They had two children in four years.

For four years more the husband and wife, harassed by poverty, knew no

other distraction than the Sunday walk in the Champs-Elysees and a few

evenings at the theatre (amounting in all to one or two in the course of

the winter) which they owed to free passes presented by some comrade or

other.

But in the spring of the following year some overtime work was entrusted

to Hector de Gribelin by his chief, for which he received the large sum

of three hundred francs.

The day he brought the money home he said to his wife:

“My dear Henrietta, we must indulge in some sort of festivity—say an

outing for the children.”

And after a long discussion it was decided that they should go and lunch

one day in the country.

“Well,” cried Hector, “once will not break us, so we'll hire a wagonette

for you, the children and the maid. And I'll have a saddle horse; the

exercise will do me good.”

The whole week long they talked of nothing but the projected excursion.

Every evening, on his return from the office, Hector caught up his elder

son, put him astride his leg, and, making him bounce up and down as hard

as he could, said:

“That's how daddy will gallop next Sunday.”

And the youngster amused himself all day long by bestriding chairs,

dragging them round the room and shouting:

“This is daddy on horseback!”

The servant herself gazed at her master with awestruck eyes as she

thought of him riding alongside the carriage, and at meal-times she

listened with all her ears while he spoke of riding and recounted the

exploits of his youth, when he lived at home with his father. Oh, he had

learned in a good school, and once he felt his steed between his legs he

feared nothing—nothing whatever!

Rubbing his hands, he repeated gaily to his wife:

“If only they would give me a restive animal I should be all the better

pleased. You'll see how well I can ride; and if you like we'll come back

by the Champs-Elysees just as all the people are returning from the

Bois. As we shall make a good appearance, I shouldn't at all object to

meeting some one from the ministry. That is all that is necessary to

insure the respect of one's chiefs.”

On the day appointed the carriage and the riding horse arrived at the

same moment before the door. Hector went down immediately to examine his

mount. He had had straps sewn to his trousers and flourished in his hand

a whip he had bought the evening before.

He raised the horse's legs and felt them one after another, passed his

hand over the animal's neck, flank and hocks, opened his mouth, examined

his teeth, declared his age; and then, the whole household having

collected round him, he delivered a discourse on the horse in general

and the specimen before him in particular, pronouncing the latter

excellent in every respect.

When the rest of the party had taken their seats in the carriage he

examined the saddle-girth; then, putting his foot in the stirrup, he

sprang to the saddle. The animal began to curvet and nearly threw his

rider.

Hector, not altogether at his ease, tried to soothe him:

“Come, come, good horse, gently now!”

Then, when the horse had recovered his equanimity and the rider his

nerve, the latter asked:

“Are you ready?”

The occupants of the carriage replied with one voice:

“Yes.”

“Forward!” he commanded.

And the cavalcade set out.

All looks were centered on him. He trotted in the English style, rising

unnecessarily high in the saddle; looking at times as if he were

mounting into space. Sometimes he seemed on the point of falling forward

on the horse's mane; his eyes were fixed, his face drawn, his cheeks

pale.

His wife, holding one of the children on her knees, and the servant, who

was carrying the other, continually cried out:

“Look at papa! look at papa!”

And the two boys, intoxicated by the motion of the carriage, by their

delight and by the keen air, uttered shrill cries. The horse, frightened

by the noise they made, started off at a gallop, and while Hector was

trying to control his steed his hat fell off, and the driver had to get

down and pick it up. When the equestrian had recovered it he called to

his wife from a distance:

“Don't let the children shout like that! They'll make the horse bolt!”

They lunched on the grass in the Vesinet woods, having brought

provisions with them in the carriage.

Although the driver was looking after the three horses, Hector rose

every minute to see if his own lacked anything; he patted him on the

neck and fed him with bread, cakes and sugar.

“He's an unequal trotter,” he declared. “He certainly shook me up a

little at first, but, as you saw, I soon got used to it. He knows his

master now and won't give any more trouble.”

As had been decided, they returned by the Champs-Elysees.

That spacious thoroughfare literally swarmed with vehicles of every

kind, and on the sidewalks the pedestrians were so numerous that they

looked like two indeterminate black ribbons unfurling their length from

the Arc de Triomphe to the Place de la Concorde. A flood of sunlight

played on this gay scene, making the varnish of the carriages, the steel

of the harness and the handles of the carriage doors shine with dazzling

brilliancy.

An intoxication of life and motion seemed to have invaded this

assemblage of human beings, carriages and horses. In the distance the

outlines of the Obelisk could be discerned in a cloud of golden vapor.

As soon as Hector's horse had passed the Arc de Triomphe he became

suddenly imbued with fresh energy, and, realizing that his stable was

not far off, began to trot rapidly through the maze of wheels, despite

all his rider's efforts to restrain him.

The carriage was now far behind. When the horse arrived opposite the

Palais de l'Industrie he saw a clear field before him, and, turning to

the right, set off at a gallop.

An old woman wearing an apron was crossing the road in leisurely

fashion. She happened to be just in Hector's way as he arrived on the

scene riding at full speed. Powerless to control his mount, he shouted

at the top of his voice:

“Hi! Look out there! Hi!”

She must have been deaf, for she continued peacefully on her way until

the awful moment when, struck by the horse's chest as by a locomotive

under full steam, she rolled ten paces off, turning three somersaults on

the way.

Voices yelled:

“Stop him!”

Hector, frantic with terror, clung to the horse's mane and shouted:

“Help! help!”

A terrible jolt hurled him, as if shot from a gun, over his horse's ears

and cast him into the arms of a policeman who was running up to stop

him.

In the space of a second a furious, gesticulating, vociferating group

had gathered round him. An old gentleman with a white mustache, wearing

a large round decoration, seemed particularly exasperated. He repeated:

“Confound it! When a man is as awkward as all that he should remain at

home and not come killing people in the streets, if he doesn't know how

to handle a horse.”

Four men arrived on the scene, carrying the old woman. She appeared to

be dead. Her skin was like parchment, her cap on one side and she was

covered with dust.

“Take her to a druggist's,” ordered the old gentleman, “and let us go to

the commissary of police.”

Hector started on his way with a policeman on either side of him, a

third was leading his horse. A crowd followed them—and suddenly the

wagonette appeared in sight. His wife alighted in consternation, the

servant lost her head, the children whimpered. He explained that he

would soon be at home, that he had knocked a woman down and that there

was not much the matter. And his family, distracted with anxiety, went

on their way.

When they arrived before the commissary the explanation took place in

few words. He gave his name—Hector de Gribelin, employed at the Ministry

of Marine; and then they awaited news of the injured woman. A policeman

who had been sent to obtain information returned, saying that she had

recovered consciousness, but was complaining of frightful internal pain.

She was a charwoman, sixty-five years of age, named Madame Simon.

When he heard that she was not dead Hector regained hope and promised to

defray her doctor's bill. Then he hastened to the druggist's. The door

way was thronged; the injured woman, huddled in an armchair, was

groaning. Her arms hung at her sides, her face was drawn. Two doctors

were still engaged in examining her. No bones were broken, but they

feared some internal lesion.

Hector addressed her:

“Do you suffer much?”

“Oh, yes!”

“Where is the pain?”

“I feel as if my stomach were on fire.”

A doctor approached.

“Are you the gentleman who caused the accident?”

“I am.”

“This woman ought to be sent to a home. I know one where they would take

her at six francs a day. Would you like me to send her there?”

Hector was delighted at the idea, thanked him and returned home much

relieved.

His wife, dissolved in tears, was awaiting him. He reassured her.

“It's all right. This Madame Simon is better already and will be quite

well in two or three days. I have sent her to a home. It's all right.”

When he left his office the next day he went to inquire for Madame

Simon. He found her eating rich soup with an air of great satisfaction.

“Well?” said he.

“Oh, sir,” she replied, “I'm just the same. I feel sort of crushed—not a

bit better.”

The doctor declared they must wait and see; some complication or other

might arise.

Hector waited three days, then he returned. The old woman, fresh-faced

and clear-eyed, began to whine when she saw him:

“I can't move, sir; I can't move a bit. I shall be like this for the

rest of my days.”

A shudder passed through Hector's frame. He asked for the doctor, who

merely shrugged his shoulders and said:

“What can I do? I can't tell what's wrong with her. She shrieks when

they try to raise her. They can't even move her chair from one place to

another without her uttering the most distressing cries. I am bound to

believe what she tells me; I can't look into her inside. So long as I

have no chance of seeing her walk I am not justified in supposing her to

be telling lies about herself.”

The old woman listened, motionless, a malicious gleam in her eyes.

A week passed, then a fortnight, then a month. Madame Simon did not

leave her armchair. She ate from morning to night, grew fat, chatted

gaily with the other patients and seemed to enjoy her immobility as if

it were the rest to which she was entitled after fifty years of going up

and down stairs, of turning mattresses, of carrying coal from one story

to another, of sweeping and dusting.

Hector, at his wits' end, came to see her every day. Every day he found

her calm and serene, declaring:

“I can't move, sir; I shall never be able to move again.”

Every evening Madame de Gribelin, devoured with anxiety, said:

“How is Madame Simon?”

And every time he replied with a resignation born of despair:

“Just the same; no change whatever.”

They dismissed the servant, whose wages they could no longer afford.

They economized more rigidly than ever. The whole of the extra pay had

been swallowed up.

Then Hector summoned four noted doctors, who met in consultation over

the old woman. She let them examine her, feel her, sound her, watching

them the while with a cunning eye.

“We must make her walk,” said one.

“But, sirs, I can't!” she cried. “I can't move!”

Then they took hold of her, raised her and dragged her a short distance,

but she slipped from their grasp and fell to the floor, groaning and

giving vent to such heartrending cries that they carried her back to her

seat with infinite care and precaution.

They pronounced a guarded opinion—agreeing, however, that work was an

impossibility to her.

And when Hector brought this news to his wife she sank on a chair,

murmuring:

“It would be better to bring her here; it would cost us less.”

He started in amazement.

“Here? In our own house? How can you think of such a thing?”

But she, resigned now to anything, replied with tears in her eyes:

“But what can we do, my love? It's not my fault!”

USELESS BEAUTY I

About half-past five one afternoon at the end of June when the sun was

shining warm and bright into the large courtyard, a very elegant

victoria with two beautiful black horses drew up in front of the

mansion.

The Comtesse de Mascaret came down the steps just as her husband, who

was coming home, appeared in the carriage entrance. He stopped for a few

moments to look at his wife and turned rather pale. The countess was

very beautiful, graceful and distinguished looking, with her long oval

face, her complexion like yellow ivory, her large gray eyes and her

black hair; and she got into her carriage without looking at him,

without even seeming to have noticed him, with such a particularly high-

bred air, that the furious jealousy by which he had been devoured for so

long again gnawed at his heart. He went up to her and said: “You are

going for a drive?”

She merely replied disdainfully: “You see I am!”

“In the Bois de Boulogne?”

“Most probably.”

“May I come with you?”

“The carriage belongs to you.”

Without being surprised at the tone in which she answered him, he got in

and sat down by his wife's side and said: “Bois de Boulogne.” The

footman jumped up beside the coachman, and the horses as usual pranced

and tossed their heads until they were in the street. Husband and wife

sat side by side without speaking. He was thinking how to begin a

conversation, but she maintained such an obstinately hard look that he

did not venture to make the attempt. At last, however, he cunningly,

accidentally as it were, touched the countess' gloved hand with his own,

but she drew her arm away with a movement which was so expressive of

disgust that he remained thoughtful, in spite of his usual authoritative

and despotic character, and he said: “Gabrielle!”

“What do you want?”

“I think you are looking adorable.”

She did not reply, but remained lying back in the carriage, looking like

an irritated queen. By that time they were driving up the Champs

Elysees, toward the Arc de Triomphe. That immense monument, at the end

of the long avenue, raised its colossal arch against the red sky and the

sun seemed to be descending on it, showering fiery dust on it from the

sky.

The stream of carriages, with dashes of sunlight reflected in the silver

trappings of the harness and the glass of the lamps, flowed on in a

double current toward the town and toward the Bois, and the Comte de

Mascaret continued: “My dear Gabrielle!”

Unable to control herself any longer, she replied in an exasperated

voice: “Oh! do leave me in peace, pray! I am not even allowed to have my

carriage to myself now.” He pretended not to hear her and continued:

“You never have looked so pretty as you do to-day.”

Her patience had come to an end, and she replied with irrepressible

anger: “You are wrong to notice it, for I swear to you that I will never

have anything to do with you in that way again.”

The count was decidedly stupefied and upset, and, his violent nature

gaining the upper hand, he exclaimed: “What do you mean by that?” in a

tone that betrayed rather the brutal master than the lover. She replied

in a low voice, so that the servants might not hear amid the deafening

noise of the wheels: “Ah! What do I mean by that? What do I mean by

that? Now I recognize you again! Do you want me to tell everything?”

“Yes.”

“Everything that has weighed on my heart since I have been the victim of

your terrible selfishness?”

He had grown red with surprise and anger and he growled between his

closed teeth: “Yes, tell me everything.”

He was a tall, broad-shouldered man, with a big red beard, a handsome

man, a nobleman, a man of the world, who passed as a perfect husband and

an excellent father, and now, for the first time since they had started,

she turned toward him and looked him full in the face: “Ah! You will

hear some disagreeable things, but you must know that I am prepared for

everything, that I fear nothing, and you less than any one to-day.”

He also was looking into her eyes and was already shaking with rage as

he said in a low voice: “You are mad.”

“No, but I will no longer be the victim of the hateful penalty of

maternity, which you have inflicted on me for eleven years! I wish to

take my place in society as I have the right to do, as all women have

the right to do.”

He suddenly grew pale again and stammered: “I do not understand you.”

“Oh! yes; you understand me well enough. It is now three months since I

had my last child, and as I am still very beautiful, and as, in spite of

all your efforts you cannot spoil my figure, as you just now perceived,

when you saw me on the doorstep, you think it is time that I should

think of having another child.”

“But you are talking nonsense!”

“No, I am not, I am thirty, and I have had seven children, and we have

been married eleven years, and you hope that this will go on for ten

years longer, after which you will leave off being jealous.”

He seized her arm and squeezed it, saying: “I will not allow you to talk

to me like that much longer.”

“And I shall talk to you till the end, until I have finished all I have

to say to you, and if you try to prevent me, I shall raise my voice so

that the two servants, who are on the box, may hear. I only allowed you

to come with me for that object, for I have these witnesses who will

oblige you to listen to me and to contain yourself, so now pay attention

to what I say. I have always felt an antipathy to you, and I have always

let you see it, for I have never lied, monsieur. You married me in spite

of myself; you forced my parents, who were in embarrassed circumstances,

to give me to you, because you were rich, and they obliged me to marry

you in spite of my tears.

“So you bought me, and as soon as I was in your power, as soon as I had

become your companion, ready to attach myself to you, to forget your

coercive and threatening proceedings, in order that I might only

remember that I ought to be a devoted wife and to love you as much as it

might be possible for me to love you, you became jealous, you, as no man

has ever been before, with the base, ignoble jealousy of a spy, which

was as degrading to you as it was to me. I had not been married eight

months when you suspected me of every perfidiousness, and you even told

me so. What a disgrace! And as you could not prevent me from being

beautiful and from pleasing people, from being called in drawing-rooms

and also in the newspapers one of the most beautiful women in Paris, you

tried everything you could think of to keep admirers from me, and you

hit upon the abominable idea of making me spend my life in a constant

state of motherhood, until the time should come when I should disgust

every man. Oh, do not deny it. I did not understand it for some time,

but then I guessed it. You even boasted about it to your sister, who

told me of it, for she is fond of me and was disgusted at your boorish

coarseness.

“Ah! Remember how you have behaved in the past! How for eleven years you

have compelled me to give up all society and simply be a mother to your

children. And then you would grow disgusted with me and I was sent into

the country, the family chateau, among fields and meadows. And when I

reappeared, fresh, pretty and unspoiled, still seductive and constantly

surrounded by admirers, hoping that at last I should live a little more

like a rich young society woman, you were seized with jealousy again,

and you began once more to persecute me with that infamous and hateful

desire from which you are suffering at this moment by my side. And it is

not the desire of possessing me—for I should never have refused myself

to you, but it is the wish to make me unsightly.

“And then that abominable and mysterious thing occurred which I was a

long time in understanding (but I grew sharp by dint of watching your

thoughts and actions): You attached yourself to your children with all

the security which they gave you while I bore them. You felt affection

for them, with all your aversion to me, and in spite of your ignoble

fears, which were momentarily allayed by your pleasure in seeing me lose

my symmetry.

“Oh! how often have I noticed that joy in you! I have seen it in your

eyes and guessed it. You loved your children as victories, and not

because they were of your own blood. They were victories over me, over

my youth, over my beauty, over my charms, over the compliments which

were paid me and over those that were whispered around me without being

paid to me personally. And you are proud of them, you make a parade of

them, you take them out for drives in your break in the Bois de Boulogne

and you give them donkey rides at Montmorency. You take them to

theatrical matinees so that you may be seen in the midst of them, so

that the people may say: 'What a kind father' and that it may be

repeated——”

He had seized her wrist with savage brutality, and he squeezed it so

violently that she was quiet and nearly cried out with the pain and he

said to her in a whisper:

“I love my children, do you hear? What you have just told me is

disgraceful in a mother. But you belong to me; I am master—your master—I

can exact from you what I like and when I like—and I have the law-on my

side.”

He was trying to crush her fingers in the strong grip of his large,

muscular hand, and she, livid with pain, tried in vain to free them from

that vise which was crushing them. The agony made her breathe hard and

the tears came into her eyes. “You see that I am the master and the

stronger,” he said. When he somewhat loosened his grip, she asked him:

“Do you think that I am a religious woman?”

He was surprised and stammered “Yes.”

“Do you think that I could lie if I swore to the truth of anything to

you before an altar on which Christ's body is?”

“No.”

“Will you go with me to some church?”

“What for?”

“You shall see. Will you?”

“If you absolutely wish it, yes.”

She raised her voice and said: “Philippe!” And the coachman, bending

down a little, without taking his eyes from his horses, seemed to turn

his ear alone toward his mistress, who continued: “Drive to St.

Philippe-du-Roule.” And the victoria, which had reached the entrance of

the Bois de Boulogne returned to Paris.

Husband and wife did not exchange a word further during the drive, and

when the carriage stopped before the church Madame de Mascaret jumped

out and entered it, followed by the count, a few yards distant. She

went, without stopping, as far as the choir-screen, and falling on her

knees at a chair, she buried her face in her hands. She prayed for a

long time, and he, standing behind her could see that she was crying.

She wept noiselessly, as women weep when they are in great, poignant

grief. There was a kind of undulation in her body, which ended in a

little sob, which was hidden and stifled by her fingers.

But the Comte de Mascaret thought that the situation was lasting too

long, and he touched her on the shoulder. That contact recalled her to

herself, as if she had been burned, and getting up, she looked straight

into his eyes. “This is what I have to say to you. I am afraid of

nothing, whatever you may do to me. You may kill me if you like. One of

your children is not yours, and one only; that I swear to you before

God, who hears me here. That was the only revenge that was possible for

me in return for all your abominable masculine tyrannies, in return for

the penal servitude of childbearing to which you have condemned me. Who

was my lover? That you never will know! You may suspect every one, but

you never will find out. I gave myself to him, without love and without

pleasure, only for the sake of betraying you, and he also made me a

mother. Which is the child? That also you never will know. I have seven;

try to find out! I intended to tell you this later, for one has not

avenged oneself on a man by deceiving him, unless he knows it. You have

driven me to confess it today. I have now finished.”

She hurried through the church toward the open door, expecting to hear

behind her the quick step: of her husband whom she had defied and to be

knocked to the ground by a blow of his fist, but she heard nothing and

reached her carriage. She jumped into it at a bound, overwhelmed with

anguish and breathless with fear. So she called out to the coachman:

“Home!” and the horses set off at a quick trot.

II

The Comtesse de Mascaret was waiting in her room for dinner time as a

criminal sentenced to death awaits the hour of his execution. What was

her husband going to do? Had he come home? Despotic, passionate, ready

for any violence as he was, what was he meditating, what had he made up

his mind to do? There was no sound in the house, and every moment she

looked at the clock. Her lady's maid had come and dressed her for the

evening and had then left the room again. Eight o'clock struck and

almost at the same moment there were two knocks at the door, and the

butler came in and announced dinner.

“Has the count come in?”

“Yes, Madame la Comtesse. He is in the diningroom.”

For a little moment she felt inclined to arm herself with a small

revolver which she had bought some time before, foreseeing the tragedy

which was being rehearsed in her heart. But she remembered that all the

children would be there, and she took nothing except a bottle of

smelling salts. He rose somewhat ceremoniously from his chair. They

exchanged a slight bow and sat down. The three boys with their tutor,

Abbe Martin, were on her right and the three girls, with Miss Smith,

their English governess, were on her left. The youngest child, who was

only three months old, remained upstairs with his nurse.

The abbe said grace as usual when there was no company, for the children

did not come down to dinner when guests were present. Then they began

dinner. The countess, suffering from emotion, which she had not

calculated upon, remained with her eyes cast down, while the count

scrutinized now the three boys and now the three girls with an

uncertain, unhappy expression, which travelled from one to the other.

Suddenly pushing his wineglass from him, it broke, and the wine was

spilt on the tablecloth, and at the slight noise caused by this little

accident the countess started up from her chair; and for the first time

they looked at each other. Then, in spite of themselves, in spite of the

irritation of their nerves caused by every glance, they continued to

exchange looks, rapid as pistol shots.

The abbe, who felt that there was some cause for embarrassment which he

could not divine, attempted to begin a conversation and tried various

subjects, but his useless efforts gave rise to no ideas and did not

bring out a word. The countess, with feminine tact and obeying her

instincts of a woman of the world, attempted to answer him two or three

times, but in vain. She could not find words, in the perplexity of her

mind, and her own voice almost frightened her in the silence of the

large room, where nothing was heard except the slight sound of plates

and knives and forks.

Suddenly her husband said to her, bending forward: “Here, amid your

children, will you swear to me that what you told me just now is true?”

The hatred which was fermenting in her veins suddenly roused her, and

replying to that question with the same firmness with which she had

replied to his looks, she raised both her hands, the right pointing

toward the boys and the left toward the girls, and said in a firm,

resolute voice and without any hesitation: “On the head of my children,

I swear that I have told you the truth.”

He got up and throwing his table napkin on the table with a movement of

exasperation, he turned round and flung his chair against the wall, and

then went out without another word, while she, uttering a deep sigh, as

if after a first victory, went on in a calm voice: “You must not pay any

attention to what your father has just said, my darlings; he was very

much upset a short time ago, but he will be all right again in a few

days.”

Then she talked with the abbe and Miss Smith and had tender, pretty

words for all her children, those sweet, tender mother's ways which

unfold little hearts.

When dinner was over she went into the drawing-room, all her children

following her. She made the elder ones chatter, and when their bedtime

came she kissed them for a long time and then went alone into her room.

She waited, for she had no doubt that the count would come, and she made

up her mind then, as her children were not with her, to protect herself

as a woman of the world as she would protect her life, and in the pocket

of her dress she put the little loaded revolver which she had bought a

few days previously. The hours went by, the hours struck, and every

sound was hushed in the house. Only the cabs, continued to rumble

through the streets, but their noise was only heard vaguely through the

shuttered and curtained windows.

She waited, full of nervous energy, without any fear of him now, ready

for anything, and almost triumphant, for she had found means of

torturing him continually during every moment of his life.

But the first gleam of dawn came in through the fringe at the bottom of

her curtain without his having come into her room, and then she awoke to

the fact, with much amazement, that he was not coming. Having locked and

bolted her door, for greater security, she went to bed at last and

remained there, with her eyes open, thinking and barely understanding it

all, without being able to guess what he was going to do.

When her maid brought her tea she at the same time handed her a letter

from her husband. He told her that he was going to undertake a longish

journey and in a postscript added that his lawyer would provide her with

any sums of money she might require for all her expenses.

III

It was at the opera, between two acts of “Robert the Devil.” In the

stalls the men were standing up, with their hats on, their waistcoats

cut very low so as to show a large amount of white shirt front, in which

gold and jewelled studs glistened, and were looking at the boxes full of

ladies in low dresses covered with diamonds and pearls, who were

expanding like flowers in that illuminated hothouse, where the beauty of

their faces and the whiteness of their shoulders seemed to bloom in

order to be gazed at, amid the sound of the music and of human voices.

Two friends, with their backs to the orchestra, were scanning those rows

of elegance, that exhibition of real or false charms, of jewels, of

luxury and of pretension which displayed itself in all parts of the

Grand Theatre, and one of them, Roger de Salnis, said to his companion,

Bernard Grandin:

“Just look how beautiful the Comtesse de Mascaret still is.”

The older man in turn looked through his opera glasses at a tall lady in

a box opposite. She appeared to be still very young, and her striking

beauty seemed to attract all eyes in every corner of the house. Her pale

complexion, of an ivory tint, gave her the appearance of a statue, while

a small diamond coronet glistened on her black hair like a streak of

light.

When he had looked at her for some time, Bernard Grandin replied with a

jocular accent of sincere conviction: “You may well call her beautiful!”

“How old do you think she is?”

“Wait a moment. I can tell you exactly, for I have known her since she

was a child and I saw her make her debut into society when she was quite

a girl. She is—she is—thirty—thirty-six.”

“Impossible!”

“I am sure of it.”

“She looks twenty-five.”

“She has had seven children.”

“It is incredible.”

“And what is more, they are all seven alive, as she is a very good

mother. I occasionally go to the house, which is a very quiet and

pleasant one, where one may see the phenomenon of the family in the

midst of society.”

“How very strange! And have there never been any reports about her?”

“Never.”

“But what about her husband? He is peculiar, is he not?”

“Yes and no. Very likely there has been a little drama between them, one

of those little domestic dramas which one suspects, never finds out

exactly, but guesses at pretty closely.”

“What is it?”

“I do not know anything about it. Mascaret leads a very fast life now,

after being a model husband. As long as he remained a good spouse he had

a shocking temper, was crabbed and easily took offence, but since he has

been leading his present wild life he has become quite different, But

one might surmise that he has some trouble, a worm gnawing somewhere,

for he has aged very much.”

Thereupon the two friends talked philosophically for some minutes about

the secret, unknowable troubles which differences of character or

perhaps physical antipathies, which were not perceived at first, give

rise to in families, and then Roger de Salnis, who was still looking at

Madame de Mascaret through his opera glasses, said: “It is almost

incredible that that woman can have had seven children!”

“Yes, in eleven years; after which, when she was thirty, she refused to

have any more, in order to take her place in society, which she seems

likely to do for many years.”

“Poor women!”

“Why do you pity them?”

“Why? Ah! my dear fellow, just consider! Eleven years in a condition of

motherhood for such a woman! What a hell! All her youth, all her beauty,

every hope of success, every poetical ideal of a brilliant life

sacrificed to that abominable law of reproduction which turns the normal

woman into a mere machine for bringing children into the world.”

“What would you have? It is only Nature!”

“Yes, but I say that Nature is our enemy, that we must always fight

against Nature, for she is continually bringing us back to an animal

state. You may be sure that God has not put anything on this earth that

is clean, pretty, elegant or accessory to our ideal; the human brain has

done it. It is man who has introduced a little grace, beauty, unknown

charm and mystery into creation by singing about it, interpreting it, by

admiring it as a poet, idealizing it as an artist and by explaining it

through science, doubtless making mistakes, but finding ingenious

reasons, hidden grace and beauty, unknown charm and mystery in the

various phenomena of Nature. God created only coarse beings, full of the

germs of disease, who, after a few years of bestial enjoyment, grow old

and infirm, with all the ugliness and all the want of power of human

decrepitude. He seems to have made them only in order that they may

reproduce their species in an ignoble manner and then die like ephemeral

insects. I said reproduce their species in an ignoble manner and I

adhere to that expression. What is there as a matter of fact more

ignoble and more repugnant than that act of reproduction of living

beings, against which all delicate minds always have revolted and always

will revolt? Since all the organs which have been invented by this

economical and malicious Creator serve two purposes, why did He not

choose another method of performing that sacred mission, which is the

noblest and the most exalted of all human functions? The mouth, which

nourishes the body by means of material food, also diffuses abroad

speech and thought. Our flesh renews itself of its own accord, while we

are thinking about it. The olfactory organs, through which the vital air

reaches the lungs, communicate all the perfumes of the world to the

brain: the smell of flowers, of woods, of trees, of the sea. The ear,

which enables us to communicate with our fellow men, has also allowed us

to invent music, to create dreams, happiness, infinite and even physical

pleasure by means of sound! But one might say that the cynical and

cunning Creator wished to prohibit man from ever ennobling and

idealizing his intercourse with women. Nevertheless man has found love,

which is not a bad reply to that sly Deity, and he has adorned it with

so much poetry that woman often forgets the sensual part of it. Those

among us who are unable to deceive themselves have invented vice and

refined debauchery, which is another way of laughing at God and paying

homage, immodest homage, to beauty.

“But the normal man begets children just like an animal coupled with

another by law.

“Look at that woman! Is it not abominable to think that such a jewel,

such a pearl, born to be beautiful, admired, feted and adored, has spent

eleven years of her life in providing heirs for the Comte de Mascaret?”

Bernard Grandin replied with a laugh: “There is a great deal of truth in

all that, but very few people would understand you.”

Salnis became more and more animated. “Do you know how I picture God

myself?” he said. “As an enormous, creative organ beyond our ken, who

scatters millions of worlds into space, just as one single fish would

deposit its spawn in the sea. He creates because it is His function as

God to do so, but He does not know what He is doing and is stupidly

prolific in His work and is ignorant of the combinations of all kinds

which are produced by His scattered germs. The human mind is a lucky

little local, passing accident which was totally unforeseen, and

condemned to disappear with this earth and to recommence perhaps here or

elsewhere the same or different with fresh combinations of eternally new

beginnings. We owe it to this little lapse of intelligence on His part

that we are very uncomfortable in this world which was not made for us,

which had not been prepared to receive us, to lodge and feed us or to

satisfy reflecting beings, and we owe it to Him also that we have to

struggle without ceasing against what are still called the designs of

Providence, when we are really refined and civilized beings.”

Grandin, who was listening to him attentively as he had long known the

surprising outbursts of his imagination, asked him: “Then you believe

that human thought is the spontaneous product of blind divine

generation?”

“Naturally! A fortuitous function of the nerve centres of our brain,

like the unforeseen chemical action due to new mixtures and similar also

to a charge of electricity, caused by friction or the unexpected

proximity of some substance, similar to all phenomena caused by the

infinite and fruitful fermentation of living matter.

“But, my dear fellow, the truth of this must be evident to any one who

looks about him. If the human mind, ordained by an omniscient Creator,

had been intended to be what it has become, exacting, inquiring,

agitated, tormented—so different from mere animal thought and

resignation—would the world which was created to receive the beings

which we now are have been this unpleasant little park for small game,

this salad patch, this wooded, rocky and spherical kitchen garden where

your improvident Providence had destined us to live naked, in caves or

under trees, nourished on the flesh of slaughtered animals, our

brethren, or on raw vegetables nourished by the sun and the rain?

“But it is sufficient to reflect for a moment, in order to understand

that this world was not made for such creatures as we are. Thought,

which is developed by a miracle in the nerves of the cells in our brain,

powerless, ignorant and confused as it is, and as it will always remain,

makes all of us who are intellectual beings eternal and wretched exiles

on earth.

“Look at this earth, as God has given it to those who inhabit it. Is it

not visibly and solely made, planted and covered with forests for the

sake of animals? What is there for us? Nothing. And for them,

everything, and they have nothing to do but to eat or go hunting and eat

each other, according to their instincts, for God never foresaw

gentleness and peaceable manners; He only foresaw the death of creatures

which were bent on destroying and devouring each other. Are not the

quail, the pigeon and the partridge the natural prey of the hawk? the

sheep, the stag and the ox that of the great flesh-eating animals,

rather than meat to be fattened and served up to us with truffles, which

have been unearthed by pigs for our special benefit?

“As to ourselves, the more civilized, intellectual and refined we are,

the more we ought to conquer and subdue that animal instinct, which

represents the will of God in us. And so, in order to mitigate our lot

as brutes, we have discovered and made everything, beginning with

houses, then exquisite food, sauces, sweetmeats, pastry, drink, stuffs,

clothes, ornaments, beds, mattresses, carriages, railways and

innumerable machines, besides arts and sciences, writing and poetry.

Every ideal comes from us as do all the amenities of life, in order to

make our existence as simple reproducers, for which divine Providence

solely intended us, less monotonous and less hard.

“Look at this theatre. Is there not here a human world created by us,

unforeseen and unknown to eternal fate, intelligible to our minds alone,

a sensual and intellectual distraction, which has been invented solely

by and for that discontented and restless little animal, man?

“Look at that woman, Madame de Mascaret. God intended her to live in a

cave, naked or wrapped up in the skins of wild animals. But is she not

better as she is? But, speaking of her, does any one know why and how

her brute of a husband, having such a companion by his side, and

especially after having been boorish enough to make her a mother seven

times, has suddenly left her, to run after bad women?”

Grandin replied: “Oh! my dear fellow, this is probably the only reason.

He found that raising a family was becoming too expensive, and from

reasons of domestic economy he has arrived at the same principles which

you lay down as a philosopher.”

Just then the curtain rose for the third act, and they turned round,

took off their hats and sat down.

IV

The Comte and Comtesse Mascaret were sitting side by side in the

carriage which was taking them home from the Opera, without speaking but

suddenly the husband said to his wife: “Gabrielle!”

“What do you want?”

“Don't you think that this has lasted long enough?”

“What?”

“The horrible punishment to which you have condemned me for the last six

years?”

“What do you want? I cannot help it.”

“Then tell me which of them it is.”

“Never.”

“Think that I can no longer see my children or feel them round me,

without having my heart burdened with this doubt. Tell me which of them

it is, and I swear that I will forgive you and treat it like the

others.”

“I have not the right to do so.”

“Do you not see that I can no longer endure this life, this thought

which is wearing me out, or this question which I am constantly asking

myself, this question which tortures me each time I look at them? It is

driving me mad.”

“Then you have suffered a great deal?” she said.

“Terribly. Should I, without that, have accepted the horror of living by

your side, and the still greater horror of feeling and knowing that

there is one among them whom I cannot recognize and who prevents me from

loving the others?”

“Then you have really suffered very much?” she repeated.

And he replied in a constrained and sorrowful voice:

“Yes, for do I not tell you every day that it is intolerable torture to

me? Should I have remained in that house, near you and them, if I did

not love them? Oh! You have behaved abominably toward me. All the

affection of my heart I have bestowed upon my children, and that you

know. I am for them a father of the olden time, as I was for you a

husband of one of the families of old, for by instinct I have remained a

natural man, a man of former days. Yes, I will confess it, you have made

me terribly jealous, because you are a woman of another race, of another

soul, with other requirements. Oh! I shall never forget the things you

said to me, but from that day I troubled myself no more about you. I did

not kill you, because then I should have had no means on earth of ever

discovering which of our—of your children is not mine. I have waited,

but I have suffered more than you would believe, for I can no longer

venture to love them, except, perhaps, the two eldest; I no longer

venture to look at them, to call them to me, to kiss them; I cannot take

them on my knee without asking myself, 'Can it be this one?' I have been

correct in my behavior toward you for six years, and even kind and

complaisant. Tell me the truth, and I swear that I will do nothing

unkind.”

He thought, in spite of the darkness of the carriage, that he could

perceive that she was moved, and feeling certain that she was going to

speak at last, he said: “I beg you, I beseech you to tell me” he said.

“I have been more guilty than you think perhaps,” she replied, “but I

could no longer endure that life of continual motherhood, and I had only

one means of driving you from me. I lied before God and I lied, with my

hand raised to my children's head, for I never have wronged you.”

He seized her arm in the darkness, and squeezing it as he had done on

that terrible day of their drive in the Bois de Boulogne, he stammered:

“Is that true?”

“It is true.”

But, wild with grief, he said with a groan: “I shall have fresh doubts

that will never end! When did you lie, the last time or now? How am I to

believe you at present? How can one believe a woman after that? I shall

never again know what I am to think. I would rather you had said to me,

'It is Jacques or it is Jeanne.'”

The carriage drove into the courtyard of the house and when it had drawn

up in front of the steps the count alighted first, as usual, and offered

his wife his arm to mount the stairs. As soon as they reached the first

floor he said: “May I speak to you for a few moments longer?” And she

replied, “I am quite willing.”

They went into a small drawing-room and a footman, in some surprise,

lighted the wax candles. As soon as he had left the room and they were

alone the count continued: “How am I to know the truth? I have begged

you a thousand times to speak, but you have remained dumb, impenetrable,

inflexible, inexorable, and now to-day you tell me that you have been

lying. For six years you have actually allowed me to believe such a

thing! No, you are lying now, I do not know why, but out of pity for me,

perhaps?”

She replied in a sincere and convincing manner: “If I had not done so, I

should have had four more children in the last six years!”

“Can a mother speak like that?”

“Oh!” she replied, “I do not feel that I am the mother of children who

never have been born; it is enough for me to be the mother of those that

I have and to love them with all my heart. I am a woman of the civilized

world, monsieur—we all are—and we are no longer, and we refuse to be,

mere females to restock the earth.”

She got up, but he seized her hands. “Only one word, Gabrielle. Tell me

the truth!”

“I have just told you. I never have dishonored you.”

He looked her full in the face, and how beautiful she was, with her gray

eyes, like the cold sky. In her dark hair sparkled the diamond coronet,

like a radiance. He suddenly felt, felt by a kind of intuition, that

this grand creature was not merely a being destined to perpetuate the

race, but the strange and mysterious product of all our complicated

desires which have been accumulating in us for centuries but which have

been turned aside from their primitive and divine object and have

wandered after a mystic, imperfectly perceived and intangible beauty.

There are some women like that, who blossom only for our dreams, adorned

with every poetical attribute of civilization, with that ideal luxury,

coquetry and esthetic charm which surround woman, a living statue that

brightens our life.

Her husband remained standing before her, stupefied at his tardy and

obscure discovery, confusedly hitting on the cause of his former

jealousy and understanding it all very imperfectly, and at last he said:

“I believe you, for I feel at this moment that you are not lying, and

before I really thought that you were.”

She put out her hand to him: “We are friends then?”

He took her hand and kissed it and replied: “We are friends. Thank you,

Gabrielle.”

Then he went out, still looking at her, and surprised that she was still

so beautiful and feeling a strange emotion arising in him.

THE FATHER I

He was a clerk in the Bureau of Public Education and lived at

Batignolles. He took the omnibus to Paris every morning and always sat

opposite a girl, with whom he fell in love.

She was employed in a shop and went in at the same time every day. She

was a little brunette, one of those girls whose eyes are so dark that

they look like black spots, on a complexion like ivory. He always saw

her coming at the corner of the same street, and she generally had to

run to catch the heavy vehicle, and sprang upon the steps before the

horses had quite stopped. Then she got inside, out of breath, and,

sitting down, looked round her.

The first time that he saw her, Francois Tessier liked the face. One

sometimes meets a woman whom one longs to clasp in one's arms without

even knowing her. That girl seemed to respond to some chord in his

being, to that sort of ideal of love which one cherishes in the depths

of the heart, without knowing it.

He looked at her intently, not meaning to be rude, and she became

embarrassed and blushed. He noticed it, and tried to turn away his eyes;

but he involuntarily fixed them upon her again every moment, although he

tried to look in another direction; and, in a few days, they seemed to

know each other without having spoken. He gave up his place to her when

the omnibus was full, and got outside, though he was very sorry to do

it. By this time she had got so far as to greet him with a little smile;

and, although she always dropped her eyes under his looks, which she

felt were too ardent, yet she did not appear offended at being looked at

in such a manner.

They ended by speaking. A kind of rapid friendship had become

established between them, a daily freemasonry of half an hour, and that

was certainly one of the most charming half hours in his life to him. He

thought of her all the rest of the day, saw her image continually during

the long office hours. He was haunted and bewitched by that floating and

yet tenacious recollection which the form of a beloved woman leaves in

us, and it seemed to him that if he could win that little person it

would be maddening happiness to him, almost above human realization.

Every morning she now shook hands with him, and he preserved the sense

of that touch and the recollection of the gentle pressure of her little

fingers until the next day, and he almost fancied that he preserved the

imprint on his palm. He anxiously waited for this short omnibus ride,

while Sundays seemed to him heartbreaking days. However, there was no

doubt that she loved him, for one Saturday, in spring, she promised to

go and lunch with him at Maisons-Laffitte the next day.

II

She was at the railway station first, which surprised him, but she said:

“Before going, I want to speak to you. We have twenty minutes, and that

is more than I shall take for what I have to say.”

She trembled as she hung on his arm, and looked down, her cheeks pale,

as she continued: “I do not want you to be deceived in me, and I shall

not go there with you, unless you promise, unless you swear—not to

do—not to do anything—that is at all improper.”

She had suddenly become as red as a poppy, and said no more. He did not

know what to reply, for he was happy and disappointed at the same time.

He should love her less, certainly, if he knew that her conduct was

light, but then it would be so charming, so delicious to have a little

flirtation.

As he did not say anything, she began to speak again in an agitated

voice and with tears in her eyes. “If you do not promise to respect me

altogether, I shall return home.” And so he squeezed her arm tenderly

and replied: “I promise, you shall only do what you like.” She appeared

relieved in mind, and asked, with a smile: “Do you really mean it?” And

he looked into her eyes and replied: “I swear it” “Now you may take the

tickets,” she said.

During the journey they could hardly speak, as the carriage was full,

and when they reached Maisons-Laffite they went toward the Seine. The

sun, which shone full on the river, on the leaves and the grass, seemed

to be reflected in their hearts, and they went, hand in hand, along the

bank, looking at the shoals of little fish swimming near the bank, and

they walked on, brimming over with happiness, as if they were walking on

air.

At last she said: “How foolish you must think me!”

“Why?” he asked. “To come out like this, all alone with you.”

“Certainly not; it is quite natural.” “No, no; it is not natural for me

—because I do not wish to commit a fault, and yet this is how girls

fall. But if you only knew how wretched it is, every day the same thing,

every day in the month and every month in the year. I live quite alone

with mamma, and as she has had a great deal of trouble, she is not very

cheerful. I do the best I can, and try to laugh in spite of everything,

but I do not always succeed. But, all the same, it was wrong in me to

come, though you, at any rate, will not be sorry.”

By way of an answer, he kissed her ardently on the ear that was nearest

him, but she moved from him with an abrupt movement, and, getting

suddenly angry, exclaimed: “Oh! Monsieur Francois, after what you swore

to me!” And they went back to Maisons-Laffitte.

They had lunch at the Petit-Havre, a low house, buried under four

enormous poplar trees, by the side of the river. The air, the heat, the

weak white wine and the sensation of being so close together made them

silent; their faces were flushed and they had a feeling of oppression;

but, after the coffee, they regained their high spirits, and, having

crossed the Seine, started off along the bank, toward the village of La

Frette. Suddenly he asked: “What-is your name?”

“Louise.”

“Louise,” he repeated and said nothing more.

The girl picked daisies and made them into a great bunch, while he sang

vigorously, as unrestrained as a colt that has been turned into a

meadow. On their left a vine-covered slope followed the river. Francois

stopped motionless with astonishment: “Oh, look there!” he said.

The vines had come to an end, and the whole slope was covered with lilac

bushes in flower. It was a purple wood! A kind of great carpet of

flowers stretched over the earth, reaching as far as the village, more

than two miles off. She also stood, surprised and delighted, and

murmured: “Oh! how pretty!” And, crossing a meadow, they ran toward that

curious low hill, which, every year, furnishes all the lilac that is

drawn through Paris on the carts of the flower venders.

There was a narrow path beneath the trees, so they took it, and when

they came to a small clearing, sat down.

Swarms of flies were buzzing around them and making a continuous, gentle

sound, and the sun, the bright sun of a perfectly still day, shone over

the bright slopes and from that forest of blossoms a powerful fragrance

was borne toward them, a breath of perfume, the breath of the flowers.

A church clock struck in the distance, and they embraced gently, then,

without the knowledge of anything but that kiss, lay down on the grass.

But she soon came to herself with the feeling of a great misfortune, and

began to cry and sob with grief, with her face buried in her hands.

He tried to console her, but she wanted to start to return and to go

home immediately; and she kept saying, as she walked along quickly:

“Good heavens! good heavens!”

He said to her: “Louise! Louise! Please let us stop here.” But now her

cheeks were red and her eyes hollow, and, as soon as they got to the

railway station in Paris, she left him without even saying good-by. III

When he met her in the omnibus, next day, she appeared to him to be

changed and thinner, and she said to him: “I want to speak to you; we

will get down at the Boulevard.”

As soon as they were on the pavement, she said:

“We must bid each other good-by; I cannot meet you again.” “But why?” he

asked. “Because I cannot; I have been culpable, and I will not be so

again.”

Then he implored her, tortured by his love, but she replied firmly: “No,

I cannot, I cannot.” He, however, only grew all the more excited and

promised to marry her, but she said again: “No,” and left him.

For a week he did not see her. He could not manage to meet her, and, as

he did not know her address, he thought that he had lost her altogether.

On the ninth day, however, there was a ring at his bell, and when he

opened the door, she was there. She threw herself into his arms and did

not resist any longer, and for three months they were close friends. He

was beginning to grow tired of her, when she whispered something to him,

and then he had one idea and wish: to break with her at any price. As,

however, he could not do that, not knowing how to begin, or what to say,

full of anxiety through fear of the consequences of his rash

indiscretion, he took a decisive step: one night he changed his lodgings

and disappeared.

The blow was so heavy that she did not look, for the man who had

abandoned her, but threw herself at her mother's knees and confessed her

misfortune, and, some months after, gave birth to a boy. IV

Years passed, and Francois Tessier grew old, without there having been

any alteration in his life. He led the dull, monotonous life of an

office clerk, without hope and without expectation. Every day he got up

at the same time, went through the same streets, went through the same

door, past the same porter, went into the same office, sat in the same

chair, and did the same work. He was alone in the world, alone during

the day in the midst of his different colleagues, and alone at night in

his bachelor's lodgings, and he laid by a hundred francs a month against

old age.

Every Sunday he went to the Champs-Elysees, to watch the elegant people,

the carriages and the pretty women, and the next day he used to say to

one of his colleagues: “The return of the carriages from the Bois du

Boulogne was very brilliant yesterday.” One fine Sunday morning,

however, he went into the Parc Monceau, where the mothers and nurses,

sitting on the sides of the walks, watched the children playing, and

suddenly Francois Tessier started. A woman passed by, holding two

children by the hand, a little boy of about ten and a little girl of

four. It was she!

He walked another hundred yards anti then fell into a chair, choking

with emotion. She had not recognized him, and so he came back, wishing

to see her again. She was sitting down now, and the boy was standing by

her side very quietly, while the little girl was making sand castles. It

was she, it was certainly she, but she had the reserved appearance of a

lady, was dressed simply, and looked self-possessed and dignified. He

looked at her from a distance, for he did not venture to go near; but

the little boy raised his head, and Francois Tessier felt himself

tremble. It was his own son, there could be no doubt of that. And, as he

looked at him, he thought he could recognize himself as he appeared in

an old photograph taken years ago. He remained hidden behind a tree,

waiting for her to go that he might follow her.

He did not sleep that night. The idea of the child especially tormented

him. His son! Oh, if he could only have known, have been sure! But what

could he have done? However, he went to the house where she lived and

asked about her. He was told that a neighbor, an honorable man of strict

morals, had been touched by her distress and had married her; he knew

the fault she had committed and had married her, and had even recognized

the child, his, Francois Tessier's child, as his own.

He returned to the Parc Monceau every Sunday, for then he always saw

her, and each time he was seized with a mad, an irresistible longing to

take his son into his arms, to cover him with kisses and to steal him,

to carry him off.

He suffered horribly in his wretched isolation as an old bachelor, with

nobody to care for him, and he also suffered atrocious mental torture,

torn by paternal tenderness springing from remorse, longing and jealousy

and from that need of loving one's own children which nature has

implanted in all. At last he determined to make a despairing attempt,

and, going up to her, as she entered the park, he said, standing in the

middle of the path, pale and with trembling lips: “You do not recognize

me.” She raised her eyes, looked at him, uttered an exclamation of

horror, of terror, and, taking the two children by the hand, she rushed

away, dragging them after her, while he went home and wept inconsolably.

Months passed without his seeing her again, but he suffered, day and

night, for he was a prey to his paternal love. He would gladly have

died, if he could only have kissed his son; he would have committed

murder, performed any task, braved any danger, ventured anything. He

wrote to her, but she did not reply, and, after writing her some twenty

letters, he saw that there was no hope of altering her determination,

and then he formed the desperate resolution of writing to her husband,

being quite prepared to receive a bullet from a revolver, if need be.

His letter only consisted of a few lines, as follows:

“Monsieur: You must have a perfect horror of my name, but I am so

wretched, so overcome by misery that my only hope is in you, and,

therefore, I venture to request you to grant me an interview of only

five minutes.

“I have the honor, etc.”

The next day he received the reply:

“Monsieur: I shall expect you to-morrow, Tuesday, at five o'clock.”

As he went up the staircase, Francois Tessier's heart beat so violently

that he had to stop several times. There was a dull and violent thumping

noise in his breast, as of some animal galloping; and he could breathe

only with difficulty, and had to hold on to the banisters, in order not

to fall.

He rang the bell on the third floor, and when a maid servant had opened

the door, he asked: “Does Monsieur Flamel live here?” “Yes, monsieur.

Kindly come in.”

He was shown into the drawing-room; he was alone, and waited, feeling

bewildered, as in the midst of a catastrophe, until a door opened, and a

man came in. He was tall, serious and rather stout, and wore a black

frock coat, and pointed to a chair with his hand. Francois Tessier sat

down, and then said, with choking breath: “Monsieur—monsieur—I do not

know whether you know my name—whether you know——”

Monsieur Flamel interrupted him. “You need not tell it me, monsieur, I

know it. My wife has spoken to me about you.” He spoke in the dignified

tone of voice of a good man who wishes to be severe, and with the

commonplace stateliness of an honorable man, and Francois Tessier

continued:

“Well, monsieur, I want to say this: I am dying of grief, of remorse, of

shame, and I would like once, only once to kiss the child.”

Monsieur Flamel got up and rang the bell, and when the servant came in,

he said: “Will you bring Louis here?” When she had gone out, they

remained face to face, without speaking, as they had nothing more to say

to one another, and waited. Then, suddenly, a little boy of ten rushed

into the room and ran up to the man whom he believed to be his father,

but he stopped when he saw the stranger, and Monsieur Flamel kissed him

and said: “Now, go and kiss that gentleman, my dear.” And the child went

up to the stranger and looked at him.

Francois Tessier had risen. He let his hat fall, and was ready to fall

himself as he looked at his son, while Monsieur Flamel had turned away,

from a feeling of delicacy, and was looking out of the window.

The child waited in surprise; but he picked up the hat and gave it to

the stranger. Then Francois, taking the child up in his arms, began to

kiss him wildly all over his face; on his eyes, his cheeks, his mouth,

his hair; and the youngster, frightened at the shower of kisses, tried

to avoid them, turned away his head, and pushed away the man's face with

his little hands. But suddenly Francois Tessier put him down and cried:

“Good-by! good-by!” And he rushed out of the room as if he had been a

thief.

MY UNCLE SOSTHENES

Some people are Freethinkers from sheer stupidity. My Uncle Sosthenes

was one of these. Some people are often religious for the same reason.

The very sight of a priest threw my uncle into a violent rage. He would

shake his fist and make grimaces at him, and would then touch a piece of

iron when the priest's back was turned, forgetting that the latter

action showed a belief after all, the belief in the evil eye. Now, when

beliefs are unreasonable, one should have all or none at all. I myself

am a Freethinker; I revolt at all dogmas, but feel no anger toward

places of worship, be they Catholic, Apostolic, Roman, Protestant,

Greek, Russian, Buddhist, Jewish, or Mohammedan.

My uncle was a Freemason, and I used to declare that they are stupider

than old women devotees. That is my opinion, and I maintain it; if we

must have any religion at all, the old one is good enough for me.

What is their object? Mutual help to be obtained by tickling the palms

of each other's hands. I see no harm in it, for they put into practice

the Christian precept: “Do unto others as ye would they should do unto

you.” The only difference consists in the tickling, but it does not seem

worth while to make such a fuss about lending a poor devil half a crown.

To all my arguments my uncle's reply used to be:

“We are raising up a religion against a religion; Free Thought will kill

clericalism. Freemasonry is the stronghold, of those who are demolishing

all deities.”

“Very well, my dear uncle,” I would reply—in my heart I felt inclined to

say, “You old idiot! it is just that which I am blaming you for. Instead

of destroying, you are organizing competition; it is only a case of

lowering prices. And then, if you admitted only Freethinkers among you,

I could understand it, but you admit anybody. You have a number of

Catholics among you, even the leaders of the party. Pius IX is said to

have been one of you before he became pope. If you call a society with

such an organization a bulwark against clericalism, I think it is an

extremely weak one.”

“My dear boy,” my uncle would reply, with a wink, “we are most to be

dreaded in politics; slowly and surely we are everywhere undermining the

monarchical spirit.”

Then I broke out: “Yes, you are very clever! If you tell me that

Freemasonry is an election machine, I will grant it. I will never deny

that it is used as a machine to control candidates of all shades; if you

say that it is only used to hoodwink people, to drill them to go to the

polls as soldiers are sent under fire, I agree with you; if you declare

that it is indispensable to all political ambitions because it changes

all its members into electoral agents, I should say to you: 'That is as

clear as the sun.' But when you tell me that it serves to undermine the

monarchical spirit, I can only laugh in your face.

“Just consider that gigantic and secret democratic association which had

Prince Napoleon for its grand master under the Empire; which has the

Crown Prince for its grand master in Germany, the Czar's brother in

Russia, and to which the Prince of Wales and King Humbert, and nearly

all the crowned heads of the globe belong.”

“You are quite right,” my uncle said; “but all these persons are serving

our projects without guessing it.”

I felt inclined to tell him he was talking a pack of nonsense.

It was, however, indeed a sight to see my uncle when he had a Freemason

to dinner.

On meeting they shook hands in a manner that was irresistibly funny; one

could see that they were going through a series of secret, mysterious

signs.

Then my uncle would take his friend into a corner to tell him something

important, and at dinner they had a peculiar way of looking at each

other, and of drinking to each other, in a manner as if to say: “We know

all about it, don't we?”

And to think that there are millions on the face of the globe who are

amused at such monkey tricks! I would sooner be a Jesuit.

Now, in our town there really was an old Jesuit who was my uncle's

detestation. Every time he met him, or if he only saw him at a distance,

he used to say: “Get away, you toad.” And then, taking my arm, he would

whisper to me:

“See here, that fellow will play me a trick some day or other, I feel

sure of it.”

My uncle spoke quite truly, and this was how it happened, and through my

fault.

It was close on Holy Week, and my uncle made up his mind to give a

dinner on Good Friday, a real dinner, with his favorite chitterlings and

black puddings. I resisted as much as I could, and said:

“I shall eat meat on that day, but at home, quite by myself. Your

manifestation, as you call it, is an idiotic idea. Why should you

manifest? What does it matter to you if people do not eat any meat?”

But my uncle would not be persuaded. He asked three of his friends to

dine with him at one of the best restaurants in the town, and as he was

going to pay the bill I had certainly, after all, no scruples about

manifesting.

At four o'clock we took a conspicuous place in the most frequented

restaurant in the town, and my uncle ordered dinner in a loud voice for

six o'clock.

We sat down punctually, and at ten o'clock we had not yet finished. Five

of us had drunk eighteen bottles of choice, still wine and four of

champagne. Then my uncle proposed what he was in the habit of calling

“the archbishop's circuit.” Each man put six small glasses in front of

him, each of them filled with a different liqueur, and they had all to

be emptied at one gulp, one after another, while one of the waiters

counted twenty. It was very stupid, but my uncle thought it was very

suitable to the occasion.

At eleven o'clock he was as drunk as a fly. So we had to take him home

in a cab and put him to bed, and one could easily foresee that his anti-

clerical demonstration would end in a terrible fit of indigestion.

As I was going back to my lodgings, being rather drunk myself, with a

cheerful drunkenness, a Machiavellian idea struck me which satisfied all

my sceptical instincts.

I arranged my necktie, put on a look of great distress, and went and,

rang loudly at the old Jesuit's door. As he was deaf he made me wait a

longish while, but at length appeared at his window in a cotton nightcap

and asked what I wanted.

I shouted out at the top of my voice:

“Make haste, reverend sir, and open the door; a poor, despairing, sick

man is in need of your spiritual ministrations.”

The good, kind man put on his trousers as quickly as he could, and came

down without his cassock. I told him in a breathless voice that my

uncle, the Freethinker, had been taken suddenly ill, and fearing it was

going to be something serious, he had been seized with a sudden dread of

death, and wished to see the priest and talk to him; to have his advice

and comfort, to make his peace with the Church, and to confess, so as to

be able to cross the dreaded threshold at peace with himself; and I

added in a mocking tone:

“At any rate, he wishes it, and if it does him no good it can do him no

harm.”

The old Jesuit, who was startled, delighted, and almost trembling, said

to me:

“Wait a moment, my son; I will come with you.” But I replied: “Pardon

me, reverend father, if I do not go with you; but my convictions will

not allow me to do so. I even refused to come and fetch you, so I beg

you not to say that you have seen me, but to declare that you had a

presentiment—a sort of revelation of his illness.”

The priest consented and went off quickly; knocked at my uncle's door,

and was soon let in; and I saw the black cassock disappear within that

stronghold of Free Thought.

I hid under a neighboring gateway to wait results. Had he been well, my

uncle would have half-murdered the Jesuit, but I knew that he would

scarcely be able to move an arm, and I asked myself gleefully what sort

of a scene would take place between these antagonists, what disputes,

what arguments, what a hubbub, and what would be the issue of the

situation, which my uncle's indignation would render still more tragic?

I laughed till my sides ached, and said half aloud: “Oh, what a joke,

what a joke!”

Meanwhile it was getting very cold, and I noticed that the Jesuit stayed

a long time, and I thought: “They are having an argument, I suppose.”

One, two, three hours passed, and still the reverend father did not come

out. What had happened? Had my uncle died in a fit when he saw him, or

had he killed the cassocked gentleman? Perhaps they had mutually

devoured each other? This last supposition appeared very unlikely, for I

fancied that my uncle was quite incapable of swallowing a grain more

nourishment at that moment.

At last the day broke.

I was very uneasy, and, not venturing to go into the house myself, went

to one of my friends who lived opposite. I woke him up, explained

matters to him, much to his amusement and astonishment, and took

possession of his window.

At nine o'clock he relieved me, and I got a little sleep. At two o'clock

I, in my turn, replaced him. We were utterly astonished.

At six o'clock the Jesuit left, with a very happy and satisfied look on

his face, and we saw him go away with a quiet step.

Then, timid and ashamed, I went and knocked at the door of my uncle's

house; and when the servant opened it I did not dare to ask her any

questions, but went upstairs without saying a word.

My uncle was lying, pale and exhausted, with weary, sorrowful eyes and

heavy arms, on his bed. A little religious picture was fastened to one

of the bed curtains with a pin.

“Why, uncle,” I said, “in bed still? Are you not well?”

He replied in a feeble voice:

“Oh, my dear boy, I have been very ill, nearly dead.”

“How was that, uncle?”

“I don't know; it was most surprising. But what is stranger still is

that the Jesuit priest who has just left—you know, that excellent man

whom I have made such fun of—had a divine revelation of my state, and

came to see me.”

I was seized with an almost uncontrollable desire to laugh, and with

difficulty said: “Oh, really!”

“Yes, he came. He heard a voice telling him to get up and come to me,

because I was going to die. I was a revelation.”

I pretended to sneeze, so as not to burst out laughing; I felt inclined

to roll on the ground with amusement.

In about a minute I managed to say indignantly:

“And you received him, uncle? You, a Freethinker, a Freemason? You did

not have him thrown out of doors?”

He seemed confused, and stammered:

“Listen a moment, it is so astonishing—so astonishing and providential!

He also spoke to me about my father; it seems he knew him formerly.”

“Your father, uncle? But that is no reason for receiving a Jesuit.”

“I know that, but I was very ill, and he looked after me most devotedly

all night long. He was perfect; no doubt he saved my life; those men all

know a little of medicine.”

“Oh! he looked after you all night? But you said just now that he had

only been gone a very short time.”

“That is quite true; I kept him to breakfast after all his kindness. He

had it at a table by my bedside while I drank a cup of tea.”

“And he ate meat?”

My uncle looked vexed, as if I had said something very uncalled for, and

then added:

“Don't joke, Gaston; such things are out of place at times. He has shown

me more devotion than many a relation would have done, and I expect to

have his convictions respected.”

This rather upset me, but I answered, nevertheless: “Very well, uncle;

and what did you do after breakfast?”

“We played a game of bezique, and then he repeated his breviary while I

read a little book which he happened to have in his pocket, and which

was not by any means badly written.”

“A religious book, uncle?”

“Yes, and no, or, rather—no. It is the history of their missions in

Central Africa, and is rather a book of travels and adventures. What

these men have done is very grand.”

I began to feel that matters were going badly, so I got up. “Well, good-

by, uncle,” I said, “I see you are going to give up Freemasonry for

religion; you are a renegade.”

He was still rather confused, and stammered:

“Well, but religion is a sort of Freemasonry.”

“When is your Jesuit coming back?” I asked.

“I don't—I don't know exactly; to-morrow, perhaps; but it is not

certain.”

I went out, altogether overwhelmed.

My joke turned out very badly for me! My uncle became thoroughly

converted, and if that had been all I should not have cared so much.

Clerical or Freemason, to me it is all the same; six of one and half a

dozen of the other; but the worst of it is that he has just made his

will—yes, made his will—and he has disinherited me in favor of that

rascally Jesuit!

THE BARONESS

“Come with me,” said my friend Boisrene, “you will see some very

interesting bric-a-brac and works of art there.”

He conducted me to the first floor of an elegant house in one of the big

streets of Paris. We were welcomed by a very pleasing man, with

excellent manners, who led us from room to room, showing us rare things,

the price of which he mentioned carelessly. Large sums, ten, twenty,

thirty, fifty thousand francs, dropped from his lips with such grace and

ease that one could not doubt that this gentleman-merchant had millions

shut up in his safe.

I had known him by reputation for a long time. Very bright, clever,

intelligent, he acted as intermediary in all sorts of transactions. He

kept in touch with all the richest art amateurs in Paris, and even of

Europe and America, knowing their tastes and preferences; he apprised

them by letter, or by wire if they lived in a distant city, as soon as

he knew of some work of art which might suit them.

Men of the best society had had recourse to him in times of difficulty,

either to find money for gambling, or to pay off a debt, or to sell a

picture, a family jewel, or a tapestry.

It was said that he never refused his services when he saw a chance of

gain.

Boisrene seemed very intimate with this strange merchant. They must have

worked together in many a deal. I observed the man with great interest.

He was tall, thin, bald, and very elegant. His soft, insinuating voice

had a peculiar, tempting charm which seemed to give the objects a

special value. When he held anything in his hands, he turned it round

and round, looking at it with such skill, refinement, and sympathy that

the object seemed immediately to be beautiful and transformed by his

look and touch. And its value increased in one's estimation, after the

object had passed from the showcase into his hands.

“And your Crucifix,” said Boisrene, “that beautiful Renaissance Crucifix

which you showed me last year?”

The man smiled and answered:

“It has been sold, and in a very peculiar manner. There is a real

Parisian story for you! Would you like to hear it?”

“With pleasure.”

“Do you know the Baroness Samoris?”

“Yes and no. I have seen her once, but I know what she is!”

“You know—everything?”

“Yes.”

“Would you mind telling me, so that I can see whether you are not

mistaken?”

“Certainly. Mme. Samoris is a woman of the world who has a daughter,

without anyone having known her husband. At any rate, she is received in

a certain tolerant, or blind society. She goes to church and devoutly

partakes of Communion, so that everyone may know it, and she never

compromises herself. She expects her daughter to marry well. Is that

correct?”

“Yes, but I will complete your information. She is a woman who makes

herself respected by her admirers in spite of everything. That is a rare

quality, for in this manner she can get what she wishes from a man. The

man whom she has chosen without his suspecting it courts her for a long

time, longs for her timidly, wins her with astonishment and possesses

her with consideration. He does not notice that he is paying, she is so

tactful; and she maintains her relations on such a footing of reserve

and dignity that he would slap the first man who dared doubt her in the

least. And all this in the best of faith.

“Several times I have been able to render little services to this woman.

She has no secrets from me.

“Toward the beginning of January she came to me in order to borrow

thirty thousand francs. Naturally, I did not lend them to her; but, as I

wished to oblige her, I told her to explain her situation to me

completely, so that I might see whether there was not something I could

do for her.

“She told me her troubles in such cautious language that she could not

have spoken more delicately of her child's first communion. I finally

managed to understand that times were hard, and that she was penniless.

“The commercial crisis, political unrest, rumors of war, had made money

scarce even in the hands of her clients. And then, of course, she was

very particular.

“She would associate only with a man in the best of society, who could

strengthen her reputation as well as help her financially. A reveller,

no matter how rich, would have compromised her forever, and would have

made the marriage of her daughter quite doubtful.

“She had to maintain her household expenses and continue to entertain,

in order not to lose the opportunity of finding, among her numerous

visitors, the discreet and distinguished friend for whom she was

waiting, and whom she would choose.

“I showed her that my thirty thousand francs would have but little

likelihood of returning to me; for, after spending them all, she would

have to find at least sixty thousand more, in a lump, to pay me back.

“She seemed very disheartened when she heard this. I did not know just

what to do, when an idea, a really fine idea, struck me.

“I had just bought this Renaissance Crucifix which I showed you, an

admirable piece of workmanship, one of the finest of its land that I

have ever seen.

“'My dear friend,' I said to her, 'I am going to send you that piece of

ivory. You will invent some ingenious, touching, poetic story, anything

that you wish, to explain your desire for parting with it. It is, of

course, a family heirloom left you by your father.

“'I myself will send you amateurs, or will bring them to you. The rest

concerns you. Before they come I will drop you a line about their

position, both social and financial. This Crucifix is worth fifty

thousand francs; but I will let it go for thirty thousand. The

difference will belong to you.'

“She considered the matter seriously for several minutes, and then

answered: 'Yes, it is, perhaps, a good idea. I thank you very-much.'

“The next day I sent her my Crucifix, and the same evening the Baron de

Saint-Hospital.

“For three months I sent her my best clients, from a business point of

view. But I heard nothing more from her.

“One day I received a visit from a foreigner who spoke very little

French. I decided to introduce him personally to the baroness, in order

to see how she was getting along.

“A footman in black livery received us and ushered us into a quiet

little parlor, furnished with taste, where we waited for several

minutes. She appeared, charming as usual, extended her hand to me and

invited us to be seated; and when I had explained the reason of my

visit, she rang.

“The footman appeared.

“'See if Mlle. Isabelle can let us go into her oratory.' The young girl

herself brought the answer. She was about fifteen years of age, modest

and good to look upon in the sweet freshness of her youth. She wished to

conduct us herself to her chapel.

“It was a kind of religious boudoir where a silver lamp was burning

before the Crucifix, my Crucifix, on a background of black velvet. The

setting was charming and very clever. The child crossed herself and then

said:

“'Look, gentlemen. Isn't it beautiful?'

“I took the object, examined it and declared it to be remarkable. The

foreigner also examined it, but he seemed much more interested in the

two women than in the crucifix.

“A delicate odor of incense, flowers and perfume pervaded the whole

house. One felt at home there. This really was a comfortable home, where

one would have liked to linger.

“When we had returned to the parlor I delicately broached the subject of

the price. Mme. Samoris, lowering her eyes, asked fifty thousand francs.

“Then she added: 'If you wish to see it again, monsieur, I very seldom

go out before three o'clock; and I can be found at home every day.'

“In the street the stranger asked me for some details about the

baroness, whom he had found charming. But I did not hear anything more

from either of them.

“Three months passed by.

“One morning, hardly two weeks ago, she came here at about lunch time,

and, placing a roll of bills in my hand, said: 'My dear, you are an

angel! Here are fifty thousand francs; I am buying your crucifix, and I

am paying twenty thousand francs more for it than the price agreed upon,

on condition that you always—always send your clients to me—for it is

still for sale.'”

MOTHER AND SON

A party of men were chatting in the smoking room after dinner. We were

talking of unexpected legacies, strange inheritances. Then M. le

Brument, who was sometimes called “the illustrious judge” and at other

times “the illustrious lawyer,” went and stood with his back to the

fire.

“I have,” said he, “to search for an heir who disappeared under

peculiarly distressing circumstances. It is one of those simple and

terrible dramas of ordinary life, a thing which possibly happens every

day, and which is nevertheless one of the most dreadful things I know.

Here are the facts:

“Nearly six months ago I was called to the bedside of a dying woman. She

said to me:

“'Monsieur, I want to intrust to you the most delicate, the most

difficult, and the most wearisome mission that can be conceived. Be good

enough to notice my will, which is there on the table. A sum of five

thousand francs is left to you as a fee if you do not succeed, and of a

hundred thousand francs if you do succeed. I want you to find my son

after my death.'

“She asked me to assist her to sit up in bed, in order that she might

talk with greater ease, for her voice, broken and gasping, was whistling

in her throat.

“It was a very wealthy establishment. The luxurious apartment, of an

elegant simplicity, was upholstered with materials as thick as walls,

with a soft inviting surface.

“The dying woman continued:

“'You are the first to hear my horrible story. I will try to have

strength enough to finish it. You must know all, in order that you, whom

I know to be a kind-hearted man as well as a man of the world, may have

a sincere desire to aid me with all your power.

“'Listen to me:

“'Before my marriage, I loved a young man, whose suit was rejected by my

family because he was not rich enough. Not long afterward, I married a

man of great wealth. I married him through ignorance, through obedience,

through indifference, as young girls do marry.

“'I had a child, a boy. My husband died in the course of a few years.

“'He whom I had loved had married, in his turn. When he saw that I was a

widow, he was crushed by grief at knowing he was not free. He came to

see me; he wept and sobbed so bitterly, that it was enough to break my

heart. He came to see me at first as a friend. Perhaps I ought not to

have received him. What could I do? I was alone, so sad, so solitary, so

hopeless! And I loved him still. What sufferings we women have sometimes

to endure!

“'I had only him in the world, my parents being dead. He came

frequently; he spent whole evenings with me. I should not have let him

come so often, seeing that he was married. But I had not enough will-

power to prevent him from coming.

“'How can I tell it?—he became my lover. How did this come about? Can I

explain it? Can any one explain such things? Do you think it could be

otherwise when two human beings are drawn to each other by the

irresistible force of mutual affection? Do you believe, monsieur, that

it is always in our power to resist, that we can keep up the struggle

forever, and refuse to yield to the prayers, the supplications, the

tears, the frenzied words, the appeals on bended knees, the transports

of passion, with which we are pursued by the man we adore, whom we want

to gratify even in his slightest wishes, whom we desire to crown with

every possible happiness, and whom, if we are to be guided by a worldly

code of honor, we must drive to despair? What strength would it not

require? What a renunciation of happiness? what self-denial? and even

what virtuous selfishness?

“'In short, monsieur, I was his mistress; and I was happy. I became—and

this was my greatest weakness and my greatest piece of cowardice-I

became his wife's friend.

“'We brought up my son together; we made a man of him, a thorough man,

intelligent, full of sense and resolution, of large and generous ideas.

The boy reached the age of seventeen.

“'He, the young man, was fond of my—my lover, almost as fond of him as I

was myself, for he had been equally cherished and cared for by both of

us. He used to call him his 'dear friend,' and respected him immensely,

having never received from him anything but wise counsels and an example

of integrity, honor, and probity. He looked upon him as an old loyal and

devoted comrade of his mother, as a sort of moral father, guardian,

protector—how am I to describe it?

“'Perhaps the reason why he never asked any questions was that he had

been accustomed from his earliest years to see this man in my house, at

my side, and at his side, always concerned about us both.

“'One evening the three of us were to dine together—this was my chief

amusement—and I waited for the two men, asking myself which of them

would be the first to arrive. The door opened; it was my old friend. I

went toward him, with outstretched arms; and he pressed my lips in a

long, delicious kiss.

“'All of a sudden, a slight sound, a faint rustling, that mysterious

sensation which indicates the presence of another person, made us start

and turn round abruptly. Jean, my son, stood there, livid, staring at

us.

“'There was a moment of atrocious confusion. I drew back, holding out my

hand toward my son as if in supplication; but I could not see him. He

had gone.

“'We remained facing each other—my lover and I—crushed, unable to utter

a word. I sank into an armchair, and I felt a desire, a vague, powerful

desire, to flee, to go out into the night, and to disappear forever.

Then convulsive sobs rose in my throat, and I wept, shaken with spasms,

my heart breaking, all my nerves writhing with the horrible sensation of

an irreparable misfortune, and with that dreadful sense of shame which,

in such moments as this, fills a mother's heart.

“'He looked at me in a terrified manner, not venturing to approach, to

speak to me, or to touch me, for fear of the boy's return. At last he

said:

“'I am going to follow him-to talk to him—to explain matters to him. In

short, I must see him and let him know——”

“'And he hurried away.

“'I waited—waited in a distracted frame of mind, trembling at the least

sound, starting with fear and with some unutterably strange and

intolerable emotion at every slight crackling of the fire in the grate.

“'I waited an hour, two hours, feeling my heart swell with a dread I had

never before experienced, such anguish that I would not wish the

greatest criminal to endure ten minutes of such misery. Where was my

son? What was he doing?

“'About midnight, a messenger brought me a note from my lover. I still

know its contents by heart:

“'Has your son returned? I did not find him. I am down here. I do not

want to go up at this hour.”

“'I wrote in pencil on the same slip of paper:

“'Jean has not returned. You must find him.”

“'And I remained all night in the armchair, waiting for him.

“'I felt as if I were going mad. I longed to run wildly about, to roll

on the ground. And yet I did not even stir, but kept waiting hour after

hour. What was going to happen? I tried to imagine, to guess. But I

could form no conception, in spite of my efforts, in spite of the

tortures of my soul!

“'And now I feared that they might meet. What would they do in that

case? What would my son do? My mind was torn with fearful doubts, with

terrible suppositions.

“'You can understand my feelings, can you not, monsieur? “'My

chambermaid, who knew nothing, who understood nothing, came into the

room every moment, believing, naturally, that I had lost my reason. I

sent her away with a word or a movement of the hand. She went for the

doctor, who found me in the throes of a nervous attack.

“'I was put to bed. I had brain fever.

“'When I regained consciousness, after a long illness, I saw beside my

bed my—lover—alone.

“'I exclaimed:

“'My son? Where is my son?

“'He made no reply. I stammered:

“'Dead-dead. Has he committed suicide?

“'No, no, I swear it. But we have not found him in spite of all my

efforts.

“'Then, becoming suddenly exasperated and even indignant—for women are

subject to such outbursts of unaccountable and unreasoning anger—I said:

“'I forbid you to come near me or to see me again unless you find him.

Go away!

“He did go away.

“'I have never seen one or the other of them since, monsieur, and thus I

have lived for the last twenty years.

“'Can you imagine what all this meant to me? Can you understand this

monstrous punishment, this slow, perpetual laceration of a mother's

heart, this abominable, endless waiting? Endless, did I say? No; it is

about to end, for I am dying. I am dying without ever again seeing

either of them—either one or the other!

“'He—the man I loved—has written to me every day for the last twenty

years; and I—I have never consented to see him, even for one second; for

I had a strange feeling that, if he were to come back here, my son would

make his appearance at the same moment. Oh! my son! my son! Is he dead?

Is he living? Where is he hiding? Over there, perhaps, beyond the great

ocean, in some country so far away that even its very name is unknown to

me! Does he ever think of me? Ah! if he only knew! How cruel one's

children are! Did he understand to what frightful suffering he condemned

me, into what depths of despair, into what tortures, he cast me while I

was still in the prime of life, leaving me to suffer until this moment,

when I am about to die—me, his mother, who loved him with all the

intensity of a mother's love? Oh! isn't it cruel, cruel?

“'You will tell him all this, monsieur—will you not? You will repeat to

him my last words:

“'My child, my dear, dear child, be less harsh toward poor women! Life

is already brutal and savage enough in its dealings with them. My dear

son, think of what the existence of your poor mother has been ever since

the day you left her. My dear child, forgive her, and love her, now that

she is dead, for she has had to endure the most frightful penance ever

inflicted on a woman.”

“She gasped for breath, trembling, as if she had addressed the last

words to her son and as if he stood by her bedside.

“Then she added:

“'You will tell him also, monsieur, that I never again saw-the other.'

“Once more she ceased speaking, then, in a broken voice, she said:

“'Leave me now, I beg of you. I want to die all alone, since they are

not with me.'”

Maitre Le Brument added:

“And I left the house, monsieurs, crying like a fool, so bitterly,

indeed, that my coachman turned round to stare at me.

“And to think that, every day, dramas like this are being enacted all

around us!

“I have not found the son—that son—well, say what you like about him,

but I call him that criminal son!”

THE HAND

All were crowding around M. Bermutier, the judge, who was giving his

opinion about the Saint-Cloud mystery. For a month this in explicable

crime had been the talk of Paris. Nobody could make head or tail of it.

M. Bermutier, standing with his back to the fireplace, was talking,

citing the evidence, discussing the various theories, but arriving at no

conclusion.

Some women had risen, in order to get nearer to him, and were standing

with their eyes fastened on the clean-shaven face of the judge, who was

saying such weighty things. They, were shaking and trembling, moved by

fear and curiosity, and by the eager and insatiable desire for the

horrible, which haunts the soul of every woman. One of them, paler than

the others, said during a pause:

“It's terrible. It verges on the supernatural. The truth will never be

known.”

The judge turned to her:

“True, madame, it is likely that the actual facts will never be

discovered. As for the word 'supernatural' which you have just used, it

has nothing to do with the matter. We are in the presence of a very

cleverly conceived and executed crime, so well enshrouded in mystery

that we cannot disentangle it from the involved circumstances which

surround it. But once I had to take charge of an affair in which the

uncanny seemed to play a part. In fact, the case became so confused that

it had to be given up.”

Several women exclaimed at once:

“Oh! Tell us about it!”

M. Bermutier smiled in a dignified manner, as a judge should, and went

on:

“Do not think, however, that I, for one minute, ascribed anything in the

case to supernatural influences. I believe only in normal causes. But

if, instead of using the word 'supernatural' to express what we do not

understand, we were simply to make use of the word 'inexplicable,' it

would be much better. At any rate, in the affair of which I am about to

tell you, it is especially the surrounding, preliminary circumstances

which impressed me. Here are the facts:

“I was, at that time, a judge at Ajaccio, a little white city on the

edge of a bay which is surrounded by high mountains.

“The majority of the cases which came up before me concerned vendettas.

There are some that are superb, dramatic, ferocious, heroic. We find

there the most beautiful causes for revenge of which one could dream,

enmities hundreds of years old, quieted for a time but never

extinguished; abominable stratagems, murders becoming massacres and

almost deeds of glory. For two years I heard of nothing but the price of

blood, of this terrible Corsican prejudice which compels revenge for

insults meted out to the offending person and all his descendants and

relatives. I had seen old men, children, cousins murdered; my head was

full of these stories.

“One day I learned that an Englishman had just hired a little villa at

the end of the bay for several years. He had brought with him a French

servant, whom he had engaged on the way at Marseilles.

“Soon this peculiar person, living alone, only going out to hunt and

fish, aroused a widespread interest. He never spoke to any one, never

went to the town, and every morning he would practice for an hour or so

with his revolver and rifle.

“Legends were built up around him. It was said that he was some high

personage, fleeing from his fatherland for political reasons; then it

was affirmed that he was in hiding after having committed some

abominable crime. Some particularly horrible circumstances were even

mentioned.

“In my judicial position I thought it necessary to get some information

about this man, but it was impossible to learn anything. He called

himself Sir John Rowell.

“I therefore had to be satisfied with watching him as closely as I

could, but I could see nothing suspicious about his actions.

“However, as rumors about him were growing and becoming more widespread,

I decided to try to see this stranger myself, and I began to hunt

regularly in the neighborhood of his grounds.

“For a long time I watched without finding an opportunity. At last it

came to me in the shape of a partridge which I shot and killed right in

front of the Englishman. My dog fetched it for me, but, taking the bird,

I went at once to Sir John Rowell and, begging his pardon, asked him to

accept it.

“He was a big man, with red hair and beard, very tall, very broad, a

kind of calm and polite Hercules. He had nothing of the so-called

British stiffness, and in a broad English accent he thanked me warmly

for my attention. At the end of a month we had had five or six

conversations.

“One night, at last, as I was passing before his door, I saw him in the

garden, seated astride a chair, smoking his pipe. I bowed and he invited

me to come in and have a glass of beer. I needed no urging.

“He received me with the most punctilious English courtesy, sang the

praises of France and of Corsica, and declared that he was quite in love

with this country.

“Then, with great caution and under the guise of a vivid interest, I

asked him a few questions about his life and his plans. He answered

without embarrassment, telling me that he had travelled a great deal in

Africa, in the Indies, in America. He added, laughing:

“'I have had many adventures.'

“Then I turned the conversation on hunting, and he gave me the most

curious details on hunting the hippopotamus, the tiger, the elephant and

even the gorilla.

“I said:

“'Are all these animals dangerous?'

“He smiled:

“'Oh, no! Man is the worst.'

“And he laughed a good broad laugh, the wholesome laugh of a contented

Englishman.

“'I have also frequently been man-hunting.'

“Then he began to talk about weapons, and he invited me to come in and

see different makes of guns.

“His parlor was draped in black, black silk embroidered in gold. Big

yellow flowers, as brilliant as fire, were worked on the dark material.

“He said:

“'It is a Japanese material.'

“But in the middle of the widest panel a strange thing attracted my

attention. A black object stood out against a square of red velvet. I

went up to it; it was a hand, a human hand. Not the clean white hand of

a skeleton, but a dried black hand, with yellow nails, the muscles

exposed and traces of old blood on the bones, which were cut off as

clean as though it had been chopped off with an axe, near the middle of

the forearm.

“Around the wrist, an enormous iron chain, riveted and soldered to this

unclean member, fastened it to the wall by a ring, strong enough to hold

an elephant in leash.

“I asked:

“'What is that?'

“The Englishman answered quietly:

“'That is my best enemy. It comes from America, too. The bones were

severed by a sword and the skin cut off with a sharp stone and dried in

the sun for a week.'

“I touched these human remains, which must have belonged to a giant. The

uncommonly long fingers were attached by enormous tendons which still

had pieces of skin hanging to them in places. This hand was terrible to

see; it made one think of some savage vengeance.

“I said:

“'This man must have been very strong.'

“The Englishman answered quietly:

“'Yes, but I was stronger than he. I put on this chain to hold him.'

“I thought that he was joking. I said:

“'This chain is useless now, the hand won't run away.'

“Sir John Rowell answered seriously:

“'It always wants to go away. This chain is needed.'

“I glanced at him quickly, questioning his face, and I asked myself:

“'Is he an insane man or a practical joker?'

“But his face remained inscrutable, calm and friendly. I turned to other

subjects, and admired his rifles.

“However, I noticed that he kept three loaded revolvers in the room, as

though constantly in fear of some attack.

“I paid him several calls. Then I did not go any more. People had become

used to his presence; everybody had lost interest in him.

“A whole year rolled by. One morning, toward the end of November, my

servant awoke me and announced that Sir John Rowell had been murdered

during the night.

“Half an hour later I entered the Englishman's house, together with the

police commissioner and the captain of the gendarmes. The servant,

bewildered and in despair, was crying before the door. At first I

suspected this man, but he was innocent.

“The guilty party could never be found.

“On entering Sir John's parlor, I noticed the body, stretched out on its

back, in the middle of the room.

“His vest was torn, the sleeve of his jacket had been pulled off,

everything pointed to, a violent struggle.

“The Englishman had been strangled! His face was black, swollen and

frightful, and seemed to express a terrible fear. He held something

between his teeth, and his neck, pierced by five or six holes which

looked as though they had been made by some iron instrument, was covered

with blood.

“A physician joined us. He examined the finger marks on the neck for a

long time and then made this strange announcement:

“'It looks as though he had been strangled by a skeleton.'

“A cold chill seemed to run down my back, and I looked over to where I

had formerly seen the terrible hand. It was no longer there. The chain

was hanging down, broken.

“I bent over the dead man and, in his contracted mouth, I found one of

the fingers of this vanished hand, cut—or rather sawed off by the teeth

down to the second knuckle.

“Then the investigation began. Nothing could be discovered. No door,

window or piece of furniture had been forced. The two watch dogs had not

been aroused from their sleep.

“Here, in a few words, is the testimony of the servant:

“For a month his master had seemed excited. He had received many

letters, which he would immediately burn.

“Often, in a fit of passion which approached madness, he had taken a

switch and struck wildly at this dried hand riveted to the wall, and

which had disappeared, no one knows how, at the very hour of the crime.

“He would go to bed very late and carefully lock himself in. He always

kept weapons within reach. Often at night he would talk loudly, as

though he were quarrelling with some one.

“That night, somehow, he had made no noise, and it was only on going to

open the windows that the servant had found Sir John murdered. He

suspected no one.

“I communicated what I knew of the dead man to the judges and public

officials. Throughout the whole island a minute investigation was

carried on. Nothing could be found out.

“One night, about three months after the crime, I had a terrible

nightmare. I seemed to see the horrible hand running over my curtains

and walls like an immense scorpion or spider. Three times I awoke, three

times I went to sleep again; three times I saw the hideous object

galloping round my room and moving its fingers like legs.

“The following day the hand was brought me, found in the cemetery, on

the grave of Sir John Rowell, who had been buried there because we had

been unable to find his family. The first finger was missing.

“Ladies, there is my story. I know nothing more.”

The women, deeply stirred, were pale and trembling. One of them

exclaimed:

“But that is neither a climax nor an explanation! We will be unable to

sleep unless you give us your opinion of what had occurred.”

The judge smiled severely:

“Oh! Ladies, I shall certainly spoil your terrible dreams. I simply

believe that the legitimate owner of the hand was not dead, that he came

to get it with his remaining one. But I don't know how. It was a kind of

vendetta.”

One of the women murmured:

“No, it can't be that.”

And the judge, still smiling, said:

“Didn't I tell you that my explanation would not satisfy you?”

A TRESS OF HAIR

The walls of the cell were bare and white washed. A narrow grated

window, placed so high that one could not reach it, lighted this

sinister little room. The mad inmate, seated on a straw chair, looked at

us with a fixed, vacant and haunted expression. He was very thin, with

hollow cheeks and hair almost white, which one guessed might have turned

gray in a few months. His clothes appeared to be too large for his

shrunken limbs, his sunken chest and empty paunch. One felt that this

man's mind was destroyed, eaten by his thoughts, by one thought, just as

a fruit is eaten by a worm. His craze, his idea was there in his brain,

insistent, harassing, destructive. It wasted his frame little by little.

It—the invisible, impalpable, intangible, immaterial idea—was mining his

health, drinking his blood, snuffing out his life.

What a mystery was this man, being killed by an ideal! He aroused

sorrow, fear and pity, this madman. What strange, tremendous and deadly

thoughts dwelt within this forehead which they creased with deep

wrinkles which were never still?

“He has terrible attacks of rage,” said the doctor to me. “His is one of

the most peculiar cases I have ever seen. He has seizures of erotic and

macaberesque madness. He is a sort of necrophile. He has kept a journal

in which he sets forth his disease with the utmost clearness. In it you

can, as it were, put your finger on it. If it would interest you, you

may go over this document.”

I followed the doctor into his office, where he handed me this wretched

man's diary, saying: “Read it and tell me what you think of it.” I read

as follows:

“Until the age of thirty-two I lived peacefully, without knowing love.

Life appeared very simple, very pleasant and very easy. I was rich. I

enjoyed so many things that I had no passion for anything in particular.

It was good to be alive! I awoke happy every morning and did those

things that pleased me during the day and went to bed at night

contented, in the expectation of a peaceful tomorrow and a future

without anxiety.

“I had had a few flirtations without my heart being touched by any true

passion or wounded by any of the sensations of true love. It is good to

live like that. It is better to love, but it is terrible. And yet those

who love in the ordinary way must experience ardent happiness, though

less than mine possibly, for love came to me in a remarkable manner.

“As I was wealthy, I bought all kinds of old furniture and old

curiosities, and I often thought of the unknown hands that had touched

these objects, of the eyes that had admired them, of the hearts that had

loved them; for one does love things! I sometimes remained hours and

hours looking at a little watch of the last century. It was so tiny, so

pretty with its enamel and gold chasing. And it kept time as on the day

when a woman first bought it, enraptured at owning this dainty trinket.

It had not ceased to vibrate, to live its mechanical life, and it had

kept up its regular tick-tock since the last century. Who had first worn

it on her bosom amid the warmth of her clothing, the heart of the watch

beating beside the heart of the woman? What hand had held it in its warm

fingers, had turned it over and then wiped the enamelled shepherds on

the case to remove the slight moisture from her fingers? What eyes had

watched the hands on its ornamental face for the expected, the beloved,

the sacred hour?

“How I wished I had known her, seen her, the woman who had selected this

exquisite and rare object! She is dead! I am possessed with a longing

for women of former days. I love, from afar, all those who have loved.

The story of those dead and gone loves fills my heart with regrets. Oh,

the beauty, the smiles, the youthful caresses, the hopes! Should not all

that be eternal?

“How I have wept whole nights-thinking of those poor women of former

days, so beautiful, so loving, so sweet, whose arms were extended in an

embrace, and who now are dead! A kiss is immortal! It goes from lips to

lips, from century to century, from age to age. Men receive them, give

them and die.

“The past attracts me, the present terrifies me because the future means

death. I regret all that has gone by. I mourn all who have lived; I

should like to check time, to stop the clock. But time goes, it goes, it

passes, it takes from me each second a little of myself for the

annihilation of to-morrow. And I shall never live again.

“Farewell, ye women of yesterday. I love you!

“But I am not to be pitied. I found her, the one I was waiting for, and

through her I enjoyed inestimable pleasure.

“I was sauntering in Paris on a bright, sunny morning, with a happy

heart and a high step, looking in at the shop windows with the vague

interest of an idler. All at once I noticed in the shop of a dealer in

antiques a piece of Italian furniture of the seventeenth century. It was

very handsome, very rare. I set it down as being the work of a Venetian

artist named Vitelli, who was celebrated in his day.

“I went on my way.

“Why did the remembrance of that piece of furniture haunt me with such

insistence that I retraced my steps? I again stopped before the shop, in

order to take another look at it, and I felt that it tempted me.

“What a singular thing temptation is! One gazes at an object, and,

little by little, it charms you, it disturbs you, it fills your thoughts

as a woman's face might do. The enchantment of it penetrates your being,

a strange enchantment of form, color and appearance of an inanimate

object. And one loves it, one desires it, one wishes to have it. A

longing to own it takes possession of you, gently at first, as though it

were timid, but growing, becoming intense, irresistible.

“And the dealers seem to guess, from your ardent gaze, your secret and

increasing longing.

“I bought this piece of furniture and had it sent home at once. I placed

it in my room.

“Oh, I am sorry for those who do not know the honeymoon of the collector

with the antique he has just purchased. One looks at it tenderly and

passes one's hand over it as if it were human flesh; one comes back to

it every moment, one is always thinking of it, wherever one goes,

whatever one does. The dear recollection of it pursues you in the

street, in society, everywhere; and when you return home at night,

before taking off your gloves or your hat; you go and look at it with

the tenderness of a lover.

“Truly, for eight days I worshipped this piece of furniture. I opened

its doors and pulled out the drawers every few moments. I handled it

with rapture, with all the intense joy of possession.

“But one evening I surmised, while I was feeling the thickness of one of

the panels, that there must be a secret drawer in it: My heart began to

beat, and I spent the night trying to discover this secret cavity.

“I succeeded on the following day by driving a knife into a slit in the

wood. A panel slid back and I saw, spread out on a piece of black

velvet, a magnificent tress of hair.

“Yes, a woman's hair, an immense coil of fair hair, almost red, which

must have been cut off close to the head, tied with a golden cord.

“I stood amazed, trembling, confused. An almost imperceptible perfume,

so ancient that it seemed to be the spirit of a perfume, issued from

this mysterious drawer and this remarkable relic.

“I lifted it gently, almost reverently, and took it out of its hiding

place. It at once unwound in a golden shower that reached to the floor,

dense but light; soft and gleaming like the tail of a comet.

“A strange emotion filled me. What was this? When, how, why had this

hair been shut up in this drawer? What adventure, what tragedy did this

souvenir conceal? Who had cut it off? A lover on a day of farewell, a

husband on a day of revenge, or the one whose head it had graced on the

day of despair?

“Was it as she was about to take the veil that they had cast thither

that love dowry as a pledge to the world of the living? Was it when they

were going to nail down the coffin of the beautiful young corpse that

the one who had adored her had cut off her tresses, the only thing that

he could retain of her, the only living part of her body that would not

suffer decay, the only thing he could still love, and caress, and kiss

in his paroxysms of grief?

“Was it not strange that this tress should have remained as it was in

life, when not an atom of the body on which it grew was in existence?

“It fell over my fingers, tickled the skin with a singular caress, the

caress of a dead woman. It affected me so that I felt as though I should

weep.

“I held it in my hands for a long time, then it seemed as if it

disturbed me, as though something of the soul had remained in it. And I

put it back on the velvet, rusty from age, and pushed in the drawer,

closed the doors of the antique cabinet and went out for a walk to

meditate.

“I walked along, filled with sadness and also with unrest, that unrest

that one feels when in love. I felt as though I must have lived before,

as though I must have known this woman.

“And Villon's lines came to my mind like a sob:

Tell me where, and in what place Is Flora, the beautiful Roman,

Hipparchia and Thais Who was her cousin-german?

Echo answers in the breeze O'er river and lake that blows, Their beauty

was above all praise, But where are last year's snows?

The queen, white as lilies, Who sang as sing the birds, Bertha

Broadfoot, Beatrice, Alice, Ermengarde, princess of Maine, And Joan, the

good Lorraine, Burned by the English at Rouen, Where are they, Virgin

Queen? And where are last year's snows?

“When I got home again I felt an irresistible longing to see my singular

treasure, and I took it out and, as I touched it, I felt a shiver go all

through me.

“For some days, however, I was in my ordinary condition, although the

thought of that tress of hair was always present to my mind.

“Whenever I came into the house I had to see it and take it in my,

hands. I turned the key of the cabinet with the same hesitation that one

opens the door leading to one's beloved, for in my hands and my heart I

felt a confused, singular, constant sensual longing to plunge my hands

in the enchanting golden flood of those dead tresses.

“Then, after I had finished caressing it and had locked the cabinet I

felt as if it were a living thing, shut up in there, imprisoned; and I

longed to see it again. I felt again the imperious desire to take it in

my hands, to touch it, to even feel uncomfortable at the cold, slippery,

irritating, bewildering contact.

“I lived thus for a month or two, I forget how long. It obsessed me,

haunted me. I was happy and tormented by turns, as when one falls in

love, and after the first vows have been exchanged.

“I shut myself in the room with it to feel it on my skin, to bury my

lips in it, to kiss it. I wound it round my face, covered my eyes with

the golden flood so as to see the day gleam through its gold.

“I loved it! Yes, I loved it. I could not be without it nor pass an hour

without looking at it.

“And I waited—I waited—for what? I do not know—For her!

“One night I woke up suddenly, feeling as though I were not alone in my

room.

“I was alone, nevertheless, but I could not go to sleep again, and, as I

was tossing about feverishly, I got up to look at the golden tress. It

seemed softer than usual, more life-like. Do the dead come back? I

almost lost consciousness as I kissed it. I took it back with me to bed

and pressed it to my lips as if it were my sweetheart.

“Do the dead come back? She came back. Yes, I saw her; I held her in my

arms, just as she was in life, tall, fair and round. She came back every

evening—the dead woman, the beautiful, adorable, mysterious unknown.

“My happiness was so great that I could not conceal it. No lover ever

tasted such intense, terrible enjoyment. I loved her so well that I

could not be separated from her. I took her with me always and

everywhere. I walked about the town with her as if she were my wife, and

took her to the theatre, always to a private box. But they saw her—they

guessed—they arrested me. They put me in prison like a criminal. They

took her. Oh, misery!”

Here the manuscript stopped. And as I suddenly raised my astonished eyes

to the doctor a terrific cry, a howl of impotent rage and of exasperated

longing resounded through the asylum.

“Listen,” said the doctor. “We have to douse the obscene madman with

water five times a day. Sergeant Bertrand was the only one who was in

love with the dead.”

Filled with astonishment, horror and pity, I stammered out:

“But—that tress—did it really exist?”

The doctor rose, opened a cabinet full of phials and instruments and

tossed over a long tress of fair hair which flew toward me like a golden

bird.

I shivered at feeling its soft, light touch on my hands. And I sat

there, my heart beating with disgust and desire, disgust as at the

contact of anything accessory to a crime and desire as at the temptation

of some infamous and mysterious thing.

The doctor said as he shrugged his shoulders:

“The mind of man is capable of anything.”

ON THE RIVER

I rented a little country house last summer on the banks of the Seine,

several leagues from Paris, and went out there to sleep every evening.

After a few days I made the acquaintance of one of my neighbors, a man

between thirty and forty, who certainly was the most curious specimen I

ever met. He was an old boating man, and crazy about boating. He was

always beside the water, on the water, or in the water. He must have

been born in a boat, and he will certainly die in a boat at the last.

One evening as we were walking along the banks of the Seine I asked him

to tell me some stories about his life on the water. The good man at

once became animated, his whole expression changed, he became eloquent,

almost poetical. There was in his heart one great passion, an absorbing,

irresistible passion-the river.

Ah, he said to me, how many memories I have, connected with that river

that you see flowing beside us! You people who live in streets know

nothing about the river. But listen to a fisherman as he mentions the

word. To him it is a mysterious thing, profound, unknown, a land of

mirages and phantasmagoria, where one sees by night things that do not

exist, hears sounds that one does not recognize, trembles without

knowing why, as in passing through a cemetery—and it is, in fact, the

most sinister of cemeteries, one in which one has no tomb.

The land seems limited to the river boatman, and on dark nights, when

there is no moon, the river seems limitless. A sailor has not the same

feeling for the sea. It is often remorseless and cruel, it is true; but

it shrieks, it roars, it is honest, the great sea; while the river is

silent and perfidious. It does not speak, it flows along without a

sound; and this eternal motion of flowing water is more terrible to me

than the high waves of the ocean.

Dreamers maintain that the sea hides in its bosom vast tracts of blue

where those who are drowned roam among the big fishes, amid strange

forests and crystal grottoes. The river has only black depths where one

rots in the slime. It is beautiful, however, when it sparkles in the

light of the rising sun and gently laps its banks covered with

whispering reeds.

The poet says, speaking of the ocean,

“O waves, what mournful tragedies ye know —Deep waves, the dread of

kneeling mothers' hearts! Ye tell them to each other as ye roll On

flowing tide, and this it is that gives The sad despairing tones unto

your voice As on ye roll at eve by mounting tide.”

Well, I think that the stories whispered by the slender reeds, with

their little soft voices, must be more sinister than the lugubrious

tragedies told by the roaring of the waves.

But as you have asked for some of my recollections, I will tell you of a

singular adventure that happened to me ten years ago.

I was living, as I am now, in Mother Lafon's house, and one of my

closest friends, Louis Bernet who has now given up boating, his low

shoes and his bare neck, to go into the Supreme Court, was living in the

village of C., two leagues further down the river. We dined together

every day, sometimes at his house, sometimes at mine.