“'In a little restaurant in the neighborhood:

“'All alone?'

“'Why, yes.'

“'Will you dine with me?'

“'Where?'

“'In a good restaurant on the Boulevard.'

“She demurred a little. I insisted. She yielded, saying by way of

apology to herself: 'I am so lonely—so lonely.' Then she added:

“'I must put on something less sombre, and went into her bedroom. When

she reappeared she was dressed in half-mourning, charming, dainty and

slender in a very simple gray dress. She evidently had a costume for the

cemetery and one for the town.

“The dinner was very enjoyable. She drank some champagne, brightened up,

grew lively and I went home with her.

“This friendship, begun amid the tombs, lasted about three weeks. But

one gets tired of everything, especially of women. I left her under

pretext of an imperative journey. She made me promise that I would come

and see her on my return. She seemed to be really rather attached to me.

“Other things occupied my attention, and it was about a month before I

thought much about this little cemetery friend. However, I did not

forget her. The recollection of her haunted me like a mystery, like a

psychological problem, one of those inexplicable questions whose

solution baffles us.

“I do not know why, but one day I thought I might possibly meet her in

the Montmartre Cemetery, and I went there.

“I walked about a long time without meeting any but the ordinary

visitors to this spot, those who have not yet broken off all relations

with their dead. The grave of the captain killed at Tonquin had no

mourner on its marble slab, no flowers, no wreath.

“But as I wandered in another direction of this great city of the dead I

perceived suddenly, at the end of a narrow avenue of crosses, a couple

in deep mourning walking toward me, a man and a woman. Oh, horrors! As

they approached I recognized her. It was she!

“She saw me, blushed, and as I brushed past her she gave me a little

signal, a tiny little signal with her eye, which meant: 'Do not

recognize me!' and also seemed to say, 'Come back to see me again, my

dear!'

“The man was a gentleman, distingue, chic, an officer of the Legion of

Honor, about fifty years old. He was supporting her as I had supported

her myself when we were leaving the cemetery.

“I went my way, filled with amazement, asking myself what this all

meant, to what race of beings belonged this huntress of the tombs? Was

she just a common girl, one who went to seek among the tombs for men who

were in sorrow, haunted by the recollection of some woman, a wife or a

sweetheart, and still troubled by the memory of vanished caresses? Was

she unique? Are there many such? Is it a profession? Do they parade the

cemetery as they parade the street? Or else was she only impressed with

the admirable, profoundly philosophical idea of exploiting love

recollections, which are revived in these funereal places?

“And I would have liked to know whose widow she was on that special

day.”

MADEMOISELLE PEARL

I

What a strange idea it was for me to choose Mademoiselle Pearl for queen

that evening!

Every year I celebrate Twelfth Night with my old friend Chantal. My

father, who was his most intimate friend, used to take me round there

when I was a child. I continued the custom, and I doubtless shall

continue it as long as I live and as long as there is a Chantal in this

world.

The Chantals lead a peculiar existence; they live in Paris as though

they were in Grasse, Evetot, or Pont-a-Mousson.

They have a house with a little garden near the observatory. They live

there as though they were in the country. Of Paris, the real Paris, they

know nothing at all, they suspect nothing; they are so far, so far away!

However, from time to time, they take a trip into it. Mademoiselle

Chantal goes to lay in her provisions, as it is called in the family.

This is how they go to purchase their provisions:

Mademoiselle Pearl, who has the keys to the kitchen closet (for the

linen closets are administered by the mistress herself), Mademoiselle

Pearl gives warning that the supply of sugar is low, that the preserves

are giving out, that there is not much left in the bottom of the coffee

bag. Thus warned against famine, Mademoiselle Chantal passes everything

in review, taking notes on a pad. Then she puts down a lot of figures

and goes through lengthy calculations and long discussions with

Mademoiselle Pearl. At last they manage to agree, and they decide upon

the quantity of each thing of which they will lay in a three months'

provision; sugar, rice, prunes, coffee, preserves, cans of peas, beans,

lobster, salt or smoked fish, etc., etc. After which the day for the

purchasing is determined on and they go in a cab with a railing round

the top and drive to a large grocery store on the other side of the

river in the new sections of the town.

Madame Chantal and Mademoiselle Pearl make this trip together,

mysteriously, and only return at dinner time, tired out, although still

excited, and shaken up by the cab, the roof of which is covered with

bundles and bags, like an express wagon.

For the Chantals all that part of Paris situated on the other side of

the Seine constitutes the new quarter, a section inhabited by a strange,

noisy population, which cares little for honor, spends its days in

dissipation, its nights in revelry, and which throws money out of the

windows. From time to time, however, the young girls are taken to the

Opera-Comique or the Theatre Francais, when the play is recommended by

the paper which is read by M. Chantal.

At present the young ladies are respectively nineteen and seventeen.

They are two pretty girls, tall and fresh, very well brought up, in

fact, too well brought up, so much so that they pass by unperceived like

two pretty dolls. Never would the idea come to me to pay the slightest

attention or to pay court to one of the young Chantal ladies; they are

so immaculate that one hardly dares speak to them; one almost feels

indecent when bowing to them.

As for the father, he is a charming man, well educated, frank, cordial,

but he likes calm and quiet above all else, and has thus contributed

greatly to the mummifying of his family in order to live as he pleased

in stagnant quiescence. He reads a lot, loves to talk and is readily

affected. Lack of contact and of elbowing with the world has made his

moral skin very tender and sensitive. The slightest thing moves him,

excites him, and makes him suffer.

The Chantals have limited connections carefully chosen in the

neighborhood. They also exchange two or three yearly visits with

relatives who live in the distance.

As for me, I take dinner with them on the fifteenth of August and on

Twelfth Night. That is as much one of my duties as Easter communion is

for a Catholic.

On the fifteenth of August a few friends are invited, but on Twelfth

Night I am the only stranger.

Well, this year, as every former year, I went to the Chantals' for my

Epiphany dinner.

According to my usual custom, I kissed M. Chantal, Madame Chantal and

Mademoiselle Pearl, and I made a deep bow to the Misses Louise and

Pauline. I was questioned about a thousand and one things, about what

had happened on the boulevards, about politics, about how matters stood

in Tong-King, and about our representatives in Parliament. Madame

Chantal, a fat lady, whose ideas always gave me the impression of being

carved out square like building stones, was accustomed to exclaiming at

the end of every political discussion: “All that is seed which does not

promise much for the future!” Why have I always imagined that Madame

Chantal's ideas are square? I don't know; but everything that she says

takes that shape in my head: a big square, with four symmetrical angles.

There are other people whose ideas always strike me as being round and

rolling like a hoop. As soon as they begin a sentence on any subject it

rolls on and on, coming out in ten, twenty, fifty round ideas, large and

small, which I see rolling along, one behind the other, to the end of

the horizon. Other people have pointed ideas—but enough of this.

We sat down as usual and finished our dinner without anything out of the

ordinary being said. At dessert the Twelfth Night cake was brought on.

Now, M. Chantal had been king every year. I don't know whether this was

the result of continued chance or a family convention, but he

unfailingly found the bean in his piece of cake, and he would proclaim

Madame Chantal to be queen. Therefore, I was greatly surprised to find

something very hard, which almost made me break a tooth, in a mouthful

of cake. Gently I took this thing from my mouth and I saw that it was a

little porcelain doll, no bigger than a bean. Surprise caused me to

exclaim:

“Ah!” All looked at me, and Chantal clapped his hands and cried: “It's

Gaston! It's Gaston! Long live the king! Long live the king!”

All took up the chorus: “Long live the king!” And I blushed to the tip

of my ears, as one often does, without any reason at all, in situations

which are a little foolish. I sat there looking at my plate, with this

absurd little bit of pottery in my fingers, forcing myself to laugh and

not knowing what to do or say, when Chantal once more cried out: “Now,

you must choose a queen!”

Then I was thunderstruck. In a second a thousand thoughts and

suppositions flashed through my mind. Did they expect me to pick out one

of the young Chantal ladies? Was that a trick to make me say which one I

prefer? Was it a gentle, light, direct hint of the parents toward a

possible marriage? The idea of marriage roams continually in houses with

grown-up girls, and takes every shape and disguise, and employs every

subterfuge. A dread of compromising myself took hold of me as well as an

extreme timidity before the obstinately correct and reserved attitude of

the Misses Louise and Pauline. To choose one of them in preference to

the other seemed to me as difficult as choosing between two drops of

water; and then the fear of launching myself into an affair which might,

in spite of me, lead me gently into matrimonial ties, by means as wary

and imperceptible and as calm as this insignificant royalty—the fear of

all this haunted me.

Suddenly I had an inspiration, and I held out to Mademoiselle Pearl the

symbolical emblem. At first every one was surprised, then they doubtless

appreciated my delicacy and discretion, for they applauded furiously.

Everybody was crying: “Long live the queen! Long live the queen!”

As for herself, poor old maid, she was so amazed that she completely

lost control of herself; she was trembling and stammering: “No—no—oh!

no—not me—please—not me—I beg of you——”

Then for the first time in my life I looked at Mademoiselle Pearl and

wondered what she was.

I was accustomed to seeing her in this house, just as one sees old

upholstered armchairs on which one has been sitting since childhood

without ever noticing them. One day, with no reason at all, because a

ray of sunshine happens to strike the seat, you suddenly think: “Why,

that chair is very curious”; and then you discover that the wood has

been worked by a real artist and that the material is remarkable. I had

never taken any notice of Mademoiselle Pearl.

She was a part of the Chantal family, that was all. But how? By what

right? She was a tall, thin person who tried to remain in the

background, but who was by no means insignificant. She was treated in a

friendly manner, better than a housekeeper, not so well as a relative. I

suddenly observed several shades of distinction which I had never

noticed before. Madame Chantal said: “Pearl.” The young ladies:

“Mademoiselle Pearl,” and Chantal only addressed her as “Mademoiselle,”

with an air of greater respect, perhaps.

I began to observe her. How old could she be? Forty? Yes, forty. She was

not old, she made herself old. I was suddenly struck by this fact. She

fixed her hair and dressed in a ridiculous manner, and, notwithstanding

all that, she was not in the least ridiculous, she had such simple,

natural gracefulness, veiled and hidden. Truly, what a strange creature!

How was it I had never observed her before? She dressed her hair in a

grotesque manner with little old maid curls, most absurd; but beneath

this one could see a large, calm brow, cut by two deep lines, two

wrinkles of long sadness, then two blue eyes, large and tender, so

timid, so bashful, so humble, two beautiful eyes which had kept the

expression of naive wonder of a young girl, of youthful sensations, and

also of sorrow, which had softened without spoiling them.

Her whole face was refined and discreet, a face the expression of which

seemed to have gone out without being used up or faded by the fatigues

and great emotions of life.

What a dainty mouth! and such pretty teeth! But one would have thought

that she did not dare smile.

Suddenly I compared her to Madame Chantal! Undoubtedly Mademoiselle

Pearl was the better of the two, a hundred times better, daintier,

prouder, more noble. I was surprised at my observation. They were

pouring out champagne. I held my glass up to the queen and, with a well-

turned compliment, I drank to her health. I could see that she felt

inclined to hide her head in her napkin. Then, as she was dipping her

lips in the clear wine, everybody cried: “The queen drinks! the queen

drinks!” She almost turned purple and choked. Everybody was laughing;

but I could see that all loved her.

As soon as dinner was over Chantal took me by the arm. It was time for

his cigar, a sacred hour. When alone he would smoke it out in the

street; when guests came to dinner he would take them to the billiard

room and smoke while playing. That evening they had built a fire to

celebrate Twelfth Night; my old friend took his cue, a very fine one,

and chalked it with great care; then he said:

“You break, my boy!”

He called me “my boy,” although I was twenty-five, but he had known me

as a young child.

I started the game and made a few carroms. I missed some others, but as

the thought of Mademoiselle Pearl kept returning to my mind, I suddenly

asked:

“By the way, Monsieur Chantal, is Mademoiselle Pearl a relative of

yours?”

Greatly surprised, he stopped playing and looked at me:

“What! Don't you know? Haven't you heard about Mademoiselle Pearl?”

“No.”

“Didn't your father ever tell you?”

“No.”

“Well, well, that's funny! That certainly is funny! Why, it's a regular

romance!”

He paused, and then continued:

“And if you only knew how peculiar it is that you should ask me that to-

day, on Twelfth Night!”

“Why?”

“Why? Well, listen. Forty-one years ago to day, the day of the Epiphany,

the following events occurred: We were then living at Roily-le-Tors, on

the ramparts; but in order that you may understand, I must first explain

the house. Roily is built on a hill, or, rather, on a mound which

overlooks a great stretch of prairie. We had a house there with a

beautiful hanging garden supported by the old battlemented wall; so that

the house was in the town on the streets, while the garden overlooked

the plain. There was a door leading from the garden to the open country,

at the bottom of a secret stairway in the thick wall—the kind you read

about in novels. A road passed in front of this door, which was provided

with a big bell; for the peasants, in order to avoid the roundabout way,

would bring their provisions up this way.

“You now understand the place, don't you? Well, this year, at Epiphany,

it had been snowing for a week. One might have thought that the world

was coming to an end. When we went to the ramparts to look over the

plain, this immense white, frozen country, which shone like varnish,

would chill our very souls. One might have thought that the Lord had

packed the world in cotton to put it away in the storeroom for old

worlds. I can assure you that it was dreary looking.

“We were a very numerous family at that time my father, my mother, my

uncle and aunt, my two brothers and four cousins; they were pretty

little girls; I married the youngest. Of all that crowd, there are only

three of us left: my wife, I, and my sister-in-law, who lives in

Marseilles. Zounds! how quickly a family like that dwindles away! I

tremble when I think of it! I was fifteen years old then, since I am

fifty-six now.

“We were going to celebrate the Epiphany, and we were all happy, very

happy! Everybody was in the parlor, awaiting dinner, and my oldest

brother, Jacques, said: 'There has been a dog howling out in the plain

for about ten minutes; the poor beast must be lost.'

“He had hardly stopped talking when the garden bell began to ring. It

had the deep sound of a church bell, which made one think of death. A

shiver ran through everybody. My father called the servant and told him

to go outside and look. We waited in complete silence; we were thinking

of the snow which covered the ground. When the man returned he declared

that he had seen nothing. The dog kept up its ceaseless howling, and

always from the same spot.

“We sat down to dinner; but we were all uneasy, especially the young

people. Everything went well up to the roast, then the bell began to

ring again, three times in succession, three heavy, long strokes which

vibrated to the tips of our fingers and which stopped our conversation

short. We sat there looking at each other, fork in the air, still

listening, and shaken by a kind of supernatural fear.

“At last my mother spoke: 'It's surprising that they should have waited

so long to come back. Do not go alone, Baptiste; one of these gentlemen

will accompany you.'

“My Uncle Francois arose. He was a kind of Hercules, very proud of his

strength, and feared nothing in the world. My father said to him: 'Take

a gun. There is no telling what it might be.'

“But my uncle only took a cane and went out with the servant.

“We others remained there trembling with fear and apprehension, without

eating or speaking. My father tried to reassure us: 'Just wait and see,'

he said; 'it will be some beggar or some traveller lost in the snow.

After ringing once, seeing that the door was not immediately opened, he

attempted again to find his way, and being unable to, he has returned to

our door.'

“Our uncle seemed to stay away an hour. At last he came back, furious,

swearing: 'Nothing at all; it's some practical joker! There is nothing

but that damned dog howling away at about a hundred yards from the

walls. If I had taken a gun I would have killed him to make him keep

quiet.'

“We sat down to dinner again, but every one was excited; we felt that

all was not over, that something was going to happen, that the bell

would soon ring again.

“It rang just as the Twelfth Night cake was being cut. All the men

jumped up together. My Uncle, Francois, who had been drinking champagne,

swore so furiously that he would murder it, whatever it might be, that

my mother and my aunt threw themselves on him to prevent his going. My

father, although very calm and a little helpless (he limped ever since

he had broken his leg when thrown by a horse), declared, in turn, that

he wished to find out what was the matter and that he was going. My

brothers, aged eighteen and twenty, ran to get their guns; and as no one

was paying any attention to me I snatched up a little rifle that was

used in the garden and got ready to accompany the expedition.

“It started out immediately. My father and uncle were walking ahead with

Baptiste, who was carrying a lantern. My brothers, Jacques and Paul,

followed, and I trailed on behind in spite of the prayers of my mother,

who stood in front of the house with her sister and my cousins.

“It had been snowing again for the last hour, and the trees were

weighted down. The pines were bending under this heavy, white garment,

and looked like white pyramids or enormous sugar cones, and through the

gray curtains of small hurrying flakes could be seen the lighter bushes

which stood out pale in the shadow. The snow was falling so thick that

we could hardly see ten feet ahead of us. But the lantern threw a bright

light around us. When we began to go down the winding stairway in the

wall I really grew frightened. I felt as though some one were walking

behind me, were going to grab me by the shoulders and carry me away, and

I felt a strong desire to return; but, as I would have had to cross the

garden all alone, I did not dare. I heard some one opening the door

leading to the plain; my uncle began to swear again, exclaiming: 'By—-!

He has gone again! If I can catch sight of even his shadow, I'll take

care not to miss him, the swine!'

“It was a discouraging thing to see this great expanse of plain, or,

rather, to feel it before us, for we could not see it; we could only see

a thick, endless veil of snow, above, below, opposite us, to the right,

to the left, everywhere. My uncle continued:

“'Listen! There is the dog howling again; I will teach him how I shoot.

That will be something gained, anyhow.'

“But my father, who was kind-hearted, went on:

“'It will be much better to go on and get the poor animal, who is crying

for hunger. The poor fellow is barking for help; he is calling like a

man in distress. Let us go to him.'

“So we started out through this mist, through this thick continuous fall

of snow, which filled the air, which moved, floated, fell, and chilled

the skin with a burning sensation like a sharp, rapid pain as each flake

melted. We were sinking in up to our knees in this soft, cold mass, and

we had to lift our feet very high in order to walk. As we advanced the

dog's voice became clearer and stronger. My uncle cried: 'Here he is!'

We stopped to observe him as one does when he meets an enemy at night.

“I could see nothing, so I ran up to the others, and I caught sight of

him; he was frightful and weird-looking; he was a big black shepherd's

dog with long hair and a wolf's head, standing just within the gleam of

light cast by our lantern on the snow. He did not move; he was silently

watching us.

“My uncle said: 'That's peculiar, he is neither advancing nor

retreating. I feel like taking a shot at him.'

“My father answered in a firm voice: 'No, we must capture him.'

“Then my brother Jacques added: 'But he is not alone. There is something

behind him.”

“There was indeed something behind him, something gray, impossible to

distinguish. We started out again cautiously. When he saw us approaching

the dog sat down. He did not look wicked. Instead, he seemed pleased at

having been able to attract the attention of some one.

“My father went straight to him and petted him. The dog licked his

hands. We saw that he was tied to the wheel of a little carriage, a sort

of toy carriage entirely wrapped up in three or four woolen blankets. We

carefully took off these coverings, and as Baptiste approached his

lantern to the front of this little vehicle, which looked like a rolling

kennel, we saw in it a little baby sleeping peacefully.

“We were so astonished that we couldn't speak.

“My father was the first to collect his wits, and as he had a warm heart

and a broad mind, he stretched his hand over the roof of the carriage

and said: 'Poor little waif, you shall be one of us!' And he ordered my

brother Jacques to roll the foundling ahead of us. Thinking out loud, my

father continued:

“'Some child of love whose poor mother rang at my door on this night of

Epiphany in memory of the Child of God.'

“He once more stopped and called at the top of his lungs through the

night to the four corners of the heavens: 'We have found it!' Then,

putting his hand on his brother's shoulder, he murmured: 'What if you

had shot the dog, Francois?'

“My uncle did not answer, but in the darkness he crossed himself, for,

notwithstanding his blustering manner, he was very religious.

“The dog, which had been untied, was following us.

“Ah! But you should have seen us when we got to the house! At first we

had a lot of trouble in getting the carriage up through the winding

stairway; but we succeeded and even rolled it into the vestibule.

“How funny mamma was! How happy and astonished! And my four little

cousins (the youngest was only six), they looked like four chickens

around a nest. At last we took the child from the carriage. It was still

sleeping. It was a girl about six weeks old. In its clothes we found ten

thousand francs in gold, yes, my boy, ten thousand francs!—which papa

saved for her dowry. Therefore, it was not a child of poor people, but,

perhaps, the child of some nobleman and a little bourgeoise of the

town—or again—we made a thousand suppositions, but we never found out

anything-never the slightest clue. The dog himself was recognized by no

one. He was a stranger in the country. At any rate, the person who rang

three times at our door must have known my parents well, to have chosen

them thus.

“That is how, at the age of six weeks, Mademoiselle Pearl entered the

Chantal household.

“It was not until later that she was called Mademoiselle Pearl. She was

at first baptized 'Marie Simonne Claire,' Claire being intended, for her

family name.

“I can assure you that our return to the diningroom was amusing, with

this baby now awake and looking round her at these people and these

lights with her vague blue questioning eyes.

“We sat down to dinner again and the cake was cut. I was king, and for

queen I took Mademoiselle Pearl, just as you did to-day. On that day she

did not appreciate the honor that was being shown her.

“Well, the child was adopted and brought up in the family. She grew, and

the years flew by. She was so gentle and loving and minded so well that

every one would have spoiled her abominably had not my mother prevented

it.

“My mother was an orderly woman with a great respect for class

distinctions. She consented to treat little Claire as she did her own

sons, but, nevertheless, she wished the distance which separated us to

be well marked, and our positions well established. Therefore, as soon

as the child could understand, she acquainted her with her story and

gently, even tenderly, impressed on the little one's mind that, for the

Chantals, she was an adopted daughter, taken in, but, nevertheless, a

stranger. Claire understood the situation with peculiar intelligence and

with surprising instinct; she knew how to take the place which was

allotted her, and to keep it with so much tact, gracefulness and

gentleness that she often brought tears to my father's eyes. My mother

herself was often moved by the passionate gratitude and timid devotion

of this dainty and loving little creature that she began calling her:

'My daughter.' At times, when the little one had done something kind and

good, my mother would raise her spectacles on her forehead, a thing

which always indicated emotion with her, and she would repeat: 'This

child is a pearl, a perfect pearl!' This name stuck to the little

Claire, who became and remained for us Mademoiselle Pearl.”

II

M. Chantal stopped. He was sitting on the edge of the billiard table,

his feet hanging, and was playing with a ball with his left hand, while

with his right he crumpled a rag which served to rub the chalk marks

from the slate. A little red in the face, his voice thick, he was

talking away to himself now, lost in his memories, gently drifting

through the old scenes and events which awoke in his mind, just as we

walk through old family gardens where we were brought up and where each

tree, each walk, each hedge reminds us of some occurrence.

I stood opposite him leaning against the wall, my hands resting on my

idle cue.

After a slight pause he continued:

“By Jove! She was pretty at eighteen—and graceful—and perfect. Ah! She

was so sweet—and good and true—and charming! She had such eyes—blue-

transparent—clear—such eyes as I have never seen since!”

He was once more silent. I asked: “Why did she never marry?”

He answered, not to me, but to the word “marry” which had caught his

ear: “Why? why? She never would—she never would! She had a dowry of

thirty thousand francs, and she received several offers—but she never

would! She seemed sad at that time. That was when I married my cousin,

little Charlotte, my wife, to whom I had been engaged for six years.”

I looked at M. Chantal, and it seemed to me that I was looking into his

very soul, and I was suddenly witnessing one of those humble and cruel

tragedies of honest, straightforward, blameless hearts, one of those

secret tragedies known to no one, not even the silent and resigned

victims. A rash curiosity suddenly impelled me to exclaim:

“You should have married her, Monsieur Chantal!”

He started, looked at me, and said:

“I? Marry whom?”

“Mademoiselle Pearl.”

“Why?”

“Because you loved her more than your cousin.”

He stared at me with strange, round, bewildered eyes and stammered:

“I loved her—I? How? Who told you that?”

“Why, anyone can see that—and it's even on account of her that you

delayed for so long your marriage to your cousin who had been waiting

for you for six years.”

He dropped the ball which he was holding in his left hand, and, seizing

the chalk rag in both hands, he buried his face in it and began to sob.

He was weeping with his eyes, nose and mouth in a heartbreaking yet

ridiculous manner, like a sponge which one squeezes. He was coughing,

spitting and blowing his nose in the chalk rag, wiping his eyes and

sneezing; then the tears would again begin to flow down the wrinkles on

his face and he would make a strange gurgling noise in his throat. I

felt bewildered, ashamed; I wanted to run away, and I no longer knew

what to say, do, or attempt.

Suddenly Madame Chantal's voice sounded on the stairs. “Haven't you men

almost finished smoking your cigars?”

I opened the door and cried: “Yes, madame, we are coming right down.”

Then I rushed to her husband, and, seizing him by the shoulders, I

cried: “Monsieur Chantal, my friend Chantal, listen to me; your wife is

calling; pull yourself together, we must go downstairs.”

He stammered: “Yes—yes—I am coming—poor girl! I am coming—tell her that

I am coming.”

He began conscientiously to wipe his face on the cloth which, for the

last two or three years, had been used for marking off the chalk from

the slate; then he appeared, half white and half red, his forehead,

nose, cheeks and chin covered with chalk, and his eyes swollen, still

full of tears.

I caught him by the hands and dragged him into his bedroom, muttering:

“I beg your pardon, I beg your pardon, Monsieur Chantal, for having

caused you such sorrow—but—I did not know—you—you understand.”

He squeezed my hand, saying: “Yes—yes—there are difficult moments.”

Then he plunged his face into a bowl of water. When he emerged from it

he did not yet seem to me to be presentable; but I thought of a little

stratagem. As he was growing worried, looking at himself in the mirror,

I said to him: “All you have to do is to say that a little dust flew

into your eye and you can cry before everybody to your heart's content.”

He went downstairs rubbing his eyes with his handkerchief. All were

worried; each one wished to look for the speck, which could not be

found; and stories were told of similar cases where it had been

necessary to call in a physician.

I went over to Mademoiselle Pearl and watched her, tormented by an

ardent curiosity, which was turning to positive suffering. She must

indeed have been pretty, with her gentle, calm eyes, so large that it

looked as though she never closed them like other mortals. Her gown was

a little ridiculous, a real old maid's gown, which was unbecoming

without appearing clumsy.

It seemed to me as though I were looking into her soul, just as I had

into Monsieur Chantal's; that I was looking right from one end to the

other of this humble life, so simple and devoted. I felt an irresistible

longing to question her, to find out whether she, too, had loved him;

whether she also had suffered, as he had, from this long, secret,

poignant grief, which one cannot see, know, or guess, but which breaks

forth at night in the loneliness of the dark room. I was watching her,

and I could observe her heart beating under her waist, and I wondered

whether this sweet, candid face had wept on the soft pillow and she had

sobbed, her whole body shaken by the violence of her anguish.

I said to her in a low voice, like a child who is breaking a toy to see

what is inside: “If you could have seen Monsieur Chantal crying a while

ago it would have moved you.”

She started, asking: “What? He was weeping?”

“Ah, yes, he was indeed weeping!”

“Why?”

She seemed deeply moved. I answered:

“On your account.”

“On my account?”

“Yes. He was telling me how much he had loved you in the days gone by;

and what a pang it had given him to marry his cousin instead of you.”

Her pale face seemed to grow a little longer; her calm eyes, which

always remained open, suddenly closed so quickly that they seemed shut

forever. She slipped from her chair to the floor, and slowly, gently

sank down as would a fallen garment.

I cried: “Help! help! Mademoiselle Pearl is ill.”

Madame Chantal and her daughters rushed forward, and while they were

looking for towels, water and vinegar, I grabbed my hat and ran away.

I walked away with rapid strides, my heart heavy, my mind full of

remorse and regret. And yet sometimes I felt pleased; I felt as though I

had done a praiseworthy and necessary act. I was asking myself: “Did I

do wrong or right?” They had that shut up in their hearts, just as some

people carry a bullet in a closed wound. Will they not be happier now?

It was too late for their torture to begin over again and early enough

for them to remember it with tenderness.

And perhaps some evening next spring, moved by a beam of moonlight

falling through the branches on the grass at their feet, they will join

and press their hands in memory of all this cruel and suppressed

suffering; and, perhaps, also this short embrace may infuse in their

veins a little of this thrill which they would not have known without

it, and will give to those two dead souls, brought to life in a second,

the rapid and divine sensation of this intoxication, of this madness

which gives to lovers more happiness in an instant than other men can

gather during a whole lifetime!

THE THIEF

While apparently thinking of something else, Dr. Sorbier had been

listening quietly to those amazing accounts of burglaries and daring

deeds that might have been taken from the trial of Cartouche.

“Assuredly,” he exclaimed, “assuredly, I know of no viler fault nor any

meaner action than to attack a girl's innocence, to corrupt her, to

profit by a moment of unconscious weakness and of madness, when her

heart is beating like that of a frightened fawn, and her pure lips seek

those of her tempter; when she abandons herself without thinking of the

irremediable stain, nor of her fall, nor of the morrow.

“The man who has brought this about slowly, viciously, who can tell with

what science of evil, and who, in such a case, has not steadiness and

self-restraint enough to quench that flame by some icy words, who has

not sense enough for two, who cannot recover his self-possession and

master the runaway brute within him, and who loses his head on the edge

of the precipice over which she is going to fall, is as contemptible as

any man who breaks open a lock, or as any rascal on the lookout for a

house left defenceless and unprotected or for some easy and dishonest

stroke of business, or as that thief whose various exploits you have

just related to us.

“I, for my part, utterly refuse to absolve him, even when extenuating

circumstances plead in his favor, even when he is carrying on a

dangerous flirtation, in which a man tries in vain to keep his balance,

not to exceed the limits of the game, any more than at lawn tennis; even

when the parts are inverted and a man's adversary is some precocious,

curious, seductive girl, who shows you immediately that she has nothing

to learn and nothing to experience, except the last chapter of love, one

of those girls from whom may fate always preserve our sons, and whom a

psychological novel writer has christened 'The Semi-Virgins.'

“It is, of course, difficult and painful for that coarse and

unfathomable vanity which is characteristic of every man, and which

might be called 'malism', not to stir such a charming fire, difficult to

act the Joseph and the fool, to turn away his eyes, and, as it were, to

put wax into his ears, like the companions of Ulysses when they were

attracted by the divine, seductive songs of the Sirens, difficult only

to touch that pretty table covered with a perfectly new cloth, at which

you are invited to take a seat before any one else, in such a suggestive

voice, and are requested to quench your thirst and to taste that new

wine, whose fresh and strange flavor you will never forget. But who

would hesitate to exercise such self-restraint if, when he rapidly

examines his conscience, in one of those instinctive returns to his

sober self in which a man thinks clearly and recovers his head, he were

to measure the gravity of his fault, consider it, think of its

consequences, of the reprisals, of the uneasiness which he would always

feel in the future, and which would destroy the repose and happiness of

his life?

“You may guess that behind all these moral reflections, such as a

graybeard like myself may indulge in, there is a story hidden, and, sad

as it is, I am sure it will interest you on account of the strange

heroism it shows.”

He was silent for a few moments, as if to classify his recollections,

and, with his elbows resting on the arms of his easy-chair and his eyes

looking into space, he continued in the slow voice of a hospital

professor who is explaining a case to his class of medical students, at

a bedside:

“He was one of those men who, as our grandfathers used to say, never met

with a cruel woman, the type of the adventurous knight who was always

foraging, who had something of the scamp about him, but who despised

danger and was bold even to rashness. He was ardent in the pursuit of

pleasure, and had an irresistible charm about him, one of those men in

whom we excuse the greatest excesses as the most natural things in the

world. He had run through all his money at gambling and with pretty

girls, and so became, as it were, a soldier of fortune. He amused

himself whenever and however he could, and was at that time quartered at

Versailles.

“I knew him to the very depths of his childlike heart, which was only

too easily seen through and sounded, and I loved him as some old

bachelor uncle loves a nephew who plays him tricks, but who knows how to

coax him. He had made me his confidant rather than his adviser, kept me

informed of his slightest pranks, though he always pretended to be

speaking about one of his friends, and not about himself; and I must

confess that his youthful impetuosity, his careless gaiety, and his

amorous ardor sometimes distracted my thoughts and made me envy the

handsome, vigorous young fellow who was so happy at being alive, that I

had not the courage to check him, to show him the right road, and to

call out to him: 'Take care!' as children do at blind man's buff.

“And one day, after one of those interminable cotillons, where the

couples do not leave each other for hours, and can disappear together

without anybody thinking of noticing them, the poor fellow at last

discovered what love was, that real love which takes up its abode in the

very centre of the heart and in the brain, and is proud of being there,

and which rules like a sovereign and a tyrannous master, and he became

desperately enamored of a pretty but badly brought up girl, who was as

disquieting and wayward as she was pretty.

“She loved him, however, or rather she idolized him despotically, madly,

with all her enraptured soul and all her being. Left to do as she

pleased by imprudent and frivolous parents, suffering from neurosis, in

consequence of the unwholesome friendships which she contracted at the

convent school, instructed by what she saw and heard and knew was going

on around her, in spite of her deceitful and artificial conduct, knowing

that neither her father nor her mother, who were very proud of their

race as well as avaricious, would ever agree to let her marry the man

whom she had taken a liking to, that handsome fellow who had little

besides vision, ideas and debts, and who belonged to the middle-class,

she laid aside all scruples, thought of nothing but of becoming his, no

matter what might be the cost.

“By degrees, the unfortunate man's strength gave way, his heart

softened, and he allowed himself to be carried away by that current

which buffeted him, surrounded him, and left him on the shore like a

waif and a stray.

“They wrote letters full of madness to each other, and not a day passed

without their meeting, either accidentally, as it seemed, or at parties

and balls. She had yielded her lips to him in long, ardent caresses,

which had sealed their compact of mutual passion.”

The doctor stopped, and his eyes suddenly filled with tears, as these

former troubles came back to his mind; and then, in a hoarse voice, he

went on, full of the horror of what he was going to relate:

“For months he scaled the garden wall, and, holding his breath and

listening for the slightest noise, like a burglar who is going to break

into a house, he went in by the servants' entrance, which she had left

open, slunk barefoot down a long passage and up the broad staircase,

which creaked occasionally, to the second story, where his sweetheart's

room was, and stayed there for hours.

“One night, when it was darker than usual, and he was hurrying lest he

should be later than the time agreed on, he knocked up against a piece

of furniture in the anteroom and upset it. It so happened that the

girl's mother had not gone to sleep, either because she had a sick

headache, or else because she had sat up late over some novel, and,

frightened at that unusual noise which disturbed the silence of the

house, she jumped out of bed, opened the door, saw some one indistinctly

running away and keeping close to the wall, and, immediately thinking

that there were burglars in the house, she aroused her husband and the

servants by her frantic screams. The unfortunate man understood the

situation; and, seeing what a terrible fix he was in, and preferring to

be taken for a common thief to dishonoring his adored one's name, he ran

into the drawing-room, felt on the tables and what-nots, filled his

pockets at random with valuable bric-a-brac, and then cowered down

behind the grand piano, which barred the corner of a large room.

“The servants, who had run in with lighted candles, found him, and,

overwhelming him with abuse, seized him by the collar and dragged him,

panting and apparently half dead with shame and terror, to the nearest

police station. He defended himself with intentional awkwardness when he

was brought up for trial, kept up his part with the most perfect self-

possession and without any signs of the despair and anguish that he felt

in his heart, and, condemned and degraded and made to suffer martyrdom

in his honor as a man and a soldier—he was an officer—he did not

protest, but went to prison as one of those criminals whom society gets

rid of like noxious vermin.

“He died there of misery and of bitterness of spirit, with the name of

the fair-haired idol, for whom he had sacrificed himself, on his lips,

as if it had been an ecstatic prayer, and he intrusted his will 'to the

priest who administered extreme unction to him, and requested him to

give it to me. In it, without mentioning anybody, and without in the

least lifting the veil, he at last explained the enigma, and cleared

himself of those accusations the terrible burden of which he had borne

until his last breath.

“I have always thought myself, though I do not know why, that the girl

married and had several charming children, whom she brought up with the

austere strictness and in the serious piety of former days!”

CLAIR DE LUNE

Abbe Marignan's martial name suited him well. He was a tall, thin

priest, fanatic, excitable, yet upright. All his beliefs were fixed,

never varying. He believed sincerely that he knew his God, understood

His plans, desires and intentions.

When he walked with long strides along the garden walk of his little

country parsonage, he would sometimes ask himself the question: “Why has

God done this?” And he would dwell on this continually, putting himself

in the place of God, and he almost invariably found an answer. He would

never have cried out in an outburst of pious humility: “Thy ways, O

Lord, are past finding out.”

He said to himself: “I am the servant of God; it is right for me to know

the reason of His deeds, or to guess it if I do not know it.”

Everything in nature seemed to him to have been created in accordance

with an admirable and absolute logic. The “whys” and “becauses” always

balanced. Dawn was given to make our awakening pleasant, the days to

ripen the harvest, the rains to moisten it, the evenings for preparation

for slumber, and the dark nights for sleep.

The four seasons corresponded perfectly to the needs of agriculture, and

no suspicion had ever come to the priest of the fact that nature has no

intentions; that, on the contrary, everything which exists must conform

to the hard demands of seasons, climates and matter.

But he hated woman—hated her unconsciously, and despised her by

instinct. He often repeated the words of Christ: “Woman, what have I to

do with thee?” and he would add: “It seems as though God, Himself, were

dissatisfied with this work of His.” She was the tempter who led the

first man astray, and who since then had ever been busy with her work of

damnation, the feeble creature, dangerous and mysteriously affecting

one. And even more than their sinful bodies, he hated their loving

hearts.

He had often felt their tenderness directed toward himself, and though

he knew that he was invulnerable, he grew angry at this need of love

that is always vibrating in them.

According to his belief, God had created woman for the sole purpose of

tempting and testing man. One must not approach her without defensive

precautions and fear of possible snares. She was, indeed, just like a

snare, with her lips open and her arms stretched out to man.

He had no indulgence except for nuns, whom their vows had rendered

inoffensive; but he was stern with them, nevertheless, because he felt

that at the bottom of their fettered and humble hearts the everlasting

tenderness was burning brightly—that tenderness which was shown even to

him, a priest.

He felt this cursed tenderness, even in their docility, in the low tones

of their voices when speaking to him, in their lowered eyes, and in

their resigned tears when he reproved them roughly. And he would shake

his cassock on leaving the convent doors, and walk off, lengthening his

stride as though flying from danger.

He had a niece who lived with her mother in a little house near him. He

was bent upon making a sister of charity of her.

She was a pretty, brainless madcap. When the abbe preached she laughed,

and when he was angry with her she would give him a hug, drawing him to

her heart, while he sought unconsciously to release himself from this

embrace which nevertheless filled him with a sweet pleasure, awakening

in his depths the sensation of paternity which slumbers in every man.

Often, when walking by her side, along the country road, he would speak

to her of God, of his God. She never listened to him, but looked about

her at the sky, the grass and flowers, and one could see the joy of life

sparkling in her eyes. Sometimes she would dart forward to catch some

flying creature, crying out as she brought it back: “Look, uncle, how

pretty it is! I want to hug it!” And this desire to “hug” flies or lilac

blossoms disquieted, angered, and roused the priest, who saw, even in

this, the ineradicable tenderness that is always budding in women's

hearts.

Then there came a day when the sexton's wife, who kept house for Abbe

Marignan, told him, with caution, that his niece had a lover.

Almost suffocated by the fearful emotion this news roused in him, he

stood there, his face covered with soap, for he was in the act of

shaving.

When he had sufficiently recovered to think and speak he cried: “It is

not true; you lie, Melanie!”

But the peasant woman put her hand on her heart, saying: “May our Lord

judge me if I lie, Monsieur le Cure! I tell you, she goes there every

night when your sister has gone to bed. They meet by the river side; you

have only to go there and see, between ten o'clock and midnight.”

He ceased scraping his chin, and began to walk up and down impetuously,

as he always did when he was in deep thought. When he began shaving

again he cut himself three times from his nose to his ear.

All day long he was silent, full of anger and indignation. To his

priestly hatred of this invincible love was added the exasperation of

her spiritual father, of her guardian and pastor, deceived and tricked

by a child, and the selfish emotion shown by parents when their daughter

announces that she has chosen a husband without them, and in spite of

them.

After dinner he tried to read a little, but could not, growing more and,

more angry. When ten o'clock struck he seized his cane, a formidable oak

stick, which he was accustomed to carry in his nocturnal walks when

visiting the sick. And he smiled at the enormous club which he twirled

in a threatening manner in his strong, country fist. Then he raised it

suddenly and, gritting his teeth, brought it down on a chair, the broken

back of which fell over on the floor.

He opened the door to go out, but stopped on the sill, surprised by the

splendid moonlight, of such brilliance as is seldom seen.

And, as he was gifted with an emotional nature, one such as had all

those poetic dreamers, the Fathers of the Church, he felt suddenly

distracted and moved by all the grand and serene beauty of this pale

night.

In his little garden, all bathed in soft light, his fruit trees in a row

cast on the ground the shadow of their slender branches, scarcely in

full leaf, while the giant honeysuckle, clinging to the wall of his

house, exhaled a delicious sweetness, filling the warm moonlit

atmosphere with a kind of perfumed soul.

He began to take long breaths, drinking in the air as drunkards drink

wine, and he walked along slowly, delighted, marveling, almost

forgetting his niece.

As soon as he was outside of the garden, he stopped to gaze upon the

plain all flooded with the caressing light, bathed in that tender,

languishing charm of serene nights. At each moment was heard the short,

metallic note of the cricket, and distant nightingales shook out their

scattered notes—their light, vibrant music that sets one dreaming,

without thinking, a music made for kisses, for the seduction of

moonlight.

The abbe walked on again, his heart failing, though he knew not why. He

seemed weakened, suddenly exhausted; he wanted to sit down, to rest

there, to think, to admire God in His works.

Down yonder, following the undulations of the little river, a great line

of poplars wound in and out. A fine mist, a white haze through which the

moonbeams passed, silvering it and making it gleam, hung around and

above the mountains, covering all the tortuous course of the water with

a kind of light and transparent cotton.

The priest stopped once again, his soul filled with a growing and

irresistible tenderness.

And a doubt, a vague feeling of disquiet came over him; he was asking

one of those questions that he sometimes put to himself.

“Why did God make this? Since the night is destined for sleep,

unconsciousness, repose, forgetfulness of everything, why make it more

charming than day, softer than dawn or evening? And why does this

seductive planet, more poetic than the sun, that seems destined, so

discreet is it, to illuminate things too delicate and mysterious for the

light of day, make the darkness so transparent?

“Why does not the greatest of feathered songsters sleep like the others?

Why does it pour forth its voice in the mysterious night?

“Why this half-veil cast over the world? Why these tremblings of the

heart, this emotion of the spirit, this enervation of the body? Why this

display of enchantments that human beings do not see, since they are

lying in their beds? For whom is destined this sublime spectacle, this

abundance of poetry cast from heaven to earth?”

And the abbe could not understand.

But see, out there, on the edge of the meadow, under the arch of trees

bathed in a shining mist, two figures are walking side by side.

The man was the taller, and held his arm about his sweetheart's neck and

kissed her brow every little while. They imparted life, all at once, to

the placid landscape in which they were framed as by a heavenly hand.

The two seemed but a single being, the being for whom was destined this

calm and silent night, and they came toward the priest as a living

answer, the response his Master sent to his questionings.

He stood still, his heart beating, all upset; and it seemed to him that

he saw before him some biblical scene, like the loves of Ruth and Boaz,

the accomplishment of the will of the Lord, in some of those glorious

stories of which the sacred books tell. The verses of the Song of Songs

began to ring in his ears, the appeal of passion, all the poetry of this

poem replete with tenderness.

And he said unto himself: “Perhaps God has made such nights as these to

idealize the love of men.”

He shrank back from this couple that still advanced with arms

intertwined. Yet it was his niece. But he asked himself now if he would

not be disobeying God. And does not God permit love, since He surrounds

it with such visible splendor?

And he went back musing, almost ashamed, as if he had intruded into a

temple where he had, no right to enter.

WAITER, A “BOCK”

Why did I go into that beer hall on that particular evening? I do not

know. It was cold; a fine rain, a flying mist, veiled the gas lamps with

a transparent fog, made the side walks reflect the light that streamed

from the shop windows—lighting up the soft slush and the muddy feet of

the passers-by.

I was going nowhere in particular; was simply having a short walk after

dinner. I had passed the Credit Lyonnais, the Rue Vivienne, and several

other streets. I suddenly descried a large beer hall which was more than

half full. I walked inside, with no object in view. I was not the least

thirsty.

I glanced round to find a place that was not too crowded, and went and

sat down by the side of a man who seemed to me to be old, and who was

smoking a two-sous clay pipe, which was as black as coal. From six to

eight glasses piled up on the table in front of him indicated the number

of “bocks” he had already absorbed. At a glance I recognized a

“regular,” one of those frequenters of beer houses who come in the

morning when the place opens, and do not leave till evening when it is

about to close. He was dirty, bald on top of his head, with a fringe of

iron-gray hair falling on the collar of his frock coat. His clothes,

much too large for him, appeared to have been made for him at a time

when he was corpulent. One could guess that he did not wear suspenders,

for he could not take ten steps without having to stop to pull up his

trousers. Did he wear a vest? The mere thought of his boots and of that

which they covered filled me with horror. The frayed cuffs were

perfectly black at the edges, as were his nails.

As soon as I had seated myself beside him, this individual said to me in

a quiet tone of voice:

“How goes it?”

I turned sharply round and closely scanned his features, whereupon he

continued:

“I see you do not recognize me.”

“No, I do not.”

“Des Barrets.”

I was stupefied. It was Count Jean des Barrets, my old college chum.

I seized him by the hand, and was so dumbfounded that I could find

nothing to say. At length I managed to stammer out:

“And you, how goes it with you?”

He responded placidly:

“I get along as I can.”

“What are you doing now?” I asked.

“You see what I am doing,” he answered quit resignedly.

I felt my face getting red. I insisted:

“But every day?”

“Every day it is the same thing,” was his reply, accompanied with a

thick puff of tobacco smoke.

He then tapped with a sou on the top of the marble table, to attract the

attention of the waiter, and called out:

“Waiter, two 'bocks.'”

A voice in the distance repeated:

“Two bocks for the fourth table.”

Another voice, more distant still, shouted out:

“Here they are!”

Immediately a man with a white apron appeared, carrying two “bocks,”

which he set down, foaming, on the table, spilling some of the yellow

liquid on the sandy floor in his haste.

Des Barrets emptied his glass at a single draught and replaced it on the

table, while he sucked in the foam that had been left on his mustache.

He next asked:

“What is there new?”

I really had nothing new to tell him. I stammered:

“Nothing, old man. I am a business man.”

In his monotonous tone of voice he said:

“Indeed, does it amuse you?”

“No, but what can I do? One must do something!”

“Why should one?”

“So as to have occupation.”

“What's the use of an occupation? For my part, I do nothing at all, as

you see, never anything. When one has not a sou I can understand why one

should work. But when one has enough to live on, what's the use? What is

the good of working? Do you work for yourself, or for others? If you

work for yourself, you do it for your own amusement, which is all right;

if you work for others, you are a fool.”

Then, laying his pipe on the marble table, he called out anew:

“Waiter, a 'bock.'” And continued: “It makes me thirsty to keep calling

so. I am not accustomed to that sort of thing. Yes, yes, I do nothing. I

let things slide, and I am growing old. In dying I shall have nothing to

regret. My only remembrance will be this beer hall. No wife, no

children, no cares, no sorrows, nothing. That is best.”

He then emptied the glass which had been brought him, passed his tongue

over his lips, and resumed his pipe.

I looked at him in astonishment, and said:

“But you have not always been like that?”

“Pardon me; ever since I left college.”

“That is not a proper life to lead, my dear fellow; it is simply

horrible. Come, you must have something to do, you must love something,

you must have friends.”

“No, I get up at noon, I come here, I have my breakfast, I drink my

beer, I remain until the evening, I have my dinner, I drink beer. Then

about half-past one in the morning, I go home to bed, because the place

closes up; that annoys me more than anything. In the last ten years I

have passed fully six years on this bench, in my corner; and the other

four in my bed, nowhere else. I sometimes chat with the regular

customers.”

“But when you came to Paris what did you do at first?”

“I paid my devoirs to the Cafe de Medicis.”

“What next?”

“Next I crossed the water and came here.”

“Why did you take that trouble?”

“What do you mean? One cannot remain all one's life in the Latin

Quarter. The students make too much noise. Now I shall not move again.

Waiter, a 'bock.'”

I began to think that he was making fun of me, and I continued:

“Come now, be frank. You have been the victim of some great sorrow; some

disappointment in love, no doubt! It is easy to see that you are a man

who has had some trouble. What age are you?”

“I am thirty, but I look forty-five, at least.”

I looked him straight in the face. His wrinkled, ill-shaven face gave

one the impression that he was an old man. On the top of his head a few

long hairs waved over a skin of doubtful cleanliness. He had enormous

eyelashes, a heavy mustache, and a thick beard. Suddenly I had a kind of

vision, I know not why, of a basin filled with dirty water in which all

that hair had been washed. I said to him:

“You certainly look older than your age. You surely must have

experienced some great sorrow.”

He replied:

“I tell you that I have not. I am old because I never go out into the

air. Nothing makes a man deteriorate more than the life of a cafe.”

I still could not believe him.

“You must surely also have been married? One could not get as bald-

headed as you are without having been in love.”

He shook his head, shaking dandruff down on his coat as he did so.

“No, I have always been virtuous.”

And, raising his eyes toward the chandelier which heated our heads, he

said:

“If I am bald, it is the fault of the gas. It destroys the hair. Waiter,

a 'bock.' Are you not thirsty?”

“No, thank you. But you really interest me. Since when have you been so

morbid? Your life is not normal, it is not natural. There is something

beneath it all.”

“Yes, and it dates from my infancy. I received a great shock when I was

very young, and that turned my life into darkness which will last to the

end.”

“What was it?”

“You wish to know about it? Well, then, listen. You recall, of course,

the castle in which I was brought up, for you used to spend five or six

months there during vacation. You remember that large gray building, in

the middle of a great park, and the long avenues of oaks which opened to

the four points of the compass. You remember my father and mother, both

of whom were ceremonious, solemn, and severe.

“I worshipped my mother; I was afraid of my father; but I respected

both, accustomed always as I was to see every one bow before them. They

were Monsieur le Comte and Madame la Comtesse to all the country round,

and our neighbors, the Tannemares, the Ravelets, the Brennevilles,

showed them the utmost consideration.

“I was then thirteen years old. I was happy, pleased with everything, as

one is at that age, full of the joy of life.

“Well, toward the end of September, a few days before returning to

college, as I was playing about in the shrubbery of the park, among the

branches and leaves, as I was crossing a path, I saw my father and

mother, who were walking along.

“I recall it as though it were yesterday. It was a very windy day. The

whole line of trees swayed beneath the gusts of wind, groaning, and

seeming to utter cries-those dull, deep cries that forests give out

during a tempest.

“The falling leaves, turning yellow, flew away like birds, circling and

falling, and then running along the path like swift animals.

“Evening came on. It was dark in the thickets. The motion of the wind

and of the branches excited me, made me tear about as if I were crazy,

and howl in imitation of the wolves.

“As soon as I perceived my parents, I crept furtively toward them, under

the branches, in order to surprise them, as though I had been a

veritable prowler. But I stopped in fear a few paces from them. My

father, who was in a terrible passion, cried:

“'Your mother is a fool; moreover, it is not a question of your mother.

It is you. I tell you that I need this money, and I want you to sign

this.'

“My mother replied in a firm voice:

“'I will not sign it. It is Jean's fortune. I shall guard it for him and

I will not allow you to squander it with strange women, as you have your

own heritage.'

“Then my father, trembling with rage, wheeled round and, seizing his

wife by the throat, began to slap her with all his might full in the

face with his disengaged hand.

“My mother's hat fell off, her hair became loosened and fell over her

shoulders; she tried to parry the blows, but she could not do so. And my

father, like a madman, kept on striking her. My mother rolled over on

the ground, covering her face with her hands. Then he turned her over on

her back in order to slap her still more, pulling away her hands, which

were covering her face.

“As for me, my friend, it seemed as though the world was coming to an

end, that the eternal laws had changed. I experienced the overwhelming

dread that one has in presence of things supernatural, in presence of

irreparable disasters. My childish mind was bewildered, distracted. I

began to cry with all my might, without knowing why; a prey to a fearful

dread, sorrow, and astonishment. My father heard me, turned round, and,

on seeing me, started toward me. I believe that he wanted to kill me,

and I fled like a hunted animal, running straight ahead into the

thicket.

“I ran perhaps for an hour, perhaps for two. I know not. Darkness set

in. I sank on the grass, exhausted, and lay there dismayed, frantic with

fear, and devoured by a sorrow capable of breaking forever the heart of

a poor child. I was cold, hungry, perhaps. At length day broke. I was

afraid to get up, to walk, to return home, to run farther, fearing to

encounter my father, whom I did not wish to see again.

“I should probably have died of misery and of hunger at the foot of a

tree if the park guard had not discovered me and led me home by force.

“I found my parents looking as usual. My mother alone spoke to me “'How

you frightened me, you naughty boy. I lay awake the whole night.'

“I did not answer, but began to weep. My father did not utter a single

word.

“Eight days later I returned to school.

“Well, my friend, it was all over with me. I had witnessed the other

side of things, the bad side. I have not been able to perceive the good

side since that day. What has taken place in my mind, what strange

phenomenon has warped my ideas, I do not know. But I no longer had a

taste for anything, a wish for anything, a love for anybody, a desire

for anything whatever, any ambition, or any hope. And I always see my

poor mother on the ground, in the park, my father beating her. My mother

died some years later; my, father still lives. I have not seen him

since. Waiter, a 'bock.'”

A waiter brought him his “bock,” which he swallowed at a gulp. But, in

taking up his pipe again, trembling as he was, he broke it. “Confound

it!” he said, with a gesture of annoyance. “That is a real sorrow. It

will take me a month to color another!”

And he called out across the vast hall, now reeking with smoke and full

of men drinking, his everlasting: “Garcon, un 'bock'—and a new pipe.”

AFTER “My darlings,” said the comtesse, “you might go to bed.”

The three children, two girls and a boy, rose and kissed their

grandmother. Then they said good-night to M. le Cure, who had dined at

the chateau, as was his custom every Thursday.

The Abbe Mauduit lifted two of the children on his knees, passing his

long arms clad in black round their necks, and kissing them tenderly on

the forehead as he drew their heads toward him as a father might.

Then he set them down on the ground, and the little beings went off, the

boy ahead, and the girls following.

“You are fond of children, M. le Cure,” said the comtesse.

“Very fond, madame.”

The old woman raised her bright eyes toward the priest.

“And—has your solitude never weighed too heavily on you?”

“Yes, sometimes.”

He became silent, hesitated, and then added: “But I was never made for

ordinary life.”

“What do you know about it?”

“Oh! I know very well. I was made to be a priest; I followed my

vocation.”

The comtesse kept staring at him:

“Come now, M. le Cure, tell me this—tell me how it was you resolved to

renounce forever all that makes the rest of us love life—all that

consoles and sustains us? What is it that drove you, impelled you, to

separate yourself from the great natural path of marriage and the

family? You are neither an enthusiast nor a fanatic, neither a gloomy

person nor a sad person. Was it some incident, some sorrow, that led you

to take life vows?”

The Abbe Mauduit rose and approached the fire, then, holding toward the

flame his big shoes, such as country priests generally wear, he seemed

still hesitating as to what reply he should make.

He was a tall old man with white hair, and for the last twenty years had

been pastor of the parish of Saint-Antoine-du-Rocher. The peasants said

of him: “There's a good man for you!” And indeed he was a good man,

benevolent, friendly to all, gentle, and, to crown all, generous. Like

Saint Martin, he would have cut his cloak in two. He laughed readily,

and wept also, on slight provocation, just like a woman—which prejudiced

him more or less in the hard minds of the country folk.

The old Comtesse de Saville, living in retirement in her chateau of

Rocher, in order to bring up her grandchildren, after the successive

deaths of her son and her daughter-in-law, was very much attached to her

cure, and used to say of him: “What a heart he has!”

He came every Thursday to spend the evening with the comtesse, and they

were close friends, with the frank and honest friendship of old people.

She persisted:

“Look here, M. le Cure! it is your turn now to make a confession!”

He repeated: “I was not made for ordinary life. I saw it fortunately in

time, and I have had many proofs since that I made no mistake on the

point:

“My parents, who were mercers in Verdiers, and were quite well to do,

had great ambitions for me. They sent me to a boarding school while I

was very young. No one knows what a boy may suffer at school through the

mere fact of separation, of isolation. This monotonous life without

affection is good for some, and detestable for others. Young people are

often more sensitive than one supposes, and by shutting them up thus too

soon, far from those they love, we may develop to an exaggerated extent

a sensitiveness which is overwrought and may become sickly and

dangerous.

“I scarcely ever played; I had no companions; I passed my hours in

homesickness; I spent the whole night weeping in my bed. I sought to

bring before my mind recollections of home, trifling memories of little

things, little events. I thought incessantly of all I had left behind

there. I became almost imperceptibly an over-sensitive youth to whom the

slightest annoyances were terrible griefs.

“In this way I remained taciturn, self-absorbed, without expansion,

without confidants. This mental excitement was going on secretly and

surely. The nerves of children are quickly affected, and one should see

to it that they live a tranquil life until they are almost fully

developed. But who ever reflects that, for certain boys, an unjust

imposition may be as great a pang as the death of a friend in later

years? Who can explain why certain young temperaments are liable to

terrible emotions for the slightest cause, and may eventually become

morbid and incurable?

“This was my case. This faculty of regret developed in me to such an

extent that my existence became a martyrdom.

“I did not speak about it; I said nothing about it; but gradually I

became so sensitive that my soul resembled an open wound. Everything

that affected me gave me painful twitchings, frightful shocks, and

consequently impaired my health. Happy are the men whom nature has

buttressed with indifference and armed with stoicism.

“I reached my sixteenth year. An excessive timidity had arisen from this

abnormal sensitiveness. Feeling myself unprotected from all the attacks

of chance or fate, I feared every contact, every approach, every

current. I lived as though I were threatened by an unknown and always

expected misfortune. I did not venture either to speak or do anything in

public. I had, indeed, the feeling that life, is a battle, a dreadful

conflict in which one receives terrible blows, grievous, mortal wounds.

In place of cherishing, like all men, a cheerful anticipation of the

morrow, I had only a confused fear of it, and felt in my own mind a

desire to conceal myself to avoid that combat in which I would be

vanquished and slain.

“As soon as my studies were finished, they gave me six months' time to

choose a career. A very simple occurrence showed me clearly, all of a

sudden, the diseased condition of my mind, made me understand the

danger, and determined me to flee from it.

“Verdiers is a little town surrounded with plains and woods. In the

central street stands my parents' house. I now passed my days far from

this dwelling which I had so much regretted, so much desired. Dreams had

reawakened in me, and I walked alone in the fields in order to let them

escape and fly away. My father and mother, quite occupied with business,

and anxious about my future, talked to me only about their profits or

about my possible plans. They were fond of me after the manner of

hardheaded, practical people; they had more reason than heart in their

affection for me. I lived imprisoned in my thoughts, and vibrating with

my eternal sensitiveness.

“Now, one evening, after a long walk, as I was making my way home with

great strides so as not to be late, I saw a dog trotting toward me. He

was a species of red spaniel, very lean, with long curly ears.

“When he was ten paces away from me he stopped. I did the same. Then he

began wagging his tail, and came over to me with short steps and nervous

movements of his whole body, bending down on his paws as if appealing to

me, and softly shaking his head. I spoke to him. He then began to crawl

along in such a sad, humble, suppliant manner that I felt the tears

coming into my eyes. I approached him; he ran away, then he came back

again; and I bent down on one knee trying to coax him to approach me,

with soft words. At last, he was within reach of my hands, and I gently

and very carefully stroked him.

“He gained courage, gradually rose and, placing his paws on my

shoulders, began to lick my face. He followed me to the house.

“This was really the first being I had passionately loved, because he

returned my affection. My attachment to this animal was certainly

exaggerated and ridiculous. It seemed to me in a confused sort of way

that we were two brothers, lost on this earth, and therefore isolated

and without defense, one as well as the other. He never again quitted my

side. He slept at the foot of my bed, ate at the table in spite of the

objections of my parents, and followed me in my solitary walks.

“I often stopped at the side of a ditch, and sat down in the grass. Sam

immediately rushed up, lay down at my feet, and lifted up my hand with

his muzzle that I might caress him.

“One day toward the end of June, as we were on the road from Saint-

Pierre de Chavrol, I saw the diligence from Pavereau coming along. Its

four horses were going at a gallop, with its yellow body, and its

imperial with the black leather hood. The coachman cracked his whip; a

cloud of dust rose up under the wheels of the heavy vehicle, then

floated behind, just as a cloud would do.

“Suddenly, as the vehicle came close to me, Sam, perhaps frightened by

the noise and wishing to join me, jumped in front of it. A horse's hoof

knocked him down. I saw him roll over, turn round, fall back again

beneath the horses' feet, then the coach gave two jolts, and behind it I

saw something quivering in the dust on the road. He was nearly cut in

two; all his intestines were hanging out and blood was spurting from the

wound. He tried to get up, to walk, but he could only move his two front

paws, and scratch the ground with them, as if to make a hole. The two

others were already dead. And he howled dreadfully, mad with pain.

“He died in a few minutes. I cannot describe how much I felt and

suffered. I was confined to my room for a month.

“One night, my father, enraged at seeing me so affected by such a

trifling occurrence, exclaimed:

“'How will it be when you have real griefs—if you lose your wife or

children?'

“His words haunted me and I began to see my condition clearly. I

understood why all the small miseries of each day assumed in my eyes the

importance of a catastrophe; I saw that I was organized in such a way

that I suffered dreadfully from everything, that every painful

impression was multiplied by my diseased sensibility, and an atrocious

fear of life took possession of me. I was without passions, without

ambitions; I resolved to sacrifice possible joys in order to avoid sure

sorrows. Existence is short, but I made up my mind to spend it in the

service of others, in relieving their troubles and enjoying their

happiness. Having no direct experience of either one or the other, I

should only experience a milder form of emotion.

“And if you only knew how, in spite of this, misery tortures me, ravages

me! But what would formerly have been an intolerable affliction has

become commiseration, pity.

“These sorrows which cross my path at every moment, I could not endure

if they affected me directly. I could not have seen one of my children

die without dying myself. And I have, in spite of everything, preserved

such a mysterious, overwhelming fear of events that the sight of the

postman entering my house makes a shiver pass every day through my

veins, and yet I have nothing to be afraid of now.”

The Abbe Mauduit ceased speaking. He stared into the fire in the huge

grate, as if he saw there mysterious things, all the unknown of the

existence he might have passed had he been more fearless in the face of

suffering.

He added, then, in a subdued tone:

“I was right. I was not made for this world.”

The comtesse said nothing at first; but at length, after a long silence,

she remarked:

“For my part, if I had not my grandchildren, I believe I would not have

the courage to live.”

And the cure rose up without saying another word.

As the servants were asleep in the kitchen, she accompanied him herself

to the door, which looked out on the garden, and she saw his tall

shadow, lit up by the reflection of the lamp, disappearing through the

gloom of night.

Then she came back and sat down before the fire, and pondered over many

things we never think of when we are young.

FORGIVENESS

She had been brought up in one of those families who live entirely to

themselves, apart from all the rest of the world. Such families know

nothing of political events, although they are discussed at table; for

changes in the Government take place at such a distance from them that

they are spoken of as one speaks of a historical event, such as the

death of Louis XVI or the landing of Napoleon.

Customs are modified in course of time, fashions succeed one another,

but such variations are taken no account of in the placid family circle

where traditional usages prevail year after year. And if some scandalous

episode or other occurs in the neighborhood, the disreputable story dies

a natural death when it reaches the threshold of the house. The father

and mother may, perhaps, exchange a few words on the subject when alone

together some evening, but they speak in hushed tones—for even walls

have ears. The father says, with bated breath:

“You've heard of that terrible affair in the Rivoil family?”

And the mother answers:

“Who would have dreamed of such a thing? It's dreadful.”

The children suspected nothing, and arrive in their turn at years of

discretion with eyes and mind blindfolded, ignorant of the real side of

life, not knowing that people do not think as they speak, and do not

speak as they act; or aware that they should live at war, or at all

events, in a state of armed peace, with the rest of mankind; not

suspecting the fact that the simple are always deceived, the sincere

made sport of, the good maltreated.

Some go on till the day of their death in this blind probity and loyalty

and honor, so pure-minded that nothing can open their eyes.

Others, undeceived, but without fully understanding, make mistakes, are

dismayed, and become desperate, believing themselves the playthings of a

cruel fate, the wretched victims of adverse circumstances, and

exceptionally wicked men.

The Savignols married their daughter Bertha at the age of eighteen. She

wedded a young Parisian, George Baron by name, who had dealings on the

Stock Exchange. He was handsome, well-mannered, and apparently all that

could be desired. But in the depths of his heart he somewhat despised

his old-fashioned parents-in-law, whom he spoke of among his intimates

as “my dear old fossils.”

He belonged to a good family, and the girl was rich. They settled down

in Paris.

She became one of those provincial Parisians whose name is legion. She

remained in complete ignorance of the great city, of its social side,

its pleasures and its customs—just as she remained ignorant also of

life, its perfidy and its mysteries.

Devoted to her house, she knew scarcely anything beyond her own street;

and when she ventured into another part of Paris it seemed to her that

she had accomplished a long and arduous journey into some unknown,

unexplored city. She would then say to her husband in the evening:

“I have been through the boulevards to-day.”

Two or three times a year her husband took her to the theatre. These

were events the remembrance of which never grew dim; they provided

subjects of conversation for long afterward.

Sometimes three months afterward she would suddenly burst into laughter,

and exclaim:

“Do you remember that actor dressed up as a general, who crowed like a

cock?”

Her friends were limited to two families related to her own. She spoke

of them as “the Martinets” and “the Michelins.”

Her husband lived as he pleased, coming home when it suited him

—sometimes not until dawn—alleging business, but not putting himself out

overmuch to account for his movements, well aware that no suspicion

would ever enter his wife's guileless soul.

But one morning she received an anonymous letter.

She was thunderstruck—too simple-minded to understand the infamy of

unsigned information and to despise the letter, the writer of which

declared himself inspired by interest in her happiness, hatred of evil,

and love of truth.

This missive told her that her husband had had for two years past, a

sweetheart, a young widow named Madame Rosset, with whom he spent all

his evenings.

Bertha knew neither how to dissemble her grief nor how to spy on her

husband. When he came in for lunch she threw the letter down before him,

burst into tears, and fled to her room.

He had time to take in the situation and to prepare his reply. He

knocked at his wife's door. She opened it at once, but dared not look at

him. He smiled, sat down, drew her to his knee, and in a tone of light

raillery began:

“My dear child, as a matter of fact, I have a friend named Madame

Rosset, whom I have known for the last ten years, and of whom I have a

very high opinion. I may add that I know scores of other people whose

names I have never mentioned to you, seeing that you do not care for

society, or fresh acquaintances, or functions of any sort. But, to make

short work of such vile accusations as this, I want you to put on your

things after lunch, and we'll go together and call on this lady, who

will very soon become a friend of yours, too, I am quite sure.”

She embraced her husband warmly, and, moved by that feminine spirit of

curiosity which will not be lulled once it is aroused, consented to go

and see this unknown widow, of whom she was, in spite of everything,

just the least bit jealous. She felt instinctively that to know a danger

is to be already armed against it.

She entered a small, tastefully furnished flat on the fourth floor of an

attractive house. After waiting five minutes in a drawing-room rendered

somewhat dark by its many curtains and hangings, a door opened, and a

very dark, short, rather plump young woman appeared, surprised and

smiling.

George introduced them:

“My wife—Madame Julie Rosset.”

The young widow uttered a half-suppressed cry of astonishment and joy,

and ran forward with hands outstretched. She had not hoped, she said, to

have this pleasure, knowing that Madame Baron never saw any one, but she

was delighted to make her acquaintance. She was so fond of George (she

said “George” in a familiar, sisterly sort of way) that, she had been

most anxious to know his young wife and to make friends with her, too.

By the end of a month the two new friends were inseparable. They saw

each other every day, sometimes twice a day, and dined together every

evening, sometimes at one house, sometimes at the other. George no

longer deserted his home, no longer talked of pressing business. He

adored his own fireside, he said.

When, after a time, a flat in the house where Madame Rosset lived became

vacant Madame Baron hastened to take it, in order to be near her friend

and spend even more time with her than hitherto.

And for two whole years their friendship was without a cloud, a

friendship of heart and mind—absolute, tender, devoted. Bertha could

hardly speak without bringing in Julie's name. To her Madame Rosset

represented perfection.

She was utterly happy, calm and contented.

But Madame Rosset fell ill. Bertha hardly left her side. She spent her

nights with her, distracted with grief; even her husband seemed

inconsolable.

One morning the doctor, after leaving the invalid's bedside, took George

and his wife aside, and told them that he considered Julie's condition

very grave.

As soon as he had gone the grief-stricken husband and wife sat down

opposite each other and gave way to tears. That night they both sat up

with the patient. Bertha tenderly kissed her friend from time to time,

while George stood at the foot of the bed, his eyes gazing steadfastly

on the invalid's face.

The next day she was worse.

But toward evening she declared she felt better, and insisted that her

friends should go back to their own apartment to dinner.

They were sitting sadly in the dining-room, scarcely even attempting to

eat, when the maid gave George a note. He opened it, turned pale as

death, and, rising from the table, said to his wife in a constrained

voice:

“Wait for me. I must leave you a moment. I shall be back in ten minutes.

Don't go away on any account.”

And he hurried to his room to get his hat.

Bertha waited for him, a prey to fresh anxiety. But, docile in

everything, she would not go back to her friend till he returned.

At length, as he did not reappear, it occurred to her to visit his room

and see if he had taken his gloves. This would show whether or not he

had had a call to make.

She saw them at the first glance. Beside them lay a crumpled paper,

evidently thrown down in haste.

She recognized it at once as the note George had received.

And a burning temptation, the first that had ever assailed her urged her

to read it and discover the cause of her husband's abrupt departure. Her

rebellious conscience protested but a devouring and fearful curiosity

prevailed. She seized the paper, smoothed it out, recognized the

tremulous, penciled writing as Julie's, and read:

“Come alone and kiss me, my poor dear. I am dying.”

At first she did not understand, the idea of Julie's death being her

uppermost thought. But all at once the true meaning of what she read

burst in a flash upon her; this penciled note threw a lurid light upon

her whole existence, revealed the whole infamous truth, all the

treachery and perfidy of which she had been the victim. She understood

the long years of deceit, the way in which she had been made their

puppet. She saw them again, sitting side by side in the evening, reading

by lamplight out of the same book, glancing at each other at the end of

each page.

And her poor, indignant, suffering, bleeding heart was cast into the

depths of a despair which knew no bounds.

Footsteps drew near; she fled, and shut herself in her own room.

Presently her husband called her:

“Come quickly! Madame Rosset is dying.”

Bertha appeared at her door, and with trembling lips replied:

“Go back to her alone; she does not need me.”

He looked at her stupidly, dazed with grief, and repeated:

“Come at once! She's dying, I tell you!”

Bertha answered:

“You would rather it were I.”

Then at last he understood, and returned alone to the dying woman's

bedside.

He mourned her openly, shamelessly, indifferent to the sorrow of the

wife who no longer spoke to him, no longer looked at him; who passed her

life in solitude, hedged round with disgust, with indignant anger, and

praying night and day to God.

They still lived in the same house, however, and sat opposite each other

at table, in silence and despair.

Gradually his sorrow grew less acute; but she did not forgive him.

And so their life went on, hard and bitter for them both.

For a whole year they remained as complete strangers to each other as if

they had never met. Bertha nearly lost her reason.

At last one morning she went out very early, and returned about eight

o'clock bearing in her hands an enormous bouquet of white roses. And she

sent word to her husband that she wanted to speak to him. He came-

anxious and uneasy.

“We are going out together,” she said. “Please carry these flowers; they

are too heavy for me.”

A carriage took them to the gate of the cemetery, where they alighted.

Then, her eyes filling with tears, she said to George:

“Take me to her grave.”

He trembled, and could not understand her motive; but he led the way,

still carrying the flowers. At last he stopped before a white marble

slab, to which he pointed without a word.

She took the bouquet from him, and, kneeling down, placed it on the

grave. Then she offered up a silent, heartfelt prayer.

Behind her stood her husband, overcome by recollections of the past.

She rose, and held out her hands to him.

“If you wish it, we will be friends,” she said.

IN THE SPRING

With the first day of spring, when the awakening earth puts on its

garment of green, and the warm, fragrant air fans our faces and fills

our lungs and appears even to penetrate to our hearts, we experience a

vague, undefined longing for freedom, for happiness, a desire to run, to

wander aimlessly, to breathe in the spring. The previous winter having

been unusually severe, this spring feeling was like a form of

intoxication in May, as if there were an overabundant supply of sap.

One morning on waking I saw from my window the blue sky glowing in the

sun above the neighboring houses. The canaries hanging in the windows

were singing loudly, and so were the servants on every floor; a cheerful

noise rose up from the streets, and I went out, my spirits as bright as

the day, to go—I did not exactly know where. Everybody I met seemed to

be smiling; an air of happiness appeared to pervade everything in the

warm light of returning spring. One might almost have said that a breeze

of love was blowing through the city, and the sight of the young women

whom I saw in the streets in their morning toilets, in the depths of

whose eyes there lurked a hidden tenderness, and who walked with languid

grace, filled my heart with agitation.

Without knowing how or why, I found myself on the banks of the Seine.

Steamboats were starting for Suresnes, and suddenly I was seized by an

unconquerable desire to take a walk through the woods. The deck of the

Mouche was covered with passengers, for the sun in early spring draws

one out of the house, in spite of themselves, and everybody moves about,

goes and comes and talks to his neighbor.

I had a girl neighbor; a little work-girl, no doubt, who possessed the

true Parisian charm: a little head, with light curly hair, which looked

like a shimmer of light as it danced in the wind, came down to her ears,

and descended to the nape of her neck, where it became such fine, light-

colored clown that one could scarcely see it, but felt an irresistible

desire to shower kisses on it.

Under my persistent gaze, she turned her head toward me, and then

immediately looked down, while a slight crease at the side of her mouth,

that was ready to break out into a smile, also showed a fine, silky,

pale down which the sun was gilding a little.

The calm river grew wider; the atmosphere was warm and perfectly still,

but a murmur of life seemed to fill all space.

My neighbor raised her eyes again, and this time, as I was still looking

at her, she smiled decidedly. She was charming, and in her passing

glance I saw a thousand things, which I had hitherto been ignorant of,

for I perceived unknown depths, all the charm of tenderness, all the

poetry which we dream of, all the happiness which we are continually in

search of. I felt an insane longing to open my arms and to carry her off

somewhere, so as to whisper the sweet music of words of love into her

ears.

I was just about to address her when somebody touched me on the

shoulder, and as I turned round in some surprise, I saw an ordinary-

looking man, who was neither young nor old, and who gazed at me sadly.

“I should like to speak to you,” he said.

I made a grimace, which he no doubt saw, for he added:

“It is a matter of importance.”

I got up, therefore, and followed him to the other end of the boat and

then he said:

“Monsieur, when winter comes, with its cold, wet and snowy weather, your

doctor says to you constantly: 'Keep your feet warm, guard against

chills, colds, bronchitis, rheumatism and pleurisy.'

“Then you are very careful, you wear flannel, a heavy greatcoat and

thick shoes, but all this does not prevent you from passing two months

in bed. But when spring returns, with its leaves and flowers, its warm,

soft breezes and its smell of the fields, all of which causes you vague

disquiet and causeless emotion, nobody says to you:

“'Monsieur, beware of love! It is lying in ambush everywhere; it is

watching for you at every corner; all its snares are laid, all its

weapons are sharpened, all its guiles are prepared! Beware of love!

Beware of love! It is more dangerous than brandy, bronchitis or

pleurisy! It never forgives and makes everybody commit irreparable

follies.'

“Yes, monsieur, I say that the French Government ought to put large

public notices on the walls, with these words: 'Return of spring. French

citizens, beware of love!' just as they put: 'Beware of paint:

“However, as the government will not do this, I must supply its place,

and I say to you: 'Beware of love!' for it is just going to seize you,

and it is my duty to inform you of it, just as in Russia they inform any

one that his nose is frozen.”

I was much astonished at this individual, and assuming a dignified

manner, I said:

“Really, monsieur, you appear to me to be interfering in a matter which

is no concern of yours.”

He made an abrupt movement and replied:

“Ah! monsieur, monsieur! If I see that a man is in danger of being

drowned at a dangerous spot, ought I to let him perish? So just listen

to my story and you will see why I ventured to speak to you like this.

“It was about this time last year that it occurred. But, first of all, I

must tell you that I am a clerk in the Admiralty, where our chiefs, the

commissioners, take their gold lace as quill-driving officials

seriously, and treat us like forecastle men on board a ship. Well, from

my office I could see a small bit of blue sky and the swallows, and I

felt inclined to dance among my portfolios.

“My yearning for freedom grew so intense that, in spite of my

repugnance, I went to see my chief, a short, bad-tempered man, who was

always in a rage. When I told him that I was not well, he looked at me

and said: 'I do not believe it, monsieur, but be off with you! Do you

think that any office can go on with clerks like you?' I started at once

and went down the Seine. It was a day like this, and I took the Mouche,

to go as far as Saint Cloud. Ah! what a good thing it would have been if

my chief had refused me permission to leave the office that day!

“I seemed to myself to expand in the sun. I loved everything—the

steamer, the river, the trees, the houses and my fellow-passengers. I

felt inclined to kiss something, no matter what; it was love, laying its

snare. Presently, at the Trocadero, a girl, with a small parcel in her

hand, came on board and sat down opposite me. She was decidedly pretty,

but it is surprising, monsieur, how much prettier women seem to us when

the day is fine at the beginning of the spring. Then they have an

intoxicating charm, something quite peculiar about them. It is just like

drinking wine after cheese.

“I looked at her and she also looked at me, but only occasionally, as

that girl did at you, just now; but at last, by dint of looking at each

other constantly, it seemed to me that we knew each other well enough to

enter into conversation, and I spoke to her and she replied. She was

decidedly pretty and nice and she intoxicated me, monsieur!

“She got out at Saint-Cloud, and I followed her. She went and delivered

her parcel, and when she returned the boat had just started. I walked by

her side, and the warmth of the 'air made us both sigh. 'It would be

very nice in the woods,' I said. 'Indeed, it would!' she replied. 'Shall

we go there for a walk, mademoiselie?'

“She gave me a quick upward look, as if to see exactly what I was like,

and then, after a little hesitation, she accepted my proposal, and soon

we were there, walking side by side. Under the foliage, which was still

rather scanty, the tall, thick, bright green grass was inundated by the

sun, and the air was full of insects that were also making love to one

another, and birds were singing in all directions. My companion began to

jump and to run, intoxicated by the air and the smell of the country,

and I ran and jumped, following her example. How silly we are at times,

monsieur!

“Then she sang unrestrainedly a thousand things, opera airs and the song

of Musette! The song of Musette! How poetical it seemed to me, then! I

almost cried over it. Ah! Those silly songs make us lose our heads; and,

believe me, never marry a woman who sings in the country, especially if

she sings the song of Musette!

“She soon grew tired, and sat down on a grassy slope, and I sat at her

feet and took her hands, her little hands, that were so marked with the

needle, and that filled me with emotion. I said to myself:

“'These are the sacred marks of toil.' Oh! monsieur, do you know what

those sacred marks of toil mean? They mean all the gossip of the

workroom, the whispered scandal, the mind soiled by all the filth that

is talked; they mean lost chastity, foolish chatter, all the

wretchedness of their everyday life, all the narrowness of ideas which

belongs to women of the lower orders, combined to their fullest extent

in the girl whose fingers bear the sacred marks of toil.

“Then we looked into each other's eyes for a long while. Oh! what power

a woman's eye has! How it agitates us, how it invades our very being,

takes possession of us, and dominates us! How profound it seems, how

full of infinite promises! People call that looking into each other's

souls! Oh! monsieur, what humbug! If we could see into each other's

souls, we should be more careful of what we did. However, I was

captivated and was crazy about her and tried to take her into my arms,

but she said: 'Paws off!'. Then I knelt down and opened my heart to her

and poured out all the affection that was suffocating me. She seemed

surprised at my change of manner and gave me a sidelong glance, as if to

say, 'Ah! so that is the way women make a fool of you, old fellow! Very

well, we will see.'

“In love, monsieur, we are always novices, and women artful dealers.

“No doubt I could have had her, and I saw my own stupidity later, but

what I wanted was not a woman's person, it was love, it was the ideal. I

was sentimental, when I ought to have been using my time to a better

purpose.

“As soon as she had had enough of my declarations of affection, she got

up, and we returned to Saint-Cloud, and I did not leave her until we got

to Paris; but she had looked so sad as we were returning, that at last I

asked her what was the matter. 'I am thinking,' she replied, 'that this

has been one of those days of which we have but few in life.' My heart

beat so that it felt as if it would break my ribs.

“I saw her on the following Sunday, and the next Sunday, and every

Sunday. I took her to Bougival, Saint-Germain, Maisons-Lafitte, Poissy;

to every suburban resort of lovers.

“The little jade, in turn, pretended to love me, until, at last, I

altogether lost my head, and three months later I married her.

“What can you expect, monsieur, when a man is a clerk, living alone,

without any relations, or any one to advise him? One says to one's self:

'How sweet life would be with a wife!'

“And so one gets married and she calls you names from morning till

night, understands nothing, knows nothing, chatters continually, sings

the song of Musette at the, top of her voice (oh! that song of Musette,

how tired one gets of it!); quarrels with the charcoal dealer, tells the

janitor all her domestic details, confides all the secrets of her

bedroom to the neighbor's servant, discusses her husband with the

tradespeople and has her head so stuffed with stupid stories, with

idiotic superstitions, with extraordinary ideas and monstrous

prejudices, that I—for what I have said applies more particularly to

myself—shed tears of discouragement every time I talk to her.”

He stopped, as he was rather out of breath and very much moved, and I

looked at him, for I felt pity for this poor, artless devil, and I was

just going to give him some sort of answer, when the boat stopped. We

were at Saint-Cloud.

The little woman who had so taken my fancy rose from her seat in order

to land. She passed close to me, and gave me a sidelong glance and a

furtive smile, one of those smiles that drive you wild. Then she jumped

on the landing-stage. I sprang forward to follow her, but my neighbor

laid hold of my arm. I shook myself loose, however, whereupon he seized

the skirt of my coat and pulled me back, exclaiming: “You shall not go!

you shall not go!” in such a loud voice that everybody turned round and

laughed, and I remained standing motionless and furious, but without

venturing to face scandal and ridicule, and the steamboat started.

The little woman on the landing-stage looked at me as I went off with an

air of disappointment, while my persecutor rubbed his hands and

whispered to me:

“You must acknowledge that I have done you a great service.”

A QUEER NIGHT IN PARIS

Mattre Saval, notary at Vernon, was passionately fond of music. Although

still young he was already bald; he was always carefully shaven, was

somewhat corpulent as was suitable, and wore a gold pince-nez instead of

spectacles. He was active, gallant and cheerful and was considered quite

an artist in Vernon. He played the piano and the violin, and gave

musicals where the new operas were interpreted.

He had even what is called a bit of a voice; nothing but a bit, very

little bit of a voice; but he managed it with so much taste that cries

of “Bravo!” “Exquisite!” “Surprising!” “Adorable!” issued from every

throat as soon as he had murmured the last note.

He subscribed to a music publishing house in Paris, and they sent him

the latest music, and from time to time he sent invitations after this

fashion to the elite of the town:

“You are invited to be present on Monday evening at the house of M.

Saval, notary, Vernon, at the first rendering of 'Sais.'”

A few officers, gifted with good voices, formed the chorus. Two or three

lady amateurs also sang. The notary filled the part of leader of the

orchestra with so much correctness that the bandmaster of the 190th

regiment of the line said of him, one day, at the Cafe de l'Europe.

“Oh! M. Saval is a master. It is a great pity that he did not adopt the

career of an artist.”

When his name was mentioned in a drawing-room, there was always somebody

found to declare: “He is not an amateur; he is an artist, a genuine

artist.”

And two or three persons repeated, in a tone of profound conviction:

“Oh! yes, a genuine artist,” laying particular stress on the word

“genuine.”

Every time that a new work was interpreted at a big Parisian theatre M.

Saval paid a visit to the capital.

Now, last year, according to his custom, he went to hear Henri VIII. He

then took the express which arrives in Paris at 4:30 P.M., intending to

return by the 12:35 A.M. train, so as not to have to sleep at a hotel.

He had put on evening dress, a black coat and white tie, which he

concealed under his overcoat with the collar turned up.

As soon as he set foot on the Rue d'Amsterdam, he felt himself in quite

jovial mood. He said to himself:

“Decidedly, the air of Paris does not resemble any other air. It has in

it something indescribably stimulating, exciting, intoxicating, which

fills you with a strange longing to dance about and to do many other

things. As soon as I arrive here, it seems to me, all of a sudden, that

I have taken a bottle of champagne. What a life one can lead in this

city in the midst of artists! Happy are the elect, the great men who

make themselves a reputation in such a city! What an existence is

theirs!”

And he made plans; he would have liked to know some of these celebrated

men, to talk about them in Vernon, and to spend an evening with them

from time to time in Paris.

But suddenly an idea struck him. He had heard allusions to little cafes

in the outer boulevards at which well-known painters, men of letters,

and even musicians gathered, and he proceeded to go up to Montmartre at

a slow pace.

He had two hours before him. He wanted to look about him. He passed in

front of taverns frequented by belated bohemians, gazing at the

different faces, seeking to discover the artists. Finally, he came to

the sign of “The Dead Rat,” and, allured by the name, he entered.

Five or six women, with their elbows resting on the marble tables, were

talking in low tones about their love affairs, the quarrels of Lucie and

Hortense, and the scoundrelism of Octave. They were no longer young,

were too fat or too thin, tired out, used up. You could see that they

were almost bald; and they drank beer like men.

M. Saval sat down at some distance from them and waited, for the hour

for taking absinthe was at hand.

A tall young man soon came in and took a seat beside him. The landlady

called him M. “Romantin.” The notary quivered. Was this the Romantin who

had taken a medal at the last Salon?

The young man made a sign to the waiter.

“You will bring up my dinner at once, and then carry to my new studio,

15 Boulevard de Clichy, thirty bottles of beer, and the ham I ordered

this morning. We are going to have a housewarming.”

M. Saval immediately ordered dinner. Then, he took off his overcoat, so

that his dress suit and his white tie could be seen. His neighbor did

not seem to notice him. He had taken up a newspaper, and was reading it.

M. Saval glanced sideways at him, burning with the desire to speak to

him.

Two young men entered, in red vests and with peaked beards, in the

fashion of Henry III. They sat down opposite Romantin.

The first of the pair said:

“Is it for this evening?”

Romantin pressed his hand.

“I believe you, old chap, and everyone will be there. I have Bonnat,

Guillemet, Gervex, Beraud, Hebert, Duez, Clairin, and Jean-Paul Laurens.

It will be a stunning affair! And women, too! Wait till you see! Every

actress without exception—of course I mean, you know, all those who have

nothing to do this evening.”

The landlord of the establishment came across.

“Do you often have this housewarming?”

The painter replied:

“I believe you, every three months, each quarter.”

M. Saval could not restrain himself any longer, and in a hesitating

voice said:

“I beg your pardon for intruding on you, monsieur, but I heard your name

mentioned, and I would be very glad to know if you really are M.

Romantin, whose work in the last Salon I have so much admired?”

The painter answered:

“I am the very person, monsieur.”

The notary then paid the artist a very well-turned compliment, showing

that he was a man of culture.

The painter, gratified, thanked him politely in reply.

Then they chattered. Romantin returned to the subject of his house-

warming, going into details as to the magnificence of the forthcoming

entertainment.

M. Saval questioned him as to all the men he was going to receive,

adding:

“It would be an extraordinary piece of good fortune for a stranger to

meet at one time so many celebrities assembled in the studio of an

artist of your rank.”

Romantin, vanquished, replied:

“If it would be agreeable to you, come.”

M. Saval accepted the invitation with enthusiasm, reflecting:

“I shall have time enough to see Henri VIII.”

Both of them had finished their meal. The notary insisted on paying the

two bills, wishing to repay his neighbor's civilities. He also paid for

the drinks of the young fellows in red velvet; then he left the

establishment with the painter.

They stopped in front of a very long, low house, the first story having

the appearance of an interminable conservatory. Six studios stood in a

row with their fronts facing the boulevards.

Romantin was the first to enter, and, ascending the stairs, he opened a

door, and lighted a match and then a candle.

They found themselves in an immense apartment, the furniture of which

consisted of three chairs, two easels, and a few sketches standing on

the ground along the walls. M. Saval remained standing at the door

somewhat astonished.

The painter remarked:

“Here you are! we've got to the spot; but everything has yet to be

done.”

Then, examining the high, bare apartment, its ceiling disappearing in

the darkness, he said:

“We might make a great deal out of this studio.”

He walked round it, surveying it with the utmost attention, then went

on:

“I know someone who might easily give a helping hand. Women are

incomparable for hanging drapery. But I sent her to the country for to-

day in order to get her off my hands this evening. It is not that she

bores me, but she is too much lacking in the ways of good society. It

would be embarrassing to my guests.”

He reflected for a few seconds, and then added:

“She is a good girl, but not easy to deal with. If she knew that I was

holding a reception, she would tear out my eyes.”

M. Saval had not even moved; he did not understand.

The artist came over to him.

“Since I have invited you, you will assist me about something.”

The notary said emphatically:

“Make any use of me you please. I am at your disposal.”

Romantin took off his jacket.

“Well, citizen, to work!' We are first going to clean up.”

He went to the back of the easel, on which there was a canvas

representing a cat, and seized a very worn-out broom.

“I say! Just brush up while I look after the lighting.”

M. Saval took the broom, inspected it, and then began to sweep the floor

very awkwardly, raising a whirlwind of dust.

Romantin, disgusted, stopped him: “Deuce take it! you don't know how to

sweep the floor! Look at me!”

And he began to roll before him a heap of grayish sweepings, as if he

had done nothing else all his life. Then, he gave bark the broom to the

notary, who imitated him.

In five minutes, such a cloud of dust filled the studio that Rormantin

asked:

“Where are you? I can't see you any longer.”

M. Saval, who was coughing, came near to him. The painter said:

“How would you set about making a chandelier?”

The other, surprised, asked:

“What chandelier?”

“Why, a chandelier to light the room—a chandelier with wax-candles.”

The notary did not understand.

He answered: “I don't know.”

The painter began to jump about, cracking his fingers.

“Well, monseigneur, I have found out a way.”

Then he went on more calmly:

“Have you got five francs about you?”

M. Saval replied:

“Why, yes.”

The artist said: “Well! you'll go out and buy for me five francs' worth

of wax-candles while I go and see the cooper.”

And he pushed the notary in his evening coat into the street. At the end

of five minutes, they had returned, one of them with the wax-candles and

the other with the hoop of a cask. Then Romantin plunged his hand into a

cupboard, and drew forth twenty empty bottles, which he fixed in the

form of a crown around the hoop.

He then went downstairs to borrow a ladder from the janitress, after

having explained that he had made interest with the old woman by

painting the portrait of her cat, exhibited on the easel.

When he returned with the ladder, he said to M. Saval:

“Are you active?”

The other, without understanding, answered:

“Why, yes.”

“Well, you just climb up there, and fasten this chandelier for me to the

ring of the ceiling. Then, you put a wax-candle in each bottle, and

light it. I tell you I have a genius for lighting up. But off with your

coat, damn it! You are just like a Jeames.”

The door was opened brusquely. A woman appeared, her eyes flashing, and

remained standing on the threshold.

Romantin gazed at her with a look of terror.

She waited some seconds, crossing her arms over her breast, and then in

a shrill, vibrating, exasperated voice said:

“Ha! you dirty scoundrel, is this the way you leave me?”

Romantin made no reply. She went on:

“Ha! you scoundrel! You did a nice thing in parking me off to the

country. You'll soon see the way I'll settle your jollification. Yes,

I'm going to receive your friends.”

She grew warmer.

“I'm going to slap their faces with the bottles and the wax-candles——”

Romantin said in a soft tone:

“Mathilde——”

But she did not pay any attention to him; she went on:

“Wait a little, my fine fellow! wait a little!”

Romantin went over to her, and tried to take her by the hands.

“Mathilde——”

But she was now fairly under way; and on she went, emptying the vials of

her wrath with strong words and reproaches. They flowed out of her mouth

like, a stream sweeping a heap of filth along with it. The words pouring

forth seemed struggling for exit. She stuttered, stammered, yelled,

suddenly recovering her voice to cast forth an insult or a curse.

He seized her hands without her having noticed it. She did not seem to

see anything, so taken up was she in scolding and relieving her

feelings. And suddenly she began to weep. The tears flowed from her

eyes, but this did not stop her complaints. But her words were uttered

in a screaming falsetto voice with tears in it and interrupted by sobs.

She commenced afresh twice or three times, till she stopped as if

something were choking her, and at last she ceased with a regular flood

of tears.

Then he clasped her in his arms and kissed her hair, affected himself.

“Mathilde, my little Mathilde, listen. You must be reasonable. You know,

if I give a supper-party to my friends, it is to thank these gentlemen

for the medal I got at the Salon. I cannot receive women. You ought to

understand that. It is not the same with artists as with other people.”

She stammered, in the midst of her tears:

“Why didn't you tell me this?”

He replied:

“It was in order not to annoy you, not to give you pain. Listen, I'm

going to see you home. You will be very sensible, very nice; you will

remain quietly waiting for me in bed, and I'll come back as soon as it's

over.”

She murmured:

“Yes, but you will not begin over again?”

“No, I swear to you!”

He turned towards M. Saval, who had at last hooked on the chandelier:

“My dear friend, I am coming back in five minutes. If anyone arrives in

my absence, do the honors for me, will you not?”

And he carried off Mathilde, who kept drying her eyes with her

handkerchief as she went along.

Left to himself, M. Saval succeeded in putting everything around him in

order. Then he lighted the wax-candles, and waited.

He waited for a quarter of an hour, half an hour, an hour. Romantin did

not return. Then, suddenly there was a dreadful noise on the stairs, a

song shouted out in chorus by twenty mouths and a regular march like

that of a Prussian regiment. The whole house was shaken by the steady

tramp of feet. The door flew open, and a motley throng appeared—men and

women in file, two and two holding each other by the arm and stamping

their heels on the ground to mark time, advanced into the studio like a

snake uncoiling itself. They howled:

“Come, and let us all be merry, Pretty maids and soldiers gay!”

M. Saval, thunderstruck, remained standing in evening dress under the

chandelier. The procession of revellers caught sight of him, and uttered

a shout:

“A Jeames! A Jeames!”

And they began whirling round him, surrounding him with a circle of

vociferations. Then they took each other by the hand and went dancing

about madly.

He attempted to explain:

“Messieurs—messieurs—mesdames——”

But they did not listen to him. They whirled about, they jumped, they

brawled.

At last, the dancing ceased. M. Saval said:

“Gentlemen——”

A tall young fellow, fair-haired and bearded to the nose, interrupted

him:

“What's your name, my friend?”

The notary, quite scared, said:

“I am M. Saval.”

A voice exclaimed:

“You mean Baptiste.”

A woman said:

“Let the poor waiter alone! You'll end by making him get angry. He's

paid to wait on us, and not to be laughed at by us.”

Then, M. Saval noticed that each guest had brought his own provisions.

One held a bottle of wine, and the other a pie. This one had a loaf of

bread, and one a ham.

The tall, fair young fellow placed in his hands an enormous sausage, and

gave orders:

“Here, go and arrange the sideboard in the corner over there. Put the

bottles at the left and the provisions at the right.”

Saval, getting quite distracted, exclaimed: “But, messieurs, I am a

notary!”

There was a moment's silence and then a wild outburst of laughter. One

suspicious gentleman asked:

“How came you to be here?”

He explained, telling about his project of going to the opera, his

departure from Vernon, his arrival in Paris, and the way in which he had

spent the evening.

They sat around him to listen to him; they greeted him with words of

applause, and called him Scheherazade.

Romantin did not return. Other guests arrived. M. Saval was presented to

them so that he might begin his story over again. He declined; they

forced him to relate it. They seated and tied him on one of three chairs

between two women who kept constantly filling his glass. He drank; he

laughed; he talked; he sang, too. He tried to waltz with his chair, and

fell on the ground.

From that moment, he forgot everything. It seemed to him, however, that

they undressed him, put him to bed, and that he was nauseated.

When he awoke, it was broad daylight, and he lay stretched with his feet

against a cupboard, in a strange bed.

An old woman with a broom in her hand was glaring angrily at him. At

last, she said:

“Clear out, you blackguard! Clear out! What right has anyone to get

drunk like this?”

He sat up in bed, feeling very ill at ease. He asked:

“Where am I?”

“Where are you, you dirty scamp? You are drunk. Take your rotten carcass

out of here as quick as you can—and lose no time about it!”

He wanted to get up. He found that he was in no condition to do so. His

clothes had disappeared. He blurted out:

“Madame, I——Then he remembered. What was he to do? He asked:

“Did Monsieur Romantin come back?”

The doorkeeper shouted:

“Will you take your dirty carcass out of this, so that he at any rate

may not catch you here?”

M. Saval said, in a state of confusion:

“I haven't got my clothes; they have been taken away from me.”

He had to wait, to explain his situation, give notice to his friends,

and borrow some money to buy clothes. He did not leave Paris till

evening. And when people talk about music to him in his beautiful

drawing-room in Vernon, he declares with an air of authority that

painting is a very inferior art.

ORIGINAL SHORT STORIES, Vol. 6.

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

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

VOLUME VI.

THAT COSTLY RIDE

The household lived frugally on the meager income derived from the

husband's insignificant appointments. Two children had been born of the

marriage, and the earlier condition of the strictest economy had become

one of quiet, concealed, shamefaced misery, the poverty of a noble

family—which in spite of misfortune never forgets its rank.

Hector de Gribelin had been educated in the provinces, under the

paternal roof, by an aged priest. His people were not rich, but they

managed to live and to keep up appearances.

At twenty years of age they tried to find him a position, and he entered

the Ministry of Marine as a clerk at sixty pounds a year. He foundered

on the rock of life like all those who have not been early prepared for

its rude struggles, who look at life through a mist, who do not know how

to protect themselves, whose special aptitudes and faculties have not

been developed from childhood, whose early training has not developed

the rough energy needed for the battle of life or furnished them with

tool or weapon.

His first three years of office work were a martyrdom.

He had, however, renewed the acquaintance of a few friends of his family

—elderly people, far behind the times, and poor like himself, who lived

in aristocratic streets, the gloomy thoroughfares of the Faubourg Saint-

Germain; and he had created a social circle for himself.

Strangers to modern life, humble yet proud, these needy aristocrats

lived in the upper stories of sleepy, old-world houses. From top to

bottom of their dwellings the tenants were titled, but money seemed just

as scarce on the ground floor as in the attics.

Their eternal prejudices, absorption in their rank, anxiety lest they

should lose caste, filled the minds and thoughts of these families once

so brilliant, now ruined by the idleness of the men of the family.

Hector de Gribelin met in this circle a young girl as well born and as

poor as himself and married her.