Short Story Classics - Vol. 4 (2024)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 73873 ***

(FOREIGN)

VOLUME FOUR
FRENCH I

EDITED BY
William Patten

WITH
AN INTRODUCTION
AND NOTES

P. F. COLLIER & SON
NEW YORK

CONTENTS—VOLUME IV

BY HONORÉ DE BALZAC

[Pg 1006]

TO A LORD

BY HONORÉ DE BALZAC

1845

I
GILLETTE

On a cold December morning in the year 1612,a young man, whose clothing was somewhatof the thinnest, was walking to and fro beforea gateway in the Rue des Grands-Augustins in Paris.He went up and down the street before this housewith the irresolution of a gallant who dares not ventureinto the presence of the mistress whom he lovesfor the first time, easy of access though she may be;but after a sufficiently long interval of hesitation, heat last crossed the threshold and inquired of an oldwoman, who was sweeping out a large room on theground floor, whether Master Porbus was within.Receiving a reply in the affirmative, the young manwent slowly up the staircase, like a gentleman butnewly come to court, and doubtful as to his receptionby the king. He came to a stand once more on thelanding at the head of the stairs, and again he hesitatedbefore raising his hand to the grotesque knocker[Pg 1008]on the door of the studio, where doubtless the painterwas at work—Master Porbus, sometime painter inordinary to Henri IV till Mary de’ Medici took Rubensinto favor.

The young man felt deeply stirred by an emotionthat must thrill the hearts of all great artists when,in the pride of their youth and their first love of art,they come into the presence of a master or stand beforea masterpiece. For all human sentiments there is atime of early blossoming, a day of generous enthusiasmthat gradually fades until nothing is left of happinessbut a memory, and glory is known for a delusion. Ofall these delicate and short-lived emotions, none so resemblelove as the passion of a young artist for hisart, as he is about to enter on the blissful martyrdomof his career of glory and disaster, of vague expectationsand real disappointments.

Those who have missed this experience in the earlydays of light purses; who have not, in the dawn oftheir genius, stood in the presence of a master and feltthe throbbing of their hearts, will always carry in theirinmost souls a chord that has never been touched, andin their work an indefinable quality will be lacking, asomething in the stroke of the brush, a mysteriouselement that we call poetry. The swaggerers, so puffedup by self-conceit that they are confident oversoon oftheir success, can never be taken for men of talentsave by fools. From this point of view, if youthfulmodesty is the measure of youthful genius, the strangeron the staircase might be allowed to have somethingin him; for he seemed to possess the indescribable[Pg 1009]diffidence, the early timidity that artists are bound tolose in the course of a great career, even as prettywomen lose it as they make progress in the arts ofcoquetry. Self-distrust vanishes as triumph succeedsto triumph, and modesty is, perhaps, distrust of itself.

The poor neophyte was so overcome by the consciousnessof his own presumption and insignificance,that it began to look as if he was hardly likely topenetrate into the studio of the painter, to whom weowe the wonderful portrait of Henri IV. But fate waspropitious; an old man came up the staircase. Fromthe quaint costume of this newcomer, his collar ofmagnificent lace, and a certain serene gravity in hisbearing, the first arrival thought that this personagemust be either a patron or a friend of the court painter.He stood aside therefore upon the landing to allowthe visitor to pass, scrutinizing him curiously the while.Perhaps he might hope to find the good nature of anartist or to receive the good offices of an amateur notunfriendly to the arts; but besides an almost diabolicalexpression in the face that met his gaze, there was thatindescribable something which has an irresistible attractionfor artists.

Picture that face. A bald high forehead and ruggedjutting brows above a small flat nose turned up at theend, as in the portraits of Socrates and Rabelais; deeplines about the mocking mouth; a short chin, carriedproudly, covered with a grizzled pointed beard; sea-greeneyes that age might seem to have dimmed wereit not for the contrast between the iris and the surroundingmother-of-pearl tints, so that it seemed as[Pg 1010]if under the stress of anger or enthusiasm there wouldbe a magnetic power to quell or kindle in their glances.The face was withered beyond wont by the fatigue ofyears, yet it seemed aged still more by the thoughtsthat had worn away both soul and body. There wereno lashes to the deep-set eyes, and scarcely a trace ofthe arching lines of the eyebrows above them. Setthis head on a spare and feeble frame, place it in aframe of lace wrought like an engraved silver fish-slice,imagine a heavy gold chain over the old man’sblack doublet, and you will have some dim idea ofthis strange personage, who seemed still more fantasticin the sombre twilight of the staircase. One of Rembrandt’sportraits might have stepped down from itsframe to walk in an appropriate atmosphere of gloom,such as the great painter loved. The older man gavethe younger a shrewd glance, and knocked thrice at thedoor. It was opened by a man of forty or thereabout,who seemed to be an invalid.

“Good day, Master.”

Porbus bowed respectfully, and held the door openfor the younger man to enter, thinking that the latteraccompanied his visitor; and when he saw that theneophyte stood a while as if spellbound, feeling, asevery artist-nature must feel, the fascinating influenceof the first sight of a studio in which the material processesof art are revealed, Porbus troubled himself nomore about this second comer.

All the light in the studio came from a window inthe roof, and was concentrated upon an easel, where acanvas stood untouched as yet save for three or four[Pg 1011]outlines in chalk. The daylight scarcely reached theremoter angles and corners of the vast room; theywere as dark as night, but the silver ornamentedbreastplate of a Reiter’s corselet, that hung upon thewall, attracted a stray gleam to its dim abiding-placeamong the brown shadows; or a shaft of light shotacross the carved and glistening surface of an antiquesideboard covered with curious silver-plate, orstruck out a line of glittering dots among the raisedthreads of the golden warp of some old brocaded curtains,where the lines of the stiff, heavy folds werebroken, as the stuff had been flung carelessly down toserve as a model.

Plaster écorchés stood about the room; and here andthere, on shelves and tables, lay fragments of classicalsculpture—torsos of antique goddesses, worn smoothas though all the years of the centuries that had passedover them had been lovers’ kisses. The walls werecovered, from floor to ceiling, with countless sketchesin charcoal, red chalk, or pen and ink. Amid the litterand confusion of color boxes, overturned stools, flasksof oil, and essences, there was just room to move so asto reach the illuminated circular space where the easelstood. The light from the window in the roof fell fullupon Porbus’s pale face and on the ivory-tinted foreheadof his strange visitor. But in another momentthe younger man heeded nothing but a picture thathad already become famous even in those stormy daysof political and religious revolution, a picture that afew of the zealous worshipers, who have so often keptthe sacred fire of art alive in evil days, were wont to[Pg 1012]go on pilgrimage to see. The beautiful panel representeda Saint Mary of Egypt about to pay her passageacross the seas. It was a masterpiece destined forMary de’ Medici, who sold it in later years of poverty.

“I like your saint,” the old man remarked, addressingPorbus. “I would give you ten golden crowns forher over and above the price the Queen is paying;but as for putting a spoke in that wheel—the deviltake it!”

“It is good then?”

“Hey! hey!” said the old man; “good, say you?—Yesand no. Your good woman is not badly done, butshe is not alive. You artists fancy that when a figureis correctly drawn, and everything in its place accordingto the rules of anatomy, there is nothing more tobe done. You make up the flesh tints beforehand onyour palettes according to your formulæ, and fill inthe outlines with due care that one side of the faceshall be darker than the other; and because you lookfrom time to time at a naked woman who stands on theplatform before you, you fondly imagine that you havecopied nature, think yourselves to be painters, believethat you have wrested His secret from God. Pshaw!You may know your syntax thoroughly and make noblunders in your grammar, but it takes that and somethingmore to make a great poet. Look at your saint,Porbus! At a first glance she is admirable; look ather again, and you see at once that she is glued to thebackground, and that you could not walk round her.She is a silhouette that turns but one side of her faceto all beholders, a figure cut out of canvas, an image[Pg 1013]with no power to move nor change her position. Ifeel as if there were no air between that arm and thebackground, no space, no sense of distance in your canvas.The perspective is perfectly correct, the strengthof the coloring is accurately diminished with the distance;but, in spite of these praiseworthy efforts, Icould never bring myself to believe that the warmbreath of life comes and goes in that beautiful body.It seems to me that if I laid my hand on the firm,rounded throat, it would be cold as marble to thetouch. No, my friend, the blood does not flow beneaththat ivory skin, the tide of life does not flushthose delicate fibres, the purple veins that trace a networkbeneath the transparent amber of her brow andbreast. Here the pulse seems to beat, there it is motionless,life and death are at strife in every detail;here you see a woman, there a statue, there again acorpse. Your creation is incomplete. You had onlypower to breathe a portion of your soul into yourbeloved work. The fire of Prometheus died out againand again in your hands; many a spot in your picturehas not been touched by the divine flame.”

“But how is it, dear master?” Porbus askedrespectfully, while the young man with difficultyrepressed his strong desire to beat the critic.

“Ah!” said the old man, “it is this! You havehalted between two manners. You have hesitated betweendrawing and color, between the dogged attentionto detail, the stiff precision of the German mastersand the dazzling glow, the joyous exuberance of Italianpainters. You have set yourself to imitate Hans[Pg 1014]Holbein and Titian, Albrecht Dürer and Paul Veronesein a single picture. A magnificent ambition truly, butwhat has come of it? Your work has neither thesevere charm of a dry execution nor the magical illusionof Italian chiaroscuro. Titian’s rich golden coloringpoured into Albrecht Dürer’s austere outlines hasshattered them, like molten bronze bursting throughthe mold that is not strong enough to hold it. Inother places the outlines have held firm, imprisoningand obscuring the magnificent, glowing flood of Venetiancolor. The drawing of the face is not perfect, thecoloring is not perfect; traces of that unlucky indecisionare to be seen everywhere. Unless you feltstrong enough to fuse the two opposed manners in thefire of your own genius, you should have cast in yourlot boldly with the one or the other, and so have obtainedthe unity which simulates one of the conditionsof life itself. Your work is only true in the centres;your outlines are false, they project nothing, there isno hint of anything behind them. There is truthhere,” said the old man, pointing to the breast of theSaint, “and again here,” he went on, indicating therounded shoulder. “But there,” once more returningto the column of the throat, “everything is false.Let us go no further into detail; you would be disheartened.”

The old man sat down on a stool, and remained awhile without speaking, with his face buried in hishands.

“Yet I studied that throat from the life, dear master,”Porbus began; “it happens sometimes, for our[Pg 1015]misfortune, that real effects in nature look improbablewhen transferred to canvas—”

“The aim of art is not to copy nature, but to expressit. You are not a servile copyist, but a poet!”cried the old man sharply, cutting Porbus short withan imperious gesture. “Otherwise a sculptor mightmake a plaster cast of a living woman and save himselfall further trouble. Well, try to make a cast ofyour mistress’s hand, and set up the thing before you.You will see a monstrosity, a dead mass, bearing noresemblance to the living hand; you would be compelledto have recourse to the chisel of a sculptor who,without making an exact copy, would represent foryou its movement and its life. We must detect thespirit, the informing soul in the appearances of thingsand beings. Effects! What are effects but the accidentsof life, not life itself? A hand, since I havetaken that example, is not only a part of a body, it isthe expression and extension of a thought that mustbe grasped and rendered. Neither painter nor poetnor sculptor may separate the effect from the cause,which are inevitably contained the one in the other.There begins the real struggle! Many a painterachieves success instinctively, unconscious of the taskthat is set before art. You draw a woman, yet youdo not see her! Not so do you succeed in wrestingNature’s secrets from her! You are reproducing mechanicallythe model that you copied in your master’sstudio. You do not penetrate far enough into the inmostsecrets of the mystery of form; you do not seekwith love enough and perseverance enough after the[Pg 1016]form that baffles and eludes you. Beauty is a thingsevere and unapproachable, never to be won by a languidlover. You must lie in wait for her coming andtake her unawares, press her hard and clasp her in atight embrace, and force her to yield. Form is aProteus more intangible and more manifold than theProteus of the legend; compelled, only after longwrestling, to stand forth manifest in his true aspect.Some of you are satisfied with the first shape, or atmost by the second or the third that appears. Notthus wrestle the victors, the unvanquished painterswho never suffer themselves to be deluded by all thosetreacherous shadow-shapes; they persevere till Natureat the last stands bare to their gaze, and her verysoul is revealed.

“In this manner worked Rafael,” said the old man,taking off his cap to express his reverence for the Kingof Art. “His transcendent greatness came of the intimatesense that, in him, seems as if it would shatterexternal form. Form in his figures (as with us) isa symbol, a means of communicating sensations, ideas,the vast imaginings of a poet. Every face is a wholeworld. The subject of the portrait appeared for himbathed in the light of a divine vision; it was revealedby an inner voice, the finger of God laid bare thesources of expression in the past of a whole life.

“You clothe your women in fair raiment of flesh,in gracious veiling of hair; but where is the blood, thesource of passion and of calm, the cause of the particulareffect? Why, this brown Egyptian of yours,my good Porbus, is a colorless creature! These figures[Pg 1017]that you set before us are painted bloodless fantoms;and you call that painting, you call that art!

“Because you have made something more like awoman than a house, you think that you have set yourfingers on the goal; you are quite proud that youneed not to write currus venustus or pulcher hom*obeside your figures, as early painters were wont to doand you fancy that you have done wonders. Ah! mygood friend, there is still something more to learn,and you will use up a great deal of chalk and covermany a canvas before you will learn it. Yes, truly, awoman carries her head in just such a way, so sheholds her garments gathered into her hand; her eyesgrow dreamy and soft with that expression of meeksweetness, and even so the quivering shadow of thelashes hovers upon her cheeks. It is all there, and yetit is not there. What is lacking? A nothing, but thatnothing is everything.

“There you have the semblance of life, but you donot express its fulness and effluence, that indescribablesomething, perhaps the soul itself, that envelopes theoutlines of the body like a haze; that flower of life,in short, that Titian and Rafael caught. Your utmostachievement hitherto has only brought you to the starting-point.You might now perhaps begin to do excellentwork, but you grow weary all too soon; andthe crowd admires, and those who know smile.”

“Oh, Mabuse! oh, my master!” cried the strangespeaker, “thou art a thief! Thou hast carried awaythe secret of life with thee!”

“Nevertheless,” he began again, “this picture of[Pg 1018]yours is worth more than all the paintings of thatrascal Rubens, with his mountains of Flemish fleshraddled with vermilion, his torrents of red hair, hisriot of color. You, at least have color there, andfeeling and drawing—the three essentials in art.”

The young man roused himself from his deepmusings.

“Why, my good man, the Saint is sublime!” he cried.“There is a subtlety of imagination about those twofigures, the Saint Mary and the Shipman, that can notbe found among Italian masters; I do not know asingle one of them capable of imagining the Shipman’shesitation.”

“Did that little malapert come with you?” askedPorbus of the older man.

“Alas! master, pardon my boldness,” cried the neophyte,and the color mounted to his face. “I am unknown—adauber by instinct, and but lately come tothis city—the fountain-head of all learning.”

“Set to work,” said Porbus, handing him a bit ofred chalk and a sheet of paper.

The newcomer quickly sketched the Saint Maryline for line.

“Aha!” exclaimed the old man. “Your name?” headded.

The young man wrote “Nicolas Poussin” below thesketch.

“Not bad that for a beginning,” said the strangespeaker, who had discoursed so wildly. “I see that wecan talk of art in your presence. I do not blame youfor admiring Porbus’s saint. In the eyes of the world[Pg 1019]she is a masterpiece, and those alone who have beeninitiated into the inmost mysteries of art can discoverher shortcomings. But it is worth while to give youthe lesson, for you are able to understand it, so I willshow you how little it needs to complete this picture.You must be all eyes, all attention, for it may be thatsuch a chance of learning will never come in your wayagain.—Porbus! your palette.”

Porbus went in search of palette and brushes. Thelittle old man turned back his sleeves with impatientenergy, seized the palette, covered with many hues, thatPorbus handed to him, and snatched rather than tooka handful of brushes of various sizes from the handsof his acquaintance. His pointed beard suddenlybristled—a menacing movement that expressed theprick of a lover’s fancy. As he loaded his brush, hemuttered between his teeth, “These paints are onlyfit to fling out of the window, together with the fellowwho ground them, their crudeness and falseness aredisgusting! How can one paint with this?”

He dipped the tip of the brush with feverish eagernessin the different pigments, making the circuit ofthe palette several times more quickly than the organistof a cathedral sweeps the octaves on the keyboard ofhis clavier for the “O Filii” at Easter.

Porbus and Poussin, on either side of the easel, stoodstock-still, watching with intense interest.

“Look, young man,” he began again, “see how threeor four strokes of the brush and a thin glaze of bluelet in the free air to play about the head of the poorSaint, who must have felt stifled and oppressed by the[Pg 1020]close atmosphere! See how the drapery begins to flutter;you feel that it is lifted by the breeze! A momentago it hung as heavily and stiffly as if it were held outby pins. Do you see how the satin sheen that I havejust given to the breast rends the pliant, silken softnessof a young girl’s skin, and how the brown-red, blendedwith burnt ochre, brings warmth into the cold gray ofthe deep shadow where the blood lay congealed insteadof coursing through the veins? Young man, youngman, no master could teach you how to do this that Iam doing before your eyes. Mabuse alone possessedthe secret of giving life to his figures; Mabuse had butone pupil—that was I. I have had none, and I am old.You have sufficient intelligence to imagine the restfrom the glimpses that I am giving you.”

While the old man was speaking, he gave a touchhere and there; sometimes two strokes of the brush,sometimes a single one; but every stroke told so well,that the whole picture seemed transfigured—the paintingwas flooded with light. He worked with such passionatefervor that beads of sweat gathered upon hisbare forehead; he worked so quickly, in brief, impatientjerks, that it seemed to young Poussin as if somefamiliar spirit inhabiting the body of this strangebeing took a grotesque pleasure in making use of theman’s hands against his own will. The unearthlyglitter of his eyes, the convulsive movements thatseemed like struggles, gave to this fancy a semblanceof truth which could not but stir a young imagination.The old man continued, saying as he did so—

“Paf! paf! that is how to lay it on, young man!—Little[Pg 1021] touches! come and bring a glow into those icycold tones for me! Just so! Pon! pon! pon!” andthose parts of the picture that he had pointed out ascold and lifeless flushed with warmer hues, a few boldstrokes of color brought all the tones of the pictureinto the required harmony with the glowing tints ofthe Egyptian, and the differences in temperamentvanished.

“Look you, youngster, the last touches make thepicture. Porbus has given it a hundred strokes forevery one of mine. No one thanks us for what liesbeneath. Bear that in mind.”

At last the restless spirit stopped, and turning toPorbus and Poussin, who were speechless with admiration,he spoke—

“This is not as good as my ‘Belle Noiseuse’; stillone might put one’s name to such a thing as this.—Yes,I would put my name to it,” he added, rising toreach for a mirror, in which he looked at the picture.—“Andnow,” he said, “will you both come and breakfastwith me? I have a smoked ham and some veryfair wine!... Eh! eh! the times may be bad, butwe can still have some talk about art! We can talklike equals.... Here is a little fellow who hasaptitude,” he added, laying a hand on Nicolas Poussin’sshoulder.

In this way the stranger became aware of the threadbarecondition of the Norman’s doublet. He drew aleather purse from his girdle, felt in it, found two goldcoins, and held them out.

“I will buy your sketch,” he said.

[Pg 1022]

“Take it,” said Porbus, as he saw the other startand flush with embarrassment, for Poussin had thepride of poverty. “Pray, take it; he has a couple ofking’s ransoms in his pouch!”

The three came down together from the studio, and,talking of art by the way, reached a picturesque woodenhouse hard by the Pont Saint-Michel. Poussin wondereda moment at its ornament, at the knocker, atthe frames of the casem*nts, at the scroll-work designs,and in the next he stood in a vast low-ceiledroom. A table, covered with tempting dishes, stoodnear the blazing fire, and (luck unhoped for) he wasin the company of two great artists full of genial goodhumor.

“Do not look too long at that canvas, young man,”said Porbus, when he saw that Poussin was standing,struck with wonder, before a painting. “You wouldfall a victim to despair.”

It was the “Adam” painted by Mabuse to purchasehis release from the prison where his creditors hadso long kept him. And, as a matter of fact, the figurestood out so boldly and convincingly, that NicolasPoussin began to understand the real meaning of thewords poured out by the old artist, who was himselflooking at the picture with apparent satisfaction, butwithout enthusiasm. “I have done better than that!”he seemed to be saying to himself.

“There is life in it,” he said aloud; “in that respectmy poor master here surpassed himself, but there issome lack of truth in the background. The man livesindeed; he is rising, and will come toward us; but the[Pg 1023]atmosphere, the sky, the air, the breath of the breeze—youlook and feel for them, but they are not there.And then the man himself is, after all, only a man!Ah! but the one man in the world who came directfrom the hands of God must have had a somethingdivine about him that is wanting here. Mabuse himselfwould grind his teeth and say so when he wasnot drunk.”

Poussin looked from the speaker to Porbus, andfrom Porbus to the speaker, with restless curiosity.He went up to the latter to ask for the name of theirhost; but the painter laid a finger on his lips with anair of mystery. The young man’s interest was excited;he kept silence, but hoped that sooner or latersome word might be let fall that would reveal thename of his entertainer. It was evident that he wasa man of talent and very wealthy, for Porbus listenedto him respectfully, and the vast room was crowdedwith marvels of art.

A magnificent portrait of a woman, hung againstthe dark oak panels of the wall, next caught Poussin’sattention.

“What a glorious Giorgione!” he cried.

“No,” said his host, “it is an early daub of mine—”

“Gramercy! I am in the abode of the god of painting,it seems!” cried Poussin ingenuously.

The old man smiled as if he had long grownfamiliar with such praise.

“Master Frenhofer!” said Porbus, “do you thinkyou could spare me a little of your capital Rhinewine?”

[Pg 1024]

“A couple of pipes!” answered his host; “one todischarge a debt, for the pleasure of seeing your prettysinner, the other as a present from a friend.”

“Ah! if I had my health,” returned Porbus, “andif you would but let me see your ‘Belle Noiseuse,’ Iwould paint some great picture, with breadth in itand depth; the figures should be life-size.”

“Let you see my work!” cried the painter in agitation.“No, no! it is not perfect yet; something stillremains for me to do. Yesterday, in the dusk,” hesaid, “I thought I had reached the end. Her eyesseemed moist, the flesh quivered, something stirredthe tresses of her hair. She breathed! But though Ihave succeeded in reproducing Nature’s roundness andrelief on the flat surface of the canvas, this morning,by daylight, I found out my mistake. Ah! to achievethat glorious result I have studied the works of thegreat masters of color, stripping off coat after coatof color from Titian’s canvas, analyzing the pigmentsof the king of light. Like that sovereign painter, Ibegan the face in a slight tone with a supple andfat paste—for shadow is but an accident; bear thatin mind, youngster!—Then I began afresh, and byhalf-tones and thin glazes of color less and less transparent,I gradually deepened the tints to the deepestblack of the strongest shadows. An ordinary paintermakes his shadows something entirely different innature from the high lights; they are wood or brass,or what you will, anything but flesh in shadow. Youfeel that even if those figures were to alter theirposition, those shadow stains would never be cleansed[Pg 1025]away, those parts of the picture would never glow withlight.

“I have escaped one mistake, into which the mostfamous painters have sometimes fallen; in my canvasthe whiteness shines through the densest andmost persistent shadow. I have not marked outthe limits of my figure in hard, dry outlines, andbrought every least anatomical detail into prominence(like a host of dunces, who fancy that theycan draw because they can trace a line elaboratelysmooth and clean), for the human body is not containedwithin the limits of line. In this the sculptorcan approach the truth more nearly than we painters.Nature’s way is a complicated succession of curvewithin curve. Strictly speaking, there is no suchthing as drawing.—Do not laugh, young man; strangeas that speech may seem to you, you will understandthe truth in it some day.—A line is a method of expressingthe effect of light upon an object; but thereare no lines in Nature, everything is solid. We drawby modeling, that is to say, that we disengage anobject from its setting; the distribution of the lightalone gives to a body the appearance by which weknow it. So I have not defined the outlines; I havesuffused them with a haze of half-tints warm orgolden, in such a sort that you can not lay your fingeron the exact spot where background and contoursmeet. Seen from near, the picture looks a blur; itseems to lack definition; but step back two paces, andthe whole thing becomes clear, distinct, and solid;the body stands out; the rounded form comes into relief;[Pg 1026]you feel that the air plays round it. And yet—Iam not satisfied; I have misgivings. Perhaps oneought not to draw a single line; perhaps it would bebetter to attack the face from the centre, taking thehighest prominences first, proceeding from themthrough the whole range of shadows to the heaviestof all. Is not this the method of the sun, the divinepainter of the world? Oh, Nature, Nature! who hassurprised thee, fugitive? But, after all, too muchknowledge, like ignorance, brings you to a negation.I have doubts about my work.”

There was a pause. Then the old man spoke again.“I have been at work upon it for ten years, youngman; but what are ten short years in a struggle withNature? Do we know how long Sir Pygmalionwrought at the one statue that came to life?”

The old man fell into deep musings, and gazedbefore him with wide unseeing eyes, while he playedunheedingly with his knife.

“Look, he is in conversation with his dæmon!” murmuredPorbus.

At the word, Nicolas Poussin felt himself carriedaway by an unaccountable accession of artist’s curiosity.For him the old man, at once intent and inert,the seer with the unseeing eyes, became somethingmore than a man—a fantastic spirit living in amysterious world, and countless vague thoughts awokewithin his soul. The effect of this species of fascinationupon his mind can no more be described in wordsthan the passionate longing awakened in an exile’sheart by the song that recalls his home. He thought[Pg 1027]of the scorn that the old man affected to displayfor the noblest efforts of art, of his wealth, his manners,of the deference paid to him by Porbus. Themysterious picture, the work of patience on which hehad wrought so long in secret, was doubtless a workof genius, for the head of the Virgin which youngPoussin had admired so frankly was beautiful evenbeside Mabuse’s “Adam”—there was no mistakingthe imperial manner of one of the princes of art.Everything combined to set the old man beyond thelimits of human nature.

Out of the wealth of fancies in Nicolas Poussin’sbrain an idea grew, and gathered shape and clearness.He saw in this supernatural being a complete typeof the artist nature, a nature mocking and kindly,barren and prolific, an erratic spirit intrusted withgreat and manifold powers which she too often abuses,leading sober reason, the Philistine, and sometimeseven the amateur forth into a stony wilderness wherethey see nothing; but the white-winged maiden herself,wild as her fancies may be, finds epics there andcastles and works of art. For Poussin, the enthusiast,the old man, was suddenly transfigured, andbecame Art incarnate, Art with its mysteries, itsvehement passion and its dreams.

“Yes, my dear Porbus,” Frenhofer continued,“hitherto I have never found a flawless model, a bodywith outlines of perfect beauty, the carnations—Ah!where does she live?” he cried, breaking in upon himself,“the undiscoverable Venus of the older time,for whom we have sought so often, only to find the[Pg 1028]scattered gleams of her beauty here and there? Oh!to behold once and for one moment, Nature grownperfect and divine, the Ideal at last, I would give allthat I possess.... Nay, Beauty divine, I wouldgo to seek thee in the dim land of the dead; likeOrpheus, I would go down into the Hades of Art tobring back the life of art from among the shadowsof death.”

“We can go now,” said Porbus to Poussin. “Heneither hears nor sees us any longer.”

“Let us go to his studio,” said young Poussin,wondering greatly.

“Oh! the old fox takes care that no one shall enterit. His treasures are so carefully guarded that it isimpossible for us to come at them. I have not waitedfor your suggestion and your fancy to attempt to layhands on this mystery by force.”

“So there is a mystery?”

“Yes,” answered Porbus. “Old Frenhofer is theonly pupil Mabuse would take. Frenhofer became thepainter’s friend, deliverer, and father; he sacrificedthe greater part of his fortune to enable Mabuse toindulge in riotous extravagance, and in return Mabusebequeathed to him the secret of relief, the power ofgiving to his figures the wonderful life, the flowerof Nature, the eternal despair of art, the secret whichMabuse knew so well that one day when he had soldthe flowered brocade suit in which he should haveappeared at the Entry of Charles V, he accompaniedhis master in a suit of paper painted to resemble thebrocade. The peculiar richness and splendor of the[Pg 1029]stuff struck the Emperor; he complimented the olddrunkard’s patron on the artist’s appearance, and sothe trick was brought to light. Frenhofer is a passionateenthusiast, who sees above and beyond other painters.He has meditated profoundly on color, and theabsolute truth of line; but by the way of much researchhe has come to doubt the very existence of theobjects of his search. He says, in moments of despondency,that there is no such thing as drawing, andthat by means of lines we can only reproducegeometrical figures; but that is overshooting the mark,for by outline and shadow you can reproduce formwithout any color at all, which shows that ourart, like Nature, is composed of an infinite numberof elements. Drawing gives you the skeleton, theanatomical framework, and color puts the life intoit; but life without the skeleton is even more incompletethan a skeleton without life. But there issomething else truer still, and it is this—for painters,practise and observation are everything; and whentheories and poetical ideas begin to quarrel with thebrushes, the end is doubt, as has happened with ourgood friend, who is half crack-brained enthusiast,half painter. A sublime painter! but unluckily forhim, he was born to riches, and so he has leisure tofollow his fancies. Do not you follow his example!Work! painters have no business to think, exceptbrush in hand.”

“We will find a way into his studio!” cried Poussinconfidently. He had ceased to heed Porbus’s remarks.The other smiled at the young painter’s enthusiasm,[Pg 1030]asked him to come to see him again, and they parted.Nicholas Poussin went slowly back to the Rue de laHarpe, and passed the modest hostelry where he waslodging without noticing it. A feeling of uneasinessprompted him to hurry up the crazy staircase till hereached a room at the top, a quaint, airy recess underthe steep, high-pitched roof common among housesin old Paris. In the one dingy window of the placesat a young girl, who sprang up at once when sheheard some one at the door; it was the prompting oflove; she had recognized the painter’s touch on thelatch.

“What is the matter with you?” she asked.

“The matter is ... is.... Oh! I have feltthat I am a painter! Until to-day I have had doubts,but now I believe in myself! There is the makingof a great man in me! Never mind, Gillette, weshall be rich and happy! There is gold at the tips ofthose brushes—”

He broke off suddenly. The joy faded from hispowerful and earnest face as he compared his vasthopes with his slender resources. The walls werecovered with sketches in chalk on sheets of commonpaper. There were but four canvases in the room.Colors were very costly, and the young painter’s palettewas almost bare. Yet in the midst of his poverty hepossessed and was conscious of the possession of inexhaustibletreasures of the heart, of a devouringgenius equal to all the tasks that lay before him.

He had been brought to Paris by a nobleman amonghis friends, or perchance by the consciousness of his[Pg 1031]powers; and in Paris he had found a mistress, oneof those noble and generous souls who choose tosuffer by a great man’s side, who share his strugglesand strive to understand his fancies, accepting theirlot of poverty and love as bravely and dauntlessly asother women will set themselves to bear the burdenof riches and make a parade of their insensibility.The smile that stole over Gillette’s lips filled the garretwith golden light, and rivaled the brightness ofthe sun in heaven. The sun, moreover, does notalways shine in heaven, whereas Gillette was alwaysin the garret, absorbed in her passion, occupied byPoussin’s happiness and sorrow, consoling the geniuswhich found an outlet in love before art engrossed it.

“Listen, Gillette. Come here.”

The girl obeyed joyously, and sprang upon thepainter’s knee. Hers was perfect grace and beauty,and the loveliness of spring; she was adorned withall luxuriant fairness of outward form, lighted up bythe glow of a fair soul within.

“Oh! God,” he cried; “I shall never dare to tellher—”

“A secret?” she cried; “I must know it!”

Poussin was absorbed in his dreams.

“Do tell it me!”

“Gillette ... poor beloved heart!...”

“Oh! do you want something of me?”

“Yes.”

“If you wish me to sit once more for you as I didthe other day,” she continued with playful petulance,“I will never consent to do such a thing again, for[Pg 1032]your eyes say nothing all the while. You do not thinkof me at all, and yet you look at me—”

“Would you rather have me draw another woman?”

“Perhaps—if she were very ugly,” she said.

“Well,” said Poussin gravely, “and if, for the sakeof my fame to come, if to make me a great painter,you must sit to some one else?”

“You may try me,” she said; “you know quite wellthat I would not.”

Poussin’s head sank on her breast; he seemed to beoverpowered by some intolerable joy or sorrow.

“Listen,” she cried, plucking at the sleeve ofPoussin’s threadbare doublet. “I told you, Nick,that I would lay down my life for you; but I neverpromised you that I in my lifetime would lay downmy love.”

“Your love?” cried the young artist.

“If I showed myself thus to another, you wouldlove me no longer, and I should feel myself unworthyof you. Obedience to your fancies was a natural andsimple thing, was it not? Even against my own will,I am glad and even proud to do thy dear will. But foranother, out upon it!”

“Forgive me, my Gillette,” said the painter, fallingupon his knees; “I would rather be beloved thanfamous. You are fairer than success and honors.There, fling the pencils away, and burn these sketches!I have made a mistake. I was meant to love and notto paint. Perish art and all its secrets!”

Gillette looked admiringly at him, in an ecstasy ofhappiness! She was triumphant; she felt instinctively[Pg 1033]that art was laid aside for her sake, and flung like agrain of incense at her feet.

“Yet he is only an old man,” Poussin continued;“for him you would be a woman, and nothing more.You—so perfect!”

“I must love you indeed!” she cried, ready to sacrificeeven love’s scruples to the lover who had givenup so much for her sake; “but I should bring aboutmy own ruin. Ah! to ruin myself, to lose everythingfor you!... It is a very glorious thought! Ah! butyou will forget me. Oh! what evil thought is this thathas come to you?”

“I love you, and yet I thought of it,” he said, withsomething like remorse. “Am I so base a wretch?”

“Let us consult Père Hardouin,” she said.

“No, no! Let it be a secret between us.”

“Very well; I will do it. But you must not bethere,” she said. “Stay at the door with your daggerin your hand; and if I call, rush in and kill thepainter.”

Poussin forgot everything but art. He held Gillettetightly in his arms.

“He loves me no longer!” thought Gillette when shewas alone. She repented of her resolution already.

But to these misgivings there soon succeeded asharper pain, and she strove to banish a hideousthought that arose in her own heart. It seemed to herthat her own love had grown less already, with avague suspicion that the painter had fallen somewhatin her eyes.

[Pg 1034]

II
CATHERINE LESCAULT

Three months after Poussin and Porbus met, thelatter went to see Master Frenhofer. The old manhad fallen a victim to one of those profound and spontaneousfits of discouragement that are caused, accordingto medical logicians, by indigestion, flatulence,fever, or enlargement of the spleen; or, if you takethe opinion of the Spiritualists, by the imperfectionsof our mortal nature. The good man had simply overworkedhimself in putting the finishing touches to hismysterious picture. He was lounging in a huge carvedoak chair, covered with black leather, and did notchange his listless attitude, but glanced at Porbus likea man who has settled down into low spirits.

“Well, master,” said Porbus, “was the ultramarinebad that you sent for to Bruges? Is the new whitedifficult to grind? Is the oil poor, or are the brushesrecalcitrant?”

“Alas!” cried the old man, “for a moment I thoughtthat my work was finished, but I am sure that I ammistaken in certain details, and I can not rest until Ihave cleared my doubts. I am thinking of traveling.I am going to Turkey, to Greece, to Asia, in quest ofa model, so as to compare my picture with the differentliving forms of Nature. Perhaps,” and a smile ofcontentment stole over his face, “perhaps I have Natureherself up there. At times I am half afraid thata breath may waken her, and that she will escape me.”

[Pg 1035]

He rose to his feet as if to set out at once.

“Aha!” said Porbus, “I have come just in time tosave you the trouble and expense of a journey.”

“What?” asked Frenhofer in amazement.

“Young Poussin is loved by a woman of incomparableand flawless beauty. But, dear master, if he consentsto lend her to you, at the least you ought to letus see your work.”

The old man stood motionless and completely dazed.

“What!” he cried piteously at last, “show you mycreation, my bride? Rend the veil that has kept myhappiness sacred? It would be an infamous profanation.For ten years I have lived with her; she is mine,mine alone; she loves me. Has she not smiled at me,at each stroke of the brush upon the canvas? She hasa soul—the soul that I have given her. She wouldblush if any eyes but mine should rest on her. Toexhibit her! Where is the husband, the lover so vileas to bring the woman he loves to dishonor? Whenyou paint a picture for the court, you do not put yourwhole soul into it; to courtiers you sell lay figuresduly colored. My painting is no painting, it is a sentiment,a passion. She was born in my studio, thereshe must dwell in maiden solitude, and only when cladcan she issue thence. Poetry and women only lay thelast veil aside for their lovers. Have we Rafael’smodel, Ariosto’s Angelica, Dante’s Beatrice? Nay,only their form and semblance. But this picture,locked away above in my studio, is an exception inour art. It is not a canvas, it is a woman—a womanwith whom I talk. I share her thoughts, her tears,[Pg 1036]her laughter. Would you have me fling aside theseten years of happiness like a cloak? Would you haveme cease at once to be father, lover, and creator? Sheis not a creature, but a creation.

“Bring your young painter here. I will give himmy treasures; I will give him pictures by Correggioand Michelangelo and Titian; I will kiss his footprintsin the dust; but make him my rival! Shame onme. Ah! ah! I am a lover first, and then a painter.Yes, with my latest sigh I could find strength to burnmy ‘Belle Noiseuse’; but—compel her to endure thegaze of a stranger, a young man and a painter!—Ah!no, no! I would kill him on the morrow who shouldsully her with a glance! Nay, you, my friend, I wouldkill you with my own hands in a moment if you didnot kneel in reverence before her! Now, will youhave me submit my idol to the careless eyes andsenseless criticisms of fools? Ah! love is a mystery;it can only live hidden in the depths of the heart. Yousay, even to your friend, ‘Behold her whom I love,’and there is an end of love.”

The old man seemed to have grown young again;there was light and life in his eyes, and a faintflush of red in his pale face. His hands shook. Porbuswas so amazed by the passionate vehemence ofFrenhofer’s words that he knew not what to reply tothis utterance of an emotion as strange as it was profound.Was Frenhofer sane or mad? Had he fallena victim to some freak of the artist’s fancy? or werethese ideas of his produced by the strange light-headednesswhich comes over us during the long travail of[Pg 1037]a work of art. Would it be possible to come to termswith this singular passion?

Harassed by all these doubts, Porbus spoke—“Isit not woman for woman?” he said. “Does not Poussinsubmit his mistress to your gaze?”

“What is she?” retorted the other. “A mistresswho will be false to him sooner or later. Mine will befaithful to me forever.”

“Well, well,” said Porbus, “let us say no moreabout it. But you may die before you will find sucha flawless beauty as hers, even in Asia, and then yourpicture will be left unfinished.

“Oh! it is finished,” said Frenhofer. “Standingbefore it you would think that it was a living womanlying on the velvet couch beneath the shadow of thecurtains. Perfumes are burning on a golden tripodby her side. You would be tempted to lay your handupon the tassel of the cord that holds back the curtains;it would seem to you that you saw her breastrise and fall as she breathed; that you beheld the livingCatherine Lescault, the beautiful courtezan whommen called ‘La Belle Noiseuse,’ And yet—if I couldbut be sure—”

“Then go to Asia,” returned Porbus, noticing acertain indecision in Frenhofer’s face. And with thatPorbus made a few steps toward the door.

By that time Gillette and Nicolas Poussin hadreached Frenhofer’s house. The girl drew away herarm from her lover’s as she stood on the threshold,and shrank back as if some presentiment flashedthrough her mind.

[Pg 1038]

“Oh! what have I come to do here?” she asked ofher lover in low vibrating tones, with her eyes fixedon his.

“Gillette, I have left you to decide; I am ready toobey you in everything. You are my conscience andmy glory. Go home again; I shall be happier, perhaps,if you do not—”

“Am I my own when you speak to me like that?No, no; I am like a child.—Come,” she added, seeminglywith a violent effort; “if our love dies, if Iplant a long regret in my heart, your fame will bethe reward of my obedience to your wishes, will itnot? Let us go in. I shall still live on as a memoryon your palette; that shall be life for me afterward.”

The door opened, and the two lovers encounteredPorbus, who was surprised by the beauty of Gillette,whose eyes were full of tears. He hurried her, tremblingfrom head to foot, into the presence of the oldpainter.

“Here!” he cried, “is she not worth all the masterpiecesin the world!”

Frenhofer trembled. There stood Gillette in theartless and childlike attitude of some timid and innocentGeorgian, carried off by brigands, and confrontedwith a slave merchant. A shamefaced redflushed her face, her eyes drooped, her hands hungby her side, her strength seemed to have failed her,her tears protested against this outrage. Poussincursed himself in despair that he should have broughthis fair treasure from its hiding-place. The lover over,came the artist, and countless doubts assailed Poussin’s[Pg 1039]heart when he saw youth dawn in the old man’s eyes,as, like a painter, he discerned every line of the formhidden beneath the young girl’s vesture. Then thelover’s savage jealousy awoke.

“Gillette!” he cried, “let us go.”

The girl turned joyously at the cry and the tone inwhich it was uttered, raised her eyes to his, looked athim, and fled to his arms.

“Ah! then you love me,” she cried; “you love me!”and she burst into tears.

She had spirit enough to suffer in silence, but shehad no strength to hide her joy.

“Oh! leave her with me for one moment,” said theold painter, “and you shall compare her with myCatherine ... yes—I consent.”

Frenhofer’s words likewise came from him like alover’s cry. His vanity seemed to be engaged for hissemblance of womanhood; he anticipated the triumphof the beauty of his own creation over the beauty ofthe living girl.

“Do not give him time to change his mind!” criedPorbus, striking Poussin on the shoulder. “Theflower of love soon fades, but the flower of art isimmortal.”

“Then am I only a woman now for him?” saidGillette. She was watching Poussin and Porbusclosely.

She raised her head proudly; she glanced at Frenhofer,and her eyes flashed; then as she saw how herlover had fallen again to gazing at the portrait whichhe had taken at first for a Giorgione—

[Pg 1040]

“Ah!” she cried; “let us go up to the studio. Henever gave me such a look.”

The sound of her voice recalled Poussin from hisdreams.

“Old man,” he said, “do you see this blade? I willplunge it into your heart at the first cry from thisyoung girl; I will set fire to your house, and no oneshall leave it alive. Do you understand?”

Nicolas Poussin scowled; every word was amenace. Gillette took comfort from the youngpainter’s bearing, and yet more from that gesture, andalmost forgave him for sacrificing her to his art andhis glorious future.

Porbus and Poussin stood at the door of the studioand looked at each other in silence. At first thepainter of the Saint Mary of Egypt hazarded someexclamations: “Ah! she has taken off her clothes; hetold her to come into the light—he is comparing thetwo!” but the sight of the deep distress in Poussin’sface suddenly silenced him; and though old paintersno longer feel these scruples, so petty in the presenceof art, he admired them because they were so naturaland gracious in the lover. The young man kept hishand on the hilt of his dagger, and his ear wasalmost glued to the door. The two men standingin the shadow might have been conspirators waitingfor the hour when they might strike down atyrant.

“Come in, come in,” cried the old man. He wasradiant with delight. “My work is perfect. I canshow her now with pride. Never shall painter,[Pg 1041]brushes, colors, light, and canvas produce a rival for‘Catherine Lescault,’ the beautiful courtezan!”

Porbus and Poussin, burning with eager curiosity,hurried into a vast studio. Everything was in disorderand covered with dust, but they saw a fewpictures here and there upon the wall. They stoppedfirst of all in admiration before the life-size figure ofa woman partially draped.

“Oh! never mind that,” said Frenhofer; “that is arough daub that I made, a study, a pose, it is nothing.These are my failures,” he went on, indicating theenchanting compositions upon the walls of the studio.

This scorn for such works of art struck Porbus andPoussin dumb with amazement. They looked roundfor the picture of which he had spoken, and could notdiscover it.

“Look here!” said the old man. His hair was disordered,his face aglow with a more than human exaltation,his eyes glittered, he breathed hard like ayoung lover frenzied by love.

“Aha!” he cried, “you did not expect to see suchperfection! You are looking for a picture, and yousee a woman before you. There is such depth in thatcanvas, the atmosphere is so true that you can notdistinguish it from the air that surrounds us. Whereis art? Art has vanished, it is invisible! It is theform of a living girl that you see before you. HaveI not caught the very hues of life, the spirit of theliving line that defines the figure? Is there not theeffect produced there like that which all natural objectspresent in the atmosphere about them, or fishes in the[Pg 1042]water? Do you see how the figure stands out againstthe background? Does it not seem to you that youpass your hand along the back? But then for sevenyears I studied and watched how the daylight blendswith the objects on which it falls. And the hair, thelight pours over it like a flood, does it not?...Ah! she breathed, I am sure that she breathed! Herbreast—ah, see! Who would not fall on his kneesbefore her? Her pulses throb. She will rise to herfeet. Wait!”

“Do you see anything?” Poussin asked of Porbus.

“No ... do you?”

“I see nothing.”

The two painters left the old man to his ecstasy, andtried to ascertain whether the light that fell full uponthe canvas had in some way neutralized all the effectfor them. They moved to the right and left of thepicture; they came in front, bending down and standingupright by turns.

“Yes, yes, it is really canvas,” said Frenhofer, whomistook the nature of this minute investigation.

“Look! the canvas is on a stretcher, here is theeasel; indeed, here are my colors, my brushes,” and hetook up a brush and held it out to them, all unsuspiciousof their thought.

“The old lansquenet is laughing at us,” said Poussin,coming once more toward the supposed picture.“I can see nothing there but confused masses of colorand a multitude of fantastical lines that go to make adead wall of paint.”

“We are mistaken, look!” said Porbus.

[Pg 1043]

In a corner of the canvas, as they came nearer, theydistinguished a bare foot emerging from the chaos ofcolor, half-tints and vague shadows that made up adim, formless fog. Its living delicate beauty heldthem spellbound. This fragment that had escapedan incomprehensible, slow, and gradual destructionseemed to them like the Parian marble torso ofsome Venus emerging from the ashes of a ruinedtown.

“There is a woman beneath,” exclaimed Porbus,calling Poussin’s attention to the coats of paint withwhich the old artist had overlaid and concealed hiswork in the quest of perfection.

Both artists turned involuntarily to Frenhofer.They began to have some understanding, vaguethough it was, of the ecstasy in which he lived.

“He believes it in all good faith,” said Porbus.

“Yes, my friend,” said the old man, rousing himselffrom his dreams, “it needs faith, faith in art, andyou must live for long with your work to producesuch a creation. What toil some of those shadowshave cost me. Look! there is a faint shadow thereupon the cheek beneath the eyes—if you saw that ona human face, it would seem to you that you couldnever render it with paint. Do you think that thateffect has not cost unheard-of toil?

“But not only so, dear Porbus. Look closely atmy work, and you will understand more clearly whatI was saying as to methods of modeling and outline.Look at the high lights on the bosom, and see how bytouch on touch, thickly laid on, I have raised the surface[Pg 1044]so that it catches the light itself and blends itwith the lustrous whiteness of the high lights, andhow by an opposite process, by flattening the surfaceof the paint, and leaving no trace of the passage ofthe brush, I have succeeded in softening the contoursof my figures and enveloping them in half-tints untilthe very idea of drawing, of the means by which theeffect is produced, fades away, and the picture hasthe roundness and relief of nature. Come closer.You will see the manner of working better; at a littledistance it can not be seen. There! Just there, it is,I think, very plainly to be seen,” and with the tip ofhis brush he pointed out a patch of transparent colorto the two painters.

Porbus, laying a hand on the old artist’s shoulder,turned to Poussin with a “Do you know that in himwe see a very great painter?”

“He is even more of a poet than a painter,” Poussinanswered gravely.

“There,” Porbus continued, as he touched the canvas,“lies the utmost limit of our art on earth.”

“Beyond that point it loses itself in the skies,” saidPoussin.

“What joys lie there on this piece of canvas!” exclaimedPorbus.

The old man, deep in his own musings, smiled atthe woman he alone beheld, and did not hear.

“But sooner or later he will find out that there isnothing there!” cried Poussin.

“Nothing on my canvas!” said Frenhofer, lookingin turn at either painter and at his picture.

[Pg 1045]

“What have you done?” muttered Porbus, turningto Poussin.

The old man clutched the young painter’s arm andsaid, “Do you see nothing? clodpate! Huguenot! varlet!cullion! What brought you here into my studio?—Mygood Porbus,” he went on, as he turned to thepainter, “are you also making a fool of me? Answer!I am your friend. Tell me, have I ruined my pictureafter all?”

Porbus hesitated and said nothing, but there wassuch intolerable anxiety in the old man’s white facethat he pointed to the easel.

“Look!” he said.

Frenhofer looked for a moment at his picture, andstaggered back.

“Nothing! nothing! After ten years of work....”He sat down and wept.

“So I am a dotard, a madman, I have neither talentnor power! I am only a rich man, who works for hisown pleasure, and makes no progress. I have donenothing after all!”

He looked through his tears at his picture. Suddenlyhe rose and stood proudly before the twopainters.

“By the body and blood of Christ,” he cried withflashing eyes, “you are jealous! You would have methink that my picture is a failure because you wantto steal her from me! Ah! I see her, I see her,” hecried “she is marvelously beautiful....”

At that moment Poussin heard the sound of weeping;Gillette was crouching forgotten in a corner. All[Pg 1046]at once the painter once more became the lover.“What is it, my angel?” he asked her.

“Kill me!” she sobbed. “I must be a vile thingif I love you still, for I despise you.... I admireyou, and I hate you! I love you, and I feel that Ihate you even now!”

While Gillette’s words sounded in Poussin’s ears,Frenhofer drew a green serge covering over his“Catherine” with the sober deliberation of a jewelerwho locks his drawers when he suspects his visitorsto be expert thieves. He gave the two painters a profoundlyastute glance that expressed to the full hissuspicions and his contempt for them, saw them outof his studio with impetuous haste and in silence, untilfrom the threshold of his house he bade them “Good-by,my young friends!”

That farewell struck a chill of dread into the twopainters. Porbus, in anxiety, went again on the morrowto see Frenhofer, and learned that he had diedin the night after burning his canvases.

Paris, February, 1832.

BY AUGUSTIN EUGÈNE SCRIBE

[Pg 1048]

BY EUGÈNE SCRIBE

Translated by Linda de Kowalewska.
Copyright, 1893, by The Current Literature Publishing Company.

Joseph, opening the door of the salon, cameto tell us that the post-chaise was ready. Mymother and my sister threw themselves into myarms. “There is yet time,” said they. “It is not toolate. Give up this journey and remain with us.” Ireplied: “My mother, I am a gentleman. I am twentyyears old, my country needs me, I must win fame andrenown; be it in the army, be it at court, I must beheard of, men must speak of me.”

“And when you are far away, tell me, Bernard,what will become of me, your old mother?”

“You will be happy and proud to hear of your son’ssuccesses—”

“And if you are killed in some battle?”

“What matters it? What is life? Only a dream.One dreams only of glory at twenty, and when oneis a gentleman; but do not fear, you will see me returnto you in a few years, a colonel, a maréchal-de-camp,or, better still, with a fine position at Versailles.”

“Indeed! When will that be?”

“It will come, and I shall be respected and enviedby all—and then—every one will take off his hatto me—and then—I will marry my cousin Henriette,and I will find good husbands for my sisters, and we[Pg 1050]shall all live together tranquil and happy on my estatesin Brittany.”

“Why not do all that to-day, my son? Has notyour father left you the finest fortune in the country?Where is there, for ten leagues around, a richer domain,or a more beautiful château than that of Roche-Bernard?Are you not loved and respected by your vassals?When you walk through the village, is therea single one who fails to salute you and take off hishat? Do not leave us, my son; remain here with yourfriends, near your sisters, near your old mother, whomperhaps you will not find here when you return. Donot waste in search of vain glory or abridge by caresand torments of all kinds the days which already goso swiftly. Life is sweet, my child, and the sun ofBrittany is so bright!” So saying she led me to theopen window and pointed to the beautiful avenues ofmy park; the grand old chestnut trees were in fullbloom, and the air was sweet with the fragrance ofthe lilacs and the honeysuckles, whose leaves sparkledin the sunlight.

All the house-servants awaited me in the anteroom.They were so sad and quiet that they seemed to sayto me: “Do not go, young master, do not go.” Hortense,my eldest sister, pressed me in her arms, andmy little sister Amélie, who was in one corner of theroom occupied in looking at some engravings in a volumeof La Fontaine, came to me, and, handing me thebook, cried: “Read, read, my brother!” It was thefable of “The Two Pigeons.”

But I repulsed them all and said: “I am twenty[Pg 1051]years old. Je suis gentilhomme. I must in honor andglory. Let me go.” And I hastened to the courtyard,and got into the post-chaise, when a womanappeared at the landing of the stairs. It was mybeautiful cousin Henriette! She did not weep, shedid not say a word—but, pale and trembling, shecould scarcely stand. She waved me an adieu withher white handkerchief, then fell unconscious. I ranto her, raised her, put my arms around her, andswore to her eternal love; and the moment she recoveredconsciousness, leaving her in my mother’s care,I ran to the chaise, and, without turning my head,drove away.

If I had looked at Henriette I might have wavered.A few moments afterward we were rolling along thegrand route.

For a long while I thought of nothing but Henriette,my mother, and my sisters, and all the happinessI had left behind me; but these thoughts wereeffaced in the measure that the towers of Roche-Bernardfaded from my view, and soon ambitious dreamsof glory spread over my spirit. What projects! Whatchâteaux en Espagne! What glorious deeds I performedin that chaise! Riches, honors, dignities, rewardsof all kinds! I refused nothing. I meritedthem, and I accepted all; at last, elevating myself asI advanced on my journey, I was duke—governor ofa province—and no less a personage than a maréchalof France when I arrived in the evening at my destination.The voice of my valet, who addressed memodestly as Monsieur le Chevalier, forced me to abdicate[Pg 1052]for the time being, and I was obliged to returnto the earth and to myself.

The following day I continued my journey anddreamed the same dreams, for the way was long. Atlast we arrived at Sédan, where I expected to visitthe Duc de C——, an old friend of our family. Hewould (I thought) surely take me with him to Paris,where he was expected at the end of the month, andthen he would present me at Versailles, and obtainfor me, at the very least, a company of dragoons.

I arrived in Sédan in the evening—too late topresent myself at the château of my friend (whichwas some distance from the city), so I delayed myvisit until the next day, and put up at the “Armes deFrance,” the best hotel in the place.

I supped at the table d’hôte and asked the way totake on the morrow to the château of the Duc deC——.

“Any one can show you,” said a young officer whosat near me, “for it is well known the whole countryround. It was in this château that died a great warrior,a very celebrated man—Maréchal Fabert!” Thenthe conversation fell, as was natural between youngmilitary men, on the Maréchal Fabert. They spokeof his battles, his exploits, of his modesty, whichcaused him to refuse letters of nobility and the collarof his order offered him by Louis XIV. Above all,they marveled at the good fortune which comes tosome men. What inconceivable happiness for a simplesoldier to rise to the rank of maréchal of France—he,a man of no family, the son of a printer! They could[Pg 1053]cite no other case similar to his, and the masses didnot hesitate to ascribe his elevation to supernaturalcauses. It was said that he had employed magic fromhis childhood, that he was a sorcerer, and that he hada compact with the devil; and our old landlord, whohad all the credulity of our Breton peasants, sworeto us that in this château of the Duc de C——, whereFabert died, there had frequently been seen a blackman whom no one knew; and that the servants hadseen him enter Fabert’s chamber and disappear, carryingwith him the soul of the maréchal, which he hadbought some years before, and which, therefore, belongedto him; and that even now, in the month ofMay, on the anniversary of Fabert’s death, one can seeat night a black man bearing a light, which is Fabert’ssoul.

This story amused us at dessert, and we gailydrank a bottle of champagne to the familiar demonof Fabert, praying for his patronage, and help to gainvictories like those of Collioure and of La Marfée.

The next day I arose early and set out for thechâteau, which proved to be an immense Gothic manorhouse, having nothing very remarkable about it. Atany other time I would not have viewed it with anygreat interest; but now I gazed at it with feelings ofcuriosity as I recalled the strange story told us by thelandlord of the “Armes de France.”

The door was opened by an old valet, and when Itold him I wished to see the Duc de C——, he repliedthat he did not know whether his master was visibleor not or if he would receive me. I gave him my[Pg 1054]name and he went away, leaving me alone in a verylarge and gloomy hall, decorated with trophies of thechase and family portraits. I waited some time, buthe did not return. The silence was almost oppressive;I began to grow impatient and had already countedtwo or three times all the family portraits, and all thebeams in the ceiling, when I heard a noise in thewainscot.

It was a door which the wind had blown open. Ilooked up, and perceived a very pretty boudoir lightedby two great casem*nts and a glass door which openedon a magnificent park. I advanced a few steps intothe apartment, and paused suddenly at a strangespectacle. A man (his back was turned to the doorthrough which I had entered) was lying on a couch.He arose, and, without perceiving me, ran quickly tothe window. Tears rolled down his cheeks and profounddespair was imprinted on his features. Heremained some time immovable, his head resting onhis hands, then he commenced to walk with greatstrides across the room; turning, he saw me, stoppedsuddenly, and trembled. As for myself, I was horror-struck,and dazed in consequence of my indiscretion.I wished to retire, and murmured some incoherentapologies.

“Who are you? What do you want?” said he, ina deep voice, catching me by the arm.

I was very much frightened and embarrassed, butreplied: “I am the Chevalier Bernard de la Roche-Bernard,and I have just arrived from Brittany.”

“I know! I know!” said he, and, throwing his arms[Pg 1055]around me, he embraced me warmly, and leading meto the couch made me sit near him, spoke to me rapidlyof my father and of all my family, whom he knew sowell that I concluded that it was the master of thechâteau.

“You are Monsieur de C——, are you not?” askedI. He arose, looked at me with a strange glance, andreplied: “I was, but I am no longer. I am no longeranybody.” Then seeing my astonishment he said:“Not a word, young man, do not question me.”

I replied, blushing: “If, Monsieur, I have witnessed,without wishing it, your chagrin and your sorrow,perhaps my devotion and my friendship can assuageyour grief?”

“Yes, yes, you are right; not that you can changemy condition, but you can receive, at least, my lastwishes and my last vows. It is the only service thatI ask of you.”

He crossed the room, closed the door, then cameand sat down beside me, who, agitated and trembling,awaited his words. They were somewhat grave andsolemn, and his physiognomy, above all, had an expressionthat I had never before seen. His loftybrow, which I examined attentively, seemed markedby fate. His complexion was very pale, and his eyeswere black, bright, and piercing: and from time totime his features, altered by suffering, contractedunder an ironical and infernal smile.

“That which I am about to relate to you,” said he,“will confound your reason; you will doubt, you willnot believe me, perhaps; even I often doubt still. I[Pg 1056]tell myself it can not be; but the proofs are too real;and are there not in all that surrounds us, in our organizationeven, many other mysteries that we are obligedto submit to, without being able to comprehend?” Hepaused a moment, as if to gather together his thoughts,passed his hand over his brow, and continued: “I wasborn in this château. I had two elder brothers, towhom fell the wealth and honors of our house. I hadnothing to expect, nothing to look forward to but anabbé’s mantle; nevertheless, ambitious dreams of gloryand power fermented in my head and made my heartthrob with anticipation. Miserable in my obscurity,eager for renown, I thought only of means to acquireit at any price, and these ideas made me insensible toall the pleasures and all the sweetness of life. To methe present was nothing; I only existed for the future,and this future presented itself to me under a mostsombre aspect. I reached my thirtieth year withouthaving accomplished anything;—then there arose inthe capital literary lights whose brilliance penetratedeven to our remote province. Ah! thought I, if Icould at least make for myself a name in the worldof letters, that might bring renown, and therein liestrue happiness. I had for a confidant of my chagrinsan old servant, an aged negro, who had served in myfamily many years before my birth; he was the oldestperson on the estate, or for miles around, for no onecould recall his first appearance, and the countryfolk said that he had known the Maréchal Fabert,was present at his death, and that he was an evilspirit.”

[Pg 1057]

At that name, I started with surprise; the unknownpaused and asked me the cause of my embarrassment.

“Nothing,” said I; but I could not help thinkingthat the black man must be the one spoken of by theold landlord of the “Armes de France” the previousevening.

M. de C—— continued:

“One day in Yago’s presence (that was the oldnegro’s name) I gave way to my feelings, bemoanedmy obscurity, and bewailed my useless and monotonouslife, and I cried aloud in my despair: ‘I wouldwillingly give ten years of my life to be placed in thefirst rank of our authors!’

“‘Ten years,’ said Yago, coolly; ‘that is much, itis paying very dear for so little a thing; no matter, Iaccept your ten years; remember your promise, I willsurely keep mine.’

“I can not describe to you my great surprise onhearing him speak thus. I believed that his mind hadbecome enfeebled by the weight of years. I shruggedmy shoulders and smiled, and took no further noticeof him. Some days afterward I left home for Paris.There I found myself launched into the society of menof letters; their example encouraged and stimulatedme, and I soon published several works that were verysuccessful, which I will not now describe. All Parisrushed to see me, the journals were filled with mypraises. The new name I had taken became celebrated,and even recently, young man, you haveadmired my works.”

Here another gesture of surprise on my part interrupted[Pg 1058]this recital. “Then you are not the Duc deC——?” cried I.

“No,” replied he, coldly. And I asked myself: “Acelebrated man of letters! Is this Marmontel? is itD’Alembert? is it Voltaire?”

The unknown sighed, a smile of regret and contemptspread over his lips, and he continued hisrecital.

“This literary reputation, which had seemed to meso desirable, soon failed to satisfy a soul so ardent asmine. I aspired to still higher successes, and I saidto Yago (who had followed me to Paris and whokept close watch over me): ‘This is not real glory,there is no veritable renown but that which oneacquires in the career of arms. What is an author,a poet? Nothing! Give me a great general, or acaptain in the army! Behold the destiny that I desire,and for a great military reputation I would willinglygive ten more years of my life.’

“‘I accept them,’ replied Yago, quickly. ‘I takethem—they belong to me—do not forget it.’”

At this stage of his recital the unknown paused oncemore on seeing the alarm and incredulity that weredepicted on my features.

“You remember, I warned you, young man,” saidhe, “that you could not believe my story. It mustseem to you a dream, a chimera—to me also;—neverthelessthe promotions, the honors that I soon obtained,were no illusions. Those brave soldiers that I led intothe thickest of the fight! Those brilliant charges!Those captured flags! Those victories which all[Pg 1059]France heard of; all that was my work—all thatglory belonged to me!”

While he marched up and down the room withgreat strides, and spoke thus with warmth and withenthusiasm, astonishment and fear had almost paralyzedmy senses. “Who then is this person?” thoughtI. “Is it Coligny? is it Richelieu? is it the Maréchalde Saxe?”

From his state of exaltation my unknown had fallenagain into deepest dejection, and, approaching me,said with a sombre air: “Yago kept his promise; andwhen, later on, disgusted with the vain smoke of militaryglory, I aspired to that which is only real andpositive in this world—when at the price of five or sixyears of existence I desired great riches, he gladlygave them to me. Yes, young man, I have possessedvast wealth, far beyond my wildest dreams—estates,forests, and châteaux. To-day, still, all this is mine,and in my power; if you doubt me—if you doubt theexistence of Yago—wait here, he is coming, and youcan see for yourself that which would confound yourreason and mine were it not unfortunately too real.”

The unknown approached the fireplace, looked atthe timepiece, made a gesture of alarm, and said tome in a deep voice:

“This morning at daybreak I felt myself so weakand so feeble that I could scarcely rise. I rang formy valet-de-chambre; it was Yago who appeared.‘What is this strange feeling?’ asked I.

“‘Master, nothing but what is perfectly natural.The hour approaches, the moment arrives.’

[Pg 1060]

“‘And what is it?’ cried I.

“‘Can you not divine it? Heaven has destined yousixty years to live; you were thirty when I began toobey you.’

“‘Yago!’ cried I in affright, ‘do you speak seriously?’

“‘Yes, master; in five years you have spent inglory twenty-five years of life. You have sold themto me. They belong to me; and these years that youhave voluntarily given up are now added to mine.’

“‘What! That, then, was the price of your services?’

“‘Yes, and many others—for ages past—have paidmore dearly; for instance, Fabert, whom I protectedalso.’

“‘Be silent, be silent!’ cried I; ‘this is not possible;it can not be true!’

“‘As you please; but prepare yourself; for thereonly remains for you a brief half-hour of life.’

“‘You are mocking me!’

“‘Not, at all. Calculate for yourself. Thirty-fiveyears you have had, and twenty-five years you havesold to me—total, sixty. It is your own count; eachone takes his own.’ Then he wished to go away, andI felt my strength diminish. I felt my life leaving me.

“‘Yago! Yago!’ I cried feebly; ‘give me a fewhours, a few hours more!’

“‘No, no,’ replied he, ‘it would be taking awayfrom myself, and I know better than you the valueof life. There is no treasure worth two hours ofexistence.’

[Pg 1061]

“I could scarcely speak; my eyes were set in myhead, and the chill of death congealed the blood in myveins. ‘Very well!’ said I with an effort, ‘take backyour gifts, for that which I have sacrificed all. Fourhours more and I renounce my gold, my wealth—allthis opulence that I have so much desired.’

“‘Be it so; you have been a good master, and I amwilling to do something for you. I consent.’

“I felt my strength come back, and I cried: ‘Fourhours—that is very little! Yago! Yago! Four hoursmore and I renounce all my literary fame, all myworks that have placed me so high in the world’sesteem.’

“‘Four hours for that!’ cried the negro with disdain;‘it is too much. No matter. I can not refuseyour last request.’

“‘Not the last!’ cried I, clasping my hands beforehim. ‘Yago! Yago! I supplicate you, give me untilthis evening. The twelve hours, the entire day, andall my exploits, my victories, all my military renownmay all be effaced from the memory of men. Thisday, Yago, dear Yago; this whole day, and I will becontent!’

“‘You abuse my kindness,’ said he; ‘no matter, Iwill give you until sunset; after that you must not askme. This evening, then, I will come for you’—and heis gone,” continued the unknown, in despairing accents“and this day, in which I see you for the first time,is my last on earth.” Then going to the glass door,which was open, and which led to the park, he cried:“Alas! I will no longer behold the beautiful sky,[Pg 1062]these green lawns, the sparkling fountains! I willnever again breathe the balmy air of springtime. Foolthat I have been! These gifts that God has given toall of us; these blessings, to which I was insensible,and of which I can only now, when it is too late, appreciateand comprehend the sweetness—and I mighthave enjoyed them for twenty-five years more!—andI have used up my life! I have sacrificed it for what?For a vain and sterile glory, which has not made mehappy, and which dies with me! Look!” said he tome, pointing to some peasants who traversed the park,singing on their way to work. “What would I notgive now to share their labors and their poverty! ButI have no longer anything to give, or to hope for herebelow, not even misfortune!”

Just then a ray of sunlight (the sun of the monthof May) shone through the casem*nt and lit up hispale and distracted features. He seized my arm ina sort of delirium, and said to me: “See! see there!is it not beautiful? the sun!—and I must leave allthis! Ah! at least I am still alive! I will have thiswhole day—so pure, so bright, so radiant—this daywhich for me has no morrow!” he then ran down thesteps of the open door, and bounded like a deer acrossthe park, and at a detour of the path he disappearedin the shrubbery, before I hardly realized that he wasgone, or could detain him. To tell the truth, I wouldnot have had the strength. I lay back on the couch,stunned, dazed, and weak with the shock of all I hadheard. I arose and walked up and down the room,to assure myself that I was awake, that I had not been[Pg 1063]under the influence of a dream. Just then the doorof the boudoir opened and a servant announced: “Hereis my master, the Duc de C——.”

A man of sixty years and of distinguished presenceadvanced toward me, and, giving me his hand, apologizedfor having made me wait so long.

“I was not in the château. I had gone to seek myyounger brother, the Comte de C——, who is ill.”

“And is he in danger?” interrupted I.

“No, monsieur. Thanks to heaven,” replied myhost; “but in his youth ambitious dreams of gloryexalted his imagination, and a serious illness that hehas had recently (and which he deemed fatal) hasupset his mind, and produced a sort of delirium andmental aberration, by which he persuades himself alwaysthat he has but one day to live. It is insanity.”

All was explained to me.

“Now,” continued the duke, “let us come to you,young man, and see what can be done for your advancement.We will depart at the end of the monthfor Versailles. I will present you at court.”

I blushed and replied: “I appreciate your kindness,Monsieur le Duc, and I thank you very much; but Iwill not go to Versailles.”

“What! would you renounce the court and all theadvantages and promotions which certainly await youthere?”

“Yes, Monsieur—”

“But do you realize that with my influence youcan rise rapidly, and that with a little assiduity andpatience you can become distinguished in ten years?”

[Pg 1064]

“Ten years lost!” I cried in terror.

“What!” replied he, astonished. “Ten years is notmuch to pay for fortune, glory, and honors? Come,come, my young friend. Come with me to Versailles.”

“No, Monsieur le Duc. I am determined to returnto Brittany, and I beg of you to receive my profoundgratitude, and that of my family.”

“What folly!” cried he.

And I, remembering what I had listened to, said:“It is wisdom!”

The next day I was en route, and with what exquisitedelight did I behold my beautiful château ofRoche-Bernard, the grand old trees in my park, andthe bright sunshine of Brittany. I found again myvassals, my mother, my sisters, my fiancée, and myhappiness, which I still retain, for one week later Imarried Henriette.

BY ALFRED VICTOR, COMTE DE VIGNY

[Pg 1066]

BY ALFRED DE VIGNY

Translated by J. Matthewman.
Copyright, 1896, by The Current Literature Publishing Company.

We were at Fontainebleau. The Pope hadjust arrived. The Emperor had awaitedhim with great impatience, as he desiredthe Holy Father to crown him. Napoleon receivedhim in person, and they immediately entered the carriage—onopposite sides, at the same time, apparentlywith an entire neglect of etiquette, but this was onlyin appearance, for the movement was thoroughly calculated.It was so arranged that neither might seemto yield precedence or to exact it from the other. Theruse was characteristically Italian. They at oncedrove toward the palace, where all kinds of rumorswere in circulation. I had left several officers in theroom which preceded that of the Emperor; and I wasquite alone in his apartment.

I was standing looking at a long table, which wasof Roman mosaic work, and which was absolutelyloaded, covered with heaps of papers. I had oftenseen Napoleon enter, and submit the pile of documentsto a strange system of decision. He did not take theletters either by hazard or in order; but when the numberirritated him, he swept them off the table with hishand—striking right and left like a mower, until hehad reduced the number to six or seven, which he[Pg 1068]opened. Such disdainful conduct had moved me singularly.So many letters of distress and mourningcast underfoot as if by an angry wind; so many uselessprayers of widows and orphans having no chanceexcept that of being spared by the consular hand; somany groaning leaves, moistened by the tears of somany families, trampled under his heel with as littlecompunction as if they were corpses on a battlefield—allthese seemed to represent the fate of France. Althoughthe hand that acted so ruthlessly was strong,it seemed always that such brutal strength was anythingbut admirable, and it seemed wrong that somuch should be left to the caprice of such a man.Moreover, had a little consideration been shown, Napoleonwould have had so many more buttresses forhis power and authority. I felt my heart rise againstthe man—but feebly, like the heart of one who was hisslave. I thought of the letters which had been treatedwith such cruel contempt; cries of anguish came fromthe envelopes; and having read some of the petitions Iconstituted myself judge between the man and thosewho had sacrificed themselves so much for him, uponwhose necks he was going to fasten the yoke tighterthat very day. I was holding one of the papers in myhand, when the beating of the drums informed me ofthe arrival of Napoleon. Now you know that just asone always sees the flash from a cannon before onehears the report, one always saw him as he was heardto be approaching; he was so active, and seemed tohave so little time. When he rode into the courtyardof the palace, his attendants were scarcely able to keep[Pg 1069]up with him. The sentry had barely time to salutebefore the Emperor had got down from his horse andwas hurrying up the staircase. This time he had leftthe Pope in the carriage in order to be able to enterthe palace alone, and had galloped on ahead. I heardthe sound of his spurs at the same time as the drums.I had only just time enough to throw myself into analcove where there was an old-fashioned high bedsteadwhich was used by no one, and which was, fortunately,concealed by curtains.

The Emperor was in a state of great excitement,and strode about the room as if waiting for some onewith great impatience. Having darted across theroom several times, he went to the window and beganto drum on the panes. A carriage rolled into thecourt; he ceased beating a tattoo on the glass, andstamped with his foot as if the sight which he saw inthe courtyard was anything but agreeable to him.Then he tore across the room to the door, which heopened for the Pope.

Pius VII entered unattended. Bonaparte hastilyclosed the door after the old man with the care of ajailer. I will confess that I was in a state of mortalterror at being the third of the party. However, Iremained motionless, listening eagerly to every wordthat was said.

The Pope was tall; his face was long, yellow, andhad traces of great suffering, but bore the imprint of agoodness of soul and nobility of spirit which knew nobounds. He had fine, big, black eyes, and his mouthwas sweetened by a smile which lent something spirituelle[Pg 1070]and vivacious to his countenance. It was a smilein which one could detect nothing of the cunning ofthe world, but which was full to overflowing of Christiangoodness. On his head he wore a skull cap, fromunder which escaped locks of his silver-streaked hair.A red velvet cloak hung negligently on his stoopingshoulders, and his robe dragged at his feet. He enteredslowly, with the calm and prudent step of anaged man, sank down into one of the big Roman armchairs,which were gilded and covered with eagles,lowered his eyes, and waited to hear what the otherItalian had to say to him.

What a scene that was! I can see it still. It wasnot the genius of the man which I noticed, but hischaracter. Bonaparte was not then as you knew himafterward; he had not grown gross—he had not theswollen face, the gouty legs, nor was he so ridiculouslystout as he afterward became. Unfortunately, in arthe is almost always represented by a sort of caricature,so that he will not be handed down to posterityas he really was. He was not ungainly then, but nervousand supple, lithe and active, convulsive in someof his gestures, in some gracious; his chest was flatand narrow—in short, he looked just as I had seen himat Malta.

He did not stop stalking round the room when thePope entered. He wandered round the chair of thelatter like a cautious hunter; then suddenly halting infront of Pius, he resumed a conversation which hadbeen commenced in the carriage, and which he was evidentlyanxious to continue.

[Pg 1071]

“I tell you again, Holy Father, I am not a free-thinker;and I don’t agree with those who are foreverreasoning about religious matters. I assure you thatin spite of my old republicans I shall go to mass.”

The last words he threw bruskly, as it were, in thePope’s face—incense of flattery undisguised. Thenhe suddenly stopped and examined the Pope’s countenanceto catch the result, which he seemed to expect tobe great. The old man lowered his eyes and restedhis hands on the heads of the eagles which formed thearms of the chair. He seemed to have assumed theattitude of a Roman statue purposely, as if wishing toexpress: I resign myself to hearing all the profanethings that he may choose to say to me!

Bonaparte took a turn round the room, and roundthe chair which was in the middle, and it was plain tobe seen that he was not satisfied either with himselfor with his adversary, and that he was reproachinghimself for having resumed the conversation so rashly.So he began to talk more connectedly as he walkedround the room, all the time watching narrowly thereflection of the pontiff’s face in the mirror, and alsoeying him carefully in profile as he passed; but notventuring to look him full in the face for fear ofappearing too anxious about the effect of his words.

“There is one thing that hurts me very much, HolyFather,” said he, “and that is that you consent to thecoronation as you formerly consented to the Concordat—asif you were compelled to do so, and not as offree will. You sit there before me with the air of amartyr, resigned to the will of heaven, and suffering[Pg 1072]for the sake of your conscience. But that is not thefact. You are not a prisoner. You are as free asthe air.”

Pius VII smiled and looked his interlocutor inthe face. He realized that the despotic nature withwhich he had to contend was not satisfied withobedience unless one seemed willing, even anxious,to obey.

“Yes,” continued Bonaparte, “you are quite free.You may return to Rome if you like. The road isopen and no one will stop you.”

Without uttering a word, the Pope sighed and raisedhis hand and his eyes to heaven; then very slowly helowered his eyes and studied the cross on his bosomattentively.

Bonaparte continued to walk round the room and totalk to his captive, his voice becoming sweeter andmore wheedling.

“Holy Father, were it not for the reverence I havefor you I should be inclined to say that you are a littleungrateful. You seem to ignore entirely the serviceswhich France has rendered you. As far as I am ableto judge, the Council of Venice, which elected youPope, was influenced somewhat by my campaign inItaly, as well as by a word which I spoke for you. Iwas very much troubled at the time that Austriatreated you so badly. I believe that your Holinesswas obliged to return to Rome by sea for fear of passingthrough Austrian territory.”

He stopped for the answer of his silent guest; PiusVII made simply the slightest inclination of the head,[Pg 1073]and remained plunged in a melancholy reverie whichseemed to prevent him from hearing Napoleon.

Bonaparte then pushed a chair near to that of thePope. I started, for in seeking the chair he had comevery near my hiding-place, he even brushed the curtainswhich concealed me.

“It was as a Catholic really that I was so afflictedabout your vexations. I have never had much timeto study theology, it is true, but I maintain a greatfaith in the Church. She has a wonderful vitality,Holy Father, although Voltaire did you some littleharm, certainly. Now if you are only willing we cando a great deal of work together in the future.”

He assumed a caressing, wheedling air of innocence.

“Really, I have tried to understand your motives,but I can’t for the life of me see what objection youcan have to making Paris your seat. I’ll leave theTuileries to you if you like. You’ll find your roomwaiting for you there. I scarcely ever go there myself.Don’t you see, Father, it is the capital of theworld. I’ll do whatever you want me to; and really,after all, I am not as bad as I am painted. If you’llleave war and politics to me you may do as you likein ecclesiastical matters. In fact, I would be yoursoldier. Now wouldn’t that be a grand arrangement?We could hold our councils like Constantine andCharlemagne—I would open and dissolve them; andthen I would put the keys of the world into yourhands, for as our Lord said: ‘I came with a sword,’and I would keep the sword; I would only bring it[Pg 1074]to you for your blessing after each new success ofour arms.”

The Pope, who until then had remained as motionlessas an Egyptian statue, slowly raised his head,smiled sadly, lifted his eyes to heaven, and said, aftera gentle sigh, as if he were confiding the thought to hisinvisible guardian angel:

“Commediante!”

Napoleon leaped from his chair like a wounded tiger.He was in one of his “yellow tempers.” At first hestamped about without uttering a word, biting hislips till the blood came. He no longer circled roundhis prey cautiously, but walked from end to end of theroom with firm resounding steps, and clinking hisspurs noisily. The room shook; the curtains trembledlike trees at the approach of a storm; I thought thatsomething terrible would surely happen; my hair beganto bristle, and I put my hand to my head unwittingly.I looked at the Pope. He did not stir, butsimply pressed the heads of the eagles with his hands.

The storm burst violently.

“Comedian! What? I, a comedian? Indeed, I’llplay some comedies for you that will set you alla-weeping like women and children! Comedian, forsooth!You are mistaken if you think that you mayinsult me with impunity. My theatre is the world;the rôle that I play is the double one of master andactor; I use all of you as comedians, popes, kings,peoples, and the string by which I work you—you mypuppets—is fear. You would need to be a muchheavier man than you are, Signor Chiaramonti, to dare[Pg 1075]to applaud or hiss me. Do you know that if it be mywill you will become a simple curé? As for you andyour tiara, France would mock at you if I did not seemto be serious in saluting you.

“Only four years ago nobody dared speak of Christ.Had that state of things continued who would havecared for the Pope, I should like to know? Comedian!You gentlemen are a little too ready at gettinga foothold among us. And now you are dissatisfiedbecause I am not such a fool as to sign away the libertiesof France as did Louis XIV. But you had betternot sing to me in that tune. It is I who hold youbetween my thumb and finger; it is I who can carryyou from north to south and then back again to thenorth like so many marionettes; it is I who give yousome stability because you represent an old idea whichI wish to resuscitate; and you have not enough wit tosee that, and to act as if you were not aware of thefact. Now I’ll speak to you frankly. Trouble yourhead with your own affairs and don’t interfere in whatyou don’t understand and with what doesn’t in theleast concern you. You seem to think that you arenecessary, you set yourselves up as if you were ofsome weight, and you dress yourselves in women’sclothes. But I’ll let you know that you don’t imposeon me with all that; and if you don’t change yourtactics very soon I’ll treat your robes as Charles XIIdid that of the Grand Vizier—I’ll tear them withmy spur.”

Then he ceased. I scarcely dared breathe. I advancedmy head a little, not hearing his voice, to see[Pg 1076]if the poor old priest was dead with fright. The sameabsolutely calm attitude, the same calm expression onhis face. For the second time he raised his eyes toheaven, again he sighed, and smiled bitterly as hemurmured:

“Tragediante!”

Bonaparte was at the farther end of the room, leaningagainst a marble chimney which was as high as hewas tall. Like an arrow shot out of a bow, he rushedstraight at the old man; I thought he was going tokill him as he sat. But he suddenly stopped short,seized a Sèvres vase on which the Capitol was painted,threw it on the hearth and ground it under his heels.Then he remained terribly quiet.

I was relieved, for I felt that his reason had got thebetter of his temper. He became sad, and when hefinally spoke in a deep voice, it was evident that in thetwo words uttered by the Pope he had recognized histrue portrait.

“Miserable life!” he said. Then he fell into reverie,and without speaking tore the brim of his hat. Whenhis voice again was heard he was talking to himself:

“It’s true. Tragedian or comedian, I am alwaysplaying a part—all is costume and pose. How wearyingit all is, and how belittling! Pose! pose! alwayspose! In one case full face, in another profile—but invariablyfor effect. Always trying to appear whatothers worship, so that I may deceive the fools, keepingthem between hope and fear. Dazzling them bybulletins, by prestige. Master of all of them and notknowing what to do with them. That’s the simple[Pg 1077]truth after all. And to make myself so miserablethrough it all! It really is too much. For,” continuedhe, sitting down in an armchair and crossinghis legs, “it bores me to death, the whole farce. Assoon as I sit down I don’t know what to do with myself.I can’t even hunt for three days in successionat Fontainebleau with being weary of it. I must alwaysbe moving and making others move. I speakquite frankly. I have plans in my life which wouldrequire the lives of forty emperors to carry out, andI make new ones every morning and evening; my imaginationis always on the qui vive; but before I havecarried out two of them I shall be exhausted in bodyand mind; for our poor lamp of life doesn’t burn longenough. And I must confess that if I could carry themout I should not find that the world was one whitbetter than it is now; but it would be better though,for it would be united. I am not a philosopher. Idon’t understand many theories. Life is too short tostop. As soon as I have an idea I put it into execution.Others will find reasons after me for praisingme if I succeed and for abusing me if I fail. Differencesof opinion are active—they abound in France—butI keep them down while I am alive—afterward—Well,no matter! It is my business to succeed, andthat I intend to do. Every day I make an Iliad by myactions—every day.”

Thereupon he rose quickly. In that moment he waslively and natural, and was not thinking of posing ashe afterward did in St. Helena; he did not strive tomake himself ideal or to pose for effect—he was himself[Pg 1078]outside of himself. He went back to the Pope,who had remained seated, and paced in front of him.Getting warmed up, he spoke with a dash of irony, atan incredible rate:

“Birth is everything. Those who come into theworld poor and neglected are always desperate. Thatdesperation turns to action or suicide according tocharacter. When they have courage to attempt somethingas I have done, they raise the devil. But whatelse is to be done? One must live. One must findone’s place and make one’s mark. I have carriedeverything before me like a cannon-ball—all the worsefor those who happened to be in my way. But whatelse could I have done? Each man eats according tohis appetite, and I have an insatiable one. Do youknow, Holy Father, at Toulon I had not wherewithalto buy myself a pair of epaulets, in place of which Ihad a mother and I don’t know how many brotherson my shoulders. They are all satisfactorily settledat present. Josephine married me out of pity in spiteof her old notary, who objected that I owned nothingbut my cap and cape, and now we are going to crownher. The old man was right, though, as to what Ipossessed at that time. Imperial mantle! Crown!what does all that mean? Is it mine? Costume!Actor’s costume! I will put them on for an hour andthen I shall have had enough of them. Then I shalldon my officer’s uniform, and ‘To horse’; all my lifeon horseback. I couldn’t pass a single day resting,without being in danger of falling out of the chair. Iam to be envied? Eh?

[Pg 1079]

“I repeat, Holy Father; there are only two classesof men in the world: those who have and those whogain.

“Those who are in the first class rest, the others arerestless. As I learnt that lesson at an early age andto some purpose I shall go a long way. There areonly two men who have done anything before theywere forty years old; Cromwell and Jean-Jacques; ifyou had given one a farm, and the other twelve hundredfrancs and his servant, they would neither havecommanded nor preached nor written. There areworkmen in buildings, in colors, in forms, and inphrases; I am a workman in battles. It’s my business.At the age of thirty-five I have manufactured eighteenof them, which are called ‘Victories.’ I must be paidfor my work. And a throne is certainly not extravagantpayment. Besides, I shall always go on working.You will see that all dynasties will date from mine,although I am a mere parvenu. I am elected as youare, Holy Father—and drawn from the multitude.On this point we can well shake hands.”

And, approaching the Pope, Napoleon held out hishand. Pius took the hand which was offered to him,but shook his head sadly, and I saw his fine eyes cloudwith tears.

Bonaparte cast a hurried glance at the tears whichhe had wrung from the old Pope, and I surprisedeven a rapid motion in the corners of his mouth muchresembling a smile of triumph. At that moment hisintensely powerful and overbearing nature seemed tome less admirable than that of his saintly adversary;[Pg 1080]I blushed for all my past admiration of Napoleon; Ifelt a sadness creep over me at the thought that thegrandest policy appears little when stained by tricksof vanity. I saw that the emperor had gained his endin the interview by having yielded nothing and by havingdrawn a sign of weakness from the Pope. He hadwished to have the last word, and without uttering anothersyllable, he left the room as abruptly as he hadentered. I could not see whether he saluted the Popeor not, but I do not think he did.

BY VICTOR MARIE HUGO

[Pg 1082]

BY VICTOR HUGO

Claude Gueux was a poor workman, livingin Paris about eight years ago, with his mistressand child. Although his education hadbeen neglected, and he could not even read, the manwas naturally clever and intelligent, and thought deeplyover matters. Winter came with its attendant miseries—wantof work, want of food, want of fuel. Theman, the woman, and the child were frozen and famished.The man turned thief. I know not what hestole. What signifies, as the result was the same? Tothe woman and child it gave three days’ bread andwarmth; to the man, five years’ imprisonment. Hewas taken to Clairvaux—the abbey now converted intoa prison, its cells into dungeons, and the altar itselfinto a pillory. This is called progress.

Claude Gueux, the honest workman, who turnedthief from force of circ*mstances, had a countenancewhich impressed you—a high forehead somewhatlined with care, dark hair already streaked with gray,deep-set eyes beaming with kindness, while the lowerpart clearly indicated firmness mingled with self-respect.He rarely spoke, yet there was a certain dignityin the man which commanded respect and obedience.A fine character, and we shall see what society madeof it.

[Pg 1084]

Over the prison workshop was an inspector, whorarely forgot that he was the jailer also to his subordinates,handing them the tools with one hand, andcasting chains upon them with the other. A tyrant,never using even self-reasoning; with ideas againstwhich there was no appeal; hard rather than firm, attimes he could even be jocular—doubtless a goodfather, a good husband, really not vicious, but bad.He was one of those men who never can grasp afresh idea, who apparently fail to be moved by anyemotion; yet with hatred and rage in their heartslook like blocks of wood, heated on the one sidebut frozen on the other. This man’s chief characteristicwas obstinacy; and so proud was he ofthis very stubbornness that he compared himself withNapoleon—an optical delusion, like taking the mereflicker of a candle for a star. When he had made uphis mind to a thing, however absurd, he would carryout that absurd idea. How often it happens, that,when a catastrophe occurs, if we inquire into thecause we find it originated through the obstinacy ofone with little ability, but having full faith in his ownpowers.

Such was the inspector of the prison workshop atClairvaux—a man of flint placed by society overothers, who hoped to strike sparks out of such material;but a spark from a like source is apt to end ina conflagration.

The inspector soon singled out Claude Gueux, whohad been numbered and placed in the workshop, and,finding him clever, treated him well. Seeing Claude[Pg 1085]looking sad (for he was ever thinking of her he termedhis wife), and being in a good humor, by way ofpastime to console the prisoner he told him the womanhad become one of the unfortunate sisterhood, and hadbeen reduced to infamy; of the child nothing wasknown.

After a time Claude had accustomed himself toprison rule, and by his calmness of manner and a certainamount of resolution clearly marked in his face,he had acquired a great ascendency over his companions,who so much admired him that they askedhis advice, and tried in all ways to imitate him. Thevery expression in his eyes clearly indicated the man’scharacter; besides, is not the eye the window of thesoul, and what other result could be anticipated thanthat the intelligent spirit should lead men with fewideas, who yield to the attraction as the metal doesto the lodestone? In less than three months Claudewas the virtual head of the workshop, and at times healmost doubted whether he was king or prisoner, beingtreated something like a captive pope, surrounded byhis cardinals.

Such popularity ever has its attendant hatred; andthough beloved by the prisoners, Claude was detestedby the jailers. To him two men’s rations would havebeen scarcely sufficient. The inspector laughed at this,as his own appetite was large; but what would bemirth to a duke, to a prisoner would be a great misfortune.When a free man, Claude Gueux couldearn his daily four-pound loaf and enjoy it; but as aprisoner he daily worked, and for his labor received[Pg 1086]one pound and a half of bread and four ounces ofmeat: it naturally followed that he was always hungry.

He had just finished his meagre fare, and was aboutto resume his labors, hoping in work to forget famine,when a weakly looking young man came toward him,holding a knife and his untasted rations in his hand,but seemingly afraid to address him.

“What do you want?” said Claude, roughly.

“A favor at your hands,” timidly replied the youngman.

“What is it?” said Claude.

“Help me with my rations; I have more than Ican eat.”

For a moment Claude was taken aback, but withoutfurther ceremony he divided the food in two and atonce partook of one-half.

“Thank you,” said the young man; “allow me toshare my rations with you every day.”

“What is your name?” said Claude.

“Albin.”

“Why are you here?” added Claude.

“I robbed.”

“So did I,” said Claude.

The same scene took place daily between this manold before his time (he was only thirty-six) and theboy of twenty, who looked at the most seventeen. Thefeeling was more like that of father and son thanone brother to another; everything created a bond ofunion between them—the very toil they endured together,the fact of sleeping in the same quarters andtaking exercise in the same courtyard. They were[Pg 1087]happy, for were they not all the world to each other?The inspector of the workshop was so hated by theprisoners that he often had recourse to Claude Gueuxto enforce his authority; and when a tumult was onthe point of breaking out, a few words from Claudehad more effect than the authority of ten wardens.Although the inspector was glad to avail himself ofthis influence, he was jealous all the same, and hatedthe superior prisoner with an envious and implacablefeeling—an example of might over right, all the morefearful as it was secretly nourished. But Claudecared so much for Albin that he thought little aboutthe inspector.

One morning as the warders were going theirrounds one of them summoned Albin, who was workingwith Claude, to go before the inspector.

“What are you wanted for?” said Claude.

“I do not know,” replied Albin, following thewarder.

All day Claude looked in vain for his companion,and at night, finding him still absent, he broke throughhis ordinary reserve and addressed the turnkey. “IsAlbin ill?” said he.

“No,” replied the man.

“How is it that he has never put in an appearanceto-day?”

“His quarters have been changed,” was the reply.

For a moment Claude trembled, then calmly continued,“Who gave the order?”

“Monsieur D——.” This was the inspector’s name.

On the following night the inspector, Monsieur[Pg 1088]D——, went his rounds as usual. Claude, who hadperceived him from the distance, rose, and hastened toraise his woolen cap and button his gray woolen vestto the throat—considered a mark of respect to superiorsin prison discipline.

“Sir,” said Claude, as the inspector was about topass him, “has Albin really been quartered elsewhere?”

“Yes,” replied the inspector.

“Sir, I can not live without him. You know therations are insufficient for me, and Albin divided hisportion with me. Could you not manage to let himresume his old place near me?”

“Impossible; the order can not be revoked.”

“By whom was it given?”

“By me.”

“Monsieur D——,” replied Claude, “on you mylife depends.”

“I never cancel an order once given.”

“Sir, what have I ever done to you?”

“Nothing.”

“Why, then,” cried Claude, “separate me fromAlbin?”

“Because I do,” replied the inspector, and with thathe passed on.

Claude’s head sank down, like the poor caged liondeprived of his dog; but the grief, though so deeplyfelt, in no way changed his appetite—he was famished.Many offered to share their rations with him, but hesteadily refused, and continued his usual routine insilence—breaking it only to ask the inspector daily, intones of anguish mingled with rage, something between[Pg 1089]a prayer and a threat, these two words: “AndAlbin?”

The inspector simply passed on, shrugging hisshoulders; but had he only observed Claude he wouldhave seen the evident change, noticeable to all present,and he would have heard these words, spoken respectfullybut firmly:

“Sir, listen to me; send my companion to me. Itwould be wise to do so, I can assure you. Remembermy words!”

On Sunday he had sat for hours in the courtyard,with his head bowed in his hands, and when a prisonercalled Faillette came up laughing, Claude said: “I amjudging some one.”

On the 25th of October, 1831, as the inspector wenthis rounds, Claude, to draw his attention, smashed awatch-glass he had found in the passage. This hadthe desired effect.

“It was I,” said Claude. “Sir, restore my comradeto me.”

“Impossible,” was the answer.

Looking the inspector full in the face, Claude firmlyadded: “Now, reflect! To-day is the 25th of October;I give you till the 4th of November.”

A warder remarked that Claude was threateningMonsieur D——, and ought at once to belocked up.

“No, it is not a case of blackhole,” replied the inspectorsmiling disdainfully; “we must be consideratewith people of this stamp.”

The following day Claude was again accosted by[Pg 1090]one of the prisoners named Pernot, as he was broodingin the courtyard.

“Well, Claude, you are sad indeed; what are youpondering over?”

“I fear some evil threatens that good MonsieurD——.” answered Claude.

Claude daily impressed the fact on the inspectorhow much Albin’s absence affected him, but with noresult save four-and-twenty hours’ solitary confinement.

On the 4th of November he looked round hiscell for the little that remained to remind him of hisformer life. A pair of scissors, and an old volume ofthe “Émile,” belonging to the woman he had lovedso well, the mother of his child—how useless to a manwho could neither work nor read!

As Claude walked down the old cloisters, so dishonoredby its new inmates and its fresh whitewashedwalls, he noticed how earnestly the convict Ferrariwas looking at the heavy iron bars that crossed thewindow, and he said to him: “To-night I will cutthrough these bars with these scissors,” pointing to thepair he still held in his hand.

Ferrari laughed incredulously, and Claude joined inthe mirth. During the day he worked with more thanordinary ardor, wishing to finish a straw hat, whichhe had been paid for in advance by a tradesman atTroyes—M. Bressier.

Shortly before noon he made some excuse to godown into the carpenters’ quarters, a story below hisown, at the time the warders were absent. Claude[Pg 1091]received a hearty welcome, as he was equally popularhere as elsewhere.

“Can any one lend me an ax?” he said.

“What for?”

Without exacting any promises of secrecy he atonce replied: “To kill the inspector with to-night.”

Claude was at once offered several; choosing thesmallest, he hid it beneath his waistcoat and left.Now, there were twenty-seven prisoners present, andnot one of those men betrayed him; they even refrainedfrom talking upon the subject among themselves,waiting for the terrible event which mustfollow.

As Claude passed on, seeing a young convict ofsixteen yawning idly there, he strongly advised himto learn how to read. Just then Faillette asked whathe was hiding.

Claude answered unhesitatingly: “An ax to killMonsieur D—— to-night; but can you see it?”

“A little,” said Faillette.

At seven o’clock the prisoners were locked in theirseveral workshops. It was then the custom for thewarders to leave them, until the inspector had beenhis rounds.

In Claude’s workshop a most extraordinary scenetook place, the only one of the kind on record. Clauderose and addressed his companions, eighty-two innumber, Claude included, in the following words:

“You all know Albin and I were like brothers. Iliked him at first for sharing his rations with me,afterward because he cared for me. Now I never have[Pg 1092]sufficient, though I spend the pittance I earn in bread.It could make no possible difference to the inspector,Monsieur D——, that we should be together; but hechose to separate us simply from a love of tormenting,for he is a bad man. I asked again and again forAlbin to be sent back, without success; and when Igave him a stated time, the 4th of November, I wasthrust into a dungeon. During that time I becamehis judge, and sentenced him to death on Novemberthe 4th. In two hours he will be here, and I warnyou I intend to kill him. But have you anythingto say?”

There was a dead silence. Claude then continuedtelling his comrades, the eighty-one thieves, his ideason the subject—that he was reduced to a fearful extremity,and compelled by that very necessity to takethe law into his own hands; that he knew full well hecould not take the inspector’s life without sacrificinghis own, but that as the cause was a just one he wouldbear the consequences, having come to this conclusionafter two months’ calm reflection; that if they consideredresentment alone hurried him on to such a stepthey were at once to say so, and to state their objectionsto the sentence being carried out.

One voice alone broke the silence which followed,saying, “Before killing the inspector, Claude oughtto give him a chance of relenting.”

“That is but just,” said Claude, “and he shall havethe benefit of the doubt.”

Claude then sorted the few things a poor prisoneris allowed, and gave them to the comrades he mostly[Pg 1093]cared for after Albin, keeping only the pair of scissors.He then embraced them all—some not being able towithhold their tears at such a moment. Claude continuedcalmly to converse during this last hour, andeven gave way to a trick he had as a boy, of extinguishingthe candle with a breath from his nose.Seeing him thus, his companions afterward ownedthat they hoped he had abandoned his sinister idea.One young convict looked at him fixedly, tremblingfor the coming event.

“Take courage, young fellow,” said Claude, gently;“it will be but the work of a minute.”

The workshop was a long room with a door atboth ends, and with windows each side overlookingthe benches, thus leaving a pathway up the centre forthe inspector to review the work on both sides of him.Claude had now resumed his work—something likeJacques Clement, who did not fail to repeat his prayers.

As the clock sounded the last quarter to nine, Clauderose and placed himself near the entrance, apparentlycalm. Amid the most profound silence the clockstruck nine; the door was thrown open, and the inspectorcame in as usual alone, looking quite jovialand self-satisfied, passing rapidly along, tossing hishead at one; grinding words out to another, little heedingthe eyes fixed so fiercely upon him. Just then heheard Claude’s step, and turning quickly around said:

“What are you doing here? Why are you not inyour place?” just as he would have spoken to a dog.

Claude answered respectfully, “I wish to speak toyou, sir.”

[Pg 1094]

“On what subject?”

“Albin.”

“Again!”

“Always the same,” said Claude.

“So then,” replied the inspector, walking along,“you have not had enough with twenty-four hours inthe blackhole.”

Claude, following him closely, replied: “Sir, returnmy companion to me!”

“Impossible!”

“Sir,” continued Claude, in a voice which would havemoved Satan, “I implore you to send Albin back tome; you will then see how I will work. You are free,and it would matter but little to you; you do not knowthe feeling of having only one friend. To me it iseverything, encircled by the prison walls. You cancome and go at your pleasure; I have but Albin. Praylet him come back to me! You know well he sharedhis food with me. What can it matter to you that aman named Claude Gueux should be in this hall, havinganother by his side called Albin? You have butto say ‘Yes,’ nothing more. Sir, my good sir, I imploreyou in the name of Heaven to grant myprayer!”

Claude, overcome with emotion, waited for theanswer.

“Impossible!” replied the inspector, impatiently; “Iwill not recall my words. Now go, you annoyance!”And with that he hurried on toward the outer door,amid the breathless silence maintained by the eighty-onethieves.

[Pg 1095]

Claude, following and touching the inspector, gentlyasked:

“Let me at least know why I am condemned todeath. Why did you separate us?”

“I have already answered you: because I chose,”replied the inspector.

With that he was about to lift the latch, whenClaude raised the ax, and without one cry the inspectorfell to the ground, with his skull completelycloven from three heavy blows dealt with the rapidityof lightning. A fourth completely disfigured his face,and Claude, in his mad fury, gave another and a uselessblow; for the inspector was dead.

Claude, throwing the ax aside, cried out, “Now forthe other!”

The other was himself; and taking the scissors, hiswife’s, he plunged them into his breast. But theblade was short, and the chest was deep, and vainlyhe strove to give the fatal blow. At last covered withblood, he fell fainting across the dead. Which of thetwo would be considered the victim?

When Claude recovered consciousness he was inbed, surrounded by every care and covered with bandages.Near him were Sisters of Charity, and a recorder,ready to take down his deposition, who withmuch interest inquired how he was. Claude had losta great deal of blood; but the scissors had done hima bad turn, inflicting wounds not one of which wasdangerous: the only mortal blows he had struck wereon the body of Monsieur D——. Then the interrogatorcommenced.

[Pg 1096]

“Did you kill the inspector of the prison workshopsat Clarvaux?”

“Yes,” was the reply.

“Why did you do so?”

“Because I did.”

Claude’s wounds assumed a more serious aspect,and he was prostrated with a fever which threatenedhis life. November, December, January, Februarypassed, in nursing and preparations, and Claude inturn was visited by doctor and judge—the one torestore him to health, the other to glean the evidenceneedful to send him to the scaffold.

On the 16th of March, 1832, perfectly cured,Claude appeared in court at Troyes, to answer thecharge brought against him. His appearance impressedthe court favorably; he had been shaved andstood bareheaded, but still clad in prison garb. Thecourt was well guarded by a strong military guard, tokeep the witnesses within bounds, as they were allconvicts.

But an unexpected difficulty occurred: not oneof these men would give evidence; neither questionsnor threats availed to make them break theirsilence, until Claude requested them to do so. Thenthey in turn gave a faithful account of the terribleevent; and if one, from forgetfulness or affection forthe accused, failed to relate the whole facts, Claudesupplied the deficiency. At one time the women’stears fell fast.

The usher now called the convict Albin. He camein trembling with emotion and sobbing painfully, and[Pg 1097]threw himself into Claude’s arms. Turning to thePublic Prosecutor, Claude said:

“Here is a convict who gives his food to thehungry,” and stooping, he kissed Albin’s hand.

All the witnesses having been examined, the counselfor the prosecution then rose to address the court.“Gentlemen of the jury, society would be utterly putto confusion if a public prosecution did not condemngreat culprits like him, who,” etc.

After the long address by the prosecution, Claude’scounsel rose.

Then followed the usual pleading for and against,which ever takes place at the criminal court.

Claude in his turn gave evidence, and every one wasastonished at his intelligence; there appeared far moreof the orator about this poor workman than the assassin.In a clear and straightforward way he detailedthe facts as they were—standing proudly there, resolvedto tell the whole truth. At times the crowd wascarried away by his eloquence. This man, who couldnot read, would grasp the most difficult points ofargument, yet treat the judges with all due deference.Once Claude lost his temper, when the counsel forthe prosecution stated that he had assassinated theinspector without provocation.

“What!” cried Claude, “I had no provocation? Indeed!A drunkard strikes me—I kill him; then youwould allow there was provocation, and the penaltyof death would be changed for that of the galleys.But a man who wounds me in every way during fouryears, humiliates me for four years, taunts me daily,[Pg 1098]hourly, for four years, and heaps every insult on myhead—what follows? You consider I have had noprovocation! I had a wife for whom I robbed—hetortured me about her. I had a child for whom Irobbed—he taunted me about this child. I was hungry,a friend shared his bread with me—he took away myfriend. I begged him to return my friend to me—hecast me into a dungeon. I told him how much I suffered—hesaid it wearied him to listen. What thenwould you have me do? I took his life; and you lookupon me as a monster for killing this man, and youdecapitate me; then do so.”

Provocation such as this the law fails to acknowledge,because the blows leave no marks to show.

The judge then summed up the case in a clear andimpartial manner—dwelling on the life Claude hadled, living openly with an improper character; then hehad robbed, and ended by being a murderer. All thiswas true. Before the jury retired, the judge askedClaude if he had any questions to ask, or anythingto say.

“Very little,” said Claude. “I am a murderer, Iam a thief; but I ask you, gentlemen of this jury, whydid I kill? Why did I steal?”

The jury retired for a quarter of an hour, and accordingto the judgment of these twelve countrymen—gentlemenof the jury, as they are styled—ClaudeGueux was condemned to death. At the very outsetseveral of them were much impressed with the nameof Gueux (vagabond); and that influenced theirdecision.

[Pg 1099]

When the verdict was pronounced, Claude simplysaid: “Very well; but there are two questions thesegentlemen have not answered. Why did this mansteal? What made him a murderer?”

He made a good supper that night, exclaiming,“Thirty-six years have now passed me.” He refusedto make any appeal until the last minute, but at theinstance of one of the sisters who nursed him he consentedto do so. She in her fulness of heart gave hima five-franc piece.

His fellow-prisoners, as we have already noticed,were devoted to him, and placed all the means at theirdisposal to help him to escape. They threw into hisdungeon, through the air-hole, a nail, some wire, thehandle of a pail: any one of these would have beenenough for a man like Claude to free himself fromhis chains. He gave them all up to the warder.

On the 8th of June, 1832, seven months and fourdays after the murder, the recorder of the court came,and Claude was told that he had but one hour moreto live, for his appeal had been rejected.

“Indeed,” said Claude, coldly; “I slept well lastnight, and doubtless I shall pass my next even better.”

First came the priest, then the executioner. Hewas humble to the priest, and listened to him withgreat attention, regretting much that he had not hadthe benefit of religious training, at the same timeblaming himself for much in the past. He was courteousin his manner to the executioner; in fact he gaveup all—his soul to the priest, his body to theexecutioner.

[Pg 1100]

While his hair was being cut, some one mentionedhow the cholera was spreading, and Troyes at anymoment might become a prey to this fearful scourge.Claude joined in the conversation, saying, with a smile,“There is one thing to be said—I have no fear of thecholera!” He had broken half of the scissors—whatremained he asked the jailor to give to Albin; the otherhalf lay buried in his chest. He also wished the day’srations to be taken to his friend. The only trifle heretained was the five-franc piece that the sister hadgiven him, which he kept in his right hand after hewas bound.

At a quarter to eight the dismal procession usualin such cases left the prison. Pale, but with a firmtread, Claude Gueux slowly mounted the scaffold,keeping his eyes fixed on the crucifix the priest carried—anemblem of the Saviour’s suffering. He wishedto embrace the priest and the executioner, thankingthe one and pardoning the other; the executionersimply repulsed him. Just before he was bound tothe infernal machine, he gave the five-franc piece tothe priest saying, “For the poor.”

The hour had scarcely struck its eight chimes, whenthis man, so noble, so intelligent, received the fatalblow which severed his head from his body.

A market-day had been chosen for the time of execution,as there would be more people about; forthere are still in France small towns that glory inhaving an execution. The guillotine that day remained,inflaming the imagination of the mob to suchan extent that one of the tax-gatherers was nearly[Pg 1101]murdered. Such is the admirable effect of publicexecutions!

We have given the history of Claude Gueux’s life,more to solve a difficult problem than for aught else.In his life there are two questions to be considered—beforehis fall and after his fall. What was his trainingand what was the penalty? This must interestsociety generally; for this man was well gifted, hisinstincts were good. Then what was wanting? Onthis revolves the grand problem which would placesociety on a firm basis.

What Nature has begun in the individual, let societycarry out. Look at Claude Gueux. An intelligent andmost noble-hearted man, placed in the midst of evilsurroundings, he turned thief. Society placed him ina prison where the evil was yet greater, and he endedwith becoming a murderer. Can we really blame him,or ourselves?—questions which require deep thought,or the result will be that we shall be compelled toshirk this most important subject. The facts are nowbefore us, and if the government gives no thought tothe matter, what are the rulers about?...

[Pg 1102]

BY ALEXANDRE DAVY DE LA PAILLETERIE DUMAS

[Pg 1104]

BY ALEXANDRE DUMAS

I said that I was in to no one; one of my friendsforced admission.

My servant announced Mr. Anthony R——.Behind Joseph’s livery I saw the corner of a black redingote[1];it is probable that the wearer of the redingote,from his side, saw a flap of my dressing gown; impossibleto conceal myself.

“Very well! Let him enter,” I said out loud. “Lethim go to the Devil,” I said to myself.

While working it is only the woman you love whocan disturb you with impunity, for she is always atbottom interested in what you are doing.

I went up to him, therefore, with the half-boredface of an author interrupted in one of those momentsof sorest self-mistrust, while I found him so pale andhaggard that the first words I addressed to him werethese:

“What is the matter? What has happened to you?”

“Oh! Let me take breath,” said he. “I’m goingto tell you all about it, besides, it’s a dream perhaps,or perhaps I am mad.”

[Pg 1106]

He threw himself into an armchair, and let hishead drop between his hands.

I looked at him in astonishment; his hair was drippingwith rain; his shoes, his knees, and the bottomof his trousers were covered with mud. I went tothe window; I saw at the door his servant and hiscabriolet; I could make nothing out of it all.

He saw my surprise.

“I have been to the cemetery of Père-Lachaise,”said he.

“At ten o’clock in the morning?”

“I was there at seven—cursed bal masqué!”

I could not imagine what a bal masqué and Père-Lachaisehad to do with one another. I resigned myself,and turning my back to the mantelpiece beganto roll a cigarette for him between my fingers withthe phlegm and the patience of a Spaniard.

While he was coming to the point I hinted toAnthony that I, for my part, was commonly very susceptibleto attentions of that kind.

He made me a sign of thanks, but pushed my handaway.

Finally I bent over to light the cigarette for myself:Anthony stopped me.

“Alexandre,” he said to me, “Listen, I beg of you.”

“But you have been here already a quarter of anhour and have not told me anything.”

“Oh! it is a most strange adventure.”

I got up, placed my cigarette on the mantelpiece andcrossed my arms like a man resigned; only I beganto believe, as he did, that he was fast becoming mad.

[Pg 1107]

“You remember the ball at the Opera, where I metyou?” he said to me after a moment’s silence.

“The last one where there were at least two hundredpeople?”

“The very same. I left you with the intention ofabandoning myself to one of those varieties of whichthey spoke to me as being a curiosity even in themidst of our curious times; you wished to dissuade mefrom going; a fatality drove me on. Oh! you, whydid you not see it all, you who have the knack of observation?Why were not Hoffman or Callot there topaint the picture as the fantastic, burlesque thingkept unrolling itself beneath my eyes? Unsatisfiedand in melancholy mood I walked away, about toquit the Opera; I came to a hall that was overflowingand in high spirits: corridors, boxes, parterre. Everythingwas obstructed. I made a tour of the room;twenty masks called me by name and told me theirs.These were all leaders—aristocrats and merchants—inthe undignified disguise of pierrots, of postilions, ofmerry-andrews, or of fishwives. They were allyoung people of family, of culture, of talent; andthere, forgetful of family, talent, breeding, they wereresurrecting in the midst of our sedate and serioustimes a soirée of the Regency. They had told meabout it, and yet I could not have believed it!—Imounted a few steps and leaning against a pillar,half hidden by it, I fixed my eyes on that sea ofhuman beings surging beneath me. Their dominoes,of all colors, their motley costumes, their grotesquedisguises formed a spectacle resembling nothing[Pg 1108]human. The music began to play. Oh, it was thenthese gargoyle creatures stirred themselves to thesound of that orchestra whose harmony reached meonly in the midst of cries, of laughs, of hootings; theyhung on to each other by their hands, by their arms,by their necks; a long coil formed itself, beginningwith a circular motion, the dancers, men and women,stamping with their feet, made the dust break forthwith a noise, the atoms of which were rendered visibleby the wan light of the lustres; turning at ever-increasingspeed with bizarre postures, with unseemlygestures, with cries full of abandonment; turningalways faster and still faster, swaying and swinginglike drunken men, yelling like lost women, with moredelirium than delight, with more passion thanpleasure; resembling a coil of the damned doing infernalpenance under the scourge of demons! Allthis passed beneath my eyes, at my feet. I felt thewind of their whirling past; as they rushed by eachone whom I knew flung a word at me that made meblush. All this noise, all this humming, all this confusion,all this music went on in my brain as well asin the room! I soon came to the point of no longerknowing whether that which I had before my eyeswas a dream or reality; I came to the point of askingmyself whether it was not I who was mad and theywho were sane; I was seized with a weird temptationto throw myself into the midst of this pandemonium,like Faust through the Witches’ Sabbath, and I feltthat I too, would then have cries, postures, laughs liketheirs. Oh! from that to madness there is but one[Pg 1109]step. I was appalled; I flung myself out of the room,followed even to the street door by shrieks that werelike those cries of passion that come out of the cavernsof the fallow deer.

“I stopped a moment under the portico to collectmyself; I did not wish to venture into the street; withsuch confusion still in my soul I might not be able tofind my way; I might, perhaps, be thrown under thewheels of some carriage I had not seen coming. Iwas as a drunken man might be who begins to recoversufficient reason in his clouded brain to recognize hiscondition, and who, feeling the will return but not thepower, with fixed eyes and staring, leans motionlessagainst some street post or some tree on the publicpromenade.

“At that moment a carriage stopped before thedoor, a woman alighted or rather shot herself fromthe doorway.

“She entered beneath the peristyle, turning her headfrom right to left like one who had lost her way; shewas dressed in a black domino, had her face coveredby a velvet mask. She presented herself at thedoor.

“‘Your ticket,’ said the doorkeeper.

“‘My ticket?’ she replied. ‘I have none.’

“‘Then get one at the box-office.’

“The domino came back under the peristyle,fumbled nervously about in all her pockets.

“‘No money!’ she cried. ‘Ah! this ring—a ticketof admission for this ring,’ she said.

“‘Impossible,’ replied the woman who was distributing[Pg 1110]the cards; ‘we do not make bargains ofthat kind.’

“And she pushed away the brilliant, which fell tothe ground and rolled to my side.

“The domino remained still without moving, forgettingthe ring, sunk in thought.

“I picked up the ring and handed it to her.

“Through her mask I saw her eyes fixed on mine.

“‘You must help me to get in,’ she said to me;‘You must, for pity’s sake.’

“‘But I am going out, madame,’ I said to her.

“‘Then give me six francs for this ring, and youwill render me a service for which I shall bless youmy life long.’

“I replaced the ring on her finger; I went to thebox-office, I took two tickets. We reentered together.

“As we arrived within the corridor I felt that shewas tottering. Then with her second hand she madea kind of ring around my arm.

“‘Are you in pain?’ I asked her.

“‘No, no, it is nothing,’ she replied, ‘a dizziness,that is all—’

“She hurried me into the hall.

“We reentered into that giddy Charenton.[2]

“Three times we made the tour, breaking our waywith great difficulty through the waves of masks thatwere hurling themselves one upon the other; she tremblingat every unseemly word that came to her ear; Iblushing to be seen giving my arm to a woman who[Pg 1111]would thus put herself in the way of such words; thenwe returned to the end of the hall.

“She fell upon a sofa. I remained standing infront of her, my hand leaning on the back of her seat.

“‘Oh! this must seem to you very bizarre,’ she said,‘but not more so than to me, I swear to you. I havenot the slightest idea of all this’ (she looked at theball), ‘for even in my dreams I could not imaginesuch things. But they wrote me, you see, that hewould be here with a woman, and what sort of awoman should it be who could come to a place likethis?’

“I made a gesture of surprise; she understood.

“‘But I am here, you wish to ask, do you not? Oh!but for me that is another thing: I, I am looking forhim; I, I am his wife. As for these people, it is madnessand dissipation that drives them hither. But I,I, it is jealousy infernal! I have been everywherelooking for him; I have been all night in a cemetery;I have been at Grève[3] on the day of an execution; andyet, I swear to you, as a young girl I have never oncegone into the street without my mother; as a wife Ihave never taken one step out of doors without beingfollowed by a lackey; and yet here I am, the sameas all these women who are so familiar with theway; here I am giving my arm to a man whom I donot know, blushing under my mask at the opinion heought to have of me! I know all this!—Have youever been jealous, monsieur?’

[Pg 1112]

“‘Unhappily,’ I replied to her.

“‘Then you will forgive me, for you understand.You know that voice that cries out to you “Do!”as in the ear of a madman; you have felt that arm thatpushes one into shame and crime, like the arm of fate.You know that at such a moment one is capable ofeverything, if one can only get vengeance.’

“I was about to reply; all at once she rose, her eyesfastened on two dominoes that were passing in frontof us at that moment.

“‘Silence!’ she said.

“And she hurried me on following in their footsteps.I was thrown into the middle of an intrigueof which I understood nothing; I could feel all thethreads vibrating, but could take hold of none of themby the end; but this poor wife seemed so troubled thatshe became interesting. I obeyed like a child, so imperiousis real feeling, and we set ourselves to followthe two masks, one of which was evidently a man, theother a woman. They spoke in a low voice; the soundsreached our ears with difficulty.

“‘It is he!’ she murmured; ‘it is his voice; yes, yes,that is his figure—’

“The latter of the two dominoes began to laugh.

“‘That is his laugh,’ said she; ‘it is he, monsieur,it is he! The letter said true, O, mon Dieu, monDieu!’

“In the mean while the two masks kept on, and wefollowed them always. They went out of the hall,and we went out after them; they took the stairs leadingto the boxes, and we ascended in their footsteps;[Pg 1113]they did not stop till they came to the boxes in thecentre; we were like their two shadows. A littleclosed box was opened; they entered it; the dooragain closed upon them.

“The poor creature I was supporting on my armfrightened me by her excitement. I could not see herface, but crushed against me as she was, I couldfeel her heart beating, her body shivering, her limbstrembling. There was something uncanny in the waythere came to me such knowledge of unheard-of suffering,the spectacle of which I had before my veryeyes, of whose victim I knew nothing, and of thecause of which I was completely ignorant. Nevertheless,for nothing in this world would I have abandonedthat woman at such a moment.

“As she saw the two masks enter the box and thebox close upon them, she stopped still a moment, motionless,and as if overwhelmed. Then she sprangforward to the door to listen. Placed as she was herslightest movement would betray her presence andruin her; I dragged her back violently by the arm, Ilifted the latch of the adjoining box, I drew her inafter me, I lowered the grille and pulled the door to.

“‘If you wish to listen,’ I said to her, ‘at least listenfrom here.’

“She fell upon one knee and flattened her earagainst the partition, and I—I held myself erect onthe opposite side, my arms crossed, my head bent andthoughtful.

“All that I had been able to observe of that womanseemed to me to indicate a type of beauty. The lower[Pg 1114]part of her face, which was not concealed by her mask,was youthful, velvety, and round; her lips were scarletand delicate; her teeth, which the black velvet maskfalling just above them made appear still whiter, weresmall, separated, and glistening; her hand was one tobe modeled, her figure to be held between the fingers;her black hair, silky, escaped in profusion from beneaththe hood of her domino, and the foot of a child, thatplayed in and out under her skirt, looked as if it shouldhave trouble in balancing her body, all lithe, all graceful,all airy as it was. Oh! what a marvelous piece ofperfection must she be! Oh! he that should hold herin his arms, that should see every faculty of that spiritabsorbed in loving him, that should feel the beating ofher heart against his, her tremblings, her nervous palpitations,and that should be able to say: ‘All of this,all of this, comes of love, of love for me, for me aloneamong all the millions of men, for me, angel predestined!Oh! that man!—that man!—’

“Such were my thoughts, when all at once I sawthat woman rise, turn toward me, and say to me in avoice broken and fierce:

“‘Monsieur, I am beautiful, I swear it; I am young,I am but nineteen. Until now I have been white asan angel of the Creation—ah, well—’ she threw botharms about my neck,‘—ah, well, I am yours—takeme!—’

“At the same instant I felt her lips pressed close tomine, and the effect of a bite, rather than that of akiss, ran shuddering and dismayed through my wholebody; over my eyes passed a cloud of flame.

[Pg 1115]

“Ten minutes later I was holding her in my arms,in a swoon, half dead and sobbing.

“Slowly she came to herself; through her mask Imade out how haggard were her eyes; I saw the lowerpart of her pale face, I heard her teeth chatter oneupon the other, as in the chill of a fever. I see it allonce more.

“She remembered all that had taken place, and fell atmy feet.

“‘If you have any compassion,’ she said to me,sobbing, ‘any pity, turn away your eyes from me,never seek to know me; let me go and forget me. Iwill remember for two!’

“At these words she rose again; quickly, like athought that escapes us, she darted toward the door,opened it, and coming back again, ‘Do not follow me,in heaven’s name, Monsieur, do not follow me!’ shesaid.

“The door pushed violently open, closed again betweenher and me, stole her from my sight, like anapparition. I have never seen her more!

“I have never seen her more! And ever since, eversince the six months that have glided by, I have soughther everywhere, at balls, at spectacles, at promenades.Every time I have seen from a distance a woman withlithe figure, with a foot like a child’s, with black hair,I have followed her, I have drawn near to her, I havelooked into her face, hoping that her blushes wouldbetray her. Nowhere have I found her again, in noplace have I seen her again—except at night, exceptin my dreams! Oh! there, there she reappears; there[Pg 1116]I feel her, I feel her embraces, her biting caresses soardent, as if she had something of the devil in her;then the mask has fallen and a face most grotesque appearedto me at times blurred as if veiled in a cloud;sometimes brilliant, as if circled by an aureole; sometimespale, with a skull white and naked, with eyesvanished from the orbits, with teeth chattering andfew. In short, ever since that night, I have ceased tolive; burning with mad passion for a woman I do notknow, hoping always and always disappointed at myhopes. Jealous without the right to be so, withoutknowing of whom to be jealous, not daring to avowsuch madness, and all the time pursued, preyed upon,wasted away, consumed by her.”

As he finished these words he tore a letter fromhis breast.

“Now that I have told you everything,” he said tome, “take this letter and read it.”

I took the letter and read:

“Have you perhaps forgotten a poor woman whohas forgotten nothing and who dies because she cannot forget?

“When you receive this letter I shall be no more.Then go to the cemetery of Père-Lachaise, tell theconcierge to let you see among the newest graves onethat bears on its stone the simple name ‘Marie,’ andwhen you are face to face with that grave, fall onyour knees and pray.”

“Ah, well!” continued Anthony, “I received thatletter yesterday, and I went there this morning. Theconcierge conducted me to the grave, and I remained[Pg 1117]two hours on my knees there, praying and weeping.Do you understand? She was there, that woman.Her flaming spirit had stolen away; the body consumedby it had bowed, even to breaking, beneaththe burden of jealousy and of remorse; she was there,under my feet, and she had lived, and she had died,for me unknown; unknown!—and taking a place inmy life as she had taken one in the grave; unknown!—andburying in my heart a corpse, cold and lifeless,as she had buried one in the sepulchre—Oh! Do youknow anything to equal it? Do you know any eventso appalling? Therefore, now, no more hope. I willsee her again never. I would dig up her grave that Imight recover, perhaps, some traces wherewithal to reconstructher face; and I love her always! Do youunderstand, Alexandre? I love her like a madman;and I would kill myself this instant in order to rejoinher, if she were not to remain unknown to me foreternity, as she was unknown to me in this world.”

With these words he snatched the letter from myhands, kissed it over and over again, and began toweep like a little child.

I took him in my arms, and not knowing what tosay to him, I wept with him.

[Pg 1118]

BY PROSPER MÉRIMÉE

Prosper Mérimée, novelist, historian, dramatist,and critic, was born in Paris in 1803.Rarely gifted and highly educated, he heldvarious offices in the civil service, was anAcademician, and in 1853 a Senator of the Empire.He was a great traveler, and throughhis tact and engaging personality was welcomedamong all classes, observing whereverhe went, and gathering material for his stories,in which a great variety of types are noticeable.His literary style—clear, simple, artistic—isconsidered a model of restraint and conciseness.“Carmen,” on which Bizet’s opera isfounded, and the novel, “Columba,” are probablythe best known of his works. The latterpart of his life he devoted to introducingthrough his own translation the great Russianauthors, Poushkin, Gogol, and Turgenev. Thefamous “Lettres à une Inconnue” were publishedafter his death at Cannes, in 1870,where they have lately erected a monument tohim.

[Pg 1120]

BY PROSPER MÉRIMÉE

Copyright, 1896, by The Current Literature Publishing Company.

A friend of mine, a soldier, who died in Greeceof fever some years since, described to meone day his first engagement. His story soimpressed me that I wrote it down from memory. Itwas as follows:

I joined my regiment on September 4th. It wasevening. I found the colonel in the camp. He receivedme rather bruskly, but having read the general’sintroductory letter he changed his manner andaddressed me courteously.

By him I was presented to my captain, who hadjust come in from reconnoitring. This captain, whoseacquaintance I had scarcely time to make, was a tall,dark man, of harsh, repelling aspect. He had beena private soldier, and had won his cross and epaulettesupon the field of battle. His voice, which was hoarseand feeble, contrasted strangely with his giganticstature. This voice of his he owed, as I was told, toa bullet which had passed completely through his bodyat the battle of Jena.

On learning that I had just come from college atFontainebleau, he remarked, with a wry face: “Mylieutenant died last night.”

[Pg 1122]

I understood what he implied, “It is for you to takehis place, and you are good for nothing.”

A sharp retort was on my tongue, but I restrained it.

The moon was rising behind the redoubt of Cheverino,which stood two cannon-shots from our encampment.The moon was large and red, as iscommon at her rising; but that night she seemed tome of extraordinary size. For an instant the redoubtstood out coal-black against the glittering disk. Itresembled the cone of a volcano at the moment oferuption.

An old soldier, at whose side I found myself, observedthe color of the moon.

“She is very red,” he said. “It is a sign that it willcost us dear to win this wonderful redoubt.”

I was always superstitious, and this piece of augury,coming at that moment, troubled me. I sought mycouch, but could not sleep. I rose, and walked about awhile, watching the long line of fires upon the heightsbeyond the village of Cheverino.

When the sharp night air had thoroughly refreshedmy blood I went back to the fire. I rolled my mantleround me, and I shut my eyes, trusting not to openthem till daybreak. But sleep refused to visit me. Insensiblymy thoughts grew doleful. I told myself thatI had not a friend among the hundred thousand menwho filled that plain. If I were wounded, I should beplaced in hospital, in the hands of ignorant and carelesssurgeons. I called to mind what I had heardof operations. My heart beat violently, and I mechanicallyarranged, as a kind of rude cuirass, my[Pg 1123]handkerchief and pocketbook upon my breast. Then,overpowered with weariness, my eyes closed drowsily,only to open the next instant with a start at some newthought of horror.

Fatigue, however, at last gained the day. When thedrums beat at daybreak I was fast asleep. We weredrawn up in ranks. The roll was called, then westacked our arms, and everything announced that weshould pass another uneventful day.

But about three o’clock an aide-de-camp arrived withorders. We were commanded to take arms.

Our sharpshooters marched into the plain. Wefollowed slowly, and in twenty minutes we saw theoutposts of the Russians falling back and enteringthe redoubt. We had a battery of artillery on ourright, another on our left, but both some distance inadvance of us. They opened a sharp fire upon theenemy, who returned it briskly, and the redoubt ofCheverino was soon concealed by volumes of thicksmoke. Our regiment was almost covered from theRussians’ fire by a piece of rising ground. Their bullets(which besides were rarely aimed at us, for theypreferred to fire upon our cannoneers) whistled overus, or at worst knocked up a shower of earth andstones.

Just as the order to advance was given, the captainlooked at me intently. I stroked my sprouting mustachewith an air of unconcern; in truth, I was notfrightened, and only dreaded lest I might be thoughtso. These passing bullets aided my heroic coolness,while my self-respect assured me that the danger was[Pg 1124]a real one, since I was veritably under fire. I was delightedat my self-possession, and already lookedforward to the pleasure of describing in Parisiandrawing-rooms the capture of the redoubt ofCheverino.

The colonel passed before our company. “Well,”he said to me, “you are going to see warm work inyour first action.”

I gave a martial smile, and brushed my cuff, onwhich a bullet, which had struck the earth at thirtypaces distant, had cast a little dust.

It appeared that the Russians had discovered thattheir bullets did no harm, for they replaced them bya fire of shells, which began to reach us in the hollowswhere we lay. One of these, in its explosion, knockedoff my shako and killed a man beside me.

“I congratulate you,” said the captain, as I pickedup my shako. “You are safe now for the day.”

I knew the military superstition which believes thatthe axiom “non bis in idem” is as applicable to thebattlefield as to the courts of justice. I replaced myshako with a swagger.

“That’s a rude way to make one raise one’s hat,”I said, as lightly as I could. And this wretched pieceof wit was, in the circ*mstances, received as excellent.

“I compliment you,” said the captain. “You willcommand a company to-night; for I shall not survivethe day. Every time I have been wounded the officerbelow me has been touched by some spent ball; and,”he added, in a lower tone, “all the names beganwith P.”

[Pg 1125]

I laughed skeptically; most people would have donethe same; but most would also have been struck, as Iwas, by these prophetic words. But, conscript thoughI was, I felt that I could trust my thoughts to no one,and that it was my duty to seem always calm andbold.

At the end of half an hour the Russian fire hadsensibly diminished. We left our cover to advanceon the redoubt.

Our regiment was composed of three battalions.The second had to take the enemy in flank; the twoothers formed a storming party. I was in the third.

On issuing from behind the cover, we were receivedby several volleys, which did but little harm.The whistling of the balls amazed me. “But afterall,” I thought, “a battle is less terrible than Iexpected.”

We advanced at a smart run, our musketeers infront.

All at once the Russians uttered three hurrahs—threedistinct hurrahs—and then stood silent, withoutfiring.

“I don’t like that silence,” said the captain. “Itbodes no good.”

I began to think our people were too eager. I couldnot help comparing, mentally, their shouts and clamorwith the striking silence of the enemy.

We quickly reached the foot of the redoubt. Thepalisades were broken and the earthworks shatteredby our balls. With a roar of “Vive l’Empereur,” oursoldiers rushed across the ruins.

[Pg 1126]

I raised my eyes. Never shall I forget the sightwhich met my view. The smoke had mostly lifted,and remained suspended, like a canopy, at twenty feetabove the redoubt. Through a bluish mist could beperceived, behind the shattered parapet, the RussianGrenadiers, with rifles lifted, as motionless as statues.I can see them still—the left eye of every soldierglaring at us, the right hidden by his lifted gun. Inan embrasure at a few feet distant, a man with afuse stood by a cannon.

I shuddered. I believed that my last hour had come.

“Now for the dance to open,” cried the captain.These were the last words I heard him speak.

There came from the redoubts a roll of drums. Isaw the muzzles lowered. I shut my eyes; I heard amost appalling crash of sound, to which succeededgroans and cries. Then I looked up, amazed to findmyself still living. The redoubt was once morewrapped in smoke. I was surrounded by the deadand wounded. The captain was extended at my feet;a ball had carried off his head, and I was covered withhis blood. Of all the company, only six men, exceptmyself, remained erect.

This carnage was succeeded by a kind of stupor.The next instant the colonel, with his hat on hissword’s point, had scaled the parapet with a cry of“Vive l’Empereur.” The survivors followed him.All that succeeded is to me a kind of dream. Werushed into the redoubt, I know not how, we foughthand to hand in the midst of smoke so thick that noman could perceive his enemy. I found my sabre dripping[Pg 1127]blood; I heard a shout of “Victory”; and, inthe clearing smoke, I saw the earthworks piled withdead and dying. The cannons were covered with aheap of corpses. About two hundred men in theFrench uniform were standing, without order, loadingtheir muskets or wiping their bayonets. ElevenRussian prisoners were with them.

The colonel was lying, bathed in blood, upon abroken cannon. A group of soldiers crowded roundhim. I approached them.

“Who is the oldest captain?” he was asking of asergeant.

The sergeant shrugged his shoulders most expressively.

“Who is the oldest lieutenant?”

“This gentleman, who came last night,” replied thesergeant calmly.

The colonel smiled bitterly.

“Come, sir,” he said to me, “you are now in chiefcommand. Fortify the gorge of the redoubt at oncewith wagons, for the enemy is out in force. ButGeneral C—— is coming to support you.”

“Colonel,” I asked him, “are you badly wounded?”

“Pish, my dear fellow. The redoubt is taken.”

[Pg 1128]

BY JULES GABRIEL JANIN

[Pg 1130]

BY JULES JANIN

Translated by Jane G. Cooke.
Copyright, 1899, by The Current LiteraturePublishing Company.

So you have never heard the circ*mstances ofMonsieur Baudelot de Dairval’s marriage, theman who died four years ago, and was somourned by his wife that she died a week later herself,good lady? Yet it is a story worth telling.

It happened in the Vendée, and the hero, a Vendean,brave, young, daring, and of fine family, diedtranquilly in his bed without ever suspecting that therewould be a second Vendée.

Baudelot de Dairval was the grandson of thatCésar Baudelot who is mentioned in the Memoirs ofthe duch*ess of Orleans, own mother of the regentLouis Philippe. This woman, who has thrown suchcontempt on the greatest names of France, could nothelp praising César de Baudelot. Saint-Simon, skepticand mocker, but good fellow withal, also spokehighly of him. So you’ll understand that bearing sucha name young Henri was not lost to report in the firstVendée, to protest arms in hand against the excessesof the Revolution. Baudelot was a Vendean simplybecause a man of his name and nature could be nothingelse. He fought like his associates, neither morenor less. He was the friend of Cathelmeau and ofall the others. He took part in those battles of giants;[Pg 1132]he took part fighting stoutly, and then laughing andsinging as soon as he no longer heard the cries of thewounded. What wars, what livid tempests were everlike those? But it is not my business to tell againthe story so often told.

But I want to tell you that one day, surprised at afarm by a detachment of Blues, Baudelot unexpectedlycalled together his troop. “My friends,” said he, “thisfarm is surrounded. You must all escape! Takewith you the women and children. Rejoin our chief,Cathelmeau. As for me, I’ll stay and defend the gate.I certainly can hold it alone for ten minutes. Thosethree thousand out there would massacre us all. Good-by,good-by, my brave fellows! Don’t forget me!It’s my turn to-day. You’ll get yourselves killedto-morrow!”

In those exceptional times and in that exceptionalwar, nothing seemed astonishing. Men did not eventhink of those rivalries in heroism so frequent in elegantwarfare. In such a struggle of exterminationthere was no time to pose for sublimity of soul.Heroism was quite unaffected. So Baudelot’s soldiersjudged for themselves that their chief spoke sensibly,and obeyed as simply as he had commanded. Theywithdrew by the roof, taking away the women andchildren. Baudelot remained at the door making noiseenough for forty, haranguing, disputing and discharginghis gun. One would have thought a whole regimentready to fire was stationed there, and the Bluesheld themselves on the alert. Baudelot remained onthe defensive as long as he had any voice. But when[Pg 1133]that failed and he thought his troop must have reacheda place of safety, he tired of the warlike feint. Hefelt ill at ease at thus commanding the absent; andkeeping quiet, he merely propped up the door as it wasshaken from outside. This lasted several minutes,then the door cracked, and the Blues began to firethrough the fissures. Baudelot was not wounded, andas his meal had been interrupted, he returned to thetable and tranquilly ate some bread and cheese, andemptied a pitcher of country wine, thinking meanwhilethat this was his last repast!

Finally the Blues forced the door and rushed in. Ittook them some minutes to clear away obstructions,and to recognize each other in the smoke of theirguns. These soldiers of the Republic hunted eagerlywith look and sword for the armed troop which hadwithstood them so long. Judge their surprise at seeingonly a tall, very handsome young man, calmly eatingblack bread moistened with wine. Dumb with astonishmentthe conquerors stopped and leaned on theirguns, and thus gave Henri Baudelot time to swallowhis last mouthful.

“To your health, gentlemen!” he said, lifting hisglass to his lips. “The garrison thanks you for therespite you have granted.” At the same time he rose,and going straight to the Captain, said: “Monsieur, Iam the only person in this house. I am quite readyfor death.”

Then he kept quiet, and waited. To his great surprisehe was not shot at once. Perhaps he had falleninto the hands of recruits so little exercised as to delay[Pg 1134]twenty-four hours before killing a man. Perhaps hiscaptors were moved by his coolness and fine bearing,and were ashamed at setting three hundred to kill one.We must remember that in that sad war there wereFrench feelings on both sides.

So they contented themselves with tying his handsand leading him, closely watched, to a manor on theoutskirts of Nantes, which, once an attractive country-seat,had now become a kind of fortress. Its masterwas no other than the chief of the Blues, who hadcaptured Baudelot. This Breton, a gentleman althougha Blue, had been one of the first to share revolutionarytransports. He was one of those nobles so heroic totheir own injury, who renounced in a day fortunes,coats of arms, and their own names, forgetting bothwhat they had promised their fathers and what theyowed to their sons, equally oblivious of past and future,and unfortunate victims of the present. But we will notreproach them, for either they died under the strokeof the Revolution, or lived long enough to see that alltheir sacrifices were vain.

Baudelot de Dairval was confined in the donjon, or,rather, in the pigeon-house of his conqueror. Thedoves had been expelled to give place to Chouancaptives. Still covered with shining slates, still surmountedby its creaking weather-co*ck, this prison hadretained a calm, gracious air, and it had not beenthought necessary to bar the openings by which thepigeons came and went. Much as ever, a little strawhad been added to the usual furniture.

At first the dovecote of a country manor struck him[Pg 1135]as a novel prison. He decided that as soon as hishands were free he would compose a romance uponit, with a guitar accompaniment. While thus thinking,he heard a violin and other instruments playing a joyfulmarch. By piling up the straw against the walland leaning on it with his elbow, Baudelot could lookout of one of the openings. He saw a long processionof young men and pretty women in white gowns,preceded by village fiddlers, and all merry and joyous.As it passed at the foot of the dovecote, a pretty girllooked up attentively. She was fair, slender anddreamy-looking. Baudelot felt that she knew of theprisoner, and he began to whistle the air of Richard,“In an Obscure Tower,” or something of the kind.For this young man was versed in all kinds of combatsand romances, equally skilful with sword andguitar, an adept at horsemanship, a fine dancer, a truegentleman of wit and sword, such as are manufacturedno more.

The wedding procession passed, or, at least, if nota wedding it was a betrothal, and Baudelot stoppedsinging. He heard a sound at his prison door; someone entered.

It was the master of the house himself. He hadbeen a Marquis under Capet, now he called himselfsimply Hamelin. He was a Blue, but a good fellowenough. The Republic ruled him body and soul; helent his sword and his castle. But he had not becomecruel or wicked in its service. The morning of thisvery day, Captain Hamelin, for so he had been appointedby the Republic, learned that some Chouans[Pg 1136]were at his farm, had headed a detachment of Bluesand postponed his betrothal. You know how he hadseized Baudelot. As soon as the Chouan was in keepingthe Captain had returned to his betrothal feast, andthis is the reason why he did not shoot his prisoner atonce or take him to Nantes.

Captain Hamelin was not so thorough a Blue asto have quite forgotten the hospitable old customs ofBretagne soil. Therefore, while his friends were sittingdown to table, he felt it incumbent to call uponhis captive.

“Can I do anything for you, monsieur?” he asked.

“Monsieur,” said Baudelot, bowing, “I should likethe use of at least one of my hands.”

“Your hands shall be unbound, monsieur,” answeredHamelin, “if you will promise not to try toescape. But before you promise, remember that atsix o’clock to-morrow morning you will surely betaken to Nantes.”

“And shot at eight o’clock just as surely?” askedBaudelot.

Captain Hamelin was silent.

“Very well, monsieur,” said Baudelot. “Unbindmy hands and unless I’m delivered, I give my wordas a gentleman and a Christian to stay here like apigeon with clipped wings.”

Captain Hamelin could not help smiling at his prisoner’sallusion, and untied his hands.

“Now,” said Baudelot, stretching his arms like aman stiff from sleep, “now, monsieur, I thank you,and am truly your servant until to-morrow. It[Pg 1137]will not be my fault if my gratitude does not lastlonger!”

Captain Hamelin said: “If you have any last arrangements—awill to make, for instance—I will sendyou writing materials.” He was touched, for he wasnot a Breton for nothing.

Seeing this, Baudelot took his hand. “Do youknow,” he said sadly, “that simple word ‘will’ woundsme more than the words ‘death at Nantes!’ It recallsthat all my friends are dead. There is no one towhom I can bequeath my name, my sword, my loveand my hate, and these are all I have left. Yet, itmust be sweet to dispose of a fortune, to be generouseven beyond the tomb; and while writing last benefits,to imagine the tears of joys and sorrow they willcause. That is sweet and honorable, isn’t it, Captain?I must not think of it.”

“I will send you some dinner,” said Hamelin. “Thisis my day of betrothal, and my table is better providedthan usual. My fiancée herself shall serve you,monsieur.”

In one of the highest apertures of his cage, Baudelotsaw a daisy which had been sown there by one of thefirst occupants of the dovecote. The pretty flowerswayed joyously in the wind, and he gathered it andoffered it to the Captain.

“It is our custom at home, Captain, to offer the bridea gift. Be so good as to give yours this little flower,which has blossomed in my domain. And now, goodnight. I have kept you from your loves long enough.May God remember your kindness toward me! [Pg 1138]Good-by.Best wishes! Send me some supper, for I’mhungry and need rest.”

And they separated with friendly looks.

Dinner was brought the young Vendean by a prettyBreton girl with white teeth, rosy lips and the pensiveair which befitted a shy country maiden, who hadalready seen so many proscripts. She served himzealously, and gave him no peace if he did not eat ofthis or that dish, drink this or that wine. It was amagnificent repast. The dovecote grew fragrant. Itwas almost like the time when the winged occupantsof the tower gathered crumbs from the feast. Asthe girl was pouring champagne, Baudelot said to her:

“What is your name, my child?”

“My name is Marie,” she answered.

“The same as my cousin’s,” went on the youngman; “and how old are you, Marie?”

“Seventeen years,” said Marie.

“The age of my cousin,” said Baudelot, and as hethought of his pretty cousin butchered by the executioner,his heart almost failed him. But he blushedto weep before this child in whose eyes tears weregathering, and as he could not speak, he held out hisglass. But the glass was full, and in the last rays ofthe sun the champagne sparkled joyously, for winesparkled and spring bloomed even during the Terror.Seeing that his glass was full, Baudelot said:

“You have no glass, Marie?”

“I am not thirsty,” said Marie.

“Oh!” said Baudelot, “this bright wine does notlike to be drunk by a man alone. It is convivial by[Pg 1139]nature, and rejoices to be among boon companions. Itis the great support of the Fraternity of which youhave heard so much, my poor Marie, and which menreally comprehend so little. Be friendly; dip yourlips in my glass, my pretty Breton, if you would haveme drink champagne once more before I die,” and helifted the glass to Marie’s lips. She held them out,but at the words, “to die,” her heart overflowed, andcopious tears rolled into the joyous wine.

“To your health, Marie!” said Baudelot, and drankboth wine and tears.

Just then they heard the horn, the hautboys, and theviolins. “What’s that?” said the young man settingdown his glass. “God bless me, it’s a ball!”

“Alas!” said Marie, “alas! yes, it’s a ball. Myyoung mistress did not want dancing, but her loverand her father insisted. She is very unhappy thisevening.”

“Oh!” said the young Vendean, “my good Marie,if you are as kind as I think, you’ll do something forme! Go, run, fly, tell your mistress that Count Baudelotde Dairval, Colonel of Light Horse, requests permissionto pay her his respects. Or, no; find my host,not his bride, and tell him that his prisoner is verydull, that the noise of the ball will prevent his sleeping,that the night will be long and cold, that it’s acharity to snatch an unhappy young man from the sadthoughts of his last night, that I beg him, in Heaven’sname, to let me attend his ball. Tell him he has myword of honor not to try to escape. Tell him all that,Marie; and tell him whatever else comes into your[Pg 1140]heart and mind. Speak loud enough for your mistressto hear and be interested; and, thanks to you, Marie,I’m sure he will yield. Then, child, if I am invited,send your master’s valet. Tell him to bring me cleanlinen and powder. There must be some powder stillleft in the castle. Tell him to bring me one of hismaster’s coats, and get them to lend me my sword justfor the evening. I will not unsheath it. So, Marie,go, child!” And the prisoner hurried her off and heldher back in a way to make one both laugh and cry.

A few minutes later Captain Hamelin’s valet appearedin the dovecote. He was a good old fellow,faithful to powder and to all the old customs.Although a member of the municipal council, he wasan honest man, devoted to Monsieur Robespierre onlybecause he alone in all republican France had daredto continue powder, ruffles, and embroidered vest.

He brought a complete suit, which Captain Hamelinhad ordered when younger and a Marquis, to visit thecourt and see the King when there was a court and aKing. This suit was very rich and handsome, the linenvery white, the shoes very fine. Baudelot’s host hadforgotten nothing, not even the perfumes and cosmeticsof an old-time Marquis. Baudelot confided his headto the valet, who adorned it complaisantly, not withoutprofound sighs of regret. Baudelot was young andhandsome, but had not been groomed for some time.Therefore when he saw himself dressed, curled andfresh shaven, his eyes animated by a good meal andby the music in the distance, he could not help smilingwith self-content and recalling his beautiful nights at[Pg 1141]the “bal masqué” and at the opera with the Count deMirabeau.

He lacked only his sword, which was given himat the door with a reminder of his promise. It wasnight when he crossed the garden to the ballroom.

All the most beautiful republican ladies of the provincewere there. But you know women are not sorevolutionary that they do not feel aristocratic sympathyfor a young and handsome gentleman who is tobe shot on the morrow.

To return to our story. The betrothal ball had begun.The fiancée was Mademoiselle de Mailly, grand-nieceof the beautiful De Mailly so beloved of Madamede Maintenon. She was a sad young blonde, evidentlyunhappy at dancing and marrying in that period ofproscription. She was one of those strong spiritswhich seem weak until a certain fatal hour hassounded, when apparent weakness becomes invincibleenergy. The heroine replaces the little girl, and theruins of a whole world could not intimidate her, who,until then, trembled at the least sign of displeasure.

Eleanor de Mailly was then very dejected. Thefriends of her childhood imitated her silence and despondency.Never before was Bretagne feast sogloomy. Nothing went as it should, neither dancenor dancers, and there was general lack of ease. Theyoung men did not even try to please the pretty girls,and when the ball had scarcely begun every one wishedit would end.

Suddenly the door into the great hall opened, andevery one looked that way. There entered a pretty[Pg 1142]court gentleman, a lost type, a handsome officer, smilingand well dressed. He had the dress and elegantbearing of court. This apparition was in charmingcontrast with the dulness of the gathering. The menand women who were bluest at heart were delightedto find with them this remnant of the old Frenchsociety so suddenly blotted out, alas! And, indeed, itwas charming to see this young proscript, whom deathon the morrow awaited, entering into this republicancompany, recalling its gaiety, and thinking of nothingbut to be agreeable and please the ladies, faithful tothe end to his calling of French gentleman!

His entrance took only a minute. Once in the room,he gave himself up to the ball and went to invite thefirst woman he saw. It was the blond girl whom hehad noticed in the garden. She accepted without hesitation,remembering that republican death, the mostunpleasant of all deaths, was offering her partner abloody hand. When the men saw Baudelot dancing,doomed as he was, they blushed at their own lack ofardor. All the women were invited to dance at once,and accepted in order to see Baudelot nearer. So,thanks to the victim, the ball grew really gay.

Baudelot heartily shared this convulsive pleasure.His smile was not forced; his dance was light andgraceful. He alone was genuinely entertained. Theothers amused themselves in very terror, and becamealmost delirious at sight of this beautiful youth, whowas king of the fête far more than the bridegroom.Animated by such passion, terror, and bloody interest,the ball took possession of all. Baudelot was everywhere,[Pg 1143]saluting old ladies like the King of France, andyoung ones with joy and admiration, talking to menin the mad language of youth and of nature mixedwith wit.

The more he yielded to this frank and natural gaiety,the more he forgot that the night was advancingwith frightful rapidity. And the later it grew themore the women trembled in their hearts at the thoughtthat he must really die, for they were near the epoch ofold French honor, which made Baudelot’s presence atthe ball the sign that there was no hope for him.They knew his word bound him faster than iron chainscould have done. They knew that both Baudelot andHamelin were doing right. Baudelot’s pleasure didno wrong to the committee of public safety. As youmay imagine, then, looks and smiles were very tender,and more than one sigh escaped at sight of the handsomeproscript. As for him, drunk with success, hehad never been so full of love and passion. So whenhe went to dance for the third time with the queenof the ball, the blond fiancée, he felt her little handtrembling and trembled in his turn.

For when he glanced at her she was pale and exhausted.

“What is the matter, Eleanor?” he asked. “Whatis the matter, madame? Out of pity for your partner,do not tremble and grow so pale!”

Then turning toward the window curtains, whichwere moving to the dance music, she pointed out thedawning light.

“It is morning,” she said.

[Pg 1144]

“Ah, well!” said Baudelot, “what does it matter?It is morning. I have passed the most beautiful nightof my life. I have seen you and loved you and beenable to tell you I love you, for you know the dyingdon’t lie. And now, good-by, Eleanor, good-by! Behappy and accept the blessing of the Chouan!”

It was the custom in Brittany at the end of the lastsquare dance to kiss the lady on the forehead. Thedance finished, Baudelot pressed his lips to Eleanor’sbrow. She grew faint and stood motionless, her browsupported by his lips. Then she recovered herself andBaudelot led her to a seat. She made him sit downbeside her and said:

“Listen, you must go. Listen, they are harnessingthe horses to take you to Nantes. Listen, in two hoursyou will be dead. Fly, then! If you wish, I will gowith you. Then they will say you fled out of love,not from fear. Listen, if you will not escape alone, orwith me, I will throw myself under the wheels of thecarriage, and you will pass over my broken body!”

She said this in a low tone, without looking at him,and almost smiling, as though speaking of anotherball.

Baudelot did not listen, but he looked at her with ajoy in his heart such as he never before felt.

“How I love her!” he said to himself. He answered:“You know very well that is impossible,Eleanor. Oh, yes; if I were free, you should have nohusband but me, but I do not belong either to myself orto you. So good-by, beautiful angel, and if you loveme give me back the wild flower I sent you from my[Pg 1145]prison. Give it back, Eleanor. The little flower hasbeen on your breast, it will help me to die.”

At that moment Eleanor looked like death. Therewas a solemn silence. The music had stopped, anddaylight was filling the room.

Suddenly there was a great noise of horses andriders. It seemed to come from Nantes, and all thewomen moved spontaneously to protect Baudelot withtheir bodies, but his own soldiers appeared to deliverhim. They were in the garden; they forced their wayinto the house, crying:

“Baudelot! Baudelot!”

They were astonished enough to find their youngleader, not loaded with irons, but surrounded by handsomelydressed ladies and himself adorned as they hadnever beheld him.

Baudelot’s first question was:

“Gentlemen, did you enter the pigeon-house?”

“Yes,” was the answer. “That’s where we began,Captain. Neither you nor the pigeons will find itagain. The pigeon-house is torn down.”

“Then,” said Baudelot, drawing his sword, “Iam released from my word. Thanks, my bravefellows!”

Then he took off his hat.

“Madame,” he said very gently, “receive the humblegratitude of the captive.”

He asked for a carriage.

“One is already harnessed, Captain,” said one ofhis soldiers. “The owner of the house tells us it wasto take you to Nantes.”

[Pg 1146]

Just then Baudelot noticed Hamelin bound with thefetters he himself had worn.

“Service for service, Captain,” he said; “only, insteadof untying your cords, allow me to cut them.No one shall wear them again.”

Then, as he saw Eleanor recovering herself, he continued:

“Captain Hamelin, this period of civil war andspilled blood is too sad for betrothals. One can’t tellwhether there will be prisoners to watch in the morningor enemies to receive in the evening. Postpone yourmarriage, I beg of you. See, your fiancée herselfwishes you to do so. My noble young lady, allow thepoor Chouan to escort you back to your home atMailly, will you not?”

And soon all the young Chouans galloped away, rejoicingto have delivered their Captain, and gloriousin the rising sun. Poor fellows, they had so littletime left, most of them, for the sunshine!

There are men who seem immortal whatever theydo. Baudelot de Dairval was not killed althoughhe did not leave Vendée for an hour. When hiscountry was less inundated with blood he marriedEleanor de Mailly, and Captain Hamelin witnessed thewedding contract.

BY GEORGE SAND

[Pg 1148]

BY GEORGE SAND

The Marquise de R—— never said brilliantthings, although it is the fashion in Frenchfiction to make every old woman sparklewith wit. Her ignorance was extreme in all matterswhich contact with the world had not taught her, andshe had none of that nicety of expression, that exquisitepenetration, that marvelous tact, which belong,it is said, to women who have seen all the differentphases of life and society; she was blunt, heedless,and sometimes very cynical. She put to flight everyidea I have formed concerning the noble ladies of theolden times, yet she was a genuine Marquise and hadseen the Court of Louis XV. But as she was an exceptionalcharacter, do not seek in her history for astudy of the manners of any epoch.

I found much pleasure in the society of the lady.She seemed to me remarkable for nothing much excepther prodigious memory for the events of heryouth and the masculine lucidity with which sheexpressed her reminiscences. For the rest, she was,like all aged persons, forgetful of recent events andindifferent to everything in which she had any presentpersonal concern.

Her beauty had not been of that piquant order,[Pg 1150]which, though lacking in splendor and regularity, stillgives pleasure in itself; she was not one of thosewomen taught to be witty, in order to make as favorablean impression as those who are so by nature.The Marquise undoubtedly had had the misfortuneto be beautiful. I have seen her portrait, for, like allold women, she was vain enough to hang it up forinspection in her apartments. She was representedin the character of a huntress nymph, with a low satinwaist painted to imitate tiger-skin, sleeves of antiquelace, bow of sandal-wood, and a crescent of pearllighting up her hair. It was an admirable painting,and, above all, an admirable woman—tall, slender,dark, with black eyes, austere and noble features, unsmiling,deep red lips, and hands which, it was said,had thrown the Princess de Lamballe into despair.Without lace, satin, or powder, she might indeed haveseemed one of those beautiful, proud nymphs fabledto appear to mortals in the depth of the forest or uponthe solitary mountain-sides, only to drive them madwith passion and regret.

Yet the Marquise had made few acquaintances; accordingto her own account she had been thought dulland frivolous. The roués of that time cared less forthe charms of beauty than for the allurements ofcoquetry; women infinitely less admired than she hadrobbed her of all her adorers, and, strange enough, shehad seemed indifferent to her fate. The little she toldme of her life made me believe that her heart had hadno youth, and that a cold selfishness had paralyzedall its faculties. Still, her old age was adorned by several[Pg 1151]sincere friends, and she gave alms without ostentation.

One evening I found her even more communicativethan usual; there was much of sadness in her voice.“My child,” she said, “the Vicomte de Larrieux hasjust died of the gout. It is a great sorrow to me, forI have been his friend these sixty years.”

“What was his age?” I asked.

“Eighty-four. I am eighty, but not so infirm as hewas, and I can hope to live longer. N’importe! Severalof my friends have gone this year, and althoughI tell myself that I am younger and stronger than anyof them, I can not help being frightened when I seemy contemporaries dropping off around me.”

“And these,” said I, “are the only regrets you feelfor poor Larrieux, a man who worshiped you forsixty years, who never ceased to complain of yourcruelty, yet never revolted from his allegiance? Hewas a model lover: there are no more such men.”

“My dear child,” answered the Marquise, “I seethat you think me cold and heartless. Perhaps youare right; judge for yourself. I will tell you my wholehistory, and, whatever opinion you may have of me, Ishall, at least, not die without having made myselfknown to some one.

“When I was sixteen I left St. Cyr, where I hadbeen educated, to marry the Marquis de R——. Hewas fifty, but I dared not complain, for every one congratulatedme on this splendid match, and all myportionless companions envied my lot.

“I was never very bright, and at that time I was[Pg 1152]positively stupid; the education of the cloister hadcompletely benumbed my faculties. I left the conventwith a romantic idea of life and of the world, stupidlyconsidered a merit in young girls, but which often resultsin the misery of their whole lives. As a naturalconsequence, the experience brought me by my briefmarried life was lodged in so narrow a mind that itwas of no use to me. I learned, not to understandlife, but to doubt myself.

“I was a widow before I was seventeen, and assoon as I was out of mourning I was surrounded bysuitors. I was then in all the splendor of my beauty,and it was generally admitted that there was neitherface nor figure that could compare with mine; but myhusband, an old, worn-out, dissipated man, who hadnever shown me anything but irony and disdain, andhad married me only to secure an office promised withmy hand, had left me such an aversion to marriagethat I could never be brought to contract new ties. Inmy ignorance of life I fancied that all men resembledhim, and that in a second husband I should findM. de R——’s hard heart, his pitiless irony, andthat insulting coldness which had so deeply humiliatedme.

“This terrible entrance into life had dispelled for meall the illusions of youth. My heart, which perhapswas not entirely cold, withdrew into itself and grewsuspicious. I was foolish enough to tell my real feelingsto several women of my acquaintance. They didnot fail to tell what they had learned, and without consideringthe doubts and anguish of my heart, boldly[Pg 1153]declared that I despised all men. There is nothingmen will resent more readily than this; my lovers soonlearned to despise me, and continued their flatteriesonly in the hope of finding an opportunity to hold meup to ridicule. I saw mockery and treachery writtenupon every forehead, and my misanthropy increasedevery day. About this time there came to Paris fromthe Provinces a man who had neither talent, strength,nor fascination, but who possessed a frankness anduprightness of feeling very rare among the peoplewith whom I lived. This was the Vicomte de Larrieux.He was soon acknowledged to be my mostfavored lover.

“He, poor fellow, loved me sincerely in his soul.His soul! Had he a soul? He was one of those hard,prosaic men who have not even the elegance of viceor the glitter of falsehood. He was struck only bymy beauty; he took no pains to discover my heart.This was not disdain on his part, it was incapacity.Had he found in me the power of loving, he wouldnot have known how to respond to it. I do not thinkthere ever lived a man more wedded to material thingsthan poor Larrieux. He ate with delight, and fellasleep in all the armchairs; the remainder of the timehe took snuff. He was always occupied in satisfyingsome appetite. I do not think he had one idea a day.And yet, my dear friend, will you believe it? I neverhad the energy to get rid of him; for sixty years hewas my torment. Constantly offended by my repulses,yet constantly drawn to me by the very obstacles Iplaced in the way of his passion, he had for me the[Pg 1154]most faithful, the most undying, the most wearisomelove that ever man felt for woman.”

“I am surprised,” said I, “that in the course of yourlife you never met a man capable of understandingyou, and worthy of converting you to real love. Mustwe conclude that the men of to-day are superior tothose of other times?”

“That would be a great piece of vanity on yourpart,” she answered, smiling. “I have little reason tospeak well of the men of my own time; yet I doubt,too, whether you have made much progress; but I willnot moralize. The cause of my misfortune was entirelywithin myself. I had no tact, no judgment. Awoman as proud as I was should have possessed a superiorcharacter, and should have been able to distinguishat a glance many of the insipid, false, insignificantmen who surrounded me. I was too ignorant,too narrow-minded for this. As I lived on I acquiredmore judgment and have learned that several of theobjects of my hatred deserved far other feelings.”

“And while you were young,” I rejoined, “were younever tempted to make a second trial? Was this deep-rootedaversion never shaken off? It is strange.”

The Marquise was silent, then hastily laying hergold snuff-box on the table—“I have begun my confession,”said she, “and I will acknowledge everything.Listen. Once, and only once, I have loved, with alove as passionate and indomitable as it was imaginativeand ideal. For you see, my child, you young menthink you understand women, but you know nothingabout them. If many old women of eighty were occasionally[Pg 1155]to tell you the history of their loves, youwould perhaps find that the feminine soul containssources of good and evil of which you have no idea.And now, guess what was the rank of the man forwhom I entirely lost my head—I, a Marquise, andprouder and haughtier than any other.”

“The King of France, or the Dauphin, Louis XIV.”

“Oh, if you go on in that manner, it will be threehours before you come to my lover. I prefer to tellyou at once—he was an actor.”

“A king, notwithstanding, I imagine.”

“The noblest, the most elegant that ever trod theboards. You are not amazed?”

“Not much. I have heard that such ill-sorted passionswere not rare, even when the prejudices of castein France were more powerful than they are to-day.”

“Those ill-sorted passions were not tolerated by theworld, I can assure you. The first time I saw him Iexpressed my admiration to the Comtesse de Ferriers,who happened to be beside me, and she answered: ‘Donot speak so warmly to any one but me. You wouldbe cruelly taunted were you suspected of forgettingthat in the eyes of a woman of rank an actor can neverbe a man.’

“Madame Ferriers’s words remained in my mind,I know not why. At the time this contemptuous toneof hers seemed to me absurd, and this fear of committingmyself a piece of malicious hypocrisy.

“His name was Lelio; he was by birth an Italian, butspoke French admirably. He may have been thirty-five,although on the stage he often seemed less than[Pg 1156]twenty. He played Corneille; after this he played Racine,and in both he was admirable.”

“I am surprised,” said I, interrupting the Marquise,“that his name does not appear in the annals of dramatictalent.”

“He was never famous,” she answered, “and wasappreciated neither by the court nor the town. I haveheard that he was outrageously hissed when he firstappeared. Afterward he was valued for his feeling,his fire, and his efforts at correct elocution. He wastolerated and sometimes applauded, but, on the whole,he was always considered an actor without taste.

“In those days tragedy was played ‘properly’; it wasnecessary to die with taste, to fall gracefully, and tohave an air of good breeding, even in the case of ablow. Dramatic art was modeled upon the usage ofgood society, and the diction and gestures of the actorswere in harmony with the hoops and hair powder,which even then disfigured ‘Phèdre.’[4] I have neverappreciated the defects of this school of art. I bravelyendured it twice in the week, for it was the fashion tolike it; but I listened with so cold and constrained anair that it was generally said I was insensible to thecharms of fine poetry.

“One evening, after a rather long absence fromParis, I went to the Comédie Française to see ‘Le Cid.’[5]Lelio had been admitted to this theatre during my stayin the country, and I saw him for the first time. Heplayed Rodrigue. I was deeply moved by the veryfirst tone of his voice. It was penetrating rather than[Pg 1157]sonorous, but vibrating and strongly accentuated. Hisvoice was much criticized. That of the Cid was supposedto be deep and powerful, just as all the heroesof antiquity were supposed to be tall and strong. Aking who was but five feet six inches could not wearthe diadem; it would have been contrary to the decreesof tastes. Lelio was small and slender. Hisbeauty lay not in the features, but in the nobleness ofhis forehead, the irresistible grace of his attitude, thecareless ease of his movements, the proud but melancholyexpression of his face. The word charmshould have been invented for him; it belonged to allhis words, to all his glances, to all his motions. Itwas indeed a charm which he threw around me. Thisman, who stepped, spoke, moved without system oraffectation, who sobbed with his heart as much aswith his voice, who forgot himself to become identifiedwith his passion; this man in whom the bodyseemed wasted and shattered by the soul, and a singleone of whose glances contained all the life I failed tofind in real life, exercised over me a really magneticpower. I alone could follow and understand him,and he was for five years my king, my life, my love.To me he was much more than a man. His was anintellectual power which formed my soul at its will.Soon I was unable to conceal the impression he madeon me. I gave up my box at the Comédie Françaisein order not to betray myself. I pretended I hadbecome pious, and in the evening I went to pray inthe churches; instead of that I dressed myself as aworking woman and mingled with the common people[Pg 1158]that I might listen to him unconstrained. At last Ibribed one of the employees of the theatre to let meoccupy a little corner where no one could see meand which I reached by a side corridor. As an additionalprecaution I dressed myself as a schoolboy.When the hour for the theatre sounded in the largeclock in my drawing-room I was seized with violentpalpitations. While my carriage was getting readyI tried to control myself; and if Larrieux happenedto be with me I was rude to him, and threatened tosend him away. I must have had great dissimulationand great tact to have hidden all this for five yearsfrom Larrieux, the most jealous of men, and from allthe malicious people about me.

“I must tell you that instead of struggling againstthis passion I yielded to it with eagerness, with delight.It was so pure! Why should I have blushedfor it? It gave me new life; it initiated me into allthe feelings I had wished to experience; it almostmade me a woman. I was proud to feel myself thrilland tremble. The first time my dormant heart beataloud was to me a triumph. I learned to pout, tolove, to be faithful and capricious. It was remarkedI grew handsomer every day, that my dark eyessoftened, that my smile was more expressive, thatwhat I said was truer and had more meaning thancould have been expected.

“I have just told you that when I heard the clockstrike I trembled with joy and impatience. Even nowI seem to feel the delicious oppression which usedto overwhelm me at the sound of that clock. Since[Pg 1159]then, through the vicissitudes of fortune, I have cometo find myself very happy in the possession of a fewsmall rooms in the Marais. Well, of all my magnificenthouse, my aristocratic faubourg, and my pastsplendor I regret only that which could have recalledto me those days of love and dreams. I have savedfrom the general ruin a few pieces of furniture whichI look upon with as much emotion as if the hour forthe theatre were about to strike now, and my horseswere pawing at the door. Oh! my child, never loveas I loved; it is a storm which death alone can quell.

“Then I learned to take pleasure in being young,wealthy, and beautiful. Seated in my coach, my feetburied in furs, I could see myself reflected in themirror in front of me. The dress of that time, whichhas since been so laughed at, was of extraordinaryrichness and splendor. When arranged with taste andmodified in its exaggeration, it endowed a beautifulwoman with dignity, with a softness, the grace ofwhich the portraits of that time could give you noidea. A woman, clothed in its panoply of feathers,of silks, and flowers, was obliged to move slowly. Ihave seen very fair women in white robes with longtrains of watered silk, their hair powdered and dressedwith white plumes, who might without exaggerationhave been compared to swans. Despite all Rousseauhas said, those enormous folds of satin, that profusionof muslin which enveloped a slender little body asdown envelops a dove, made us resemble birds, ratherthan wasps. Long wings of lace fell from our arms,and our ribbons, purses, and jewels were variegated[Pg 1160]with the most brilliant colors. Balancing ourselvesin our little high-heeled shoes, we seemed to fear totouch the earth and walked with the disdainful circ*mspectionof a little bird on the edge of a brook.

“At the time of which I am speaking blond powderbegan to be worn and gave the hair a light and softcolor. This method of modifying the crude shades ofthe hair gave softness to the face, and an extraordinarybrilliance to the eyes. The forehead was completelyuncovered, its outline melted insensibly intothe pale shades of the hair. It thus appeared higherand prouder, and gave all women a majestic air. Itwas the fashion, too, to dress the hair low, with largecurls thrown back and falling on the neck. This wasvery becoming to me, and I was celebrated for thetaste and magnificence of my dress. I sometimes worered velvet with grebe-skin, sometimes white satinedged with tiger-skin, sometimes lilac damask shotwith silver, with white feathers and pearls in my hair.Thus attired I would pay a few visits until the hourfor the second piece at the theatre, for Lelio nevercame on in the first. I created a sensation whereverI appeared, and, when I again found myself in mycarriage, I contemplated with much pleasure the reflectedimage of the woman who loved Lelio, andmight have been loved by him. Until then, the onlypleasure I had found in being beautiful lay in thejealousy I excited. But from the moment that I lovedI began to enjoy my beauty for its own sake. It wasall I had to offer Lelio as a compensation for the triumphswhich were denied him in Paris, and I loved to[Pg 1161]think of the pride and joy this poor actor, so misjudged,so laughed at, would feel were he told thatthe Marquise de R—— had dedicated her heart to him.These the dreams, however, were as brief as they werebeautiful. As soon as my thoughts assumed someconsistency, as soon as they took the form of any planwhatever, I had the fortitude to suppress them, andall the pride of rank reasserted its empire over mysoul. You seem surprised at this. I will explain it byand by.

“About eight o’clock my carriage stopped at thelittle Church of the Carmelites near the Luxembourg,and I sent it away, for I was supposed to be attendingthe religious lectures which were given there at thathour. But I only crossed the church and the gardenand came out on the other street. I went to the garretof the young needlewoman named Florence, whowas devoted to me. I locked myself up in her room,and joyfully laid aside all my adornments to don theblack square-cut coat, the sword and wig of a youngcollege professor. Tall, with my dark complexion andinoffensive glances, I really had the awkward hypocriticallook of a little priestling who had stolen in tosee the play. I took a hackney coach, and hastenedto hide myself in my little box at the theatre. Thenmy joy, my terror, my trembling ceased. A profoundcalm came upon me and I remained until the raisingof the curtain as if absorbed in expectation of somegreat solemnity.

“As the vulture in his hypnotic circling surroundsthe partridge and holds him panting and motionless,[Pg 1162]so did the soul of Lelio, that great soul of a poet andtragedian, envelop all my faculties, and plunge me intoa torpor of admiration. I listened, my hands claspedupon my knees and my chin upon the front of the box,and my forehead bathed in perspiration; I hardlybreathed; the crude light of the lamps tortured myeyes, which, tired and burning, were fastened on hisevery gesture, his every step. His feigned motions,his simulated misfortune, impressed me as if they werereal. I could hardly distinguish between truth andillusion. To me, Lelio was indeed Rodrigue, Bajazet,Hippolyte. I hated his enemies. I trembled at hisdangers; his sorrows drew from me floods of tears,and when he died I was compelled to stifle my emotionsin my handkerchief.

“Between the acts I sat down at the back of mybox; I was as one dead until the meagre tone of theorchestra warned me that the curtain was about torise again. Then I sprang up, full of strength andardor, the power to feel, to weep. How much freshness,poetry, and youth there was in that man’s talent!That whole generation must have been of ice not tohave fallen at his feet.

“And yet, although he offended every conventionalidea, although he could not adapt his taste to thatsilly public, although he scandalized the women by thecarelessness of his dress and deportment, and displeasedthe men by his contempt for their foolish actions,there were moments when, by an irresistiblefascination, by the power of his eye and his voice, heheld the whole of this ungrateful public as if in the[Pg 1163]hollow of his hand, and compelled it to applaud andtremble. This happened but seldom, for the entirespirit of the age can not be suddenly changed; butwhen it did happen, the applause was frantic. Itseemed as if the Parisians, subjugated by his genius,wished to atone for all their injustice. As for me, Ibelieved that this man had at most a supernaturalpower, and that those who most bitterly despised himwere compelled to swell his triumph in spite of themselves.In truth, at such times the Comédie Françaiseseemed smitten with madness, and the spectators, onleaving the theatre, were amazed to remember thatthey had applauded Lelio. As for me, I seized theopportunity to give full play to my emotion; I shouted,I wept, I passionately called his name. Happily forme, my weak voice was drowned in the storm whichraged about me.

“At other times he was hissed when he seemed tome to be sublime, and then I left the theatre, my heartfull of rage. Those nights were the most dangerousfor me. I was violently tempted to seek him out, toweep with him, to curse the age in which we lived, andto console him by offering him my enthusiasm andlove.

“One evening as I left the theatre by the side passagewhich led to my box, a small, slender man passedin front of me, and turned into the street. One of thestage-carpenters took off his hat and said: ‘Good evening,Monsieur Lelio.’ Eager to obtain a nearer viewof this extraordinary man, I ran after him, crossed thestreet, and, forgetting the danger to which I exposed[Pg 1164]myself, followed him into a café. Fortunately, it wasnot one in which I was likely to meet any one of myown rank.

“When, by the light of the smoky lamp, I looked atLelio, I thought I had been mistaken and had followedanother man. He was at least thirty-five, sallow,withered, and worn out. He was badly dressed,he looked vulgar, spoke in a hoarse, broken voice,shook hands with the meanest wretches, drank brandy,and swore horribly. It was not until I had heard hisname repeated several times that I felt sure that thiswas the divinity of the theatre, interpreter of the greatCorneille. I could recognize none of those charmswhich had so fascinated me, not even his glance, sobright, so ardent, and so sad. His eyes were dull,dead, almost stupid; his strongly accentuated pronunciationseemed ignoble when he called to thewaiter, or talked of gambling and taverns. He walkedbadly, he looked vulgar, and the paint was only halfwiped from his cheeks. It was no longer Hippolyte—itwas Lelio. The temple was empty; the oracle wasdumb; the divinity had become a man, not even a man—anactor.

“He went out, and I sat stupefied without even presenceof mind enough to drink the hot spiced wine Ihad called for. When I remembered where I was, andperceived the insulting glances which were heapedupon me, I became frightened. It was the first timeI had ever found myself in such an equivocal position,and in such immediate contact with people of thatclass.

[Pg 1165]

“I rose and tried to escape, but forgot to pay myreckoning. The waiter ran after me; I was terriblyashamed; I was obliged to return, enter into explanationsat the desk, and endure all the mocking and suspiciouslooks which were turned upon me. When Ileft I thought I was followed. In vain I looked fora hackney-coach; there were none remaining in frontof the theatre. I constantly heard heavy steps echoingmy own. Trembling, I turned my head, and recognizeda tall, ill-looking fellow whom I had noticed inone corner of the café, and who had very much theair of a spy or something worse. He spoke to me; Ido not know what he said; I was too much frightenedto hear, but I had still presence of mind enough to ridmyself of him. I struck him in the face with my cane,and, leaving him stunned at my audacity, I shot awayswift as an arrow, and did not stop till I reached Florence’slittle garret. When I awoke the next morningin my own bed with its wadded curtains and coronalof pink feathers, I almost thought I had dreamed, andfelt greatly mortified when I recollected the disillusionsof the previous night. I thought myself thoroughlycured of my love, and I tried to rejoice at it,but in vain. I was filled with a mortal regret, theweariness of life again entered my heart, the worldhad not a pleasure which could charm me.

“Evening came, but brought no more beneficial emotions.Society seemed to me stupid. I went to churchand listened to the evening lecture with a determinationof becoming pious; I caught cold, and came homequite ill. I remained in bed several days. The Comtesse[Pg 1166]de Ferrières came to see me, assured me that Ihad no fever, that lying still made me ill, that I mustamuse myself, go out, go to the theatre. She compelledme to go with her to see ‘Cinna.’[6] ‘You nolonger go to the theatre,’ said she to me; ‘your healthis undermined by your piety, and the dulness of yourlife. You have not seen Lelio for some time; he hasimproved, and he is now sometimes applauded. Ithink he may some day become very tolerable.’

“I do not know why I allowed myself to be persuaded.However, as I was completely disenchantedwith Lelio, I thought I no longer ran any risk inbraving his fascinations in public. I dressed myselfwith excessive brilliance, and, in a court prosceniumbox, fronted a danger in which I no longer believed.

“But the danger was never more imminent. Leliowas sublime, and I had never been more in love withhim. My recent adventure seemed but a dream. Icould not believe that Lelio was other than he seemedupon the stage. In spite of myself, I yielded to theterrible agitations into which he had the power ofthrowing me. My face was bathed in tears, and Iwas compelled to cover it with my handkerchief. Inthe disorder of my mind I wiped off my rouge and mypatches, and the Comtesse de Ferrières advised me toretire to the back of my box, for my emotion wascreating a sensation in the house. I fortunately hadhad the skill to make every one believe it was the playingof Mdlle. Hippolyte Clairon which affected me sodeeply. She was, in my own opinion, a very cold and[Pg 1167]formal actress, too superior perhaps for her profession,as it was then understood; but her manner ofsaying ‘Tout beau,’ in ‘Cinna,’ had given her a greatreputation. It must be said, however, that when sheplayed with Lelio she outdid herself. Although shetook pains to proclaim her share in the fashionablecontempt for his method of acting, she assuredly feltthe influence of his genius.

“That evening Lelio noticed me, either on accountof my dress or my emotion; for I saw him, when hewas not acting, bend over one of the spectators, who,at that epoch, sat upon the stage, and inquire my name.I guessed his question by the way both looked at me.My heart beat almost to suffocation, and I noticedduring the play that Lelio’s eyes turned several timestoward me. What would I not have given to hearwhat the Chevalier de Bretillac, whom he had questioned,had said to him about me! Lelio’s face didnot indicate the nature of the information he had received,for he was obliged to retain the expressionsuited to his part. I knew this Bretillac very slightly,and I could not imagine whether he would speak wellor ill of me.

“That night I understood for the first time thenature of the passion which enchained me to Lelio. Itwas a passion purely intellectual, purely ideal. It wasnot he I loved, but those heroes of ancient timeswhose sincerity, whose fidelity, whose tenderness heknew how to portray; with him and by him I was carriedback to an epoch of forgotten virtues. I wasbright enough to think that in those days I should not[Pg 1168]have been misjudged and hated, and that I should nothave been reduced to loving a fantom of the footlights.Lelio was to me but the shadow of the Cid, the representativeof that antique chivalric love now ridiculedin France. My Lelio was a fictitious being whohad no existence outside the theatre. The illusions ofthe stage, the glare of the footlights, were a part ofthe being whom I loved. Without them he was nothingto me, and faded like a story before the brightnessof day. I had no desire to see him off the boards;and should have been in despair had I met him. Itwould have been like contemplating the ashes of agreat man.

“One evening as I was going to the Carmelitechurch with the intention of leaving it by the passagedoor, I perceived that I was followed, and becameconvinced that henceforth it would be almost impossibleto conceal the object of my nocturnal expeditions.I decided to go publicly to the theatre. Lelio sawme and watched me; my beauty had struck him, mysensibility flattered him. His attention sometimeswandered so much as to displease the public. SoonI could no longer doubt. He was madly in lovewith me.

“My box had pleased the Princess de Vaudemont.I gave it up to her, and took for myself a smaller one,less in view of the house and better situated. I wasalmost upon the stage, I did not lose one of Lelio’sglances; and he could look at me without its beingseen by the public. But I no longer needed to catchhis eye in order to understand all his feelings. The[Pg 1169]sound of his voice, his sighs, the expression which hegave to certain verses, certain words, told me that hewas speaking to me. I was the happiest and proudestof women, for then it was the hero, not the actor,who loved me.

“I have since heard that Lelio often followed me inmy walks and drives; so little did I desire to see himoutside of the theatre that I never perceived it. Ofthe eighty years I have passed in this world, thosefive are the only ones in which I really lived.

“One day I read in the ‘Mercure de France’ thename of a new actor engaged at the ComédieFrançaise to replace Lelio, who was about to leaveFrance.

“This announcement was a mortal blow to me. Icould not conceive how I should exist when deprivedof these emotions, this life of passion and storm. Thisevent gave an immense development to my love, andwas well-nigh my ruin.

“I no longer struggled with myself; I no longersought to stifle all thoughts contrary to the dignityof my rank. I regretted that he was not what heappeared on the stage; I wished him as young andhandsome as he seemed each night before the footlights,that I might sacrifice to him all my pride, allmy prejudices.

“While I was in this state of irresolution, I receiveda letter in an unknown hand. It is the onlylove letter I have ever kept. Though Larrieux haswritten me innumerable protestations, and I have receiveda thousand perfumed declarations from a hundred[Pg 1170]others, it is the only real love letter that wasever sent me.”

The Marquise rose, opened with a steady hand aninlaid casket, and took from it a crumpled, worn-outletter, which I read with difficulty.

“This letter,” continued the Marquise, “was of acharacter very unusual at the time it was written, andseemed to me, notwithstanding some passages of theatrical[Pg 1173]declamation at the beginning, so powerful, sotrue, so full of only bold passion, that I was overwhelmedby it. The pride which still struggled withinme faded away. I would have given all the remainingdays I had to live one hour of such love.

“I answered in these words, as nearly as I canremember:

“‘I do not accuse you, Lelio; I accuse destiny. I donot pity you alone; I pity myself also. Neither pridenor prudence shall make me deny you the consolationof believing that I have felt a preference for you.Keep it, for it is the only one I can offer you. I cannever consent to see you.’

“Next day I received a note which I hastily read andthrew into the fire, to prevent Larrieux from seeing it,for he came suddenly upon me while I was reading it.It read thus:

“I believed implicitly in the humility, in the sincerityof Lelio. Besides, I had ample reason to trust my ownstrength. I resolved to see him. I had completely forgotten[Pg 1174]his faded features, his low-bred manners, hisvulgar aspect; I recollected only the fascination of hisgenius, his letters, and his love. I answered:

“‘I will see you. Find some secure place, but hopefor nothing but for what you have asked. Should youseek to abuse my trust, you would be a villain, and Ishould not fear you.’

“Answer:

“‘Your trust would save you from the basest ofvillains. You will see, Madame, that Lelio is not unworthyof it. Duke —— has often been good enoughto offer me the use of his house in the Rue de Valois.Deign to go thither after the play.’

“Some explanations and directions as to the localityof the house followed. I received this note at fouro’clock. The whole negotiation had occupied but aday. I had spent it in wandering through the houselike one distracted; I was in a fever. This rapid successionof events bore me along as in a dream.

“When I had made the final decision, when it wasimpossible to draw back, I sank down upon my ottoman,breathless and dizzy.

“I was really ill. A surgeon was sent for; I wasbled. I told my servants not to mention my indispositionto any one; I dreaded the intrusion of officiousadvisers, and was determined not to be prevented fromgoing out that night.

“I threw myself upon my bed to await the appointedhour, and gave orders that no visitors should be admitted.The blood-letting had relieved and weakenedme; I sank into a great depression of spirits. All my[Pg 1175]illusions vanished with the excitement which had accompaniedmy fever. Reason and memory returned;I remembered my disenchantment in the coffee-house,and Lelio’s wretched appearance there; I prepared toblush for my folly, and to fall from the height of mydeceitful visions to a bare and despicable reality. Ino longer understood how it had been possible for meto consent to exchange my heroic and romantic tendernessfor the revulsion of feeling which awaited me,and the sense of shame which would henceforth poisonall my recollections. I bitterly regretted what I haddone; I wept my illusions, my love, and that future ofpure and secret joys which I was about to forfeit.Above all, I mourned for Lelio, whom in seeing Ishould forever lose, in whose love I had found fiveyears of happiness, and for whom in a few hours Ishould feel nothing but indifference.

“In the paroxysm of my grief I violently wrungmy arms; the vein reopened, and I had barely time toring for my maid, who found me in a swoon in mybed. A deep and heavy sleep, against which I struggledin vain, seized me. I neither dreamed nor suffered;I was as one dead for several hours. When Iagain opened my eyes my room was almost dark, myhouse silent; my waiting-woman was asleep in a chairat the foot of my bed. I remained for some time insuch a state of numbness and weakness that I recollectednothing. Suddenly my memory returned, andI asked myself whether the hour and the day of rendezvouswere passed, whether I had slept an hour ora century; whether I had killed Lelio by breaking my[Pg 1176]word. Was there yet time? I tried to rise, but mystrength failed me. I struggled for some moments asif in a nightmare. At last I summoned all the forcesof my will. I sprang to the floor, opened the curtains,and saw the moon shining upon the trees of my garden.I ran to the clock; the hands marked ten. Iseized my maid and waked her: ‘Quinette, what day ofthe week is it?’ She sprang from her chair, screaming,and tried to escape from me, for she thought medelirious; I reassured her and learned that I had onlyslept three hours. I thanked God. I asked for ahackney-coach. Quinette looked at me in amazement.At last she became convinced that I had the full useof my senses, transmitted my order, and began todress me.

“I asked for my simplest dress; I put no ornamentsin my hair, I refused to wear my rouge. I wishedabove all things for Lelio’s esteem and respect, forthey were far more precious to me than his love.Nevertheless, I was pleased when Quinette, who wasmuch surprised at this new caprice, said, examiningme from head to foot: ‘Truly, madame, I know nothow you manage it. You are dressed in a plain whiterobe, without either train or pannier; you are ill andas pale as death; you have not even put on a patch;yet I never saw you so beautiful as to-night. I pitythe men who will look upon you!’ ‘Do you think meso very austere, my poor Quinette?’ ‘Alas, madame,every day I pray Heaven to make me like you; butup to this time—’ ‘Come, simpleton, give me mymantle and muff.’

[Pg 1177]

“At midnight I was in the house of the Rue deValois. I was carefully veiled, a sort of valet dechambre received me; he was the only human beingto be seen in this mysterious dwelling. He led methrough the windings of a dark garden to a pavilionburied in silence and shadow. Depositing his greensilk lantern in the vestibule, he opened the door of alarge dusky room, showed me by a respectful gestureand with a most impassive face a ray of light proceedingfrom the other extremity, and said, in a tone solow that it seemed as if he feared to awaken the sleepingechoes: ‘Your ladyship is alone, no one else hasyet come. Your ladyship will find in the summer parlora bell which I will answer if you need anything.’He disappeared as if by enchantment, shutting thedoor upon me.

“I was terribly frightened; I thought I had falleninto some trap. I called him back. He instantly reappeared,and his air of stupid solemnity reassuredme. I asked him what time it was, although I knewperfectly well, for I had sounded my watch twentytimes in the carriage. ‘It is midnight,’ answered he,without raising his eyes. I now resolutely entered thesummer parlor, and I realized how unfounded weremy fears when I saw that the doors which openedupon the garden were only of painted silk. Nothingcould be more charming than this boudoir; it was fittedup as a concert-room. The walls were of stucco aswhite as snow, and the mirrors were framed in unpolishedsilver. Musical instruments of unusually richmaterial were scattered about, upon seats of white velvet,[Pg 1178]trimmed with pearls. The light came from abovethrough leaves of alabaster, which formed a dome.This soft, even light might have been mistaken forthat of the moon. A single statue of white marblestood in the middle of the room; it was an antiqueand represented Isis veiled, with her finger upon herlips. The mirrors which reflected us, both pale anddraped in white, produced such an illusion upon methat I was obliged to distinguish my finger from hers.

“Suddenly the silence was interrupted; the door wasopened and closed, and light footsteps sounded uponthe floor. I sank into a chair more dead than alive,for I was about to see Lelio shorn of the illusions ofthe stage. I closed my eyes, and inwardly bade themfarewell before I reopened them.

“But how much was I surprised! Lelio was beautifulas an angel. He had not taken off his stage dress,and it was the most elegant I had ever seen him wear.His Spanish doublet was of white satin, his shoulderand garter knots of cherry ribbons, and a short cloakof the same color was thrown over his shoulder. Hewore an immense ruff of English lace; his hair wasshort and unpowdered, partially covered by a cap withwhite feathers and a diamond rose. In this costumehe had just played Don Juan in ‘Festin de Pierre.’Never had I seen him so beautiful, so young, so poetical,as at that moment. Velasquez would have worshipedsuch a model.

“He knelt before me. I could not help stretchingout my hand to him, he seemed so submissive, so fearfulof displeasing me. A man sufficiently in love to[Pg 1179]tremble before a woman was rare in those times, andthis one was thirty-five and an actor.

“It seemed to me then, it seems to me still, that hewas in the first bloom of youth. In his white dresshe looked like a young page; his forehead had all thepurity, his heart all the ardor of a first love. He tookmy hands and covered them with kisses. My sensesseemed to desert me; I caressed his burning forehead,his stiff, black hair, and the brown neck which disappearedin the soft whiteness of his collar. He weptlike a woman; I was overwhelmed with surprise.

“I wept delicious tears. I compelled him to raisehis head and look at me. How splendid, how tenderwere his eyes! How much fascination his warm, truesoul communicated to the very defects of his face, andthe scars left upon it by time and toil! When I sawthe premature wrinkles upon his beautiful forehead,when I saw the pallor of his lips, the languor of hissmile, my heart was melted. I felt that I must needsweep for his griefs, his disappointments, the labors ofhis life. I identified myself with him in all his sorrows,even that of his long, hopeless love for me, andI had but one wish—to compensate him for the ills hehad suffered.

“My dear Lelio, my great Rodrigue, my beautifulDon Juan! He spoke to me, he told me how from adissipated actor I had made him a man full of life andardor; how I had raised him in his own eyes, and restoredto him the illusions of his youth; he spoke ofhis respect, his veneration for me, of his contempt forthe species of love which was then in fashion. Never[Pg 1180]did a man with more penetrating eloquence speak tothe heart of a woman; never did Racine make loveutter itself with such conviction of its own truth, suchpoetry, such strength. Everything elevated and profound,everything sweet and fiery which passion caninspire, lay in his words, his face, his eyes, his caresses.Alas! did he deceive himself! Was he playinga part?”

“I certainly do not think so,” I cried, looking atthe Marquise. She seemed to grow young as shespoke; and, like the fairy Urgela, to cast off her hundredyears. I know not who has said that a woman’sheart has no wrinkles.

“Listen to the end,” said she. “I threw my armsaround his neck; I shivered as I touched the satin ofhis coat, as I breathed the perfume of his hair. Myemotion was too violent and I fainted.

“He recalled me to myself by his prompt assistance.I found him still kneeling at my feet. ‘Pityme, kill me,’ cried he. He was paler and far moreill than I.

“‘Listen, Lelio,’ said I. ‘Here we separate forever,but let us carry from this place a whole future ofblissful thoughts and adored memories. I swear,Lelio, to love you till my death. I swear it withoutfear, for I feel that the snows of age will not havethe power to extinguish this ardent flame.’ Lelioknelt before me; he did not implore me, he did notreproach me; he said that he had not hoped for somuch happiness as I had given him, and that he hadno right to ask for more. Nevertheless, as he bade[Pg 1181]me farewell, his despair, the emotion which trembledin his face, terrified me. I asked him if he would notfind happiness in thinking of me, if the ecstasy of ourmeeting would not lend its charm to all the days of hislife, if his past and future sorrows would not be softenedeach time he recalled it. He roused himself topromise, to swear all I asked. He again fell at myfeet and passionately kissed my dress. I made asign and he left me. The carriage I had sent forcame.

“The automatic servant of the house knocked threetimes outside to warn me. Lelio despairingly threwhimself in front of the door: he looked like a spectre.I gently repulsed him and he yielded. I crossed thethreshold, and as he attempted to follow me, I showedhim a chair in the middle of the room, underneath thestatue of Isis. He sat down in it. A passionate smilewandered over his lips, his eyes sent out one moreflash of gratitude and love. He was still beautiful,still young, still a grandee of Spain. After a fewsteps, when I was about to lose him forever, I turnedback and looked at him once more. Despair hadcrushed him. He was old, altered, frightful. Hisbody seemed paralyzed. His stiffened lips attemptedan unmeaning smile. His eyes were glassy and dim;he was now only Lelio, the shadow of a lover and aprince.”

The Marquise paused; then, while her aspectchanged like that of a ruin which totters and sinks,she added: “Since then I have not heard him mentioned.”

[Pg 1182]

The Marquise made a second and a longer pause;then, with the terrible fortitude which comes withlength of years, which springs from the persistentlove of life or the near hope of death, she said witha smile: “Well, do you not now believe in the idealityof the eighteenth century?”

BY ALFRED LOUIS CHARLES DE MUSSET

[Pg 1184]

BY ALFRED DE MUSSET

I

In 1756, when Louis XV, wearied with the quarrelsbetween the magistrature and the grandcouncil, about the “two sous tax,”[7] determinedupon holding a special lit de justice, the members ofParliament resigned. Sixteen of these resignationswere accepted, and as many exiles decreed. “But,”said Madame de Pompadour to one of the presidents,“could you calmly stand by and see a handful of menresist the authority of the King of France? Wouldyou not have a very bad opinion of such a policy?Throw off the cloak of petty pretense, M. le President,and you will see the situation just as I see itmyself.”

It was not only the exiles that had to pay the penaltyof their want of compliance, but also their relativesand friends. The violation of mail-secrets wasone of the King’s amusem*nts. To relieve the monotonyof his other pleasures, it pleased him to hear hisfavorite read all the curious things that were to befound in his subjects’ private correspondence. Ofcourse, under the fallacious pretext of doing his owndetective work, he reaped a large harvest of enjoyment[Pg 1186]from the thousand little intrigues which thuspassed under his eyes; but whoever was connected,whether closely or in a remote degree, with theleaders of the factions, was almost invariably ruined.

Every one knows that Louis XV, with all his manifoldweaknesses, had one, and only one, strong point:he was inexorable.

One evening, as he sat before the fire with his feeton the mantelpiece, melancholy as was his wont, themarquise, looking through a packet of letters, suddenlyburst into a laugh and shrugged her shoulders.The King wished to know what was the matter.

“Why, I have found here,” answered she, “a letter,without a grain of common sense in it, but avery touching thing for all that—quite pitiable infact.”

“Whose is the signature?” said the King.

“There is none, it is a love-letter.”

“And what is the address?”

“That is just the point. It is addressed to Mademoiselled’Annebault, the niece of my good friend,Madame d’Estrades. Apparently it has been put inamong these papers on purpose for me to see.”

“And what is there in it?” the King persisted.

“Why, I tell you it is all about love. There is mentionalso of Vauvert and of Neauflette. Are thereany gentlemen in those parts? Does your Majestyknow of any?”

The King always prided himself upon knowingFrance by heart, that is, the nobility of France. Theetiquette of his court, which he had studied thoroughly,[Pg 1187]was not more familiar to him than the armorialbearings of his realm. Not a very wide range oflearning; still nothing beyond it did he reckon worthythe study; and it was a point of vanity with him, thesocial hierarchy being, in his eyes, something like themarble staircase of his palace; he must set foot on itas sole lord and master. After having pondered a fewmoments, he knitted his brow, as though struck by anunwelcome remembrance; then, with a sign to themarquise to read, he threw himself back in his easychair, saying with a smile:

“Read on—she is a pretty girl.”

Madame de Pompadour assumed her sweetest toneof raillery and began to read a long letter, which, frombeginning to end, was one rhapsody of love.

“Just see,” said the writer, “how the fates persecuteme! At first everything seemed to work for thefulfilment of my wishes, and you yourself, my sweetone, had you not given me reason to hope for happiness?I must, however, renounce this heavenly dream,and that for no fault of mine. Is it not an excess ofcruelty to have let me catch a glimpse of paradise, onlyto dash me into the abyss? When some unfortunatewretch is doomed to death, do they take a barbarouspleasure in placing before his eyes all that would makehim love life and regret leaving it? Such is, however,my fate: I have no other refuge, no other hope, thanthe tomb, for, in my dire misfortune, I can no longerdream of winning your hand. When fate smiled onme, all my hopes were that you should be mine; to-day,a poor man, I should abhor myself if I dared still[Pg 1188]to think of such blessedness, and, now that I can nolonger make you happy, though dying of love for you,I forbid you to love me—”

The Marquise smiled at these last words.

“Madame,” said the King, “this is an honorableman. But what prevents him from marrying hislady-love?”

“Permit me, sire, to continue.”

“—This overwhelming injustice from the best ofkings surprises me. You know that my father askedfor me a commission as cornet or ensign in theGuards, and that on this appointment depended thehappiness of my life, since it would give me the rightto offer myself to you. The Duc de Biron proposedmy name; but the King rejected me in a manner thememory of which is very bitter to me. If my fatherhas his own way of looking at things (admitting thatit is a wrong one) must I suffer for it? My devotionto the King is as true, as unbounded, as my love foryou. How gladly would I give proof of both thesesentiments, could I but draw the sword! AssuredlyI feel deeply distressed at my request being refused;but that I should be thus disgraced without goodreason is a thing opposed to the well-known kindnessof his Majesty.”

“Aha!” said the King, “I am becoming interested.”

“—If you knew how very dull we are! Ah! myfriend! This estate of Neauflette, this country-houseof Vauvert, these wooded glades!—I wander aboutthem all day long. I have forbidden a rake to beused; the sacrilegious gardener came yesterday with[Pg 1189]his iron-shod besom. He was about to touch the sand.But the trace of your steps, lighter than the wind, wasnot effaced. The prints of your little feet and of yourred satin heels were still upon the path; they seemedto walk before me, as I followed your beautiful image,and that charming fantom took shape at times asthough it were treading in the fugitive prints. It wasthere, while conversing with you by the flower-beds,that it was granted me to know you, to appreciate you.A brilliant education joined to the spirit of an angel,the dignity of a queen with the grace of a nymph,thoughts worthy of Leibnitz expressed in language sosimple, Plato’s bee on the lips of Diana, all this enfoldedme as in a veil of adoration. And, during thosedelicious moments, the darling flowers were bloomingabout us, I inhaled their breath while listening to you,in their perfume your memory lived. They drooptheir heads now; they present to me the semblanceof death!”

“This is all Rousseau and water,” said the King.“Why do you read such stuff to me?”

“Because your Majesty commanded me to do so,for the sake of Mademoiselle d’Annebault’s beautifuleyes.”

“It is true, she has beautiful eyes.”

“—And when I return from these walks, I findmy father alone, in the great drawing-room, near thelighted candle, leaning on his elbow, amid the fadedgildings which cover our moldy wainscot. It is withpain that he sees me enter. My grief disturbs his.Athénaïs! At the back of that drawing-room, near[Pg 1190]the window, is the harpsichord over which flittedthose sweet fingers that my lips have touched but once—once,while yours opened softly to harmonies ofcelestial music—opened with such dainty art that yoursongs were but a smile. How happy are they—Rameau,Lulli, Duni, and so many more! Yes, yes,you love them—they are in your memory—theirbreath has passed through your lips. I too seat myselfat that harpsichord, I strive to play one of thoseairs that you love;—how cold, how monotonous theyseem to me! I leave them and listen to their dyingaccents while the echo loses itself beneath that lugubriousvault. My father turns to me and sees me distressed—whatcan he do? Some boudoir gossip, somereport from the servants’ hall has closed upon us thegates that lead into the world. He sees me young,ardent, full of life, asking only to live in this world,he is my father, and can do nothing for me.”

“One would think,” said the King, “that this fellowwas starting for the hunt, and that his falcon had beenkilled on his wrist. Against whom is he inveighing,may I ask?”

“—It is quite true,” continued the Marquise, readingin a lower tone. “It is quite true that we arenear neighbors, and distant relatives, of the AbbéChauvelin....”

“That is what it is, is it?” said Louis XV, yawning.“Another nephew of the enquêtes et requêtes.My Parliament abuses my bounty; it really has toolarge a family.”

“But if it is only a distant relative!”

[Pg 1191]

“Enough; all these people are good for nothing.This Abbé Chauvelin is a Jansenist; not a bad sortof fellow, in his way; but he has dared to resign.Please throw the letter into the fire, and let me hearno more about it.”

II

If these last words of the King were not exactlya death-warrant, they were something like a refusalof permission to live. What could a young man withoutfortune do, in 1756, whose King would not hearhis name mentioned? He might have looked for aclerkship, or tried to turn philosopher, or poet, perhaps;but without official dedication, the trade wasworth nothing.

And besides, such was not, by any means, the vocationof the Chevalier Vauvert, who had written, withtears, the letter which made the King laugh. At thisvery moment, alone with his father, in the old châteauof Neauflette, his look was desperate and gloomy, evento frenzy, as he paced to and fro.

“I must go to Versailles,” he said.

“And what will you do there?”

“I know not; but what am I doing here?”

“You keep me company. It certainly can not bevery amusing for you, and I will not in any way seekto detain you. But do you forget that your motheris dead?”

“No, sir. I promised her to consecrate to you thelife that you gave me. I will come back, but I mustgo. I really can not stay in this place any longer.”

[Pg 1192]

“And why, if I may ask?”

“My desperate love is the only reason. I loveMademoiselle d’Annebault madly.”

“But you know that it is useless. It is onlyMolière who contrives successful matches withoutdowries. Do you forget too the disfavor with whichI am regarded?”

“Ah! sir, that disfavor! Might I be allowed, withoutdeviating from the profound respect I owe you,to ask what caused it? We do not belong to the Parliament.We pay the tax; we do not order it. If theParliament stints the King’s purse, it is his affair, notours. Why should M. l’Abbé Chauvelin drag us intohis ruin?”

“Monsieur l’Abbé Chauvelin acts as an honest man.He refuses to approve the ‘dixiéme’ tax because he isdisgusted at the prodigality of the court. Nothingof this kind would have taken place in the days ofMadame de Chateauroux! She was beautiful, atleast, that woman, and did not cost us anything, noteven what she so generously gave. She was sovereignmistress, and declared that she would be satisfied ifthe King did not send her to rot in some dungeonwhen he should be pleased to withdraw his good gracesfrom her. But this Étioles, this le Normand, this insatiablePoisson!”

“What does it matter?”

“What does it matter! say you? More than youthink. Do you know that now, at this very time, whilethe King is plundering us, the fortune of this grisetteis incalculable? She began by contriving to get an[Pg 1193]annuity of a hundred and eighty thousand livres—butthat was a mere bagatelle, it counts for nothing now;you can form no idea of the startling sums that theKing showers upon her; three months of the year cannot pass without her picking up, as though by chance,some five or six hundred thousand livres—yesterdayout of the salt-tax, to-day out of the increase in theappropriation for the Royal mews. Although she hasher own quarters in the royal residences, she buys LaSelle, Cressy, Aulnay, Brimborion, Marigny, Saint-Remy,Bellevue, and a number of other estates—mansionsin Paris, in Fontainebleau, Versailles, Compiègne—withoutcounting secret hoards in all the banks ofEurope, to be used in case of her own disgrace or ademise of the crown. And who pays for all this, ifyou please?”

“That I do not know, sir, but, certainly, not I.”

“It is you, as well as everybody else. It is France,it is the people who toil and moil, who riot in thestreets, who insult the statue of Pigalle. But Parliamentwill endure it no longer, it will have no morenew imposts. As long as there was question of defrayingthe cost of the war, our last crown was ready;we had no thought of bargaining. The victoriousKing could see clearly that he was beloved by thewhole kingdom, still more so when he was at the pointof death. Then all dissensions, all faction, all ill-feelingceased. All France knelt before the sick-bedof the King, and prayed for him. But if we pay, withoutcounting, for his soldiers and his doctors, we willno longer pay for his mistresses; we have other things[Pg 1194]to do with our money than to support Madame dePompadour.”

“I do not defend her, sir. I could not pretend tosay either that she was in the wrong or in the right.I have never seen her.”

“Doubtless; and you would not be sorry to see her—isit not so?—in order to have an opinion on thesubject? For, at your age, the head judges throughthe eyes. Try it then, if the fancy takes you. But thesatisfaction will be denied you.”

“Why, sir?”

“Because such an attempt is pure folly; because thismarquise is as invisible in her little boudoir at Brimborionas the Grand Turk in his seraglio; becauseevery door will be shut in your face. What are yougoing to do? Attempt an impossibility? Court fortunelike an adventurer?”

“By no means, but like a lover. I do not intendto supplicate, sir, but to protest against an injustice.I had a well-founded hope, almost a promise, from M.de Biron; I was on the eve of possessing the objectof my love, and this love is not unreasonable; youhave not disapproved of it. Let me venture, then, toplead my own cause. Whether I shall appeal to theKing or to Madame de Pompadour I know not, butI wish to set out.”

“You do not know what the court is, and you wishto present yourself there.”

“I may perhaps be the more easily received for thevery reason that I am unknown there.”

“You unknown, Chevalier! What are you thinking[Pg 1195]about? With such a name as yours! We are gentlemenof an old stock, Monsieur; you could not beunknown.”

“Well, then, the King will listen to me.”

“He will not even hear you. You see Versailles inyour dreams, and you will think yourself there whenyour postilion stops his horses at the city gates. Supposeyou get as far as the ante-chamber—the gallery,the Oeil de Bœuf; perhaps there may be nothing betweenhis Majesty and yourself but the thickness ofa door; there will still be an abyss for you to cross.You will look about you, you will seek expedients,protection, and you will find nothing. We are relativesof M. de Chauvelin, and how do you think theKing takes vengeance on such as we? The rack forDamiens, exile for the Parliament, but for us a wordis enough, or, worse still—silence. Do you knowwhat the silence of the King is, when, instead of replyingto you, he mutely stares at you, as he passes,and annihilates you? After the Grève, and the Bastille,this is a degree of torture which, though lesscruel in appearance, leaves its mark as plainly as thehand of the executioner. The condemned man, it istrue, remains free, but he must no longer think ofapproaching woman or courtier, drawing-room, abbey,or barrack. As he moves about every door closesupon him, every one who is anybody turns away, andthus he walks this way and that, in an invisibleprison.”

“But I will so bestir myself in my prison that Ishall get out of it.”

[Pg 1196]

“No more than any one else! The son of M. deMeynières was no more to blame than you. Like you,he had received promises, he entertained most legitimatehopes. His father, a devoted subject of his Majesty,an upright man if there is one in the kingdom,repulsed by his sovereign, bowed his gray head beforethe grisette, not in prayer, but in ardent pleading. Doyou know what she replied? Here are her very words,which M. de Meynières sends me in a letter: ‘TheKing is the master, he does not deem it appropriateto signify his displeasure to you personally; he is contentto make you aware of it by depriving your sonof a calling. To punish you otherwise would be tobegin an unpleasantness, and he wishes for none; wemust respect his will. I pity you, however; I realizeyour troubles. I have been a mother; I know whatit must cost you to leave your son without a profession!’This is how the creature expresses herself;and you wish to put yourself at her feet!”

“They say they are charming, sir.”

“Of course they say so. She is not pretty, and theKing does not love her, as every one knows. Heyields, he bends before this woman. She must havesomething else than that wooden head of hers tomaintain her strange power.”

“But they say she has so much wit.”

“And no heart!—Much to her credit, no doubt.”

“No heart! She who knows so well how to declaimthe lines of Voltaire, how to sing the music ofRousseau! She who plays Alzire and Colette! Noheart! Oh, that can not be! I will never believe it.”

[Pg 1197]

“Go then and see, since you wish it. I advise, Ido not command, but you will only be at the expenseof a useless journey.—You love this D’Annebaultyoung lady very much then?”

“More than my life.”

“Alors, be off!”

III

It has been said that journeys injure love, becausethey distract the mind; it has also been said that theystrengthen love, because they give one time to dreamover it. The chevalier was too young to make suchnice distinctions. Weary of the carriage, when half-wayon his journey, he had taken a saddle-hack andthus arrived toward five o’clock in the evening at the“Sun” Inn—a sign then out of fashion, since it datedback to the time of Louis XIV.

There was, at Versailles, an old priest who hadbeen rector of a church near Neauflette; the chevalierknew him and loved him. This curé, poor and simplehimself, had a nephew, who held a benefice, a courtabbé, who might therefore be useful. So the chevalierwent to this nephew who—man of importance ashe was—his chin ensconced in his “rabat,” receivedthe newcomer civilly, and condescended to listen tohis request.

“Come!” said he, “you arrive at a fortunate moment.This is to be an opera-night at the court, somesort of fête or other. I am not going, because I amsulking so as to get something out of the marquise;but here I happen to have a note from the Duc d’Aumont;[Pg 1198]I asked for it for some one else, but never mind,you can have it. Go to the fête; you have not yetbeen presented, it is true, but, for this entertainment,that is not necessary. Try to be in the King’s waywhen he goes into the little foyer. One look, and yourfortune is made.”

The chevalier thanked the abbé, and, worn out bya disturbed night and a day on horseback, he madehis toilet at the inn in that negligent manner whichso well becomes a lover. A maid-servant, whose experiencehad been decidedly limited, dressed his wigas best she could, covering his spangled coat withpowder. Thus he turned his steps toward his luckwith the hopeful courage of twenty summers.

The night was falling when he arrived at thechâteau. He timidly advanced to the gate and askedhis way of a sentry. He was shown the grand staircase.There he was informed by the tall Swiss thatthe opera had just commenced, and that the King,that is to say, everybody, was in the hall.[8]

“If Monsieur le Marquis will cross the court,”added the doorkeeper (he conferred the title of “Marquis”at a venture), “he will be at the play in an instant.If he prefers to go through the apartments—”

The chevalier was not acquainted with the palace.

[Pg 1199]

Curiosity prompted him, at first, to reply that hewould cross the apartments; then, as a lackey offeredto follow as a guide, an impulse of vanity made himadd that he needed no escort. He, therefore, wentforward alone, but not without a certain emotion oftimidity.

Versailles was resplendent with light. From theground-floor to the roof there glittered and blazedlustres, chandeliers, gilded furniture, marbles. Withthe exception of the Queen’s apartments, the doorswere everywhere thrown open. As the chevalierwalked on he was struck with an astonishment andan admiration better imagined than described, for thewonder of the spectacle that offered itself to his gazewas not only the beauty, the sparkle of the displayitself, but the absolute solitude which surrounded himin this enchanted wilderness.

To find one’s self alone in a vast enclosure, be ittemple, cloister, or castle, produces a strange, even aweird feeling. The monument—whatever it be—seemsto weigh upon the solitary individual; its wallsgaze at him; its echoes are listening to him; the noiseof his steps breaks in upon a silence so deep that heis impressed by an involuntary fear and dares not advancewithout a feeling akin to awe. Such were thechevalier’s first impressions, but curiosity soon got theupper hand and drew him on. The candelabra of theGallery of Mirrors, looking into the polished surfaces,saw their flames redoubled in them. Every one knowswhat countless thousands of cherubs, nymphs, andshepherdesses disport themselves on the panelings,[Pg 1200]flutter about on the ceilings, and seem to encircle theentire palace as with an immense garland. Here, vasthalls, with canopies of velvet shot with gold and chairsof state still impressed with the stiff majesty of the“great King”; there, creased and disordered ottomans,chairs in confusion around a card-table; a never-endingsuccession of empty salons, where all this magnificenceshone out the more that it seemed entirelyuseless. At intervals were half-concealed doors openingupon corridors that extended as far as the eyecould reach, a thousand staircases, a thousand passagescrossing each other as in a labyrinth; colonnades,raised platforms built for giants, boudoirs ensconcedin corners like children’s hiding-places, an enormouspainting of Vanloo near a mantel of porphyry; a forgottenpatch-box, lying beside a piece of grotesqueChinese workmanship; here a crushing grandeur,there an effeminate grace; and everywhere, in themidst of luxury, of prodigality, and of indolence, athousand intoxicating odors, strange and diverse,mingle perfumes of flowers and women, an enervatingwarmth, the very material and sensible atmosphere ofpleasure itself.

To be in such a place, amid such marvels, at twenty,and to be there alone, is surely quite sufficient causefor temporary intoxication. The chevalier advancedat haphazard, as in a dream.

“A very palace of fairies,” he murmured, and, indeed,he seemed to behold, unfolding itself before him,one of those tales in which wandering knights discoverenchanted castles. Were they indeed mortal[Pg 1201]creatures that inhabited this matchless abode? Werethey real women who came and sat on these chairs andwhose graceful outlines had left on those cushionsthat slight impress, so suggestive, even yet, of indolence?Who knows but that, behind those thick curtains,at the end of some long dazzling gallery, theremay perhaps soon appear a princess asleep for the lasthundred years, a fairy in hoops, an Armida in spangles,or some court hamadryad that shall issue forthfrom this marble column, or burst from out of thatgilded panel?

Bewildered, almost overpowered, at the sight of allthese novel objects, the young chevalier, in order thebetter to indulge his reverie, had thrown himself ona sofa, and would doubtless have forgotten himselfthere for some time had he not remembered that hewas in love. What, at this hour, was Mademoiselled’Annebault, his beloved, doing—left behind in herold château?

“Athénaïs!” he exclaimed suddenly, “why do I thuswaste my time here? Is my mind wandering? Greatheavens! Where am I? And what is going onwithin me?”

He soon rose and continued his travels throughthis terra incognita, and of course lost his way. Twoor three lackeys, speaking in a low voice, stood beforehim at the end of a gallery. He walked toward themand asked how he should find his way to the play.

“If M. le Marquis,” he was answered (the sametitle being still benevolently granted him), “will givehimself the trouble to go down that staircase and follow[Pg 1202]the gallery on the right, he will find at the end ofit three steps going up; he will then turn to the left,go through the Diana salon, that of Apollo, that ofthe Muses, and that of Spring; he will go down sixsteps more, then, leaving the Guards’ Hall on hisright and crossing over to the Ministers’ staircase, hewill not fail to meet there other ushers who will showhim the way.”

“Much obliged,” said the chevalier, “with such excellentinstruction, it will certainly be my fault if Ido not find my way.”

He set off again boldly, constantly stopping, however,in spite of himself, to look from side to side,then once more remembering his love. At last, atthe end of a full quarter of an hour, he once morefound, as he had been told, a group of lackeys.

“M. le Marquis is mistaken,” they informed him;“it is through the other wing of the château that heshould have gone, but nothing is easier for him thanto retrace his steps. M. le Marquis has but to godown this staircase, then he will cross the salon ofthe Nymphs, that of Summer, that of—”

“I thank you,” said the chevalier, proceeding on hisway. “How foolish I am,” he thought, “to go onasking people in this fashion like a rustic. I am makingmyself ridiculous to no purpose, and even supposing—thoughit is not likely—that they are not laughingat me, of what use is their list of names, and thepompous sobriquets of these salons, not one of whichI know?”

He made up his mind to go straight before him as[Pg 1203]far as possible. “For, after all,” said he to himself,“this palace is very beautiful and prodigiously vast,but it is not boundless, and, were it three times aslarge as our rabbit enclosure, I must at last reach theend of it.”

But it is not easy in Versailles to walk on for along time in one direction, and this rustic comparisonof the royal dwelling to a rabbit enclosure doubtlessdispleased the nymphs of the place, for they at onceset about leading the poor lover astray more thanever, and, doubtless, to punish him, took pleasure inmaking him retrace his steps over and over again,constantly bringing him back to the same place, likea countryman lost in a thicket of quickset; thus didthey shut him in in this Cretan labyrinth of marbleand gold.

In the “Antiquities of Rome,” by Piranesi, there isa series of engravings which the artist calls “hisdreams,” and which are supposed to reproduce hisown visions during a fit of delirious fever. Theseengravings represent vast Gothic halls; on the flagstonesare strewn all sorts of engines and machines,wheels, cables, pulleys, levers, catapults, the expressionof enormous power and formidable resistance.Along the walls you perceive a staircase, and uponthis staircase, climbing, not without trouble, Piranesihimself. Follow the steps a little higher and theysuddenly come to an end before an abyss. Whateverhas happened to poor Piranesi, you think that he has,at any rate, reached the end of his labors, for he cannot take another step without falling; but lift your[Pg 1204]eyes and you will see a second staircase rising in theair, and upon these stairs Piranesi again, again on thebrink of a precipice.

Look now still higher, and another staircase stillrises before you, and again poor Piranesi continuinghis ascent, and so on, until the everlasting staircaseand the everlasting Piranesi disappear together in theskies; that is to say, in the border of the engraving.

This allegory, offspring of a nightmare, representswith a high degree of accuracy the tedium of uselesslabor and the species of vertigo which is brought onby impatience. The chevalier, wandering incessantlyfrom salon to salon and from gallery to gallery, wasat last seized with a fit of downright exasperation.

“Parbleu,” said he, “but this is cruel! After havingbeen so charmed, so enraptured, so enthralled, tofind myself alone in this cursed palace.” (It was nolonger a palace of fairies!) “I shall never be able toget out of it! A plague upon the infatuation whichinspired me with the idea of entering this place, likePrince Fortunatus with his boots of solid gold, insteadof simply getting the first lackey I came acrossto take me to the play at once!”

The chevalier experienced this tardy feeling ofrepentance for his rashness at a moment when, likePiranesi, he was half-way up a staircase, on a landingbetween three doors. Behind the middle one, hethought he heard a murmur so sweet, so light, sovoluptuous, that he could not help listening. At thevery instant when he was tremblingly advancing withthe indiscreet intention of eavesdropping, this door[Pg 1205]swung open. A breath of air, balmy with a thousandperfumes, a torrent of light that rendered the verymirrors of the gallery lustreless struck him so suddenlythat he perforce stepped back.

“Does Monsieur le Marquis wish to enter?” askedthe usher who had opened the door.

“I wish to go to the play,” replied the chevalier.

“It is just this moment over.”

At the same time, a bevy of beautiful ladies, theircomplexions delicately tinted with white and carmine,escorted by lords, old and young, who led them, notby the arm, nor even by the hand, but by the tips oftheir fingers, began filing out from the Palace Theatre,taking great care to walk sidewise, in order not todisarrange their hoops.

All of these brilliant people spoke in a low voice,with an air half grave, half gay, a mixture of awe andrespect.

“What can this be?” said the Chevalier, not guessingthat chance had luckily brought him to the littlefoyer.

“The King is about to pass,” replied the usher.

There is a kind of intrepidity, which hesitates atnothing; it comes but too easily, it is the courage ofvulgar people. Our young provincial, although hewas reasonably brave, did not possess this faculty.At the mere words, “The King is about to pass,” hestood motionless and almost terror-stricken.

King Louis XV, who when out hunting wouldride on horseback a dozen leagues with ease, was, inother respects, as is known, royally indolent. He[Pg 1206]boasted, not without reason, that he was the first gentlemanof France, and his mistresses used to tell him,not without truth, that he was the best built and themost handsome. It was something to remember tosee him leave his chair, and deign to walk in person.When he crossed the foyer, with one arm laid, orrather stretched, on the shoulder of Monsieur d’Argenson,while his red heel glided over the polishedfloor (he had made his laziness the fashion), all whisperingsceased; the courtiers lowered their heads, notdaring to bow outright, and the fine ladies, gentlybending their knees within the depths of their immensefurbelows, ventured that coquettish good-nightwhich our grandmothers called a courtesy, and whichour century has replaced by the brutal English shakeof the hand.

But the King paid attention to nothing, and sawonly what pleased him. Alfieri, perhaps, was there,and it is he who thus describes, in his memoirs, hispresentation at Versailles:

“I well knew that the king never spoke to strangerswho were not of striking appearance; all thesame I could not brook the impassible and frowningdemeanor of Louis XV. He scanned from head tofoot the man who was being presented to him, and itlooked as if he received no impression by so doing.It seems to me, however, that if one were to say toa giant, ‘Here is an ant I present to you,’ he wouldsmile on looking at it, or perhaps say, ‘Oh! what alittle creature.’”

The taciturn monarch thus passed among these[Pg 1207]flowers of feminine loveliness, and all this court, alonein spite of the crowd. It did not require of the chevaliermuch reflection to understand that he had nothingto hope from the King, and that the recital of his lovewould obtain no success in that quarter.

“Unfortunate that I am!” thought he. “My fatherwas but too well informed when he told me that withintwo steps of the king I should see an abyss betweenhim and me. Were I to venture to ask for an audience,who would be my patron? Who would presentme? There he is—the absolute master, who can bya word change my destiny, assure my fortune, fulfilmy desires. He is there before me; were I to stretchout my hand I could touch his embroidered coat—andI feel myself farther from him than if I were stillburied in the depths of my native province! Oh! IfI could only speak to him! Only approach him!Who will come to my help?”

While the chevalier was in this unhappy state ofmind he saw entering with an air of the utmost graceand delicacy a young and attractive woman, clad verysimply in a white gown, without diamonds or embroideriesand with a single rose in her hair. Shegave her hand to a lord tout à l’ambre, as Voltaireexpresses it, and spoke softly to him behind her fan.Now chance willed it that, in chatting, laughing, andgesticulating, this fan should slip from her and fallbeneath a chair, immediately in front of the chevalier.He at once hurried to pick it up, and as in doing sohe had set one knee on the floor, the young lady appearedto him so charming that he presented her the[Pg 1208]fan without rising. She stopped, smiled, and passedon, thanking him with a slight movement of the head,but at the look she had given the chevalier he felt hisheart beat without knowing why. He was right.This young lady was la petite d’Étioles, as the malcontentsstill called her, while others in speaking ofher said “la Marquise” in that reverent tone in whichone says “The Queen.”

IV

“She will protect me! She will come to my rescue!Ah! how truly the abbé spoke when he said that onelook might decide my life. Yes, those eyes, so softand gentle, that little mouth, both merry and sweet,that little foot almost hidden under the pompon—Yes,here is my good fairy!”

Thus thought the chevalier, almost aloud, as he returnedto the inn. Whence came this sudden hope?Did his youth alone speak, or had the eyes of themarquise told a tale?

He passed the greater part of the night writing toMademoiselle d’Annebault such a letter as we heardread by Madame de Pompadour to her lord.

To reproduce this letter would be a vain task. Exceptingidiots, lovers alone find no monotony in repeatingthe same thing over and over again.

At daybreak the chevalier went out and beganroaming about, carrying his dreams through thestreets. It did not occur to him to have recourse oncemore to the protecting abbé, and it would not be easyto tell the reason which prevented his doing so. It[Pg 1209]was like a blending of timidity and audacity, of falseshame and romantic honor. And, indeed, what wouldthe abbé have replied to him, if he had told his storyof the night before? “You had the unique good fortuneto pick up this fan; did you know how to profitby it? What did the marquise say to you?”

“Nothing.”

“You should have spoken to her.”

“I was confused; I had lost my head.”

“That was wrong; one must know how to seize anopportunity; but this can be repaired. Would you likeme to present you to Monsieur So-and-so, one of myfriends; or perhaps to Madame Such-a-one? Thatwould be still better. We will try and secure for youaccess to this marquise who frightened you so, andthen”—and so forth.

Now the chevalier little relished anything of thiskind. It seemed to him that, in telling his adventure,he would, so to speak, soil and mar it. He said tohimself that chance had done for him something unheardof, incredible, and that it should remain a secretbetween himself and Fortune. To confide this secretto the first comer was, to his thinking, to rob it of itsvalue, and to show himself unworthy of it. “I wentalone yesterday to the castle at Versailles,” thoughthe, “I can surely go alone to Trianon?” This was, atthe time, the abode of the favorite.

Such a way of thinking might, and even should,appear extravagant to calculating minds, who neglectno detail, and leave as little as possible to chance; butcolder mortals, if they were ever young, and not everybody[Pg 1210]is so, even in youth, have known that strangesentiment, both weak and bold, dangerous and seductive,which drags us to our fate. One feels one’s selfblind, and wishes to be so; one does not know whereone is going and yet walks on. The charm of thething consists in this recklessness and this very ignorance;it is the pleasure of the artist in his dreams, ofthe lover spending the night beneath the windows ofhis mistress; it is the instinct of the soldier; it is,above all, that of the gamester.

The chevalier, almost without knowing it, had thustaken his way to Trianon. Without being very paré,as they said in those days, he lacked neither elegancenor that indescribable air which forbids a chancelackey, meeting one, from daring to ask where one isgoing. It was, therefore, not difficult for him, thanksto information he had obtained at the inn, to reach thegate of the château—if one can so call that marblebonbonnière, which has seen so many pleasures andpains in bygone days. Unfortunately, the gate wasclosed, and a stout Swiss wearing a plain coat waswalking about, his hands behind his back, in the inneravenue, like a person who is not expecting any one.

“The King is here!” said the chevalier to himself,“or else the marquise is away. Evidently, when thedoors are closed, and valets stroll about, the mastersare either shut in or gone out.”

What was to be done? Full as he had been, amoment earlier, of courage and confidence, he nowfelt, all at once, confused and disappointed. The merethought, “The King is here!” alone gave him more[Pg 1211]alarm than those few words, on the night before:“The King is about to pass!” For then he was butfacing the unknown, and now he knew that icy stare,that implacable, impassible majesty.

“Ah! Bon Dieu! What a figure I should cut ifI were to be so mad as to try and penetrate thisgarden, and find myself face to face with this superbmonarch, sipping his coffee beside a rivulet.”

At once the sinister shadow of the Bastille seemedto fall before the poor lover; instead of the charmingimage that he had retained of the marquise and hersmile, he saw dungeons, cells, black bread, questionablewater; he knew the story of Latude, thirty yearsan inmate of the Bastille. Little by little his hopeseemed to be taking to itself wings.

“And yet,” he again said to himself, “I am doingno harm, nor the King either. I protest against aninjustice; but I never wrote or sang scurrilous songs.I was so well received at Versailles yesterday, and thelackeys were so polite! What am I afraid of? Ofcommitting a blunder? I shall make many morewhich will repair this one.”

He approached the gate and touched it with hisfinger. It was not quite closed. He opened it, andresolutely entered.

The gatekeeper turned round with a look of annoyance.

“What are you looking for? Where are yougoing?”

“I am going to Madame de Pompadour.”

“Have you an audience?”

[Pg 1212]

“Yes.”

“Where is your letter?”

He was no longer the “marquis” of the night before,and, this time, there was no Duc d’Aumont.The chevalier lowered his eyes sadly, and noticed thathis white stockings and Rhinestone buckles were coveredwith dust. He had made the mistake of comingon foot, in a region where no one walked. The gatekeeperalso bent his eyes, and scanned him, not fromhead to foot, but from foot to head. The dressseemed neat enough, but the hat was rather askew,and the hair lacked powder.

“You have no letter. What do you wish?”

“I wish to speak to Madame de Pompadour.”

“Really! And you think this is the way it isdone?”

“I know nothing about it. Is the King here?”

“Perhaps. Go about your business and leave mealone.”

The chevalier did not wish to lose his temper, but,in spite of himself, this insolence made him turn pale.

“I sometimes have told a lackey to go away,” hereplied, “but a lackey never said so to me.”

“Lackey! I a lackey?” exclaimed the enraged gatekeeper.

“Lackey, doorkeeper, valet, or menial, I care not,and it matters little.”

The gatekeeper made a step toward the chevalierwith clenched fists and face aflame. The chevalier,brought to himself by the appearance of a threat, liftedthe handle of his sword slightly.

[Pg 1213]

“Take care, fellow,” said he, “I am a gentleman,and it would cost me but thirty-six livres to put a boorlike you under ground.”

“If you are a nobleman, monsieur, I belong to theKing; I am only doing my duty; so do not think—”

At this moment the flourish of a hunting-hornsounding from the Bois de Satory was heard afar,and lost itself in the echo. The chevalier allowed hissword to drop into its scabbard, no longer thinkingof the interrupted quarrel.

“I declare,” said he, “it is the King starting for thehunt! Why did you not tell me that before?”

“That has nothing to do with me, nor with youeither.”

“Listen to me, my good man. The King is nothere; I have no letter, I have no audience. Here issome money for you; let me in.”

He drew from his pocket several pieces of gold.The gatekeeper scanned him anew with a superbcontempt.

“What is that?” said he, disdainfully. “Is it thusyou seek to penetrate into a royal dwelling? Insteadof making you go out, take care I don’t lock you in.”

“You—you valet!” said the chevalier, getting angryagain and once more seizing his sword.

“Yes, I,” repeated the big man. But during thisconversation, in which the historian regrets to havecompromised his hero, thick clouds had darkened thesky; a storm was brewing. A flash of lightningburst forth, followed by a violent peal of thunder, andthe rain began to fall heavily. The chevalier, who[Pg 1214]still held his gold, saw a drop of water on his dustyshoe as large as a crown piece.

“Peste!” said he, “let us find shelter. It wouldnever do to get wet.”

He turned nimbly toward the den of Cerberus, or,if you please, the gatekeeper’s lodge. Once in there,he threw himself unceremoniously into the big armchairof the gatekeeper himself.

“Heavens! How you annoy me!” said he, “andhow unfortunate I am! You take me for a conspirator,and you do not understand that I have in mypocket a petition for his Majesty! If I am from thecountry, you are nothing but a dolt.”

The gatekeeper, for answer, went to a corner tofetch his halberd, and remained standing thus withthe weapon in his fist.

“When are you going away?” he cried out in astentorian voice.

The quarrel, in turn forgotten and taken up again,seemed this time to be becoming quite serious, andalready the gatekeeper’s two big hands trembledstrangely on his pike;—what was to happen? I donot know. But, suddenly turning his head—“Ah!”said the chevalier, “who comes here?”

A young page mounted on a splendid horse (not anEnglish one;—at that time thin legs were not thefashion) came up at full speed. The road wassoaked with rain; the gate was but half open. Therewas a pause; the keeper advanced and opened thegate. The page spurred his horse, which had stoppedfor the space of an instant; it tried to resume its gait,[Pg 1215]but missed its footing, and, slipping on the dampground, fell.

It is very awkward, almost dangerous, to raise afallen horse. A riding-whip is of no use. The kickingof the beast, which is doing its best, is extremelydisagreeable, especially when one’s own leg is caughtunder the saddle.

The chevalier, however, came to the rescue withoutthinking of these inconveniences, and set about it socleverly that the horse was soon raised and the riderfreed. But the latter was covered with mud andcould scarcely limp along.

Carried as well as might be to the gatekeeper’slodge and seated in his turn in the big armchair,“Sir,” said he to the chevalier, “you are certainly anobleman. You have rendered me a great service, butyou can render me a still greater one. Here is a messagefrom the King for Madame la Marquise, andthis message is very urgent, as you see, since my horseand I, in order to go faster, almost broke our necks.You understand that, wounded as I am, with a lameleg, I could not deliver this paper. I should have, inorder to do so, to be carried myself. Will you gothere in my stead?”

At the same time he drew from his pocket a largeenvelope ornamented with gilt arabesques and fastenedwith the royal seal.

“Very willingly, sir,” replied the chevalier, takingthe envelope.

And, nimble and light as a feather, he set out ata run and on the tips of his toes.

[Pg 1216]

V

When the chevalier arrived at the château he foundanother doorkeeper in front of the peristyle:

“By the King’s order,” said the young man, whothis time no longer feared halberds, and, showing hisletter, he passed gaily between half a dozen lackeys.

A tall usher, planted in the middle of the vestibule,seeing the order and the royal seal, gravely inclinedhimself, like a poplar bent by the wind—then, smiling,he touched with one of his bony fingers the cornerof a piece of paneling.

A little swinging door, masked by tapestry, at onceopened as if of its own accord. The bony man madean obsequious sign, the chevalier entered, and thetapestry, which had been drawn apart, fell softlybehind him.

A silent valet introduced him into a drawing-room,then into a corridor, in which there were two or threeclosed doors, then at last into a second drawing-room,and begged him to wait a moment.

“Am I here again in the château of Versailles?” thechevalier asked himself. “Are we going to begin anothergame of hide-and-seek?”

Trianon was, at that time, neither what it is nownor what it had been. It has been said that Madamede Maintenon had made of Versailles an oratory, andMadame de Pompadour a boudoir. It has also beensaid of Trianon that ce petit château de porcelaine wasthe boudoir of Madame de Montespan. Be that as itmay, concerning these boudoirs, it appears that Louis[Pg 1217]XV put them everywhere. This or that gallery, whichhis ancestor walked majestically, was then dividedoddly into an infinity of apartments. There weresome of every color, and the King went flutteringabout in all these gardens of silk and velvet.

“Do you think my little furnished apartments arein good taste?” he one day asked the beautiful Comtessede Sérrant.

“No,” said she, “I would have them in blue.”

As blue was the King’s color, this answer flatteredhim.

At their next meeting, Madame de Sérrant foundthe salon upholstered in blue, as she had wished it.

That in which the chevalier now found himselfalone was neither blue nor pink, it was all mirrors.We know how much a pretty woman with a lovelyfigure gains by letting her image repeat itself in athousand aspects. She bewilders, she envelops, so tospeak, him whom she desires to please. To whateverside he turns, he sees her. How can he avoid beingcharmed? He must either take to flight or own himselfconquered.

The chevalier looked at the garden, too. There,behind, the bushes and labyrinths, the statues and themarble vases, that pastoral style which the marquisewas about to introduce, and which, later on, MadameDu Barry and Marie Antoinette were to push to sucha high degree of perfection, was beginning to showitself. Already there appeared the rural fantasieswhere the blasé conceits were disappearing. Alreadythe puffing tritons, the grave goddesses, and the[Pg 1218]learned nymphs, the busts with flowing wigs, frozenwith horror in their wealth of verdure, beheld an Englishgarden rise from the ground, amid the wonderingtrees. Little lawns, little streams, little bridges,were soon to dethrone Olympus to replace it by a dairy,strange parody of nature, which the English copywithout understanding—very child’s play, for thenonce the pastime of an indolent master who tried invain to escape the ennui of Versailles while remainingat Versailles itself.

But the chevalier was too charmed, too enrapturedat finding himself there for a critical thought to presentit*elf to his mind. He was, on the contrary,ready to admire everything, and was indeed admiring,twirling his missive between his fingers as a rusticdoes his hat, when a pretty waiting-maid opened thedoor, and said to him softly:

“Come, monsieur.”

He followed her, and after having once more passedthrough several corridors which were more or lessmysterious, she ushered him into a large apartmentwhere the shutters were half-closed. Here she stoppedand seemed to listen.

“Still at hide-and-seek!” said the chevalier to himself.However, at the end of a few moments, yet anotherdoor opened, and another waiting-maid, whoseemed to be even prettier than the first, repeated tohim in the same tone the same words:

“Come, monsieur.”

If he had been the victim of one kind of emotionat Versailles, he was subject to another, and still[Pg 1219]deeper feeling now, for he stood on the threshold ofthe temple in which the divinity dwelt. He advancedwith a palpitating heart. A soft light, slightly veiledby thin, gauze curtains, succeeded obscurity; a deliciousperfume, almost imperceptible, pervaded the airaround him; the waiting-maid timidly drew back thecorner of a silk portière, and, at the end of a largechamber furnished with elegant simplicity, he beheldthe lady of the fan—the all-powerful marquise.

She was alone, seated before a table, wrapped in adressing-gown, her head resting on her hand, and,seemingly, deeply preoccupied. On seeing the chevalierenter, she rose with a sudden and apparentlyinvoluntary movement.

“You come on behalf of the King?”

The chevalier might have answered, but he couldthink of nothing better than to bow profoundly whilepresenting to the marquise the letter which he broughther. She took it, or rather seized upon it, with extremeeagerness. Her hands trembled on the envelopeas she broke the seal.

This letter, written by the King’s hand, was ratherlong. She devoured it at first, so to speak, with aglance, then she read it greedily, with profound attention,with wrinkled brow and tightened lips. She wasnot beautiful thus, and no longer resembled the magicapparition of the petit foyer. When she reached theend, she seemed to reflect. Little by little her face,which had turned pale, assumed a faint color (at thishour she did not wear rouge), and not only did sheregain that graceful air which habitually belonged to[Pg 1220]her, but a gleam of real beauty illumined her delicatefeatures; one might have taken her cheeks for tworose-leaves. She heaved a little sigh, allowed the letterto fall upon the table, and, turning toward thechevalier, said, with the most charming smile:

“I kept you waiting, monsieur, but I was not yetdressed, and, indeed, am hardly so even now. Thatis why I was forced to get you to come through theprivate rooms, for I am almost as much besieged hereas though I were at home. I would like to answer theKing’s note. Would it be too much trouble to you todo an errand for me?”

This time he must speak; the chevalier had had timeto regain a little courage:

“Alas! madame,” said he, sadly, “you confer a greatfavor on me, but, unfortunately, I can not profit by it.”

“Why not?”

“I have not the honor to belong to his Majesty.”

“How, then, did you come here?”

“By chance; I met on my way a page who had beenthrown and who begged me—”

“How ‘thrown’?” repeated the marquise, burstingout laughing. She seemed so happy at this momentthat gaiety came to her without an effort.

“Yes, madame, he fell from his horse at the gate.I luckily found myself there to help him to rise, and,as his dress was very much disordered, he begged meto take charge of his message.”

“And by what chance did you find yourself there?”

“Madame, it was because I had a petition to presentto his Majesty.”

[Pg 1221]

“His Majesty lives at Versailles.”

“Yes, but you live here.”

“Oh! So it is you who wished to entrust me witha message.”

“Madame, I beg you to believe—”

“Do not trouble yourself, you are not the first.But why do you address yourself to me? I am buta woman—like any other.”

As she uttered these words with a somewhat ironicalair, the marquise threw a triumphant look uponthe letter she had just read.

“Madame,” continued the chevalier, “I have alwaysheard that men exercise power, and that women—”

“Guide it, eh? Well, monsieur, there is a queenof France.”

“I know it, madame; that is how it happened thatI found myself here this morning.”

The marquise was more than accustomed to suchcompliments, though they were generally made in awhisper; but, in the present circ*mstances, this appearedto be quite singularly gratifying to her.

“And on what faith,” said she, “on what assurance,did you believe yourself able to penetrate as far asthis? For you did not count, I suppose, upon a horse’sfalling on the way.”

“Madame, I believed—I hoped—”

“What did you hope?”

“I hoped that chance—might make—”

“Chance again! Chance is apparently one of yourfriends; but I warn you that if you have no other, itis a sad recommendation.”

[Pg 1222]

Perhaps offended Chance wished to avenge herselffor this irreverence, for the chevalier, whom thesefew questions had more and more troubled, suddenlyperceived, on the corner of the table, the identicalfan that he had picked up the night before. He tookit, and, as on the night before, presented it to themarquise, bending the knee before her.

“Here, madame,” he said to her, “is the only friendthat could plead for me—”

The marquise seemed at first astonished, and hesitateda moment, looking now at the fan, now at thechevalier.

“Ah! you are right,” she said at last, “it is you,monsieur! I recognize you. It is you whom I sawyesterday, after the play, as I went by with M. deRichelieu. I let my fan drop, and you ‘found yourselfthere,’ as you were saying.”

“Yes, madame.”

“And very gallantly, as a true chevalier, you returnedit to me. I did not thank you, but I was sure,all the same, that he who knows how to pick up a fanwith such grace would also know, at the right time,how to pick up the glove. And we are not ill-pleasedat that, we women.”

“And it is but too true, madame; for, on reachinghere just now, I almost had a duel with the gatekeeper.”

“Mercy on us!” said the marquise, once more seizedwith a fit of gaiety. “With the gatekeeper! Andwhat about?”

“He would not let me come in.”

[Pg 1223]

“That would have been a pity! But who are you,monsieur? And what is your request?”

“Madame, I am called the Chevalier de Vauvert.M. de Biron had asked in my behalf for a cornetcy inthe Guards.”

“Oh! I remember now. You come from Neauflette;you are in love with Mademoiselle d’Annebault—”

“Madame, who could have told you?”

“Oh! I warn you that I am much to be feared.When memory fails me, I guess. You are a relativeof the Abbé de Chauvelin, and were refused on thataccount; is not that so? Where is your petition?”

“Here it is, madame; but indeed I can not understand—”

“Why need you understand? Rise and lay yourpaper on the table. I am going to answer the King’sletter; you will take him, at the same time, your requestand my letter.”

“But, madame, I thought I had mentioned toyou—”

“You will go. You entered here on the business ofthe King, is not that true? Well, then, you will enterthere in the business of the Marquise de Pompadour,lady of the palace to the Queen.”

The chevalier bowed without a word, seized witha sort of stupefaction. The world had long knownhow much talk, how many ruses and intrigues, thefavorite had brought to bear, and what obstinacy shehad shown to obtain this title, which in reality broughther nothing but a cruel affront from the Dauphin.She had longed for it for ten years; she willed it, and[Pg 1224]she had succeeded. So M. de Vauvert, whom she didnot know, although she knew of his love, pleased heras a bearer of happy news.

Immovable, standing behind her, the chevalierwatched the marquise as she wrote, first, with all herheart—with passion—then with reflection, stopping,passing her hand under her little nose, delicate asamber. She grew impatient: the presence of a witnessdisturbed her. At last she made up her mind anddrew her pen through something; it must be ownedthat after all it was but a rough draft.

Opposite the chevalier, on the other side of thetable, there glittered a fine Venetian mirror. Thistimid messenger hardly dared raise his eyes. Itwould, however, have been difficult not to see in thismirror, over the head of the marquise, the anxiousand charming face of the new lady of the palace.

“How pretty she is!” thought he; “it is a pity thatI am in love with somebody else; but Athénaïs is morebeautiful, and moreover it would be on my part sucha horrible disloyalty.”

“What are you talking about?” said the marquise.The chevalier, as was his wont, had thought aloudwithout knowing it. “What are you saying?”

“I, madame? I am waiting.”

“There; that is done,” the marquise went on, takinganother sheet of paper; but at the slight movementshe had made in turning around the dressing-gownhad slipped on her shoulder.

Fashion is a strange thing. Our grandmothersthought nothing of going to court in immense robes[Pg 1225]exposing almost the entire bosom, and it was by nomeans considered indecent; but they carefully hid theback of their necks, which the fine ladies of to-dayexpose so freely in the balcony of the opera. This isa newly invented beauty.

On the frail, white, dainty shoulder of Madame dePompadour there was a little black mark that lookedlike a fly floating in milk. The chevalier, serious asa giddy boy who is trying to keep his countenance,looked at the mark, and the marquise, holding herpen in the air, looked at the chevalier in themirror.

In that mirror a rapid glance was exchanged, whichmeant to say on the one side, “You are charming,”and on the other, “I am not sorry for it.”

However, the marquise readjusted her dressing-gown.

“You are looking at my beauty-spot?”

“I am not looking, madame; I see and I admire.”

“Here is my letter; take it to the King with yourpetition.”

“But, madame—”

“Well?”

“His Majesty is hunting; I have just heard thehorn in the wood of Satory.”

“That is true. I did not think of it. Well, to-morrow.The day after; it matters little. No, immediately.Go. You will give that to Lebel. Good-by,monsieur. Try and remember the beauty-spot youhave just seen; the King alone in the whole kingdomhas seen it; and as for your friend, Chance, tell her,[Pg 1226]I beg of you, to take care and not chatter to herselfso loud, as she did just now. Farewell, chevalier.”

She touched a little bell, then, lifting a flood oflaces upon her sleeve, held out to the young man herbare arm. He once more bent low, and with the tipsof his lips scarcely brushed the rosy nails of the marquise.She saw no impoliteness in it—far from it—but,perhaps, a little too much modesty.

At once the little waiting-maids reappeared (thebig ones were not yet up), and, standing behind them,like a steeple in the middle of a flock of sheep, thebony man, still smiling, was pointing the way.

VI

Alone, ensconced in an old armchair in the backof his little room at the sign of “the Sun,” the chevalierwaited the next day, then the next, and no news!

“Singular woman! Gentle and imperious, goodand bad, the most frivolous of women, and the mostobstinate! She has forgotten me. What misery!She is right;—she is all-powerful, and I am nothing.”

He had risen, and was walking about the room.

“Nothing!—no, I am but a poor devil. How trulymy father spoke! The marquise was mocking me;that is all; while I was looking at her, it was onlythe reflection in that mirror, and in my eyes, of herown charms—which are, certainly, incomparable—thatmade her look so pleased! Yes, her eyes aresmall, but what grace! And Latour, before Diderot,has taken the dust from a butterfly’s wing to painther portrait. She is not very tall, but her figure is[Pg 1227]perfectly exquisite. Ah! Mademoiselle d’Annebault!Ah! my beloved friend, is it possible that I, too,should forget?”

Two or three sharp raps at the door awoke himfrom his grief.

“Who is there?”

The bony man, clad all in black, with a splendidpair of silk stockings, which simulated calves thatwere lacking, entered, and made a deep bow.

“This evening, Monsieur le Chevalier, there is tobe a masked ball at the court, and Madame la Marquisesends me to say that you are invited.”

“That is enough, monsieur. Many thanks.”

As soon as the bony man had retired, the chevalierran to the bell; the same maid-servant who, threedays before, had done her best to be of service to him,assisted him to put on the same spangled coat, strivingto acquit herself even better than before.

And then the young man took his way toward thepalace, invited this time, and more quiet outwardly,but more anxious and less bold than when he hadmade his first steps in that, to him, still unknownworld.

VII

Bewildered, almost as much as on the former occasion,by all the splendors of Versailles, which thisevening was not empty, the chevalier walked in thegreat gallery, looking on every side and doing all hecould to learn why he was there; but nobody seemedto think of accosting him. At the end of an hour he[Pg 1228]became wearied and was about to leave, when twomasks, exactly alike, seated on a bench, stopped himon his way. One of them took aim at him with herfinger as if with a pistol; the other rose and went tohim:

“It appears, monsieur,” said the mask, carelesslytaking his arm, “that you are on very good terms withour marquise.”

“I beg your pardon, madame, but of whom are youspeaking?”

“You know well enough.”

“Not the least in the world.”

“Oh! but indeed you do.”

“Not at all.”

“All the court knows it.”

“I do not belong to the court.”

“You are playing the child. I tell you it is wellknown!”

“That may be, madame, but I am ignorant of it.”

“You are not ignorant, however, of the fact thatthe day before yesterday a page fell from his horseat the gate of Trianon. Were you not there bychance?”

“Yes, madame.”

“Did you not help him to rise?”

“Yes, madame.”

“And did not you enter the château?”

“Certainly.”

“And was not a paper given to you?”

“Yes, madame.”

“And did you not take it to the King?”

[Pg 1229]

“Assuredly.”

“The King was not at Trianon; he was hunting;the marquise was alone—is not that so?”

“Yes, madame.”

“She had just risen; she was scarcely clad, excepting,as it is rumored, in a wide dressing-gown.”

“People whom one can not prevent from speakingtell all that runs through their heads.”

“That is all well enough, but it appears that therepassed between your eyes and hers a look which didnot offend her.”

“What do you mean by that, madame?”

“That you did not displease her.”

“I know nothing about that, and I should be distressedthat such sweet and rare good-will, whichI did not expect, and which touched me to the bottomof my heart, should give occasion to any idlespeeches.”

“You take fire too quickly, chevalier; one wouldthink that you were challenging the whole court; youwould never succeed in killing so many people.”

“But, madame, if the page fell, and if I carried hismessage—allow me to ask you why I am interrogated.”

The mask pressed his arm and said to him:

“Listen, monsieur.”

“As much as you please, madame.”

“This is what we are thinking about now: TheKing no longer loves the marquise, and nobody believesthat he ever loved her. She has just committedan imprudence; she has set the whole Parliament[Pg 1230]against her with her ‘two sous’ tax, and to-day shedares attack a far greater power—the Society ofJesuits. She will fail, but she has weapons, and,before perishing, she will defend herself.”

“Well, madame, what can I do?”

“I will tell you. M. de Choiseul has half quarreledwith M. de Bernis; neither of them is sure what it ishe would like to attempt. Bernis is going away;Choiseul will take his place. A word from you candecide it.”

“In what way, madame, pray?”

“By allowing your story of the other day to betold.”

“What earthly connection can there be between myvisit, the Jesuits, and the Parliament?”

“Write me one word and the marquise is lost.And do not doubt that the warmest interest, the mostcomplete gratitude—”

“I humbly beg your pardon again, madame, butwhat you are asking of me would be an act ofcowardice.”

“Is there any honor in politics?”

“I know nothing of all that. Madame de Pompadourlet her fan fall before me; I picked it up; I gaveit back to her; she thanked me; she permitted mewith that peculiar grace of hers to thank her in myturn.”

“A truce to ceremonies: time flies; my name is theCountess d’Estrades; you love Mademoiselle d’Annebault,my niece; do not say no, it is useless. Youare seeking a cornetcy; you shall have it to-morrow,[Pg 1231]and if you care for Athénaïs you will soon be mynephew.”

“Ah! madame, what excess of goodness!”

“But you must speak.”

“No, madame.”

“I have been told that you love that little girl.”

“As much as it is possible to love; but if ever mylove is to declare itself in her presence my honor mustalso be there.”

“You are very obstinate, chevalier! Is that yourfinal reply?”

“It is the last, as it was the first.”

“You refuse to enter the Guards? You refuse thehand of my niece?”

“Yes, madame, if that be the price.”

Madame d’Estrades cast upon the chevalier a piercinglook, full of curiosity; then seeing in his face nosign of hesitation she slowly walked away, losing herselfin the crowd.

The chevalier, unable to make anything of this singularadventure, went and sat down in a corner of thegallery.

“What does that woman mean to do?” said he tohimself. “She must be a little mad. She wishes toupset the state by means of a silly calumny, and sheproposes to me that in order to merit the hand of herniece I should dishonor myself. But Athénaïs wouldno longer care for me, or, if she lent herself to suchan intrigue, I would no longer care for her. What!Strive to harm this good marquise, to defame her, toblacken her character. Never! no, never!”

[Pg 1232]

Always intent upon his own thoughts, the chevaliervery probably would have risen and spoken aloud, butjust then a small rosy finger touched him on theshoulder.

He raised his eyes and saw before him the pair ofmasks who had stopped him.

“You do not wish to help us a little then?” said oneof the masks, disguising her voice. But although thetwo costumes were exactly alike, and all seemed calculatedto mislead, the chevalier was not deceived.Neither the look nor the tone was the same.

“Will you answer, sir?”

“No, madame.”

“Will you write?”

“Neither will I write.”

“It is true that you are obstinate. Good-night, lieutenant.”

“What do you say, madame?”

“There is your commission and your marriage contract.”And she threw the fan to him.

It was the one which the chevalier had alreadytwice picked up. The little cupids of Boucher sportedon the parchment of the gilded mother-of-pearl masterpiece.There was no longer any doubt; it was thefan of Madame de Pompadour.

“Heavens! Marquise, is it possible?”

“Very possible,” said she, raising the little piece ofblack veil on her chin.

“I know, madame, how to answer—”

“It is not necessary. You are a loyal gentleman,and we shall see each other again, for we are to be[Pg 1233]in the same house. The King has placed you in the‘cornette blanche.’ Remember that for a petitionerthere is no greater eloquence than to know how to besilent if need be—”

“And forgive us,” added she, laughing as sheran away, “if before bestowing upon you our niece’shand, we thought it expedient to find out your trueworth.”[9]

[Pg 1234]

BY THÉOPHILE GAUTIER

[Pg 1236]

BY THÉOPHILE GAUTIER

Translated by Lafcadio Hearn.

I had entered, in an idle mood, the shop of oneof those curiosity-venders, who are called marchandsde bric-à-brac in that Parisian argotwhich is so perfectly unintelligible elsewhere inFrance.

You have doubtless glanced occasionally throughthe windows of some of these shops, which have becomeso numerous now that it is fashionable to buyantiquated furniture, and that every petty stockbrokerthinks he must have his chambre au moyen âge.

There is one thing there which clings alike to theshop of the dealer in old iron, the wareroom of thetapestry-maker, the laboratory of the chemist, and thestudio of the painter—in all those gloomy dens wherea furtive daylight filters in through the window-shuttersthe most manifestly ancient thing is dust;—thecobwebs are more authentic than the guimpe laces; andthe old pear-tree furniture on exhibition is actuallyyounger than the mahogany which arrived but yesterdayfrom America.

The warehouse of my bric-à-brac dealer was averitable Capharnaum; all ages and all nations seemedto have made their rendezvous there; an Etruscanlamp of red clay stood upon a Boule cabinet, with[Pg 1238]ebony panels, brightly striped by lines of inlaid brass;a duch*ess of the court of Louis XV nonchalantly extendedher fawn-like feet under a massive table of thetime of Louis XIII, with heavy spiral supports of oak,and carven designs of Chimeras and foliage intermingled.

Upon the denticulated shelves of several sideboardsglittered immense Japanese dishes with red and bluedesigns relieved by gilded hatching; side by side withenameled works by Bernard Palissy, representing serpents,frogs, and lizards in relief.

From disemboweled cabinets escaped cascades ofsilver-lustrous Chinese silks and waves of tinsel,which an oblique sunbeam shot through with luminousbeads; while portraits of every era, in framesmore or less tarnished, smiled through their yellowvarnish.

The striped breastplate of a damascened suit ofMilanese armor glittered in one corner; Loves andNymphs of porcelain; Chinese grotesques, vases ofcélandon and crackle-ware; Saxon and old Sèvrescups encumbered the shelves and nooks of the apartment.

The dealer followed me closely through the tortuousway contrived between the piles of furniture;warding off with his hand the hazardous sweep ofmy coat-skirts; watching my elbows with the uneasyattention of an antiquarian and a usurer.

It was a singular face, that of the merchant—animmense skull, polished like a knee, and surroundedby a thin aureole of white hair, which brought out[Pg 1239]the clear salmon tint of his complexion all the morestrikingly, lent him a false aspect of patriarchal bonhomie,counteracted, however, by the scintillation oftwo little yellow eyes which trembled in their orbitslike two louis-d’or upon quicksilver. The curve of hisnose presented an aquiline silhouette, which suggestedthe Oriental or Jewish type. His hands—thin, slender,full of nerves which projected like strings upon thefinger-board of a violin, and armed with claws likethose on the terminations of bats’ wings—shook withsenile trembling; but those convulsively agitatedhands became firmer than steel pincers or lobsters’claws when they lifted any precious article—an onyxcup, a Venetian glass, or a dish of Bohemian crystal.This strange old man had an aspect so thoroughlyrabbinical and cabalistic that he would have beenburnt on the mere testimony of his face three centuriesago.

“Will you not buy something from me to-day, sir?Here is a Malay kreese with a blade undulating likeflame: look at those grooves contrived for the bloodto run along, those teeth set backward so as to tearout the entrails in withdrawing the weapon—it is afine character of ferocious arm, and will look well inyour collection: this two-handed sword is very beautiful—itis the work of Josepe de la Hera; and thiscolichemarde, with its fenestrated guard—what asuperb specimen of handicraft!”

“No; I have quite enough weapons and instrumentsof carnage;—I want a small figure, something whichwill suit me as a paper-weight; for I can not endure[Pg 1240]those trumpery bronzes which the stationers sell, andwhich may be found on everybody’s desk.”

The old gnome foraged among his ancient wares,and finally arranged before me some antique bronzes—so-called,at least; fragments of malachite; littleHindu or Chinese idols—a kind of poussah-toys injade-stone, representing the incarnations of Brahmaor Vishnu, and wonderfully appropriate to the veryundivine office of holding papers and letters in place.

I was hesitating between a porcelain dragon, allconstellated with warts—its mouth formidable withbristling tusks and ranges of teeth—and an abominablelittle Mexican fetish, representing the god Vitziliputzliau naturel; when I caught sight of a charmingfoot, which I at first took for a fragment of someantique Venus.

It had those beautiful ruddy and tawny tints thatlend to Florentine bronze that warm, living look somuch preferable to the gray-green aspect of commonbronzes, which might easily be mistaken for statuesin a state of putrefaction: satiny gleams played overits rounded forms, doubtless polished by the amorouskisses of twenty centuries; for it seemed a Corinthianbronze, a work of the best era of art—perhapsmolded by Lysippus himself.

“That foot will be my choice,” I said to the merchant,who regarded me with an ironical and saturnineair, and held out the object desired that I mightexamine it more fully.

I was surprised at its lightness; it was not a footof metal, but in sooth a foot of flesh—an embalmed[Pg 1241]foot—a mummy’s foot: on examining it still moreclosely the very grain of the skin, and the almostimperceptible lines impressed upon it by the textureof the bandages, became perceptible. The toes wereslender and delicate, and terminated by perfectlyformed nails, pure and transparent as agates; thegreat toe, slightly separated from the rest, affordeda happy contrast, in the antique style, to the positionof the other toes, and lent it an aerial lightness—thegrace of a bird’s foot;—the sole, scarcely streaked bya few almost imperceptible cross lines, afforded evidencethat it had never touched the bare ground, andhad only come in contact with the finest matting ofNile rushes, and the softest carpets of panther skin.

“Ha, ha!—you want the foot of the Princess Hermonthis”—exclaimedthe merchant, with a strangegiggle, fixing his owlish eyes upon me—“ha, ha, ha!—fora paper-weight!—an original idea!—artisticidea! Old Pharaoh would certainly have been surprisedhad some one told him that the foot of hisadored daughter would be used for a paper-weightafter he had had a mountain of granite hollowed outas a receptacle for the triple coffin, painted and gilded—coveredwith hieroglyphics and beautiful paintingsof the Judgment of Souls”—continued the queerlittle merchant, half audibly, as though talking tohimself!

“How much will you charge me for this mummyfragment?”

“Ah, the highest price I can get; for it is a superbpiece: if I had the match of it you could not have it[Pg 1242]for less than five hundred francs;—the daughter of aPharaoh! nothing is more rare.”

“Assuredly that is not a common article; but, still,how much do you want? In the first place, let mewarn you that all my wealth consists of just five louis:I can buy anything that costs five louis, but nothingdearer;—you might search my vest pockets and mostsecret drawers without even finding one poor five-francpiece more.”

“Five louis for the foot of the Princess Hermonthis!that is very little, very little indeed; ’tis an authenticfoot,” muttered the merchant, shaking his head, andimparting a peculiar rotary motion to his eyes. “Well,take it, and I will give you the bandages into the bargain,”he added, wrapping the foot in an ancientdamask rag—“very fine! real damask!—Indiandamask which has never been redyed; it is strong,and yet it is soft,” he mumbled, stroking the frayedtissue with his fingers, through the trade-acquiredhabit which moved him to praise even an object ofso little value that he himself deemed it only worththe giving away.

He poured the gold coins into a sort of medievalalms-purse hanging at his belt, repeating:

“The foot of the Princess Hermonthis, to be usedfor a paper-weight!”

Then turning his phosphorescent eyes upon me, heexclaimed in a voice strident as the crying of a catwhich has swallowed a fish-bone:

“Old Pharaoh will not be well pleased: he loved hisdaughter—the dear man!”

[Pg 1243]

“You speak as if you were a contemporary of his:you are old enough, goodness knows! but you do notdate back to the Pyramids of Egypt,” I answered,laughingly, from the threshold.

I went home, delighted with my acquisition.

With the idea of putting it to profitable use as soonas possible, I placed the foot of the divine PrincessHermonthis upon a heap of papers scribbled over withverses, in themselves an undecipherable mosaic workof erasures; articles freshly begun; letters forgotten,and posted in the table drawer instead of the letter-box—anerror to which absent-minded people are peculiarlyliable. The effect was charming, bizarre, andromantic.

Well satisfied with this embellishment, I went outwith the gravity and pride becoming one who feelsthat he has the ineffable advantage over all thepassers-by whom he elbows, of possessing a piece ofthe Princess Hermonthis, daughter of Pharaoh.

I looked upon all who did not possess, like myself,a paper-weight so authentically Egyptian, as veryridiculous people; and it seemed to me that theproper occupation of every sensible man should consistin the mere fact of having a mummy’s foot uponhis desk.

Happily I met some friends, whose presence distractedme in my infatuation with this new acquisition:I went to dinner with them; for I could notvery well have dined with myself.

When I came back that evening, with my brainslightly confused by a few glasses of wine, a vague[Pg 1244]whiff of Oriental perfume delicately titillated my olfactorynerves: the heat of the room had warmed thenatron, bitumen, and myrrh in which the paraschistes,who cut open the bodies of the dead, had bathed thecorpse of the princess;—it was a perfume at oncesweet and penetrating—a perfume that four thousandyears had not been able to dissipate.

The Dream of Egypt was Eternity: her odors havethe solidity of granite, and endure as long.

I soon drank deeply from the black cup of sleep:for a few hours all remained opaque to me; Oblivionand Nothingness inundated me with their sombrewaves.

Yet light gradually dawned upon the darkness ofmy mind: dreams commenced to touch me softly intheir silent flight.

The eyes of my soul were opened; and I beheld mychamber as it actually was: I might have believed myselfawake, but for a vague consciousness which assuredme that I slept, and that something fantasticwas about to take place.

The odor of the myrrh had augmented in intensity:and I felt a slight headache, which I very naturallyattributed to several glasses of champagne that wehad drunk to the unknown gods and our futurefortunes.

I peered through my room with a feeling of expectationwhich I saw nothing to justify: every article offurniture was in its proper place; the lamp, softlyshaded by its globe of ground crystal, burned uponits bracket; the water-color sketches shone under their[Pg 1245]Bohemian glass; the curtains hung down languidly;everything wore an aspect of tranquil slumber.

After a few moments, however, all this calm interiorappeared to become disturbed; the woodworkcracked stealthily; the ash-covered log suddenlyemitted a jet of blue flame; and the disks of thepateras seemed like great metallic eyes, watching, likemyself, for the things which were about to happen.

My eyes accidentally fell upon the desk where I hadplaced the foot of the Princess Hermonthis.

Instead of remaining quiet—as behooved a footwhich had been embalmed for four thousand years—itcommenced to act in a nervous manner; contracteditself, and leaped over the papers like astartled frog;—one would have imagined that it hadsuddenly been brought into contact with a galvanicbattery: I could distinctly hear the dry sound madeby its little heel, hard as the hoof of a gazel.

I became rather discontented with my acquisition,inasmuch as I wished my paper-weights to be of asedentary disposition, and thought it very unnaturalthat feet should walk about without legs; and Icommenced to experience a feeling closely akinto fear.

Suddenly I saw the folds of my bed-curtain stir;and heard a bumping sound, like that caused by someperson hopping on one foot across the floor. I mustconfess I became alternately hot and cold; that I felta strange wind chill my back; and that my suddenly-risinghair caused my nightcap to execute a leap ofseveral yards.

[Pg 1246]

The bed-curtains opened, and I beheld the strangestfigure imaginable before me.

It was a young girl of a very deep coffee-browncomplexion, like the bayadere Amani, and possessingthe purest Egyptian type of perfect beauty; her eyeswere almond-shaped and oblique, with eyebrows soblack that they seemed blue; her nose was exquisitelychiseled, almost Greek in its delicacy of outline; andshe might indeed have been taken for a Corinthianstatue of bronze, but for the prominence of her cheekbonesand the slightly African fulness of her lips,which compelled one to recognize her as belongingbeyond all doubt to the hieroglyphic race which dweltupon the banks of the Nile.

Her arms, slender and spindle-shaped, like those ofvery young girls, were encircled by a peculiar kindof metal bands, and bracelets of glass beads; her hairwas all twisted into little cords; and she wore uponher bosom a little idol figure of green paste, bearinga whip with seven lashes, which proved it to be animage of Isis: her brow was adorned with a shiningplate of gold; and a few traces of paint relieved thecoppery tint of her cheeks.

As for her costume, it was very odd indeed.

Fancy a pagne or skirt all formed of little strips ofmaterial bedizened with red and black hieroglyphics,stiffened with bitumen, and apparently belonging toa freshly unbandaged mummy.

In one of those sudden flights of thought so commonin dreams I heard the hoarse falsetto of thebric-à-brac dealer, repeating like a monotonous refrain,[Pg 1247]the phrase he had uttered in his shop with soenigmatical an intonation:

“Old Pharaoh will not be well pleased: he lovedhis daughter, the dear man!”

One strange circ*mstance, which was not at allcalculated to restore my equanimity, was that theapparition had but one foot; the other was brokenoff at the ankle!

She approached the table where the foot was startingand fidgeting about more than ever; and theresupported herself upon the edge of the desk. I sawher eyes fill with pearly-gleaming tears.

Although she had not as yet spoken, I fully comprehendedthe thoughts which agitated her: shelooked at her foot—for it was indeed her own—withan exquisitely graceful expression of coquettish sadness;but the foot leaped and ran hither and thither,as though impelled on steel springs.

Twice or thrice she extended her hand to seize it,but could not succeed.

Then commenced between the Princess Hermonthisand her foot—which appeared to be endowedwith a special life of its own—a very fantastic dialoguein a most ancient Coptic tongue, such as mighthave been spoken thirty centuries ago in the syrinxesof the land of Ser: luckily I understood Coptic perfectlywell that night.

The Princess Hermonthis cried, in a voice sweetand vibrant as the tones of a crystal bell:

“Well, my dear little foot, you always flee fromme; yet I always took good care of you. I bathed[Pg 1248]you with perfumed water in a bowl of alabaster; Ismoothed your heel with pumice-stone mixed withpalm oil; your nails were cut with golden scissorsand polished with a hippopotamus tooth; I was carefulto select tatbebs for you, painted and embroideredand turned up at the toes, which were the envy of allthe young girls in Egypt: you wore on your great toerings bearing the device of the sacred Scarabæus; andyou supported one of the lightest bodies that a lazyfoot could sustain.”

The foot replied in a pouting and chagrined tone:

“You know well that I do not belong to myselfany longer. I have been bought and paid for: theold merchant knew what he was about: he bore youa grudge for having refused to espouse him. This isan ill turn which he has done you. The Arab whoviolated your royal coffin in the subterranean pits ofthe necropolis of Thebes was sent thither by him: hedesired to prevent you from being present at the reunionof the shadowy nations in the cities below.Have you five pieces of gold for my ransom?”

“Alas, no!—my jewels, my rings, my purses ofgold and silver, were all stolen from me,” answeredthe Princess Hermonthis, with a sob.

“Princess,” I then exclaimed, “I never retainedanybody’s foot unjustly;—even though you havenot got the five louis which it cost me, I present itto you gladly: I should feel unutterably wretchedto think that I were the cause of so amiable a personas the Princess Hermonthis being lame.”

I delivered this discourse in a royally gallant, troubadour[Pg 1249]tone which must have astonished the beautifulEgyptian girl.

She turned a look of deepest gratitude upon me;and her eyes shone with bluish gleams of light.

She took her foot—which surrendered itself willinglythis time—like a woman about to put on her littleshoe; and adjusted it to her leg with much skill.

This operation over, she took a few steps aboutthe room, as though to assure herself that she wasreally no longer lame.

“Ah, how pleased my father will be!—he who wasso unhappy because of my mutilation; and who fromthe moment of my birth, set a whole nation at workto hollow me out a tomb so deep that he might preserveme intact until that last day, when souls mustbe weighed in the balance of Amenthi! Come withme to my father;—he will receive you kindly; foryou have given me back my foot.”

I thought this proposition natural enough. I arrayedmyself in a dressing-gown of large-floweredpattern, which lent me a very Pharaonic aspect; hurriedlyput on a pair of Turkish slippers; and informedthe Princess Hermonthis that I was ready to followher.

Before starting, Hermonthis took from her neckthe little idol of green paste, and laid it on the scatteredsheets of paper which covered the table.

“It is only fair,” she observed, smilingly, “that Ishould replace your paper-weight.”

She gave me her hand, which felt soft and cold,like the skin of a serpent; and we departed.

[Pg 1250]

We passed for some time with the velocity of anarrow through a fluid and grayish expanse, in whichhalf-formed silhouettes flitted swiftly by us, to rightand left.

For an instant we saw only sky and sea.

A few moments later obelisks commenced to towerin the distance: pylons and vast flights of stepsguarded by sphinxes became clearly outlined againstthe horizon.

We had reached our destination.

The princess conducted me to a mountain of rose-coloredgranite, in the face of which appeared anopening so narrow and low that it would have beendifficult to distinguish it from the fissures in the rock,had not its location been marked by two stelæwrought with sculptures.

Hermonthis kindled a torch, and led the waybefore me.

We traversed corridors hewn through the livingrock: their walls, covered with hieroglyphics andpaintings of allegorical processions, might well haveoccupied thousands of arms for thousands of yearsin their formation;—these corridors, of interminablelength, opened into square chambers, in the midst ofwhich pits had been contrived, through which we descendedby cramp-irons or spiral stairways;—thesepits again conducted us into other chambers, openinginto other corridors, likewise decorated with paintedsparrow-hawks, serpents coiled in circles, the symbolsof the tau and pedum—prodigious works of art whichno living eye can ever examine—interminable legends[Pg 1251]of granite which only the dead have time to readthrough all eternity.

At last we found ourselves in a hall so vast, soenormous, so immeasurable, that the eye could notreach its limits; files of monstrous columns stretchedfar out of sight on every side, between which twinkledlivid stars of yellowish flame;—points of lightwhich revealed further depths incalculable in the darknessbeyond.

The Princess Hermonthis still held my hand, andgraciously saluted the mummies of her acquaintance.

My eyes became accustomed to the dim twilight;and objects became discernible.

I beheld the kings of the subterranean races seatedupon thrones—grand old men, though dry, withered,wrinkled like parchment, and blackened with naphthaand bitumen—all wearing pshents of gold, and breast-platesand gorgets glittering with precious stones;their eyes immovably fixed like the eyes of sphinxes,and their long beards whitened by the snow of centuries.Behind them stood their peoples, in the stiffand constrained posture enjoined by Egyptian art, alleternally preserving the attitude prescribed by thehieratic code. Behind these nations, the cats, ibixes,and crocodiles cotemporary with them—renderedmonstrous of aspect by their swathing bands—mewed,flapped their wings, or extended their jaws in asaurian giggle.

All the Pharaohs were there—Cheops, Chephrenes,Psammetichus, Sesostris, Amenotaph—all the darkrulers of the pyramids and syrinxes:—on yet higher[Pg 1252]thrones sat Chronos and Xixouthros—who was contemporarywith the deluge; and Tubal Cain, whor*igned before it.

The beard of King Xixouthros had grown seventimes around the granite table, upon which he leaned,lost in deep reverie—and buried in dreams.

Further back, through a dusty cloud, I beheld dimlythe seventy-two Preadamite Kings, with their seventy-twopeoples—forever passed away.

After permitting me to gaze upon this bewilderingspectacle a few moments, the Princess Hermonthispresented me to her father Pharaoh, who favored mewith a most gracious nod.

“I have found my foot again!—I have found myfoot!” cried the princess, clapping her little hands togetherwith every sign of frantic joy: “it was thisgentleman who restored it to me.”

The races of Kemi, the races of Nahasi—all theblack, bronzed, and copper-colored nations repeatedin chorus:

“The Princess Hermonthis has found her footagain!”

Even Xixouthros himself was visibly affected.

He raised his heavy eyelids, stroked his mustachewith his fingers, and turned upon me a glance weightywith centuries.

“By Oms, the dog of Hell, and Tmei, daughter ofthe Sun and of Truth! this is a brave and worthylad!” exclaimed Pharaoh, pointing to me with hissceptre which was terminated with a lotus-flower.

“What recompense do you desire?”

[Pg 1253]

Filled with that daring inspired by dreams in whichnothing seems impossible, I asked him for the handof the Princess Hermonthis;—the hand seemed to mea very proper antithetic recompense for the foot.

Pharaoh opened wide his great eyes of glass inastonishment at my witty request.

“What country do you come from? and what isyour age?”

“I am a Frenchman; and I am twenty-seven yearsold, venerable Pharaoh.”

“—Twenty-seven years old! and he wishes toespouse the Princess Hermonthis, who is thirty centuriesold!”—cried out at once all the Thrones andall the Circles of Nations.

Only Hermonthis herself did not seem to thinkmy request unreasonable.

“If you were even only two thousand years old,”replied the ancient King, “I would willingly give youthe Princess; but the disproportion is too great; and,besides, we must give our daughters husbands whowill last well: you do not know how to preserve yourselvesany longer; even those who died only fifteencenturies ago are already no more than a handful ofdust;—behold! my flesh is solid as basalt; my bonesare bars of steel!

“I will be present on the last day of the world, withthe same body and the same features which I hadduring my lifetime: my daughter Hermonthis will lastlonger than a statue of bronze.

“Then the last particles of your dust will have beenscattered abroad by the winds; and even Isis herself,[Pg 1254]who was able to find the atoms of Osiris, would scarcebe able to recompose your being.

“See how vigorous I yet remain, and how mightyis my grasp,” he added, shaking my hand in the Englishfashion with a strength that buried my rings inthe flesh of my fingers.

He squeezed me so hard that I awoke, and foundmy friend Alfred shaking me by the arm to make meget up.

“O you everlasting sleeper!—must I have you carriedout into the middle of the street, and fireworksexploded in your ears? It is after noon; don’t yourecollect your promise to take me with you to see M.Aguado’s Spanish pictures?”

“God! I forgot all, all about it,” I answered, dressingmyself hurriedly; “we will go there at once; Ihave the permit lying there on my desk.”

I started to find it;—but fancy my astonishmentwhen I beheld, instead of the mummy’s foot I hadpurchased the evening before, the little green pasteidol left in its place by the Princess Hermonthis!

BY OCTAVE FEUILLET

[Pg 1256]

A PARISIAN SCENE

BY OCTAVE FEUILLET

Persons

The Prince, thirty years old.
The Countess, twenty-six years old.

Scene—The Countess’s Boudoir.

The Countess. How do you do, Prince?

Prince. What, not out? Ah, I am fortunate, uponmy word!

Countess. But you wrote me that you wouldcome—

Prince. I wrote you that, really? Ah, that’s odd.Ah, ah, that is amusing! Madame, your mother iswell?

Countess. Very well—a little tired, that’s all—she’sjust going up to her room. But sit down.

Prince (seating himself). Do you know whatbrings me here?

Countess. What?

Prince. I come to ask your advice. Imagine thatI dined at the Embassy. They got talking about littledrawing-room comedies, about proverbes or parables,[Pg 1258]about those little things, you know, that they play atprivate theatricals, and of the difficulty one experiencesin finding any that are not too hackneyed, that onehas not seen everywhere, and that are agreeable.

Countess. Yes—and then?

Prince. Very well, then. I was in rather a goodhumor; the spirit was upon me to compose duringthe week one of those witty trifles. A wager, seriousenough, in fact, was connected with it. Briefly, sinceyesterday I have been thinking, without boring myselfabout other matters.

Countess. And you have hit upon something?

Prince. I have not yet thought of anything. Butit will come. I conceived the idea of talking it overwith you. We will do the thing together, if you arequite willing. It is very easy, you will see.

Countess. But I don’t know, for my part, that itis so very easy.

Prince. Positively. Nothing more simple. Willyou try?

Countess. Mon Dieu, I should like to—but youmust hold the pen.

Prince. That’s understood.

Countess. There, there’s paper and ink—blue ink;is that all right?

Prince. Blue ink will do no harm. (Places himselfat a centre-table.) There! Sit down in front of me,like a muse, and let us begin without further ceremony,will you?

Countess. Very willingly—but it’s rather embarrassing,it seems to me.

[Pg 1259]

Prince. Not at all. It’s very easy. Always thesame thing: Two people who chat about the rain andabout fine weather—more or less wittily, as it happensto come. Well, are you ready?

Countess. Yes, yes—go on.

Prince. First we must write down the persons:“The Count, the Countess ——,” is it not?

Countess. Yes, of course—but is this to be aproverbe?

Prince. Yes, it’s a proverbe.

Countess. But what proverbe? That must be decidedfirst.

Prince. Oh! Mon Dieu, why? It’s of no use—itwill develop itself in time—it will evolve naturallyfrom the conversation—it will be the finishing touch.

Countess. So be it. Go on.

Prince. “The Count, the Countess. First scene—”Well?

Countess. Hé!

Prince. What is it they say?

Countess. But what is the subject?

Prince. There is no subject! It is a witty trifle,I told you—a nothing—an improvisation without substance—ago-as-you-please conversation—I am notproposing that you should write “The Misanthrope,”[11]remember.

Countess. Yet it is necessary to know what theyare to talk about.

Prince. But about nothing—about trifles—youknow how those things are!

[Pg 1260]

Countess. But, no, my dear Prince, I know nothingabout it—and no more do you, so it would seem.

Prince. Come, chère madame, do not let us quarrel.We said, “The Count and the Countess,” is it not so?They are in the country—and the Count is bored, Isuppose—

Countess. Yes, that’s new enough.

Prince. I do not say that it must be new, but atany rate it is a subject, since you must have one. Sothen, the Count is bored—and the Countess—theCountess—

Countess. Is bored too, perhaps?

Prince. It’s an idea, and with that combination, too,may become original enough. They are both bored—Well,you see, chère madame, we are progressing.Let us pass on to the dialogue—That, that’sthe easiest—Once in the dialogue it will go byitself—“The Count—” The Count—he enters,doesn’t he?

Countess. Quite right.

Prince. And in entering, he says—

Countess. He says?

Prince. What?

Countess. I am asking you.

Prince. Well—he might say, for instance, “Alwaysalone, dear Countess?”

Countess. I see nothing inappropriate in that.

Prince. It’s sufficiently the phrase of a bored man—“Alwaysalone, dear Countess?”

Countess. It’s a charming phrase—To whichthe Countess, who is always alone, replies?

[Pg 1261]

Prince. Wait—yes—perhaps—that is to say, no—thatwill not do.

Countess. Instead of entering the diplomatic serviceyou ought to devote yourself to literature—withyour facility.

Prince (rising). It is certain that I am too beastlystupid—dumb as an animal—And then I am thinkingof something else—Oh, well, I am going!

Countess. No!

Prince. I assure you that at other times I had asort of wit—Inquire at the Embassy—they know—ButI am altogether changed—Good night, I amgoing.

Countess. No!

Prince. I am not going?

Countess. No, I tell you!

Prince. So be it. (He sits down again.)

Countess. Let us return. Where were we?—“TheCount, the Countess—”

Prince. The truth is you ought to consider me aregular imbecile.

Countess. Is it the Count says that?

Prince. No, it is I.

Countess. Not at all—I find you only a little odd.

Prince. Odd! You are very kind—But no,really; I beg of you to inquire at the Embassy—theywill tell you that I do not lack intelligence,and that at other times I had even a sort of inspiration.

Countess. But, my Prince, I have no need to inquireat the Embassy, I have only to remember. I have[Pg 1262]known you to be extremely brilliant, several monthsago when you were making love to me.

Prince. Brilliant, no; but I was as good as anotherat any rate.

Countess. Yes, yes, I insist—You were a brilliantyoung man, sparkling, dreadful!—(She rubsher hands softly.)

Prince. You are making fun of me—I was notsparkling, but I had some vivacity—and that was buttwo years ago! It is true that I had only just arrivedat Paris,—and that I had not yet passed under theinfluence of the climate.

Countess. You believe it was the climate—

Prince. What will you have? It must assuredlyhave been something—It isn’t age—I am notthirty years old—At any rate, I think I shall leaveParis, and diplomacy as well—My mother sendsfor me from Vienna—I received a letter fromher this morning—I wanted, also, to show it toyou—

(He fumbles about in his coat pocket and pulls outa letter half-tangled in some black lace.)

Countess. What lace is that coming out of yourpocket?

Prince (confused). Lace? Oh! Do you seesome lace?

Countess. This—But I say, my Prince, is notthis one of my veils, here?

Prince. One of your veils—here?—Are yousure?

Countess. Absolutely!—And I am going to take[Pg 1263]it back, too, if you will allow me—That’s lace ofgreat price, if you have your doubts about it.

Prince. I implore you to believe, indeed, madame,that I did not attach a mercenary value to it. Buthow do I come to have that veil about me?

Countess. It is very easy to explain. I must haveleft it at the Embassy on a visit, they charged you toreturn it to me, and with your usual absent-mindedness,you forgot the commission.

Prince. That’s simple. I ask ten thousand pardons.It is perfectly evident! You see I am not myself atall any more. All my faculties—even my memory—areweakening. It is high time I go to recover strengthin my native air. You see what my mother tells me?

Countess (running through the letter). She hasthe air of a noble woman, your mother.

Prince. Yes. We two are very fond of each other.She advises me not to have too much success, poormother! She believes me always irresistible.

Countess. Then you have been so, my prince?

Prince. Why, yes, a little, up to the day I had thehonor of meeting you—Well, what do you advise me?

Countess. To go, since your mother wishes to seeyou again.

Prince. That’s my advice, too, and to tell you thetruth, I came this evening specially to bid you good-by.

Countess. What! to bid me good-by?—And thatproverbe? What was the object of that joke?

Prince. That proverbe? Come, madame, I wantthe last impression you receive of me to be pleasant.You will laugh. Here is the history of that proverbe.[Pg 1264]You remember well enough that which passed betweenus two years ago, after I had vainly offered you myheart and my hand. It so happened that if I wished tocontinue to regard you as a friend, I must sternlyrefrain from all allusions to a love definitely repulsed.I gave you my word on the matter, and I expectedto have kept it scrupulously.

Countess. That is true.

Prince. Well, then, I made a mistake there. Excuseme, I swear to you that I am going. My discretionand my reserve naturally made you believethat I was cured of my love.

Countess. Naturally.

Prince. Yes. Well, it is a mistake. I love youalways. I love you like a fool, like a child, like anangel, like a savage, as you will. Having decidedto go away, I wished first to make one supreme effort,a desperate one. The idea of that proverbe came tome. Under cover of that proverbe I promised myselfto set my feelings before you, with so much fire,emotion, eloquence, wit, that you would be infalliblysoftened, fascinated, and overcome. You have seenhow successful I was!—Isn’t it comic?—Now,madame, adieu.

Countess. Adieu, Prince.

Prince. One word more. Be gracious enough totell me why you refused to marry me. My proposalwas, in fact, perfectly honest and perfectly worthy ofacceptance. Why did you repulse it with so muchdecision? Was it from caprice, from antipathy, ordid you have some serious reason?

[Pg 1265]

Countess. I had a serious reason.

Prince. You loved some one?

Countess. No one.

Prince. Then your heart was free, like your hand.You had not been, you told me so yourself, particularlyhappy with your husband—although he was charming,from what they say.

Countess. He was charming, altogether charming,sparkling and irresistible—like you—in days gone by.

Prince. In short, you were not happy; consequently,you had no occasion to torment yourself if youbecame unfaithful to the memory of the dead. Asfor me I had a brilliant name, a fortune, a position.At that time I was not ill and depressed as I am now.I was tolerable in my person.

Countess. Very handsome, indeed.

Prince. I passed for a sufficiently lively talker. Imade court to you, if I remember, with—intelligence.

Countess. With much, much wit.

Prince. And you refused me!—Come, now, why?

Countess. You do not guess?

Prince. Not at all.

Countess (she takes his hand and looks himtenderly in the eyes). It is because I love dumbanimals, my friend!

[Pg 1266]

BY ALEXANDRE DUMAS, FILS

[Pg 1268]

BY ALEXANDRE DUMAS, FILS

Do you know La Piroche?No. No more do I. So I shall not abusemy privilege as an author by giving you adescription; especially since, between you and me beit said, they are very tiresome, those descriptions.Unless it be a question of the virgin forests of America,as in Cooper, or of Meschaccbé,[12] as in Chateaubriand,that is to say, countries that are not close athand, and about which the imagination, to obtain aclear vision of the details, must be assisted by thosepoetical voyagers who have visited them, in generaldescriptions are not of much consequence except tobe skipped by the reader. Literature has this advantageover painting, sculpture, and music; the threefoldadvantage of being able to paint by itself a picture ina single word, to carve a statue in one phrase, to molda melody on one page; it must not abuse itself of thatprivilege, and one should leave to the special arts alittle of their own prerogative. I own, then, for mypart, and for lack of better advice, that when I findthat I have to describe a country which every one hasseen, or every one could see, if it be near, if it doesnot differ from our own, I prefer to leave to my readerthe pleasure of recalling it if he has seen it, or of imagining[Pg 1270]it if he does not yet know it. The readerlikes well enough to be left to do his share of the workhe is reading. This flatters him and makes him believethat he is capable of doing the rest. Indeed, it is anexcellent thing to flatter your reader. Moreover, thewhole world in reality knows what the sea is like—aplain, a forest, a blue sky, an effect of sun, an effectof the moon, or an effect of storm. Of what use todwell upon it? It would be far better to trace a landscapein one stroke of the brush like Rubens or Delacroix;this should be said without comparison andkeep the whole value of your palette for the figuresyou wish to reanimate. When one blackens with descriptionspage after page of paper, one doesn’t givethe reader an impression equal to that experienced bythe most artless bourgeois who walks through the Boisde Vincennes on a soft April day, or by an unletteredgirl who strolls in June, on the arm of her fiancé, ateleven o’clock at night through the shady vistas ofthe woods of Romainville or the park of Enghien.We all have in our minds and hearts a gallery oflandscapes made from memory, and which serves asbackground for all the stories of the world. Thereis but one word to use—day or night, winter or spring,calm or storm, wood or plain—to evoke at once a mostfinished landscape.

So I have only to tell you this: that at the momentwhen the story I am about to tell you begins it is noon,that it is May, that the highway we are going to enteris bordered on the right with furze bushes, on the leftby the sea; you know at once all that I have not told[Pg 1271]you; that is to say, that the bushes are green, thatthe sea is murmuring, that the sky is blue, that thesun is warm, and that there is dust on the road.

I have only to add that this highway that windsalong the coast of Brittany runs from La Poterie toLa Piroche; that Piroche is a village about which Iknow nothing, but which must be more or less like allvillages, that we are in the middle of the fifteenthcentury, in 1418, and that two men, one older thanthe other, one the father of the other, both peasants,are following the highway mounted on two nags trottingalong comfortably enough for two nags under theweight of two peasants.

“Shall we get there in time?” said the son.

“Yes, it is not to take place until two o’clock,”replied the father, “and the sun marks but a quarterafter noon.”

“Oh, but I am curious to see that!”

“I can well believe it.”

“So he will be hanged in the armor that he stole?”

“Yes.”

“How the devil did he get the idea of stealingarmor?”

“It’s not the idea that is hard to get—”

“It’s the armor,” interrupted the boy, who wantedhis share in making a part of that joke.

“And that, too, he didn’t get.”

“Was it fine armor?”

“Splendid, they say, all shining with gold.”

“And did they catch him as he was carrying itaway?”

[Pg 1272]

“Yes, you know as well as I do that armor like thatnever goes astray without raising a great outcry; itcan’t escape its proper owner all by itself.”

“So, then, it was of iron?”

“They woke up in the château at the noise theyheard.”

“And did they arrest the man?”

“Not at once; they began by being afraid.”

“Of course, it’s always that way that people whohave been robbed begin when they are in the presenceof thieves; otherwise there would be no object inbeing a thief.”

“No, nor any pleasant excitement in being robbed!But those brave folks had no idea that it was an affairof robbery.”

“Of what, then?”

“Of a ghost. That wretched, most vigorous fellowwas carrying the armor in front of him, holding hishead at the height of the loins of said armor so effectivelythat he acquired gigantic proportions in thecorridor where he passed. Add to this a clatteringnoise which the rascal made behind him, and you willappreciate the fright of the valets. But, unfortunatelyfor him, he woke up the Seigneur of La Piroche, hewho has fear of neither the dead nor the living,who easily, and all by himself, arrested the thief andhanded him over, bound, to his well-deserved justice.”

“And his well-deserved justice?”

“The condemned man is to be hanged clothed inthe armor.”

“Why that clause in the sentence?”

[Pg 1273]

“Because the Seigneur of La Piroche is not only abrave captain, but a man of common sense and ofspirit, who wished to draw from this just condemnationan example for others and an advantage for himself.Why, don’t you know that whatever touches ahanged man becomes a talisman for him who possessesit? So the Seigneur of La Piroche has orderedthat the thief should be hanged dressed in his armor, soas to reclaim it when the man is dead and have a talismanto wear during our next wars.”

“That is very ingenious.”

“I should think so.”

“Let’s make haste, for I am so anxious to see thepoor man hanged.”

“We have plenty of time! We must not wear ourbeasts out. We are not going to stop at La Piroche;we will have to go on a league farther, and thenreturn to La Poterie.”

“Yes, but our beasts will rest for five or six hours,for we do not return until evening.”

The father and son continued on their way, talking,and half an hour later they reached La Piroche.

As the father had said, they arrived on time. Havefathers always the privilege of being right?

There was an immense concourse of people on thegreat square in front of the château, for it was therethat the scaffold had been erected, a splendid gallows,in faith, of sound oak, not very high, it is true, sinceit was intended for a wretched, obscure criminal, buthigh enough, nevertheless, for death to do its workbetween earth and the end of the rope which was[Pg 1274]swinging in the fresh sea breeze like an eel hanging byits tail.

The condemned man was certain of having a beautifulview at the moment of death, for he was to diewith his face turned toward the ocean. If this viewcould be any consolation to him, so much the better,but, for my part, I doubt it.

And all the while the sea was blue, and from timeto time between the azure of the sky and that of thesea floated a white cloud, like an angel on its way toheaven, but whose long robes still trailed upon theearth it was quitting.

The two companions approached as near as possibleto the scaffold, so as to miss nothing that wasgoing on, and, like all the rest, they waited, havingthis advantage over the others, that they were mountedon two nags and could see better with less fatigue.

They had not long to wait.

At a quarter of two the gates of the château opened,and the condemned man appeared, preceded by theguards of the Seigneur of La Piroche and followedby the executioner.

The thief was dressed in the stolen armor and wasmounted reversed on the bare back of a jackass. Herode with vizor down and head lowered. They hadtied his hands behind his back, and if they wish forour opinion in the matter we have no hesitation insaying that, judging by his position, in default of hisface, which could not be seen, he ought to have beenvery ill at ease, and indulging at that moment in verysad reflections.

[Pg 1275]

They conducted him to the side of the scaffold, anda moving picture hardly pleasant for him began tosilhouette itself against the blue sky. The hangmanset his ladder against the scaffold, and thechaplain of the Seigneur of La Piroche, mountedon a prepared platform, delivered the sentence ofjustice.

The condemned man did not move. One mighthave said that he had given the spectators the slipby dying before he was hanged.

They called to him to descend from his ass anddeliver himself to the hangman.

He did not move. We understand his hesitation.

Then the hangman took him by the elbows, liftedhim off the ass, and set him upright on the ground.

Fine fellow, that hangman!

When we say that he set him upright, we do notlie. But we would lie in saying that he remained asthey placed him. He had in two minutes jumpedtwo-thirds of the alphabet; that is to say, in vulgarparlance, that instead of standing straight like an I,he became zigzag like a Z.

During this time the chaplain finished reading thesentence.

“Have you any request to make?” he asked of theculprit.

“Yes,” replied the unfortunate, in a voice sadand low.

“What do you ask?”

“I ask for pardon.”

I do not know if the word “farceur” was invented[Pg 1276]in those days, but then or never was the time to inventit and to speak it.

The Seigneur of La Piroche shrugged his shouldersand ordered the executioner to do his duty.

The latter made ready to mount the ladder leaningagainst the gibbet, which, impassive, was about todraw with extended arm the soul out of a body, andhe attempted to make the condemned mount in frontof him, but it was not an easy thing to do. One doesnot know, in general, what obstacles those condemnedto death will put in the way of their dying.

The hangman and the man there had the air ofpassing civilities one to another. It was a questionof who should go first.

The hangman, to make him mount on his ladder,returned to the method he employed in making himdescend from his ass. He seized him around the middleof his body, balanced him on the third rung of theladder, and began to push him up from beneath.

“Bravo!” cried the crowd.

He ought to have mounted well.

Then the executioner adroitly slipped the runningnoose, which adorned the end of the rope, aroundthe neck of the culprit, and, giving the latter a vigorouskick in the back, he flung him out into space,which strongly resembled Eternity.

An immense clamor greeted this looked-for dénouement,and a shudder passed through the crowd.Whatever may be the crime he has committed, theman who dies is always at the moment greater thanthose who watch him die.

[Pg 1277]

The hanged man swung for three or four minutesat the end of his rope, as he had a right to do,danced, wriggled, then hung motionless and rigid.

The Z had become an I again.

They gazed a while longer on the culprit, whosegilded armor glistened in the sun, then the spectatorsdivided themselves, little by little, into groups, andwent their way home, chatting about the event.

“Pooh! a horrid thing is death!” said the son of thepeasant, as he continued his journey with his father.

“In good faith, to hang one for not having succeededin stealing a piece of armor, that’s expensive. Whatdo you think?”

“I wonder, I do, what they would have done to himif he had really stolen the armor?”

“They would not have done anything to him, for ifhe had really stolen the armor he would have been ableto escape from the château. Then, possibly, he wouldnot have returned to be arrested.”

“Yet he is punished more for a crime that he hasnot committed than he would have been if he had committedthe crime!”

“But he had the intention of committing it.”

“And the intention was accounted as a fact—”

“That is perfectly just.”

“But it isn’t pretty to look at.”

And since they found themselves on rising ground,the two companions turned to contemplate for the lasttime the silhouette of the unfortunate.

Twenty minutes later they entered the little townwhere, save the mark! they were to receive certain[Pg 1278]moneys, and which they were to leave that evening inorder to accomplish the return home that same night.

On the morrow, at break of day, the guards salliedout from the château of La Piroche for the purposeof taking down the corpse of the hanging man, fromwhich they intended to recover the armor of the Seigneur,but they discovered something which they hadbeen far from anticipating, that is to say, the gibbetwas there, as always, but the hanged man was notthere.

The two guards rubbed their eyes, believing themselvesto be dreaming, but the thing was very real.No more hanged man, and naturally no more armor.

And what was extraordinary, the rope was neitherbroken nor cut, but just in the condition it was beforereceiving the condemned.

The two guards ran to announce this news to theSeigneur of La Piroche. He was not willing to believeit, and proceeded to assure himself of the truthof the facts. So puissant a seigneur was he that hewas convinced the hanged man would reappear forhim there; but he saw what all the rest had seen.

What had become of the dead? For the condemnedhad certainly died the day before, before the eyes ofthe whole village.

Had another thief profited by the night to get possessionof the armor that covered the corpse?

Possibly—but in taking the armor he would naturallyleave the corpse, for which he had no use.

Had the friends or relations of the culprit wished togive him Christian burial?

[Pg 1279]

Nothing impossible in that if it were not for the factthat the culprit had neither friends nor relations, andthat people who had had religious sentiments like thatwould have taken the culprit and left the armor. That,then, was no longer to be thought of. What shouldone believe, then?

The Seigneur of La Piroche was in despair. Hewas all for his armor. He made promise of a rewardof ten gold écus to any one who should deliver to himthe thief, dressed as he was in dying.

They ransacked the houses; they found nothing.

No one presented himself.

They caused a sage of the town of Rennes tobe sent for, and they propounded this questionto him:

“In what way does a dead man who has been hangedmanage to free himself from the rope that holds himin the air by the neck?”

The sage demanded eight days to ponder over thequestion, at the termination of which he replied:

“He can not do it.”

Then they propounded this second question:

“A thief, unsuccessful in stealing while alive, andhaving been condemned to death for stealing, can hesteal after his death?”

The sage replied:

“Yes.”

He was asked how it could be done. He repliedthat he knew nothing about it.

He was the greatest sage of his time.

They sent him home and contented themselves with[Pg 1280]believing, for those were the days of witchcraft, thatthe thief was a wizard.

Then they said masses to exorcise that evil spirit,which was without doubt taking his revenge upon theSeigneur who had ordered his death and upon thosewho had come to see him die.

A month passed in fruitless search.

The gibbet still stood there as always, humiliated,gloomy, and discredited. Never had a gibbet committedsuch a breach of confidence.

The Seigneur of La Piroche continued to clamorfor his armor from man, God, and the devil.

Nothing.

At last he was beginning, without a doubt, to makethe best of this strange event, and of the loss whichhad been the result, when one morning, as he was waking,he heard a great commotion on the square wherethe execution had taken place. He was making readyto inform himself of what was passing when his chaplainentered the room.

“Monseigneur,” said he, “do you know what hashappened?”

“No, but I am going to ask.”

“I can tell you, I can.”

“What is it, then?”

“A miracle from heaven!”

“Really!”

“The hanged man—”

“Well?”

“He is there!”

“Where?”

[Pg 1281]

“On the scaffold.”

“Hanging?”

“Yes, Monseigneur.”

“In his armor?”

“In your armor.”

“True, for it is mine. And is he dead?”

“Absolutely dead—only—”

“Only what?”

“Did he have spurs on when they hanged him?”

“No.”

“Well, Monseigneur, he has them, and in place ofhaving the casque on his head, he has placed it withgreat care at the foot of the gibbet, and left his headhanging uncovered.”

“Let us see, Mr. Chaplain, let us see, straight off!”

The Seigneur of La Piroche ran to the squarecrowded with the curious. The neck of the hangedman had passed again into the running noose, thecorpse was there at the end of the rope, and the armorwas there on the corpse.

It was astounding. So they proclaimed it a miracle.

“He has repented,” said one, “and has come to hanghimself over again.”

“He has been there all the time,” said another; “onlywe did not see him.”

“But why has he got spurs?” asked a third.

“No doubt, because he has come from afar andwished to return in a hurry.”

“I know well, for my part, that far or near, I wouldnot have needed to put on spurs, for I would not havecome back.”

[Pg 1282]

And they laughed, and they stared at the ugly facethe dead man made.

As for the Seigneur of La Piroche, he thought ofnothing but of making sure that the thief was quitedead, and of securing his armor.

They cut down the corpse and stripped it; then,once despoiled, they hung it up again, and the ravensinvestigated so thoroughly that at the end of two daysit was all jagged, at the end of eight days it had onlythe appearance of a rag, and at the end of fifteen daysit had no longer the appearance of anything at all; or,if it did resemble anything, it was only those impossiblehanged men we used to make pictures of on the firstpage of our text-book, and below which we wrote theamphibious quatrain, half Latin, half French:

But what had the hanged man been doing duringhis month of absence? How did it happen that heescaped, and, having escaped, that he hanged himselfa*gain?

We will give below the three versions which havebeen presented to us.

A magician, a pupil of Merlin, declared that if at themoment of dying the culprit has had the will to disappear[Pg 1283]and the ability to absorb his body into his will, thewill being an immaterial thing, invisible, and impalpable,the body, which finds itself absorbed by it, and consequentlyhidden in it, becomes by that means alsoimpalpable, immaterial, and invisible, and that if thebody of a thief has reappeared at the end of a month,and at the end of a rope, it is because at that suprememoment his will, troubled by his conscience, has nothad sufficient force for eternal absorption.

This may not be a good version, but it is one.

The theologians affirm that the culprit did succeedin vanishing, but that, pursued by remorse and beingin haste to reconcile himself with God, he could notendure the life longer than one month, and, full ofrepentance, came to execute upon himself that justicewhich he had escaped the first time.

That, perhaps, is not the true version, but it is alwaysChristian logic, and as a Christian we will notdismiss it altogether.

Finally, they declared that our two peasants in returninghome that evening, and passing close to thegibbet, heard lamentations, a rattling, and somethinglike a prayer; that they piously crossed themselvesand demanded what was the matter; thatthey received no reply, but the lamentations continued,and it seemed to them that they came from the corpsethat was above their heads. Then they took the ladderthat the hangman had left at the foot of the scaffold,rested it against the arm of the gibbet, and the son,having mounted to the level of the condemned,said to him:

[Pg 1284]

“Is it you who are making these complaints, poorman?”

The condemned gathered all his strength togetherand said:

“Yes.”

“Then you are still alive?”

“Yes.”

“You repent of your crime?”

“Yes.”

“Then I will loosen you, and since the Evangelistcommands us to give succor to those who suffer, andthat you suffer, I am going to succor you and bringyou to life in order to bring you to good. God prefersa soul that repents to a corpse that expiates.”

Then the father and the son cut down the dyingman, and saw how it was that he still lived. Therope, instead of tightening about the neck of the thief,had tightened at the base of the casque so effectuallythat the culprit was suspended but not strangled, and,occupying with his head a kind of vantage-point inthe interior of the casque, he was able to breathe andto keep alive up to the time our two companionspassed by.

The latter took him down and carried him homewith them, where they gave him into the care of themother and the young daughter.

But he who has stolen will steal.

There were but two things to steal at the peasant’s,for the money he had brought back with him was notin his house. These two things were his horse and hisdaughter, a fair-haired girl of sixteen.

[Pg 1285]

The ex-hanged decided to steal both the one and theother, for he was covetous of the horse and had fallenin love with the daughter.

So one night he saddled the horse, buckled on thespurs to make him ride faster, and went to take theyoung girl while she was asleep, and lift her up on tothe crupper.

But the girl awoke and cried out.

The father and the son came running up. The thieftried to escape, but he was too late. The young girltold about the attempt of the hanged man; and thefather and the son, seeing well that no repentance wasto be expected from such a man, resolved to executejustice upon him, but more effectually than the Seigneurof La Piroche had allowed himself to do it.They bound the thief to the horse which he had saddledhimself, led him to the square of La Piroche, andstrung him up there where he had been hanged, butplaced his casque on the ground to make sure that heshould not vanish again; then they returned homequietly.

There is the third version. I do not know why Ibelieve it to be the most probable, and that you woulddo well, like me, to give it preference over the othertwo.

As for the Seigneur of La Piroche, as soon as hehad secured a real talisman, he went happily off to thewars, where he was the first to be killed.

[Pg 1286]

BY ERCKMANN-CHATRIAN

Émile Erckmann, born 1822, died 1899, andAlexandre Chatrian, born 1826, died 1890,natives of Alsace-Lorraine, formed a literarypartnership in 1847 and wrote many charmingnovels and plays, such as “The Famous DoctorMathéus,” followed by “L’ami Fritz” (thesource of Mascagni’s opera of the same name).All these, appearing under the signature ofErckmann-Chatrian, were supposed to be theproductions of a single writer until 1863, whenthe collaboration was announced. It is saidthat their first stories were rejected by all thenewspapers of Paris. This combined authorshiphas produced a style noted for its familiar,picturesque simplicity, its candor and heartygood-fellowship, and its democratic feeling.They have been accused of warring againstwar and thus weakening patriotism, but it isonly against those wars raised by despotsin endeavoring to choke the development ofpolitical liberty.

[Pg 1288]

BY ERCKMANN-CHATRIAN

Translated by Ralph Browning Fiske.
Copyright, 1897, by The Current LiteraturePublishing Company.

I

On the day before Christmas of the year 1832,my friend Wilfred, with his double-bassslung over his back, and I, with my violinunder my arm, started to walk from the Black Forestto Heidelberg. It was unusually snowy weather; asfar as we could see across the great, deserted plain,there was no trace of road nor path. The wind keptup its harsh aria with monotonous persistency, andWilfred, with his flattened wallet at his belt, and thevizor of his cap drawn over his eyes, moved on beforeme, straddling the drifts with his long, heronlegs, and whistling a gay tune to keep up his spirits.Now and then, he would turn around with a waggishsmile, and cry: “Comrade, let’s have the waltz from‘Robin,’ I feel like dancing.” A burst of laughter followedthese words, and then the good fellow wouldresume his march courageously. I followed on aswell as I could, up to my knees in snow, and I felta sense of melancholy take possession of me.

The spires of Heidelberg began to appear on theextreme horizon, and we hoped to reach there beforenightfall. It was then about five o’clock in the afternoon,and great flakes of snow were whirling through[Pg 1290]the gray atmosphere. Suddenly we heard the soundof a horse approaching from behind us. When therider was within twenty yards of us, he moderated hisspeed, studying us meanwhile with a sidelong glance.We returned his gaze.

Picture to yourself a large man, with reddish hairand beard, in a three-cornered hat and loose fox-skinpelisse; his arms buried to the elbows in fur gloves.He carried a handsome valise behind him, resting onthe haunches of his powerful stallion. He was evidentlysome alderman or burgomaster or personage oflike importance.

“Ho! Ho! my good fellows!” he cried; “you areon your way to Heidelberg to perform, I see.” Wilfredsurveyed the traveler from the corner of his eye,and replied briefly: “Is that of any interest to you,sir?” “Yes, for in that case I wish to give you a bitof advice.” “Advice?” “Precisely; if you wish it.”Wilfred started on without replying. I noticed thatthe traveler’s appearance was like that of an enormouscat; his ears wide apart, his eyelids half closed, with abristling mustache, and a fatherly, almost caressingmanner. “My friend,” he continued, addressing himselfto me, “frankly, you will do well to retrace yoursteps.” “Why so, sir?” “The great Maestro Pimentihas just now announced a concert to take place atHeidelberg on Christmas day. The entire city will bethere, and you will not earn a kreutzer.” At this point,Wilfred turned around ill-humoredly: “We care nota sou for your Maestro nor all the Pimentis in Christendom,”he said; “look at this young fellow here,[Pg 1291]without even the sign of a beard on his chin! He hasnever yet played outside of the ale-houses of the BlackForest, for the woodcutters and charcoal-women todance; and yet this boy, with his long yellow curlsand big blue eyes, defies all your Italian impostors.His left hand is possessed of inimitable melody,grace, and suppleness, and his right of a power todraw the bow, that the Almighty rarely accords usmortals.”

“Oh! ho! Indeed!” returned the other. “It is justas I tell you,” Wilfred replied, and he resumed hispace, blowing on his fingers that were red with thecold. I saw that he was ridiculing the horseman, whocontinued to follow us at an easy trot. We continuedthus for a full half mile in silence. Suddenly thestranger said to us abruptly: “Whatever skill you maypossess, go back to the Black Forest; we have vagabondsenough in Heidelberg without you to increasethe number. I give you good advice, particularlyunder the existing circ*mstances; you will do wellto profit by it.”

Wilfred, now thoroughly out of patience, was aboutto reply, but the traveler, urging his horse into a gallop,had already crossed the broad Avenue d’Electeur.An immense flock of crows flew up from the plain andseemed to be following him, filling the heavens withtheir cawing. We reached Heidelberg at about seveno’clock, and we did indeed see Pimenti’s magnificentposters on all the walls of the city, which read: “GrandConcert Solo.”

That same evening in visiting the various inns, we[Pg 1292]met many old comrades from the Black Forest, whoengaged us to play in their troupe. There was oldBremer, the ’cellist, his two sons, Ludwig and Karl,both good second violins; Heinrich Siebel, the clarionetplayer, and Bertha with her harp; Wilfred withhis double-bass and I with my violin made up thenumber. We agreed to travel together after theChristmas concert and divide the proceeds among us.Wilfred had already hired a room for us both on thesixth floor of the Pied de Mouton Tavern, which stoodhalf-way down the Holdergrasse, and for it he was topay four kreutzers a day. Properly speaking, it wasnothing but a garret, but fortunately there was a stovein it, and we lighted a fire to dry ourselves.

As we were comfortably seated, toasting chestnutsover the fire and enjoying a jug of wine, little Annette,the housemaid, appeared in a black calico dress andvelvet turban, with rosy cheeks and lips like a clusterof cherries. She came running up the stairs, gave ahasty knock and threw herself joyfully into my arms.I had known the pretty little girl for a long time; wewere of the same village, and if truth must be told,her sparkling eyes and frolicsome ways had quite wonmy heart. “I came up to have a little talk with you,”she said, dropping into a chair. “I saw you come upa moment ago and here I am.”

She began to chatter away, asking for this one orthat one of the village and hardly giving me time toreply. Every now and then she would pause and lookat me with the greatest tenderness. We might havecontinued thus until the next morning had not Dame[Pg 1293]Grédel Dick begun to call from the foot of the stairs:“Annette! Annette! Are you never coming?” “Rightaway, ma’am!” answered the poor child reluctantly.She tapped me lightly on the cheek and ran towardthe door; but just as she was crossing the threshold,she suddenly stopped. “By the way,” she cried, “Iwas forgetting to tell you; but perhaps you have heardabout it?” “About what?” “The death of our precentor,Zahn.” “But how does that affect us?” “Tobe sure; only see that your passport is all right. Tomorrowmorning at eight o’clock they will come toexamine it. Everybody is being arrested in the lastfortnight. The precentor was assassinated last nightin the library of Saint Christopher’s Chapel, and onlya week ago, old Ulmet Elias, the sacrificer, was similarlymurdered in the Rue des Juifs. Some days beforethat Christina Hâas, the old midwife, was alsokilled, as well as the agate dealer Seligmann of theRue Durlach. So look out for yourself, dear Kasper,and see that your passport is all right.”

While she was speaking, Dame Grédel’s voice cameagain from below: “Annette! will you come here?The good-for-nothing child, leaving me to do all thework!”

And the sound of men’s voices calling for wine,beer, ham, or sausages mingled with her own.Further delay was out of the question. Annette hasteneddown the stairs, crying as she went: “Goodness,ma’am! what has happened? One would think thatthe house were afire!” Wilfred crossed the room andclosed the door behind her; then returning to his[Pg 1294]chair, we looked at each other, not without a feelingof apprehension.

“That is singular news,” he said; “your passport isall right, I suppose?” “Certainly.” And I producedmy papers. “Good! Mine is too, for I had it madeout just before leaving. But nevertheless, these murdersdo not augur us any good. I am afraid we shallnot be able to do much business here; many of thefamilies will be in mourning; and then, too, the botherand pettifogging of the authorities.” “Pshaw! youtake too gloomy a view of it,” I replied.

We continued to discuss these singular happeningsuntil after midnight. The glow from our little stovelighted up the angle of the roof, the square windowwith its three cracked panes, the straw strewn aboutthe floor, the blackened beams propped against eachother, and the little firwood table that cast its uncertainshadow upon the worm-eaten ceiling. From timeto time, a mouse, enticed by the warmth, would dartlike an arrow along the wall. The wind howled in thechimney and whirled the snow about the gutters. Iwas dreaming of Annette; the silence was complete.Suddenly Wilfred exclaimed, throwing off his jacket:“It is time for sleep. Put another stick on the fireand we will go to bed!” “We can’t do better thanthat,” I replied. So saying, I drew off my boots, anda moment later we were stretched out on the strawwith the coverlid tucked under our chins and a logunder our heads for a pillow. Wilfred lost no timein getting to sleep. The light from the stove flickeredand trembled; the wind redoubled its force outside,[Pg 1295]and as I lay thus with a sense of perfect contentment,I, too, dozed off. At about two o’clock in the morningI was awakened by a strange noise. I thought atfirst that it was a cat running along the gutter, but,putting my ear to the wall, my uncertainty was atonce dispelled; somebody was walking on the roof.I nudged Wilfred. “Sh!” he whispered, pressing myhand; he had heard it, too. The firelight was castingits last shadows on the decrepit walls. I was consideringwhether I would get up or not, when the littlewindow, held only by a bit of brick, slowly opened. Apale face with shining eyes, red hair, and quiveringcheeks appeared in the opening and gazed into theinterior of the chamber. Our fear was so great thatwe hadn’t strength left to cry out. At length the manglided through the sash and let himself down into theloft without a sound. The man, short and thick-set,the muscles of his face contracted like a tiger about tospring, was none other than the ingenuous person whohad volunteered his advice on the road to Heidelberg.But how different he seemed to us now! In spite ofthe bitter cold, he was in his shirt sleeves, dressedonly in a pair of breeches, woolen stockings, and silverbuckled shoes. A long, blood-stained knife glitteredin his hand.

Wilfred and I thought our last hour had surelycome. But he did not appear to see us in the obliqueshadow of the loft, notwithstanding that the firestarted up again in the cold draft from the openwindow. He squatted down on a chair and began toshiver in a strange manner. Suddenly he fixed his[Pg 1296]yellowish-green eyes upon me; his nostrils dilated andhe watched me for a full minute, while the blood frozein my veins. Then turning toward the stove, he gavea hoarse cough, like the purring of a cat, without movinga muscle of his face. He drew a large watch fromhis breeches pocket, made a gesture as if looking atthe time, and either inadvertently or purposely laidit on the table. This done, he rose as if undecided,looked doubtfully at the window, hesitated, and finallydisappeared through the door, leaving it wide openbehind him. I sprang up to turn the lock; already theman’s footsteps creaked on the staircase two floorsbelow. An irresistible curiosity asserted itself overmy fear, and hearing a window open, which lookedupon the court, I approached the sash of the littlewinding staircase on the same side of the house. Thecourtyard, from where I stood, lay at a dizzy depth,and a wall from fifty to sixty feet high divided it. Onthe right of the wall was the yard of a pork butcher;on the left, the inn yard of the Pied de Mouton. Thetop of this wall, which was overgrown with dampmosses and that sort of vegetation that thrives in darkplaces, extended in a straight line from the window,which the man had just opened, to the roof of a large,sombre-looking dwelling, built in the rear of the Bergstrasse.

I took all this in at a glance while the moon shonebetween the heavy, snow-laden clouds, and I shudderedas I saw the man flee along the wall, his headbent forward and the knife still in his hand, while thewind howled lugubriously around him. He reached[Pg 1297]the opposite roof and disappeared. I thought I mustbe dreaming. For some moments I stood there, open-mouthedwith wonder, my breast bare, and hair tossedabout, drenched by the sleet that fell from the roof.At length recovering from my bewilderment, I returnedto the loft and found Wilfred, who looked atme with a haggard expression and was mumbling aprayer. I hastened to bolt the door, dress myself, andreplenish the fire.

“Well,” said my comrade, sitting up. “Well,” Irejoined, “we have escaped this time, but if that fellowdidn’t see us, it was only because our time has notyet come.” “You are right!” he cried. “He is oneof the murderers Annette spoke of. Great Heavens!What a face! And what a knife!” And he fell backon the straw.

I emptied at a draft what wine still remained in thejug, and then, as the fire started up again, diffusinga grateful warmth through the chamber, and the lockappeared sufficiently strong, my courage began to revive.But the watch was still there and the man mightreturn for it. The thought filled us with horror.

“Well, what is our next move?” asked Wilfred.“The best thing we can do is to strike out at once forthe Black Forest.” “Why so?” “I have no furtherdesire to figure on the double-bass; you may do as youlike.” “Why should we leave? We have committedno crime.” “Speak low!” he replied, “that one word‘crime’ might hang us. We poor devils are made toserve as examples for others. They don’t bother theirheads much to find out whether we are guilty or not.[Pg 1298]If they should discover that watch here, it would beenough.” “Look here, Wilfred! It won’t do to loseyour head! A crime has undoubtedly been committedin this neighborhood, but what should honest men dounder the circ*mstances? Instead of running awayfrom Justice, they should try to aid it.” “How aidit?” “The simplest way would be to take this watchto the bailiff and tell him what has passed.” “Never!I wouldn’t even dare to touch it!” “Very well, I willtake it myself, but now let’s go back to bed and tryto get some more sleep if we can.” “I don’t care tosleep.” “Well, light your pipe, then, and we will talkwhile we wait for daylight. Let’s go downstairs,there may be some one there still.” “I would ratherstay here.” “All right.” And we sat down againbefore the fire.

As soon as dawn appeared, I took the watch fromthe table. It was a fine one with minute and secondhands. Wilfred seemed somewhat reassured. “Kasper,”he said, “on second thoughts, it seems more suitablefor me to go to the bailiff. You are too youngto take part in such matters. You would make a messof it when you tried to explain the affair.” “Just asyou like,” I replied. “Yes, it would look odd for aman of my years to send a mere child in my place.”“Very good; I understand.”

He took the watch, but I believe that only his pridedrove him to this resolution. He would have beenashamed to show less courage than I before his comrades.We went down from the loft in a thoughtfulmood. As we crossed the alleyway that comes out[Pg 1299]on the Rue Saint Christopher, we heard the clickingof glasses. I recognized the voice of old Bremer andhis sons, Ludwig and Karl. “By Jove,” said I, “itwouldn’t be a bad idea to take a glass before we start.”I pushed open the door of the tap-room as I spoke,and we found all our company gathered there, theirinstruments variously deposited about the room. Wewere received with shouts of satisfaction and placeswere quickly made for us at the table. “Ho! Goodmorning, comrades,” said Bremer; “more snow andwind. All the taverns are full of people, and everybottle that is opened means a florin in our pockets.”I saw little Annette looking as fresh and fair as a rose,and smiling fondly at me with her lips and eyes. Thissight reanimated me. It was I who got the daintiestmorsels, and whenever she approached to set a glassof wine at my elbow, she touched me caressingly onthe shoulder, and I thought, with a beating heart, ofthe days when we used to go chestnutting together.But in spite of this, the pale face of our strange visitorof the night before recurred to me from time to time,and made me tremble. I looked at Wilfred; he, too,seemed thoughtful.

Eight o’clock came and our party was about to startout, when the door was thrown open, and three bigfellows, with lead-colored complexions, their eyesshining like rats, and their hats awry, appeared onthe threshold, followed by several others of a like description.One of them, with a razor-back nose, andwith a heavy club bound to his wrist, stepped forward,crying: “Your passports, gentlemen!” Each one hastened[Pg 1300]to comply with the request. Unfortunately,Wilfred, who stood near the stove, was seized witha sudden trembling. The officer’s experienced eyedetected his agitation, and as he paused in his readingto give him a questioning look, my comrade conceivedthe unlucky idea of slipping the watch into his boot;but before it had reached its destination, the officialslapped his hand against the other’s hip, and saidjeeringly: “Something seems to trouble you here.”To everybody’s amazement, Wilfred was seized witha fainting spell and dropped upon a bench pale asdeath. Without further ceremony, Madoc, the Chiefof Police, pulled up his trousers’ leg and drew out thewatch with a burst of evil laughter. He had no soonerglanced at it, however, than he became sober, and,turning to his men, he cried in a terrible voice: “Letno one leave the room! We have caught the wholeband at last! Look! this is the watch of Dean DanielVan den Berg. Bring hither the handcuffs!” Thisorder chilled us to the marrow. A tumult followed,and I, believing that we were lost, slid under a benchnear the wall. As I was watching them chain thehands of poor old Bremer and his sons, Karl andLudwig, together with Heinrich and Wilfred, I feltAnnette’s little hand brush against my cheek and shedrew me gently toward her—slowly and quietly towardthe open cellar door. I was unnoticed in the generalconfusion; I slipped within; the door closed behindme. It was but the matter of a second. Scarcely hadI concealed myself, before I heard my poor comradesdepart; then all became silent.

[Pg 1301]

I will leave you to imagine the nature of my reflectionsduring an entire day, crouched down behinda wine cask with my legs gathered under me, and realizingthat if a dog should enter the cellar, if the landladyshould take the notion to come downstairs to filla pitcher, if the cask should run out before night andwere to be replaced; in short, if the slightest thingwent amiss, it would be all up with me. All thesethoughts and a thousand others passed through mymind, and I fancied that I already saw my comradesbeing led to execution. Little Annette, no less anxiousthan myself, closed the door prudently each timethat she came up from the cellar. At last, I heardthe old woman cry: “Leave the door open! Are youmad to lose half your time in shutting it?” Afterthat the door remained ajar, and from my nook inthe shadows I could see the tables gradually fillingwith new customers.

Stories, discussions, and exclamations concerningthe famous band of robbers reached my ears. “Oh!the rascals!” cried one; “thank Heaven they arecaught. What a scourge they have been to Heidelberg!No one dared risk himself in the streets afterten o’clock, and even business was beginning to suffer;but now things are changed and in a fortnight it willall be forgotten.”

“Those musicians of the Black Forest are a lot ofbandits!” chimed in another; “they make their wayinto the houses under pretext of playing, and meanwhilethey are examining the locks, bolts, chests, andwindows, and some fine morning we hear that such a[Pg 1302]one has had his throat cut in his bed; that his wife hasbeen murdered, his children strangled, and his houserifled from top to bottom. The wretches should bestrung up without mercy! Then we might have somepeace.” “The whole village will turn out to see themhanged,” said Mother Grédel, “and as for me, it willbe the happiest day of my life.” “Do you know, if ithadn’t been for Dean Daniel’s watch, no trace of themwould have been found. Last night the watch disappeared,and this morning the Dean notified the police.An hour later, Madoc bagged them all! Ha! Ha!Ha!” The entire roomful burst out laughing,and I trembled with shame, indignation, and fearin turn.

Meanwhile, the night drew on. Only a few loungersremained. The people of the inn, who had sat up thenight before, were anxious to get to bed. I heard thelandlady yawn and mutter: “Oh, dear! How longbefore we can get some sleep?” Most of the tipplerscomprehended the force of this remark and withdrew;only one remained, sitting half asleep before his glass.The watchman, going his rounds, woke him up andhe went off grumbling and staggering.

“At last!” I said to myself; “this is good luck;Mother Grédel has gone to bed and Annette will notbe slow in getting me out.” With this agreeable prospectin view, I had already stretched out my stiffenedlimbs, when Dame Grédel’s voice reached my ear:“Annette, go and lock up, and don’t forget to boltthe door! I am going down cellar.” It appeared thatthis was a wise custom of hers to assure herself that[Pg 1303]everything was right. “But, madame,” stammeredthe girl, “the cask isn’t empty. You needn’t botherto—” “Mind your own business,” interrupted themistress, whose candle was already lighting up thepassageway. I had barely time to squat down againbehind the cask, when the old woman, stooping beneaththe low, dingy ceiling, passed from one keg toanother, mumbling as she went: “Oh! the little wretch!How she lets the wine leak. I’ll teach her to close thespigots tighter; did ever any one see the like?” Thecandle threw great shadows against the damp wall.I huddled closer and closer. Suddenly, just as Ithought the visit happily ended, and was beginningto breathe easier again, I heard the old creature givea sigh so long and so full of woe that I knew somethingunusual was happening. I risked just the least glance,and I saw Dame Grédel Dick, her under jaw droppedand her eyes sticking out of her head, staring at thebottom of the barrel behind which I lay. She hadcaught sight of one of my feet underneath the joistthat served as a wedge to keep the cask in place. Sheevidently believed she had discovered the chief of therobbers concealed there for the purpose of stranglingher during the night. I formed a sudden resolution.“Madame, for God’s sake, have pity on me!” I cried:“I am—” Without looking at me, or listening to aword I said, she set up an ear-splitting shriek andstarted up the stairs as quickly as her great weightwould permit. Seized with inexpressible terror, Iclung to her skirt and went down on my knees. Thisonly made matters worse. “Help! seize the assassin![Pg 1304]Oh, my God! release me! Take my money! Oh!Oh!”

It was horrible. In vain did I cry: “Only look atme, my dear madame; I am not what you think me!”She was beside herself with fear; she raved andscreamed in such piercing tones that had we not beenunderground, the whole neighborhood would inevitablyhave been aroused. In this extremity, consulting onlymy rage, I overturned her, and gaining the door beforeher, I slammed it in her face, taking care to slipthe bolt. During the struggle the candle had beenextinguished and Dame Grédel was left in the dark.Her cries grew fainter and fainter. I stared at Annette,giddy, and with hardly strength enough left tostand. Her agitation equaled mine. We neither ofus seemed able to speak, and stood listening to theexpiring cries of the mistress, which soon ceased altogether.The poor woman had fainted.

“Oh! Kasper,” cried Annette, wringing her hands,“what is to be done? Fly! fly! You may have beenheard! Did you kill her?” “Kill her? I?” “I amso glad! But fly! I will open the door for you.”She unbarred it, and I fled into the street, withoutstopping even to thank her; but I was so terrified andthere was not a moment to lose. The night was inkyblack; not a star in the sky, and the street lamps unlighted.The weather was abominable; it was snowinghard and the wind howled dismally. Not untilI had run for a good half-hour did I stop to takebreath. You may imagine my horror when looking upI found myself directly opposite the Pied de Mouton[Pg 1305]Tavern. In my terror I had run around the square ahalf dozen times for aught I knew. My legs felt likelead and my knees tottered under me.

The inn, but a moment before deserted, swarmedlike a bee-hive, and lights danced about from windowto window. It was evidently filled with the police.And now, at my wits’ end, desperate, exhausted withcold and hunger, and not knowing where to find refuge,I resolved upon the strangest possible course.“By Jove,” I said to myself, “as well be hanged asleave my bones on the road to the Black Forest.” AndI walked into the tavern with the intention of givingmyself up to the officials. Besides the fellows withtheir co*cked hats tilted rakishly over their ears, andthe clubs fastened to their wrists, whom I had alreadyseen in the morning, and who were now running hereand there, and turning everything upside down, therewas the bailiff, Zimmer, standing before one of thetables, dressed in black, with a grave air and penetratingglance, and near him the secretary Roth, withhis red wig, imposing countenance, and large ears,flat as oyster shells. They paid no attention to myentrance, and this circ*mstance altered my resolutionat once. I sat down in a corner of the room behindthe big cast-iron stove, in company with two or threeof the neighbors, who had run hither to see what wasgoing on, and I ordered a pint of wine and a dish ofsauerkraut. Annette came near betraying me. “Goodness!”she cried, “is it possible!” But one exclamation,more or less, in such a babel of voices possessed butlittle significance. It passed unnoticed, and, while I[Pg 1306]ate with a ravenous appetite, I listened to the examinationto which Dame Grédel was subjected as shelay back in a large armchair, her hair falling downand her eyes bulged out with fright. “How olddid the man appear to be?” asked the bailiff. “Betweenforty and fifty, sir. He was an enormous manwith black side whiskers, or maybe brown, I don’texactly remember, with a long nose and green eyes.”“Did he have any birth-mark or scars?” “I don’t rememberany. He only had a big hammer and pistols.”“Very good! And what did he say to you?” “Heseized me by the throat, but fortunately I screamedso loud it frightened him, and I defended myself withmy finger-nails. When any one tries to murder you,you fight hard for your life, sir.” “Nothing is morenatural or legitimate, madame. Take this down, Roth!The coolness of this good woman is truly remarkable.”The rest of the deposition was in the same strain.They questioned Annette afterward, but she testifiedto having been so frightened that she could remembernothing.

“That will do,” said the bailiff; “if we need anythingfurther, we will return to-morrow morning.”Everybody withdrew, and I asked Dame Grédel fora room for the night. So great had been her fear thatshe had not the slightest recollection of having seenme before. “Annette,” said she, “Show the gentlemanto the little room on the third floor. I can not standon my legs. Oh! dear! what trials we have to bear inthis world.” She began to weep.

Annette, having lighted a candle, led me up to the[Pg 1307]little chamber, and when we found ourselves alone,she cried innocently: “Oh! Kasper, Kasper! Whowould have believed that you were one of the band!I can never console myself for having loved a robber!”“What! you, too, believe us guilty, Annette?”I exclaimed despairingly, dropping into a chair; “thatis the last straw on the camel’s back.” “No! no! youcan not be. You are too much of a gentleman, dearKasper! And you were so brave to come back.” Iexplained to her that I was perishing with cold andhunger, and that that was the only consideration whichled me to return.

We were left to ourselves for some time; then Annettedeparted, lest she should arouse Madame Grédel’ssuspicions. Left to myself, after having ascertainedthat the windows were not approached by any wall,and that the sashes were securely fastened, I thankedGod that I had thus far been brought safely throughthe perils which surrounded me, and then going tobed, I was soon fast asleep.

II

I got up at about eight o’clock the next morning.It was foggy and dark. As I drew aside the hangingsof the bed, I noticed that the snow was driftedon a level with the windows; the sashes were all white.I began to reflect upon the sad condition of my companions;they must have suffered with the cold, particularlyold Bremer and Bertha, and the idea filledme with sorrow. As I was reflecting thus, a strange[Pg 1308]noise arose outside. It drew near the inn, and Isprang anxiously to the window to see if some newdangers were threatening. They were bringing thefamous band of robbers to confront Dame GrédelDick, who was not yet sufficiently recovered from herfright to venture out of doors. My poor comradescame down the street between a double file of police,and followed by a crowd of street urchins, whoscreamed and yelled like savages. It seems to me thatI can still see that terrible scene: poor Bremer chainedbetween his sons, Ludwig and Karl, Wilfred behindthem, and Bertha bringing up the rear and cryingpiteously: “In the name of Heaven, my masters, havepity on a poor, innocent harpist! I kill? I steal? OGod! can it be?” She wrung her hands distractedly.The others proceeded with bowed heads, their hairfalling over their faces.

The crowd swarmed into the dark alleyway of theinn. The guards drove back the rabble, and the doorwas closed and barred. The eager crowd remainedoutside, standing ankle-deep in slush, with their nosesflattened against the panes. A profound silence settledupon the house. Having by this time got intomy clothes, I opened the door part way to listen, andsee if it would be possible to escape from my unpleasantquarters. I heard the sound of voices and of peoplemoving about on the lower floors, which convincedme that the passages were strongly guarded. My dooropened on the landing, directly opposite the windowthrough which the man had fled two nights before.I did not pay any attention to this circ*mstance at[Pg 1309]first, but as I stood there I suddenly noticed that thewindow was open, and that there was no snow on thesill; approaching it, I saw fresh tracks along the wall.I shuddered. The man must have returned last night;perhaps visited the inn every night. It was a revelationto me, and at once the mystery began to clear up.

“Oh! if it were only true,” I said to myself, “thatfortune had placed the murderer’s fate in my hands,my unhappy fellows would be saved!” And I followedwith my eyes the footprints, which led with surprisingdistinctness to the opposite roof. At this moment somewords fell on my ear. The door of the dining hallhad just been opened to let in the fresh air, and Iheard the following conversation: “Do you recall havingtaken part in the murder of Ulmet Elias on thetwentieth of this month?” Some unintelligible wordsfollowed, “Close the door, Madoc!” said the bailiff;“the woman is ill.” I heard no more. As I stood withmy head resting against the balusters, a sudden resolutionseized me. “I can save my comrades!” I exclaimed;“God has pointed out to me the means, andif I fail to do my duty, their blood will be upon myhead. My self-respect and peace of mind will be foreverlost, and I shall consider myself the most cowardlyof wretches.” It took me some time, however,to summon up resolution enough. Then I went downstairsand entered the dining-room.

“Did you ever see this watch before?” the bailiffwas saying to Dame Grédel. “Do your best to remember!”Without waiting for her answer, I steppedforward and replied firmly: “That watch, bailiff? I[Pg 1310]have seen it before in the hands of the murderer himself.I recognize it perfectly, and if you will onlylisten to me, I will agree to deliver the man into yourhands this very night.” Perfect stillness followed mybold declaration. The officials stared at each other,dumfounded; my comrades seemed to cheer up a bit.“I am the companion of these unfortunate people,”I continued, “and I say it without shame, for everyone of them is honest, even if he is poor, and thereis not one among them capable of committing thecrimes imputed to him.”

Again silence followed. Dame Bertha began toweep quietly. At last the bailiff aroused himself.Looking at me sharply, he said: “Where do you pretendto deliver the assassin into our hands?” “Righthere in this very house! And to convince you of it,I only ask for a moment’s private conversation.”“Let us hear what you have to say,” he replied, rising.He motioned Madoc to follow us; the others remained.We left the room. I went hastily up the stairs, withthe others at my heels. Pausing at the window onthe third floor, I showed them the man’s footprintsin the snow. “Those are the murderer’s tracks!” Isaid; “he visits this house every night. Yesterday hecame at two in the morning; last night he returned,and he will undoubtedly be back again this evening.”

The bailiff and Madoc examined the footprints withouta word. “How do you know that these are themurderer’s tracks?” asked the chief of police, doubtfully.Thereupon I told him of the man’s appearancein our loft. I pointed out to them the little window[Pg 1311]above us through which I had watched him as he fledin the moonlight, and which Wilfred had not seen,as he remained in bed. I admitted that it was merechance that had led me to the discovery of the tracksmade the night before.

“It is strange!” muttered the bailiff; “this greatlymodifies the position of the accused. But how do youexplain the presence of the robber in the cellar?”“That robber was myself.” I now related brieflyeverything that had taken place from the time of mycomrades’ arrest until the moment of my flight fromthe inn. “That will do,” said the bailiff; and, turningtoward the chief of police, he added: “I must admit,Madoc, that the depositions of these musicians neverseemed to me very conclusive of their guilt; moreover,their passports established an alibi difficult to controvert.Nevertheless, young man,” turning to me, “inspite of the plausibility of the proofs you have givenus, you must remain in our power until they are verified.Keep him in sight, Madoc, and take your measuresaccordingly.” The bailiff descended the stairsthoughtfully, and, refolding his papers, he said, withoutcontinuing the examination: “Let the accused betaken back to the prison!” And with a scornful glanceat the landlady, he departed, followed by the secretary.Madoc alone remained with two officials.

“Madame,” he said to Dame Grédel, “maintain thestrictest secrecy about what has happened, and givethis brave young man the same room he occupied nightbefore last.” Madoc’s look and emphasis admitted ofno reply. Dame Grédel swore she would do whatever[Pg 1312]was required of her if she could only be rid of therobbers! Madoc replied: “We shall stay here all dayand to-night to protect you. Go about your work inpeace, and begin by giving us some breakfast. Mygood fellow, you will give us the pleasure of diningwith us?” My situation did not permit me to decline.I accepted accordingly, and we soon found ourselvesseated before a leg of ham and a jug of Rhine wine.Other people arrived from time to time, and endeavoredto elicit the confidence of Dame Grédel andAnnette, but they maintained a discreet silence, forwhich they deserve no little credit. We spent the afternoonsmoking our pipes and emptying our mugs; noone paid any attention to us.

The chief of police, in spite of his sallow face,piercing glance, pale lips, and sharp nose, was excellentcompany after a bottle or two; he told us someexcellent stories, and at every word of his the othertwo burst out laughing. I remained gloomy and silent.“Come, my dear young fellow!” he said to me with asmile, “forget for a little the death of your respectablegrandmother. Take a drop, and put your troublesomethoughts to flight.”

Others joined in the conversation, and the timepassed in the midst of tobacco smoke, the clinking ofglasses, and the ringing of mugs. But at nine o’clock,after the watchman’s visit, the expression of thingschanged. Madoc rose and said: “Well, my friends,let us proceed to business. Fasten the doors and shuttersquietly! You, ladies, may go to bed!” His twotattered followers looked more like robbers themselves[Pg 1313]than like props of law and order. Each drew a clubwith a knob of lead attached to one end, from histrousers’ leg, and Madoc tapped his breast pocket tomake sure that his pistol was there. This done, hebid me lead them to the loft. We climbed the stairs.Having reached the little room, where thoughtful littleAnnette had taken care to light a fire, Madoc, cursingbetween his teeth, hastened to throw water on the coals;then motioning to the pile of straw, he said to me:“You may go to sleep if you like.”

He sat down, together with his two acolytes, at theend of the room close to the wall, and they put outthe light. I lay down on the straw, breathing a prayerto the Almighty to send hither the assassin. Aftermidnight the silence became so profound that youwould never have suspected three men were there withwide-open eyes, on the alert for the slightest sound.The hours wore slowly away. I could not sleep. Athousand terrible ideas teemed in my brain. Oneo’clock—two o’clock—three o’clock struck, and nothingappeared. At three o’clock one of the officialsstirred slightly. I thought the man had come at last.But again all was still. I began to think that Madocwould take me for an impostor, as he must be onlytoo ready to do, and that in the morning things wouldfare badly with me; thus, instead of helping my companions,I should only be fettered with them.

The time seemed to me to pass very rapidly afterthree o’clock. I wished the night might last forever,that the only ray of hope might not be gone. I wasstarting to go over all these thoughts for the fiftieth[Pg 1314]time, when, suddenly, without my having heard asound, the window opened and two eyes glistened inthe opening. Nothing stirred in the loft. “The othersare asleep,” I thought. The head remained in theopening, listening. The wretch seemed to suspectsomething. My heart galloped and the blood coursedthrough my veins. I dared not even breathe. A fewmoments passed thus. Then, suddenly, the man seemedto make up his mind. He let himself down into theloft with the same caution as on the preceding night.On the instant a terrible cry, short, piercing, blood-curdling,resounded through the house. “We’ve gothim!”

The whole house shook from cellar to attic; cries,struggles, and hoarse shouts, coupled with mutteredoaths, filled the loft. The man roared like a wildbeast, and his opponents breathed painfully as theybattled with his terrible strength. Then there was acrash that made the flooring creak, and I heard nothingmore but a gritting of teeth and a rattle of chains.“A light here!” cried the formidable Madoc. And asthe sulphur burned, illuminating the place with itsbluish light, I vaguely distinguished the forms of thethree officials kneeling above the prostrate man. Oneof them was holding him by the throat, another hadsunk his knees into his chest, and Madoc encircled hiswrists with handcuffs hard enough to crush them. Theman, in his shirt sleeves as before, seemed inert, savethat one of his powerful legs, naked from the kneeto the ankle, raised up from time to time and struckthe floor with a convulsive movement. His eyes were[Pg 1315]literally starting from his head, and his lips were coveredwith a bloody foam. Scarcely had I lighted thetaper when the officials exclaimed, thunderstruck:“Our Dean!” All three got up and stood staring ateach other, white with astonishment. The bloodshoteyes of the murderer turned on Madoc. He tried tospeak, and after a moment I heard him murmur: “Whata terrible dream! My God, what a terrible dream!”Then he sighed and became motionless.

I approached to take a look at him. It was indeedthe man who had given us advice on the road toHeidelberg. Perhaps he had had a presentiment thatwe would be the means of his destruction, for peopledo sometimes have these terrible forebodings. As hedid not stir, and a tiny stream of blood flowed on thedusty floor, Madoc, rousing himself from his stupor,bent over him and tore away his shirt; we then sawthat he had stabbed himself to the heart with his greatknife. “Ho! ho!” cried Madoc, with a sinister smile,“our Dean has cheated the gallows. You others stayhere while I go and notify the bailiff.” He picked uphis hat, that had fallen off during the mêlée, and leftwithout another word. I remained opposite the corpse,with the two others.

The news spread like wildfire. It was a sensationfor the neighborhood. Dean Daniel Van den Bergenjoyed a fortune and a reputation so well establishedthat many people refused to believe in the abominableinstincts which dominated him. The matter was discussedfrom every conceivable point of view. Someheld that he was a somnambulist and irresponsible for[Pg 1316]his acts; others that he was a murderer through loveof blood, having no other possible motive for committingthese crimes. Perhaps both were right, for it isan undeniable fact that moral being, will, soul, whatevername you choose to call it by, is wanting in thesomnambulist. The animal nature left to itself naturallyyields to the dictates of its pacific or sanguinaryinstincts. Be that as it may, my comrades were atonce restored to liberty. Little Annette was quotedfor a long time after as a model of devotion. She waseven sought in marriage by the son of the burgomasterTrungott, a romantic youth, who will one daydisgrace his family.

As for me, I lost no time in returning to the BlackForest, where, since that time I have officiated asleader of the orchestra at the Sabre Vert Tavern, onthe road to Tubingen. If you should ever happen topass that way, and my story has interested you, comein and see me. We will drink a bottle or two together,and I will relate to you certain details that will makeyour hair stand on end.

BY ALPHONSE DAUDET

Alphonse Daudet, best known among English-speakingpeople perhaps as author of thehumorous “Tartarin de Tarascon,” written in1872, was born at Nîmes, 1840, and died atParis, 1897. For such novels as “Sapho,” “Sidonie,”“Numa Roumestan,” etc., he has beencalled a stern censor, unsparing in his expositionof, and satire on, the weakness and hypocrisyof human nature. But that he has awarm, sympathetic side to his nature, too, isplain enough in the following story, which, onthe whole, is an almost perfect example ofDaudet’s art. Jules Claretie said of him thathe was a “winged realist,” with a lightness anddepth of touch that yet never forgot the realitiesof life. He was subjective, not objective.

[Pg 1318]

BY ALPHONSE DAUDET

Translated by Mrs. Dallas Bache.
Copyright, 1898, by The Current LiteraturePublishing Company.

I know not if it be from lack of habit, but I cannever enter the Palais de Justice without anuneasiness, an inexplicable heart pang. Thatgrating, those great courts, that stone staircase so vastthat every one mounts it in isolation, enveloped in hisindividual torment. The antiquity of the structures,the melancholy clock, the height of the windows, andalso the mist of the quay, that moisture that clings towalls that skirt the water, all give you a foretaste ofthe neighboring prison. In the halls the impressionis the same, or more vivid still, because of the peculiarcompany which peoples them, because of those longblack robes which make the solemn gestures, because ofthose who accuse, and the unintelligible records, theeternal records spread out everywhere on the tables,carried under the arms in enormous bundles, overflowing—

There are great green doors, noiseless and mysterious,from whence escape—when they are ajar—gustsof voices severe or weeping, and visions of schoolbenches, platforms black with caps, and great crucifixesleaning forward. Muskets ring out on the flags.Sinister rumblings of carriages pass shaking thearches. All these noises blended together are like a[Pg 1320]respiration, the panting breath of a factory, the apparatusof justice at work. And hearing this terriblemachine at labor, one desires to shrink within himself,to dwindle for fear of being caught, even by a hair,in this formidable gearing which one knows to be socomplicated, tenacious, destructive—

I was thinking of this the other morning, in goingto see an examining magistrate before whom I had,in behalf of a poor devil, to recommend a stay of proceedings.The hall of witnesses, where I was waiting,was full of people, sheriff’s officers, clerks engrossingbehind a glass partition, witnesses whispering to eachother in advance of their depositions, women of thepeople, impressive and garrulous who were telling theofficers their entire lives in order to arrive at the affairthat had brought them there. Near me, an opendoor lit the sombre lobby of the examining magistrate,a lobby which leads everywhere, even to the scaffold,and from which the prisoners issue as accused. Someof these unfortunates, brought there under a strongescort by way of the staircase of la Conciergerie, layabout on the benches awaiting their turn to be interrogated,and it is in this ante-chamber of the convictprison that I overheard a lovers’ dialogue, an idyl ofthe faubourg, as impassioned as “l’Oarystis,” but moreheartbreaking—Yes, in the midst of this shadow,where so many criminals have left something of theirshuddering, of their hopes, and of their rages, I sawtwo beings love, and smile; and however lowly wasthis love, however faded was this smile, the old lobbymust have been as astonished by it as would a miry[Pg 1321]and black street of Paris, if penetrated by the cooingof a turtle-dove.

In a listless attitude, almost unconscious, a younggirl was seated at the end of a bench, quiet as a workingwoman who waits the price of her day’s labor.She wore the calico bonnet, and the sad costume ofSaint-Lazare with an air of repose and of well-being,as though the prison régime were the best thing shehad found in all her life. The guard, who sat besideher, seemed to find her much to his taste, and theylaughed together softly. At the other end of thelobby, wholly in the shadow, was seated, handcuffs onwrists, the Desgrieux of this Manon. She had notseen him at first; but as soon as her eyes became accustomedto the darkness, she perceived him and trembled:“Why, that’s Pignou—hé! Pignou!”—

The guard silenced her. The prisoners are expresslyforbidden to talk to each other.

“Oh! I beg of you, only one word!” she said, leaningfar forward toward the remotest part of thelobby.

But the soldier remained inflexible. “No—no—itcan’t be done—only if you have some message to givehim, tell it to me, I will repeat it to him.”

Then a dialogue was entered into between this girland her Pignou, with the guard as interpreter.

Much moved, without heeding those about her, shebegan:

“Tell him I have never loved any one but him; thatI will never love another in all my life.”

[Pg 1322]

The guard made a number of steps in the lobby,and redoubling his gravity as though to take from theproceeding all that was too kindly, he repeated: “Shesays she has never loved but you, and that she’ll neverlove another.”

I heard a grumbling, a confused stammeringwhich must have been the response of Pignou, thenthe guard went back with measured step towardthe bench.

“What did he say?” demanded the child all anxious,and as though waiting were too long: “Well, tell mewhat he said now?”

“He said he was very miserable!”—

Then, carried away by her emotion and the customof the noisy and communicative streets, she cried outloud:

“Don’t be weary, m’ami—the good days will comeagain!”

And in this voice, still young, there was somethingpiteous, almost maternal. Plainly this was the womanof the people with her courage under affliction andher dog-like devotion.

From the depths of the lobby, a voice replied, thevoice of Pignou, wine-soaked, torn, burned withalcohol:

“Va donc! the good days—I’ll have them at theend of my five years.”

He knew his case well, that one!—

The guards cried: “Chut!—Keep quiet!”—Buttoo late.

[Pg 1323]

A door had opened, and the examining magistratehimself appeared on the sill.

Skull-cap of velvet, grizzled whiskers, mouth thinand evil, the eye scrutinizing, distrustful, but notprofound, it was just the type of an examining magistrate,one of those men who thinks he has a criminalbefore him always, like those doctors of the insanewho see maniacs everywhere. That one in particularhad a certain way of looking at you, so annoying, andso insulting, that you felt guilty without having doneanything. With one glance of the eye he terrified allthe lobby: “What does all this noise mean?—Try todo your duty a little better,” he said, addressing theguards. Then he closed his door with a sharp click.

The municipal guard taken to task, red, mortified,looked around a moment for some one upon whom tolay the blame. But the little girl said nothing more,Pignou sat quiet on his bench—All at once he perceivedme, and as I was at the door of the hall, almostin the lobby, he took me by the arm and jerked mearound brutally.

“What are you doing there, you?”

[Pg 1324]

BY ARSÈNE ARNAUD CLARETIE

[Pg 1326]

BY JULES CLARETIE

Translated by Mary Stuart Symonds.
Copyright, 1891, by The Current LiteraturePublishing Company.

The child was lying stretched out in his little,white bed, and his eyes, grown large throughfever, looked straight before him, alwayswith the strange fixity of the sick who already perceivewhat the living do not see.

The mother at the foot of the bed, torn by sufferingand wringing her hands to keep herself from crying,anxiously followed the progress of the disease on thepoor, emaciated face of the little being. The father,an honest workman, kept back the tears which burnedhis eyelids.

The day broke clear and mild, a beautiful morningin June, and lighted up the narrow room in the streetof the Abessess where little François, the child ofJacques and Madeleine Legrand, lay dying. He wasseven years old and was very fair, very rosy, and solively. Not three weeks ago he was gay as a sparrow;but a fever had seized him and they had brought himhome one evening from the public school with hishead heavy and his hands very hot. From that timehe had been here in this bed and sometimes in his deliriumwhen he looked at his little well-blackenedshoes, which his mother had carefully placed in acorner on a board, he said:

[Pg 1328]

“You can throw them away now, little François’shoes! Little François will not put them on any more!Little François will not go to school any more—never,never!”

Then the father cried out and said: “Wilt thou bestill!” And the mother, very pale, buried her blondhead in his pillow so that little François could nothear her weep.

This night the child had not been delirious; but forthe two days past the doctor had been uneasy over anodd sort of prostration which resembled abandon, itwas as if at seven years the sick one already felt theweariness of life. He was tired, silent, sad, andtossed his little head about on the bolster. He had nolonger a smile on his poor, thin lips, and with haggardeyes he sought, seeing they knew not what, somethingthere beyond, very far off—

In Heaven! Perhaps! thought Madeleine, trembling.

When they wished him to take some medicine, somesirup, or a little soup, he refused. He refused everything.

“Dost thou wish anything, François?”

“No, I wish nothing!”

“We must draw him out of this,” the doctor said.“This torpor frightens me!—you are the father andthe mother, you know your child well—Seek forsomething to reanimate this little body, recall to earththis spirit which runs after the clouds!”

Then he went away.

“Seek!”

[Pg 1329]

Yes, without doubt they knew him well, their François,these worthy people! They knew how it amusedhim, the little one, to plunder the hedges on Sundayand to come back to Paris on his father’s shouldersladen with hawthorne—Jacques Legrand had boughtsome images, some gilded soldiers, and some Chineseshadows for François; he cut them out, put them onthe child’s bed and made them dance before the bewilderedeyes of the little one, and with a desire toweep himself he tried to make him laugh.

“Dost thou see, it is the broken bridge—Tiretire tire!—And that is a general!—Thou rememberestwe saw one, a general, once, in the Bois de Boulogne?—Ifthou takest thy medicine well I will buythee a real one with a cloth tunic and gold epaulets—Dostthou wish for him, the general, say?”

“No,” replied the child, with the dry voice whichfever gives.

“Dost thou wish a pistol, some marbles—a crossbow?”

“No,” repeated the little voice, clearly and almostcruelly.

And to all that they said to him, to all the jumping-jacks,to all the balloons that they promised him, thelittle voice—while the parents looked at each other indespair—responded:

“No.”—“No.”—“No!”

“But what dost thou wish, my François?” askedthe mother. “Let us see, there is certainly somethingthou wouldst like to have—Tell it, tell it to me! tome!—thy mother!” And she laid her cheek on the[Pg 1330]pillow of the sick boy and whispered this softly in hisear as if it were a secret. Then the child, with an oddaccent, straightening himself up in his bed and stretchingout his hand eagerly toward some invisible thing,replied suddenly in an ardent tone, at the same timesupplicating and imperative:

“I want Boum-Boum!”

Boum-Boum.

Poor Madeleine threw a frightened look toward herhusband. What did the little one say? Was it thedelirium, the frightful delirium, which had come backagain?

Boum-Boum!

She did not know what that meant, and she wasafraid of these singular words which the child repeatedwith a sickly persistence as if, not having dareduntil now to formulate his dream, he grasped thepresent time with invincible obstinacy:

“Yes, Boum-Boum! Boum-Boum! I want Boum-Boum!”

The mother had seized Jacques’s hand and spokevery low, as if demented.

“What does that mean, Jacques? He is lost!”

But the father had on his rough, working man’sface a smile almost happy, but astonished too, thesmile of a condemned man who foresees a possibilityof liberty.

Boum-Boum! He remembered well the morning ofEaster Monday when he had taken François to thecircus. He had still in his ears the child’s outburstsof joy, the happy laugh of the amused boy, when the[Pg 1331]clown, the beautiful clown, all spangled with gold andwith a great gilded butterfly sparkling, many-colored,on the back of his black costume, skipped across thetrack, gave the trip to a rider or held himself motionlessand stiff on the sand, his head down and his feetin the air. Or again he tossed up to the chandeliersome soft, felt hats which he caught adroitly on hishead, where they formed, one by one, a pyramid; andat each jest, like a refrain brightening up his intelligentand droll face, he uttered the same cry, repeatedthe same word, accompanied now and then by a burstfrom the orchestra: Boum-Boum!

Boum-Boum! and each time that it rang out,Boum-Boum, the audience burst out into hurrahs andthe little one joined in with his hearty, little laugh.Boum-Boum! It was this Boum-Boum, it was theclown of the circus, it was this favorite of a largepart of the city that little François wished to see andto have and whom he could not have and could notsee since he was lying here without strength in hiswhite bed.

In the evening Jacques Legrand brought the childa jointed clown, all stitched with spangles, which hehad bought in a passageway and which was very expensive.It was the price of four of his workingdays! But he would have given twenty, thirty, hewould have given the price of a year’s labor to bringback a smile to the pale lips of the sick child.

The child looked at the plaything a moment as itglistened on the white cover of the bed, then said,sadly:

[Pg 1332]

“It is not Boum-Boum!—I want to see Boum-Boum!”

Ah! if Jacques could have wrapped him up in hisblankets, could have carried him to the circus, couldhave shown him the clown dancing under the lightedchandelier and have said to him, Look! He did better,Jacques, he went to the circus, demanded the addressof the clown, and timidly, his legs shaking with fear,he climbed, one by one, the steps which led to theapartment of the artist, at Montmartre. It was verybold this that Jacques was going to do! But after allthe comedians go to sing and recite their monologuesin drawing-rooms, at the houses of the great lords.Perhaps the clown—oh! if he only would—would consentto come and say good-day to François. No matter,how would they receive him, Jacques Legrand,here at Boum-Boum’s house?

He was no longer Boum-Boum! He was MonsieurMoreno, and, in the artistic dwelling, the books, theengravings, the elegance was like a choice decorationaround the charming man who received Jacques inhis office like that of a doctor.

Jacques looked, but did not recognize the clown,and turned and twisted his felt hat between hisfingers. The other waited. Then the father excusedhimself. “It was astonishing what he came thereto ask, it could not be—pardon, excuse—But inshort, it was concerning the little one—A nicelittle one, monsieur. And so intelligent! Alwaysthe first at school, except in arithmetic, whichhe did not understand—A dreamer, this little one,[Pg 1333]do you see! Yes, a dreamer. And the proof—wait—theproof—”

Jacques now hesitated, stammered; but he gatheredup his courage and said bruskly:

“The proof is that he wishes to see you, that hethinks only of you, and that you are there beforehim like a star which he would like to have, andthat he looks—”

When he had finished the father was deadly paleand he had great drops on his forehead. He darednot look at the clown who remained with hiseyes fixed on the workman. And what was hegoing to say, this Boum-Boum? Was he goingto dismiss him, take him for a fool and put himout the door?

“You live?” asked Boum-Boum.

“Oh! very near! Street of the Abessess!”

“Come!” said the other. “Your boy wants to seeBoum-Boum? Ah, well, he is going to see Boum-Boum.”

When the door opened and showed the clown,Jacques Legrand cried out joyfully to his son:

“François, be happy, child! See, here he is, Boum-Boum!”

A look of great joy came over the child’s face. Heraised himself on his mother’s arm and turned hishead toward the two men who approached, questioning,for a moment, who it was by the side of hisfather; this gentleman in an overcoat, whose good,pleasant face he did not know. When they said to[Pg 1334]him: “It is Boum-Boum!” he slowly fell back on thepillow and remained there, his eyes fixed, his beautifullarge, blue eyes, which looked beyond the walls of thelittle room, and were always seeking the spangles andthe butterfly of Boum-Boum, like a lover who pursueshis dream.

“No,” replied the child with a voice which was nolonger dry, but full of despair, “no, it is not Boum-Boum.”

The clown, standing near the little bed, threw uponthe child an earnest look, very grave, but of an inexpressiblesweetness.

He shook his head, looked at the anxious father,the grief-stricken mother, and said, smiling, “He isright, this is not Boum-Boum!” and then he went out.

“I can not see him, I will never see Boum-Boum anymore!” repeated the child, whose little voice spoke tothe angels. “Boum-Boum is perhaps there, there,where little François will soon go.”

And suddenly—it was only a half-hour since theclown had disappeared—the door opened quickly, andin his black, spangled clothes, his yellow cap on hishead, the gilded butterfly on his breast and on hisback, with a smile as big as the mouth of a money-boxand a powdered face, Boum-Boum, the true Boum-Boum,the Boum-Boum of the circus, the Boum-Boumof the popular neighborhood, the Boum-Boumof little François—Boum-Boum appeared.

Lying on his little white bed the child clapped histhin, little hands, laughing, crying, happy, saved, witha joy of life in his eyes, and cried “Bravo!” with his[Pg 1335]seven-year gaiety, which all at once kindled up likea match:

“Boum-Boum! It is he, it is he, this time! Hereis Boum-Boum! Long live Boum-Boum! Good-day,Boum-Boum.”

And when the doctor came back, he found, seatedby little François’s bedside, a clown with a pale face,who made the little one laugh again and again, andwho said to the child while he was stirring a piece ofsugar into a cup of medicine:

“Thou knowest, if thou dost not drink, little François,Boum-Boum will not come back any more.”

So the child drank.

“Is it not good?”

“Very good!—thanks, Boum-Boum!”

“Doctor,” said the clown to the doctor, “do not bejealous—It seems to me that my grimaces will dohim as much good as your prescriptions!”

The father and the mother wept, but this timefrom joy.

Until little François was on his feet again a carriagestopped every day before the dwelling of aworkman in the street of the Abessess, at Montmartre,and a man got out with a gay powdered face,enveloped in an overcoat with the collar turned back,and underneath it one could see a clown’s costume.

“What do I owe you, monsieur?” said Jacques, atlast, to the master-clown when the child took his firstwalk, “for now I owe you something!”

The clown stretched out his two soft, Herculeanhands to the parents.

[Pg 1336]

“A shake of the hand!” said he.

Then placing two great kisses on the once morerosy cheeks of the child:

“And (laughing) permission to put on my visiting-card:

“Boum-Boum

Acrobatic Doctor and Physician in ordinary
to littleFrançois!”

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 73873 ***