was waiting, from motives of prudence.

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

scarcely got back into the drawing-room when he fell to the floor at

full length.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

alone at night, he suddenly thought he heard George calling out “Papa,”

and his heart would begin to beat, and he would get up quickly and open

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

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

animal? On finding that he was mistaken, he would sit down in his

armchair again and think of the boy. He would think of him for hours and

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

obsession, a nervous longing to kiss him, to hold and fondle him, to

take him on his knees and dance him. He felt the child's little arms

around his neck, his little mouth pressing a kiss on his beard, his soft

hair tickling his cheeks, and the remembrance of all those childish ways

made him suffer as a man might for some beloved woman who has left him.

Twenty or a hundred times a day he asked himself the question whether he

was or was not George's father, and almost before he was in bed every

night he recommenced the same series of despairing questionings.

He especially dreaded the darkness of the evening, the melancholy

feeling of the twilight. Then a flood of sorrow invaded his heart, a

torrent of despair which seemed to overwhelm him and drive him mad. He

was as afraid of his own thoughts as men are of criminals, and he fled

before them as one does from wild beasts. Above all things, he feared

his empty, dark, horrible dwelling and the deserted streets, in which,

here and there, a gas lamp flickered, where the isolated foot passenger

whom one hears in the distance seems to be a night prowler, and makes

one walk faster or slower, according to whether he is coming toward you

or following you.

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

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

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

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

saw the foot passengers becoming more scarce and the pavements less

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

full of drinkers and of light. He went there as flies go to a candle,

and he would sit down at one of the little round tables and ask for a

“bock,” which he would drink slowly, feeling uneasy every time a

customer got up to go. He would have liked to take him by the arm, hold

him back, and beg him to stay a little longer, so much did he dread the

time when the waiter should come up to him and say sharply: “Come,

monsieur, it is closing time!”

He thus got into the habit of going to the beer houses, where the

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

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

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

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

people to distract his glances and his thoughts, and soon, as he felt

too lazy to move, he took his meals there.

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

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

head drooped on his chest, he shut his eyes, and went to sleep. Then,

awaking, he raised himself on the red velvet seat, straightened his

waistcoat, pulled down his cuffs, and took up the newspapers again,

though he had already seen them in the morning, and read them all

through again, from beginning to end. Between four and five o'clock he

went for a walk on the boulevards, to get a little fresh air, as he used

to say, and then came back to the seat which had been reserved for him,

and asked for his absinthe. He would talk to the regular customers whose

acquaintance he had made. They discussed the news of the day and

political events, and that carried him on till dinner time; and he spent

the evening as he had the afternoon, until it was time to close. That

was a terrible moment for him when he was obliged to go out into the

dark, into his empty room full of dreadful recollections, of horrible

thoughts, and of mental agony. He no longer saw any of his old friends,

none of his relatives, nobody who might remind him of his past life. But

as his apartments were a hell to him, he took a room in a large hotel, a

good room on the ground floor, so as to see the passers-by. He was no

longer alone in that great building. He felt people swarming round him,

he heard voices in the adjoining rooms, and when his former sufferings

tormented him too much at the sight of his bed, which was turned down,

and of his solitary fireplace, he went out into the wide passages and

walked up and down them like a sentinel, before all the closed doors,

and looked sadly at the shoes standing in couples outside them, women's

little boots by the side of men's thick ones, and he thought that, no

doubt, all these people were happy, and were sleeping in their warm

beds. Five years passed thus; five miserable years. But one day, when he

was taking his usual walk between the Madeleine and the Rue Drouot, he

suddenly saw a lady whose bearing struck him. A tall gentleman and a

child were with her, and all three were walking in front of him. He

asked himself where he had seen them before, when suddenly he recognized

a movement of her hand; it was his wife, his wife with Limousin and his

child, his little George.

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

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

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

speaking to him in a low voice, and looking at him sideways

occasionally. Parent got a side view of her and recognized her pretty

features, the movements of her lips, her smile, and her coaxing glances.

But the child chiefly took up his attention. How tall and strong he was!

Parent could not see his face, but only his long, fair curls. That tall

boy with bare legs, who was walking by his mother's side like a little

man, was George. He saw them suddenly, all three, as they stopped in

front of a shop. Limousin had grown very gray, had aged and was thinner;

his wife, on the contrary, was as young looking as ever, and had grown

stouter. George he would not have recognized, he was so different from

what he had been formerly.

They went on again and Parent followed them. He walked on quickly,

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

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

run off with him, and he knocked against him as if by accident. The boy

turned round and looked at the clumsy man angrily, and Parent hurried

away, shocked, hurt, and pursued by that look. He went off like a thief,

seized with a horrible fear lest he should have been seen and recognized

by his wife and her lover. He went to his cafe without stopping, and

fell breathless into his chair. That evening he drank three absinthes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

child would not have held out his arms when he saw him. He had even

looked at him angrily.

Then, by degrees he grew calmer, his mental torture diminished, the

image that had appeared to his eyes and which haunted his nights became

more indistinct and less frequent. He began once more to live nearly

like everybody else, like all those idle people who drink beer off

marble-topped tables and wear out their clothes on the threadbare velvet

of the couches.

He grew old amid the smoke from pipes, lost his hair under the gas

lights, looked upon his weekly bath, on his fortnightly visit to the

barber's to have his hair cut, and on the purchase of a new coat or hat

as an event. When he got to his cafe in a new hat he would look at

himself in the glass for a long time before sitting down, and take it

off and put it on again several times, and at last ask his friend, the

lady at the bar, who was watching him with interest, whether she thought

it suited him.

Two or three times a year he went to the theatre, and in the summer he

sometimes spent his evenings at one of the open-air concerts in the

Champs Elysees. And so the years followed each other slow, monotonous,

and short, because they were quite uneventful.

He very rarely now thought of the dreadful drama which had wrecked his

life; for twenty years had passed since that terrible evening. But the

life he had led since then had worn him out. The landlord of his cafe

would often say to him: “You ought to pull yourself together a little,

Monsieur Parent; you should get some fresh air and go into the country.

I assure you that you have changed very much within the last few

months.” And when his customer had gone out be used to say to the

barmaid: “That poor Monsieur Parent is booked for another world; it is

bad never to get out of Paris. Advise him to go out of town for a day

occasionally; he has confidence in you. Summer will soon be here; that

will put him straight.”

And she, full of pity and kindness for such a regular customer, said to

Parent every day: “Come, monsieur, make up your mind to get a little

fresh air. It is so charming in the country when the weather is fine.

Oh, if I could, I would spend my life there!”

By degrees he was seized with a vague desire to go just once and see

whether it was really as pleasant there as she said, outside the walls

of the great city. One morning he said to her:

“Do you know where one can get a good luncheon in the neighborhood of

Paris?”

“Go to the Terrace at Saint-Germain; it is delightful there!”

He had been there formerly, just when he became engaged. He made up his

mind to go there again, and he chose a Sunday, for no special reason,

but merely because people generally do go out on Sundays, even when they

have nothing to do all the week; and so one Sunday morning he went to

Saint-Germain. He felt low-spirited and vexed at having yielded to that

new longing, and at having broken through his usual habits. He was

thirsty; he would have liked to get out at every station and sit down in

the cafe which he saw outside and drink a “bock” or two, and then take

the first train back to Paris. The journey seemed very long to him. He

could remain sitting for whole days, as long as he had the same

motionless objects before his eyes, but he found it very trying and

fatiguing to remain sitting while he was being whirled along, and to see

the whole country fly by, while he himself was motionless.

However, he found the Seine interesting every time he crossed it. Under

the bridge at Chatou he saw some small boats going at great speed under

the vigorous strokes of the bare-armed oarsmen, and he thought: “There

are some fellows who are certainly enjoying themselves!” The train

entered the tunnel just before you get to the station at Saint-Germain,

and presently stopped at the platform. Parent got out, and walked

slowly, for he already felt tired, toward the Terrace, with his hands

behind his back, and when he got to the iron balustrade, stopped to look

at the distant horizon. The immense plain spread out before him vast as

the sea, green and studded with large villages, almost as populous as

towns. The sun bathed the whole landscape in its full, warm light. The

Seine wound like an endless serpent through the plain, flowed round the

villages and along the slopes. Parent inhaled the warm breeze, which

seemed to make his heart young again, to enliven his spirits, and to

vivify his blood, and said to himself:

“Why, it is delightful here.”

Then he went on a few steps, and stopped again to look about him. The

utter misery of his existence seemed to be brought into full relief by

the intense light which inundated the landscape. He saw his twenty years

of cafe life—dull, monotonous, heartbreaking. He might have traveled as

others did, have gone among foreigners, to unknown countries beyond the

sea, have interested himself somewhat in everything which other men are

passionately devoted to, in arts and science; he might have enjoyed life

in a thousand forms, that mysterious life which is either charming or

painful, constantly changing, always inexplicable and strange. Now,

however, it was too late. He would go on drinking “bock” after “bock”

until he died, without any family, without friends, without hope,

without any curiosity about anything, and he was seized with a feeling

of misery and a wish to run away, to hide himself in Paris, in his cafe

and his lethargy! All the thoughts, all the dreams, all the desires

which are dormant in the slough of stagnating hearts had reawakened,

brought to life by those rays of sunlight on the plain.

Parent felt that if he were to remain there any longer he should lose

his reason, and he made haste to get to the Pavilion Henri IV for lunch,

to try and forget his troubles under—the influence of wine and alcohol,

and at any rate to have some one to speak to.

He took a small table in one of the arbors, from which one can see all

the surrounding country, ordered his lunch, and asked to be served at

once. Then some more people arrived and sat down at tables near him. He

felt more comfortable; he was no longer alone. Three persons were eating

luncheon near him. He looked at them two or three times without seeing

them clearly, as one looks at total strangers. Suddenly a woman's voice

sent a shiver through him which seemed to penetrate to his very marrow.

“George,” it said, “will you carve the chicken?”

And another voice replied: “Yes, mamma.”

Parent looked up, and he understood; he guessed immediately who those

people were! He should certainly not have known them again. His wife had

grown quite white and very stout, an elderly, serious, respectable lady,

and she held her head forward as she ate for fear of spotting her dress,

although she had a table napkin tucked under her chin. George had become

a man. He had a slight beard, that uneven and almost colorless beard

which adorns the cheeks of youths. He wore a high hat, a white

waistcoat, and a monocle, because it looked swell, no doubt. Parent

looked at him in astonishment. Was that George, his son? No, he did not

know that young man; there could be nothing in common between them.

Limousin had his back to him, and was eating; with his shoulders rather

bent.

All three of them seemed happy and satisfied; they came and took

luncheon in the country at well-known restaurants. They had had a calm

and pleasant existence, a family existence in a warm and comfortable

house, filled with all those trifles which make life agreeable, with

affection, with all those tender words which people exchange continually

when they love each other. They had lived thus, thanks to him, Parent,

on his money, after having deceived him, robbed him, ruined him! They

had condemned him, the innocent, simple-minded, jovial man, to all the

miseries of solitude, to that abominable life which he had led, between

the pavement and a bar-room, to every mental torture and every physical

misery! They had made him a useless, aimless being, a waif in the world,

a poor old man without any pleasures, any prospects, expecting nothing

from anybody or anything. For him, the world was empty, because he loved

nothing in the world. He might go among other nations, or go about the

streets, go into all the houses in Paris, open every room, but he would

not find inside any door the beloved face, the face of wife or child

which smiles when it sees you. This idea worked upon him more than any

other, the idea of a door which one opens, to see and to embrace

somebody behind it.

And that was the fault of those three wretches! The fault of that

worthless woman, of that infamous friend, and of that tall, light-haired

lad who put on insolent airs. Now he felt as angry with the child as he

did with the other two. Was he not Limousin's son? Would Limousin have

kept him and loved him otherwise? Would not Limousin very quickly have

got rid of the mother and of the child if he had not felt sure that it

was his, positively his? Does anybody bring up other people's children?

And now they were there, quite close to him, those three who had made

him suffer so much.

Parent looked at them, irritated and excited at the recollection of all

his sufferings and of his despair, and was especially exasperated at

their placid and satisfied looks. He felt inclined to kill them, to

throw his siphon of Seltzer water at them, to split open Limousin's head

as he every moment bent it over his plate, raising it again immediately.

He would have his revenge now, on the spot, as he had them under his

hand. But how? He tried to think of some means, he pictured such

dreadful things as one reads of in the newspapers occasionally, but

could not hit on anything practical. And he went on drinking to excite

himself, to give himself courage not to allow such an opportunity to

escape him, as he might never have another.

Suddenly an idea struck him, a terrible idea; and he left off drinking

to mature it. He smiled as he murmured: “I have them, I have them! We

will see; we will see!”

They finished their luncheon slowly, conversing with perfect unconcern.

Parent could not hear what they were saying, but he saw their quiet

gestures. His wife's face especially exasperated him. She had assumed a

haughty air, the air of a comfortable, devout woman, of an

unapproachable, devout woman, sheathed in principles, iron-clad in

virtue. They paid their bill and got up from table. Parent then noticed

Limousin. He might have been taken for a retired diplomat, for he looked

a man of great importance, with his soft white whiskers, the tips of

which touched his coat collar.

They walked away. Parent rose and followed them. First they went up and

down the terrace, and calmly admired the landscape, and then they went

into the forest. Parent followed them at a distance, hiding himself so

as not to excite their suspicion too soon.

Parent came up to them by degrees, breathing hard with emotion and

fatigue, for he was unused to walking now. He soon came up to them, but

was seized with fear, an inexplicable fear, and he passed them, so as to

turn round and meet them face to face. He walked on, his heart beating,

feeling that they were just behind him now, and he said to himself:

“Come, now is the time. Courage! courage! Now is the moment!”

He turned round. They were all three sitting on the grass, at the foot

of a huge tree, and were still chatting. He made up his mind, and walked

back rapidly; stopping in front of them in the middle of the road, he

said abruptly, in a voice broken by emotion:

“It is I! Here I am! I suppose you did not expect me?”

They all three stared at this man, who seemed to be insane. He

continued:

“One would suppose that you did not know me again. Just look at me! I am

Parent, Henri Parent. You thought it was all over, and that you would

never see me again. Ah! but here I am once more, you see, and now we

will have an explanation.”

Henriette, terrified, hid her face in her hands, murmuring: “Oh! Good

heavens!”

Seeing this stranger, who seemed to be threatening his mother, George

sprang up, ready to seize him by the collar. Limousin, thunderstruck,

looked in horror at this apparition, who, after gasping for breath,

continued:

“So now we will have an explanation; the proper moment has come! Ah! you

deceived me, you condemned me to the life of a convict, and you thought

that I should never catch you!”

The young man took him by the shoulders and pushed him back.

“Are you mad?” he asked. “What do you want? Go on your way immediately,

or I shall give you a thrashing!”

“What do I want?” replied Parent. “I want to tell you who these people

are.”

George, however, was in a rage, and shook him; and was even going to

strike him.

“Let me go,” said Parent. “I am your father. There, see whether they

recognize me now, the wretches!”

The young man, thunderstruck, unclenched his fists and turned toward his

mother. Parent, as soon as he was released, approached her.

“Well,” he said, “tell him yourself who I am! Tell him that my name is

Henri Parent, that I am his father because his name is George Parent,

because you are my wife, because you are all three living on my money,

on the allowance of ten thousand francs which I have made you since I

drove you out of my house. Will you tell him also why I drove you out?

Because I surprised you with this beggar, this wretch, your lover! Tell

him what I was, an honorable man, whom you married for money, and whom

you deceived from the very first day. Tell him who you are, and who I

am——”

He stammered and gasped for breath in his rage. The woman exclaimed in a

heartrending voice:

“Paul, Paul, stop him; make him be quiet! Do not let him say this before

my son!”

Limousin had also risen to his feet. He said in a very low voice: “Hold

your tongue! Hold your tongue! Do you understand what you are doing?”

“I quite know what I am doing,” resumed Parent, “and that is not all.

There is one thing that I will know, something that has tormented me for

twenty years.” Then, turning to George, who was leaning against a tree

in consternation, he said:

“Listen to me. When she left my house she thought it was not enough to

have deceived me, but she also wanted to drive me to despair. You were

my only consolation, and she took you with her, swearing that I was not

your father, but, that he was your father. Was she lying? I do not know.

I have been asking myself the question for the last twenty years.” He

went close up to her, tragic and terrible, and, pulling away her hands,

with which she had covered her face, he continued:

“Well, now! I call upon you to tell me which of us two is the father of

this young man; he or I, your husband or your lover. Come! Come! tell

us.”

Limousin rushed at him. Parent pushed him back, and, sneering in his

fury, he said: “Ah! you are brave now! You are braver than you were that

day when you ran downstairs because you thought I was going to murder

you. Very well! If she will not reply, tell me yourself. You ought to

know as well as she. Tell me, are you this young fellow's father? Come!

Come! Tell me!”

He turned to his wife again. “If you will not tell me, at any rate tell

your son. He is a man, now, and he has the right to know who his father

is. I do not know, and I never did know, never, never! I cannot tell

you, my boy.”

He seemed to be losing his senses; his voice grew shrill and he worked

his arms about as if he had an epileptic 'fit.

“Come! . . . Give me an answer. She does not know . . . I will make a

bet that she does not know . . . No . . . she does not know, by Jove!

Ha! ha! ha! Nobody knows . . . nobody . . . How can one know such

things?

“You will not know either, my boy, you will not know any more than I do

. . . never. . . . Look here . . . Ask her you will find that she does

not know . . . I do not know either . . . nor does he, nor do you,

nobody knows. You can choose . . . You can choose . . . yes, you can

choose him or me. . . Choose.

“Good evening . . . It is all over. If she makes up her mind to tell

you, you will come and let me know, will you not? I am living at the

Hotel des Continents . . . I should be glad to know . . . Good evening .

. . I hope you will enjoy yourselves very much . . .”

And he went away gesticulating, talking to himself under the tall trees,

in the quiet, the cool air, which was full of the fragrance of growing

plants. He did not turn round to look at them, but went straight on,

walking under the stimulus of his rage, under a storm of passion, with

that one fixed idea in his mind. All at once he found himself outside

the station. A train was about to start and he got in. During the

journey his anger calmed down, he regained his senses and returned to

Paris, astonished at his own boldness, full of aches and pains as if he

had broken some bones. Nevertheless, he went to have a “bock” at his

brewery.

When she saw him come in, Mademoiselle Zoe asked in surprise: “What!

back already? are you tired?”

“Yes—yes, I am tired . . . very tired . . . You know, when one is not

used to going out. . . I've had enough of it. I shall not go into the

country again. It would have been better to have stayed here. For the

future, I shall not stir out.”

She could not persuade him to tell her about his little excursion, much

as she wished to.

For the first time in his life he got thoroughly drunk that night, and

had to be carried home.

QUEEN HORTENSE

In Argenteuil she was called Queen Hortense. No one knew why. Perhaps it

was because she had a commanding tone of voice; perhaps because she was

tall, bony, imperious; perhaps because she governed a kingdom of

servants, chickens, dogs, cats, canaries, parrots, all so dear to an old

maid's heart. But she did not spoil these familiar friends; she had for

them none of those endearing names, none of the foolish tenderness which

women seem to lavish on the soft fur of a purring cat. She governed

these beasts with authority; she reigned.

She was indeed an old maid—one of those old maids with a harsh voice and

angular motions, whose very soul seems to be hard. She never would stand

contradiction, argument, hesitation, indifference, laziness nor fatigue.

She had never been heard to complain, to regret anything, to envy

anyone. She would say: “Everyone has his share,” with the conviction of

a fatalist. She did not go to church, she had no use for priests, she

hardly believed in God, calling all religious things “weeper's wares.”

For thirty years she had lived in her little house, with its tiny garden

running along the street; she had never changed her habits, only

changing her servants pitilessly, as soon as they reached twenty-one

years of age.

When her dogs, cats and birds would die of old age, or from an accident,

she would replace them without tears and without regret; with a little

spade she would bury the dead animal in a strip of ground, throwing a

few shovelfuls of earth over it and stamping it down with her feet in an

indifferent manner.

She had a few friends in town, families of clerks who went to Paris

every day. Once in a while she would be invited out, in the evening, to

tea. She would inevitably fall asleep, and she would have to be

awakened, when it was time for her to go home. She never allowed anyone

to accompany her, fearing neither light nor darkness. She did not appear

to like children.

She kept herself busy doing countless masculine tasks—carpentering,

gardening, sawing or chopping wood, even laying bricks when it was

necessary.

She had relatives who came to see her twice a year, the Cimmes and the

Colombels, her two sisters having married, one of them a florist and the

other a retired merchant. The Cimmes had no children; the Colombels had

three: Henri, Pauline and Joseph. Henri was twenty, Pauline seventeen

and Joseph only three.

There was no love lost between the old maid and her relatives.

In the spring of the year 1882 Queen Hortense suddenly fell sick. The

neighbors called in a physician, whom she immediately drove out. A

priest then having presented himself, she jumped out of bed, in order to

throw him out of the house.

The young servant, in despair, was brewing her some tea.

After lying in bed for three days the situation appeared so serious that

the barrel-maker, who lived next door, to the right, acting on advice

from the doctor, who had forcibly returned to the house, took it upon

himself to call together the two families.

They arrived by the same train, towards ten in the morning, the

Colombels bringing little Joseph with them.

When they got to the garden gate, they saw the servant seated in the

chair against the wall, crying.

The dog was sleeping on the door mat in the broiling sun; two cats,

which looked as though they might be dead, were stretched out in front

of the two windows, their eyes closed, their paws and tails stretched

out at full length.

A big clucking hen was parading through the garden with a whole regiment

of yellow, downy chicks, and a big cage hanging from the wall and

covered with pimpernel, contained a population of birds which were

chirping away in the warmth of this beautiful spring morning.

In another cage, shaped like a chalet, two lovebirds sat motionless side

by side on their perch.

M. Cimme, a fat, puffing person, who always entered first everywhere,

pushing aside everyone else, whether man or woman, when it was

necessary, asked:

“Well, Celeste, aren't things going well?”

The little servant moaned through her tears:

“She doesn't even recognize me any more. The doctor says it's the end.”

Everybody looked around.

Mme. Cimme and Mme. Colombel immediately embraced each other, without

saying a word. They looked very much alike, having always worn their

hair in Madonna bands, and loud red French cashmere shawls.

Cimme turned to his brother-in-law, a pale, sallow-complexioned, thin

man, wasted by stomach complaints, who limped badly, and said in a

serious tone of voice:

“Gad! It was high time.”

But no one dared to enter the dying woman's room on the ground floor.

Even Cimme made way for the others. Colombel was the first to make up

his mind, and, swaying from side to side like the mast of a ship, the

iron ferule of his cane clattering on the paved hall, he entered.

The two women were the next to venture, and M. Cimmes closed the

procession.

Little Joseph had remained outside, pleased at the sight of the dog.

A ray of sunlight seemed to cut the bed in two, shining just on the

hands, which were moving nervously, continually opening and closing. The

fingers were twitching as though moved by some thought, as though trying

to point out a meaning or idea, as though obeying the dictates of a

will. The rest of the body lay motionless under the sheets. The angular

frame showed not a single movement. The eyes remained closed.

The family spread out in a semi-circle and, without a word, they began

to watch the contracted chest and the short, gasping breathing. The

little servant had followed them and was still crying.

At last Cimme asked:

“Exactly what did the doctor say?”

The girl stammered:

“He said to leave her alone, that nothing more could be done for her.”

But suddenly the old woman's lips began to move. She seemed to be

uttering silent words, words hidden in the brain of this dying being,

and her hands quickened their peculiar movements.

Then she began to speak in a thin, high voice, which no one had ever

heard, a voice which seemed to come from the distance, perhaps from the

depths of this heart which had always been closed.

Cimme, finding this scene painful, walked away on tiptoe. Colombel,

whose crippled leg was growing tired, sat down.

The two women remained standing.

Queen Hortense was now babbling away, and no one could understand a

word. She was pronouncing names, many names, tenderly calling imaginary

people.

“Come here, Philippe, kiss your mother. Tell me, child, do you love your

mamma? You, Rose, take care of your little sister while I am away. And

don't leave her alone. Don't play with matches!”

She stopped for a while, then, in a louder voice, as though she were

calling someone: “Henriette!” then waited a moment and continued:

“Tell your father that I wish to speak to him before he goes to

business.” And suddenly: “I am not feeling very well to-day, darling;

promise not to come home late. Tell your employer that I am sick. You

know, it isn't safe to leave the children alone when I am in bed. For

dinner I will fix you up a nice dish of rice. The little ones like that

very much. Won't Claire be happy?”

And she broke into a happy, joyous laugh, such as they had never heard:

“Look at Jean, how funny he looks! He has smeared jam all over his face,

the little pig! Look, sweetheart, look; isn't he funny?”

Colombel, who was continually lifting his tired leg from place to place,

muttered:

“She is dreaming that she has children and a husband; it is the

beginning of the death agony.”

The two sisters had not yet moved, surprised, astounded.

The little maid exclaimed:

“You must take off your shawls and your hats! Would you like to go into

the parlor?”

They went out without having said a word. And Colombel followed them,

limping, once more leaving the dying woman alone.

When they were relieved of their travelling garments, the women finally

sat down. Then one of the cats left its window, stretched, jumped into

the room and on to Mme. Cimme's knees. She began to pet it.

In the next room could be heard the voice of the dying woman, living, in

this last hour, the life for which she had doubtless hoped, living her

dreams themselves just when all was over for her.

Cimme, in the garden, was playing with little Joseph and the dog,

enjoying himself in the whole hearted manner of a countryman, having

completely forgotten the dying woman.

But suddenly he entered the house and said to the girl:

“I say, my girl, are we not going to have luncheon? What do you ladies

wish to eat?”

They finally agreed on an omelet, a piece of steak with new potatoes,

cheese and coffee.

As Mme. Colombel was fumbling in her pocket for her purse, Cimme stopped

her, and, turning to the maid: “Have you got any money?”

She answered:

“Yes, monsieur.”

“How much?”

“Fifteen francs.”

“That's enough. Hustle, my girl, because I am beginning to get very

hungry:”

Mme. Cimme, looking out over the climbing vines bathed in sunlight, and

at the two turtle-doves on the roof opposite, said in an annoyed tone of

voice:

“What a pity to have had to come for such a sad occasion. It is so nice

in the country to-day.”

Her sister sighed without answering, and Colombel mumbled, thinking

perhaps of the walk ahead of him:

“My leg certainly is bothering me to-day:”

Little Joseph and the dog were making a terrible noise; one was

shrieking with pleasure, the other was barking wildly. They were playing

hide-and-seek around the three flower beds, running after each other

like mad.

The dying woman continued to call her children, talking with each one,

imagining that she was dressing them, fondling them, teaching them how

to read: “Come on! Simon repeat: A, B, C, D. You are not paying

attention, listen—D, D, D; do you hear me? Now repeat—”

Cimme exclaimed: “Funny what people say when in that condition.”

Mme. Colombel then asked:

“Wouldn't it be better if we were to return to her?”

But Cimme dissuaded her from the idea:

“What's the use? You can't change anything. We are just as comfortable

here.”

Nobody insisted. Mme. Cimme observed the two green birds called love-

birds. In a few words she praised this singular faithfulness and blamed

the men for not imitating these animals. Cimme began to laugh, looked at

his wife and hummed in a teasing way: “Tra-la-la, tra-la-la” as though

to cast a good deal of doubt on his own, Cimme's, faithfulness:

Colombel was suffering from cramps and was rapping the floor with his

cane.

The other cat, its tail pointing upright to the sky, now came in.

They sat down to luncheon at one o'clock.

As soon as he had tasted the wine, Colombel, for whom only the best of

Bordeaux had been prescribed, called the servant back:

“I say, my girl, is this the best stuff that you have in the cellar?”

“No, monsieur; there is some better wine, which was only brought out

when you came.”

“Well, bring us three bottles of it.”

They tasted the wine and found it excellent, not because it was of a

remarkable vintage, but because it had been in the cellar fifteen years.

Cimme declared:

“That is regular invalid's wine.”

Colombel, filled with an ardent desire to gain possession of this

Bordeaux, once more questioned the girl:

“How much of it is left?”

“Oh! Almost all, monsieur; mamz'elle never touched it. It's in the

bottom stack.”

Then he turned to his brother-in-law:

“If you wish, Cimme, I would be willing to exchange something else for

this wine; it suits my stomach marvellously.”

The chicken had now appeared with its regiment of young ones. The two

women were enjoying themselves throwing crumbs to them.

Joseph and the dog, who had eaten enough, were sent back to the garden.

Queen Hortense was still talking, but in a low, hushed voice, so that

the words could no longer be distinguished.

When they had finished their coffee all went in to observe the condition

of the sick woman. She seemed calm.

They went outside again and seated themselves in a circle in the garden,

in order to complete their digestion.

Suddenly the dog, who was carrying something in his mouth, began to run

around the chairs at full speed. The child was chasing him wildly. Both

disappeared into the house.

Cimme fell asleep, his well-rounded paunch bathed in the glow of the

shining sun.

The dying woman once more began to talk in a loud voice. Then suddenly

she shrieked.

The two women and Colombel rushed in to see what was the matter. Cimme,

waking up, did not budge, because, he did not wish to witness such a

scene.

She was sitting up, with haggard eyes. Her dog, in order to escape being

pursued by little Joseph, had jumped up on the bed, run over the sick

woman, and entrenched behind the pillow, was looking down at his

playmate with snapping eyes, ready to jump down and begin the game

again. He was holding in his mouth one of his mistress' slippers, which

he had torn to pieces and with which he had been playing for the last

hour.

The child, frightened by this woman who had suddenly risen in front of

him, stood motionless before the bed.

The hen had also come in, and frightened by the noise, had jumped up on

a chair and was wildly calling her chicks, who were chirping

distractedly around the four legs of the chair.

Queen Hortense was shrieking:

“No, no, I don't want to die, I don't want to! I don't want to! Who will

bring up my children? Who will take care of them? Who will love them?

No, I don't want to!—I don't——”

She fell back. All was over.

The dog, wild with excitement, jumped about the room, barking.

Colombel ran to the window, calling his brother-in-law:

“Hurry up, hurry up! I think that she has just gone.”

Then Cimme, resigned, arose and entered the room, mumbling

“It didn't take as long as I thought it would!”

TIMBUCTOO

The boulevard, that river of humanity, was alive with people in the

golden light of the setting sun. The whole sky was red, blinding, and

behind the Madeleine an immense bank of flaming clouds cast a shower of

light the whole length of the boulevard, vibrant as the heat from a

brazier.

The gay, animated crowd went by in this golden mist and seemed to be

glorified. Their faces were gilded, their black hats and clothes took on

purple tints, the patent leather of their shoes cast bright reflections

on the asphalt of the sidewalk.

Before the cafes a mass of men were drinking opalescent liquids that

looked like precious stones dissolved in the glasses.

In the midst of the drinkers two officers in full uniform dazzled all

eyes with their glittering gold lace. They chatted, happy without asking

why, in this glory of life, in this radiant light of sunset, and they

looked at the crowd, the leisurely men and the hurrying women who left a

bewildering odor of perfume as they passed by.

All at once an enormous negro, dressed in black, with a paunch beneath

his jean waistcoat, which was covered with charms, his face shining as

if it had been polished, passed before them with a triumphant air. He

laughed at the passers-by, at the news venders, at the dazzling sky, at

the whole of Paris. He was so tall that he overtopped everyone else, and

when he passed all the loungers turned round to look at his back.

But he suddenly perceived the officers and darted towards them, jostling

the drinkers in his path. As soon as he reached their table he fixed his

gleaming and delighted eyes upon them and the corners of his mouth

expanded to his ears, showing his dazzling white teeth like a crescent

moon in a black sky. The two men looked in astonishment at this ebony

giant, unable to understand his delight.

With a voice that made all the guests laugh, he said:

“Good-day, my lieutenant.”

One of the officers was commander of a battalion, the other was a

colonel. The former said:

“I do not know you, sir. I am at a loss to know what you want of me.”

“Me like you much, Lieutenant Vedie, siege of Bezi, much grapes, find

me.”

The officer, utterly bewildered, looked at the man intently, trying to

refresh his memory. Then he cried abruptly:

“Timbuctoo?”

The negro, radiant, slapped his thigh as he uttered a tremendous laugh

and roared:

“Yes, yes, my lieutenant; you remember Timbuctoo, ya. How do you do?”

The commandant held out his hand, laughing heartily as he did so. Then

Timbuctoo became serious. He seized the officer's hand and, before the

other could prevent it, he kissed it, according to negro and Arab

custom. The officer embarrassed, said in a severe tone:

“Come now, Timbuctoo, we are not in Africa. Sit down there and tell me

how it is I find you here.”

Timbuctoo swelled himself out and, his words falling over one another,

replied hurriedly:

“Make much money, much, big restaurant, good food; Prussians, me, much

steal, much, French cooking; Timbuctoo cook to the emperor; two thousand

francs mine. Ha, ha, ha, ha!”

And he laughed, doubling himself up, roaring, with wild delight in his

glances.

When the officer, who understood his strange manner of expressing

himself, had questioned him he said:

“Well, au revoir, Timbuctoo. I will see you again.”

The negro rose, this time shaking the hand that was extended to him and,

smiling still, cried:

“Good-day, good-day, my lieutenant!”

He went off so happy that he gesticulated as he walked, and people

thought he was crazy.

“Who is that brute?” asked the colonel.

“A fine fellow and a brave soldier. I will tell you what I know about

him. It is funny enough.

“You know that at the commencement of the war of 1870 I was shut up in

Bezieres, that this negro calls Bezi. We were not besieged, but

blockaded. The Prussian lines surrounded us on all sides, outside the

reach of cannon, not firing on us, but slowly starving us out.

“I was then lieutenant. Our garrison consisted of soldier of all

descriptions, fragments of slaughtered regiments, some that had run

away, freebooters separated from the main army, etc. We had all kinds,

in fact even eleven Turcos [Algerian soldiers in the service of France],

who arrived one evening no one knew whence or how. They appeared at the

gates of the city, exhausted, in rags, starving and dirty. They were

handed over to me.

“I saw very soon that they were absolutely undisciplined, always in the

street and always drunk. I tried putting them in the police station,

even in prison, but nothing was of any use. They would disappear,

sometimes for days at a time, as if they had been swallowed up by the

earth, and then come back staggering drunk. They had no money. Where did

they buy drink and how and with what?

“This began to worry me greatly, all the more as these savages

interested me with their everlasting laugh and their characteristics of

overgrown frolicsome children.

“I then noticed that they blindly obeyed the largest among them, the one

you have just seen. He made them do as he pleased, planned their

mysterious expeditions with the all-powerful and undisputed authority of

a leader. I sent for him and questioned him. Our conversation lasted

fully three hours, for it was hard for me to understand his remarkable

gibberish. As for him, poor devil, he made unheard-of efforts to make

himself intelligible, invented words, gesticulated, perspired in his

anxiety, mopping his forehead, puffing, stopping and abruptly beginning

again when he thought he had found a new method of explaining what he

wanted to say.

“I gathered finally that he was the son of a big chief, a sort of negro

king of the region around Timbuctoo. I asked him his name. He repeated

something like 'Chavaharibouhalikranafotapolara.' It seemed simpler to

me to give him the name of his native place, 'Timbuctoo.' And a week

later he was known by no other name in the garrison.

“But we were all wildly anxious to find out where this African ex-prince

procured his drinks. I discovered it in a singular manner.

“I was on the ramparts one morning, watching the horizon, when I

perceived something moving about in a vineyard. It was near the time of

vintage, the grapes were ripe, but I was not thinking of that. I thought

that a spy was approaching the town, and I organized a complete

expedition to catch the prowler. I took command myself, after obtaining

permission from the general.

“I sent out by three different gates three little companies, which were

to meet at the suspected vineyard and form a cordon round it. In order

to cut off the spy's retreat, one of these detachments had to make at

least an hour's march. A watch on the walls signalled to me that the

person I had seen had not left the place. We went along in profound

silence, creeping, almost crawling, along the ditches. At last we

reached the spot assigned.

“I abruptly disbanded my soldiers, who darted into the vineyard and

found Timbuctoo on hands and knees travelling around among the vines and

eating grapes, or rather devouring them as a dog eats his sop, snatching

them in mouthfuls from the vine with his teeth.

“I wanted him to get up, but he could not think of it. I then understood

why he was crawling on his hands and knees. As soon as we stood him on

his feet he began to wabble, then stretched out his arms and fell down

on his nose. He was more drunk than I have ever seen anyone.

“They brought him home on two poles. He never stopped laughing all the

way back, gesticulating with his arms and legs.

“This explained the mystery. My men also drank the juice of the grapes,

and when they were so intoxicated they could not stir they went to sleep

in the vineyard. As for Timbuctoo, his love of the vineyard was beyond

all belief and all bounds. He lived in it as did the thrushes, whom he

hated with the jealous hate of a rival. He repeated incessantly: 'The

thrushes eat all the grapes, captain!'

“One evening I was sent for. Something had been seen on the plain coming

in our direction. I had not brought my field-glass and I could not

distinguish things clearly. It looked like a great serpent uncoiling

itself—a convoy. How could I tell?

“I sent some men to meet this strange caravan, which presently made its

triumphal entry. Timbuctoo and nine of his comrades were carrying on a

sort of altar made of camp stools eight severed, grinning and bleeding

heads. The African was dragging along a horse to whose tail another head

was fastened, and six other animals followed, adorned in the same

manner.

“This is what I learned: Having started out to the vineyard, my Africans

had suddenly perceived a detachment of Prussians approaching a village.

Instead of taking to their heels, they hid themselves, and as soon as

the Prussian officers dismounted at an inn to refresh themselves, the

eleven rascals rushed on them, put to flight the lancers, who thought

they were being attacked by the main army, killed the two sentries, then

the colonel and the five officers of his escort.

“That day I kissed Timbuctoo. I saw, however, that he walked with

difficulty and thought he was wounded. He laughed and said:

“'Me provisions for my country.'

“Timbuctoo was not fighting for glory, but for gain. Everything he found

that seemed to him to be of the slightest value, especially anything

that glistened, he put in his pocket. What a pocket! An abyss that began

at his hips and reached to his ankles. He had retained an old term used

by the troopers and called it his 'profonde,' and it was his 'profonde'

in fact.

“He had taken the gold lace off the Prussian uniforms, the brass off

their helmets, detached their buttons, etc., and had thrown them all

into his 'profonde,' which was full to overflowing.

“Each day he pocketed every glistening object that came beneath his

observation, pieces of tin or pieces of silver, and sometimes his

contour was very comical.

“He intended to carry all that back to the land of ostriches, whose

brother he might have been, this son of a king, tormented with the

longing to gobble up all objects that glistened. If he had not had his

'profonde' what would he have done? He doubtless would have swallowed

them.

“Each morning his pocket was empty. He had, then, some general store

where his riches were piled up. But where? I could not discover it.

“The general, on being informed of Timbuctoo's mighty act of valor, had

the headless bodies that had been left in the neighboring village

interred at once, that it might not be discovered that they were

decapitated. The Prussians returned thither the following day. The mayor

and seven prominent inhabitants were shot on the spot, by way of

reprisal, as having denounced the Prussians.

“Winter was here. We were exhausted and desperate. There were skirmishes

now every day. The famished men could no longer march. The eight

'Turcos' alone (three had been killed) remained fat and shiny, vigorous

and always ready to fight. Timbuctoo was even getting fatter. He said to

me one day:

“'You much hungry; me good meat.'

“And he brought me an excellent filet. But of what? We had no more

cattle, nor sheep, nor goats, nor donkeys, nor pigs. It was impossible

to get a horse. I thought of all this after I had devoured my meat. Then

a horrible idea came to me. These negroes were born close to a country

where they eat human beings! And each day such a number of soldiers were

killed around the town! I questioned Timbuctoo. He would not answer. I

did not insist, but from that time on I declined his presents.

“He worshipped me. One night snow took us by surprise at the outposts.

We were seated, on the ground. I looked with pity at those poor negroes

shivering beneath this white frozen shower. I was very cold and began to

cough. At once I felt something fall on me like a large warm quilt. It

was Timbuctoo's cape that he had thrown on my shoulders.

“I rose and returned his garment, saying:

“'Keep it, my boy; you need it more than I do.'

“'Non, my lieutenant, for you; me no need. Me hot, hot!'

“And he looked at me entreatingly.

“'Come, obey orders. Keep your cape; I insist,' I replied.

“He then stood up, drew his sword, which he had sharpened to an edge

like a scythe, and holding in his other hand the large cape which I had

refused, said:

“'If you not keep cape, me cut. No one cape.'

“And he would have done it. So I yielded.

“Eight days later we capitulated. Some of us had been able to escape,

the rest were to march out of the town and give themselves up to the

conquerors.

“I went towards the exercising ground, where we were all to meet, when I

was dumfounded at the sight of a gigantic negro dressed in white duck

and wearing a straw hat. It was Timbuctoo. He was beaming and was

walking with his hands in his pockets in front of a little shop where

two plates and two glasses were displayed.

“'What are you doing?' I said.

“'Me not go. Me good cook; me make food for Colonel Algeria. Me eat

Prussians; much steal, much.'

“There were ten degrees of frost. I shivered at sight of this negro in

white duck. He took me by the arm and made me go inside. I noticed an

immense flag that he was going to place outside his door as soon as we

had left, for he had some shame.”

I read this sign, traced by the hand of some accomplice

“'ARMY KITCHEN OF M. TIMBUCTOO, “'Formerly Cook to H. M. the Emperor.

“'A Parisian Artist. Moderate Prices.'

“In spite of the despair that was gnawing at my heart, I could not help

laughing, and I left my negro to his new enterprise.

“Was not that better than taking him prisoner?

“You have just seen that he made a success of it, the rascal.

“Bezieres to-day belongs to the Germans. The 'Restaurant Timbuctoo' is

the beginning of a retaliation.”

TOMBSTONES

The five friends had finished dinner, five men of the world, mature,

rich, three married, the two others bachelors. They met like this every

month in memory of their youth, and after dinner they chatted until two

o'clock in the morning. Having remained intimate friends, and enjoying

each other's society, they probably considered these the pleasantest

evenings of their lives. They talked on every subject, especially of

what interested and amused Parisians. Their conversation was, as in the

majority of salons elsewhere, a verbal rehash of what they had read in

the morning papers.

One of the most lively of them was Joseph de Bardon, a celibate living

the Parisian life in its fullest and most whimsical manner. He was not a

debauche nor depraved, but a singular, happy fellow, still young, for he

was scarcely forty. A man of the world in its widest and best sense,

gifted with a brilliant, but not profound, mind, with much varied

knowledge, but no true erudition, ready comprehension without true

understanding, he drew from his observations, his adventures, from

everything he saw, met with and found, anecdotes at once comical and

philosophical, and made humorous remarks that gave him a great

reputation for cleverness in society.

He was the after dinner speaker and had his own story each time, upon

which they counted, and he talked without having to be coaxed.

As he sat smoking, his elbows on the table, a petit verre half full

beside his plate, half torpid in an atmosphere of tobacco blended with

steaming coffee, he seemed to be perfectly at home. He said between two

whiffs:

“A curious thing happened to me some time ago.”

“Tell it to us,” they all exclaimed at once.

“With pleasure. You know that I wander about Paris a great deal, like

book collectors who ransack book stalls. I just look at the sights, at

the people, at all that is passing by and all that is going on.

“Toward the middle of September—it was beautiful weather—I went out one

afternoon, not knowing where I was going. One always has a vague wish to

call on some pretty woman or other. One chooses among them in one's

mental picture gallery, compares them in one's mind, weighs the interest

with which they inspire you, their comparative charms and finally

decides according to the influence of the day. But when the sun is very

bright and the air warm, it takes away from you all desire to make

calls.

“The sun was bright, the air warm. I lighted a cigar and sauntered

aimlessly along the outer boulevard. Then, as I strolled on, it occurred

to me to walk as far as Montmartre and go into the cemetery.

“I am very fond of cemeteries. They rest me and give me a feeling of

sadness; I need it. And, besides, I have good friends in there, those

that one no longer goes to call on, and I go there from time to time.

“It is in this cemetery of Montmartre that is buried a romance of my

life, a sweetheart who made a great impression on me, a very emotional,

charming little woman whose memory, although it causes me great sorrow,

also fills me with regrets—regrets of all kinds. And I go to dream

beside her grave. She has finished with life.

“And then I like cemeteries because they are immense cities filled to

overflowing with inhabitants. Think how many dead people there are in

this small space, think of all the generations of Parisians who are

housed there forever, veritable troglodytes enclosed in their little

vaults, in their little graves covered with a stone or marked by a

cross, while living beings take up so much room and make so much noise

—imbeciles that they are!

“Then, again, in cemeteries there are monuments almost as interesting as

in museums. The tomb of Cavaignac reminded me, I must confess without

making any comparison, of the chef d'oeuvre of Jean Goujon: the

recumbent statue of Louis de Breze in the subterranean chapel of the

Cathedral of Rouen. All modern and realistic art has originated there,

messieurs. This dead man, Louis de Breze, is more real, more terrible,

more like inanimate flesh still convulsed with the death agony than all

the tortured corpses that are distorted to-day in funeral monuments.

“But in Montmartre one can yet admire Baudin's monument, which has a

degree of grandeur; that of Gautier, of Murger, on which I saw the other

day a simple, paltry wreath of immortelles, yellow immortelles, brought

thither by whom? Possibly by the last grisette, very old and now

janitress in the neighborhood. It is a pretty little statue by Millet,

but ruined by dirt and neglect. Sing of youth, O Murger!

“Well, there I was in Montmartre Cemetery, and was all at once filled

with sadness, a sadness that is not all pain, a kind of sadness that

makes you think when you are in good health, 'This place is not amusing,

but my time has not come yet.'

“The feeling of autumn, of the warm moisture which is redolent of the

death of the leaves, and the weakened, weary, anaemic sun increased,

while rendering it poetical, the sensation of solitude and of finality

that hovered over this spot which savors of human mortality.

“I walked along slowly amid these streets of tombs, where the neighbors

do not visit each other, do not sleep together and do not read the

newspapers. And I began to read the epitaphs. That is the most amusing

thing in the world. Never did Labiche or Meilhac make me laugh as I have

laughed at the comical inscriptions on tombstones. Oh, how much superior

to the books of Paul de Kock for getting rid of the spleen are these

marble slabs and these crosses where the relatives of the deceased have

unburdened their sorrow, their desires for the happiness of the vanished

ones and their hope of rejoining them—humbugs!

“But I love above all in this cemetery the deserted portion, solitary,

full of great yews and cypresses, the older portion, belonging to those

dead long since, and which will soon be taken into use again; the

growing trees nourished by the human corpses cut down in order to bury

in rows beneath little slabs of marble those who have died more

recently.

“When I had sauntered about long enough to refresh my mind I felt that I

would soon have had enough of it and that I must place the faithful

homage of my remembrance on my little friend's last resting place. I

felt a tightening of the heart as I reached her grave. Poor dear, she

was so dainty, so loving and so white and fresh—and now—if one should

open the grave—

“Leaning over the iron grating, I told her of my sorrow in a low tone,

which she doubtless did not hear, and was moving away when I saw a woman

in black, in deep mourning, kneeling on the next grave. Her crape veil

was turned back, uncovering a pretty fair head, the hair in Madonna

bands looking like rays of dawn beneath her sombre headdress. I stayed.

“Surely she must be in profound grief. She had covered her face with her

hands and, standing there in meditation, rigid as a statue, given up to

her grief, telling the sad rosary of her remembrances within the shadow

of her concealed and closed eyes, she herself seemed like a dead person

mourning another who was dead. All at once a little motion of her back,

like a flutter of wind through a willow, led me to suppose that she was

going to cry. She wept softly at first, then louder, with quick motions

of her neck and shoulders. Suddenly she uncovered her eyes. They were

full of tears and charming, the eyes of a bewildered woman, with which

she glanced about her as if awaking from a nightmare. She looked at me,

seemed abashed and hid her face completely in her hands. Then she sobbed

convulsively, and her head slowly bent down toward the marble. She

leaned her forehead on it, and her veil spreading around her, covered

the white corners of the beloved tomb, like a fresh token of mourning. I

heard her sigh, then she sank down with her cheek on the marble slab and

remained motionless, unconscious.

“I darted toward her, slapped her hands, blew on her eyelids, while I

read this simple epitaph: 'Here lies Louis-Theodore Carrel, Captain of

Marine Infantry, killed by the enemy at Tonquin. Pray for him.'

“He had died some months before. I was affected to tears and redoubled

my attentions. They were successful. She regained consciousness. I

appeared very much moved. I am not bad looking, I am not forty. I saw by

her first glance that she would be polite and grateful. She was, and

amid more tears she told me her history in detached fragments as well as

her gasping breath would allow, how the officer was killed at Tonquin

when they had been married a year, how she had married him for love, and

being an orphan, she had only the usual dowry.

“I consoled her, I comforted her, raised her and lifted her on her feet.

Then I said:

“'Do not stay here. Come.'

“'I am unable to walk,' she murmured.

“'I will support you.'

“'Thank you, sir; you are good. Did you also come to mourn for some

one?'

“'Yes, madame.'

“'A dead friend?'

“'Yes, madame.'

“'Your wife?'

“'A friend.'

“'One may love a friend as much as they love their wife. Love has no

law.'

“'Yes, madame.'

“And we set off together, she leaning on my arm, while I almost carried

her along the paths of the cemetery. When we got outside she faltered:

“'I feel as if I were going to be ill.'

“'Would you like to go in anywhere, to take something?'

“'Yes, monsieur.'

“I perceived a restaurant, one of those places where the mourners of the

dead go to celebrate the funeral. We went in. I made her drink a cup of

hot tea, which seemed to revive her. A faint smile came to her lips. She

began to talk about herself. It was sad, so sad to be always alone in

life, alone in one's home, night and day, to have no one on whom one can

bestow affection, confidence, intimacy.

“That sounded sincere. It sounded pretty from her mouth. I was touched.

She was very young, perhaps twenty. I paid her compliments, which she

took in good part. Then, as time was passing, I suggested taking her

home in a carriage. She accepted, and in the cab we sat so close that

our shoulders touched.

“When the cab stopped at her house she murmured: 'I do not feel equal to

going upstairs alone, for I live on the fourth floor. You have been so

good. Will you let me take your arm as far as my own door?'

“I agreed with eagerness. She ascended the stairs slowly, breathing

hard. Then, as we stood at her door, she said:

“'Come in a few moments so that I may thank you.'

“And, by Jove, I went in. Everything was modest, even rather poor, but

simple and in good taste.

“We sat down side by side on a little sofa and she began to talk again

about her loneliness. She rang for her maid, in order to offer me some

wine. The maid did not come. I was delighted, thinking that this maid

probably came in the morning only, what one calls a charwoman.

“She had taken off her hat. She was really pretty, and she gazed at me

with her clear eyes, gazed so hard and her eyes were so clear that I was

terribly tempted. I caught her in my arms and rained kisses on her

eyelids, which she closed suddenly.

“She freed herself and pushed me away, saying:

“'Have done, have done.'

“But I next kissed her on the mouth and she did not resist, and as our

glances met after thus outraging the memory of the captain killed in

Tonquin, I saw that she had a languid, resigned expression that set my

mind at rest.

“I became very attentive and, after chatting for some time, I said:

“'Where do you dine?'