He was surprised, and put his hand in his pocket and brought out the

purse containing the five hundred francs, which he had forgotten in his

agitation. Five hundred francs! What a fortune! He poured the gold

pieces out on the counter and spread them out with his big hand with a

slow, caressing touch so as to see them all at the same time. There were

twenty-five, twenty-five round gold pieces, all gold! They glistened on

the wood in the dim light and he counted them over and over, one by one.

Then he put them back in the purse, which he replaced in his pocket.

Who will ever know or who can tell what a terrible conflict took place

in the soul of the “Rosier” between good and evil, the tumultuous attack

of Satan, his artifices, the temptations which he offered to this timid

virgin heart? What suggestions, what imaginations, what desires were not

invented by the evil one to excite and destroy this chosen one? He

seized his hat, Mme. Husson's saint, his hat, which still bore the

little bunch of orange blossoms, and going out through the alley at the

back of the house, he disappeared in the darkness.

Virginie, the fruiterer, on learning that her son had returned, went

home at once, and found the house empty. She waited, without thinking

anything about it at first; but at the end of a quarter of an hour she

made inquiries. The neighbors had seen Isidore come home and had not

seen him go out again. They began to look for him, but could not find

him. His mother, in alarm, went to the mayor. The mayor knew nothing,

except that he had left him at the door of his home. Mme. Husson had

just retired when they informed her that her protege had disappeared.

She immediately put on her wig, dressed herself and went to Virginie's

house. Virginie, whose plebeian soul was readily moved, was weeping

copiously amid her cabbages, carrots and onions.

They feared some accident had befallen him. What could it be? Commandant

Desbarres notified the police, who made a circuit of the town, and on

the high road to Pontoise they found the little bunch of orange

blossoms. It was placed on a table around which the authorities were

deliberating. The “Rosier” must have been the victim of some stratagem,

some trick, some jealousy; but in what way? What means had been employed

to kidnap this innocent creature, and with what object?

Weary of looking for him without any result, Virginie, alone, remained

watching and weeping.

The following evening, when the coach passed by on its return from

Paris, Gisors learned with astonishment that its “Rosier” had stopped

the vehicle at a distance of about two hundred metres from the town, had

climbed up on it and paid his fare, handing over a gold piece and

receiving the change, and that he had quietly alighted in the centre of

the great city.

There was great excitement all through the countryside. Letters passed

between the mayor and the chief of police in Paris, but brought no

result.

The days followed one another, a week passed.

Now, one morning, Dr. Barbesol, who had gone out early, perceived,

sitting on a doorstep, a man dressed in a grimy linen suit, who was

sleeping with his head leaning against the wall. He approached him and

recognized Isidore. He tried to rouse him, but did not succeed in doing

so. The ex-“Rosier” was in that profound, invincible sleep that is

alarming, and the doctor, in surprise, went to seek assistance to help

him in carrying the young man to Boncheval's drugstore. When they lifted

him up they found an empty bottle under him, and when the doctor sniffed

at it, he declared that it had contained brandy. That gave a suggestion

as to what treatment he would require. They succeeded in rousing him.

Isidore was drunk, drunk and degraded by a week of guzzling, drunk and

so disgusting that a ragman would not have touched him. His beautiful

white duck suit was a gray rag, greasy, muddy, torn, and destroyed, and

he smelt of the gutter and of vice.

He was washed, sermonized, shut up, and did not leave the house for four

days. He seemed ashamed and repentant. They could not find on him either

his purse, containing the five hundred francs, or the bankbook, or even

his silver watch, a sacred heirloom left by his father, the fruiterer.

On the fifth day he ventured into the Rue Dauphine, Curious glances

followed him and he walked along with a furtive expression in his eyes

and his head bent down. As he got outside the town towards the valley

they lost sight of him; but two hours later he returned laughing and

rolling against the walls. He was drunk, absolutely drunk.

Nothing could cure him.

Driven from home by his mother, he became a wagon driver, and drove the

charcoal wagons for the Pougrisel firm, which is still in existence.

His reputation as a drunkard became so well known and spread so far that

even at Evreux they talked of Mme. Husson's “Rosier,” and the sots of

the countryside have been given that nickname.

A good deed is never lost.

Dr. Marambot rubbed his hands as he finished his story. I asked:

“Did you know the 'Rosier'?”

“Yes. I had the honor of closing his eyes.”

“What did he die of?”

“An attack of delirium tremens, of course.”

We had arrived at the old citadel, a pile of ruined walls dominated by

the enormous tower of St. Thomas of Canterbury and the one called the

Prisoner's Tower.

Marambot told me the story of this prisoner, who, with the aid of a

nail, covered the walls of his dungeon with sculptures, tracing the

reflections of the sun as it glanced through the narrow slit of a

loophole.

I also learned that Clothaire II had given the patrimony of Gisors to

his cousin, Saint Romain, bishop of Rouen; that Gisors ceased to be the

capital of the whole of Vexin after the treaty of Saint-Clair-sur-Epte;

that the town is the chief strategic centre of all that portion of

France, and that in consequence of this advantage she was taken and

retaken over and over again. At the command of William the Red, the

eminent engineer, Robert de Bellesme, constructed there a powerful

fortress that was attacked later by Louis le Gros, then by the Norman

barons, was defended by Robert de Candos, was finally ceded to Louis le

Gros by Geoffry Plantagenet, was retaken by the English in consequence

of the treachery of the Knights-Templars, was contested by Philippe-

Augustus and Richard the Lionhearted, was set on fire by Edward III of

England, who could not take the castle, was again taken by the English

in 1419, restored later to Charles VIII by Richard de Marbury, was taken

by the Duke of Calabria occupied by the League, inhabited by Henry IV,

etc., etc.

And Marambot, eager and almost eloquent, continued:

“What beggars, those English! And what sots, my boy; they are all

'Rosiers,' those hypocrites!”

Then, after a silence, stretching out his arm towards the tiny river

that glistened in the meadows, he said:

“Did you know that Henry Monnier was one of the most untiring fishermen

on the banks of the Epte?”

“No, I did not know it.”

“And Bouffe, my boy, Bouffe was a painter on glass.”

“You are joking!”

“No, indeed. How is it you do not know these things?”

THE ADOPTED SON

The two cottages stood beside each other at the foot of a hill near a

little seashore resort. The two peasants labored hard on the

unproductive soil to rear their little ones, and each family had four.

Before the adjoining doors a whole troop of urchins played and tumbled

about from morning till night. The two eldest were six years old, and

the youngest were about fifteen months; the marriages, and afterward the

births, having taken place nearly simultaneously in both families.

The two mothers could hardly distinguish their own offspring among the

lot, and as for the fathers, they were altogether at sea. The eight

names danced in their heads; they were always getting them mixed up; and

when they wished to call one child, the men often called three names

before getting the right one.

The first of the two cottages, as you came up from the bathing beach,

Rolleport, was occupied by the Tuvaches, who had three girls and one

boy; the other house sheltered the Vallins, who had one girl and three

boys.

They all subsisted frugally on soup, potatoes and fresh air. At seven

o'clock in the morning, then at noon, then at six o'clock in the

evening, the housewives got their broods together to give them their

food, as the gooseherds collect their charges. The children were seated,

according to age, before the wooden table, varnished by fifty years of

use; the mouths of the youngest hardly reaching the level of the table.

Before them was placed a bowl filled with bread, soaked in the water in

which the potatoes had been boiled, half a cabbage and three onions; and

the whole line ate until their hunger was appeased. The mother herself

fed the smallest.

A small pot roast on Sunday was a feast for all; and the father on this

day sat longer over the meal, repeating: “I wish we could have this

every day.”

One afternoon, in the month of August, a phaeton stopped suddenly in

front of the cottages, and a young woman, who was driving the horses,

said to the gentleman sitting at her side:

“Oh, look at all those children, Henri! How pretty they are, tumbling

about in the dust, like that!”

The man did not answer, accustomed to these outbursts of admiration,

which were a pain and almost a reproach to him. The young woman

continued:

“I must hug them! Oh, how I should like to have one of them—that one

there—the little tiny one!”

Springing down from the carriage, she ran toward the children, took one

of the two youngest—a Tuvache child—and lifting it up in her arms, she

kissed him passionately on his dirty cheeks, on his tousled hair daubed

with earth, and on his little hands, with which he fought vigorously, to

get away from the caresses which displeased him.

Then she got into the carriage again, and drove off at a lively trot.

But she returned the following week, and seating herself on the ground,

took the youngster in her arms, stuffed him with cakes; gave candies to

all the others, and played with them like a young girl, while the

husband waited patiently in the carriage.

She returned again; made the acquaintance of the parents, and reappeared

every day with her pockets full of dainties and pennies.

Her name was Madame Henri d'Hubieres.

One morning, on arriving, her husband alighted with her, and without

stopping to talk to the children, who now knew her well, she entered the

farmer's cottage.

They were busy chopping wood for the fire. They rose to their feet in

surprise, brought forward chairs, and waited expectantly.

Then the woman, in a broken, trembling voice, began:

“My good people, I have come to see you, because I should like—I should

like to take—your little boy with me—”

The country people, too bewildered to think, did not answer.

She recovered her breath, and continued: “We are alone, my husband and

I. We would keep it. Are you willing?”

The peasant woman began to understand. She asked:

“You want to take Charlot from us? Oh, no, indeed!”

Then M. d'Hubieres intervened:

“My wife has not made her meaning clear. We wish to adopt him, but he

will come back to see you. If he turns out well, as there is every

reason to expect, he will be our heir. If we, perchance, should have

children, he will share equally with them; but if he should not reward

our care, we should give him, when he comes of age, a sum of twenty

thousand francs, which shall be deposited immediately in his name, with

a lawyer. As we have thought also of you, we should pay you, until your

death, a pension of one hundred francs a month. Do you understand me?”

The woman had arisen, furious.

“You want me to sell you Charlot? Oh, no, that's not the sort of thing

to ask of a mother! Oh, no! That would be an abomination!”

The man, grave and deliberate, said nothing; but approved of what his

wife said by a continued nodding of his head.

Madame d'Hubieres, in dismay, began to weep; turning to her husband,

with a voice full of tears, the voice of a child used to having all its

wishes gratified, she stammered:

“They will not do it, Henri, they will not do it.”

Then he made a last attempt: “But, my friends, think of the child's

future, of his happiness, of—”

The peasant woman, however, exasperated, cut him short:

“It's all considered! It's all understood! Get out of here, and don't

let me see you again—the idea of wanting to take away a child like

that!”

Madame d'Hubieres remembered that there were two children, quite little,

and she asked, through her tears, with the tenacity of a wilful and

spoiled woman:

“But is the other little one not yours?”

Father Tuvache answered: “No, it is our neighbors'. You can go to them

if you wish.” And he went back into his house, whence resounded the

indignant voice of his wife.

The Vallins were at table, slowly eating slices of bread which they

parsimoniously spread with a little rancid butter on a plate between the

two.

M. d'Hubieres recommenced his proposals, but with more insinuations,

more oratorical precautions, more shrewdness.

The two country people shook their heads, in sign of refusal, but when

they learned that they were to have a hundred francs a month, they

considered the matter, consulting one another by glances, much

disturbed. They kept silent for a long time, tortured, hesitating. At

last the woman asked: “What do you say to it, man?” In a weighty tone he

said: “I say that it's not to be despised.”

Madame d'Hubieres, trembling with anguish, spoke of the future of their

child, of his happiness, and of the money which he could give them

later.

The peasant asked: “This pension of twelve hundred francs, will it be

promised before a lawyer?”

M. d'Hubieres responded: “Why, certainly, beginning with to-morrow.”

The woman, who was thinking it over, continued:

“A hundred francs a month is not enough to pay for depriving us of the

child. That child would be working in a few years; we must have a

hundred and twenty francs.”

Tapping her foot with impatience, Madame d'Hubieres granted it at once,

and, as she wished to carry off the child with her, she gave a hundred

francs extra, as a present, while her husband drew up a paper. And the

young woman, radiant, carried off the howling brat, as one carries away

a wished-for knick-knack from a shop.

The Tuvaches, from their door, watched her departure, silent, serious,

perhaps regretting their refusal.

Nothing more was heard of little Jean Vallin. The parents went to the

lawyer every month to collect their hundred and twenty francs. They had

quarrelled with their neighbors, because Mother Tuvache grossly insulted

them, continually, repeating from door to door that one must be

unnatural to sell one's child; that it was horrible, disgusting,

bribery. Sometimes she would take her Charlot in her arms,

ostentatiously exclaiming, as if he understood:

“I didn't sell you, I didn't! I didn't sell you, my little one! I'm not

rich, but I don't sell my children!”

The Vallins lived comfortably, thanks to the pension. That was the cause

of the unappeasable fury of the Tuvaches, who had remained miserably

poor. Their eldest went away to serve his time in the army; Charlot

alone remained to labor with his old father, to support the mother and

two younger sisters.

He had reached twenty-one years when, one morning, a brilliant carriage

stopped before the two cottages. A young gentleman, with a gold watch-

chain, got out, giving his hand to an aged, white-haired lady. The old

lady said to him: “It is there, my child, at the second house.” And he

entered the house of the Vallins as though at home.

The old mother was washing her aprons; the infirm father slumbered at

the chimney-corner. Both raised their heads, and the young man said:

“Good-morning, papa; good-morning, mamma!”

They both stood up, frightened! In a flutter, the peasant woman dropped

her soap into the water, and stammered:

“Is it you, my child? Is it you, my child?”

He took her in his arms and hugged her, repeating: “Good-morning,

mamma,” while the old man, all a-tremble, said, in his calm tone which

he never lost: “Here you are, back again, Jean,” as if he had just seen

him a month ago.

When they had got to know one another again, the parents wished to take

their boy out in the neighborhood, and show him. They took him to the

mayor, to the deputy, to the cure, and to the schoolmaster.

Charlot, standing on the threshold of his cottage, watched him pass. In

the evening, at supper, he said to the old people: “You must have been

stupid to let the Vallins' boy be taken.”

The mother answered, obstinately: “I wouldn't sell my child.”

The father remained silent. The son continued:

“It is unfortunate to be sacrificed like that.”

Then Father Tuvache, in an angry tone, said:

“Are you going to reproach us for having kept you?” And the young man

said, brutally:

“Yes, I reproach you for having been such fools. Parents like you make

the misfortune of their children. You deserve that I should leave you.”

The old woman wept over her plate. She moaned, as she swallowed the

spoonfuls of soup, half of which she spilled: “One may kill one's self

to bring up children!”

Then the boy said, roughly: “I'd rather not have been born than be what

I am. When I saw the other, my heart stood still. I said to myself: 'See

what I should have been now!'” He got up: “See here, I feel that I would

do better not to stay here, because I would throw it up to you from

morning till night, and I would make your life miserable. I'll never

forgive you for that!”

The two old people were silent, downcast, in tears.

He continued: “No, the thought of that would be too much. I'd rather

look for a living somewhere else.”

He opened the door. A sound of voices came in at the door. The Vallins

were celebrating the return of their child.

COWARD

In society he was called “Handsome Signoles.” His name was Vicomte

Gontran-Joseph de Signoles.

An orphan, and possessed of an ample fortune, he cut quite a dash, as it

is called. He had an attractive appearance and manner, could talk well,

had a certain inborn elegance, an air of pride and nobility, a good

mustache, and a tender eye, that always finds favor with women.

He was in great request at receptions, waltzed to perfection, and was

regarded by his own sex with that smiling hostility accorded to the

popular society man. He had been suspected of more than one love affair,

calculated to enhance the reputation of a bachelor. He lived a happy,

peaceful life—a life of physical and mental well-being. He had won

considerable fame as a swordsman, and still more as a marksman.

“When the time comes for me to fight a duel,” he said, “I shall choose

pistols. With such a weapon I am sure to kill my man.”

One evening, having accompanied two women friends of his with their

husbands to the theatre, he invited them to take some ice cream at

Tortoni's after the performance. They had been seated a few minutes in

the restaurant when Signoles noticed that a man was staring persistently

at one of the ladies. She seemed annoyed, and lowered her eyes. At last

she said to her husband:

“There's a man over there looking at me. I don't know him; do you?”

The husband, who had noticed nothing, glanced across at the offender,

and said:

“No; not in the least.”

His wife continued, half smiling, half angry:

“It's very tiresome! He quite spoils my ice cream.”

The husband shrugged his shoulders.

“Nonsense! Don't take any notice of him. If we were to bother our heads

about all the ill-mannered people we should have no time for anything

else.”

But the vicomte abruptly left his seat. He could not allow this insolent

fellow to spoil an ice for a guest of his. It was for him to take

cognizance of the offence, since it was through him that his friends had

come to the restaurant. He went across to the man and said:

“Sir, you are staring at those ladies in a manner I cannot permit. I

must ask you to desist from your rudeness.”

The other replied:

“Let me alone, will you!”

“Take care, sir,” said the vicomte between his teeth, “or you will force

me to extreme measures.”

The man replied with a single word—a foul word, which could be heard

from one end of the restaurant to the other, and which startled every

one there. All those whose backs were toward the two disputants turned

round; all the others raised their heads; three waiters spun round on

their heels like tops; the two lady cashiers jumped, as if shot, then

turned their bodies simultaneously, like two automata worked by the same

spring.

There was dead silence. Then suddenly a sharp, crisp sound. The vicomte

had slapped his adversary's face. Every one rose to interfere. Cards

were exchanged.

When the vicomte reached home he walked rapidly up and down his room for

some minutes. He was in a state of too great agitation to think

connectedly. One idea alone possessed him: a duel. But this idea aroused

in him as yet no emotion of any kind. He had done what he was bound to

do; he had proved himself to be what he ought to be. He would be talked

about, approved, congratulated. He repeated aloud, speaking as one does

when under the stress of great mental disturbance:

“What a brute of a man!” Then he sat down, and began to reflect. He

would have to find seconds as soon as morning came. Whom should he

choose? He bethought himself of the most influential and best-known men

of his acquaintance. His choice fell at last on the Marquis de la Tour-

Noire and Colonel Bourdin-a nobleman and a soldier. That would be just

the thing. Their names would carry weight in the newspapers. He was

thirsty, and drank three glasses of water, one after another; then he

walked up and down again. If he showed himself brave, determined,

prepared to face a duel in deadly earnest, his adversary would probably

draw back and proffer excuses. He picked up the card he had taken from

his pocket and thrown on a table. He read it again, as he had already

read it, first at a glance in the restaurant, and afterward on the way

home in the light of each gas lamp: “Georges Lamil, 51 Rue Moncey.” That

was all.

He examined closely this collection of letters, which seemed to him

mysterious, fraught with many meanings. Georges Lamil! Who was the man?

What was his profession? Why had he stared so at the woman? Was it not

monstrous that a stranger, an unknown, should thus all at once upset

one's whole life, simply because it had pleased him to stare rudely at a

woman? And the vicomte once more repeated aloud:

“What a brute!”

Then he stood motionless, thinking, his eyes still fixed on the card.

Anger rose in his heart against this scrap of paper—a resentful anger,

mingled with a strange sense of uneasiness. It was a stupid business

altogether! He took up a penknife which lay open within reach, and

deliberately stuck it into the middle of the printed name, as if he were

stabbing some one.

So he would have to fight! Should he choose swords or pistols?—for he

considered himself as the insulted party. With the sword he would risk

less, but with the pistol there was some chance of his adversary backing

out. A duel with swords is rarely fatal, since mutual prudence prevents

the combatants from fighting close enough to each other for a point to

enter very deep. With pistols he would seriously risk his life; but, on

the other hand, he might come out of the affair with flying colors, and

without a duel, after all.

“I must be firm,” he said. “The fellow will be afraid.”

The sound of his own voice startled him, and he looked nervously round

the room. He felt unstrung. He drank another glass of water, and then

began undressing, preparatory to going to bed.

As soon as he was in bed he blew out the light and shut his eyes.

“I have all day to-morrow,” he reflected, “for setting my affairs in

order. I must sleep now, in order to be calm when the time comes.”

He was very warm in bed, but he could not succeed in losing

consciousness. He tossed and turned, remained for five minutes lying on

his back, then changed to his left side, then rolled over to his right.

He was thirsty again, and rose to drink. Then a qualm seized him:

“Can it be possible that I am afraid?”

Why did his heart beat so uncontrollably at every well-known sound in

his room? When the clock was about to strike, the prefatory grating of

its spring made him start, and for several seconds he panted for breath,

so unnerved was he.

He began to reason with himself on the possibility of such a thing:

“Could I by any chance be afraid?”

No, indeed; he could not be afraid, since he was resolved to proceed to

the last extremity, since he was irrevocably determined to fight without

flinching. And yet he was so perturbed in mind and body that he asked

himself:

“Is it possible to be afraid in spite of one's self?”

And this doubt, this fearful question, took possession of him. If an

irresistible power, stronger than his own will, were to quell his

courage, what would happen? He would certainly go to the place

appointed; his will would force him that far. But supposing, when there,

he were to tremble or faint? And he thought of his social standing, his

reputation, his name.

And he suddenly determined to get up and look at himself in the glass.

He lighted his candle. When he saw his face reflected in the mirror he

scarcely recognized it. He seemed to see before him a man whom he did

not know. His eyes looked disproportionately large, and he was very

pale.

He remained standing before the mirror. He put out his tongue, as if to

examine the state of his health, and all at once the thought flashed

into his mind:

“At this time the day after to-morrow I may be dead.”

And his heart throbbed painfully.

“At this time the day after to-morrow I may be dead. This person in

front of me, this 'I' whom I see in the glass, will perhaps be no more.

What! Here I am, I look at myself, I feel myself to be alive—and yet in

twenty-four hours I may be lying on that bed, with closed eyes, dead,

cold, inanimate.”

He turned round, and could see himself distinctly lying on his back on

the couch he had just quitted. He had the hollow face and the limp hands

of death.

Then he became afraid of his bed, and to avoid seeing it went to his

smoking-room. He mechanically took a cigar, lighted it, and began

walking back and forth. He was cold; he took a step toward the bell, to

wake his valet, but stopped with hand raised toward the bell rope.

“He would see that I am afraid!”

And, instead of ringing, he made a fire himself. His hands quivered

nervously as they touched various objects. His head grew dizzy, his

thoughts confused, disjointed, painful; a numbness seized his spirit, as

if he had been drinking.

And all the time he kept on saying:

“What shall I do? What will become of me?”

His whole body trembled spasmodically; he rose, and, going to the

window, drew back the curtains.

The day—a summer day-was breaking. The pink sky cast a glow on the city,

its roofs, and its walls. A flush of light enveloped the awakened world,

like a caress from the rising sun, and the glimmer of dawn kindled new

hope in the breast of the vicomte. What a fool he was to let himself

succumb to fear before anything was decided—before his seconds had

interviewed those of Georges Lamil, before he even knew whether he would

have to fight or not!

He bathed, dressed, and left the house with a firm step.

He repeated as he went:

“I must be firm—very firm. I must show that I am not afraid.”

His seconds, the marquis and the colonel, placed themselves at his

disposal, and, having shaken him warmly by the hand, began to discuss

details.

“You want a serious duel?” asked the colonel.

“Yes—quite serious,” replied the vicomte.

“You insist on pistols?” put in the marquis.

“Yes.”

“Do you leave all the other arrangements in our hands?”

With a dry, jerky voice the vicomte answered:

“Twenty paces—at a given signal—the arm to be raised, not lowered—shots

to be exchanged until one or other is seriously wounded.”

“Excellent conditions,” declared the colonel in a satisfied tone. “You

are a good shot; all the chances are in your favor.”

And they parted. The vicomte returned home to wait for them. His

agitation, only temporarily allayed, now increased momentarily. He felt,

in arms, legs and chest, a sort of trembling—a continuous vibration; he

could not stay still, either sitting or standing. His mouth was parched,

and he made every now and then a clicking movement of the tongue, as if

to detach it from his palate.

He attempted, to take luncheon, but could not eat. Then it occurred to

him to seek courage in drink, and he sent for a decanter of rum, of

which he swallowed, one after another, six small glasses.

A burning warmth, followed by a deadening of the mental faculties,

ensued. He said to himself:

“I know how to manage. Now it will be all right!”

But at the end of an hour he had emptied the decanter, and his agitation

was worse than ever. A mad longing possessed him to throw himself on the

ground, to bite, to scream. Night fell.

A ring at the bell so unnerved him that he had not the strength to rise

to receive his seconds.

He dared not even to speak to them, wish them good-day, utter a single

word, lest his changed voice should betray him.

“All is arranged as you wished,” said the colonel. “Your adversary

claimed at first the privilege of the offended part; but he yielded

almost at once, and accepted your conditions. His seconds are two

military men.”

“Thank you,” said the vicomte.

The marquis added:

“Please excuse us if we do not stay now, for we have a good deal to see

to yet. We shall want a reliable doctor, since the duel is not to end

until a serious wound has been inflicted; and you know that bullets are

not to be trifled with. We must select a spot near some house to which

the wounded party can be carried if necessary. In fact, the arrangements

will take us another two or three hours at least.”

The vicomte articulated for the second time:

“Thank you.”

“You're all right?” asked the colonel. “Quite calm?”

“Perfectly calm, thank you.”

The two men withdrew.

When he was once more alone he felt as though he should go mad. His

servant having lighted the lamps, he sat down at his table to write some

letters. When he had traced at the top of a sheet of paper the words:

“This is my last will and testament,” he started from his seat, feeling

himself incapable of connected thought, of decision in regard to

anything.

So he was going to fight! He could no longer avoid it. What, then,

possessed him? He wished to fight, he was fully determined to fight, and

yet, in spite of all his mental effort, in spite of the exertion of all

his will power, he felt that he could not even preserve the strength

necessary to carry him through the ordeal. He tried to conjure up a

picture of the duel, his own attitude, and that of his enemy.

Every now and then his teeth chattered audibly. He thought he would

read, and took down Chateauvillard's Rules of Dueling. Then he said:

“Is the other man practiced in the use of the pistol? Is he well known?

How can I find out?”

He remembered Baron de Vaux's book on marksmen, and searched it from end

to end. Georges Lamil was not mentioned. And yet, if he were not an

adept, would he have accepted without demur such a dangerous weapon and

such deadly conditions?

He opened a case of Gastinne Renettes which stood on a small table, and

took from it a pistol. Next he stood in the correct attitude for firing,

and raised his arm. But he was trembling from head to foot, and the

weapon shook in his grasp.

Then he said to himself:

“It is impossible. I cannot fight like this.”

He looked at the little black, death-spitting hole at the end of the

pistol; he thought of dishonor, of the whispers at the clubs, the smiles

in his friends' drawing-rooms, the contempt of women, the veiled sneers

of the newspapers, the insults that would be hurled at him by cowards.

He still looked at the weapon, and raising the hammer, saw the glitter

of the priming below it. The pistol had been left loaded by some chance,

some oversight. And the discovery rejoiced him, he knew not why.

If he did not maintain, in presence of his opponent, the steadfast

bearing which was so necessary to his honor, he would be ruined forever.

He would be branded, stigmatized as a coward, hounded out of society!

And he felt, he knew, that he could not maintain that calm, unmoved

demeanor. And yet he was brave, since the thought that followed was not

even rounded to a finish in his mind; but, opening his mouth wide, he

suddenly plunged the barrel of the pistol as far back as his throat, and

pressed the trigger.

When the valet, alarmed at the report, rushed into the room he found his

master lying dead upon his back. A spurt of blood had splashed the white

paper on the table, and had made a great crimson stain beneath the

words:

“This is my last will and testament.”

OLD MONGILET

In the office old Mongilet was considered a type. He was a good old

employee, who had never been outside Paris but once in his life.

It was the end of July, and each of us, every Sunday, went to roll in

the grass, or soak in the water in the country near by. Asnieres,

Argenteuil, Chatou, Borgival, Maisons, Poissy, had their habitues and

their ardent admirers. We argued about the merits and advantages of all

these places, celebrated and delightful to all Parsian employees.

Daddy Mongilet declared:

“You are like a lot of sheep! It must be pretty, this country you talk

of!”

“Well, how about you, Mongilet? Don't you ever go on an excursion?”

“Yes, indeed. I go in an omnibus. When I have had a good luncheon,

without any hurry, at the wine shop down there, I look up my route with

a plan of Paris, and the time table of the lines and connections. And

then I climb up on the box, open my umbrella and off we go. Oh, I see

lots of things, more than you, I bet! I change my surroundings. It is as

though I were taking a journey across the world, the people are so

different in one street and another. I know my Paris better than anyone.

And then, there is nothing more amusing than the entresols. You would

not believe what one sees in there at a glance. One guesses at domestic

scenes simply at sight of the face of a man who is roaring; one is

amused on passing by a barber's shop, to see the barber leave his

customer whose face is covered with lather to look out in the street.

One exchanges heartfelt glances with the milliners just for fun, as one

has no time to alight. Ah, how many things one sees!

“It is the drama, the real, the true, the drama of nature, seen as the

horses trot by. Heavens! I would not give my excursions in the omnibus

for all your stupid excursions in the woods.”

“Come and try it, Mongilet, come to the country once just to see.”

“I was there once,” he replied, “twenty years ago, and you will never

catch me there again.”

“Tell us about it, Mongilet.”

“If you wish to hear it. This is how it was:

“You knew Boivin, the old editorial clerk, whom we called Boileau?”

“Yes, perfectly.”

“He was my office chum. The rascal had a house at Colombes and always

invited me to spend Sunday with him. He would say:

“'Come along, Maculotte [he called me Maculotte for fun]. You will see

what a nice excursion we will take.'

“I let myself be entrapped like an animal, and set out, one morning by

the 8 o'clock train. I arrived at a kind of town, a country town where

there is nothing to see, and I at length found my way to an old wooden

door with an iron bell, at the end of an alley between two walls.

“I rang, and waited a long time, and at last the door was opened. What

was it that opened it? I could not tell at the first glance. A woman or

an ape? The creature was old, ugly, covered with old clothes that looked

dirty and wicked. It had chicken's feathers in its hair and looked as

though it would devour me.

“'What do you want?' she said.

“'Mr. Boivin.'

“'What do you want of him, of Mr. Boivin?'

“I felt ill at ease on being questioned by this fury. I stammered: 'Why-

he expects me.'

“'Ah, it is you who have come to luncheon?'

“'Yes,' I stammered, trembling.

“Then, turning toward the house, she cried in an angry tone:

“'Boivin, here is your man!'

“It was my friend's wife. Little Boivin appeared immediately on the

threshold of a sort of barrack of plaster covered with zinc, that looked

like a foot stove. He wore white duck trousers covered with stains and a

dirty Panama hat.

“After shaking my hands warmly, he took me into what he called his

garden. It was at the end of another alleyway enclosed by high walls and

was a little square the size of a pocket handkerchief, surrounded by

houses that were so high that the sun, could reach it only two or three

hours in the day. Pansies, pinks, wallflowers and a few rose bushes were

languishing in this well without air, and hot as an oven from the

refraction of heat from the roofs.

“'I have no trees,' said Boivin, 'but the neighbors' walls take their

place. I have as much shade as in a wood.'

“Then he took hold of a button of my coat and said in a low tone:

“'You can do me a service. You saw the wife. She is not agreeable, eh?

To-day, as I had invited you, she gave me clean clothes; but if I spot

them all is lost. I counted on you to water my plants.'

“I agreed. I took off my coat, rolled up my sleeves, and began to work

the handle of a kind of pump that wheezed, puffed and rattled like a

consumptive as it emitted a thread of water like a Wallace drinking

fountain. It took me ten minutes to water it and I was in a bath of

perspiration. Boivin directed me:

“'Here—this plant—a little more; enough—now this one.'

“The watering pot leaked and my feet got more water than the flowers.

The bottoms of my trousers were soaking and covered with mud. And twenty

times running I kept it up, soaking my feet afresh each time, and

perspiring anew as I worked the handle of the pump. And when I was tired

out and wanted to stop, Boivin, in a tone of entreaty, said as he put

his hand on my arm:

“Just one more watering pot full—just one, and that will be all.'

“To thank me he gave me a rose, a big rose, but hardly had it touched my

button-hole than it fell to pieces, leaving only a hard little green

knot as a decoration. I was surprised, but said nothing.

“Mme. Boivin's voice was heard in the distance:

“'Are you ever coming? When you know that luncheon is ready!'

“We went toward the foot stove. If the garden was in the shade, the

house, on the other hand, was in the blazing sun, and the sweating room

in the Turkish bath is not as hot as was my friend's dining room.

“Three plates at the side of which were some half-washed forks, were

placed on a table of yellow wood in the middle of which stood an

earthenware dish containing boiled beef and potatoes. We began to eat.

“A large water bottle full of water lightly colored with wine attracted

my attention. Boivin, embarrassed, said to his wife:

“'See here, my dear, just on a special occasion, are you not going to

give us some plain wine?'

“She looked at him furiously.

“'So that you may both get tipsy, is that it, and stay here gabbing all

day? A fig for your special occasion!'

“He said no more. After the stew she brought in another dish of potatoes

cooked with bacon. When this dish was finished, still in silence, she

announced:

“'That is all! Now get out!'

“Boivin looked at her in astonishment.

“'But the pigeon—the pigeon you plucked this morning?'

“She put her hands on her hips:

“'Perhaps you have not had enough? Because you bring people here is no

reason why we should devour all that there is in the house. What is

there for me to eat this evening?'

“We rose. Solvin whispered

“'Wait for me a second, and we will skip.'

“He went into the kitchen where his wife had gone, and I overheard him

say:

“'Give me twenty sous, my dear.'

“'What do you want with twenty sons?'

“'Why, one does not know what may happen. It is always better to have

some money.'

“She yelled so that I should hear:

“'No, I will not give it to you! As the man has had luncheon here, the

least he can do is to pay your expenses for the day.'

“Boivin came back to fetch me. As I wished to be polite I bowed to the

mistress of the house, stammering:

“'Madame—many thanks—kind welcome.'

“'That's all right,' she replied. 'But do not bring him back drunk, for

you will have to answer to me, you know!'

“We set out. We had to cross a perfectly bare plain under the burning

sun. I attempted to gather a flower along the road and gave a cry of

pain. It had hurt my hand frightfully. They call these plants nettles.

And, everywhere, there was a smell of manure, enough to turn your

stomach.

“Boivin said, 'Have a little patience and we will reach the river bank.'

“We reached the river. Here there was an odor of mud and dirty water,

and the sun blazed down on the water so that it burned my eyes. I begged

Boivin to go under cover somewhere. He took me into a kind of shanty

filled with men, a river boatmen's tavern.

“He said:

“'This does not look very grand, but it is very comfortable.'

“I was hungry. I ordered an omelet. But to and behold, at the second

glass of wine, that beggar, Boivin, lost his head, and I understand why

his wife gave him water diluted.

“He got up, declaimed, wanted to show his strength, interfered in a

quarrel between two drunken men who were fighting, and, but for the

landlord, who came to the rescue, we should both have been killed.

“I dragged him away, holding him up until we reached the first bush

where I deposited him. I lay down beside him and, it seems, I fell

asleep. We must certainly have slept a long time, for it was dark when I

awoke. Boivin was snoring at my side. I shook him; he rose but he was

still drunk, though a little less so.

“We set out through the darkness across the plain. Boivin said he knew

the way. He made me turn to the left, then to the right, then to the

left. We could see neither sky nor earth, and found ourselves lost in

the midst of a kind of forest of wooden stakes, that came as high as our

noses. It was a vineyard and these were the supports. There was not a

single light on the horizon. We wandered about in this vineyard for

about an hour or two, hesitating, reaching out our arms without finding

any limit, for we kept retracing our steps.

“At length Boivin fell against a stake that tore his cheek and he

remained in a sitting posture on the ground, uttering with all his might

long and resounding hallos, while I screamed 'Help! Help!' as loud as I

could, lighting candle-matches to show the way to our rescuers, and also

to keep up my courage.

“At last a belated peasant heard us and put us on our right road. I took

Boivin to his home, but as I was leaving him on the threshold of his

garden, the door opened suddenly and his wife appeared, a candle in her

hand. She frightened me horribly.

“As soon as she saw her husband, whom she must have been waiting for

since dark, she screamed, as she darted toward me:

“'Ah, scoundrel, I knew you would bring him back drunk!'

“My, how I made my escape, running all the way to the station, and as I

thought the fury was pursuing me I shut myself in an inner room as the

train was not due for half an hour.

“That is why I never married, and why I never go out of Paris.”

MOONLIGHT

Madame Julie Roubere was expecting her elder sister, Madame Henriette

Letore, who had just returned from a trip to Switzerland.

The Letore household had left nearly five weeks before. Madame Henriette

had allowed her husband to return alone to their estate in Calvados,

where some business required his attention, and had come to spend a few

days in Paris with her sister. Night came on. In the quiet parlor Madame

Roubere was reading in the twilight in an absent-minded way, raising

her, eyes whenever she heard a sound.

At last, she heard a ring at the door, and her sister appeared, wrapped

in a travelling cloak. And without any formal greeting, they clasped

each other in an affectionate embrace, only desisting for a moment to

give each other another hug. Then they talked about their health, about

their respective families, and a thousand other things, gossiping,

jerking out hurried, broken sentences as they followed each other about,

while Madame Henriette was removing her hat and veil.

It was now quite dark. Madame Roubere rang for a lamp, and as soon as it

was brought in, she scanned her sister's face, and was on the point of

embracing her once more. But she held back, scared and astonished at the

other's appearance.

On her temples Madame Letore had two large locks of white hair. All the

rest of her hair was of a glossy, raven-black hue; but there alone, at

each side of her head, ran, as it were, two silvery streams which were

immediately lost in the black mass surrounding them. She was,

nevertheless, only twenty-four years old, and this change had come on

suddenly since her departure for Switzerland.

Without moving, Madame Roubere gazed at her in amazement, tears rising

to her eyes, as she thought that some mysterious and terrible calamity

must have befallen her sister. She asked:

“What is the matter with you, Henriette?”

Smiling with a sad face, the smile of one who is heartsick, the other

replied:

“Why, nothing, I assure you. Were you noticing my white hair?”

But Madame Roubere impetuously seized her by the shoulders, and with a

searching glance at her, repeated:

“What is the matter with you? Tell me what is the matter with you. And

if you tell me a falsehood, I'll soon find it out.”

They remained face to face, and Madame Henriette, who looked as if she

were about to faint, had two pearly tears in the corners of her drooping

eyes.

Her sister continued:

“What has happened to you? What is the matter with you? Answer me!”

Then, in a subdued voice, the other murmured:

“I have—I have a lover.”

And, hiding her forehead on the shoulder of her younger sister, she

sobbed.

Then, when she had grown a little calmer, when the heaving of her breast

had subsided, she commenced to unbosom herself, as if to cast forth this

secret from herself, to empty this sorrow of hers into a sympathetic

heart.

Thereupon, holding each other's hands tightly clasped, the two women

went over to a sofa in a dark corner of the room, into which they sank,

and the younger sister, passing her arm over the elder one's neck, and

drawing her close to her heart, listened.

“Oh! I know that there was no excuse for me; I do not understand myself,

and since that day I feel as if I were mad. Be careful, my child, about

yourself—be careful! If you only knew how weak we are, how quickly we

yield, and fall. It takes so little, so little, so little, a moment of

tenderness, one of those sudden fits of melancholy which come over you,

one of those longings to open your arms, to love, to cherish something,

which we all have at certain moments.

“You know my husband, and you know how fond I am of him; but he is

mature and sensible, and cannot even comprehend the tender vibrations of

a woman's heart. He is always the same, always good, always smiling,

always kind, always perfect. Oh! how I sometimes have wished that he

would clasp me roughly in his arms, that he would embrace me with those

slow, sweet kisses which make two beings intermingle, which are like

mute confidences! How I have wished that he were foolish, even weak, so

that he should have need of me, of my caresses, of my tears!

“This all seems very silly; but we women are made like that. How can we

help it?

“And yet the thought of deceiving him never entered my mind. Now it has

happened, without love, without reason, without anything, simply because

the moon shone one night on the Lake of Lucerne.

“During the month when we were travelling together, my husband, with his

calm indifference, paralyzed my enthusiasm, extinguished my poetic

ardor. When we were descending the mountain paths at sunrise, when as

the four horses galloped along with the diligence, we saw, in the

transparent morning haze, valleys, woods, streams, and villages, I

clasped my hands with delight, and said to him: 'How beautiful it is,

dear! Give me a kiss! Kiss me now!' He only answered, with a smile of

chilling kindliness: 'There is no reason why we should kiss each other

because you like the landscape.'

“And his words froze me to the heart. It seems to me that when people

love each other, they ought to feel more moved by love than ever, in the

presence of beautiful scenes.

“In fact, I was brimming over with poetry which he kept me from

expressing. I was almost like a boiler filled with steam and

hermetically sealed.

“One evening (we had for four days been staying in a hotel at Fluelen)

Robert, having one of his sick headaches, went to bed immediately after

dinner, and I went to take a walk all alone along the edge of the lake.

“It was a night such as one reads of in fairy tales. The full moon

showed itself in the middle of the sky; the tall mountains, with their

snowy crests, seemed to wear silver crowns; the waters of the lake

glittered with tiny shining ripples. The air was mild, with that kind of

penetrating warmth which enervates us till we are ready to faint, to be

deeply affected without any apparent cause. But how sensitive, how

vibrating the heart is at such moments! how quickly it beats, and how

intense is its emotion!

“I sat down on the grass, and gazed at that vast, melancholy, and

fascinating lake, and a strange feeling arose in me; I was seized with

an insatiable need of love, a revolt against the gloomy dullness of my

life. What! would it never be my fate to wander, arm in arm, with a man

I loved, along a moon-kissed bank like this? Was I never to feel on my

lips those kisses so deep, delicious, and intoxicating which lovers

exchange on nights that seem to have been made by God for tenderness?

Was I never to know ardent, feverish love in the moonlit shadows of a

summer's night?

“And I burst out weeping like a crazy woman. I heard something stirring

behind me. A man stood there, gazing at me. When I turned my head round,

he recognized me, and, advancing, said:

“'You are weeping, madame?'

“It was a young barrister who was travelling with his mother, and whom

we had often met. His eyes had frequently followed me.

“I was so confused that I did not know what answer to give or what to

think of the situation. I told him I felt ill.

“He walked on by my side in a natural and respectful manner, and began

talking to me about what we had seen during our trip. All that I had

felt he translated into words; everything that made me thrill he

understood perfectly, better than I did myself. And all of a sudden he

repeated some verses of Alfred de Musset. I felt myself choking, seized

with indescribable emotion. It seemed to me that the mountains

themselves, the lake, the moonlight, were singing to me about things

ineffably sweet.

“And it happened, I don't know how, I don't know why, in a sort of

hallucination.

“As for him, I did not see him again till the morning of his departure.

“He gave me his card!”

And, sinking into her sister's arms, Madame Letore broke into groans

—almost into shrieks.

Then, Madame Roubere, with a self-contained and serious air, said very

gently:

“You see, sister, very often it is not a man that we love, but love

itself. And your real lover that night was the moonlight.”

THE FIRST SNOWFALL

The long promenade of La Croisette winds in a curve along the edge of

the blue water. Yonder, to the right, Esterel juts out into the sea in

the distance, obstructing the view and shutting out the horizon with its

pretty southern outline of pointed summits, numerous and fantastic.

To the left, the isles of Sainte Marguerite and Saint Honorat, almost

level with the water, display their surface, covered with pine trees.

And all along the great gulf, all along the tall mountains that encircle

Cannes, the white villa residences seem to be sleeping in the sunlight.

You can see them from a distance, the white houses, scattered from the

top to the bottom of the mountains, dotting the dark greenery with

specks like snow.

Those near the water have gates opening on the wide promenade which is

washed by the quiet waves. The air is soft and balmy. It is one of those

warm winter days when there is scarcely a breath of cool air. Above the

walls of the gardens may be seen orange trees and lemon trees full of

golden fruit. Ladies are walking slowly across the sand of the avenue,

followed by children rolling hoops, or chatting with gentlemen.

A young woman has just passed out through the door of her coquettish

little house facing La Croisette. She stops for a moment to gaze at the

promenaders, smiles, and with an exhausted air makes her way toward an

empty bench facing the sea. Fatigued after having gone twenty paces, she

sits down out of breath. Her pale face seems that of a dead woman. She

coughs, and raises to her lips her transparent fingers as if to stop

those paroxysms that exhaust her.

She gazes at the sky full of sunshine and swallows, at the zigzag

summits of the Esterel over yonder, and at the sea, the blue, calm,

beautiful sea, close beside her.

She smiles again, and murmurs:

“Oh! how happy I am!”

She knows, however, that she is going to die, that she will never see

the springtime, that in a year, along the same promenade, these same

people who pass before her now will come again to breathe the warm air

of this charming spot, with their children a little bigger, with their

hearts all filled with hopes, with tenderness, with happiness, while at

the bottom of an oak coffin, the poor flesh which is still left to her

to-day will have decomposed, leaving only her bones lying in the silk

robe which she has selected for a shroud.

She will be no more. Everything in life will go on as before for others.

For her, life will be over, over forever. She will be no more. She

smiles, and inhales as well as she can, with her diseased lungs, the

perfumed air of the gardens.

And she sinks into a reverie.

She recalls the past. She had been married, four years ago, to a Norman

gentleman. He was a strong young man, bearded, healthy-looking, with

wide shoulders, narrow mind, and joyous disposition.

They had been united through financial motives which she knew nothing

about. She would willingly have said No. She said Yes, with a movement

of the head, in order not to thwart her father and mother. She was a

Parisian, gay, and full of the joy of living.

Her husband brought her home to his Norman chateau. It was a huge stone

building surrounded by tall trees of great age. A high clump of pine

trees shut out the view in front. On the right, an opening in the trees

presented a view of the plain, which stretched out in an unbroken level

as far as the distant, farmsteads. A cross-road passed before the gate

and led to the high road three kilometres away.

Oh! she recalls everything, her arrival, her first day in her new abode,

and her isolated life afterward.

When she stepped out of the carriage, she glanced at the old building,

and laughingly exclaimed:

“It does not look cheerful!”

Her husband began to laugh in his turn, and replied:

“Pooh! we get used to it! You'll see. I never feel bored in it, for my

part.”

That day they passed their time in embracing each other, and she did not

find it too long. This lasted fully a month. The days passed one after

the other in insignificant yet absorbing occupations. She learned the

value and the importance of the little things of life. She knew that

people can interest themselves in the price of eggs, which cost a few

centimes more or less according to the seasons.

It was summer. She went to the fields to see the men harvesting. The

brightness of the sunshine found an echo in her heart.

The autumn came. Her husband went out shooting. He started in the

morning with his two dogs Medor and Mirza. She remained alone, without

grieving, moreover, at Henry's absence. She was very fond of him, but

she did not miss him. When he returned home, her affection was

especially bestowed on the dogs. She took care of them every evening

with a mother's tenderness, caressed them incessantly, gave them a

thousand charming little names which she had no idea of applying to her

husband.

He invariably told her all about his sport. He described the places

where he found partridges, expressed his astonishment at not having

caught any hares in Joseph Ledentu's clever, or else appeared indignant

at the conduct of M. Lechapelier, of Havre, who always went along the

edge of his property to shoot the game that he, Henry de Parville, had

started.

She replied: “Yes, indeed! it is not right,” thinking of something else

all the while.

The winter came, the Norman winter, cold and rainy. The endless floods

of rain came down on the slates of the great gabled roof, rising like a

knife blade toward the sky. The roads seemed like rivers of mud, the

country a plain of mud, and no sound could be heard save that of water

falling; no movement could be seen save the whirling flight of crows

that settled down like a cloud on a field and then hurried off again.

About four o'clock, the army of dark, flying creatures came and perched

in the tall beeches at the left of the chateau, emitting deafening

cries. During nearly an hour, they flew from tree top to tree top,

seemed to be fighting, croaked, and made a black disturbance in the gray

branches. She gazed at them each evening with a weight at her heart, so

deeply was she impressed by the lugubrious melancholy of the darkness

falling on the deserted country.

Then she rang for the lamp, and drew near the fire. She burned heaps of

wood without succeeding in warming the spacious apartments reeking with

humidity. She was cold all day long, everywhere, in the drawing-room, at

meals, in her own apartment. It seemed to her she was cold to the marrow

of her bones. Her husband only came in to dinner; he was always out

shooting, or else he was superintending sowing the seed, tilling the

soil, and all the work of the country.

He would come back jovial, and covered with mud, rubbing his hands as he

exclaimed:

“What wretched weather!”

Or else:

“A fire looks comfortable!”

Or sometimes:

“Well, how are you to-day? Are you in good spirits?”

He was happy, in good health, without desires, thinking of nothing save

this simple, healthy, and quiet life.

About December, when the snow had come, she suffered so much from the

icy-cold air of the chateau which seemed to have become chilled in

passing through the centuries just as human beings become chilled with

years, that she asked her husband one evening:

“Look here, Henry! You ought to have a furnace put into the house; it

would dry the walls. I assure you that I cannot keep warm from morning

till night.”

At first he was stunned at this extravagant idea of introducing a

furnace into his manor-house. It would have seemed more natural to him

to have his dogs fed out of silver dishes. He gave a tremendous laugh

from the bottom of his chest as he exclaimed:

“A furnace here! A furnace here! Ha! ha! ha! what a good joke!”

She persisted:

“I assure you, dear, I feel frozen; you don't feel it because you are

always moving about; but all the same, I feel frozen.”

He replied, still laughing:

“Pooh! you'll get used to it, and besides it is excellent for the

health. You will only be all the better for it. We are not Parisians,

damn it! to live in hot-houses. And, besides, the spring is quite near.”

About the beginning of January, a great misfortune befell her. Her

father and mother died in a carriage accident. She came to Paris for the

funeral. And her sorrow took entire possession of her mind for about six

months.

The mildness of the beautiful summer days finally roused her, and she

lived along in a state of sad languor until autumn.

When the cold weather returned, she was brought face to face, for the

first time, with the gloomy future. What was she to do? Nothing. What

was going to happen to her henceforth? Nothing. What expectation, what

hope, could revive her heart? None. A doctor who was consulted declared

that she would never have children.

Sharper, more penetrating still than the year before, the cold made her

suffer continually.

She stretched out her shivering hands to the big flames. The glaring

fire burned her face; but icy whiffs seemed to glide down her back and

to penetrate between her skin and her underclothing. And she shivered

from head to foot. Innumerable draughts of air appeared to have taken up

their abode in the apartment, living, crafty currents of air as cruel as

enemies. She encountered them at every moment; they blew on her

incessantly their perfidious and frozen hatred, now on her face, now on

her hands, and now on her back.

Once more she spoke of a furnace; but her husband listened to her

request as if she were asking for the moon. The introduction of such an

apparatus at Parville appeared to him as impossible as the discovery of

the Philosopher's Stone.

Having been at Rouen on business one day, he brought back to his wife a

dainty foot warmer made of copper, which he laughingly called a

“portable furnace”; and he considered that this would prevent her

henceforth from ever being cold.

Toward the end of December she understood that she could not always live

like this, and she said timidly one evening at dinner:

“Listen, dear! Are we not going to spend a week or two in Paris before

spring:”

He was stupefied.

“In Paris? In Paris? But what are we to do there? Ah! no by Jove! We are

better off here. What odd ideas come into your head sometimes.”

She faltered:

“It might distract us a little.”

He did not understand.

“What is it you want to distract you? Theatres, evening parties, dinners

in town? You knew, however, when you came here, that you ought not to

expect any distractions of this kind!”

She saw a reproach in these words, and in the tone in which they were

uttered. She relapsed into silence. She was timid and gentle, without

resisting power and without strength of will.

In January the cold weather returned with violence. Then the snow

covered the earth.

One evening, as she watched the great black cloud of crows dispersing

among the trees, she began to weep, in spite of herself.

Her husband came in. He asked in great surprise:

“What is the matter with you?”

He was happy, quite happy, never having dreamed of another life or other

pleasures. He had been born and had grown up in this melancholy

district. He felt contented in his own house, at ease in body and mind.

He did not understand that one might desire incidents, have a longing

for changing pleasures; he did not understand that it does not seem

natural to certain beings to remain in the same place during the four

seasons; he seemed not to know that spring, summer, autumn, and winter

have, for multitudes of persons, fresh amusements in new places.

She could say nothing in reply, and she quickly dried her eyes. At last

she murmured in a despairing tone:

“I am—I—I am a little sad—I am a little bored.”

But she was terrified at having even said so much, and added very

quickly:

“And, besides—I am—I am a little cold.”

This last plea made him angry.

“Ah! yes, still your idea of the furnace. But look here, deuce take it!

you have not had one cold since you came here.”

Night came on. She went up to her room, for she had insisted on having a

separate apartment. She went to bed. Even in bed she felt cold. She

thought:

“It will be always like this, always, until I die.”

And she thought of her husband. How could he have said:

“You—have not had one cold since you came here”?

She would have to be ill, to cough before he could understand what she

suffered!

And she was filled with indignation, the angry indignation of a weak,

timid being.

She must cough. Then, perhaps, he would take pity on her. Well, she

would cough; he should hear her coughing; the doctor should be called

in; he should see, her husband, he should see.

She got out of bed, her legs and her feet bare, and a childish idea made

her smile:

“I want a furnace, and I must have it. I shall cough so much that he'll

have to put one in the house.”

And she sat down in a chair in her nightdress. She waited an hour, two

hours. She shivered, but she did not catch cold. Then she resolved on a

bold expedient.

She noiselessly left her room, descended the stairs, and opened the gate

into the garden.

The earth, covered with snows seemed dead. She abruptly thrust forward

her bare foot, and plunged it into the icy, fleecy snow. A sensation of

cold, painful as a wound, mounted to her heart. However, she stretched

out the other leg, and began to descend the steps slowly.

Then she advanced through the grass saying to herself:

“I'll go as far as the pine trees.”

She walked with quick steps, out of breath, gasping every time she

plunged her foot into the snow.

She touched the first pine tree with her hand, as if to assure herself

that she had carried out her plan to the end; then she went back into

the house. She thought two or three times that she was going to fall, so

numbed and weak did she feel. Before going in, however, she sat down in

that icy fleece, and even took up several handfuls to rub on her chest.

Then she went in and got into bed. It seemed to her at the end of an

hour that she had a swarm of ants in her throat, and that other ants

were running all over her limbs. She slept, however.

Next day she was coughing and could not get up.

She had inflammation of the lungs. She became delirious, and in her

delirium she asked for a furnace. The doctor insisted on having one put

in. Henry yielded, but with visible annoyance.

She was incurable. Her lungs were seriously affected, and those about

her feared for her life.

“If she remains here, she will not last until the winter,” said the

doctor.

She was sent south. She came to Cannes, made the acquaintance of the

sun, loved the sea, and breathed the perfume of orange blossoms.

Then, in the spring, she returned north.

But she now lived with the fear of being cured, with the fear of the

long winters of Normandy; and as soon as she was better she opened her

window by night and recalled the sweet shores of the Mediterranean.

And now she is going to die. She knows it and she is happy.

She unfolds a newspaper which she has not already opened, and reads this

heading:

“The first snow in Paris.”

She shivers and then smiles. She looks across at the Esterel, which is

becoming rosy in the rays of the setting sun. She looks at the vast blue

sky, so blue, so very blue, and the vast blue sea, so very blue also,

and she rises from her seat.

And then she returned to the house with slow steps, only stopping to

cough, for she had remained out too long and she was cold, a little

cold.

She finds a letter from her husband. She opens it, still smiling, and

she reads:

“MY DEAR LOVE: I hope you are well, and that you do not regret too much

our beautiful country. For some days last we have had a good frost,

which presages snow. For my part, I adore this weather, and you may

believe that I do not light your damned furnace.”

She ceases reading, quite happy at the thought that she had her furnace

put in. Her right hand, which holds the letter, falls slowly on her lap,

while she raises her left hand to her mouth, as if to calm the obstinate

cough which is racking her chest.

SUNDAYS OF A BOURGEOIS

PREPARATIONS FOR THE EXCURSION

M. Patissot, born in Paris, after having failed in his examinations at

the College Henri IV., like many others, had entered the government

service through the influence of one of his aunts, who kept a tobacco

store where the head of one of the departments bought his provisions.

He advanced very slowly, and would, perhaps, have died a fourth-class

clerk without the aid of a kindly Providence, which sometimes watches

over our destiny. He is today fifty-two years old, and it is only at

this age that he is beginning to explore, as a tourist, all that part of

France which lies between the fortifications and the provinces.

The story of his advance might be useful to many employees, just as the

tale of his excursions may be of value to many Parisians who will take

them as a model for their own outings, and will thus, through his

example, avoid certain mishaps which occurred to him.

In 1854 he only enjoyed a salary of 1,800 francs. Through a peculiar

trait of his character he was unpopular with all his superiors, who let

him languish in the eternal and hopeless expectation of the clerk's

ideal, an increase of salary. Nevertheless he worked; but he did not

know how to make himself appreciated. He had too much self-respect, he

claimed. His self-respect consisted in never bowing to his superiors in

a low and servile manner, as did, according to him, certain of his

colleagues, whom he would not mention. He added that his frankness

embarrassed many people, for, like all the rest, he protested against

injustice and the favoritism shown to persons entirely foreign to the

bureaucracy. But his indignant voice never passed beyond the little cage

where he worked.

First as a government clerk, then as a Frenchman and finally as a man

who believed in order he would adhere to whatever government was

established, having an unbounded reverence for authority, except for

that of his chiefs.

Each time that he got the chance he would place himself where he could

see the emperor pass, in order to have the honor of taking his hat off

to him; and he would go away puffed up with pride at having bowed to the

head of the state.

From his habit of observing the sovereign he did as many others do; he

imitated the way he trimmed his beard or arranged his hair, the cut of

his clothes, his walk, his mannerisms. Indeed, how many men in each

country seemed to be the living images of the head of the government!

Perhaps he vaguely resembled Napoleon III., but his hair was black;

therefore he dyed it, and then the likeness was complete; and when he

met another gentleman in the street also imitating the imperial

countenance he was jealous and looked at him disdainfully. This need of

imitation soon became his hobby, and, having heard an usher at the

Tuilleries imitate the voice of the emperor, he also acquired the same

intonations and studied slowness.

He thus became so much like his model that they might easily have been

mistaken for each other, and certain high dignitaries were heard to

remark that they found it unseemly and even vulgar; the matter was

mentioned to the prime minister, who ordered that the employee should

appear before him. But at the sight of him he began to laugh and

repeated two or three times: “That's funny, really funny!” This was

repeated, and the following day Patissot's immediate superior

recommended that his subordinate receive an increase of salary of three

hundred francs. He received it immediately.

From that time on his promotions came regularly, thanks to his ape-like

faculty of imitation. The presentiment that some high honor might come

to him some day caused his chiefs to speak to him with deference.

When the Republic was proclaimed it was a disaster for him. He felt

lost, done for, and, losing his head, he stopped dyeing his hair, shaved

his face clean and had his hair cut short, thus acquiring a paternal and

benevolent expression which could not compromise him in any way.

Then his chiefs took revenge for the long time during which he had

imposed upon them, and, having all turned Republican through an instinct

of self preservation, they cut down his salary and delayed his

promotion. He, too, changed his opinions. But the Republic not being a

palpable and living person whom one can resemble, and the presidents

succeeding each other with rapidity, he found himself plunged in the

greatest embarrassment, in terrible distress, and, after an unsuccessful

imitation of his last ideal, M. Thiers, he felt a check put on all his

attempts at imitation. He needed a new manifestation of his personality.

He searched for a long time; then, one morning, he arrived at the office

wearing a new hat which had on the side a small red, white and blue

rosette. His colleagues were astounded; they laughed all that day, the

next day, all the week, all the month. But the seriousness of his

demeanor at last disconcerted them, and once more his superiors became

anxious. What mystery could be hidden under this sign? Was it a simple

manifestation of patriotism, or an affirmation of his allegiance to the

Republic, or perhaps the badge of some powerful association? But to wear

it so persistently he must surely have some powerful and hidden

protection. It would be well to be on one's guard, especially as he

received all pleasantries with unruffled calmness. After that he was

treated with respect, and his sham courage saved him; he was appointed

head clerk on the first of January, 1880. His whole life had been spent

indoors. He hated noise and bustle, and because of this love of rest and

quiet he had remained a bachelor. He spent his Sundays reading tales of

adventure and ruling guide lines which he afterward offered to his

colleagues. In his whole existence he had only taken three vacations of

a week each, when he was changing his quarters. But sometimes, on a

holiday, he would leave by an excursion train for Dieppe or Havre in

order to elevate his mind by the inspiring sight of the sea.

He was full of that common sense which borders on stupidity. For a long

time he had been living quietly, with economy, temperate through

prudence, chaste by temperament, when suddenly he was assailed by a

terrible apprehension. One evening in the street he suddenly felt an

attack of dizziness which made him fear a stroke of apoplexy. He

hastened to a physician and for five francs obtained the following

prescription:

M. X-, fifty-five years old, bachelor, clerk. Full-blooded, danger of

apoplexy. Cold-water applications, moderate nourishment, plenty of

exercise. MONTELLIER, M.D.

Patissot was greatly distressed, and for a whole month, in his office,

he kept a wet towel wrapped around his head like a turban while the

water continually dripped on his work, which he would have to do over

again. Every once in a while he would read the prescription over,

probably in the hope of finding some hidden meaning, of penetrating into

the secret thought of the physician, and also of discovering some forms

of exercise which, might perhaps make him immune from apoplexy.

Then he consulted his friends, showing them the fateful paper. One

advised boxing. He immediately hunted up an instructor, and, on the

first day, he received a punch in the nose which immediately took away

all his ambition in this direction. Single-stick made him gasp for

breath, and he grew so stiff from fencing that for two days and two

nights he could not get sleep. Then a bright idea struck him. It was to

walk, every Sunday, to some suburb of Paris and even to certain places

in the capital which he did not know.

For a whole week his mind was occupied with thoughts of the equipment

which you need for these excursions; and on Sunday, the 30th of May, he

began his preparations. After reading all the extraordinary

advertisements which poor, blind and halt beggars distribute on the

street corners, he began to visit the stores with the intention of

looking about him only and of buying later on. First of all, he visited

a so-called American shoe store, where heavy travelling shoes were shown

him. The clerk brought out a kind of ironclad contrivance, studded with

spikes like a harrow, which he claimed to be made from Rocky Mountain

bison skin. He was so carried away with them that he would willingly

have bought two pair, but one was sufficient. He carried them away under

his arm, which soon became numb from the weight. He next invested in a

pair of corduroy trousers, such as carpenters wear, and a pair of oiled

canvas leggings. Then he needed a knapsack for his provisions, a

telescope so as to recognize villages perched on the slope of distant

hills, and finally, a government survey map to enable him to find his

way about without asking the peasants toiling in the fields. Lastly, in

order more comfortably to stand the heat, he decided to purchase a light

alpaca jacket offered by the famous firm of Raminau, according to their

advertisement, for the modest sum of six francs and fifty centimes. He

went to this store and was welcomed by a distinguished-looking young man

with a marvellous head of hair, nails as pink as those of a lady and a

pleasant smile. He showed him the garment. It did not correspond with

the glowing style of the advertisement. Then Patissot hesitatingly

asked, “Well, monsieur, will it wear well?” The young man turned his

eyes away in well-feigned embarrassment, like an honest man who does not

wish to deceive a customer, and, lowering his eyes, he said in a

hesitating manner: “Dear me, monsieur, you understand that for six

francs fifty we cannot turn out an article like this for instance.” And

he showed him a much finer jacket than the first one. Patissot examined

it and asked the price. “Twelve francs fifty.” It was very tempting, but

before deciding, he once more questioned the big young man, who was

observing him attentively. “And—is that good? Do you guarantee it?” “Oh!

certainly, monsieur, it is quite good! But, of course, you must not get

it wet! Yes, it's really quite good, but you understand that there are

goods and goods. It's excellent for the price. Twelve francs fifty, just

think. Why, that's nothing at all. Naturally a twenty-five-franc coat is

much better. For twenty-five francs you get a superior quality, as

strong as linen, and which wears even better. If it gets wet a little

ironing will fix it right up. The color never fades, and it does not

turn red in the sunlight. It is the warmest and lightest material out.”

He unfolded his wares, holding them up, shaking them, crumpling and

stretching them in order to show the excellent quality of the cloth. He

talked on convincingly, dispelling all hesitation by words and gesture.

Patissot was convinced; he bought the coat. The pleasant salesman, still

talking, tied up the bundle and continued praising the value of the

purchase. When it was paid for he was suddenly silent. He bowed with a

superior air, and, holding the door open, he watched his customer

disappear, both arms filled with bundles and vainly trying to reach his

hat to bow.

M. Patissot returned home and carefully studied the map. He wished to

try on his shoes, which were more like skates than shoes, owing to the

spikes. He slipped and fell, promising himself to be more careful in the

future. Then he spread out all his purchases on a chair and looked at

them for a long time. He went to sleep with this thought: “Isn't it

strange that I didn't think before of taking an excursion to the

country?”

During the whole week Patissot worked without ambition. He was dreaming

of the outing which he had planned for the following Sunday, and he was

seized by a sudden longing for the country, a desire of growing tender

over nature, this thirst for rustic scenes which overwhelms the

Parisians in spring time.

Only one person gave him any attention; it was a silent old copying

clerk named Boivin, nicknamed Boileau. He himself lived in the country

and had a little garden which he cultivated carefully; his needs were

small, and he was perfectly happy, so they said. Patissot was now able

to understand his tastes and the similarity of their ideals made them

immediately fast friends. Old man Boivin said to him:

“Do I like fishing, monsieur? Why, it's the delight of my life!”

Then Patissot questioned him with deep interest. Boivin named all the

fish who frolicked under this dirty water—and Patissot thought he could

see them. Boivin told about the different hooks, baits, spots and times

suitable for each kind. And Patissot felt himself more like a fisherman

than Boivin himself. They decided that the following Sunday they would

meet for the opening of the season for the edification of Patissot, who

was delighted to have found such an experienced instructor.

FISHING EXCURSION

The day before the one when he was, for the first time in his life, to

throw a hook into a river, Monsieur Patissot bought, for eighty

centimes, “How to Become a Perfect Fisherman.” In this work he learned

many useful things, but he was especially impressed by the style, and he

retained the following passage:

“In a word, if you wish, without books, without rules, to fish

successfully, to the left or to the right, up or down stream, in the

masterly manner that halts at no difficulty, then fish before, during

and after a storm, when the clouds break and the sky is streaked with

lightning, when the earth shakes with the grumbling thunder; it is then

that, either through hunger or terror, all the fish forget their habits

in a turbulent flight.

“In this confusion follow or neglect all favorable signs, and just go on

fishing; you will march to victory!”

In order to catch fish of all sizes, he bought three well-perfected

poles, made to be used as a cane in the city, which, on the river, could

be transformed into a fishing rod by a simple jerk. He bought some

number fifteen hooks for gudgeon, number twelve for bream, and with his

number seven he expected to fill his basket with carp. He bought no

earth worms because he was sure of finding them everywhere; but he laid

in a provision of sand worms. He had a jar full of them, and in the

evening he watched them with interest. The hideous creatures swarmed in

their bath of bran as they do in putrid meat. Patissot wished to

practice baiting his hook. He took up one with disgust, but he had

hardly placed the curved steel point against it when it split open.

Twenty times he repeated this without success, and he might have

continued all night had he not feared to exhaust his supply of vermin.

He left by the first train. The station was full of people equipped with

fishing lines. Some, like Patissot's, looked like simple bamboo canes;

others, in one piece, pointed their slender ends to the skies. They

looked like a forest of slender sticks, which mingled and clashed like

swords or swayed like masts over an ocean of broad-brimmed straw hats.

When the train started fishing rods could be seen sticking out of all

the windows and doors, giving to the train the appearance of a huge,

bristly caterpillar winding through the fields.

Everybody got off at Courbevoie and rushed for the stage for Bezons. A

crowd of fishermen crowded on top of the coach, holding their rods in

their hands, giving the vehicle the appearance of a porcupine.

All along the road men were travelling in the same direction as though

on a pilgrimage to an unknown Jerusalem. They were carrying those long,

slender sticks resembling those carried by the faithful returning from

Palestine. A tin box on a strap was fastened to their backs. They were

in a hurry.

At Bezons the river appeared. People were lined along bath banks, men in

frock coats, others in duck suits, others in blouses, women, children

and even young girls of marriageable age; all were fishing.

Patissot started for the dam where his friend Boivin was waiting for

him. The latter greeted him rather coolly. He had just made the

acquaintance of a big, fat man of about fifty, who seemed very strong

and whose skin was tanned. All three hired a big boat and lay off almost

under the fall of the dam, where the fish are most plentiful.

Boivin was immediately ready. He baited his line and threw it out, and

then sat motionless, watching the little float with extraordinary

concentration. From time to time he would jerk his line out of the water

and cast it farther out. The fat gentleman threw out his well-baited

hooks, put his line down beside him, filled his pipe, lit it, crossed

his arms, and, without another glance at the cork, he watched the water

flow by. Patissot once more began trying to stick sand worms on his

hooks. After about five minutes of this occupation he called to Boivin;

“Monsieur Boivin, would you be so kind as to help me put these creatures

on my hook? Try as I will, I can't seem to succeed.” Boivin raised his

head: “Please don't disturb me, Monsieur Patissot; we are not here for

pleasure!” However, he baited the line, which Patissot then threw out,

carefully imitating all the motions of his friend.

The boat was tossing wildly, shaken by the waves, and spun round like a

top by the current, although anchored at both ends. Patissot, absorbed

in the sport, felt a vague kind of uneasiness; he was uncomfortably

heavy and somewhat dizzy.

They caught nothing. Little Boivin, very nervous, was gesticulating and

shaking his head in despair. Patissot was as sad as though some disaster

had overtaken him. The fat gentleman alone, still motionless, was

quietly smoking without paying any attention to his line. At last

Patissot, disgusted, turned toward him and said in a mournful voice:

“They are not biting, are they?”

He quietly replied:

“Of course not!”

Patissot surprised, looked at him.

“Do you ever catch many?”

“Never!”

“What! Never?”

The fat man, still smoking like a factory chimney, let out the following

words, which completely upset his neighbor:

“It would bother me a lot if they did bite. I don't come here to fish; I

come because I'm very comfortable here; I get shaken up as though I were

at sea. If I take a line along, it's only to do as others do.”

Monsieur Patissot, on the other hand, did not feel at all well. His

discomfort, at first vague, kept increasing, and finally took on a

definite form. He felt, indeed, as though he were being tossed by the

sea, and he was suffering from seasickness. After the first attack had

calmed down, he proposed leaving, but Boivin grew so furious that they

almost came to blows. The fat man, moved by pity, rowed the boat back,

and, as soon as Patissot had recovered from his seasickness, they

bethought themselves of luncheon.

Two restaurants presented themselves. One of them, very small, looked

like a beer garden, and was patronized by the poorer fishermen. The

other one, which bore the imposing name of “Linden Cottage,” looked like

a middle-class residence and was frequented by the aristocracy of the

rod. The two owners, born enemies, watched each other with hatred across

a large field, which separated them, and where the white house of the

dam keeper and of the inspector of the life-saving department stood out

against the green grass. Moreover, these two officials disagreed, one of

them upholding the beer garden and the other one defending the Elms, and

the internal feuds which arose in these three houses reproduced the

whole history of mankind.

Boivin, who knew the beer garden, wished to go there, exclaiming: “The

food is very good, and it isn't expensive; you'll see. Anyhow, Monsieur

Patissot, you needn't expect to get me tipsy the way you did last

Sunday. My wife was furious, you know; and she has sworn never to

forgive you!”

The fat gentleman declared that he would only eat at the Elms, because

it was an excellent place and the cooking was as good as in the best

restaurants in Paris.

“Do as you wish,” declared Boivin; “I am going where I am accustomed to

go.” He left. Patissot, displeased at his friend's actions, followed the

fat gentleman.

They ate together, exchanged ideas, discussed opinions and found that

they were made for each other.

After the meal everyone started to fish again, but the two new friends

left together. Following along the banks, they stopped near the railroad

bridge and, still talking, they threw their lines in the water. The fish

still refused to bite, but Patissot was now making the best of it.

A family was approaching. The father, whose whiskers stamped him as a

judge, was holding an extraordinarily long rod; three boys of different

sizes were carrying poles of different lengths, according to age; and

the mother, who was very stout, gracefully manoeuvred a charming rod

with a ribbon tied to the handle. The father bowed and asked:

“Is this spot good, gentlemen?” Patissot was going to speak, when his

friend answered: “Fine!” The whole family smiled and settled down beside

the fishermen. The Patissot was seized with a wild desire to catch a

fish, just one, any kind, any size, in order to win the consideration of

these people; so he began to handle his rod as he had seen Boivin do in

the morning. He would let the cork follow the current to the end of the

line, jerk the hooks out of the water, make them describe a large circle

in the air and throw them out again a little higher up. He had even, as

he thought, caught the knack of doing this movement gracefully. He had

just jerked his line out rapidly when he felt it caught in something

behind him. He tugged, and a scream burst from behind him. He perceived,

caught on one of his hooks, and describing in the air a curve like a

meteor, a magnificent hat which he placed right in the middle of the

river.

He turned around, bewildered, dropping his pole, which followed the hat

down the stream, while the fat gentleman, his new friend, lay on his

back and roared with laughter. The lady, hatless and astounded, choked

with anger; her husband was outraged and demanded the price of the hat,

and Patissot paid about three times its value.

Then the family departed in a very dignified manner.

Patissot took another rod, and, until nightfall, he gave baths to sand

worms. His neighbor was sleeping peacefully on the grass. Toward seven

in the evening he awoke.

“Let's go away from here!” he said.

Then Patissot withdrew his line, gave a cry and sat down hard from

astonishment. At the end of the string was a tiny little fish. When they

looked at him more closely they found that he had been hooked through

the stomach; the hook had caught him as it was being drawn out of the

water.

Patissot was filled with a boundless, triumphant joy; he wished to have

the fish fried for himself alone.

During the dinner the friends grew still more intimate. He learned that

the fat gentleman lived at Argenteuil and had been sailing boats for

thirty years without losing interest in the sport. He accepted to take

luncheon with him the following Sunday and to take a sail in his

friend's clipper, Plongeon. He became so interested in the conversation

that he forgot all about his catch. He did not remember it until after

the coffee, and he demanded that it be brought him. It was alone in the

middle of a platter, and looked like a yellow, twisted match, But he ate

it with pride and relish, and at night, on the omnibus, he told his

neighbors that he had caught fourteen pounds of fish during the day.

TWO CELEBRITIES

Monsieur Patissot had promised his friend, the boating man, that he

would spend the following Sunday with him. An unforeseen occurrence

changed his plan. One evening, on the boulevard, he met one of his

cousins whom he saw but very seldom. He was a pleasant journalist, well

received in all classes of society, who offered to show Patissot many

interesting things.

“What are you going to do next Sunday?”

“I'm going boating at Argenteuil.”

“Come on! Boating is an awful bore; there is no variety to it. Listen

—I'll take you along with me. I'll introduce you to two celebrities. We

will visit the homes of two artists.”

“But I have been ordered to go to the country!”

“That's just where we'll go. On the way we'll call on Meissonier, at his

place in Poissy; then we'll walk over to Medan, where Zola lives. I have

been commissioned to obtain his next novel for our newspaper.”

Patissot, wild with joy, accepted the invitation. He even bought a new

frock coat, as his own was too much worn to make a good appearance. He

was terribly afraid of saying something foolish either to the artist or

to the man of letters, as do people who speak of an art which they have

never professed.

He mentioned his fears to his cousin, who laughed and answered: “Pshaw!

Just pay them compliments, nothing but compliments, always compliments;

in that way, if you say anything foolish it will be overlooked. Do you

know Meissonier's paintings?”

“I should say I do.”

“Have you read the Rougon-Macquart series?”

“From first to last.”

“That's enough. Mention a painting from time to time, speak of a novel

here and there and add:

“'Superb! Extraordinary! Delightful technique! Wonderfully powerful!' In

that way you can always get along. I know that those two are very blase

about everything, but admiration always pleases an artist.”

Sunday morning they left for Poissy.

Just a few steps from the station, at the end of the church square, they

found Meissonier's property. After passing through a low door, painted

red, which led into a beautiful alley of vines, the journalist stopped

and, turning toward his companion, asked:

“What is your idea of Meissonier?”

Patissot hesitated. At last he decided: “A little man, well groomed,

clean shaven, a soldierly appearance.” The other smiled: “All right,

come along.” A quaint building in the form of a chalet appeared to the

left; and to the right side, almost opposite, was the main house. It was

a strange-looking building, where there was a mixture of everything, a

mingling of Gothic fortress, manor, villa, hut, residence, cathedral,

mosque, pyramid, a, weird combination of Eastern and Western

architecture. The style was complicated enough to set a classical

architect crazy, and yet there was something whimsical and pretty about

it. It had been invented and built under the direction of the artist.

They went in; a collection of trunks encumbered a little parlor. A

little man appeared, dressed in a jumper. The striking thing about him

was his beard. He bowed to the journalist, and said: “My dear sir, I

hope that you will excuse me; I only returned yesterday, and everything

is all upset here. Please be seated.” The other refused, excusing

himself: “My dear master, I only dropped in to pay my respects while

passing by.” Patissot, very much embarrassed, was bowing at every word

of his friend's, as though moving automatically, and he murmured,

stammering: “What a su—su—superb property!” The artist, flattered,

smiled, and suggested visiting it.

He led them first to a little pavilion of feudal aspect, where his

former studio was. Then they crossed a parlor, a dining-room, a

vestibule full of beautiful works of art, of beautiful Beauvais, Gobelin

and Flanders tapestries. But the strange external luxury of

ornamentation became, inside, a revel of immense stairways. A

magnificent grand stairway, a secret stairway in one tower, a servants'

stairway in another, stairways everywhere! Patissot, by chance, opened a

door and stepped back astonished. It was a veritable temple, this place

of which respectable people only mention the name in English, an

original and charming sanctuary in exquisite taste, fitted up like a

pagoda, and the decoration of which must certainly have caused a great

effort.

They next visited the park, which was complex, varied, with winding

paths and full of old trees. But the journalist insisted on leaving;

and, with many thanks, he took leave of the master: As they left they

met a gardener; Patissot asked him: “Has Monsieur Meissonier owned this

place for a long time?” The man answered: “Oh, monsieur! that needs

explaining. I guess he bought the grounds in 1846. But, as for the

house! he has already torn down and rebuilt that five or six times. It

must have cost him at least two millions!” As Patissot left he was

seized with an immense respect for this man, not on account of his

success, glory or talent, but for putting so much money into a whim,

because the bourgeois deprive themselves of all pleasure in order to

hoard money.

After crossing Poissy, they struck out on foot along the road to Medan.

The road first followed the Seine, which is dotted with charming islands

at this place. Then they went up a hill and crossed the pretty village

of Villaines, went down a little; and finally reached the neighborhood

inhabited by the author of the Rougon-Macquart series.

A pretty old church with two towers appeared on the left. They walked

along a short distance, and a passing farmer directed them to the

writer's dwelling.

Before entering, they examined the house. A large building, square and

new, very high, seemed, as in the fable of the mountain and the mouse,

to have given birth to a tiny little white house, which nestled near it.

This little house was the original dwelling, and had been built by the

former owner. The tower had been erected by Zola.

They rang the bell. An enormous dog, a cross between a Saint Bernard and

a Newfoundland, began to howl so terribly that Patissot felt a vague

desire to retrace his steps. But a servant ran forward, calmed

“Bertrand,” opened the door, and took the journalist's card in order to

carry it to his master.

“I hope that he will receive us!” murmured Patissot. “It would be too

bad if we had come all this distance not to see him.”

His companion smiled and answered: “Never fear, I have a plan for

getting in.”

But the servant, who had returned, simply asked them to follow him.

They entered the new building, and Patissot, who was quite enthusiastic,

was panting as he climbed a stairway of ancient style which led to the

second story.

At the same time he was trying to picture to himself this man whose

glorious name echoes at present in all corners of the earth, amid the

exasperated hatred of some, the real or feigned indignation of society,

the envious scorn of several of his colleagues, the respect of a mass of

readers, and the frenzied admiration of a great number. He expected to

see a kind of bearded giant, of awe-inspiring aspect, with a thundering

voice and an appearance little prepossessing at first.

The door opened on a room of uncommonly large dimensions, broad and

high, lighted by an enormous window looking out over the valley. Old

tapestries covered the walls; on the left, a monumental fireplace,

flanked by two stone men, could have burned a century-old oak in one

day. An immense table littered with books, papers and magazines stood in

the middle of this apartment so vast and grand that it first engrossed

the eye, and the attention was only afterward drawn to the man,

stretched out when they entered on an Oriental divan where twenty

persons could have slept. He took a few steps toward them, bowed,

motioned to two seats, and turned back to his divan, where he sat with

one leg drawn under him. A book lay open beside him, and in his right

hand he held an ivory paper-cutter, the end of which he observed from

time to time with one eye, closing the other with the persistency of a

near-sighted person.

While the journalist explained the purpose of the visit, and the writer

listened to him without yet answering, at times staring at him fixedly,

Patissot, more and more embarrassed, was observing this celebrity.

Hardly forty, he was of medium height, fairly stout, and with a good-

natured look. His head (very similar to those found in many Italian

paintings of the sixteenth century), without being beautiful in the

plastic sense of the word, gave an impression of great strength of

character, power and intelligence. Short hair stood up straight on the

high, well-developed forehead. A straight nose stopped short, as if cut

off suddenly above the upper lip which was covered with a black

mustache; over the whole chin was a closely-cropped beard. The dark,

often ironical look was piercing, one felt that behind it there was a

mind always actively at work observing people, interpreting words,

analyzing gestures, uncovering the heart. This strong, round head was

appropriate to his name, quick and short, with the bounding resonance of

the two vowels.

When the journalist had fully explained his proposition, the writer

answered him that he did not wish to make any definite arrangement, that

he would, however, think the matter over, that his plans were not yet

sufficiently defined. Then he stopped. It was a dismissal, and the two

men, a little confused, arose. A desire seized Patissot; he wished this

well-known person to say something to him, anything, some word which he

could repeat to his colleagues; and, growing bold, he stammered: “Oh,

monsieur! If you knew how I appreciate your works!” The other bowed, but

answered nothing. Patissot became very bold and continued: “It is a

great honor for me to speak to you to-day.” The writer once more bowed,

but with a stiff and impatient look. Patissot noticed it, and,

completely losing his head, he added as he retreated: “What a su—su

—superb property!”

Then, in the heart of the man of letters, the landowner awoke, and,

smiling, he opened the window to show them the immense stretch of view.

An endless horizon broadened out on all sides, giving a view of Triel,

Pisse-Fontaine, Chanteloup, all the heights of Hautrie, and the Seine as

far as the eye could see. The two visitors, delighted, congratulated

him, and the house was opened to them. They saw everything, down to the

dainty kitchen, whose walls and even ceilings were covered with

porcelain tiles ornamented with blue designs, which excited the wonder

of the farmers.

“How did you happen to buy this place?” asked the journalist.

The novelist explained that, while looking for a cottage to hire for the

summer, he had found the little house, which was for sale for several

thousand francs, a song, almost nothing. He immediately bought it.

“But everything that you have added must have cost you a good deal!”

The writer smiled, and answered: “Yes, quite a little.”

The two men left. The journalist, taking Patissot by the arm, was

philosophizing in a low voice:

“Every general has his Waterloo,” he said; “every Balzac has his

Jardies, and every artist living in the country feels like a landed

proprietor.”

They took the train at the station of Villaines, and, on the way home,

Patissot loudly mentioned the names of the famous painter and of the

great novelist as though they were his friends. He even allowed people

to think that he had taken luncheon with one and dinner with the other.

BEFORE THE CELEBRATION

The celebration is approaching and preliminary quivers are already

running through the streets, just as the ripples disturb the water

preparatory to a storm. The shops, draped with flags, display a variety

of gay-colored bunting materials, and the dry-goods people deceive one

about the three colors as grocers do about the weight of candles. Little

by little, hearts warm up to the matter; people speak about it in the

street after dinner; ideas are exchanged:

“What a celebration it will be, my friend; what a celebration!”

“Have you heard the news? All the rulers are coming incognito, as

bourgeois, in order to see it.”

“I hear that the Emperor of Russia has arrived; he expects to go about

everywhere with the Prince of Wales.”

“It certainly will be a fine celebration!”

It is going to a celebration; what Monsieur Patissot, Parisian

bourgeois, calls a celebration; one of these nameless tumults which, for

fifteen hours, roll from one end of the city to the other, every ugly

specimen togged out in its finest, a mob of perspiring bodies, where

side by side are tossed about the stout gossip bedecked in red, white

and blue ribbons, grown fat behind her counter and panting from lack of

breath, the rickety clerk with his wife and brat in tow, the laborer

carrying his youngster astride his neck, the bewildered provincial with

his foolish, dazed expression, the groom, barely shaved and still

spreading the perfume of the stable. And the foreigners dressed like

monkeys, English women like giraffes, the water-carrier, cleaned up for

the occasion, and the innumerable phalanx of little bourgeois,

inoffensive little people, amused at everything. All this crowding and

pressing, the sweat and dust, and the turmoil, all these eddies of human

flesh, trampling of corns beneath the feet of your neighbors, this city

all topsy-turvy, these vile odors, these frantic efforts toward nothing,

the breath of millions of people, all redolent of garlic, give to

Monsieur Patissot all the joy which it is possible for his heart to

hold.

After reading the proclamation of the mayor on the walls of his district

he had made his preparations.

This bit of prose said:

I wish to call your attention particularly to the part of individuals in

this celebration. Decorate your homes, illuminate your windows. Get

together, open up a subscription in order to give to your houses and to

your street a more brilliant and more artistic appearance than the

neighboring houses and streets.

Then Monsieur Patissot tried to imagine how he could give to his home an

artistic appearance.

One serious obstacle stood in the way. His only window looked out on a

courtyard, a narrow, dark shaft, where only the rats could have seen his

three Japanese lanterns.

He needed a public opening. He found it. On the first floor of his house

lived a rich man, a nobleman and a royalist, whose coachman, also a

reactionary, occupied a garret-room on the sixth floor, facing the

street. Monsieur Patissot supposed that by paying (every conscience can

be bought) he could obtain the use of the room for the day. He proposed

five francs to this citizen of the whip for the use of his room from

noon till midnight. The offer was immediately accepted.

Then he began to busy himself with the decorations. Three flags, four

lanterns, was that enough to give to this box an artistic appearance—to

express all the noble feelings of his soul? No; assuredly not! But,

notwithstanding diligent search and nightly meditation, Monsieur

Patissot could think of nothing else. He consulted his neighbors, who

were surprised at the question; he questioned his colleagues—every one

had bought lanterns and flags, some adding, for the occasion, red, white

and blue bunting.

Then he began to rack his brains for some original idea. He frequented

the cafes, questioning the patrons; they lacked imagination. Then one

morning he went out on top of an omnibus. A respectable-looking

gentleman was smoking a cigar beside him, a little farther away a

laborer was smoking his pipe upside down, near the driver two rough

fellows were joking, and clerks of every description were going to

business for three cents.

Before the stores stacks of flags were resplendent under the rising sun.

Patissot turned to his neighbor.

“It is going to be a fine celebration,” he said. The gentleman looked at

him sideways and answered in a haughty manner:

“That makes no difference to me!”

“You are not going to take part in it?” asked the surprised clerk. The

other shook his head disdainfully and declared:

“They make me tired with their celebrations! Whose celebration is it?

The government's? I do not recognize this government, monsieur!”

But Patissot, as government employee, took on his superior manner, and

answered in a stern voice:

“Monsieur, the Republic is the government.”

His neighbor was not in the least disturbed, and, pushing his hands down

in his pockets, he exclaimed:

“Well, and what then? It makes no difference to me. Whether it's for the

Republic or something else, I don't care! What I want, monsieur, is to

know my government. I saw Charles X. and adhered to him, monsieur; I saw

Louis-Philippe and adhered to him, monsieur; I saw Napoleon and adhered

to him; but I have never seen the Republic.”

Patissot, still serious, answered:

“The Republic, monsieur, is represented by its president!”

The other grumbled:

“Well, them, show him to me!”

Patissot shrugged his shoulders.

“Every one can see him; he's not shut up in a closet!”

Suddenly the fat man grew angry.

“Excuse me, monsieur, he cannot be seen. I have personally tried more

than a hundred times, monsieur. I have posted myself near the Elysee; he

did not come out. A passer-by informed me that he was playing billiards

in the cafe opposite; I went to the cafe opposite; he was not there. I

had been promised that he would go to Melun for the convention; I went

to Melun, I did not see him. At last I became weary. I did not even see

Monsieur Gambetta, and I do not know a single deputy.”

He was, growing excited:

“A government, monsieur, is made to be seen; that's what it's there for,

and for nothing else. One must be able to know that on such and such a

day at such an hour the government will pass through such and such a

street. Then one goes there and is satisfied.”

Patissot, now calm, was enjoying his arguments.

“It is true,” he said, “that it is agreeable to know the people by whom

one is governed.”

The gentleman continued more gently:

“Do you know how I would manage the celebration? Well, monsieur, I would

have a procession of gilded cars, like the chariots used at the crowning

of kings; in them I would parade all the members of the government, from

the president to the deputies, throughout Paris all day long. In that

manner, at least, every one would know by sight the personnel of the

state.”

But one of the toughs near the coachman turned around, exclaiming:

“And the fatted ox, where would you put him?”

A laugh ran round the two benches. Patissot understood the objection,

and murmured:

“It might not perhaps be very dignified.”

The gentleman thought the matter over and admitted it.

“Then,” he said, “I would place them in view some place, so that every

one could see them without going out of his way; on the Triumphal Arch

at the Place de l'Etoile, for instance; and I would have the whole

population pass before them. That would be very imposing.”

Once more the tough turned round and said:

“You'd have to take telescopes to see their faces.”

The gentleman did not answer; he continued:

“It's just like the presentation of the flags! There ought to be some

pretext, a mimic war ought to be organized, and the banners would be

awarded to the troops as a reward. I had an idea about which I wrote to

the minister; but he has not deigned to answer me. As the taking of the

Bastille has been chosen for the date of the national celebration, a

reproduction of this event might be made; there would be a pasteboard

Bastille, fixed up by a scene-painter and concealing within its walls

the whole Column of July. Then, monsieur, the troop would attack. That

would be a magnificent spectacle as well as a lesson, to see the army

itself overthrow the ramparts of tyranny. Then this Bastille would be

set fire to and from the midst of the flames would appear the Column

with the genius of Liberty, symbol of a new order and of the freedom of

the people.”

This time every one was listening to him and finding his idea excellent.

An old gentleman exclaimed:

“That is a great idea, monsieur, which does you honor. It is to be

regretted that the government did not adopt it.”

A young man declared that actors ought to recite the “Iambes” of Barbier

through the streets in order to teach the people art and liberty

simultaneously.

These propositions excited general enthusiasm. Each one wished to have

his word; all were wrought up. From a passing hand-organ a few strains

of the Marseillaise were heard; the laborer started the song, and

everybody joined in, roaring the chorus. The exalted nature of the song

and its wild rhythm fired the driver, who lashed his horses to a gallop.

Monsieur Patissot was bawling at the top of his lungs, and the

passengers inside, frightened, were wondering what hurricane had struck

them.

At last they stopped, and Monsieur Patissot, judging his neighbor to be

a man of initiative, consulted him about the preparations which he

expected to make:

“Lanterns and flags are all right,”' said Patissot; “but I prefer

something better.”

The other thought for a long time, but found nothing. Then, in despair,

the clerk bought three flags and four lanterns.

AN EXPERIMENT IN LOVE

Many poets think that nature is incomplete without women, and hence,

doubtless, come all the flowery comparisons which, in their songs, make

our natural companion in turn a rose, a violet, a tulip, or something of

that order. The need of tenderness which seizes us at dusk, when the

evening mist begins to roll in from the hills, and when all the perfumes

of the earth intoxicate us, is but imperfectly satisfied by lyric

invocations. Monsieur Patissot, like all others, was seized with a wild

desire for tenderness, for sweet kisses exchanged along a path where

sunshine steals in at times, for the pressure of a pair of small hands,

for a supple waist bending under his embrace.

He began to look at love as an unbounded pleasure, and, in his hours of

reverie, he thanked the Great Unknown for having put so much charm into

the caresses of human beings. But he needed a companion, and he did not

know where to find one. On the advice of a friend, he went to the

Folies-Bergere. There he saw a complete assortment. He was greatly

perplexed to choose between them, for the desires of his heart were

chiefly composed of poetic impulses, and poetry did not seem to be the

strong point of these young ladies with penciled eyebrows who smiled at

him in such a disturbing manner, showing the enamel of their false

teeth. At last his choice fell on a young beginner who seemed poor and

timid and whose sad look seemed to announce a nature easily influenced

by poetry.

He made an appointment with her for the following day at nine o'clock at

the Saint-Lazare station. She did not come, but she was kind enough to

send a friend in her stead.

She was a tall, red-haired girl, patriotically dressed in three colors,

and covered by an immense tunnel hat, of which her head occupied the

centre. Monsieur Patissot, a little disappointed, nevertheless accepted

this substitute. They left for Maisons-Laffite, where regattas and a

grand Venetian festival had been announced.

As soon as they were in the car, which was already occupied by two

gentlemen who wore the red ribbon and three ladies who must at least

have been duchesses, they were so dignified, the big red-haired girl,

who answered the name of Octavie, announced to Patissot, in a screeching

voice, that she was a fine girl fond of a good time and loving the

country because there she could pick flowers and eat fried fish. She

laughed with a shrillness which almost shattered the windows, familiarly

calling her companion “My big darling.”

Shame overwhelmed Patissot, who as a government employee, had to observe

a certain amount of decorum. But Octavie stopped talking, glancing at

her neighbors, seized with the overpowering desire which haunts all

women of a certain class to make the acquaintance of respectable women.

After about five minutes she thought she had found an opening, and,

drawing from her pocket a Gil-Blas, she politely offered it to one of

the amazed ladies, who declined, shaking her head. Then the big, red-

haired girl began saying things with a double meaning, speaking of women

who are stuck up without being any better than the others; sometimes she

would let out a vulgar word which acted like a bomb exploding amid the

icy dignity of the passengers.

At last they arrived. Patissot immediately wished to gain the shady

nooks of the park, hoping that the melancholy of the forest would quiet

the ruffled temper of his companion. But an entirely different effect

resulted. As soon as she was amid the leaves and grass she began to sing

at the top of her lungs snatches from operas which had stuck in her

frivolous mind, warbling and trilling, passing from “Robert le Diable”

to the “Muette,” lingering especially on a sentimental love-song, whose

last verses she sang in a voice as piercing as a gimlet.

Then suddenly she grew hungry. Patissot, who was still awaiting the

hoped-for tenderness, tried in vain to retain her. Then she grew angry,

exclaiming:

“I am not here for a dull time, am I?”

He had to take her to the Petit-Havre restaurant, which was near the

place where the regatta was to be held.

She ordered an endless luncheon, a succession of dishes substantial

enough to feed a regiment. Then, unable to wait, she called for

relishes. A box of sardines was brought; she started in on it as though

she intended to swallow the box itself. But when she had eaten two or

three of the little oily fish she declared that she was no longer hungry

and that she wished to see the preparations for the race.

Patissot, in despair and in his turn seized with hunger, absolutely

refused to move. She started off alone, promising to return in time for

the dessert. He began to eat in lonely silence, not knowing how to lead

this rebellious nature to the realization of his dreams.

As she did not return he set out in search of her. She had found some

friends, a troop of boatmen, in scanty garb, sunburned to the tips of

their ears, and gesticulating, who were loudly arranging the details of

the race in front of the house of Fourmaise, the builder.

Two respectable-looking gentlemen, probably the judges, were listening

attentively. As soon as she saw Patissot, Octavie, who was leaning on

the tanned arm of a strapping fellow who probably had more muscle than

brains, whispered a few words in his ears. He answered:

“That's an agreement.”

She returned to the clerk full of joy, her eyes sparkling, almost

caressing.

“Let's go for a row,” said she.

Pleased to see her so charming, he gave in to this new whim and procured

a boat. But she obstinately refused to go to the races, notwithstanding

Patissot's wishes.

“I had rather be alone with you, darling.”

His heart thrilled. At last!

He took off his coat and began to row madly.

An old dilapidated mill, whose worm-eaten wheels hung over the water,

stood with its two arches across a little arm of the river. Slowly they

passed beneath it, and, when they were on the other side, they noticed

before them a delightful little stretch of river, shaded by great trees

which formed an arch over their heads. The little stream flowed along,

winding first to the right and then to the left, continually revealing

new scenes, broad fields on one side and on the other side a hill

covered with cottages. They passed before a bathing establishment almost

entirely hidden by the foliage, a charming country spot where gentlemen

in clean gloves and beribboned ladies displayed all the ridiculous

awkwardness of elegant people in the country. She cried joyously:

“Later on we will take a dip there.”

Farther on, in a kind of bay, she wished to stop, coaxing:

“Come here, honey, right close to me.”

She put her arm around his neck and, leaning her head on his shoulder,

she murmured:

“How nice it is! How delightful it is on the water!”

Patissot was reveling in happiness. He was thinking of those foolish

boatmen who, without ever feeling the penetrating charm of the river

banks and the delicate grace of the reeds, row along out of breath,

perspiring and tired out, from the tavern where they take luncheon to

the tavern where they take dinner.

He was so comfortable that he fell asleep. When he awoke, he was alone.

He called, but no one answered. Anxious, he climbed up on the side of

the river, fearing that some accident might have happened.

Then, in the distance, coming in his direction, he saw a long, slender

gig which four oarsmen as black as negroes were driving through the

water like an arrow. It came nearer, skimming over the water; a woman

was holding the tiller. Heavens! It looked—it was she! In order to

regulate the rhythm of the stroke, she was singing in her shrill voice a

boating song, which she interrupted for a minute as she got in front of

Patissot. Then, throwing him a kiss, she cried:

“You big goose!”

A DINNER AND SOME OPINIONS

On the occasion of the national celebration Monsieur Antoine Perdrix,

chief of Monsieur Patissot's department, was made a knight of the Legion

of Honor. He had been in service for thirty years under preceding

governments, and for ten years under the present one. His employees,

although grumbling a little at being thus rewarded in the person of

their chief, thought it wise, nevertheless, to offer him a cross studded

with paste diamonds. The new knight, in turn, not wishing to be outdone,

invited them all to dinner for the following Sunday, at his place at

Asnieres.

The house, decorated with Moorish ornaments, looked like a cafe concert,

but its location gave it value, as the railroad cut through the whole

garden, passing within a hundred and fifty feet of the porch. On the

regulation plot of grass stood a basin of Roman cement, containing

goldfish and a stream of water the size of that which comes from a

syringe, which occasionally made microscopic rainbows at which the

guests marvelled.

The feeding of this irrigator was the constant preoccupation of Monsieur

Perdrix, who would sometimes get up at five o'clock in the morning in

order to fill the tank. Then, in his shirt sleeves, his big stomach

almost bursting from his trousers, he would pump wildly, so that on

returning from the office he could have the satisfaction of letting the

fountain play and of imagining that it was cooling off the garden.

On the night of the official dinner all the guests, one after the other,

went into ecstasies over the surroundings, and each time they heard a

train in the distance, Monsieur Perdrix would announce to them its

destination: Saint-Germain, Le Havre, Cherbourg, or Dieppe, and they

would playfully wave to the passengers leaning from the windows.

The whole office force was there. First came Monsieur Capitaine, the

assistant chief; Monsieur Patissot, chief clerk; then Messieurs de

Sombreterre and Vallin, elegant young employees who only came to the

office when they had to; lastly Monsieur Rade, known throughout the

ministry for the absurd doctrines which he upheld, and the copying

clerk, Monsieur Boivin.

Monsieur Rade passed for a character. Some called him a dreamer or an

idealist, others a revolutionary; every one agreed that he was very

clumsy. Old, thin and small, with bright eyes and long, white hair, he

had all his life professed a profound contempt for administrative work.

A book rummager and a great reader, with a nature continually in revolt

against everything, a seeker of truth and a despiser of popular

prejudices, he had a clear and paradoxical manner of expressing his

opinions which closed the mouths of self-satisfied fools and of those

that were discontented without knowing why. People said: “That old fool

of a Rade,” or else: “That harebrained Rade”; and the slowness, of his

promotion seemed to indicate the reason, according to commonplace minds.

His freedom of speech often made—his colleagues tremble; they asked

themselves with terror how he had been able to keep his place as long as

he had. As soon as they had seated themselves, Monsieur Perdrix thanked

his “collaborators” in a neat little speech, promising them his

protection, the more valuable as his power grew, and he ended with a

stirring peroration in which he thanked and glorified a government so

liberal and just that it knows how to seek out the worthy from among the

humble.

Monsieur Capitaine, the assistant chief, answered in the name of the

office, congratulated, greeted, exalted, sang the praises of all;

frantic applause greeted these two bits of eloquence. After that they

settled down seriously to the business of eating.

Everything went well up to the dessert; lack of conversation went

unnoticed. But after the coffee a discussion arose, and Monsieur Rade

let himself loose and soon began to overstep the bounds of discretion.

They naturally discussed love, and a breath of chivalry intoxicated this

room full of bureaucrats; they praised and exalted the superior beauty

of woman, the delicacy of her soul, her aptitude for exquisite things,

the correctness of her judgment, and the refinement of her sentiments.

Monsieur Rade began to protest, energetically refusing to credit the so-

called “fair” sex with all the qualities they ascribed to it; then,

amidst the general indignation, he quoted some authors:

“Schopenhauer, gentlemen, Schopenhauer, the great philosopher, revered

by all Germany, says: 'Man's intelligence must have been terribly

deadened by love in order to call this sex with the small waist, narrow

shoulders, large hips and crooked legs, the fair sex. All its beauty

lies in the instinct of love. Instead of calling it the fair, it would

have been better to call it the unaesthetic sex. Women have neither the

appreciation nor the knowledge of music, any more than they have of

poetry or of the plastic arts; with them it is merely an apelike

imitation, pure pretence, affectation cultivated from their desire to

please.'”

“The man who said that is an idiot,” exclaimed Monsieur de Sombreterre.

Monsieur Rade smilingly continued:

“And how about Rousseau, gentlemen? Here is his opinion: 'Women, as a

rule, love no art, are skilled in none, and have no talent.'”

Monsieur de Sombreterre disdainfully shrugged his shoulders: