One evening as I was coming home along and was pretty tired, rowing with

difficulty my big boat, a twelve-footer, which I always took out at

night, I stopped a few moments to draw breath near the reed-covered

point yonder, about two hundred metres from the railway bridge.

It was a magnificent night, the moon shone brightly, the river gleamed,

the air was calm and soft. This peacefulness tempted me. I thought to

myself that it would be pleasant to smoke a pipe in this spot. I took up

my anchor and cast it into the river.

The boat floated downstream with the current, to the end of the chain,

and then stopped, and I seated myself in the stern on my sheepskin and

made myself as comfortable as possible. There was not a sound to be

heard, except that I occasionally thought I could perceive an almost

imperceptible lapping of the water against the bank, and I noticed

taller groups of reeds which assumed strange shapes and seemed, at

times, to move.

The river was perfectly calm, but I felt myself affected by the unusual

silence that surrounded me. All the creatures, frogs and toads, those

nocturnal singers of the marsh, were silent.

Suddenly a frog croaked to my right, and close beside me. I shuddered.

It ceased, and I heard nothing more, and resolved to smoke, to soothe my

mind. But, although I was a noted colorer of pipes, I could not smoke;

at the second draw I was nauseated, and gave up trying. I began to sing.

The sound of my voice was distressing to me. So I lay still, but

presently the slight motion of the boat disturbed me. It seemed to me as

if she were making huge lurches, from bank to bank of the river,

touching each bank alternately. Then I felt as though an invisible

force, or being, were drawing her to the surface of the water and

lifting her out, to let her fall again. I was tossed about as in a

tempest. I heard noises around me. I sprang to my feet with a single

bound. The water was glistening, all was calm.

I saw that my nerves were somewhat shaky, and I resolved to leave the

spot. I pulled the anchor chain, the boat began to move; then I felt a

resistance. I pulled harder, the anchor did not come up; it had caught

on something at the bottom of the river and I could not raise it. I

began pulling again, but all in vain. Then, with my oars, I turned the

boat with its head up stream to change the position of the anchor. It

was no use, it was still caught. I flew into a rage and shook the chain

furiously. Nothing budged. I sat down, disheartened, and began to

reflect on my situation. I could not dream of breaking this chain, or

detaching it from the boat, for it was massive and was riveted at the

bows to a piece of wood as thick as my arm. However, as the weather was

so fine I thought that it probably would not be long before some

fisherman came to my aid. My ill-luck had quieted me. I sat down and was

able, at length, to smoke my pipe. I had a bottle of rum; I drank two or

three glasses, and was able to laugh at the situation. It was very warm;

so that, if need be, I could sleep out under the stars without any great

harm.

All at once there was a little knock at the side of the boat. I gave a

start, and a cold sweat broke out all over me. The noise was, doubtless,

caused by some piece of wood borne along by the current, but that was

enough, and I again became a prey to a strange nervous agitation. I

seized the chain and tensed my muscles in a desperate effort. The anchor

held firm. I sat down again, exhausted.

The river had slowly become enveloped in a thick white fog which lay

close to the water, so that when I stood up I could see neither the

river, nor my feet, nor my boat; but could perceive only the tops of the

reeds, and farther off in the distance the plain, lying white in the

moonlight, with big black patches rising up from it towards the sky,

which were formed by groups of Italian poplars. I was as if buried to

the waist in a cloud of cotton of singular whiteness, and all sorts of

strange fancies came into my mind. I thought that someone was trying to

climb into my boat which I could no longer distinguish, and that the

river, hidden by the thick fog, was full of strange creatures which were

swimming all around me. I felt horribly uncomfortable, my forehead felt

as if it had a tight band round it, my heart beat so that it almost

suffocated me, and, almost beside myself, I thought of swimming away

from the place. But then, again, the very idea made me tremble with

fear. I saw myself, lost, going by guesswork in this heavy fog,

struggling about amid the grasses and reeds which I could not escape, my

breath rattling with fear, neither seeing the bank, nor finding my boat;

and it seemed as if I would feel myself dragged down by the feet to the

bottom of these black waters.

In fact, as I should have had to ascend the stream at least five hundred

metres before finding a spot free from grasses and rushes where I could

land, there were nine chances to one that I could not find my way in the

fog and that I should drown, no matter how well I could swim.

I tried to reason with myself. My will made me resolve not to be afraid,

but there was something in me besides my will, and that other thing was

afraid. I asked myself what there was to be afraid of. My brave “ego”

ridiculed my coward “ego,” and never did I realize, as on that day, the

existence in us of two rival personalities, one desiring a thing, the

other resisting, and each winning the day in turn.

This stupid, inexplicable fear increased, and became terror. I remained

motionless, my eyes staring, my ears on the stretch with expectation. Of

what? I did not know, but it must be something terrible. I believe if it

had occurred to a fish to jump out of the water, as often happens,

nothing more would have been required to make me fall over, stiff and

unconscious.

However, by a violent effort I succeeded in becoming almost rational

again. I took up my bottle of rum and took several pulls. Then an idea

came to me, and I began to shout with all my might towards all the

points of the compass in succession. When my throat was absolutely

paralyzed I listened. A dog was howling, at a great distance.

I drank some more rum and stretched myself out at the bottom of the

boat. I remained there about an hour, perhaps two, not sleeping, my eyes

wide open, with nightmares all about me. I did not dare to rise, and yet

I intensely longed to do so. I delayed it from moment to moment. I said

to myself: “Come, get up!” and I was afraid to move. At last I raised

myself with infinite caution as though my life depended on the slightest

sound that I might make; and looked over the edge of the boat. I was

dazzled by the most marvellous, the most astonishing sight that it is

possible to see. It was one of those phantasmagoria of fairyland, one of

those sights described by travellers on their return from distant lands,

whom we listen to without believing.

The fog which, two hours before, had floated on the water, had gradually

cleared off and massed on the banks, leaving the river absolutely clear;

while it formed on either bank an uninterrupted wall six or seven metres

high, which shone in the moonlight with the dazzling brilliance of snow.

One saw nothing but the river gleaming with light between these two

white mountains; and high above my head sailed the great full moon, in

the midst of a bluish, milky sky.

All the creatures in the water were awake. The frogs croaked furiously,

while every few moments I heard, first to the right and then to the

left, the abrupt, monotonous and mournful metallic note of the

bullfrogs. Strange to say, I was no longer afraid. I was in the midst of

such an unusual landscape that the most remarkable things would not have

astonished me.

How long this lasted I do not know, for I ended by falling asleep. When

I opened my eyes the moon had gone down and the sky was full of clouds.

The water lapped mournfully, the wind was blowing, it was pitch dark. I

drank the rest of the rum, then listened, while I trembled, to the

rustling of the reeds and the foreboding sound of the river. I tried to

see, but could not distinguish my boat, nor even my hands, which I held

up close to my eyes.

Little by little, however, the blackness became less intense. All at

once I thought I noticed a shadow gliding past, quite near me. I

shouted, a voice replied; it was a fisherman. I called him; he came near

and I told him of my ill-luck. He rowed his boat alongside of mine and,

together, we pulled at the anchor chain. The anchor did not move. Day

came, gloomy gray, rainy and cold, one of those days that bring one

sorrows and misfortunes. I saw another boat. We hailed it. The man on

board of her joined his efforts to ours, and gradually the anchor

yielded. It rose, but slowly, slowly, loaded down by a considerable

weight. At length we perceived a black mass and we drew it on board. It

was the corpse of an old women with a big stone round her neck.

THE CRIPPLE

The following adventure happened to me about 1882. I had just taken the

train and settled down in a corner, hoping that I should be left alone,

when the door suddenly opened again and I heard a voice say: “Take care,

monsieur, we are just at a crossing; the step is very high.”

Another voice answered: “That's all right, Laurent, I have a firm hold

on the handle.”

Then a head appeared, and two hands seized the leather straps hanging on

either side of the door and slowly pulled up an enormous body, whose

feet striking on the step, sounded like two canes. When the man had

hoisted his torso into the compartment I noticed, at the loose edge of

his trousers, the end of a wooden leg, which was soon followed by its

mate. A head appeared behind this traveller and asked; “Are you all

right, monsieur?”

“Yes, my boy.”

“Then here are your packages and crutches.”

And a servant, who looked like an old soldier, climbed in, carrying in

his arms a stack of bundles wrapped in black and yellow papers and

carefully tied; he placed one after the other in the net over his

master's head. Then he said: “There, monsieur, that is all. There are

five of them—the candy, the doll the drum, the gun, and the pate de

foies gras.”

“Very well, my boy.”

“Thank you, Laurent; good health!”

The man closed the door and walked away, and I looked at my neighbor. He

was about thirty-five, although his hair was almost white; he wore the

ribbon of the Legion of Honor; he had a heavy mustache and was quite

stout, with the stoutness of a strong and active man who is kept

motionless on account of some infirmity. He wiped his brow, sighed, and,

looking me full in the face, he asked: “Does smoking annoy you,

monsieur?”

“No, monsieur.”

Surely I knew that eye, that voice, that face. But when and where had I

seen them? I had certainly met that man, spoken to him, shaken his hand.

That was a long, long time ago. It was lost in the haze wherein the mind

seems to feel around blindly for memories and pursues them like fleeing

phantoms without being able to seize them. He, too, was observing me,

staring me out of countenance, with the persistence of a man who

remembers slightly but not completely. Our eyes, embarrassed by this

persistent contact, turned away; then, after a few minutes, drawn

together again by the obscure and tenacious will of working memory, they

met once more, and I said: “Monsieur, instead of staring at each other

for an hour or so, would it not be better to try to discover where we

have known each other?”

My neighbor answered graciously: “You are quite right, monsieur.”

I named myself: “I am Henri Bonclair, a magistrate.”

He hesitated for a few minutes; then, with the vague look and voice

which accompany great mental tension, he said: “Oh, I remember

perfectly. I met you twelve years ago, before the war, at the Poincels!”

“Yes, monsieur. Ah! Ah! You are Lieutenant Revaliere?”

“Yes. I was Captain Revaliere even up to the time when I lost my feet

—both of them together from one cannon ball.”

Now that we knew each other's identity we looked at each other again. I

remembered perfectly the handsome, slender youth who led the cotillons

with such frenzied agility and gracefulness that he had been nicknamed

“the fury.” Going back into the dim, distant past, I recalled a story

which I had heard and forgotten, one of those stories to which one

listens but forgets, and which leave but a faint impression upon the

memory.

There was something about love in it. Little by little the shadows

cleared up, and the face of a young girl appeared before my eyes. Then

her name struck me with the force of an explosion: Mademoiselle de

Mandel. I remembered everything now. It was indeed a love story, but

quite commonplace. The young girl loved this young man, and when I had

met them there was already talk of the approaching wedding. The youth

seemed to be very much in love, very happy.

I raised my eye to the net, where all the packages which had been

brought in by the servant were trembling from the motion of the train,

and the voice of the servant came back to me, as if he had just finished

speaking. He had said: “There, monsieur, that is all. There are five of

them: the candy, the doll, the drum, the gun, and the pate de foies

gras.”

Then, in a second, a whole romance unfolded itself in my head. It was

like all those which I had already read, where the young lady married

notwithstanding the catastrophe, whether physical or financial;

therefore, this officer who had been maimed in the war had returned,

after the campaign, to the young girl who had given him her promise, and

she had kept her word.

I considered that very beautiful, but simple, just as one, considers

simple all devotions and climaxes in books or in plays. It always seems,

when one reads or listens to these stories of magnanimity, that one

could sacrifice one's self with enthusiastic pleasure and overwhelming

joy. But the following day, when an unfortunate friend comes to borrow

some money, there is a strange revulsion of feeling.

But, suddenly, another supposition, less poetic and more realistic,

replaced the first one. Perhaps he had married before the war, before

this frightful accident, and she, in despair and resignation, had been

forced to receive, care for, cheer, and support this husband, who had

departed, a handsome man, and had returned without his feet, a frightful

wreck, forced into immobility, powerless anger, and fatal obesity.

Was he happy or in torture? I was seized with an irresistible desire to

know his story, or, at least, the principal points, which would permit

me to guess that which he could not or would not tell me. Still thinking

the matter over, I began talking to him. We had exchanged a few

commonplace words; and I raised my eyes to the net, and thought: “He

must have three children: the bonbons are for his wife, the doll for his

little girl, the drum and the gun for his sons, and this pate de foies

gras for himself.”

Suddenly I asked him: “Are you a father, monsieur?”

He answered: “No, monsieur.”

I suddenly felt confused, as if I had been guilty of some breach of

etiquette, and I continued: “I beg your pardon. I had thought that you

were when I heard your servant speaking about the toys. One listens and

draws conclusions unconsciously.”

He smiled and then murmured: “No, I am not even married. I am still at

the preliminary stage.”

I pretended suddenly to remember, and said:

“Oh! that's true! When I knew you, you were engaged to Mademoiselle de

Mandel, I believe.”

“Yes, monsieur, your memory is excellent.”

I grew very bold and added: “I also seem to remember hearing that

Mademoiselle de Mandel married Monsieur—Monsieur—”

He calmly mentioned the name: “Monsieur de Fleurel.”

“Yes, that's it! I remember it was on that occasion that I heard of your

wound.”

I looked him full in the face, and he blushed. His full face, which was

already red from the oversupply of blood, turned crimson. He answered

quickly, with a sudden ardor of a man who is pleading a cause which is

lost in his mind and in his heart, but which he does not wish to admit.

“It is wrong, monsieur, to couple my name with that of Madame de

Fleurel. When I returned from the war-without my feet, alas! I never

would have permitted her to become my wife. Was it possible? When one

marries, monsieur, it is not in order to parade one's generosity; it is

in order to live every day, every hour, every minute, every second

beside a man; and if this man is disfigured, as I am, it is a death

sentence to marry him! Oh, I understand, I admire all sacrifices and

devotions when they have a limit, but I do not admit that a woman should

give up her whole life, all joy, all her dreams, in order to satisfy the

admiration of the gallery. When I hear, on the floor of my room, the

tapping of my wooden legs and of my crutches, I grow angry enough to

strangle my servant. Do you think that I would permit a woman to do what

I myself am unable to tolerate? And, then, do you think that my stumps

are pretty?”

He was silent. What could I say? He certainly was right. Could I blame

her, hold her in contempt, even say that she was wrong? No. However, the

end which conformed to the rule, to the truth, did not satisfy my poetic

appetite. These heroic deeds demand a beautiful sacrifice, which seemed

to be lacking, and I felt a certain disappointment. I suddenly asked:

“Has Madame de Fleurel any children?”

“Yes, one girl and two boys. It is for them that I am bringing these

toys. She and her husband are very kind to me.”

The train was going up the incline to Saint-Germain. It passed through

the tunnels, entered the station, and stopped. I was about to offer my

arm to the wounded officer, in order to help him descend, when two hands

were stretched up to him through the open door.

“Hello! my dear Revaliere!”

“Ah! Hello, Fleurel!”

Standing behind the man, the woman, still beautiful, was smiling and

waving her hands to him. A little girl, standing beside her, was jumping

for joy, and two young boys were eagerly watching the drum and the gun,

which were passing from the car into their father's hands.

When the cripple was on the ground, all the children kissed him. Then

they set off, the little girl holding in her hand the small varnished

rung of a crutch, just as she might walk beside her big friend and hold

his thumb.

A STROLL

When Old Man Leras, bookkeeper for Messieurs Labuze and Company, left

the store, he stood for a minute bewildered at the glory of the setting

sun. He had worked all day in the yellow light of a small jet of gas,

far in the back of the store, on a narrow court, as deep as a well. The

little room where he had been spending his days for forty years was so

dark that even in the middle of summer one could hardly see without

gaslight from eleven until three.

It was always damp and cold, and from this hole on which his window

opened came the musty odor of a sewer.

For forty years Monsieur Leras had been arriving every morning in this

prison at eight o'clock, and he would remain there until seven at night,

bending over his books, writing with the industry of a good clerk.

He was now making three thousand francs a year, having started at

fifteen hundred. He had remained a bachelor, as his means did not allow

him the luxury of a wife, and as he had never enjoyed anything, he

desired nothing. From time to time, however, tired of this continuous

and monotonous work, he formed a platonic wish: “Gad! If I only had an

income of fifteen thousand francs, I would take life easy.”

He had never taken life easy, as he had never had anything but his

monthly salary. His life had been uneventful, without emotions, without

hopes. The faculty of dreaming with which every one is blessed had never

developed in the mediocrity of his ambitions.

When he was twenty-one he entered the employ of Messieurs Labuze and

Company. And he had never left them.

In 1856 he had lost his father and then his mother in 1859. Since then

the only incident in his life was when he moved, in 1868, because his

landlord had tried to raise his rent.

Every day his alarm clock, with a frightful noise of rattling chains,

made him spring out of bed at 6 o'clock precisely.

Twice, however, this piece of mechanism had been out of order—once in

1866 and again in 1874; he had never been able to find out the reason

why. He would dress, make his bed, sweep his room, dust his chair and

the top of his bureau. All this took him an hour and a half.

Then he would go out, buy a roll at the Lahure Bakery, in which he had

seen eleven different owners without the name ever changing, and he

would eat this roll on the way to the office.

His entire existence had been spent in the narrow, dark office, which

was still decorated with the same wall paper. He had entered there as a

young man, as assistant to Monsieur Brument, and with the desire to

replace him.

He had taken his place and wished for nothing more.

The whole harvest of memories which other men reap in their span of

years, the unexpected events, sweet or tragic loves, adventurous

journeys, all the occurrences of a free existence, all these things had

remained unknown to him.

Days, weeks, months, seasons, years, all were alike to him. He got up

every day at the same hour, started out, arrived at the office, ate

luncheon, went away, had dinner and went to bed without ever

interrupting the regular monotony of similar actions, deeds and

thoughts.

Formerly he used to look at his blond mustache and wavy hair in the

little round mirror left by his predecessor. Now, every evening before

leaving, he would look at his white mustache and bald head in the same

mirror. Forty years had rolled by, long and rapid, dreary as a day of

sadness and as similar as the hours of a sleepless night. Forty years of

which nothing remained, not even a memory, not even a misfortune, since

the death of his parents. Nothing.

That day Monsieur Leras stood by the door, dazzled at the brilliancy of

the setting sun; and instead of returning home he decided to take a

little stroll before dinner, a thing which happened to him four or five

times a year.

He reached the boulevards, where people were streaming along under the

green trees. It was a spring evening, one of those first warm and

pleasant evenings which fill the heart with the joy of life.

Monsieur Leras went along with his mincing old man's step; he was going

along with joy in his heart, at peace with the world. He reached the

Champs-Elysees, and he continued to walk, enlivened by the sight of the

young people trotting along.

The whole sky was aflame; the Arc de Triomphe stood out against the

brilliant background of the horizon, like a giant surrounded by fire. As

he approached the immense monument, the old bookkeeper noticed that he

was hungry, and he went into a wine dealer's for dinner.

The meal was served in front of the store, on the sidewalk. It consisted

of some mutton, salad and asparagus. It was the best dinner that

Monsieur Leras had had in a long time. He washed down his cheese with a

small bottle of burgundy, had his after-dinner cup of coffee, a thing

which he rarely took, and finally a little pony of brandy.

When he had paid he felt quite youthful, even a little moved. And he

said to himself: “What a fine evening! I will continue my stroll as far

as the entrance to the Bois de Boulogne. It will do me good.” He set

out. An old tune which one of his neighbors used to sing kept returning

to his mind. He kept on humming it over and over again. A hot, still

night had fallen over Paris. Monsieur Leras walked along the Avenue du

Bois de Boulogne and watched the cabs drive by. They kept coming with

their shining lights, one behind the other, giving him a glimpse of the

couples inside, the women in their light dresses and the men dressed in

black.

It was one long procession of lovers, riding under the warm, starlit

sky. They kept on coming in rapid succession. They passed by in the

carriages, silent, side by side, lost in their dreams, in the emotion of

desire, in the anticipation of the approaching embrace. The warm shadows

seemed to be full of floating kisses. A sensation of tenderness filled

the air. All these carriages full of tender couples, all these people

intoxicated with the same idea, with the same thought, seemed to give

out a disturbing, subtle emanation.

At last Monsieur Leras grew a little tired of walking, and he sat down

on a bench to watch these carriages pass by with their burdens of love.

Almost immediately a woman walked up to him and sat down beside him.

“Good-evening, papa,” she said.

He answered: “Madame, you are mistaken.”

She slipped her arm through his, saying: “Come along, now; don't be

foolish. Listen——”

He arose and walked away, with sadness in his heart. A few yards away

another woman walked up to him and asked: “Won't you sit down beside

me?” He said: “What makes you take up this life?”

She stood before him and in an altered, hoarse, angry voice exclaimed:

“Well, it isn't for the fun of it, anyhow!”

He insisted in a gentle voice: “Then what makes you?”

She grumbled: “I've got to live! Foolish question!” And she walked away,

humming.

Monsieur Leras stood there bewildered. Other women were passing near

him, speaking to him and calling to him. He felt as though he were

enveloped in darkness by something disagreeable.

He sat down again on a bench. The carriages were still rolling by. He

thought: “I should have done better not to come here; I feel all upset.”

He began to think of all this venal or passionate love, of all these

kisses, sold or given, which were passing by in front of him. Love! He

scarcely knew it. In his lifetime he had only known two or three women,

his means forcing him to live a quiet life, and he looked back at the

life which he had led, so different from everybody else, so dreary, so

mournful, so empty.

Some people are really unfortunate. And suddenly, as though a veil had

been torn from his eyes, he perceived the infinite misery, the monotony

of his existence: the past, present and future misery; his last day

similar to his first one, with nothing before him, behind him or about

him, nothing in his heart or any place.

The stream of carriages was still going by. In the rapid passage of the

open carriage he still saw the two silent, loving creatures. It seemed

to him that the whole of humanity was flowing on before him, intoxicated

with joy, pleasure and happiness. He alone was looking on. To-morrow he

would again be alone, always alone, more so than any one else. He stood

up, took a few steps, and suddenly he felt as tired as though he had

taken a long journey on foot, and he sat down on the next bench.

What was he waiting for? What was he hoping for? Nothing. He was

thinking of how pleasant it must be in old age to return home and find

the little children. It is pleasant to grow old when one is surrounded

by those beings who owe their life to you, who love you, who caress you,

who tell you charming and foolish little things which warm your heart

and console you for everything.

And, thinking of his empty room, clean and sad, where no one but himself

ever entered, a feeling of distress filled his soul; and the place

seemed to him more mournful even than his little office. Nobody ever

came there; no one ever spoke in it. It was dead, silent, without the

echo of a human voice. It seems as though walls retain something of the

people who live within them, something of their manner, face and voice.

The very houses inhabited by happy families are gayer than the dwellings

of the unhappy. His room was as barren of memories as his life. And the

thought of returning to this place, all alone, of getting into his bed,

of again repeating all the duties and actions of every evening, this

thought terrified him. As though to escape farther from this sinister

home, and from the time when he would have to return to it, he arose and

walked along a path to a wooded corner, where he sat down on the grass.

About him, above him, everywhere, he heard a continuous, tremendous,

confused rumble, composed of countless and different noises, a vague and

throbbing pulsation of life: the life breath of Paris, breathing like a

giant.

The sun was already high and shed a flood of light on the Bois de

Boulogne. A few carriages were beginning to drive about and people were

appearing on horseback.

A couple was walking through a deserted alley.

Suddenly the young woman raised her eyes and saw something brown in the

branches. Surprised and anxious, she raised her hand, exclaiming: “Look!

what is that?”

Then she shrieked and fell into the arms of her companion, who was

forced to lay her on the ground.

The policeman who had been called cut down an old man who had hung

himself with his suspenders.

Examination showed that he had died the evening before. Papers found on

him showed that he was a bookkeeper for Messieurs Labuze and Company and

that his name was Leras.

His death was attributed to suicide, the cause of which could not be

suspected. Perhaps a sudden access of madness!

ALEXANDRE

At four o'clock that day, as on every other day, Alexandre rolled the

three-wheeled chair for cripples up to the door of the little house;

then, in obedience to the doctor's orders, he would push his old and

infirm mistress about until six o'clock.

When he had placed the light vehicle against the step, just at the place

where the old lady could most easily enter it, he went into the house;

and soon a furious, hoarse old soldier's voice was heard cursing inside

the house: it issued from the master, the retired ex-captain of

infantry, Joseph Maramballe.

Then could be heard the noise of doors being slammed, chairs being

pushed about, and hasty footsteps; then nothing more. After a few

seconds, Alexandre reappeared on the threshold, supporting with all his

strength Madame Maramballe, who was exhausted from the exertion of

descending the stairs. When she was at last settled in the rolling

chair, Alexandre passed behind it, grasped the handle, and set out

toward the river.

Thus they crossed the little town every day amid the respectful

greeting, of all. These bows were perhaps meant as much for the servant

as for the mistress, for if she was loved and esteemed by all, this old

trooper, with his long, white, patriarchal beard, was considered a model

domestic.

The July sun was beating down unmercifully on the street, bathing the

low houses in its crude and burning light. Dogs were sleeping on the

sidewalk in the shade of the houses, and Alexandre, a little out of

breath, hastened his footsteps in order sooner to arrive at the avenue

which leads to the water.

Madame Maramballe was already slumbering under her white parasol, the

point of which sometimes grazed along the man's impassive face. As soon

as they had reached the Allee des Tilleuls, she awoke in the shade of

the trees, and she said in a kindly voice: “Go more slowly, my poor boy;

you will kill yourself in this heat.”

Along this path, completely covered by arched linden trees, the Mavettek

flowed in its winding bed bordered by willows.

The gurgling of the eddies and the splashing of the little waves against

the rocks lent to the walk the charming music of babbling water and the

freshness of damp air. Madame Maramballe inhaled with deep delight the

humid charm of this spot and then murmured: “Ah! I feel better now! But

he wasn't in a good humor to-day.”

Alexandre answered: “No, madame.”

For thirty-five years he had been in the service of this couple, first

as officer's orderly, then as simple valet who did not wish to leave his

masters; and for the last six years, every afternoon, he had been

wheeling his mistress about through the narrow streets of the town. From

this long and devoted service, and then from this daily tete-a-tete, a

kind of familiarity arose between the old lady and the devoted servant,

affectionate on her part, deferential on his.

They talked over the affairs of the house exactly as if they were

equals. Their principal subject of conversation and of worry was the bad

disposition of the captain, soured by a long career which had begun with

promise, run along without promotion, end ended without glory.

Madame Maramballe continued: “He certainly was not in a good humor

today. This happens too often since he has left the service.”

And Alexandre, with a sigh, completed his mistress's thoughts, “Oh,

madame might say that it happens every day and that it also happened

before leaving the army.”

“That is true. But the poor man has been so unfortunate. He began with a

brave deed, which obtained for him the Legion of Honor at the age of

twenty; and then from twenty to fifty he was not able to rise higher

than captain, whereas at the beginning he expected to retire with at

least the rank of colonel.”

“Madame might also admit that it was his fault. If he had not always

been as cutting as a whip, his superiors would have loved and protected

him better. Harshness is of no use; one should try to please if one

wishes to advance. As far as his treatment of us is concerned, it is

also our fault, since we are willing to remain with him, but with others

it's different.”

Madame Maramballe was thinking. Oh, for how many years had she thus been

thinking of the brutality of her husband, whom she had married long ago

because he was a handsome officer, decorated quite young, and full of

promise, so they said! What mistakes one makes in life!

She murmured: “Let us stop a while, my poor Alexandre, and you rest on

that bench:”

It was a little worm-eaten bench, placed at a turn in the alley. Every

time they came in this direction Alexandre was accustomed to making a

short pause on this seat.

He sat down and with a proud and familiar gesture he took his beautiful

white beard in his hand, and, closing his, fingers over it, ran them

down to the point, which he held for a minute at the pit of his stomach,

as if once more to verify the length of this growth.

Madame Maramballe continued: “I married him; it is only just and natural

that I should bear his injustice; but what I do not understand is why

you also should have supported it, my good Alexandre!”

He merely shrugged his shoulders and answered: “Oh! I—madame.”

She added: “Really. I have often wondered. When I married him you were

his orderly and you could hardly do otherwise than endure him. But why

did you remain with us, who pay you so little and who treat you so

badly, when you could have done as every one else does, settle down,

marry, have a family?”

He answered: “Oh, madame! with me it's different.”

Then he was silent; but he kept pulling his beard as if he were ringing

a bell within him, as if he were trying to pull it out, and he rolled

his eyes like a man who is greatly embarrassed.

Madame Maramballe was following her own train of thought: “You are not a

peasant. You have an education—”

He interrupted her proudly: “I studied surveying, madame.”

“Then why did you stay with us, and blast your prospects?”

He stammered: “That's it! that's it! it's the fault of my dispositton.”

“How so, of your disposition?”

“Yes, when I become attached to a person I become attached to him,

that's all.”

She began to laugh: “You are not going to try to tell me that

Maramballe's sweet disposition caused you to become attached to him for

life.”

He was fidgeting about on his bench visibly embarrassed, and he muttered

behind his long beard:

“It was not he, it was you!”

The old lady, who had a sweet face, with a snowy line of curly white

hair between her forehead and her bonnet, turned around in her chair and

observed her servant with a surprised look, exclaiming: “I, my poor

Alexandre! How so?”

He began to look up in the air, then to one side, then toward the

distance, turning his head as do timid people when forced to admit

shameful secrets. At last he exclaimed, with the courage of a trooper

who is ordered to the line of fire: “You see, it's this way—the first

time I brought a letter to mademoiselle from the lieutenant,

mademoiselle gave me a franc and a smile, and that settled it.”

Not understanding well, she questioned him “Explain yourself.”

Then he cried out, like a malefactor who is admitting a fatal crime: “I

had a sentiment for madame! There!”

She answered nothing, stopped looking at him, hung her head, and

thought. She was good, full of justice, gentleness, reason, and

tenderness. In a second she saw the immense devotion of this poor

creature, who had given up everything in order to live beside her,

without saying anything. And she felt as if she could cry. Then, with a

sad but not angry expression, she said: “Let us return home.”

He rose and began to push the wheeled chair.

As they approached the village they saw Captain Maramballe coming toward

them. As soon as he joined them he asked his wife, with a visible desire

of getting angry: “What have we for dinner?”

“Some chicken with flageolets.”

He lost his temper: “Chicken! chicken! always chicken! By all that's

holy, I've had enough chicken! Have you no ideas in your head, that you

make me eat chicken every day?”

She answered, in a resigned tone: “But, my dear, you know that the

doctor has ordered it for you. It's the best thing for your stomach. If

your stomach were well, I could give you many things which I do not dare

set before you now.”

Then, exasperated, he planted himself in front of Alexandre, exclaiming:

“Well, if my stomach is out of order it's the fault of that brute. For

thirty-five years he has been poisoning me with his abominable cooking.”

Madame Maramballe suddenly turned about completely, in order to see the

old domestic. Their eyes met, and in this single glance they both said

“Thank you!” to each other.

THE LOG

The drawing-room was small, full of heavy draperies and discreetly

fragrant. A large fire burned in the grate and a solitary lamp at one

end of the mantelpiece threw a soft light on the two persons who were

talking.

She, the mistress of the house, was an old lady with white hair, but one

of those old ladies whose unwrinkled skin is as smooth as the finest

paper, and scented, impregnated with perfume, with the delicate essences

which she had used in her bath for so many years.

He was a very old friend, who had never married, a constant friend, a

companion in the journey of life, but nothing more.

They had not spoken for about a minute, and were both looking at the

fire, dreaming of no matter what, in one of those moments of friendly

silence between people who have no need to be constantly talking in

order to be happy together, when suddenly a large log, a stump covered

with burning roots, fell out. It fell over the firedogs into the

drawing-room and rolled on to the carpet, scattering great sparks around

it. The old lady, with a little scream, sprang to her feet to run away,

while he kicked the log back on to the hearth and stamped out all the

burning sparks with his boots.

When the disaster was remedied, there was a strong smell of burning,

and, sitting down opposite to his friend, the man looked at her with a

smile and said, as he pointed to the log:

“That is the reason why I never married.”

She looked at him in astonishment, with the inquisitive gaze of women

who wish to know everything, that eye which women have who are no longer

very young,—in which a complex, and often roguish, curiosity is

reflected, and she asked:

“How so?”

“Oh, it is a long story,” he replied; “a rather sad and unpleasant

story.

“My old friends were often surprised at the coldness which suddenly

sprang up between one of my best friends whose Christian name was

Julien, and myself. They could not understand how two such intimate and

inseparable friends, as we had been, could suddenly become almost

strangers to one another, and I will tell you the reason of it.

“He and I used to live together at one time. We were never apart, and

the friendship that united us seemed so strong that nothing could break

it.

“One evening when he came home, he told me that he was going to get

married, and it gave me a shock as if he had robbed me or betrayed me.

When a man's friend marries, it is all over between them. The jealous

affection of a woman, that suspicious, uneasy and carnal affection, will

not tolerate the sturdy and frank attachment, that attachment of the

mind, of the heart, and that mutual confidence which exists between two

men.

“You see, however great the love may be that unites them a man and a

woman are always strangers in mind and intellect; they remain

belligerents, they belong to different races. There must always be a

conqueror and a conquered, a master and a slave; now the one, now the

other—they are never two equals. They press each other's hands, those

hands trembling with amorous passion; but they never press them with a

long, strong, loyal pressure, with that pressure which seems to open

hearts and to lay them bare in a burst of sincere, strong, manly

affection. Philosophers of old, instead of marrying, and procreating as

a consolation for their old age children, who would abandon them, sought

for a good, reliable friend, and grew old with him in that communion of

thought which can only exist between men.

“Well, my friend Julien married. His wife was pretty, charming, a

little, curly-haired blonde, plump and lively, who seemed to worship

him. At first I went but rarely to their house, feeling myself de trop.

But, somehow, they attracted me to their home; they were constantly

inviting me, and seemed very fond of me. Consequently, by degrees, I

allowed myself to be allured by the charm of their life. I often dined

with them, and frequently, when I returned home at night, thought that I

would do as he had done, and get married, as my empty house now seemed

very dull.

“They appeared to be very much in love, and were never apart.

“Well, one evening Julien wrote and asked me to go to dinner, and I

naturally went.

“'My dear fellow,' he said, 'I must go out directly afterward on

business, and I shall not be back until eleven o'clock; but I shall be

back at eleven precisely, and I reckon on you to keep Bertha company.'

“The young woman smiled.

“'It was my idea,' she said, 'to send for you.'

“I held out my hand to her.

“'You are as nice as ever, I said, and I felt a long, friendly pressure

of my fingers, but I paid no attention to it; so we sat down to dinner,

and at eight o'clock Julien went out.

“As soon as he had gone, a kind of strange embarrassment immediately

seemed to arise between his wife and me. We had never been alone

together yet, and in spite of our daily increasing intimacy, this tete-

a-tete placed us in a new position. At first I spoke vaguely of those

indifferent matters with which one fills up an embarrassing silence, but

she did not reply, and remained opposite to me with her head down in an

undecided manner, as if she were thinking over some difficult subject,

and as I was at a loss for small talk, I held my tongue. It is

surprising how hard it is at times to find anything to say.

“And then also I felt something in the air, something I could not

express, one of those mysterious premonitions that warn one of another

person's secret intentions in regard to yourself, whether they be good

or evil.

“That painful silence lasted some time, and then Bertha said to me:

“'Will you kindly put a log on the fire for it is going out.'

“So I opened the box where the wood was kept, which was placed just

where yours is, took out the largest log and put it on top of the

others, which were three parts burned, and then silence again reigned in

the room.

“In a few minutes the log was burning so brightly that it scorched our

faces, and the young woman raised her eyes to mine—eyes that had a

strange look to me.

“'It is too hot now,' she said; 'let us go and sit on the sofa over

there.'

“So we went and sat on the sofa, and then she said suddenly, looking me

full in the face:

“'What would you do if a woman were to tell you that she was in love

with you?'

“'Upon my word,' I replied, very much at a loss for an answer, 'I cannot

foresee such a case; but it would depend very much upon the woman.'

“She gave a hard, nervous, vibrating laugh; one of those false laughs

which seem as if they must break thin glass, and then she added: 'Men

are never either venturesome or spiteful.' And, after a moment's

silence, she continued: 'Have you ever been in love, Monsieur Paul?' I

was obliged to acknowledge that I certainly had, and she asked me to

tell her all about it. Whereupon I made up some story or other. She

listened to me attentively, with frequent signs of disapproval and

contempt, and then suddenly she said:

“'No, you understand nothing about the subject. It seems to me that real

love must unsettle the mind, upset the nerves and distract the head;

that it must—how shall I express it?—be dangerous, even terrible, almost

criminal and sacrilegious; that it must be a kind of treason; I mean to

say that it is bound to break laws, fraternal bonds, sacred obligations;

when love is tranquil, easy, lawful and without dangers, is it really

love?'

“I did not know what answer to give her, and I made this philosophical

reflection to myself: 'Oh! female brain, here; indeed, you show

yourself!'

“While speaking, she had assumed a demure saintly air; and, resting on

the cushions, she stretched herself out at full length, with her head on

my shoulder, and her dress pulled up a little so as to show her red

stockings, which the firelight made look still brighter. In a minute or

two she continued:

“'I suppose I have frightened you?' I protested against such a notion,

and she leaned against my breast altogether, and without looking at me,

she said: 'If I were to tell you that I love you, what would you do?'

“And before I could think of an answer, she had thrown her arms around

my neck, had quickly drawn my head down, and put her lips to mine.

“Oh! My dear friend, I can tell you that I did not feel at all happy!

What! deceive Julien? become the lover of this little, silly, wrong-

headed, deceitful woman, who was, no doubt, terribly sensual, and whom

her husband no longer satisfied.

“To betray him continually, to deceive him, to play at being in love

merely because I was attracted by forbidden fruit, by the danger

incurred and the friendship betrayed! No, that did not suit me, but what

was I to do? To imitate Joseph would be acting a very stupid and,

moreover, difficult part, for this woman was enchanting in her perfidy,

inflamed by audacity, palpitating and excited. Let the man who has never

felt on his lips the warm kiss of a woman who is ready to give herself

to him throw the first stone at me.

“Well, a minute more—you understand what I mean? A minute more, and—I

should have been—no, she would have been!—I beg your pardon, he would

have been—when a loud noise made us both jump up. The log had fallen

into the room, knocking over the fire irons and the fender, and on to

the carpet, which it had scorched, and had rolled under an armchair,

which it would certainly set alight.

“I jumped up like a madman, and, as I was replacing on the fire that log

which had saved me, the door opened hastily, and Julien came in.

“'I am free,' he said, with evident pleasure. 'The business was over two

hours sooner than I expected!'

“Yes, my dear friend, without that log, I should have been caught in the

very act, and you know what the consequences would have been!

“You may be sure that I took good care never to be found in a similar

situation again, never, never. Soon afterward I saw that Julien was

giving me the 'cold shoulder,' as they say. His wife was evidently

undermining our friendship. By degrees he got rid of me, and we have

altogether ceased to meet.

“I never married, which ought not to surprise you, I think.”

JULIE ROMAIN

Two years ago this spring I was making a walking tour along the shore of

the Mediterranean. Is there anything more pleasant than to meditate

while walking at a good pace along a highway? One walks in the sunlight,

through the caressing breeze, at the foot of the mountains, along the

coast of the sea. And one dreams! What a flood of illusions, loves,

adventures pass through a pedestrian's mind during a two hours' march!

What a crowd of confused and joyous hopes enter into you with the mild,

light air! You drink them in with the breeze, and they awaken in your

heart a longing for happiness which increases with the hun ger induced

by walking. The fleeting, charming ideas fly and sing like birds.

I was following that long road which goes from Saint Raphael to Italy,

or, rather, that long, splendid panoramic highway which seems made for

the representation of all the love-poems of earth. And I thought that

from Cannes, where one poses, to Monaco, where one gambles, people come

to this spot of the earth for hardly any other purpose than to get

embroiled or to throw away money on chance games, displaying under this

delicious sky and in this garden of roses and oranges all base vanities

and foolish pretensions and vile lusts, showing up the human mind such

as it is, servile, ignorant, arrogant and full of cupidity.

Suddenly I saw some villas in one of those ravishing bays that one meets

at every turn of the mountain; there were only four or five fronting the

sea at the foot of the mountains, and behind them a wild fir wood slopes

into two great valleys, that were untraversed by roads. I stopped short

before one of these chalets, it was so pretty: a small white house with

brown trimmings, overrun with rambler roses up to the top.

The garden was a mass of flowers, of all colors and all kinds, mixed in

a coquettish, well-planned disorder. The lawn was full of them, big pots

flanked each side of every step of the porch, pink or yellow clusters

framed each window, and the terrace with the stone balustrade, which

enclosed this pretty little dwelling, had a garland of enormous red

bells, like drops of blood. Behind the house I saw a long avenue of

orange trees in blossom, which went up to the foot of the mountain.

Over the door appeared the name, “Villa d'Antan,” in small gold letters.

I asked myself what poet or what fairy was living there, what inspired,

solitary being had discovered this spot and created this dream house,

which seemed to nestle in a nosegay.

A workman was breaking stones up the street, and I went to him to ask

the name of the proprietor of this jewel.

“It is Madame Julie Romain,” he replied.

Julie Romain! In my childhood, long ago, I had heard them speak of this

great actress, the rival of Rachel.

No woman ever was more applauded and more loved—especially more loved!

What duets and suicides on her account and what sensational adventures!

How old was this seductive woman now? Sixty, seventy, seventy-five!

Julie Romain here, in this house! The woman who had been adored by the

greatest musician and the most exquisite poet of our land! I still

remember the sensation (I was then twelve years of age) which her flight

to Sicily with the latter, after her rupture with the former, caused

throughout France.

She had left one evening, after a premiere, where the audience had

applauded her for a whole half hour, and had recalled her eleven times

in succession. She had gone away with the poet, in a post-chaise, as was

the fashion then; they had crossed the sea, to love each other in that

antique island, the daughter of Greece, in that immense orange wood

which surrounds Palermo, and which is called the “Shell of Gold.”

People told of their ascension of Mount Etna and how they had leaned

over the immense crater, arm in arm, cheek to cheek, as if to throw

themselves into the very abyss.

Now he was dead, that maker of verses so touching and so profound that

they turned, the heads of a whole generation, so subtle and so

mysterious that they opened a new world to the younger poets.

The other one also was dead—the deserted one, who had attained through

her musical periods that are alive in the memories of all, periods of

triumph and of despair, intoxicating triumph and heartrending despair.

And she was there, in that house veiled by flowers.

I did not hesitate, but rang the bell.

A small servant answered, a boy of eighteen with awkward mien and clumsy

hands. I wrote in pencil on my card a gallant compliment to the actress,

begging her to receive me. Perhaps, if she knew my name, she would open

her door to me.

The little valet took it in, and then came back, asking me to follow

him. He led me to a neat and decorous salon, furnished in the Louis-

Philippe style, with stiff and heavy furniture, from which a little maid

of sixteen, slender but not pretty, took off the covers in my honor.

Then I was left alone.

On the walls hung three portraits, that of the actress in one of her

roles, that of the poet in his close-fitting greatcoat and the ruffled

shirt then in style, and that of the musician seated at a piano.

She, blond, charming, but affected, according to the fashion of her day,

was smiling, with her pretty mouth and blue eyes; the painting was

careful, fine, elegant, but lifeless.

Those faces seemed to be already looking upon posterity.

The whole place had the air of a bygone time, of days that were done and

men who had vanished.

A door opened and a little woman entered, old, very old, very small,

with white hair and white eyebrows, a veritable white mouse, and as

quick and furtive of movement.

She held out her hand to me, saying in a voice still fresh, sonorous and

vibrant:

“Thank you, monsieur. How kind it is of the men of to-day to remember

the women of yesterday! Sit down.”

I told her that her house had attracted me, that I had inquired for the

proprietor's name, and that, on learning it, I could not resist the

desire to ring her bell.

“This gives me all the more pleasure, monsieur,” she replied, “as it is

the first time that such a thing has happened. When I received your

card, with the gracious note, I trembled as if an old friend who had

disappeared for twenty years had been announced to me. I am like a dead

body, whom no one remembers, of whom no one will think until the day

when I shall actually die; then the newspapers will mention Julie Romain

for three days, relating anecdotes and details of my life, reviving

memories, and praising me greatly. Then all will be over with me.”

After a few moments of silence, she continued:

“And this will not be so very long now. In a few months, in a few days,

nothing will remain but a little skeleton of this little woman who is

now alive.”

She raised her eyes toward her portrait, which smiled down upon this

caricature of herself; then she looked at those of the two men, the

disdainful poet and the inspired musician, who seemed to say: “What does

this ruin want of us?”

An indefinable, poignant, irresistible sadness overwhelmed my heart, the

sadness of existences that have had their day, but who are still

debating with their memories, like a person drowning in deep water.

From my seat I could see on the highroad the handsome carriages that

were whirling from Nice to Monaco; inside them I saw young, pretty, rich

and happy women and smiling, satisfied men. Following my eye, she

understood my thought and murmured with a smile of resignation:

“One cannot both be and have been.”

“How beautiful life must have been for you!” I said.

She heaved a great sigh.

“Beautiful and sweet! And for that reason I regret it so much.”

I saw that she was disposed to talk of herself, so I began to question

her, gently and discreetly, as one might touch bruised flesh.

She spoke of her successes, her intoxications and her friends, of her

whole triumphant existence.

“Was it on the stage that you found your most intense joys, your true

happiness?” I asked.

“Oh, no!” she replied quickly.

I smiled; then, raising her eyes to the two portraits, she said, with a

sad glance:

“It was with them.”

“Which one?” I could not help asking.

“Both. I even confuse them up a little now in my old woman's memory, and

then I feel remorse.”

“Then, madame, your acknowledgment is not to them, but to Love itself.

They were merely its interpreters.”

“That is possible. But what interpreters!”

“Are you sure that you have not been, or that you might not have been,

loved as well or better by a simple man, but not a great man, who would

have offered to you his whole life and heart, all his thoughts, all his

days, his whole being, while these gave you two redoubtable rivals,

Music and Poetry?”

“No, monsieur, no!” she exclaimed emphatically, with that still youthful

voice, which caused the soul to vibrate. “Another one might perhaps have

loved me more, but he would not have loved me as these did. Ah! those

two sang to me of the music of love as no one else in the world could

have sung of it. How they intoxicated me! Could any other man express

what they knew so well how to express in tones and in words? Is it

enough merely to love if one cannot put all the poetry and all the music

of heaven and earth into love? And they knew how to make a woman

delirious with songs and with words. Yes, perhaps there was more of

illusion than of reality in our passion; but these illusions lift you

into the clouds, while realities always leave you trailing in the dust.

If others have loved me more, through these two I have understood, felt

and worshipped love.”

Suddenly she began to weep.

She wept silently, shedding tears of despair.

I pretended not to see, looking off into the distance. She resumed,

after a few minutes:

“You see, monsieur, with nearly every one the heart ages with the body.

But this has not happened with me. My body is sixty-nine years old,

while my poor heart is only twenty. And that is the reason why I live

all alone, with my flowers and my dreams.”

There was a long silence between us. She grew calmer and continued,

smiling:

“How you would laugh at me, if you knew, if you knew how I pass my

evenings, when the weather is fine. I am ashamed and I pity myself at

the same time.”

Beg as I might, she would not tell me what she did. Then I rose to

leave.

“Already!” she exclaimed.

And as I said that I wished to dine at Monte Carlo, she asked timidly:

“Will you not dine with me? It would give me a great deal of pleasure.”

I accepted at once. She rang, delighted, and after giving some orders to

the little maid she took me over her house.

A kind of glass-enclosed veranda, filled with shrubs, opened into the

dining-room, revealing at the farther end the long avenue of orange

trees extending to the foot of the mountain. A low seat, hidden by

plants, indicated that the old actress often came there to sit down.

Then we went into the garden, to look at the flowers. Evening fell

softly, one of those calm, moist evenings when the earth breathes forth

all her perfumes. Daylight was almost gone when we sat down at table.

The dinner was good and it lasted a long time, and we became intimate

friends, she and I, when she understood what a profound sympathy she had

aroused in my heart. She had taken two thimblefuls of wine, as the

phrase goes, and had grown more confiding and expansive.

“Come, let us look at the moon,” she said. “I adore the good moon. She

has been the witness of my most intense joys. It seems to me that all my

memories are there, and that I need only look at her to bring them all

back to me. And even—some times—in the evening—I offer to myself a

pretty play—yes, pretty—if you only knew! But no, you would laugh at me.

I cannot—I dare not—no, no—really—no.”

I implored her to tell me what it was.

“Come, now! come, tell me; I promise you that I will not laugh. I swear

it to you—come, now!”

She hesitated. I took her hands—those poor little hands, so thin and so

cold!—and I kissed them one after the other, several times, as her

lovers had once kissed them. She was moved and hesitated.

“You promise me not to laugh?”

“Yes, I swear it to you.”

“Well, then, come.”

She rose, and as the little domestic, awkward in his green livery,

removed the chair behind her, she whispered quickly a few words into his

ear.

“Yes, madame, at once,” he replied.

She took my arm and led me to the veranda.

The avenue of oranges was really splendid to see. The full moon made a

narrow path of silver, a long bright line, which fell on the yellow

sand, between the round, opaque crowns of the dark trees.

As these trees were in bloom, their strong, sweet perfume filled the

night, and swarming among their dark foliage I saw thousands of

fireflies, which looked like seeds fallen from the stars.

“Oh, what a setting for a love scene!” I exclaimed.

She smiled.

“Is it not true? Is it not true? You will see!”

And she made me sit down beside her.

“This is what makes one long for more life. But you hardly think of

these things, you men of to-day. You are speculators, merchants and men

of affairs.

“You no longer even know how to talk to us. When I say 'you,' I mean

young men in general. Love has been turned into a liaison which very

often begins with an unpaid dressmaker's bill. If you think the bill is

dearer than the woman, you disappear; but if you hold the woman more

highly, you pay it. Nice morals—and a nice kind of love!”

She took my hand.

“Look!”

I looked, astonished and delighted. Down there at the end of the avenue,

in the moonlight, were two young people, with their arms around each

other's waist. They were walking along, interlaced, charming, with

short, little steps, crossing the flakes of light; which illuminated

them momentarily, and then sinking back into the shadow. The youth was

dressed in a suit of white satin, such as men wore in the eighteenth

century, and had on a hat with an ostrich plume. The girl was arrayed in

a gown with panniers, and the high, powdered coiffure of the handsome

dames of the time of the Regency.

They stopped a hundred paces from us, and standing in the middle of the

avenue, they kissed each other with graceful gestures.

Suddenly I recognized the two little servants. Then one of those

dreadful fits of laughter that convulse you made me writhe in my chair.

But I did not laugh aloud. I resisted, convulsed and feeling almost ill,

as a man whose leg is cut off resists the impulse to cry out.

As the young pair turned toward the farther end of the avenue they again

became delightful. They went farther and farther away, finally

disappearing as a dream disappears. I no longer saw them. The avenue

seemed a sad place.

I took my leave at once, so as not to see them again, for I guessed that

this little play would last a long time, awakening, as it did, a whole

past of love and of stage scenery; the artificial past, deceitful and

seductive, false but charming, which still stirred the heart of this

amorous old comedienne.

THE RONDOLI SISTERS I

I set out to see Italy thoroughly on two occasions, and each time I was

stopped at the frontier and could not get any further. So I do not know

Italy, said my friend, Charles Jouvent. And yet my two attempts gave me

a charming idea of the manners of that beautiful country. Some time,

however, I must visit its cities, as well as the museums and works of

art with which it abounds. I will make another attempt to penetrate into

the interior, which I have not yet succeeded in doing.

You don't understand me, so I will explain: In the spring of 1874 I was

seized with an irresistible desire to see Venice, Florence, Rome and

Naples. I am, as you know, not a great traveller; it appears to me a

useless and fatiguing business. Nights spent in a train, the disturbed

slumbers of the railway carriage, with the attendant headache, and

stiffness in every limb, the sudden waking in that rolling box, the

unwashed feeling, with your eyes and hair full of dust, the smell of the

coal on which one's lungs feed, those bad dinners in the draughty

refreshment rooms are, according to my ideas, a horrible way of

beginning a pleasure trip.

After this introduction, we have the miseries of the hotel; of some

great hotel full of people, and yet so empty; the strange room and the

doubtful bed!

I am most particular about my bed; it is the sanctuary of life. We

entrust our almost naked and fatigued bodies to it so that they may be

reanimated by reposing between soft sheets and feathers.

There we find the most delightful hours of our existence, the hours of

love and of sleep. The bed is sacred, and should be respected, venerated

and loved by us as the best and most delightful of our earthly

possessions.

I cannot lift up the sheets of a hotel bed without a shudder of disgust.

Who has occupied it the night before? Perhaps dirty, revolting people

have slept in it. I begin, then, to think of all the horrible people

with whom one rubs shoulders every day, people with suspicious-looking

skin which makes one think of the feet and all the rest! I call to mind

those who carry about with them the sickening smell of garlic or of

humanity. I think of those who are deformed and unhealthy, of the

perspiration emanating from the sick, of everything that is ugly and

filthy in man.

And all this, perhaps, in the bed in which I am about to sleep! The mere

idea of it makes me feel ill as I get into it.

And then the hotel dinners—those dreary table d'hote dinners in the

midst of all sorts of extraordinary people, or else those terrible

solitary dinners at a small table in a restaurant, feebly lighted by a

wretched composite candle under a shade.

Again, those terribly dull evenings in some unknown town! Do you know

anything more wretched than the approach of dusk on such an occasion?

One goes about as if almost in a dream, looking at faces that one never

has seen before and never will see again; listening to people talking

about matters which are quite indifferent to you in a language that

perhaps you do not understand. You have a terrible feeling, almost as if

you were lost, and you continue to walk on so as not to be obliged to

return to the hotel, where you would feel more lost still because you

are at home, in a home which belongs to anyone who can pay for it; and

at last you sink into a chair of some well-lighted cafe, whose gilding

and lights oppress you a thousand times more than the shadows in the

streets. Then you feel so abominably lonely sitting in front of the

glass of flat bock beer that a kind of madness seizes you, the longing

to go somewhere or other, no matter where, as long as you need not

remain in front of that marble table amid those dazzling lights.

And then, suddenly, you are aware that you are really alone in the

world, always and everywhere, and that in places which we know, the

familiar jostlings give us the illusion only of human fraternity. At

such moments of self-abandonment and sombre isolation in distant cities

one thinks broadly, clearly and profoundly. Then one suddenly sees the

whole of life outside the vision of eternal hope, apart from the

deceptions of our innate habits, and of our expectations of happiness,

which we indulge in dreams never to be realized.

It is only by going a long distance from home that we can fully

understand how short-lived and empty everything near at hand is; by

searching for the unknown, we perceive how commonplace and evanescent

everything is; only by wandering over the face of the earth can we

understand how small the world is, and how very much alike it is

everywhere.

How well I know, and how I hate and almost fear, those haphazard walks

through unknown streets; and this was the reason why, as nothing would

induce me to undertake a tour in Italy by myself, I made up my mind to

accompany my friend Paul Pavilly.

You know Paul, and how he idealizes women. To him the earth is habitable

only because they are there; the sun gives light and is warm because it

shines upon them; the air is soft and balmy because it blows upon their

skin and ruffles the soft hair on their temples; and the moon is

charming because it makes them dream and imparts a languorous charm to

love. Every act and action of Paul's has woman for its motive; all his

thoughts, all his efforts and hopes are centered in them.

When I mentioned Italy to Paul he at first absolutely refused to leave

Paris. I, however, began to tell him of the adventures I had on my

travels. I assured him that all Italian women are charming, and I made

him hope for the most refined pleasures at Naples, thanks to certain

letters of introduction which I had; and so at last he allowed himself

to be persuaded.

II

We took the express one Thursday evening, Paul and I. Hardly anyone goes

south at that time of the year, so that we had the carriages to

ourselves, and both of us were in a bad temper on leaving Paris, sorry

for having yielded to the temptation of this journey, and regretting

Marly, the Seine, and our lazy boating excursions, and all those

pleasures in and near Paris which are so dear to every true Parisian.

As soon as the train started Paul stuck himself in his corner, and said,

“It is most idiotic to go all that distance,” and as it was too late for

him to change his mind then, I said, “Well, you should not have come.”

He made no answer, and I felt very much inclined to laugh when I saw how

furious he looked. He is certainly always rather like a squirrel, but

then every one of us has retained the type of some animal or other as

the mark of his primitive origin. How many people have jaws like a

bulldog, or heads like goats, rabbits, foxes, horses, or oxen. Paul is a

squirrel turned into a man. He has its bright, quick eyes, its hair, its

pointed nose, its small, fine, supple, active body, and a certain

mysterious resemblance in his general bearing; in fact, a similarity of

movement, of gesture, and of bearing which might almost be taken for a

recollection.

At last we both went to sleep with that uncomfortable slumber of the

railway carriage, which is interrupted by horrible cramps in the arms

and neck, and by the sudden stoppages of the train.

We woke up as we were passing along the Rhone. Soon the continued noise

of crickets came in through the windows, that cry which seems to be the

voice of the warm earth, the song of Provence; and seemed to instill

into our looks, our breasts, and our souls the light and happy feeling

of the south, that odor of the parched earth, of the stony and light

soil of the olive with its gray-green foliage.

When the train stopped again a railway guard ran along the train calling

out “Valence” in a sonorous voice, with an accent that again gave us a

taste of that Provence which the shrill note of the crickets had already

imparted to us.

Nothing fresh happened till we got to Marseilles, where we alighted for

breakfast, but when we returned to our carriage we found a woman

installed there.

Paul, with a delighted glance at me, gave his short mustache a

mechanical twirl, and passed his fingers through his, hair, which had

become slightly out of order with the night's journey. Then he sat down

opposite the newcomer.

Whenever I happen to see a striking new face, either in travelling or in

society, I always have the strongest inclination to find out what

character, mind, and intellectual capacities are hidden beneath those

features.

She was a young and pretty woman, certainly a native of the south of

France, with splendid eyes, beautiful wavy black hair, which was so

thick and long that it seemed almost too heavy for her head. She was

dressed with a certain southern bad taste which made her look a little

vulgar. Her regular features had none of the grace and finish of the

refined races, of that slight delicacy which members of the aristocracy

inherit from their birth, and which is the hereditary mark of thinner

blood.

Her bracelets were too big to be of gold; she wore earrings with large

white stones that were certainly not diamonds, and she belonged

unmistakably to the People. One surmised that she would talk too loud,

and shout on every occasion with exaggerated gestures.

When the train started she remained motionless in her place, in the

attitude of a woman who was indignant, without even looking at us.

Paul began to talk to me, evidently with an eye to effect, trying to

attract her attention, as shopkeepers expose their choice wares to catch

the notice of passersby.

She, however, did not appear to be paying the least attention.

“Toulon! Ten minutes to wait! Refreshment room!” the porters shouted.

Paul motioned to me to get out, and as soon as we had done so, he said:

“I wonder who on earth she can be?”

I began to laugh. “I am sure I don't know, and I don't in the least

care.”

He was quite excited.

“She is an uncommonly fresh and pretty girl. What eyes she has, and how

cross she looks. She must have been dreadfully worried, for she takes no

notice of anything.”

“You will have all your trouble for nothing,” I growled.

He began to lose his temper.

“I am not taking any trouble, my dear fellow. I think her an extremely

pretty woman, that is all. If one could only speak to her! But I don't

know how to begin. Cannot you give me an idea? Can't you guess who she

is?”

“Upon my word, I cannot. However, I should rather think she is some

strolling actress who is going to rejoin her company after a love

adventure.”

He seemed quite upset, as if I had said something insulting.

“What makes you think that? On the contrary, I think she looks most

respectable.”

“Just look at her bracelets,” I said, “her earrings and her whole dress.

I should not be the least surprised if she were a dancer or a circus

rider, but most likely a dancer. Her whole style smacks very much of the

theatre.”

He evidently did not like the idea.

“She is much too young, I am sure; why, she is hardly twenty.”

“Well,” I replied, “there are many things which one can do before one is

twenty; dancing and elocution are among them.”

“Take your seats for Nice, Vintimiglia,” the guards and porters called.

We got in; our fellow passenger was eating an orange, and certainly she

did not do it elegantly. She had spread her pocket-handkerchief on her

knees, and the way in which she tore off the peel and opened her mouth

to put in the pieces, and then spat the pips out of the window, showed

that her training had been decidedly vulgar.

She seemed, also, more put out than ever, and swallowed the fruit with

an exceedingly comic air of rage.

Paul devoured her with his eyes, and tried to attract her attention and

excite her curiosity; but in spite of his talk, and of the manner in

which he brought in well-known names, she did not pay the least

attention to him.

After passing Frejus and St. Raphael, the train passed through a

veritable garden, a paradise of roses, and groves of oranges and lemons

covered with fruits and flowers at the same time. That delightful coast

from Marseilles to Genoa is a kingdom of perfumes in a home of flowers.

June is the time to see it in all its beauty, when in every narrow

valley and on every slope, the most exquisite flowers are growing

luxuriantly. And the roses! fields, hedges, groves of roses. They climb

up the walls, blossom on the roofs, hang from the trees, peep out from

among the bushes; they are white, red, yellow, large and small, single,

with a simple self-colored dress, or full and heavy in brilliant

toilettes.

Their breath makes the air heavy and relaxing, and the still more

penetrating odor of the orange blossoms sweetens the atmosphere till it

might almost be called the refinement of odor.

The shore, with its brown rocks, was bathed by the motionless

Mediterranean. The hot summer sun stretched like a fiery cloth over the

mountains, over the long expanses of sand, and over the motionless,

apparently solid blue sea. The train went on through the tunnels, along

the slopes, above the water, on straight, wall-like viaducts, and a

soft, vague, saltish smell, a smell of drying seaweed, mingled at times

with the strong, heavy perfume of the flowers.

But Paul neither saw, looked at, nor smelled anything, for our fellow

traveller engrossed all his attention.

When we reached Cannes, as he wished to speak to me he signed to me to

get out, and as soon as I did so, he took me by the arm.

“Do you know, she is really charming. Just look at her eyes; and I never

saw anything like her hair.”

“Don't excite yourself,” I replied, “or else address her, if you have

any intentions that way. She does not look unapproachable; I fancy,

although she appear to be a little bit grumpy.”

“Why don't you speak to her?” he said.

“I don't know what to say, for I am always terribly stupid at first; I

can never make advances to a woman in the street. I follow them, go

round and round them, and quite close to them, but never know what to

say at first. I only once tried to enter into conversation with a woman

in that way. As I clearly saw that she was waiting for me to make

overtures, and as I felt bound to say something, I stammered out, 'I

hope you are quite well, madame?' She laughed in my face, and I made my

escape.”

I promised Paul to do all I could to bring about a conversation, and

when we had taken our places again, I politely asked our neighbor:

“Have you any objection to the smell of tobacco, madame?”

She merely replied, “Non capisco.”

So she was an Italian! I felt an absurd inclination to laugh. As Paul

did not understand a word of that language, I was obliged to act as his

interpreter, so I said in Italian:

“I asked you, madame, whether you had any objection to tobacco smoke?”

With an angry look she replied, “Che mi fa!”

She had neither turned her head nor looked at me, and I really did not

know whether to take this “What do I care” for an authorization, a

refusal, a real sign of indifference, or for a mere “Let me alone.”

“Madame,” I replied, “if you mind the smell of tobacco in the least—”

She again said, “Mica,” in a tone which seemed to mean, “I wish to

goodness you would leave me alone!” It was, however, a kind of

permission, so I said to Paul:

“You may smoke.”

He looked at me in that curious sort of way that people have when they

try to understand others who are talking in a strange language before

them, and asked me:

“What did you say to her?”

“I asked whether we might smoke, and she said we might do whatever we

liked.”

Whereupon I lighted my cigar.

“Did she say anything more?”

“If you had counted her words you would have noticed that she used

exactly six, two of which gave me to understand that she knew no French,

so four remained, and much can be said in four words.”

Paul seemed quite unhappy, disappointed, and at sea, so to speak.

But suddenly the Italian asked me, in that tone of discontent which

seemed habitual to her, “Do you know at what time we shall get to

Genoa?”

“At eleven o'clock,” I replied. Then after a moment I went on:

“My friend and I are also going to Genoa, and if we can be of any

service to you, we shall be very happy, as you are quite alone.” But she

interrupted with such a “Mica!” that I did not venture on another word.

“What did she say?” Paul asked.

“She said she thought you were charming.”

But he was in no humor for joking, and begged me dryly not to make fun

of him; so I translated her question and my polite offer, which had been

so rudely rejected.

Then he really became as restless as a caged squirrel.

“If we only knew,” he said, “what hotel she was going to, we would go to

the same. Try to find out so as to have another opportunity to make her

talk.”

It was not particularly easy, and I did not know what pretext to invent,

desirous as I was to make the acquaintance of this unapproachable

person.

We passed Nice, Monaco, Mentone, and the train stopped at the frontier

for the examination of luggage.

Although I hate those ill-bred people who breakfast and dine in railway-

carriages, I went and bought a quantity of good things to make one last

attack on her by their means. I felt sure that this girl must,

ordinarily, be by no means inaccessible. Something had put her out and

made her irritable, but very little would suffice, a mere word or some

agreeable offer, to decide her and vanquish her.

We started again, and we three were still alone. I spread my eatables on

the seat. I cut up the fowl, put the slices of ham neatly on a piece of

paper, and then carefully laid out our dessert, strawberries, plums,

cherries and cakes, close to the girl.

When she saw that we were about to eat she took a piece of chocolate and

two little crisp cakes out of her pocket and began to munch them.

“Ask her to have some of ours,” Paul said in a whisper.

“That is exactly what I wish to do, but it is rather a difficult

matter.”

As she, however, glanced from time to time at our provisions, I felt

sure that she would still be hungry when she had finished what she had

with her; so, as soon as her frugal meal was over, I said to her:

“It would be very kind of you if you would take some of this fruit.”

Again she said “Mica!” but less crossly than before.

“Well, then,” I said, “may I offer you a little wine? I see you have not

drunk anything. It is Italian wine, and as we are now in your own

country, we should be very pleased to see such a pretty Italian mouth

accept the offer of its French neighbors.”

She shook her head slightly, evidently wishing to refuse, but very

desirous of accepting, and her mica this time was almost polite. I took

the flask, which was covered with straw in the Italian fashion, and

filling the glass, I offered it to her.

“Please drink it,” I said, “to bid us welcome to your country.”

She took the glass with her usual look, and emptied it at a draught,

like a woman consumed with thirst, and then gave it back to me without

even saying “Thank you.”

I then offered her the cherries. “Please take some,” I said; “we shall

be so glad if you will.”

Out of her corner she looked at all the fruit spread out beside her, and

said so rapidly that I could scarcely follow her: “A me non piacciono ne

le ciriegie ne le susine; amo soltano le fragole.”

“What does she say?” Paul asked.

“That she does riot care for cherries or plums, but only for

strawberries.”

I put a newspaper full of wild strawberries on her lap, and she ate them

quickly, tossing them into her mouth from some distance in a coquettish

and charming manner.

When she had finished the little red heap, which soon disappeared under

the rapid action of her hands, I asked her:

“What may I offer you now?”

“I will take a little chicken,” she replied.

She certainly devoured half of it, tearing it to pieces with the rapid

movements of her jaws like some carnivorous animal. Then she made up her

mind to have some cherries, which she “did not like,” and then some

plums, then some little cakes. Then she said, “I have had enough,” and

sat back in her corner.

I was much amused, and tried to make her eat more, insisting, in fact,

till she suddenly flew into a rage, and flung such a furious mica at me,

that I would no longer run the risk of spoiling her digestion.

I turned to my friend. “My poor Paul,” I said, “I am afraid we have had

our trouble for nothing.”

The night came on, one of those hot summer nights which extend their

warm shade over the burning and exhausted earth. Here and there, in the

distance, by the sea, on capes and promontories, bright stars, which I

was, at times, almost inclined to confound with lighthouses, began to

shine on the dark horizon:

The scent of the orange trees became more penetrating, and we breathed

with delight, distending our lungs to inhale it more deeply. The balmy

air was soft, delicious, almost divine.

Suddenly I noticed something like a shower of stars under the dense

shade of the trees along the line, where it was quite dark. It might

have been taken for drops of light, leaping, flying, playing and running

among the leaves, or for small stars fallen from the skies in order to

have an excursion on the earth; but they were only fireflies dancing a

strange fiery ballet in the perfumed air.

One of them happened to come into our carriage, and shed its

intermittent light, which seemed to be extinguished one moment and to be

burning the next. I covered the carriage-lamp with its blue shade and

watched the strange fly careering about in its fiery flight. Suddenly it

settled on the dark hair of our neighbor, who was half dozing after

dinner. Paul seemed delighted, with his eyes fixed on the bright,

sparkling spot, which looked like a living jewel on the forehead of the

sleeping woman.

The Italian woke up about eleven o'clock, with the bright insect still

in her hair. When I saw her move, I said: “We are just getting to Genoa,

madame,” and she murmured, without answering me, as if possessed by some

obstinate and embarrassing thought:

“What am I going to do, I wonder?”

And then she suddenly asked:

“Would you like me to come with you?”

I was so taken aback that I really did not understand her.

“With us? How do you mean?”

She repeated, looking more and more furious:

“Would you like me to be your guide now, as soon as we get out of the

train?”

“I am quite willing; but where do you want to go.”

She shrugged her shoulders with an air of supreme indifference.

“Wherever you like; what does it matter to me?” She repeated her “Che mi

fa” twice.

“But we are going to the hotel.”

“Very well, let us all go to the hotel,” she said, in a contemptuous

voice.

I turned to Paul, and said:

“She wishes to know whether we should like her to come with us.”

My friend's utter surprise restored my self-possession. He stammered:

“With us? Where to? What for? How?”

“I don't know, but she made this strange proposal to me in a most

irritated voice. I told her that we were going to the hotel, and she

said: 'Very well, let us all go there!' I suppose she is without a

penny. She certainly has a very strange way of making acquaintances.”

Paul, who 'was very much excited, exclaimed:

“I am quite agreeable. Tell her that we will go wherever she likes.”

Then, after a moment's hesitation, he said uneasily:

“We must know, however, with whom she wishes to go—with you or with me?”

I turned to the Italian, who did not even seem to be listening to us,

and said:

“We shall be very happy to have you with us, but my friend wishes to

know whether you will take my arm or his?”

She opened her black eyes wide with vague surprise, and said, “Che ni

fa?”

I was obliged to explain myself. “In Italy, I believe, when a man looks

after a woman, fulfils all her wishes, and satisfies all her caprices,

he is called a patito. Which of us two will you take for your patito?”

Without the slightest hesitation she replied:

“You!”

I turned to Paul. “You see, my friend, she chooses me; you have no

chance.”

“All the better for you,” he replied in a rage. Then, after thinking for

a few moments, he went on:

“Do you really care about taking this creature with you? She will spoil

our journey. What are we to do with this woman, who looks like I don't

know what? They will not take us in at any decent hotel.”

I, however, just began to find the Italian much nicer than I had thought

her at first, and I was now very desirous to take her with us. The idea

delighted me.

I replied, “My dear fellow, we have accepted, and it is too late to

recede. You were the first to advise me to say 'Yes.'”

“It is very stupid,” he growled, “but do as you please.”

The train whistled, slackened speed, and we ran into the station.

I got out of the carriage, and offered my new companion my hand. She

jumped out lightly, and I gave her my arm, which she took with an air of

seeming repugnance. As soon as we had claimed our luggage we set off

into the town, Paul walking in utter silence.

“To what hotel shall we go?” I asked him. “It may be difficult to get

into the City of Paris with a woman, especially with this Italian.”

Paul interrupted me. “Yes, with an Italian who looks more like a dancer

than a duchess. However, that is no business of mine. Do just as you

please.”

I was in a state of perplexity. I had written to the City of Paris to

retain our rooms, and now I did not know what to do.

Two commissionaires followed us with our luggage. I continued: “You

might as well go on first, and say that we are coming; and give the

landlord to understand that I have a—a friend with me and that we should

like rooms quite by themselves for us three, so as not to be brought in

contact with other travellers. He will understand, and we will decide

according to his answer.”

But Paul growled, “Thank you, such commissions and such parts do not

suit me, by any means. I did not come here to select your apartments or

to minister to your pleasures.”

But I was urgent: “Look here, don't be angry. It is surely far better to

go to a good hotel than to a bad one, and it is not difficult to ask the

landlord for three separate bedrooms and a dining-room.”

I put a stress on three, and that decided him.

He went on first, and I saw him go into a large hotel while I remained

on the other side of the street, with my fair Italian, who did not say a

word, and followed the porters with the luggage.

Paul came back at last, looking as dissatisfied as my companion.

“That is settled,” he said, “and they will take us in; but here are only

two bedrooms. You must settle it as you can.”

I followed him, rather ashamed of going in with such a strange

companion.

There were two bedrooms separated by a small sitting-room. I ordered a

cold supper, and then I turned to the Italian with a perplexed look.

“We have only been able to get two rooms, so you must choose which you

like.”

She replied with her eternal “Che mi fa!” I thereupon took up her little

black wooden trunk, such as servants use, and took it into the room on

the right, which I had chosen for her. A bit of paper was fastened to

the box, on which was written, Mademoiselle Francesca Rondoli, Genoa.

“Your name is Francesca?” I asked, and she nodded her head, without

replying.

“We shall have supper directly,” I continued. “Meanwhile, I dare say you

would like to arrange your toilette a little?”

She answered with a 'mica', a word which she employed just as frequently

as 'Che me fa', but I went on: “It is always pleasant after a journey.”

Then I suddenly remembered that she had not, perhaps, the necessary

requisites, for she appeared to me in a very singular position, as if

she had just escaped from some disagreeable adventure, and I brought her

my dressing-case.

I put out all the little instruments for cleanliness and comfort which

it contained: a nail-brush, a new toothbrush—I always carry a selection

of them about with me—my nail-scissors, a nail-file, and sponges. I

uncorked a bottle of eau de cologne, one of lavender-water, and a little

bottle of new-mown hay, so that she might have a choice. Then I opened

my powder-box, and put out the powder-puff, placed my fine towels over

the water-jug, and a piece of new soap near the basin.

She watched my movements with a look of annoyance in her wide-open eyes,

without appearing either astonished or pleased at my forethought.

“Here is all that you require,” I then said; “I will tell you when

supper is ready.”

When I returned to the sitting-room I found that Paul had shut himself

in the other room, so I sat down to wait.

A waiter went to and fro, bringing plates and glasses. He laid the table

slowly, then put a cold chicken on it, and told me that all was ready.

I knocked gently at Mademoiselle Rondoli's door. “Come in,” she said,

and when I did so I was struck by a strong, heavy smell of perfumes, as

if I were in a hairdresser's shop.

The Italian was sitting on her trunk in an attitude either of thoughtful

discontent or absent-mindedness. The towel was still folded over the

waterjug that was full of water, and the soap, untouched and dry, was

lying beside the empty basin; but one would have thought that the young

woman had used half the contents of the bottles of perfume. The eau de

cologne, however, had been spared, as only about a third of it had gone;

but to make up for that she had used a surprising amount of lavender-

water and new-mown hay. A cloud of violet powder, a vague white mist,

seemed still to be floating in the air, from the effects of her over-

powdering her face and neck. It seemed to cover her eyelashes, eyebrows,

and the hair on her temples like snow, while her cheeks were plastered

with it, and layers of it covered her nostrils, the corners of her eyes,

and her chin.

When she got up she exhaled such a strong odor of perfume that it almost

made me feel faint.

When we sat down to supper, I found that Paul was in a most execrable

temper, and I could get nothing out of him but blame, irritable words,

and disagreeable remarks.

Mademoiselle Francesca ate like an ogre, and as soon as she had finished

her meal she threw herself upon the sofa in the sitting-room. Sitting

down beside her, I said gallantly, kissing her hand:

“Shall I have the bed prepared, or will you sleep on the couch?”

“It is all the same to me. 'Che mi fa'!”

Her indifference vexed me.

“Should you like to retire at once?”

“Yes; I am very sleepy.”

She got up, yawned, gave her hand to Paul, who took it with a furious

look, and I lighted her into the bedroom. A disquieting feeling haunted

me. “Here is all you want,” I said again.

The next morning she got up early, like a woman who is accustomed to

work. She woke me by doing so, and I watched her through my half-closed

eyelids.

She came and went without hurrying herself, as if she were astonished at

having nothing to do. At length she went to the dressing-table, and in a

moment emptied all my bottles of perfume. She certainly also used some

water, but very little.

When she was quite dressed, she sat down on her trunk again, and

clasping one knee between her hands, she seemed to be thinking.

At that moment I pretended to first notice her, and said:

“Good-morning, Francesca.”

Without seeming in at all a better temper than the previous night, she

murmured, “Good-morning!”

When I asked her whether she had slept well, she nodded her head, and

jumping out of bed, I went and kissed her.

She turned her face toward me like a child who is being kissed against

its will; but I took her tenderly in my arms, and gently pressed my lips

on her eyelids, which she closed with evident distaste under my kisses

on her fresh cheek and full lips, which she turned away.

“You don't seem to like being kissed,” I said to her.

“Mica!” was her only answer.

I sat down on the trunk by her side, and passing my arm through hers, I

said: “Mica! mica! mica! in reply to everything. I shall call you

Mademoiselle Mica, I think.”

For the first time I fancied that I saw the shadow of a smile on her

lips, but it passed by so quickly that I may have been mistaken.

“But if you never say anything but Mica, I shall not know what to do to

please you. Let me see; what shall we do to-day?”

She hesitated a moment, as if some fancy had flitted through her head,

and then she said carelessly: “It is all the same to me; whatever you

like.”

“Very well, Mademoiselle Mica, we will have a carriage and go for a

drive.”

“As you please,” she said.

Paul was waiting for us in the dining-room, looking as bored as third

parties usually do in love affairs. I assumed a delighted air, and shook

hands with him with triumphant energy.

“What are you thinking of doing?” he asked.

“First of all, we will go and see a little of the town, and then we

might get a carriage and take a drive in the neighborhood.”

We breakfasted almost in silence, and then set out. I dragged Francesca

from palace to palace, and she either looked at nothing or merely

glanced carelessly at the various masterpieces. Paul followed us,

growling all sorts of disagreeable things. Then we all three took a

drive in silence into the country and returned to dinner.

The next day it was the same thing and the next day again; and on the

third Paul said to me: “Look here, I am going to leave you; I am not

going to stop here for three weeks watching you make love to this

creature.”

I was perplexed and annoyed, for to my great surprise I had become

singularly attached to Francesca. A man is but weak and foolish, carried

away by the merest trifle, and a coward every time that his senses are

excited or mastered. I clung to this unknown girl, silent and

dissatisfied as she always was. I liked her somewhat ill-tempered face,

the dissatisfied droop of her mouth, the weariness of her look; I liked

her fatigued movements, the contemptuous way in which she let me kiss

her, the very indifference of her caresses. A secret bond, that

mysterious bond of physical love, which does not satisfy, bound me to

her. I told Paul so, quite frankly. He treated me as if I were a fool,

and then said:

“Very well, take her with you.”

But she obstinately refused to leave Genoa, without giving any reason. I

besought, I reasoned, I promised, but all was of no avail, and so I

stayed on.

Paul declared that he would go by himself, and went so far as to pack up

his portmanteau; but he remained all the same.

Thus a fortnight passed. Francesca was always silent and irritable,

lived beside me rather than with me, responded to all my requirements

and all my propositions with her perpetual Che mi fa, or with her no

less perpetual Mica.

My friend became more and more furious, but my only answer was, “You can

go if you are tired of staying. I am not detaining you.”

Then he called me names, overwhelmed me with reproaches, and exclaimed:

“Where do you think I can go now? We had three weeks at our disposal,

and here is a fortnight gone! I cannot continue my journey now; and, in

any case, I am not going to Venice, Florence and Rome all by myself. But

you will pay for it, and more dearly than you think, most likely. You

are not going to bring a man all the way from Paris in order to shut him

up at a hotel in Genoa with an Italian adventuress.”

When I told him, very calmly, to return to Paris, he exclaimed that he

intended to do so the very next day; but the next day he was still

there, still in a rage and swearing.

By this time we began to be known in the streets through which we

wandered from morning till night. Sometimes French people would turn

round astonished at meeting their fellow-countrymen in the company of

this girl with her striking costume, who looked singularly out of place,

not to say compromising, beside us.

She used to walk along, leaning on my arm, without looking at anything.

Why did she remain with me, with us, who seemed to do so little to amuse

her? Who was she? Where did she come from? What was she doing? Had she

any plan or idea? Where did she live? As an adventuress, or by chance

meetings? I tried in vain to find out and to explain it. The better I

knew her the more enigmatical she became. She seemed to be a girl of

poor family who had been taken away, and then cast aside and lost. What

did she think would become of her, or whom was she waiting for? She

certainly did not appear to be trying to make a conquest of me, or to

make any real profit out of me.

I tried to question her, to speak to her of her childhood and family;

but she never gave me an answer. I stayed with her, my heart unfettered

and my senses enchained, never wearied of holding her in my arms, that

proud and quarrelsome woman, captivated by my senses, or rather carried

away, overcome by a youthful, healthy, powerful charm, which emanated

from her fragrant person and from the well-molded lines of her body.

Another week passed, and the term of my journey was drawing on, for I

had to be back in Paris by the eleventh of July. By this time Paul had

come to take his part in the adventure, though still grumbling at me,

while I invented pleasures, distractions and excursions to amuse

Francesca and my friend; and in order to do this I gave myself a great

amount of trouble.

One day I proposed an excursion to Sta Margarita, that charming little

town in the midst of gardens, hidden at the foot of a slope which

stretches far into the sea up to the village of Portofino. We three

walked along the excellent road which goes along the foot of the

mountain. Suddenly Francesca said to me: “I shall not be able to go with

you to-morrow; I must go and see some of my relatives.”

That was all; I did not ask her any questions, as I was quite sure she

would not answer me.

The next morning she got up very early. When she spoke to me it was in a

constrained and hesitating voice:

“If I do not come back again, shall you come and fetch me?”

“Most certainly I shall,” was my reply. “Where shall I go to find you?”

Then she explained: “You must go into the Street Victor-Emmanuel, down

the Falcone road and the side street San-Rafael and into the furniture

shop in the building at the right at the end of a court, and there you

must ask for Madame Rondoli. That is the place.”

And so she went away, leaving me rather astonished.

When Paul saw that I was alone, he stammered out: “Where; is Francesca?”

And when I told him what had happened, he exclaimed:

“My dear fellow, let us make use of our opportunity, and bolt; as it is,

our time is up. Two days, more or less, make no difference. Let us go at

once; go and pack up your things. Off we go!”

But I refused. I could not, as I told him, leave the girl in that manner

after such companionship for nearly three weeks. At any rate, I ought to

say good-by to her, and make her accept a present; I certainly had no

intention of behaving badly to her.

But he would not listen; he pressed and worried me, but I would not give

way.

I remained indoors for several hours, expecting Francesca's return, but

she did not come, and at last, at dinner, Paul said with a triumphant

air:

“She has flown, my dear fellow; it is certainly very strange.”

I must acknowledge that I was surprised and rather vexed. He laughed in

my face, and made fun of me.

“It is not exactly a bad way of getting rid of you, though rather

primitive. 'Just wait for me, I shall be back in a moment,' they often

say. How long are you going to wait? I should not wonder if you were

foolish enough to go and look for her at the address she gave you. 'Does

Madame Rondoli live here, please?' 'No, monsieur.' I'll bet that you are

longing to go there.”

“Not in the least,” I protested, “and I assure you that if she does not

come back to-morrow morning I shall leave by the express at eight

o'clock. I shall have waited twenty-four hours, and that is enough; my

conscience will be quite clear.”

I spent an uneasy and unpleasant evening, for I really had at heart a

very tender feeling for her. I went to bed at twelve o'clock, and hardly

slept at all. I got up at six, called Paul, packed up my things, and two

hours later we set out for France together.

III

The next year, at just about the same period, I was seized as one is

with a periodical fever, with a new desire to go to Italy, and I

immediately made up my mind to carry it into effect. There is no doubt

that every really well-educated man ought to see Florence, Venice and

Rome. This travel has, also, the additional advantage of providing many

subjects of conversation in society, and of giving one an opportunity

for bringing forward artistic generalities which appear profound.

This time I went alone, and I arrived at Genoa at the same time as the

year before, but without any adventure on the road. I went to the same

hotel, and actually happened to have the same room.

I was hardly in bed when the recollection of Francesca which, since the

evening before, had been floating vaguely through my mind, haunted me

with strange persistency. I thought of her nearly the whole night, and

by degrees the wish to see her again seized me, a confused desire at

first, which gradually grew stronger and more intense. At last I made up

my mind to spend the next day in Genoa to try to find her, and if I

should not succeed, to take the evening train.

Early in the morning I set out on my search. I remembered the directions

she had given me when she left me, perfectly—Victor-Emmanuel Street,

house of the furniture-dealer, at the bottom of the yard on the right.

I found it without the least difficulty, and I knocked at the door of a

somewhat dilapidated-looking dwelling. It was opened by a stout woman,

who must have been very handsome, but who actually was only very dirty.

Although she had too much embonpoint, she still bore the lines of

majestic beauty; her untidy hair fell over her forehead and shoulders,

and one fancied one could see her floating about in an enormous

dressing-gown covered with spots of dirt and grease. Round her neck she

wore a great gilt necklace, and on her wrists were splendid bracelets of

Genoa filigree work.

In rather a hostile manner she asked me what I wanted, and I replied by

requesting her to tell me whether Francesca Rondoli lived there.

“What do you want with her?” she asked.

“I had the pleasure of meeting her last year, and I should like to see

her again.”

The old woman looked at me suspiciously.

“Where did you meet her?” she asked.

“Why, here in Genoa itself.”

“What is your name?”

I hesitated a moment, and then I told her. I had hardly done so when the

Italian put out her arms as if to embrace me. “Oh! you are the Frenchman

how glad I am to see you! But what grief you caused the poor child! She

waited for you a month; yes, a whole month. At first she thought you

would come to fetch her. She wanted to see whether you loved her. If you

only knew how she cried when she saw that you were not coming! She cried

till she seemed to have no tears left. Then she went to the hotel, but

you had gone. She thought that most likely you were travelling in Italy,

and that you would return by Genoa to fetch her, as she would not go

with you. And she waited more than a month, monsieur; and she was so

unhappy; so unhappy. I am her mother.”

I really felt a little disconcerted, but I regained my self-possession,

and asked:

“Where is she now?”

“She has gone to Paris with a painter, a delightful man, who loves her

very much, and who gives her everything that she wants. Just look at

what she sent me; they are very pretty, are they not?”

And she showed me, with quite southern animation, her heavy bracelets

and necklace. “I have also,” she continued, “earrings with stones in

them, a silk dress, and some rings; but I only wear them on grand

occasions. Oh! she is very happy, monsieur, very happy. She will be so

pleased when I tell her you have been here. But pray come in and sit

down. You will take something or other, surely?”

But I refused, as I now wished to get away by the first train; but she

took me by the arm and pulled me in, saying:

“Please, come in; I must tell her that you have been in here.”

I found myself in a small, rather dark room, furnished with only a table

and a few chairs.

She continued: “Oh, she is very happy now, very happy. When you met her

in the train she was very miserable; she had had an unfortunate love

affair in Marseilles, and she was coming home, poor child. But she liked

you at once, though she was still rather sad, you understand. Now she

has all she wants, and she writes and tells me everything that she does.

His name is Bellemin, and they say he is a great painter in your

country. He fell in love with her at first sight. But you will take a

glass of sirup?-it is very good. Are you quite alone, this year?”

“Yes,” I said, “quite alone.”

I felt an increasing inclination to laugh, as my first disappointment

was dispelled by what Mother Rondoli said. I was obliged; however, to

drink a glass of her sirup.

“So you are quite alone?” she continued. “How sorry I am that Francesca

is not here now; she would have been company for you all the time you

stayed. It is not very amusing to go about all by oneself, and she will

be very sorry also.”

Then, as I was getting up to go, she exclaimed:

“But would you not like Carlotta to go with you? She knows all the walks

very well. She is my second daughter, monsieur.”

No doubt she took my look of surprise for consent, for she opened the

inner door and called out up the dark stairs which I could not see:

“Carlotta! Carlotta! make haste down, my dear child.”

I tried to protest, but she would not listen.

“No; she will be very glad to go with you; she is very nice, and much

more cheerful than her sister, and she is a good girl, a very good girl,

whom I love very much.”

In a few moments a tall, slender, dark girl appeared, her hair hanging

down, and her youthful figure showing unmistakably beneath an old dress

of her mother's.

The latter at once told her how matters stood.

“This is Francesca's Frenchman, you know, the one whom she knew last

year. He is quite alone, and has come to look for her, poor fellow; so I

told him that you would go with him to keep him company.”

The girl looked at me with her handsome dark eyes, and said, smiling:

“I have no objection, if he wishes it”

I could not possibly refuse, and merely said:

“Of course, I shall be very glad of your company.”

Her mother pushed her out. “Go and get dressed directly; put on your

blue dress and your hat with the flowers, and make haste.”

As soon as she had left the room the old woman explained herself: “I

have two others, but they are much younger. It costs a lot of money to

bring up four children. Luckily the eldest is off my hands at present.”

Then she told all about herself, about her husband, who had been an

employee on the railway, but who was dead, and she expatiated on the

good qualities of Carlotta, her second girl, who soon returned, dressed,

as her sister had been, in a striking, peculiar manner.

Her mother examined her from head to foot, and, after finding everything

right, she said:

“Now, my children, you can go.” Then turning to the girl, she said: “Be

sure you are back by ten o'clock to-night; you know the door is locked

then.” The answer was:

“All right, mamma; don't alarm yourself.”

She took my arm and we went wandering about the streets, just as I had

wandered the previous year with her sister.

We returned to the hotel for lunch, and then I took my new friend to

Santa Margarita, just as I had taken her sister the year previously.

During the whole fortnight which I had at my disposal, I took Carlotta

to all the places of interest in and about Genoa. She gave me no cause

to regret her sister.

She cried when I left her, and the morning of my departure I gave her

four bracelets for her mother, besides a substantial token of my

affection for herself.

One of these days I intend to return to Italy, and I cannot help

remembering with a certain amount of uneasiness, mingled with hope, that

Madame Rondoli has two more daughters.

ORIGINAL SHORT STORIES, Vol. 7.

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

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

VOLUME VII.

THE FALSE GEMS

Monsieur Lantin had met the young girl at a reception at the house of

the second head of his department, and had fallen head over heels in

love with her.

She was the daughter of a provincial tax collector, who had been dead

several years. She and her mother came to live in Paris, where the

latter, who made the acquaintance of some of the families in her

neighborhood, hoped to find a husband for her daughter.

They had very moderate means, and were honorable, gentle, and quiet.

The young girl was a perfect type of the virtuous woman in whose hands

every sensible young man dreams of one day intrusting his happiness. Her

simple beauty had the charm of angelic modesty, and the imperceptible

smile which constantly hovered about the lips seemed to be the

reflection of a pure and lovely soul. Her praises resounded on every

side. People never tired of repeating: “Happy the man who wins her love!

He could not find a better wife.”

Monsieur Lantin, then chief clerk in the Department of the Interior,

enjoyed a snug little salary of three thousand five hundred francs, and

he proposed to this model young girl, and was accepted.

He was unspeakably happy with her. She governed his household with such

clever economy that they seemed to live in luxury. She lavished the most

delicate attentions on her husband, coaxed and fondled him; and so great

was her charm that six years after their marriage, Monsieur Lantin

discovered that he loved his wife even more than during the first days

of their honeymoon.

He found fault with only two of her tastes: Her love for the theatre,

and her taste for imitation jewelry. Her friends (the wives of some

petty officials) frequently procured for her a box at the theatre, often

for the first representations of the new plays; and her husband was

obliged to accompany her, whether he wished it or not, to these

entertainments which bored him excessively after his day's work at the

office.

After a time, Monsieur Lantin begged his wife to request some lady of

her acquaintance to accompany her, and to bring her home after the

theatre. She opposed this arrangement, at first; but, after much

persuasion, finally consented, to the infinite delight of her husband.

Now, with her love for the theatre, came also the desire for ornaments.

Her costumes remained as before, simple, in good taste, and always

modest; but she soon began to adorn her ears with huge rhinestones,

which glittered and sparkled like real diamonds. Around her neck she

wore strings of false pearls, on her arms bracelets of imitation gold,

and combs set with glass jewels.

Her husband frequently remonstrated with her, saying:

“My dear, as you cannot afford to buy real jewelry, you ought to appear

adorned with your beauty and modesty alone, which are the rarest

ornaments of your sex.”

But she would smile sweetly, and say:

“What can I do? I am so fond of jewelry. It is my only weakness. We

cannot change our nature.”

Then she would wind the pearl necklace round her fingers, make the

facets of the crystal gems sparkle, and say:

“Look! are they not lovely? One would swear they were real.”

Monsieur Lantin would then answer, smilingly:

“You have bohemian tastes, my dear.”

Sometimes, of an evening, when they were enjoying a tete-a-tete by the

fireside, she would place on the tea table the morocco leather box

containing the “trash,” as Monsieur Lantin called it. She would examine

the false gems with a passionate attention, as though they imparted some

deep and secret joy; and she often persisted in passing a necklace

around her husband's neck, and, laughing heartily, would exclaim: “How

droll you look!” Then she would throw herself into his arms, and kiss

him affectionately.

One evening, in winter, she had been to the opera, and returned home

chilled through and through. The next morning she coughed, and eight

days later she died of inflammation of the lungs.

Monsieur Lantin's despair was so great that his hair became white in one

month. He wept unceasingly; his heart was broken as he remembered her

smile, her voice, every charm of his dead wife.

Time did not assuage his grief. Often, during office hours, while his

colleagues were discussing the topics of the day, his eyes would

suddenly fill with tears, and he would give vent to his grief in

heartrending sobs. Everything in his wife's room remained as it was

during her lifetime; all her furniture, even her clothing, being left as

it was on the day of her death. Here he was wont to seclude himself

daily and think of her who had been his treasure-the joy of his

existence.

But life soon became a struggle. His income, which, in the hands of his

wife, covered all household expenses, was now no longer sufficient for

his own immediate wants; and he wondered how she could have managed to

buy such excellent wine and the rare delicacies which he could no longer

procure with his modest resources.

He incurred some debts, and was soon reduced to absolute poverty. One

morning, finding himself without a cent in his pocket, he resolved to

sell something, and immediately the thought occurred to him of disposing

of his wife's paste jewels, for he cherished in his heart a sort of

rancor against these “deceptions,” which had always irritated him in the

past. The very sight of them spoiled, somewhat, the memory of his lost

darling.

To the last days of her life she had continued to make purchases,

bringing home new gems almost every evening, and he turned them over

some time before finally deciding to sell the heavy necklace, which she

seemed to prefer, and which, he thought, ought to be worth about six or

seven francs; for it was of very fine workmanship, though only

imitation.

He put it in his pocket, and started out in search of what seemed a

reliable jeweler's shop. At length he found one, and went in, feeling a

little ashamed to expose his misery, and also to offer such a worthless

article for sale.

“Sir,” said he to the merchant, “I would like to know what this is

worth.”

The man took the necklace, examined it, called his clerk, and made some

remarks in an undertone; he then put the ornament back on the counter,

and looked at it from a distance to judge of the effect.

Monsieur Lantin, annoyed at all these ceremonies, was on the point of

saying: “Oh! I know well enough it is not worth anything,” when the

jeweler said: “Sir, that necklace is worth from twelve to fifteen

thousand francs; but I could not buy it, unless you can tell me exactly

where it came from.”

The widower opened his eyes wide and remained gaping, not comprehending

the merchant's meaning. Finally he stammered: “You say—are you sure?”

The other replied, drily: “You can try elsewhere and see if any one will

offer you more. I consider it worth fifteen thousand at the most. Come

back; here, if you cannot do better.”

Monsieur Lantin, beside himself with astonishment, took up the necklace

and left the store. He wished time for reflection.

Once outside, he felt inclined to laugh, and said to himself: “The fool!

Oh, the fool! Had I only taken him at his word! That jeweler cannot

distinguish real diamonds from the imitation article.”

A few minutes after, he entered another store, in the Rue de la Paix. As

soon as the proprietor glanced at the necklace, he cried out:

“Ah, parbleu! I know it well; it was bought here.”

Monsieur Lantin, greatly disturbed, asked:

“How much is it worth?”

“Well, I sold it for twenty thousand francs. I am willing to take it

back for eighteen thousand, when you inform me, according to our legal

formality, how it came to be in your possession.”

This time, Monsieur Lantin was dumfounded. He replied:

“But—but—examine it well. Until this moment I was under the impression

that it was imitation.”

The jeweler asked:

“What is your name, sir?”

“Lantin—I am in the employ of the Minister of the Interior. I live at

number sixteen Rue des Martyrs.”

The merchant looked through his books, found the entry, and said: “That

necklace was sent to Madame Lantin's address, sixteen Rue des Martyrs,

July 20, 1876.”

The two men looked into each other's eyes—the widower speechless with

astonishment; the jeweler scenting a thief. The latter broke the

silence.

“Will you leave this necklace here for twenty-four hours?” said he; “I

will give you a receipt.”

Monsieur Lantin answered hastily: “Yes, certainly.” Then, putting the

ticket in his pocket, he left the store.

He wandered aimlessly through the streets, his mind in a state of

dreadful confusion. He tried to reason, to understand. His wife could

not afford to purchase such a costly ornament. Certainly not.

But, then, it must have been a present!—a present!—a present, from whom?

Why was it given her?

He stopped, and remained standing in the middle of the street. A

horrible doubt entered his mind—She? Then, all the other jewels must

have been presents, too! The earth seemed to tremble beneath him—the

tree before him to be falling; he threw up his arms, and fell to the

ground, unconscious. He recovered his senses in a pharmacy, into which

the passers-by had borne him. He asked to be taken home, and, when he

reached the house, he shut himself up in his room, and wept until

nightfall. Finally, overcome with fatigue, he went to bed and fell into

a heavy sleep.

The sun awoke him next morning, and he began to dress slowly to go to

the office. It was hard to work after such shocks. He sent a letter to

his employer, requesting to be excused. Then he remembered that he had

to return to the jeweler's. He did not like the idea; but he could not

leave the necklace with that man. He dressed and went out.

It was a lovely day; a clear, blue sky smiled on the busy city below.

Men of leisure were strolling about with their hands in their pockets.

Monsieur Lantin, observing them, said to himself: “The rich, indeed, are

happy. With money it is possible to forget even the deepest sorrow. One

can go where one pleases, and in travel find that distraction which is

the surest cure for grief. Oh if I were only rich!”

He perceived that he was hungry, but his pocket was empty. He again

remembered the necklace. Eighteen thousand francs! Eighteen thousand

francs! What a sum!

He soon arrived in the Rue de la Paix, opposite the jeweler's. Eighteen

thousand francs! Twenty times he resolved to go in, but shame kept him

back. He was hungry, however—very hungry—and not a cent in his pocket.

He decided quickly, ran across the street, in order not to have time for

reflection, and rushed into the store.

The proprietor immediately came forward, and politely offered him a

chair; the clerks glanced at him knowingly.

“I have made inquiries, Monsieur Lantin,” said the jeweler, “and if you

are still resolved to dispose of the gems, I am ready to pay you the

price I offered.”

“Certainly, sir,” stammered Monsieur Lantin.

Whereupon the proprietor took from a drawer eighteen large bills,

counted, and handed them to Monsieur Lantin, who signed a receipt; and,

with trembling hand, put the money into his pocket.

As he was about to leave the store, he turned toward the merchant, who

still wore the same knowing smile, and lowering his eyes, said:

“I have—I have other gems, which came from the same source. Will you buy

them, also?”

The merchant bowed: “Certainly, sir.”

Monsieur Lantin said gravely: “I will bring them to you.” An hour later,

he returned with the gems.

The large diamond earrings were worth twenty thousand francs; the

bracelets, thirty-five thousand; the rings, sixteen thousand; a set of

emeralds and sapphires, fourteen thousand; a gold chain with solitaire

pendant, forty thousand—making the sum of one hundred and forty-three

thousand francs.