As soon as he found himself walking along the streets that led to

Tancret's, he felt like stopping, He paused in front of several shops,

noticed the prices of certain objects, was interested in new things,

felt like taking a glass of beer, which was not his usual custom; and as

he approached his friend's dwelling he ardently hoped not meet him. But

Tancret was at home, alone, reading. He jumped up in surprise, crying:

“Ah! Bondel! what luck!”

Bondel, embarrassed, answered: “Yes, my dear fellow, I happened to be in

Paris, and I thought I'd drop in and shake hands with you.”

“That's very nice, very nice! The more so that for some time you have

not favored me with your presence very often.”

“Well, you see—even against one's will, one is often influenced by

surrounding conditions, and as my wife seemed to bear you some ill-will”

“Jove! 'seemed'—she did better than that, since she showed me the door.”

“What was the reason? I never heard it.”

“Oh! nothing at all—a bit of foolishness—a discussion in which we did

not both agree.”

“But what was the subject of this discussion?”

“A lady of my acquaintance, whom you may perhaps know by name, Madame

Boutin.”

“Ah! really. Well, I think that my wife has forgotten her grudge, for

this very morning she spoke to me of you in very pleasant terms.”

Tancret started and seemed so dumfounded that for a few minutes he could

find nothing to say. Then he asked: “She spoke of me—in pleasant terms?”

“Yes.”

“You are sure?”

“Of course I am. I am not dreaming.”

“And then?”

“And then—as I was coming to Paris I thought that I would please you by

coming to tell you the good news.”

“Why, yes—why, yes—”

Bondel appeared to hesitate; then, after a short pause, he added: “I

even had an idea.”

“What is it?”

“To take you back home with me to dinner.”

Tancret, who was naturally prudent, seemed a little worried by this

proposition, and he asked: “Oh! really—is it possible? Are we not

exposing ourselves to—to—a scene?”

“No, no, indeed!”

“Because, you know, Madame Bendel bears malice for a long time.”

“Yes, but I can assure you that she no longer bears you any ill—will. I

am even convinced that it will be a great pleasure for her to see you

thus, unexpectedly.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really!”

“Well, then! let us go along. I am delighted. You see, this

misunderstanding was very unpleasant for me.”

They set out together toward the Saint-Lazare station, arm in arm. They

made the trip in silence. Both seemed absorbed in deep meditation.

Seated in the car, one opposite the other, they looked at each other

without speaking, each observing that the other was pale.

Then they left the train and once more linked arms as if to unite

against some common danger. After a walk of a few minutes they stopped,

a little out of breath, before Bondel's house. Bondel ushered his friend

into the parlor, called the servant, and asked: “Is madame at home?”

“Yes, monsieur.”

“Please ask her to come down at once.”

They dropped into two armchairs and waited. Both were filled with the

same longing to escape before the appearance of the much-feared person.

A well-known, heavy tread could be heard descending the stairs. A hand

moved the knob, and both men watched the brass handle turn. Then the

door opened wide, and Madame Bondel stopped and looked to see who was

there before she entered. She looked, blushed, trembled, retreated a

step, then stood motionless, her cheeks aflame and her hands resting

against the sides of the door frame.

Tancret, as pale as if about to faint, had arisen, letting fall his hat,

which rolled along the floor. He stammered out: “Mon Dieu—madame—it is

I—I thought—I ventured—I was so sorry—”

As she did not answer, he continued: “Will you forgive me?”

Then, quickly, carried away by some impulse, she walked toward him with

her hands outstretched; and when he had taken, pressed, and held these

two hands, she said, in a trembling, weak little voice, which was new to

her husband:

“Ah! my dear friend—how happy I am!”

And Bondel, who was watching them, felt an icy chill run over him, as if

he had been dipped in a cold bath.

FOUND ON A DROWNED MAN

Madame, you ask me whether I am laughing at you? You cannot believe that

a man has never been in love. Well, then, no, no, I have never loved,

never!

Why is this? I really cannot tell. I have never experienced that

intoxication of the heart which we call love! Never have I lived in that

dream, in that exaltation, in that state of madness into which the image

of a woman casts us. I have never been pursued, haunted, roused to fever

heat, lifted up to Paradise by the thought of meeting, or by the

possession of, a being who had suddenly become for me more desirable

than any good fortune, more beautiful than any other creature, of more

consequence than the whole world! I have never wept, I have never

suffered on account of any of you. I have not passed my nights

sleepless, while thinking of her. I have no experience of waking

thoughts bright with thought and memories of her. I have never known the

wild rapture of hope before her arrival, or the divine sadness of regret

when she went from me, leaving behind her a delicate odor of violet

powder.

I have never been in love.

I have also often asked myself why this is. And truly I can scarcely

tell. Nevertheless I have found some reasons for it; but they are of a

metaphysical character, and perhaps you will not be able to appreciate

them.

I suppose I am too critical of women to submit to their fascination. I

ask you to forgive me for this remark. I will explain what I mean. In

every creature there is a moral being and a physical being. In order to

love, it would be necessary for me to find a harmony between these two

beings which I have never found. One always predominates; sometimes the

moral, sometimes the physical.

The intellect which we have a right to require in a woman, in order to

love her, is not the same as the virile intellect. It is more, and it is

less. A woman must be frank, delicate, sensitive, refined,

impressionable. She has no need of either power or initiative in

thought, but she must have kindness, elegance, tenderness, coquetry and

that faculty of assimilation which, in a little while, raises her to an

equality with him who shares her life. Her greatest quality must be

tact, that subtle sense which is to the mind what touch is to the body.

It reveals to her a thousand little things, contours, angles and forms

on the plane of the intellectual.

Very frequently pretty women have not intellect to correspond with their

personal charms. Now, the slightest lack of harmony strikes me and pains

me at the first glance. In friendship this is not of importance.

Friendship is a compact in which one fairly shares defects and merits.

We may judge of friends, whether man or woman, giving them credit for

what is good, and overlooking what is bad in them, appreciating them at

their just value, while giving ourselves up to an intimate, intense and

charming sympathy.

In order to love, one must be blind, surrender one's self absolutely,

see nothing, question nothing, understand nothing. One must adore the

weakness as well as the beauty of the beloved object, renounce all

judgment, all reflection, all perspicacity.

I am incapable of such blindness and rebel at unreasoning subjugation.

This is not all. I have such a high and subtle idea of harmony that

nothing can ever fulfill my ideal. But you will call me a madman. Listen

to me. A woman, in my opinion, may have an exquisite soul and charming

body without that body and that soul being in perfect harmony with one

another. I mean that persons who have noses made in a certain shape

should not be expected to think in a certain fashion. The fat have no

right to make use of the same words and phrases as the thin. You, who

have blue eyes, madame, cannot look at life and judge of things and

events as if you had black eyes. The shade of your eyes should

correspond, by a sort of fatality, with the shade of your thought. In

perceiving these things, I have the scent of a bloodhound. Laugh if you

like, but it is so.

And yet, once I imagined that I was in love for an hour, for a day. I

had foolishly yielded to the influence of surrounding circumstances. I

allowed myself to be beguiled by a mirage of Dawn. Would you like me to

tell you this short story?

I met, one evening, a pretty, enthusiastic little woman who took a

poetic fancy to spend a night with me in a boat on a river. I would have

preferred a room and a bed; however, I consented to the river and the

boat.

It was in the month of June. My fair companion chose a moonlight night

in order the better to stimulate her imagination.

We had dined at a riverside inn and set out in the boat about ten

o'clock. I thought it a rather foolish kind of adventure, but as my

companion pleased me I did not worry about it. I sat down on the seat

facing her; I seized the oars, and off we starred.

I could not deny that the scene was picturesque. We glided past a wooded

isle full of nightingales, and the current carried us rapidly over the

river covered with silvery ripples. The tree toads uttered their shrill,

monotonous cry; the frogs croaked in the grass by the river's bank, and

the lapping of the water as it flowed on made around us a kind of

confused murmur almost imperceptible, disquieting, and gave us a vague

sensation of mysterious fear.

The sweet charm of warm nights and of streams glittering in the

moonlight penetrated us. It was delightful to be alive and to float

along thus, and to dream and to feel at one's side a sympathetic and

beautiful young woman.

I was somewhat affected, somewhat agitated, somewhat intoxicated by the

pale brightness of the night and the consciousness of my proximity to a

lovely woman.

“Come and sit beside me,” she said.

I obeyed.

She went on:

“Recite some poetry for me.”

This appeared to be rather too much. I declined; she persisted. She

certainly wanted to play the game, to have a whole orchestra of

sentiment, from the moon to the rhymes of poets. In the end I had to

yield, and, as if in mockery, I repeated to her a charming little poem

by Louis Bouilhet, of which the following are the last verses:

“I hate the poet who with tearful eye Murmurs some name while gazing

tow'rds a star, Who sees no magic in the earth or sky, Unless Lizette or

Ninon be not far.

“The bard who in all Nature nothing sees Divine, unless a petticoat he

ties Amorously to the branches of the trees Or nightcap to the grass, is

scarcely wise.

“He has not heard the Eternal's thunder tone, The voice of Nature in her

various moods, Who cannot tread the dim ravines alone, And of no woman

dream mid whispering woods.”

I expected some reproaches. Nothing of the sort. She murmured:

“How true it is!”

I was astonished. Had she understood?

Our boat had gradually approached the bank and become entangled in the

branches of a willow which impeded its progress. I placed my arm round

my companion's waist, and very gently approached my lips towards her

neck. But she repulsed me with an abrupt, angry movement.

“Have done, pray! How rude you are!”

I tried to draw her toward me. She resisted, caught hold of the tree,

and was near flinging us both into the water. I deemed it prudent to

cease my importunities.

She said:

“I would rather capsize you. I feel so happy. I want to dream. This is

so delightful.” Then, in a slightly malicious tone, she added:

“Have you already forgotten the verses you repeated to me just now?”

She was right. I became silent.

She went on:

“Come, now!”

And I plied the oars once more.

I began to think the night long and my position ridiculous.

My companion said to me:

“Will you make me a promise?”

“Yes. What is it?”

“To remain quiet, well-behaved and discreet, if I permit you—”

“What? Say what you mean!”

“Here is what I mean: I want to lie down on my back at the bottom of the

boat with you by my side. But I forbid you to touch me, to embrace me

—in short—to caress me.”

I promised. She said warningly:

“If you move, 'I'll capsize the boat.”

And then we lay down side by side, our eyes turned toward the sky, while

the boat glided slowly through the water. We were rocked by its gentle

motion. The slight sounds of the night came to us more distinctly in the

bottom of the boat, sometimes causing us to start. And I felt springing

up within me a strange, poignant emotion, an infinite tenderness,

something like an irresistible impulse to open my arms in order to

embrace, to open my heart in order to love, to give myself, to give my

thoughts, my body, my life, my entire being to some one.

My companion murmured, like one in a dream:

“Where are we; Where are we going? It seems to me that I am leaving the

earth. How sweet it is! Ah, if you loved me—a little!!!”

My heart began to throb. I had no answer to give. It seemed to me that I

loved her. I had no longer any violent desire. I felt happy there by her

side, and that was enough for me.

And thus we remained for a long, long time without stirring. We had

clasped each other's hands; some delightful force rendered us

motionless, an unknown force stronger than ourselves, an alliance,

chaste, intimate, absolute, of our beings lying there side by side,

belonging to each other without contact. What was this? How do I know?

Love, perhaps?

Little by little the dawn appeared. It was three o'clock in the morning.

Slowly a great brightness spread over the sky. The boat knocked up

against something. I rose up. We had come close to a tiny islet.

But I remained enchanted, in an ecstasy. Before us stretched the

firmament, red, pink, violet, spotted with fiery clouds resembling

golden vapor. The river was glowing with purple and three houses on one

side of it seemed to be burning.

I bent toward my companion. I was going to say, “Oh! look!” But I held

my tongue, quite dazed, and I could no longer see anything except her.

She, too, was rosy, with rosy flesh tints with a deeper tinge that was

partly a reflection of the hue of the sky. Her tresses were rosy; her

eyes were rosy; her teeth were rosy; her dress, her laces, her smile,

all were rosy. And in truth I believed, so overpowering was the

illusion, that the dawn was there in the flesh before me.

She rose softly to her feet, holding out her lips to me; and I moved

toward her, trembling, delirious feeling indeed that I was going to kiss

Heaven, to kiss happiness, to kiss a dream that had become a woman, to

kiss the ideal which had descended into human flesh.

She said to me: “You have a caterpillar in your hair.” And, suddenly, I

felt as sad as if I had lost all hope in life.

That is all, madame. It is puerile, silly, stupid. But I am sure that

since that day it would be impossible for me to love. And yet—who can

tell?

[The young man upon whom this letter was found was yesterday taken out

of the Seine between Bougival and Marly. An obliging bargeman, who had

searched the pockets in order to ascertain the name of the deceased,

brought this paper to the author.]

THE ORPHAN

Mademoiselle Source had adopted this boy under very sad circumstances.

She was at the time thirty-six years old. Being disfigured through

having as a child slipped off her nurse's lap into the fireplace and

burned her face shockingly, she had determined not to marry, for she did

not want any man to marry her for her money.

A neighbor of hers, left a widow just before her child was born, died in

giving birth, without leaving a sou. Mademoiselle Source took the new-

born child, put him out to nurse, reared him, sent him to a boarding-

school, then brought him home in his fourteenth year, in order to have

in her empty house somebody who would love her, who would look after

her, and make her old age pleasant.

She had a little country place four leagues from Rennes, and she now

dispensed with a servant; her expenses having increased to more than

double since this orphan's arrival, her income of three thousand francs

was no longer sufficient to support three persons.

She attended to the housekeeping and cooking herself, and sent out the

boy on errands, letting him also occupy himself in cultivating the

garden. He was gentle, timid, silent, and affectionate. And she

experienced a deep happiness, a fresh happiness when he kissed her

without surprise or horror at her disfigurement. He called her “Aunt,”

and treated her as a mother.

In the evening they both sat down at the fireside, and she made nice

little dainties for him. She heated some wine and toasted a slice of

bread, and it made a charming little meal before going to bed. She often

took him on her knees and covered him with kisses, murmuring tender

words in his ear. She called him: “My little flower, my cherub, my

adored angel, my divine jewel.” He softly accepted her caresses, hiding

his head on the old maid's shoulder. Although he was now nearly fifteen,

he had remained small and weak, and had a rather sickly appearance.

Sometimes Mademoiselle Source took him to the city, to see two married

female relatives of hers, distant cousins, who were living in the

suburbs, and who were the only members of her family in existence. The

two women had always found fault with her, for having adopted this boy,

on account of the inheritance; but for all that, they gave her a cordial

welcome, having still hopes of getting a share for themselves, a third,

no doubt, if what she possessed were only equally divided.

She was happy, very happy, always occupied with her adopted child. She

bought books for him to improve his mind, and he became passionately

fond of reading.

He no longer climbed on her knee to pet her as he had formerly done;

but, instead, would go and sit down in his little chair in the chimney-

corner and open a volume. The lamp placed at the edge of the Tittle

table above his head shone on his curly hair, and on a portion of his

forehead; he did not move, he did not raise his eyes or make any

gesture. He read on, interested, entirely absorbed in the story he was

reading.

Seated opposite to him, she would gaze at him earnestly, astonished at

his studiousness, often on the point of bursting into tears.

She said to him occasionally: “You will fatigue yourself, my treasure!”

hoping that he would raise his head, and come across to embrace her; but

he did not even answer her; he had not heard or understood what she was

saying; he paid no attention to anything save what he read in those

pages.

For two years he devoured an incalculable number of volumes. His

character changed.

After this, he asked Mademoiselle Source several times for money, which

she gave him. As he always wanted more, she ended by refusing, for she

was both methodical and decided, and knew how to act rationally when it

was necessary to do so. By dint of entreaties he obtained a large sum

from her one night; but when he begged her for more a few days later,

she showed herself inflexible, and did not give way to him further, in

fact.

He appeared to be satisfied with her decision.

He again became quiet, as he had formerly been, remaining seated for

entire hours, without moving, plunged in deep reverie. He now did not

even talk to Madame Source, merely answering her remarks with short,

formal words. Nevertheless, he was agreeable and attentive in his manner

toward her; but he never embraced her now.

She had by this time grown slightly afraid of him when they sat facing

one another at night on opposite sides of the fireplace. She wanted to

wake him up, to make him say something, no matter what, that would break

this dreadful silence, which was like the darkness of a wood. But he did

not appear to listen to her, and she shuddered with the terror of a poor

feeble woman when she had spoken to him five or six times successively

without being able to get a word out of him.

What was the matter with him? What was going on in that closed-up head?

When she had remained thus two or three hours opposite him, she felt as

if she were going insane, and longed to rush away and to escape into the

open country in order to avoid that mute, eternal companionship and also

some vague danger, which she could not define, but of which she had a

presentiment.

She frequently wept when she was alone. What was the matter with him?

When she expressed a wish, he unmurmuringly carried it into execution.

When she wanted anything brought from the city, he immediately went

there to procure it. She had no complaint to make of him; no, indeed!

And yet—

Another year flitted by, and it seemed to her that a fresh change had

taken place in the mind of the young man. She perceived it; she felt it;

she divined it. How? No matter! She was sure she was not mistaken; but

she could not have explained in what manner the unknown thoughts of this

strange youth had changed.

It seemed to her that, until now, he had been like a person in a

hesitating frame of mind, who had suddenly arrived at a determination.

This idea came to her one evening as she met his glance, a fixed,

singular glance which she had not seen in his face before.

Then he commenced to watch her incessantly, and she wished she could

hide herself in order to avoid that cold eye riveted on her.

He kept staring at her, evening after evening, for hours together, only

averting his eyes when she said, utterly unnerved:

“Do not look at me like that, my child!”

Then he would lower his head.

But the moment her back was turned she once more felt that his eyes were

upon her. Wherever she went, he pursued her with his persistent gaze.

Sometimes, when she was walking in her little garden, she suddenly

noticed him hidden behind a bush, as if he were lying in wait for her;

and, again, when she sat in front of the house mending stockings while

he was digging some vegetable bed, he kept continually watching her in a

surreptitious manner, as he worked.

It was in vain that she asked him:

“What's the matter with you, my boy? For the last three years, you have

become very different. I don't recognize you. Do tell me what ails you,

and what you are thinking of.”

He invariably replied, in a quiet, weary tone:

“Why, nothing ails me, aunt!”

And when she persisted:

“Ah! my child, answer me, answer me when I speak to you. If you knew

what grief you caused me, you would always answer, and you would not

look at me that way. Have you any trouble? Tell me! I'll comfort you!”

He went away, with a tired air, murmuring:

“But there is nothing the matter with me, I assure you.”

He had not grown much, having always a childish look, although his

features were those of a man. They were, however, hard and badly cut. He

seemed incomplete, abortive, only half finished, and disquieting as a

mystery. He was a self-contained, unapproachable being, in whom there

seemed always to be some active, dangerous mental labor going on.

Mademoiselle Source was quite conscious of all this, and she could not

sleep at night, so great was her anxiety. Frightful terrors, dreadful

nightmares assailed her. She shut herself up in her own room, and

barricaded the door, tortured by fear.

What was she afraid of? She could not tell.

She feared everything, the night, the walls, the shadows thrown by the

moon on the white curtains of the windows, and, above all, she feared

him.

Why?

What had she to fear? Did she know what it was?

She could live this way no longer! She felt certain that a misfortune

threatened her, a frightful misfortune.

She set forth secretly one morning, and went into the city to see her

relatives. She told them about the matter in a gasping voice. The two

women thought she was going mad and tried to reassure her.

She said:

“If you knew the way he looks at me from morning till night. He never

takes his eyes off me! At times, I feel a longing to cry for help, to

call in the neighbors, so much am I afraid. But what could I say to

them? He does nothing but look at me.”

The two female cousins asked:

“Is he ever brutal to you? Does he give you sharp answers?”

She replied:

“No, never; he does everything I wish; he works hard: he is steady; but

I am so frightened that I care nothing for that. He is planning

something, I am certain of that—quite certain. I don't care to remain

all alone like that with him in the country.”

The relatives, astonished at her words, declared that people would be

amazed, would not understand; and they advised her to keep silent about

her fears and her plans, without, however, dissuading her from coming to

reside in the city, hoping in that way that the entire inheritance would

eventually fall into their hands.

They even promised to assist her in selling her house, and in finding

another, near them.

Mademoiselle Source returned home. But her mind was so much upset that

she trembled at the slightest noise, and her hands shook whenever any

trifling disturbance agitated her.

Twice she went again to consult her relatives, quite determined now not

to remain any longer in this way in her lonely dwelling. At last, she

found a little cottage in the suburbs, which suited her, and she

privately bought it.

The signature of the contract took place on a Tuesday morning, and

Mademoiselle Source devoted the rest of the day to the preparations for

her change of residence.

At eight o'clock in the evening she got into the diligence which passed

within a few hundred yards of her house, and she told the conductor to

put her down in the place where she usually alighted. The man called out

to her as he whipped his horses:

“Good evening, Mademoiselle Source—good night!”

She replied as she walked on:

“Good evening, Pere Joseph.” Next morning, at half-past seven, the

postman who conveyed letters to the village noticed at the cross-road,

not far from the high road, a large splash of blood not yet dry. He said

to himself: “Hallo! some boozer must have had a nose bleed.”

But he perceived ten paces farther on a pocket handkerchief also stained

with blood. He picked it up. The linen was fine, and the postman, in

alarm, made his way over to the ditch, where he fancied he saw a strange

object.

Mademoiselle Source was lying at the bottom on the grass, her throat cut

with a knife.

An hour later, the gendarmes, the examining magistrate, and other

authorities made an inquiry as to the cause of death.

The two female relatives, called as witnesses, told all about the old

maid's fears and her last plans.

The orphan was arrested. After the death of the woman who had adopted

him, he wept from morning till night, plunged, at least to all

appearance, in the most violent grief.

He proved that he had spent the evening up to eleven o'clock in a cafe.

Ten persons had seen him, having remained there till his departure.

The driver of the diligence stated that he had set down the murdered

woman on the road between half-past nine and ten o'clock.

The accused was acquitted. A will, drawn up a long time before, which

had been left in the hands of a notary in Rennes, made him sole heir. So

he inherited everything.

For a long time, the people of the country boycotted him, as they still

suspected him. His house, that of the dead woman, was looked upon as

accursed. People avoided him in the street.

But he showed himself so good-natured, so open, so familiar, that

gradually these horrible doubts were forgotten. He was generous,

obliging, ready to talk to the humblest about anything, as long as they

cared to talk to him.

The notary, Maitre Rameau, was one of the first to take his part,

attracted by his smiling loquacity. He said at a dinner, at the tax

collector's house:

“A man who speaks with such facility and who is always in good humor

could not have such a crime on his conscience.”

Touched by his argument, the others who were present reflected, and they

recalled to mind the long conversations with this man who would almost

compel them to stop at the road corners to listen to his ideas, who

insisted on their going into his house when they were passing by his

garden, who could crack a joke better than the lieutenant of the

gendarmes himself, and who possessed such contagious gaiety that, in

spite of the repugnance with which he inspired them, they could not keep

from always laughing in his company.

All doors were opened to him after a time.

He is to-day the mayor of his township.

THE BEGGAR He had seen better days, despite his present misery and

infirmities.

At the age of fifteen both his legs had been crushed by a carriage on

the Varville highway. From that time forth he begged, dragging himself

along the roads and through the farmyards, supported by crutches which

forced his shoulders up to his ears. His head looked as if it were

squeezed in between two mountains.

A foundling, picked up out of a ditch by the priest of Les Billettes on

the eve of All Saints' Day and baptized, for that reason, Nicholas

Toussaint, reared by charity, utterly without education, crippled in

consequence of having drunk several glasses of brandy given him by the

baker (such a funny story!) and a vagabond all his life afterward—the

only thing he knew how to do was to hold out his hand for alms.

At one time the Baroness d'Avary allowed him to sleep in a kind of

recess spread with straw, close to the poultry yard in the farm

adjoining the chateau, and if he was in great need he was sure of

getting a glass of cider and a crust of bread in the kitchen. Moreover,

the old lady often threw him a few pennies from her window. But she was

dead now.

In the villages people gave him scarcely anything—he was too well known.

Everybody had grown tired of seeing him, day after day for forty years,

dragging his deformed and tattered person from door to door on his

wooden crutches. But he could not make up his mind to go elsewhere,

because he knew no place on earth but this particular corner of the

country, these three or four villages where he had spent the whole of

his miserable existence. He had limited his begging operations and would

not for worlds have passed his accustomed bounds.

He did not even know whether the world extended for any distance beyond

the trees which had always bounded his vision. He did not ask himself

the question. And when the peasants, tired of constantly meeting him in

their fields or along their lanes, exclaimed: “Why don't you go to other

villages instead of always limping about here?” he did not answer, but

slunk away, possessed with a vague dread of the unknown—the dread of a

poor wretch who fears confusedly a thousand things—new faces, taunts,

insults, the suspicious glances of people who do not know him and the

policemen walking in couples on the roads. These last he always

instinctively avoided, taking refuge in the bushes or behind heaps of

stones when he saw them coming.

When he perceived them in the distance, 'With uniforms gleaming in the

sun, he was suddenly possessed with unwonted agility—the agility of a

wild animal seeking its lair. He threw aside his crutches, fell to the

ground like a limp rag, made himself as small as possible and crouched

like a hare under cover, his tattered vestments blending in hue with the

earth on which he cowered.

He had never had any trouble with the police, but the instinct to avoid

them was in his blood. He seemed to have inherited it from the parents

he had never known.

He had no refuge, no roof for his head, no shelter of any kind. In

summer he slept out of doors and in winter he showed remarkable skill in

slipping unperceived into barns and stables. He always decamped before

his presence could be discovered. He knew all the holes through which

one could creep into farm buildings, and the handling of his crutches

having made his arms surprisingly muscular he often hauled himself up

through sheer strength of wrist into hay-lofts, where he sometimes

remained for four or five days at a time, provided he had collected a

sufficient store of food beforehand.

He lived like the beasts of the field. He was in the midst of men, yet

knew no one, loved no one, exciting in the breasts of the peasants only

a sort of careless contempt and smoldering hostility. They nicknamed him

“Bell,” because he hung between his two crutches like a church bell

between its supports.

For two days he had eaten nothing. No one gave him anything now. Every

one's patience was exhausted. Women shouted to him from their doorsteps

when they saw him coming:

“Be off with you, you good-for-nothing vagabond! Why, I gave you a piece

of bread only three days ago!”

And he turned on his crutches to the next house, where he was received

in the same fashion.

The women declared to one another as they stood at their doors:

“We can't feed that lazy brute all the year round!”

And yet the “lazy brute” needed food every day.

He had exhausted Saint-Hilaire, Varville and Les Billettes without

getting a single copper or so much as a dry crust. His only hope was in

Tournolles, but to reach this place he would have to walk five miles

along the highroad, and he felt so weary that he could hardly drag

himself another yard. His stomach and his pocket were equally empty, but

he started on his way.

It was December and a cold wind blew over the fields and whistled

through the bare branches of the trees; the clouds careered madly across

the black, threatening sky. The cripple dragged himself slowly along,

raising one crutch after the other with a painful effort, propping

himself on the one distorted leg which remained to him.

Now and then he sat down beside a ditch for a few moments' rest. Hunger

was gnawing his vitals, and in his confused, slow-working mind he had

only one idea-to eat-but how this was to be accomplished he did not

know. For three hours he continued his painful journey. Then at last the

sight of the trees of the village inspired him with new energy.

The first peasant he met, and of whom he asked alms, replied:

“So it's you again, is it, you old scamp? Shall I never be rid of you?”

And “Bell” went on his way. At every door he got nothing but hard words.

He made the round of the whole village, but received not a halfpenny for

his pains.

Then he visited the neighboring farms, toiling through the muddy land,

so exhausted that he could hardly raise his crutches from the ground. He

met with the same reception everywhere. It was one of those cold, bleak

days, when the heart is frozen and the temper irritable, and hands do

not open either to give money or food.

When he had visited all the houses he knew, “Bell” sank down in the

corner of a ditch running across Chiquet's farmyard. Letting his

crutches slip to the ground, he remained motionless, tortured by hunger,

but hardly intelligent enough to realize to the full his unutterable

misery.

He awaited he knew not what, possessed with that vague hope which

persists in the human heart in spite of everything. He awaited in the

corner of the farmyard in the biting December wind, some mysterious aid

from Heaven or from men, without the least idea whence it was to arrive.

A number of black hens ran hither and thither, seeking their food in the

earth which supports all living things. Ever now and then they snapped

up in their beaks a grain of corn or a tiny insect; then they continued

their slow, sure search for nutriment.

“Bell” watched them at first without thinking of anything. Then a

thought occurred rather to his stomach than to his mind—the thought that

one of those fowls would be good to eat if it were cooked over a fire of

dead wood.

He did not reflect that he was going to commit a theft. He took up a

stone which lay within reach, and, being of skillful aim, killed at the

first shot the fowl nearest to him. The bird fell on its side, flapping

its wings. The others fled wildly hither and thither, and “Bell,”

picking up his crutches, limped across to where his victim lay.

Just as he reached the little black body with its crimsoned head he

received a violent blow in his back which made him let go his hold of

his crutches and sent him flying ten paces distant. And Farmer Chiquet,

beside himself with rage, cuffed and kicked the marauder with all the

fury of a plundered peasant as “Bell” lay defenceless before him.

The farm hands came up also and joined their master in cuffing the lame

beggar. Then when they were tired of beating him they carried him off

and shut him up in the woodshed, while they went to fetch the police.

“Bell,” half dead, bleeding and perishing with hunger, lay on the floor.

Evening came—then night—then dawn. And still he had not eaten.

About midday the police arrived. They opened the door of the woodshed

with the utmost precaution, fearing resistance on the beggar's part, for

Farmer Chiquet asserted that he had been attacked by him and had had

great, difficulty in defending himself.

The sergeant cried:

“Come, get up!”

But “Bell” could not move. He did his best to raise himself on his

crutches, but without success. The police, thinking his weakness

feigned, pulled him up by main force and set him between the crutches.

Fear seized him—his native fear of a uniform, the fear of the game in

presence of the sportsman, the fear of a mouse for a cat-and by the

exercise of almost superhuman effort he succeeded in remaining upright.

“Forward!” said the sergeant. He walked. All the inmates of the farm

watched his departure. The women shook their fists at him the men

scoffed at and insulted him. He was taken at last! Good riddance! He

went off between his two guards. He mustered sufficient energy—the

energy of despair—to drag himself along until the evening, too dazed to

know what was happening to him, too frightened to understand.

People whom he met on the road stopped to watch him go by and peasants

muttered:

“It's some thief or other.”

Toward evening he reached the country town. He had never been so far

before. He did not realize in the least what he was there for or what

was to become of him. All the terrible and unexpected events of the last

two days, all these unfamiliar faces and houses struck dismay into his

heart.

He said not a word, having nothing to say because he understood nothing.

Besides, he had spoken to no one for so many years past that he had

almost lost the use of his tongue, and his thoughts were too

indeterminate to be put into words.

He was shut up in the town jail. It did not occur to the police that he

might need food, and he was left alone until the following day. But when

in the early morning they came to examine him he was found dead on the

floor. Such an astonishing thing!

THE RABBIT

Old Lecacheur appeared at the door of his house between five and a

quarter past five in the morning, his usual hour, to watch his men going

to work.

He was only half awake, his face was red, and with his right eye open

and the left nearly closed, he was buttoning his braces over his fat

stomach with some difficulty, at the same time looking into every corner

of the farmyard with a searching glance. The sun darted its oblique rays

through the beech trees by the side of the ditch and athwart the apple

trees outside, and was making the cocks crow on the dunghill, and the

pigeons coo on the roof. The smell of the cow stable came through the

open door, and blended in the fresh morning air with the pungent odor of

the stable, where the horses were neighing, with their heads turned

toward the light.

As soon as his trousers were properly fastened, Lecacheur came out, and

went, first of all, toward the hen house to count the morning's eggs,

for he had been afraid of thefts for some time; but the servant girl ran

up to him with lifted arms and cried:

“Master! master! they have stolen a rabbit during the night.”

“A rabbit?”

“Yes, master, the big gray rabbit, from the hutch on the left”;

whereupon the farmer completely opened his left eye, and said, simply:

“I must see about that.”

And off he went to inspect it. The hutch had been broken open and the

rabbit was gone. Then he became thoughtful, closed his right eye again,

and scratched his nose, and after a little consideration, he said to the

frightened girl, who was standing stupidly before her master:

“Go and fetch the gendarmes; say I expect them as soon as possible.”

Lecacheur was mayor of the village, Pavigny-le-Gras, and ruled it like a

master, on account of his money and position, and as soon as the servant

had disappeared in the direction of the village, which was only about

five hundred yards off, he went into the house to have his morning

coffee and to discuss the matter with his wife, whom he found on her

knees in front of the fire, trying to make it burn quickly, and as soon

as he got to the door, he said:

“Somebody has stolen the gray rabbit.”

She turned round so suddenly that she found herself sitting on the

floor, and looking at her husband with distressed eyes, she said:

“What is it, Cacheux? Somebody has stolen a rabbit?”

“The big gray one.”

She sighed.

“What a shame! Who can have done it?”

She was a little, thin, active, neat woman, who knew all about farming.

Lecacheur had his own ideas about the matter.

“It must be that fellow, Polyte.”

His wife got up suddenly and said in a furious voice:

“He did it! he did it! You need not look for any one else. He did it!

You have said it, Cacheux!”

All her peasant's fury, all her avarice, all her rage of a saving woman

against the man of whom she had always been suspicious, and against the

girl whom she had always suspected, showed themselves in the contraction

of her mouth, and the wrinkles in the cheeks and forehead of her thin,

exasperated face.

“And what have you done?” she asked.

“I have sent for the gendarmes.”

This Polyte was a laborer, who had been employed on the farm for a few

days, and who had been dismissed by Lecacheur for an insolent answer. He

was an old soldier, and was supposed to have retained his habits of

marauding and debauchery from his campaigns in Africa. He did anything

for a livelihood, but whether he were a mason, a navvy, a reaper,

whether he broke stones or lopped trees, he was always lazy, and so he

remained nowhere for long, and had, at times, to change his neighborhood

to obtain work.

From the first day that he came to the farm, Lecacheur's wife had

detested him, and now she was sure that he had committed the theft.

In about half an hour the two gendarmes arrived. Brigadier Senateur was

very tall and thin, and Gendarme Lenient short and fat. Lecacheur made

them sit down, and told them the affair, and then they went and saw the

scene of the theft, in order to verify the fact that the hutch had been

broken open, and to collect all the proofs they could. When they got

back to the kitchen, the mistress brought in some wine, filled their

glasses, and asked with a distrustful look:

“Shall you catch him?”

The brigadier, who had his sword between his legs, appeared thoughtful.

Certainly, he was sure of taking him, if he was pointed out to him, but

if not, he could not answer for being able to discover him, himself, and

after reflecting for a long time, he put this simple question:

“Do you know the thief?”

And Lecacheur replied, with a look of Normandy slyness in his eyes:

“As for knowing him, I do not, as I did not see him commit the theft. If

I had seen him, I should have made him eat it raw, skin and flesh,

without a drop of cider to wash it down. But as for saying who it is, I

cannot, although I believe it is that good-for-nothing Polyte.”

Then he related at length his troubles with Polyte, his leaving his

service, his bad reputation, things which had been told him,

accumulating insignificant and minute proofs, and then, the brigadier,

who had been listening very attentively while he emptied his glass and

filled it again with an indifferent air, turned to his gendarme and

said:

“We must go and look in the cottage of Severin's wife.” At which the

gendarme smiled and nodded three times.

Then Madame Lecacheur came to them, and very quietly, with all a

peasant's cunning, questioned the brigadier in her turn. That shepherd

Severin, a simpleton, a sort of brute who had been brought up and had

grown up among his bleating flocks, and who knew scarcely anything

besides them in the world, had nevertheless preserved the peasant's

instinct for saving, at the bottom of his heart. For years and years he

must have hidden in hollow trees and crevices in the rocks all that he

earned, either as a shepherd or by curing animals' sprains—for the

bonesetter's secret had been handed down to him by the old shepherd

whose place he took-by touch or word, and one day he bought a small

property, consisting of a cottage and a field, for three thousand

francs.

A few months later it became known that he was going to marry a servant,

notorious for her bad morals, the innkeeper's servant. The young fellows

said that the girl, knowing that he was pretty well off, had been to his

cottage every night, and had taken him, captured him, led him on to

matrimony, little by little night by night.

And then, having been to the mayor's office and to church, she now lived

in the house which her man had bought, while he continued to tend his

flocks, day and night, on the plains.

And the brigadier added:

“Polyte has been sleeping there for three weeks, for the thief has no

place of his own to go to!”

The gendarme made a little joke:

“He takes the shepherd's blankets.”

Madame Lecacheur, who was seized by a fresh access of rage, of rage

increased by a married woman's anger against debauchery, exclaimed:

“It is she, I am sure. Go there. Ah, the blackguard thieves!”

But the brigadier was quite unmoved.

“One minute,” he said. “Let us wait until twelve o'clock, as he goes and

dines there every day. I shall catch them with it under their noses.”

The gendarme smiled, pleased at his chief's idea, and Lecacheur also

smiled now, for the affair of the shepherd struck him as very funny;

deceived husbands are always a joke.

Twelve o'clock had just struck when the brigadier, followed by his man,

knocked gently three times at the door of a little lonely house,

situated at the corner of a wood, five hundred yards from the village.

They had been standing close against the wall, so as not to be seen from

within, and they waited. As nobody answered, the brigadier knocked again

in a minute or two. It was so quiet that the house seemed uninhabited;

but Lenient, the gendarme, who had very quick ears, said that he heard

somebody moving about inside, and then Senateur got angry. He would not

allow any one to resist the authority of the law for a moment, and,

knocking at the door with the hilt of his sword, he cried out:

“Open the door, in the name of the law.”

As this order had no effect, he roared out:

“If you do not obey, I shall smash the lock. I am the brigadier of the

gendarmerie, by G—! Here, Lenient.”

He had not finished speaking when the door opened and Senateur saw

before him a fat girl, with a very red, blowzy face, with drooping

breasts, a big stomach and broad hips, a sort of animal, the wife of the

shepherd Severin, and he went into the cottage.

“I have come to pay you a visit, as I want to make a little search,” he

said, and he looked about him. On the table there was a plate, a jug of

cider and a glass half full, which proved that a meal was in progress.

Two knives were lying side by side, and the shrewd gendarme winked at

his superior officer.

“It smells good,” the latter said.

“One might swear that it was stewed rabbit,” Lenient added, much amused.

“Will you have a glass of brandy?” the peasant woman asked.

“No, thank you; I only want the skin of the rabbit that you are eating.”

She pretended not to understand, but she was trembling.

“What rabbit?”

The brigadier had taken a seat, and was calmly wiping his forehead.

“Come, come, you are not going to try and make us believe that you live

on couch grass. What were you eating there all by yourself for your

dinner?”

“I? Nothing whatever, I swear to you. A mite of butter on my bread.”

“You are a novice, my good woman. A mite of butter on your bread. You

are mistaken; you ought to have said: a mite of butter on the rabbit. By

G—, your butter smells good! It is special butter, extra good butter,

butter fit for a wedding; certainly, not household butter!”

The gendarme was shaking with laughter, and repeated:

“Not household butter certainly.”

As Brigadier Senateur was a joker, all the gendarmes had grown

facetious, and the officer continued:

“Where is your butter?”

“My butter?”

“Yes, your butter.”

“In the jar.”

“Then where is the butter jar?”

“Here it is.”

She brought out an old cup, at the bottom of which there was a layer of

rancid salt butter, and the brigadier smelled of it, and said, with a

shake of his head:

“It is not the same. I want the butter that smells of the rabbit. Come,

Lenient, open your eyes; look under the sideboard, my good fellow, and I

will look under the bed.”

Having shut the door, he went up to the bed and tried to move it; but it

was fixed to the wall, and had not been moved for more than half a

century, apparently. Then the brigadier stooped, and made his uniform

crack. A button had flown off.

“Lenient,” he said.

“Yes, brigadier?”

“Come here, my lad, and look under the bed; I am too tall. I will look

after the sideboard.”

He got up and waited while his man executed his orders.

Lenient, who was short and stout, took off his kepi, laid himself on his

stomach, and, putting his face on the floor, looked at the black cavity

under the bed, and then, suddenly, he exclaimed:

“All right, here we are!”

“What have you got? The rabbit?”

“No, the thief.”

“The thief! Pull him out, pull him out!”

The gendarme had put his arms under the bed and laid hold of something,

and he was pulling with all his might, and at last a foot, shod in a

thick boot, appeared, which he was holding in his right hand. The

brigadier took it, crying:

“Pull! Pull!”

And Lenient, who was on his knees by that time, was pulling at the other

leg. But it was a hard job, for the prisoner kicked out hard, and arched

up his back under the bed.

“Courage! courage! pull! pull!” Senateur cried, and they pulled him with

all their strength, so that the wooden slat gave way, and he came out as

far as his head; but at last they got that out also, and they saw the

terrified and furious face of Polyte, whose arms remained stretched out

under the bed.

“Pull away!” the brigadier kept on exclaiming. Then they heard a strange

noise, and as the arms followed the shoulders, and the hands the arms,

they saw in the hands the handle of a saucepan, and at the end of the

handle the saucepan itself, which contained stewed rabbit.

“Good Lord! good Lord!” the brigadier shouted in his delight, while

Lenient took charge of the man; the rabbit's skin, an overwhelming

proof, was discovered under the mattress, and then the gendarmes

returned in triumph to the village with their prisoner and their booty.

A week later, as the affair had made much stir, Lecacheur, on going into

the mairie to consult the schoolmaster, was told that the shepherd

Severin had been waiting for him for more than an hour, and he found him

sitting on a chair in a corner, with his stick between his legs. When he

saw the mayor, he got up, took off his cap, and said:

“Good-morning, Maitre Cacheux”; and then he remained standing, timid and

embarrassed.

“What do you want?” the former said.

“This is it, monsieur. Is it true that somebody stole one of your

rabbits last week?”

“Yes, it is quite true, Severin.”

“Who stole the rabbit?”

“Polyte Ancas, the laborer.”

“Right! right! And is it also true that it was found under my bed?”

“What do you mean, the rabbit?”

“The rabbit and then Polyte.”

“Yes, my poor Severin, quite true, but who told you?”

“Pretty well everybody. I understand! And I suppose you know all about

marriages, as you marry people?”

“What about marriage?”

“With regard to one's rights.”

“What rights?”

“The husband's rights and then the wife's rights.”

“Of course I do.”

“Oh! Then just tell me, M'sieu Cacheux, has my wife the right to go to

bed with Polyte?”

“What, to go to bed with Polyte?”

“Yes, has she any right before the law, and, seeing that she is my wife,

to go to bed with Polyte?”

“Why, of course not, of course not.”

“If I catch him there again, shall I have the right to thrash him and

her also?”

“Why—why—why, yes.”

“Very well, then; I will tell you why I want to know. One night last

week, as I had my suspicions, I came in suddenly, and they were not

behaving properly. I chucked Polyte out, to go and sleep somewhere else;

but that was all, as I did not know what my rights were. This time I did

not see them; I only heard of it from others. That is over, and we will

not say any more about it; but if I catch them again—by G—, if I catch

them again, I will make them lose all taste for such nonsense, Maitre

Cacheux, as sure as my name is Severin.”

HIS AVENGER

When M. Antoine Leuillet married the widow, Madame Mathilde Souris, he

had already been in love with her for ten years.

M. Souris has been his friend, his old college chum. Leuillet was very

much attached to him, but thought he was somewhat of a simpleton. He

would often remark: “That poor Souris who will never set the world on

fire.”

When Souris married Miss Mathilde Duval, Leuillet was astonished and

somewhat annoyed, as he was slightly devoted to her, himself. She was

the daughter of a neighbor, a former proprietor of a draper's

establishment who had retired with quite a small fortune. She married

Souris for his money.

Then Leuillet thought he would start a flirtation with his friend's

wife. He was a good-looking man, intelligent and also rich. He thought

it would be all plain sailing, but he was mistaken. Then he really began

to admire her with an admiration that his friendship for the husband

obliged him to keep within the bounds of discretion, making him timid

and embarrassed. Madame Souris believing that his presumptions had

received a wholesome check now treated him as a good friend. This went

on for nine years.

One morning a messenger brought Leuillet a distracted note from the poor

woman. Souris had just died suddenly from the rupture of an aneurism. He

was dreadfully shocked, for they were just the same age. But almost

immediately a feeling of profound joy, of intense relief, of

emancipation filled his being. Madame Souris was free.

He managed, however, to assume the sad, sympathetic expression that was

appropriate, waited the required time, observed all social appearances.

At the end of fifteen months he married the widow.

This was considered to be a very natural, and even a generous action. It

was the act of a good friend of an upright man.

He was happy at last, perfectly happy.

They lived in the most cordial intimacy, having understood and

appreciated each other from the first. They had no secrets from one

another and even confided to each other their most secret thoughts.

Leuillet loved his wife now with a quiet and trustful affection; he

loved her as a tender, devoted companion who is an equal and a

confidante. But there lingered in his mind a strange and inexplicable

bitterness towards the defunct Souris, who had first been the husband of

this woman, who had had the flower of her youth and of her soul, and had

even robbed her of some of her poetry. The memory of the dead husband

marred the happiness of the living husband, and this posthumous jealousy

tormented his heart by day and by night.

The consequence was he talked incessantly of Souris, asked about a

thousand personal and secret minutia, wanted to know all about his

habits and his person. And he sneered at him even in his grave,

recalling with self-satisfaction his whims, ridiculing his absurdities,

dwelling on his faults.

He would call to his wife all over the house:

“Hallo, Mathilde!”

“Here I am, dear.”

“Come here a moment.”

She would come, always smiling, knowing well that he would say something

about Souris and ready to flatter her new husband's inoffensive mania.

“Tell me, do you remember one day how Souris insisted on explaining to

me that little men always commanded more affection than big men?”

And he made some remarks that were disparaging to the deceased, who was

a small man, and decidedly flattering to himself, Leuillet, who was a

tall man.

Mme. Leuillet allowed him to think he was right, quite right, and she

laughed heartily, gently ridiculing her former husband for the sake of

pleasing the present one, who always ended by saying:

“All the same, what a ninny that Souris was!”

They were happy, quite happy, and Leuillet never ceased to show his

devotion to his wife.

One night, however, as they lay awake, Leuillet said as he kissed his

wife:

“See here, dearie.”

“Well?”

“Was Souris—I don't exactly know how to say it—was Souris very loving?”

She gave him a kiss for reply and murmured “Not as loving as you are,

mon chat.”

He was flattered in his self-love and continued:

“He must have been—a ninny—was he not?”

She did not reply. She only smiled slyly and hid her face in her

husband's neck.

“He must have been a ninny and not—not—not smart?”

She shook her head slightly to imply, “No—not at all smart.”

He continued:

“He must have been an awful nuisance, eh?”

This time she was frank and replied:

“Oh yes!”

He kissed her again for this avowal and said:

“What a brute he was! You were not happy with him?”

“No,” she replied. “It was not always pleasant.”

Leuillet was delighted, forming in his mind a comparison, much in his

own favor, between his wife's former and present position. He was silent

for a time, and then with a burst of laughter he asked:

“Tell me?”

“What?”

“Will you be frank, very frank with me?”

“Why yes, my dear.”

“Well then, tell me truly did you never feel tempted to—to—to deceive

that imbecile Souris?”

Mme. Leuillet said: “Oh!” pretending to be shocked and hid her face

again on her husband's shoulder. But he saw that she was laughing.

“Come now, own up,” he persisted. “He looked like a ninny, that

creature! It would be funny, so funny! Good old Souris! Come, come,

dearie, you do not mind telling me, me, of all people.”

He insisted on the “me” thinking that if she had wished to deceive

Souris she would have chosen him, and he was trembling in anticipation

of her avowal, sure that if she had not been a virtuous woman she would

have encouraged his own attentions.

But she did not answer, laughing still, as at the recollection of

something exceedingly comical.

Leuillet, in his turn began to laugh, thinking he might have been the

lucky man, and he muttered amid his mirth: “That poor Souris, that poor

Souris, oh, yes, he looked like a fool!”

Mme. Leuillet was almost in spasms of laughter.

“Come, confess, be frank. You know I will not mind.”

Then she stammered out, almost choking with laughter: “Yes, yes.”

“Yes, what?” insisted her husband. “Come, tell all.”

She was quieter now and putting her mouth to her husband's ear, she

whispered: “Yes, I did deceive him.”

He felt a chill run down his back and to his very bones, and he

stammered out, dumfounded: “You—you—deceived him—criminally?”

She still thought he was amused and replied: “Yes—yes, absolutely.”

He was obliged to sit up to recover his breath, he was so shocked and

upset at what he had heard.

She had become serious, understanding too late what she had done.

“With whom?” said Leuillet at length.

She was silent seeking some excuse.

“A young man,” she replied at length.

He turned suddenly toward her and said drily:

“I did not suppose it was the cook. I want to know what young man, do

you hear?”

She did not answer.

He snatched the covers from her face, repeating:

“I want to know what young man, do you hear?”

Then she said sorrowfully: “I was only in fun.” But he was trembling

with rage. “What? How? You were only in fun? You were making fun of me,

then? But I am not satisfied, do you hear? I want the name of the young

man!”

She did not reply, but lay there motionless.

He took her by the arm and squeezed it, saying: “Do you understand me,

finally? I wish you to reply when I speak to you.”

“I think you are going crazy,” she said nervously, “let me alone!”

He was wild with rage, not knowing what to say, exasperated, and he

shook her with all his might, repeating:

“Do you hear me, do you hear me?”

She made an abrupt effort to disengage herself and the tips of her

fingers touched her husband's nose. He was furious, thinking she had

tried to hit him, and he sprang upon her holding her down; and boxing

her ears with all his might, he cried: “Take that, and that, there,

there, wretch!”

When he was out of breath and exhausted, he rose and went toward the

dressing table to prepare a glass of eau sucree with orange flower, for

he felt as if he should faint.

She was weeping in bed, sobbing bitterly, for she felt as if her

happiness was over, through her own fault.

Then, amidst her tears, she stammered out:

“Listen, Antoine, come here, I told you a lie, you will understand,

listen.”

And prepared to defend herself now, armed with excuses and artifice, she

raised her disheveled head with its nightcap all awry.

Turning toward her, he approached, ashamed of having struck her, but

feeling in the bottom of his heart as a husband, a relentless hatred

toward this woman who had deceived the former husband, Souris.

MY UNCLE JULES

A white-haired old man begged us for alms. My companion, Joseph

Davranche, gave him five francs. Noticing my surprised look, he said:

“That poor unfortunate reminds me of a story which I shall tell you, the

memory of which continually pursues me. Here it is:

“My family, which came originally from Havre, was not rich. We just

managed to make both ends meet. My father worked hard, came home late

from the office, and earned very little. I had two sisters.

“My mother suffered a good deal from our reduced circumstances, and she

often had harsh words for her husband, veiled and sly reproaches. The

poor man then made a gesture which used to distress me. He would pass

his open hand over his forehead, as if to wipe away perspiration which

did not exist, and he would answer nothing. I felt his helpless

suffering. We economized on everything, and never would accept an

invitation to dinner, so as not to have to return the courtesy. All our

provisions were bought at bargain sales. My sisters made their own

gowns, and long discussions would arise on the price of a piece of braid

worth fifteen centimes a yard. Our meals usually consisted of soup and

beef, prepared with every kind of sauce.

“They say it is wholesome and nourishing, but I should have preferred a

change.

“I used to go through terrible scenes on account of lost buttons and

torn trousers.

“Every Sunday, dressed in our best, we would take our walk along the

breakwater. My father, in a frock coat, high hat and kid gloves, would

offer his arm to my mother, decked out and beribboned like a ship on a

holiday. My sisters, who were always ready first, would await the signal

for leaving; but at the last minute some one always found a spot on my

father's frock coat, and it had to be wiped away quickly with a rag

moistened with benzine.

“My father, in his shirt sleeves, his silk hat on his head, would await

the completion of the operation, while my mother, putting on her

spectacles, and taking off her gloves in order not to spoil them, would

make haste.

“Then we set out ceremoniously. My sisters marched on ahead, arm in arm.

They were of marriageable age and had to be displayed. I walked on the

left of my mother and my father on her right. I remember the pompous air

of my poor parents in these Sunday walks, their stern expression, their

stiff walk. They moved slowly, with a serious expression, their bodies

straight, their legs stiff, as if something of extreme importance

depended upon their appearance.

“Every Sunday, when the big steamers were returning from unknown and

distant countries, my father would invariably utter the same words:

“'What a surprise it would be if Jules were on that one! Eh?'

“My Uncle Jules, my father's brother, was the only hope of the family,

after being its only fear. I had heard about him since childhood, and it

seemed to me that I should recognize him immediately, knowing as much

about him as I did. I knew every detail of his life up to the day of his

departure for America, although this period of his life was spoken of

only in hushed tones.

“It seems that he had led a bad life, that is to say, he had squandered

a little money, which action, in a poor family, is one of the greatest

crimes. With rich people a man who amuses himself only sows his wild

oats. He is what is generally called a sport. But among needy families a

boy who forces his parents to break into the capital becomes a good-for-

nothing, a rascal, a scamp. And this distinction is just, although the

action be the same, for consequences alone determine the seriousness of

the act.

“Well, Uncle Jules had visibly diminished the inheritance on which my

father had counted, after he had swallowed his own to the last penny.

Then, according to the custom of the times, he had been shipped off to

America on a freighter going from Havre to New York.

“Once there, my uncle began to sell something or other, and he soon

wrote that he was making a little money and that he soon hoped to be

able to indemnify my father for the harm he had done him. This letter

caused a profound emotion in the family. Jules, who up to that time had

not been worth his salt, suddenly became a good man, a kind-hearted

fellow, true and honest like all the Davranches.

“One of the captains told us that he had rented a large shop and was

doing an important business.

“Two years later a second letter came, saying: 'My dear Philippe, I am

writing to tell you not to worry about my health, which is excellent.

Business is good. I leave to-morrow for a long trip to South America. I

may be away for several years without sending you any news. If I

shouldn't write, don't worry. When my fortune is made I shall return to

Havre. I hope that it will not be too long and that we shall all live

happily together . . . .'

“This letter became the gospel of the family. It was read on the

slightest provocation, and it was shown to everybody.

“For ten years nothing was heard from Uncle Jules; but as time went on

my father's hope grew, and my mother, also, often said:

“'When that good Jules is here, our position will be different. There is

one who knew how to get along!'

“And every Sunday, while watching the big steamers approaching from the

horizon, pouring out a stream of smoke, my father would repeat his

eternal question:

“'What a surprise it would be if Jules were on that one! Eh?'

“We almost expected to see him waving his handkerchief and crying:

“'Hey! Philippe!'

“Thousands of schemes had been planned on the strength of this expected

return; we were even to buy a little house with my uncle's money—a

little place in the country near Ingouville. In fact, I wouldn't swear

that my father had not already begun negotiations.

“The elder of my sisters was then twenty-eight, the other twenty-six.

They were not yet married, and that was a great grief to every one.

“At last a suitor presented himself for the younger one. He was a clerk,

not rich, but honorable. I have always been morally certain that Uncle

Jules' letter, which was shown him one evening, had swept away the young

man's hesitation and definitely decided him.

“He was accepted eagerly, and it was decided that after the wedding the

whole family should take a trip to Jersey.

“Jersey is the ideal trip for poor people. It is not far; one crosses a

strip of sea in a steamer and lands on foreign soil, as this little

island belongs to England. Thus, a Frenchman, with a two hours' sail,

can observe a neighboring people at home and study their customs.

“This trip to Jersey completely absorbed our ideas, was our sole

anticipation, the constant thought of our minds.

“At last we left. I see it as plainly as if it had happened yesterday.

The boat was getting up steam against the quay at Granville; my father,

bewildered, was superintending the loading of our three pieces of

baggage; my mother, nervous, had taken the arm of my unmarried sister,

who seemed lost since the departure of the other one, like the last

chicken of a brood; behind us came the bride and groom, who always

stayed behind, a thing that often made me turn round.

“The whistle sounded. We got on board, and the vessel, leaving the

breakwater, forged ahead through a sea as flat as a marble table. We

watched the coast disappear in the distance, happy and proud, like all

who do not travel much.

“My father was swelling out his chest in the breeze, beneath his frock

coat, which had that morning been very carefully cleaned; and he spread

around him that odor of benzine which always made me recognize Sunday.

Suddenly he noticed two elegantly dressed ladies to whom two gentlemen

were offering oysters. An old, ragged sailor was opening them with his

knife and passing them to the gentlemen, who would then offer them to

the ladies. They ate them in a dainty manner, holding the shell on a

fine handkerchief and advancing their mouths a little in order not to

spot their dresses. Then they would drink the liquid with a rapid little

motion and throw the shell overboard.

“My father was probably pleased with this delicate manner of eating

oysters on a moving ship. He considered it good form, refined, and,

going up to my mother and sisters, he asked:

“'Would you like me to offer you some oysters?'

“My mother hesitated on account of the expense, but my two sisters

immediately accepted. My mother said in a provoked manner:

“'I am afraid that they will hurt my stomach. Offer the children some,

but not too much, it would make them sick.' Then, turning toward me, she

added:

“'As for Joseph, he doesn't need any. Boys shouldn't be spoiled.'

“However, I remained beside my mother, finding this discrimination

unjust. I watched my father as he pompously conducted my two sisters and

his son-in-law toward the ragged old sailor.

“The two ladies had just left, and my father showed my sisters how to

eat them without spilling the liquor. He even tried to give them an

example, and seized an oyster. He attempted to imitate the ladies, and

immediately spilled all the liquid over his coat. I heard my mother

mutter:

“'He would do far better to keep quiet.'

“But, suddenly, my father appeared to be worried; he retreated a few

steps, stared at his family gathered around the old shell opener, and

quickly came toward us. He seemed very pale, with a peculiar look. In a

low voice he said to my mother:

“'It's extraordinary how that man opening the oysters looks like Jules.'

“Astonished, my mother asked:

“'What Jules?'

“My father continued:

“'Why, my brother. If I did not know that he was well off in America, I

should think it was he.'

“Bewildered, my mother stammered:

“'You are crazy! As long as you know that it is not he, why do you say

such foolish things?'

“But my father insisted:

“'Go on over and see, Clarisse! I would rather have you see with your

own eyes.'

“She arose and walked to her daughters. I, too, was watching the man. He

was old, dirty, wrinkled, and did not lift his eyes from his work.

“My mother returned. I noticed that she was trembling. She exclaimed

quickly:

“'I believe that it is he. Why don't you ask the captain? But be very

careful that we don't have this rogue on our hands again!'

“My father walked away, but I followed him. I felt strangely moved.

“The captain, a tall, thin man, with blond whiskers, was walking along

the bridge with an important air as if he were commanding the Indian

mail steamer.

“My father addressed him ceremoniously, and questioned him about his

profession, adding many compliments:

“'What might be the importance of Jersey? What did it produce? What was

the population? The customs? The nature of the soil?' etc., etc.

“'You have there an old shell opener who seems quite interesting. Do you

know anything about him?'

“The captain, whom this conversation began to weary, answered dryly:

“'He is some old French tramp whom I found last year in America, and I

brought him back. It seems that he has some relatives in Havre, but that

he doesn't wish to return to them because he owes them money. His name

is Jules—Jules Darmanche or Darvanche or something like that. It seems

that he was once rich over there, but you can see what's left of him

now.'

“My father turned ashy pale and muttered, his throat contracted, his

eyes haggard.

“'Ah! ah! very well, very well. I'm not in the least surprised. Thank

you very much, captain.'

“He went away, and the astonished sailor watched him disappear. He

returned to my mother so upset that she said to him:

“'Sit down; some one will notice that something is the matter.'

“He sank down on a bench and stammered:

“'It's he! It's he!'

“Then he asked:

“'What are we going to do?'

“She answered quickly:

“'We must get the children out of the way. Since Joseph knows

everything, he can go and get them. We must take good care that our son-

in-law doesn't find out.'

“My father seemed absolutely bewildered. He murmured:

“'What a catastrophe!'

“Suddenly growing furious, my mother exclaimed:

“'I always thought that that thief never would do anything, and that he

would drop down on us again! As if one could expect anything from a

Davranche!'

“My father passed his hand over his forehead, as he always did when his

wife reproached him. She added:

“'Give Joseph some money so that he can pay for the oysters. All that it

needed to cap the climax would be to be recognized by that beggar. That

would be very pleasant! Let's get down to the other end of the boat, and

take care that that man doesn't come near us!'

“They gave me five francs and walked away.

“Astonished, my sisters were awaiting their father. I said that mamma

had felt a sudden attack of sea-sickness, and I asked the shell opener:

“'How much do we owe you, monsieur?'

“I felt like laughing: he was my uncle! He answered:

“'Two francs fifty.'

“I held out my five francs and he returned the change. I looked at his

hand; it was a poor, wrinkled, sailor's hand, and I looked at his face,

an unhappy old face. I said to myself:

“'That is my uncle, the brother of my father, my uncle!'

“I gave him a ten-cent tip. He thanked me:

“'God bless you, my young sir!'

“He spoke like a poor man receiving alms. I couldn't help thinking that

he must have begged over there! My sisters looked at me, surprised at my

generosity. When I returned the two francs to my father, my mother asked

me in surprise:

“'Was there three francs' worth? That is impossible.'

“I answered in a firm voice

“'I gave ten cents as a tip.'

“My mother started, and, staring at me, she exclaimed:

“'You must be crazy! Give ten cents to that man, to that vagabond—'

“She stopped at a look from my father, who was pointing at his son-in-

law. Then everybody was silent.

“Before us, on the distant horizon, a purple shadow seemed to rise out

of the sea. It was Jersey.

“As we approached the breakwater a violent desire seized me once more to

see my Uncle Jules, to be near him, to say to him something consoling,

something tender. But as no one was eating any more oysters, he had

disappeared, having probably gone below to the dirty hold which was the

home of the poor wretch.”

THE MODEL

Curving like a crescent moon, the little town of Etretat, with its white

cliffs, its white, shingly beach and its blue sea, lay in the sunlight

at high noon one July day. At either extremity of this crescent its two

“gates,” the smaller to the right, the larger one at the left, stretched

forth—one a dwarf and the other a colossal limb—into the water, and the

bell tower, almost as tall as the cliff, wide below, narrowing at the

top, raised its pointed summit to the sky.

On the sands beside the water a crowd was seated watching the bathers.

On the terrace of, the Casino another crowd, seated or walking,

displayed beneath the brilliant sky a perfect flower patch of bright

costumes, with red and blue parasols embroidered with large flowers in

silk.

On the walk at the end of the terrace, other persons, the restful, quiet

ones, were walking slowly, far from the dressy throng.

A young man, well known and celebrated as a painter, Jean Sumner, was

walking with a dejected air beside a wheeled chair in which sat a young

woman, his wife. A manservant was gently pushing the chair, and the

crippled woman was gazing sadly at the brightness of the sky, the

gladness of the day, and the happiness of others.

They did not speak. They did not look at each other.

“Let us stop a while,” said the young woman.

They stopped, and the painter sat down on a camp stool that the servant

handed him.

Those who were passing behind the silent and motionless couple looked at

them compassionately. A whole legend of devotion was attached to them.

He had married her in spite of her infirmity, touched by her affection

for him, it was said.

Not far from there, two young men were chatting, seated on a bench and

looking out into the horizon.

“No, it is not true; I tell you that I am well acquainted with Jean

Sumner.”

“But then, why did he marry her? For she was a cripple when she married,

was she not?”

“Just so. He married her—he married her—just as every one marries,

parbleu! because he was an idiot!”

“But why?”

“But why—but why, my friend? There is no why. People do stupid things

just because they do stupid things. And, besides, you know very well

that painters make a specialty of foolish marriages. They almost always

marry models, former sweethearts, in fact, women of doubtful reputation,

frequently. Why do they do this? Who can say? One would suppose that

constant association with the general run of models would disgust them

forever with that class of women. Not at all. After having posed them

they marry them. Read that little book, so true, so cruel and so

beautiful, by Alphonse Daudet: 'Artists' Wives.'

“In the case of the couple you see over there the accident occurred in a

special and terrible manner. The little woman played a frightful comedy,

or, rather, tragedy. She risked all to win all. Was she sincere? Did she

love Jean? Shall we ever know? Who is able to determine precisely how

much is put on and how much is real in the actions of a woman? They are

always sincere in an eternal mobility of impressions. They are furious,

criminal, devoted, admirable and base in obedience to intangible

emotions. They tell lies incessantly without intention, without knowing

or understanding why, and in spite of it all are absolutely frank in

their feelings and sentiments, which they display by violent,

unexpected, incomprehensible, foolish resolutions which overthrow our

arguments, our customary poise and all our selfish plans. The

unforeseenness and suddenness of their determinations will always render

them undecipherable enigmas as far as we are concerned. We continually

ask ourselves:

“'Are they sincere? Are they pretending?'

“But, my friend, they are sincere and insincere at one and the same

time, because it is their nature to be extremists in both and to be

neither one nor the other.

“See the methods that even the best of them employ to get what they

desire. They are complex and simple, these methods. So complex that we

can never guess at them beforehand, and so simple that after having been

victimized we cannot help being astonished and exclaiming: 'What! Did

she make a fool of me so easily as that?'

“And they always succeed, old man, especially when it is a question of

getting married.

“But this is Sumner's story:

“The little woman was a model, of course. She posed for him. She was

pretty, very stylish-looking, and had a divine figure, it seems. He

fancied that he loved her with his whole soul. That is another strange

thing. As soon as one likes a woman one sincerely believes that they

could not get along without her for the rest of their life. One knows

that one has felt the same way before and that disgust invariably

succeeded gratification; that in order to pass one's existence side by

side with another there must be not a brutal, physical passion which

soon dies out, but a sympathy of soul, temperament and temper. One

should know how to determine in the enchantment to which one is

subjected whether it proceeds from the physical, from a certain sensuous

intoxication, or from a deep spiritual charm.

“Well, he believed himself in love; he made her no end of promises of

fidelity, and was devoted to her.

“She was really attractive, gifted with that fashionable flippancy that

little Parisians so readily affect. She chattered, babbled, made foolish

remarks that sounded witty from the manner in which they were uttered.

She used graceful gesture's which were calculated to attract a painter's

eye. When she raised her arms, when she bent over, when she got into a

carriage, when she held out her hand to you, her gestures were perfect

and appropriate.

“For three months Jean never noticed that, in reality, she was like all

other models.

“He rented a little house for her for the summer at Andresy.

“I was there one evening when for the first time doubts came into my

friend's mind.

“As it was a beautiful evening we thought we would take a stroll along

the bank of the river. The moon poured a flood of light on the trembling

water, scattering yellow gleams along its ripples in the currents and

all along the course of the wide, slow river.

“We strolled along the bank, a little enthused by that vague exaltation

that these dreamy evenings produce in us. We would have liked to

undertake some wonderful task, to love some unknown, deliciously poetic

being. We felt ourselves vibrating with raptures, longings, strange

aspirations. And we were silent, our beings pervaded by the serene and

living coolness of the beautiful night, the coolness of the moonlight,

which seemed to penetrate one's body, permeate it, soothe one's spirit,

fill it with fragrance and steep it in happiness.

“Suddenly Josephine (that is her name) uttered an exclamation:

“'Oh, did you see the big fish that jumped, over there?'

“He replied without looking, without thinking:

“'Yes, dear.'

“She was angry.

“'No, you did not see it, for your back was turned.'

“He smiled.

“'Yes, that's true. It is so delightful that I am not thinking of

anything.'

“She was silent, but at the end of a minute she felt as if she must say

something and asked:

“'Are you going to Paris to-morrow?'

“'I do not know,' he replied.

“She was annoyed again.

“'Do you think it is very amusing to walk along without speaking? People

talk when they are not stupid.'

“He did not reply. Then, feeling with her woman's instinct that she was

going to make him angry, she began to sing a popular air that had

harassed our ears and our minds for two years:

“'Je regardais en fair.'

“He murmured:

“'Please keep quiet.'

“She replied angrily:

“'Why do you wish me to keep quiet?'

“'You spoil the landscape for us!' he said.

“Then followed a scene, a hateful, idiotic scene, with unexpected

reproaches, unsuitable recriminations, then tears. Nothing was left

unsaid. They went back to the house. He had allowed her to talk without

replying, enervated by the beauty of the scene and dumfounded by this

storm of abuse.

“Three months later he strove wildly to free himself from those

invincible and invisible bonds with which such a friendship chains our

lives. She kept him under her influence, tyrannizing over him, making

his life a burden to him. They quarreled continually, vituperating and

finally fighting each other.

“He wanted to break with her at any cost. He sold all his canvases,

borrowed money from his friends, realizing twenty thousand francs (he

was not well known then), and left them for her one morning with a note

of farewell.

“He came and took refuge with me.

“About three o'clock that afternoon there was a ring at the bell. I went

to the door. A woman sprang toward me, pushed me aside, came in and went

into my atelier. It was she!

“He had risen when he saw her coming.'

“She threw the envelope containing the banknotes at his feet with a

truly noble gesture and said in a quick tone:

“'There's your money. I don't want it!'

“She was very pale, trembling and ready undoubtedly to commit any folly.

As for him, I saw him grow pale also, pale with rage and exasperation,

ready also perhaps to commit any violence.

“He asked:

“'What do you want?'

“She replied:

“'I do not choose to be treated like a common woman. You implored me to

accept you. I asked you for nothing. Keep me with you!'

“He stamped his foot.

“'No, that's a little too much! If you think you are going—'

“I had seized his arm.

“'Keep still, Jean. . . Let me settle it.'

“I went toward her and quietly, little by little, I began to reason with

her, exhausting all the arguments that are used under similar

circumstances. She listened to me, motionless, with a fixed gaze,

obstinate and silent.

“Finally, not knowing what more to say, and seeing that there would be a

scene, I thought of a last resort and said:

“'He loves you still, my dear, but his family want him to marry some

one, and you understand—'

“She gave a start and exclaimed:

“'Ah! Ah! Now I understand:

“And turning toward him, she said:

“'You are—you are going to get married?'

“He replied decidedly” 'Yes.'

“She took a step forward.

“'If you marry, I will kill myself! Do you hear?'

“He shrugged his shoulders and replied:

“'Well, then kill yourself!'

“She stammered out, almost choking with her violent emotion:

“'What do you say? What do you say? What do you say? Say it again!'

“He repeated:

“'Well, then kill yourself if you like!'

“With her face almost livid, she replied:

“'Do not dare me! I will throw myself from the window!'

“He began to laugh, walked toward the window, opened it, and bowing with

the gesture of one who desires to let some one else precede him, he

said:

“'This is the way. After you!'

“She looked at him for a second with terrible, wild, staring eyes. Then,

taking a run as if she were going to jump a hedge in the country, she

rushed past me and past him, jumped over the sill and disappeared.

“I shall never forget the impression made on me by that open window

after I had seen that body pass through it to fall to the ground. It

appeared to me in a second to be as large as the heavens and as hollow

as space. And I drew back instinctively, not daring to look at it, as

though I feared I might fall out myself.

“Jean, dumfounded, stood motionless.

“They brought the poor girl in with both legs broken. She will never

walk again.

“Jean, wild with remorse and also possibly touched with gratitude, made

up his mind to marry her.

“There you have it, old man.”

It was growing dusk. The young woman felt chilly and wanted to go home,

and the servant wheeled the invalid chair in the direction of the

village. The painter walked beside his wife, neither of them having

exchanged a word for an hour.

This story appeared in Le Gaulois, December 17, 1883.

A VAGABOND

He was a journeyman carpenter, a good workman and a steady fellow,

twenty-seven years old, but, although the eldest son, Jacques Randel had

been forced to live on his family for two months, owing to the general

lack of work. He had walked about seeking work for over a month and had

left his native town, Ville-Avary, in La Manche, because he could find

nothing to do and would no longer deprive his family of the bread they

needed themselves, when he was the strongest of them all. His two

sisters earned but little as charwomen. He went and inquired at the town

hall, and the mayor's secretary told him that he would find work at the

Labor Agency, and so he started, well provided with papers and

certificates, and carrying another pair of shoes, a pair of trousers and

a shirt in a blue handkerchief at the end of his stick.

And he had walked almost without stopping, day and night, along

interminable roads, in sun and rain, without ever reaching that

mysterious country where workmen find work. At first he had the fixed

idea that he must only work as a carpenter, but at every carpenter's

shop where he applied he was told that they had just dismissed men on

account of work being so slack, and, finding himself at the end of his

resources, he made up his mind to undertake any job that he might come

across on the road. And so by turns he was a navvy, stableman,

stonecutter; he split wood, lopped the branches of trees, dug wells,

mixed mortar, tied up fagots, tended goats on a mountain, and all for a

few pence, for he only obtained two or three days' work occasionally by

offering himself at a shamefully low price, in order to tempt the

avarice of employers and peasants.

And now for a week he had found nothing, and had no money left, and

nothing to eat but a piece of bread, thanks to the charity of some women

from whom he had begged at house doors on the road. It was getting dark,

and Jacques Randel, jaded, his legs failing him, his stomach empty, and

with despair in his heart, was walking barefoot on the grass by the side

of the road, for he was taking care of his last pair of shoes, as the

other pair had already ceased to exist for a long time. It was a

Saturday, toward the end of autumn. The heavy gray clouds were being

driven rapidly through the sky by the gusts of wind which whistled among

the trees, and one felt that it would rain soon. The country was

deserted at that hour on the eve of Sunday. Here and there in the fields

there rose up stacks of wheat straw, like huge yellow mushrooms, and the

fields looked bare, as they had already been sown for the next year.

Randel was hungry, with the hunger of some wild animal, such a hunger as

drives wolves to attack men. Worn out and weakened with fatigue, he took

longer strides, so as not to take so many steps, and with heavy head,

the blood throbbing in his temples, with red eyes and dry mouth, he

grasped his stick tightly in his hand, with a longing to strike the

first passerby who might be going home to supper.

He looked at the sides of the road, imagining he saw potatoes dug up and

lying on the ground before his eyes; if he had found any he would have

gathered some dead wood, made a fire in the ditch and have had a capital

supper off the warm, round vegetables with which he would first of all

have warmed his cold hands. But it was too late in the year, and he

would have to gnaw a raw beetroot which he might pick up in a field as

he had done the day before.

For the last two days he had talked to himself as he quickened his steps

under the influence of his thoughts. He had never thought much hitherto,

as he had given all his mind, all his simple faculties to his mechanical

work. But now fatigue and this desperate search for work which he could

not get, refusals and rebuffs, nights spent in the open air lying on the

grass, long fasting, the contempt which he knew people with a settled

abode felt for a vagabond, and that question which he was continually

asked, “Why do you not remain at home?” distress at not being able to

use his strong arms which he felt so full of vigor, the recollection of

the relations he had left at home and who also had not a penny, filled

him by degrees with rage, which had been accumulating every day, every

hour, every minute, and which now escaped his lips in spite of himself

in short, growling sentences.

As he stumbled over the stones which tripped his bare feet, he grumbled:

“How wretched! how miserable! A set of hogs—to let a man die of hunger—a

carpenter—a set of hogs—not two sous—not two sous—and now it is

raining—a set of hogs!”

He was indignant at the injustice of fate, and cast the blame on men, on

all men, because nature, that great, blind mother, is unjust, cruel and

perfidious, and he repeated through his clenched teeth:

“A set of hogs” as he looked at the thin gray smoke which rose from the

roofs, for it was the dinner hour. And, without considering that there

is another injustice which is human, and which is called robbery and

violence, he felt inclined to go into one of those houses to murder the

inhabitants and to sit down to table in their stead.

He said to himself: “I have no right to live now, as they are letting me

die of hunger, and yet I only ask for work—a set of hogs!” And the pain

in his limbs, the gnawing in his heart rose to his head like terrible

intoxication, and gave rise to this simple thought in his brain: “I have

the right to live because I breathe and because the air is the common

property of everybody. So nobody has the right to leave me without

bread!”

A fine, thick, icy cold rain was coming down, and he stopped and

murmured: “Oh, misery! Another month of walking before I get home.” He

was indeed returning home then, for he saw that he should more easily

find work in his native town, where he was known—and he did not mind

what he did—than on the highroads, where everybody suspected him. As the

carpentering business was not prosperous, he would turn day laborer, be

a mason's hodman, a ditcher, break stones on the road. If he only earned

a franc a day, that would at any rate buy him something to eat.

He tied the remains of his last pocket handkerchief round his neck to

prevent the cold rain from running down his back and chest, but he soon

found that it was penetrating the thin material of which his clothes

were made, and he glanced about him with the agonized look of a man who

does not know where to hide his body and to rest his head, and has no

place of shelter in the whole world.

Night came on and wrapped the country in obscurity, and in the distance,

in a meadow, he saw a dark spot on the grass; it was a cow, and so he

got over the ditch by the roadside and went up to her without exactly

knowing what he was doing. When he got close to her she raised her great

head to him, and he thought: “If I only had a jug I could get a little

milk.” He looked at the cow and the cow looked at him and then, suddenly

giving her a kick in the side, he said: “Get up!”

The animal got up slowly, letting her heavy udders bang down. Then the

man lay down on his back between the animal's legs and drank for a long

time, squeezing her warm, swollen teats, which tasted of the cowstall,

with both hands, and he drank as long as she gave any milk. But the icy

rain began to fall more heavily, and he saw no place of shelter on the

whole of that bare plain. He was cold, and he looked at a light which

was shining among the trees in the window of a house.

The cow had lain down again heavily, and he sat down by her side and

stroked her head, grateful for the nourishment she had given him. The

animal's strong, thick breath, which came out of her nostrils like two

jets of steam in the evening air, blew on the workman's face, and he

said: “You are not cold inside there!” He put his hands on her chest and

under her stomach to find some warmth there, and then the idea struck

him that he might pass the night beside that large, warm animal. So he

found a comfortable place and laid his head on her side, and then, as he

was worn out with fatigue, fell asleep immediately.

He woke up, however, several times, with his back or his stomach half

frozen, according as he put one or the other against the animal's flank.

Then he turned over to warm and dry that part of his body which had

remained exposed to the night air, and soon went soundly to sleep again.

The crowing of a cock woke him; the day was breaking, it was no longer

raining, and the sky was bright. The cow was resting with her muzzle on

the ground, and he stooped down, resting on his hands, to kiss those

wide, moist nostrils, and said: “Good-by, my beauty, until next time.

You are a nice animal. Good-by.” Then he put on his shoes and went off,

and for two hours walked straight before him, always following the same

road, and then he felt so tired that he sat down on the grass. It was

broad daylight by that time, and the church bells were ringing; men in

blue blouses, women in white caps, some on foot, some in carts, began to

pass along the road, going to the neighboring villages to spend Sunday

with friends or relations.

A stout peasant came in sight, driving before him a score of frightened,

bleating sheep, with the help of an active dog. Randel got up, and

raising his cap, said: “You do not happen to have any work for a man who

is dying of hunger?” But the other, giving an angry look at the

vagabond, replied: “I have no work for fellows whom I meet on the road.”

And the carpenter went back and sat down by the side of the ditch again.

He waited there for a long time, watching the country people pass and

looking for a kind, compassionate face before he renewed his request,

and finally selected a man in an overcoat, whose stomach was adorned

with a gold chain. “I have been looking for work,” he said, “for the

last two months and cannot find any, and I have not a sou in my pocket.”

But the would-be gentleman replied: “You should have read the notice

which is stuck up at the entrance to the village: 'Begging is prohibited

within the boundaries of this parish.' Let me tell you that I am the

mayor, and if you do not get out of here pretty quickly I shall have you

arrested.”

Randel, who was getting angry, replied: “Have me arrested if you like; I

should prefer it, for, at any rate, I should not die of hunger.” And he

went back and sat down by the side of his ditch again, and in about a

quarter of an hour two gendarmes appeared on the road. They were walking

slowly side by side, glittering in the sun with their shining hats,

their yellow accoutrements and their metal buttons, as if to frighten

evildoers, and to put them to flight at a distance. He knew that they

were coming after him, but he did not move, for he was seized with a

sudden desire to defy them, to be arrested by them, and to have his

revenge later.

They came on without appearing to have seen him, walking heavily, with

military step, and balancing themselves as if they were doing the goose

step; and then, suddenly, as they passed him, appearing to have noticed

him, they stopped and looked at him angrily and threateningly, and the

brigadier came up to him and asked: “What are you doing here?” “I am

resting,” the man replied calmly. “Where do you come from?” “If I had to

tell you all the places I have been to it would take me more than an

hour.” “Where are you going to?” “To Ville-Avary.” “Where is that?” “In

La Manche.” “Is that where you belong?” “It is.” “Why did you leave it?”

“To look for work.”

The brigadier turned to his gendarme and said in the angry voice of a

man who is exasperated at last by an oft-repeated trick: “They all say

that, these scamps. I know all about it.” And then he continued: “Have

you any papers?” “Yes, I have some.” “Give them to me.”

Randel took his papers out of his pocket, his certificates, those poor,

worn-out, dirty papers which were falling to pieces, and gave them to

the soldier, who spelled them through, hemming and hawing, and then,

having seen that they were all in order, he gave them back to Randel

with the dissatisfied look of a man whom some one cleverer than himself

has tricked.

After a few moments' further reflection, he asked him: “Have you any

money on you?” “No.” “None whatever?” “None.” “Not even a sou?” “Not

even a son!” “How do you live then?” “On what people give me.” “Then you

beg?” And Randel answered resolutely: “Yes, when I can.”

Then the gendarme said: “I have caught you on the highroad in the act of

vagabondage and begging, without any resources or trade, and so I

command you to come with me.” The carpenter got up and said: “Wherever

you please.” And, placing himself between the two soldiers, even before

he had received the order to do so, he added: “Well, lock me up; that

will at any rate put a roof over my head when it rains.”

And they set off toward the village, the red tiles of which could be

seen through the leafless trees, a quarter of a league off. Service was

about to begin when they went through the village. The square was full

of people, who immediately formed two lines to see the criminal pass. He

was being followed by a crowd of excited children. Male and female

peasants looked at the prisoner between the two gendarmes, with hatred

in their eyes and a longing to throw stones at him, to tear his skin

with their nails, to trample him under their feet. They asked each other

whether he had committed murder or robbery. The butcher, who was an ex-

'spahi', declared that he was a deserter. The tobacconist thought that

he recognized him as the man who had that very morning passed a bad

half-franc piece off on him, and the ironmonger declared that he was the

murderer of Widow Malet, whom the police had been looking for for six

months.

In the municipal court, into which his custodians took him, Randel saw

the mayor again, sitting on the magisterial bench, with the schoolmaster

by his side. “Aha! aha!” the magistrate exclaimed, “so here you are

again, my fine fellow. I told you I should have you locked up. Well,

brigadier, what is he charged with?”

“He is a vagabond without house or home, Monsieur le Maire, without any

resources or money, so he says, who was arrested in the act of begging,

but he is provided with good testimonials, and his papers are all in

order.”

“Show me his papers,” the mayor said. He took them, read them, reread,

returned them and then said: “Search him.” So they searched him, but

found nothing, and the mayor seemed perplexed, and asked the workman:

“What were you doing on the road this morning?” “I was looking for

work.” “Work? On the highroad?” “How do you expect me to find any if I

hide in the woods?”

They looked at each other with the hatred of two wild beasts which

belong to different hostile species, and the magistrate continued: “I am

going to have you set at liberty, but do not be brought up before me

again.” To which the carpenter replied: “I would rather you locked me

up; I have had enough running about the country.” But the magistrate

replied severely: “be silent.” And then he said to the two gendarmes:

“You will conduct this man two hundred yards from the village and let

him continue his journey.”

“At any rate, give me something to eat,” the workman said, but the other

grew indignant: “Have we nothing to do but to feed you? Ah! ah! ah! that

is rather too much!” But Randel went on firmly: “If you let me nearly

die of hunger again, you will force me to commit a crime, and then, so

much the worse for you other fat fellows.”

The mayor had risen and he repeated: “Take him away immediately or I

shall end by getting angry.”

The two gendarmes thereupon seized the carpenter by the arms and dragged

him out. He allowed them to do it without resistance, passed through the

village again and found himself on the highroad once more; and when the

men had accompanied him two hundred yards beyond the village, the

brigadier said: “Now off with you and do not let me catch you about here

again, for if I do, you will know it.”

Randel went off without replying or knowing where he was going. He

walked on for a quarter of an hour or twenty minutes, so stupefied that

he no longer thought of anything. But suddenly, as he was passing a

small house, where the window was half open, the smell of the soup and

boiled meat stopped him suddenly, and hunger, fierce, devouring,

maddening hunger, seized him and almost drove him against the walls of

the house like a wild beast.

He said aloud in a grumbling voice: “In Heaven's name! they must give me

some this time!” And he began to knock at the door vigorously with his

stick, and as no one came he knocked louder and called out: “Hey! hey!

you people in there, open the door!” And then, as nothing stirred, he

went up to the window and pushed it wider open with his hand, and the

close warm air of the kitchen, full of the smell of hot soup, meat and

cabbage, escaped into the cold outer air, and with a bound the carpenter

was in the house. Two places were set at the table, and no doubt the

proprietors of the house, on going to church, had left their dinner on

the fire, their nice Sunday boiled beef and vegetable soup, while there

was a loaf of new bread on the chimney-piece, between two bottles which

seemed full.

Randel seized the bread first of all and broke it with as much violence

as if he were strangling a man, and then he began to eat voraciously,

swallowing great mouthfuls quickly. But almost immediately the smell of

the meat attracted him to the fireplace, and, having taken off the lid

of the saucepan, he plunged a fork into it and brought out a large piece

of beef tied with a string. Then he took more cabbage, carrots and

onions until his plate was full, and, having put it on the table, he sat

down before it, cut the meat into four pieces, and dined as if he had

been at home. When he had eaten nearly all the meat, besides a quantity

of vegetables, he felt thirsty and took one of the bottles off the

mantelpiece.

Scarcely had he poured the liquor into his glass when he saw it was

brandy. So much the better; it was warming and would instill some fire

into his veins, and that would be all right, after being so cold; and he

drank some. He certainly enjoyed it, for he had grown unaccustomed to

it, and he poured himself out another glassful, which he drank at two

gulps. And then almost immediately he felt quite merry and light-hearted

from the effects of the alcohol, just as if some great happiness filled

his heart.

He continued to eat, but more slowly, and dipping his bread into the

soup. His skin had become burning, and especially his forehead, where

the veins were throbbing. But suddenly the church bells began to ring.

Mass was over, and instinct rather than fear, the instinct of prudence,

which guides all beings and makes them clear-sighted in danger, made the

carpenter get up. He put the remains of the loaf into one pocket and the

brandy bottle into the other, and he furtively went to the window and

looked out into the road. It was still deserted, so he jumped out and

set off walking again, but instead of following the highroad he ran

across the fields toward a wood he saw a little way off.

He felt alert, strong, light-hearted, glad of what he had done, and so

nimble that he sprang over the enclosure of the fields at a single

bound, and as soon as he was under the trees he took the bottle out of

his pocket again and began to drink once more, swallowing it down as he

walked, and then his ideas began to get confused, his eyes grew dim, and

his legs as elastic as springs, and he started singing the old popular

song:

“Oh! what joy, what joy it is, To pick the sweet, wild strawberries.”

He was now walking on thick, damp, cool moss, and that soft carpet under

his feet made him feel absurdly inclined to turn head over heels as he

used to do when a child, so he took a run, turned a somersault, got up

and began over again. And between each time he began to sing again:

“Oh! what joy, what joy it is, To pick the sweet, wild strawberries.”

Suddenly he found himself above a deep road, and in the road he saw a

tall girl, a servant, who was returning to the village with two pails of

milk. He watched, stooping down, and with his eyes as bright as those of

a dog who scents a quail, but she saw him raised her head and said: “Was

that you singing like that?” He did not reply, however, but jumped down

into the road, although it was a fall of at least six feet and when she

saw him suddenly standing in front of her, she exclaimed: “Oh! dear, how

you frightened me!”

But he did not hear her, for he was drunk, he was mad, excited by

another requirement which was more imperative than hunger, more feverish

than alcohol; by the irresistible fury of the man who has been deprived

of everything for two months, and who is drunk; who is young, ardent and

inflamed by all the appetites which nature has implanted in the vigorous

flesh of men.

The girl started back from him, frightened at his face, his eyes, his

half-open mouth, his outstretched hands, but he seized her by the

shoulders, and without a word, threw her down in the road.

She let her two pails fall, and they rolled over noisily, and all the

milk was spilt, and then she screamed lustily, but it was of no avail in

that lonely spot.

When she got up the thought of her overturned pails suddenly filled her

with fury, and, taking off one of her wooden sabots, she threw it at the

man to break his head if he did not pay her for her milk.

But he, mistaking the reason of this sudden violent attack, somewhat

sobered, and frightened at what he had done, ran off as fast as he

could, while she threw stones at him, some of which hit him in the back.

He ran for a long time, very long, until he felt more tired than he had

ever been before. His legs were so weak that they could scarcely carry

him; all his ideas were confused, he lost recollection of everything and

could no longer think about anything, and so he sat down at the foot of

a tree, and in five minutes was fast asleep. He was soon awakened,

however, by a rough shake, and, on opening his eyes, he saw two cocked

hats of shiny leather bending over him, and the two gendarmes of the

morning, who were holding him and binding his arms.

“I knew I should catch you again,” said the brigadier jeeringly. But

Randel got up without replying. The two men shook him, quite ready to

ill treat him if he made a movement, for he was their prey now. He had

become a jailbird, caught by those hunters of criminals who would not

let him go again.

“Now, start!” the brigadier said, and they set off. It was late

afternoon, and the autumn twilight was setting in over the land, and in

half an hour they reached the village, where every door was open, for

the people had heard what had happened. Peasants and peasant women and

girls, excited with anger, as if every man had been robbed and every

woman attacked, wished to see the wretch brought back, so that they

might overwhelm him with abuse. They hooted him from the first house in

the village until they reached the Hotel de Ville, where the mayor was

waiting for him to be himself avenged on this vagabond, and as soon as

he saw him approaching he cried:

“Ah! my fine fellow! here we are!” And he rubbed his hands, more pleased

than he usually was, and continued: “I said so. I said so, the moment I

saw him in the road.”

And then with increased satisfaction:

“Oh, you blackguard! Oh, you dirty blackguard! You will get your twenty

years, my fine fellow!”

THE FISHING HOLE

“Cuts and wounds which caused death.” Such was the charge upon which

Leopold Renard, upholsterer, was summoned before the Court of Assizes.

Round him were the principal witnesses, Madame Flameche, widow of the

victim, and Louis Ladureau, cabinetmaker, and Jean Durdent, plumber.

Near the criminal was his wife, dressed in black, an ugly little woman,

who looked like a monkey dressed as a lady.

This is how Renard (Leopold) recounted the drama.

“Good heavens, it is a misfortune of which I was the prime victim all

the time, and with which my will has nothing to do. The facts are their

own commentary, Monsieur le President. I am an honest man, a hard-

working man, an upholsterer, living in the same street for the last

sixteen years, known, liked, respected and esteemed by all, as my

neighbors can testify, even the porter's wife, who is not amiable every

day. I am fond of work, I am fond of saving, I like honest men and

respectable amusements. That is what has ruined me, so much the worse

for me; but as my will had nothing to do with it, I continue to respect

myself.

“Every Sunday for the last five years my wife and I have spent the day

at Passy. We get fresh air, and, besides, we are fond of fishing. Oh! we

are as fond of it as we are of little onions. Melie inspired me with

that enthusiasm, the jade, and she is more enthusiastic than I am, the

scold, seeing that all the mischief in this business is her fault, as

you will see immediately.

“I am strong and mild tempered, without a pennyworth of malice in me.

But she! oh! la! la! she looks like nothing; she is short and thin. Very

well, she does more mischief than a weasel. I do not deny that she has

some good qualities; she has some, and very important ones for a man in

business. But her character! Just ask about it in the neighborhood, and

even the porter's wife, who has just sent me about my business—she will

tell you something about it.

“Every day she used to find fault with my mild temper: 'I would not put

up with this! I would not put up with that.' If I had listened to her,

Monsieur le President, I should have had at least three hand-to-hand

fights a month . . . .”

Madame Renard interrupted him: “And for good reasons, too; they laugh

best who laugh last.”

He turned toward her frankly: “Well, I can't blame you, since you were

not the cause of it.”

Then, facing the President again, he said:

“I will continue. We used to go to Passy every Saturday evening, so as

to begin fishing at daybreak the next morning. It is a habit which has

become second nature with us, as the saying is. Three years ago this

summer I discovered a place, oh! such a spot. Oh, dear, dear! In the

shade, eight feet of water at least and perhaps ten, a hole with

cavities under the bank, a regular nest for fish and a paradise for the

fisherman. I might look upon that fishing hole as my property, Monsieur

le President, as I was its Christopher Columbus. Everybody in the

neighborhood knew it, without making any opposition. They would say:

'That is Renard's place'; and nobody would have gone there, not even

Monsieur Plumeau, who is well known, be it said without any offense, for

poaching on other people's preserves.

“Well, I returned to this place of which I felt certain, just as if I

had owned it. I had scarcely got there on Saturday, when I got into

Delila, with my wife. Delila is my Norwegian boat, which I had built by

Fournaire, and which is light and safe. Well, as I said, we got into the

boat and we were going to set bait, and for setting bait there is none

to be compared with me, and they all know it. You want to know with what

I bait? I cannot answer that question; it has nothing to do with the

accident. I cannot answer; that is my secret. There are more than three

hundred people who have asked me; I have been offered glasses of brandy

and liqueur, fried fish, matelotes, to make me tell. But just go and try

whether the chub will come. Ah! they have tempted my stomach to get at

my secret, my recipe. Only my wife knows, and she will not tell it any

more than I will. Is not that so, Melie?”

The president of the court interrupted him.

“Just get to the facts as soon as you can,” and the accused continued:

“I am getting to them, I am getting to them. Well, on Saturday, July 8,

we left by the twenty-five past five train and before dinner we went to

set bait as usual. The weather promised to keep fine and I said to

Melie: 'All right for tomorrow.' And she replied: 'If looks like it,' We

never talk more than that together.

“And then we returned to dinner. I was happy and thirsty, and that was

the cause of everything. I said to Melie: 'Look here, Melie, it is fine

weather, suppose I drink a bottle of 'Casque a meche'.' That is a weak

white wine which we have christened so, because if you drink too much of

it it prevents you from sleeping and takes the place of a nightcap. Do

you understand me?

“She replied: 'You can do as you please, but you will be ill again and

will not be able to get up tomorrow.' That was true, sensible and

prudent, clear-sighted, I must confess. Nevertheless I could not resist,

and I drank my bottle. It all came from that.

“Well, I could not sleep. By Jove! it kept me awake till two o'clock in

the morning, and then I went to sleep so soundly that I should not have

heard the angel sounding his trump at the last judgment.

“In short, my wife woke me at six o'clock and I jumped out of bed,

hastily put on my trousers and jersey, washed my face and jumped on

board Delila. But it was too late, for when I arrived at my hole it was

already occupied! Such a thing had never happened to me in three years,

and it made me feel as if I were being robbed under my own eyes. I said

to myself: 'Confound it all! confound it!' And then my wife began to nag

at me. 'Eh! what about your 'Casque a meche'? Get along, you drunkard!

Are you satisfied, you great fool?' I could say nothing, because it was

all true, but I landed all the same near the spot and tried to profit by

what was left. Perhaps after all the fellow might catch nothing and go

away.

“He was a little thin man in white linen coat and waistcoat and a large

straw hat, and his wife, a fat woman, doing embroidery, sat behind him.

“When she saw us take up our position close to them she murmured: 'Are

there no other places on the river?' My wife, who was furious, replied:

'People who have any manners make inquiries about the habits of the

neighborhood before occupying reserved spots.'

“As I did not want a fuss, I said to her: 'Hold your tongue, Melie. Let

them alone, let them alone; we shall see.'

“Well, we fastened Delila under the willows and had landed and were

fishing side by side, Melie and I, close to the two others. But here,

monsieur, I must enter into details.

“We had only been there about five minutes when our neighbor's line

began to jerk twice, thrice; and then he pulled out a chub as thick as

my thigh; rather less, perhaps, but nearly as big! My heart beat, the

perspiration stood on my forehead and Melie said to me: 'Well, you sot,

did you see that?'