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.. meta::
   :PG.Id: 45200
   :PG.Title: The Romance of a Poor Young Man
   :PG.Released: 2014-03-24
   :PG.Rights: Public Domain
   :PG.Producer: Al Haines
   :DC.Creator: Octave Feuillet
   :MARCREL.ill: Simont Guilhem
   :MARCREL.trl: Henry Harland
   :DC.Title: The Romance of a Poor Young Man
   :DC.Language: en
   :DC.Created: 1907
   :coverpage: images/img-cover.jpg

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THE ROMANCE OF A POOR YOUNG MAN
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   .. _`Portrait of Octave Feuillet`:

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      :alt: Octave Feuillet

      Octave Feuillet

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      ENGLISH EDITION
      A Library of French Masterpieces
      EDITED BY EDMUND GOSSE

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      THE ROMANCE OF A
      POOR YOUNG MAN

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      TRANSLATED FROM THE
      FRENCH OF

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      OCTAVE FEUILLET

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      WITH A CRITICAL INTRODUCTION BY
      HENRY HARLAND

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      ILLUSTRATED BY
      SIMONT GUILHEM

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      London: The London Book Co. MCMVII.  

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   OCTAVE FEUILLET'S NOVELS

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To be serious seriously is the way of mediocrity.
To be serious gaily is not such an easy matter.
To look on at the pantomime of things, and
to see, neatly separated, tragedy here, comedy
opposite—to miss the perpetual dissolution and
resolution of the one into and out of the other—is
inevitable when eyes are purblind.  *Diis aliter
visum*.  Olympus laughs because it perceives so
many capital reasons for pulling a long face; and
half the time pulls a long face simply to keep
from laughing.  I imagine it is in some measure
the Olympian manner of seeing which explains
the gay seriousness of the work of Octave Feuillet.

Octave Feuillet possesses to an altogether
remarkable degree the art of being serious not only
gaily, but charmingly.  This, to begin with, places
him and his stories in a particular atmosphere; and,
if we consider it, I think we shall recognise that
atmosphere as something very like the old familiar
atmosphere of the fairy-tale.  At any rate, there
is a delicate, a fanciful symbolism in Feuillet's
work, which breathes a fragrance unmistakably
reminiscent of the enchanted forest.  For an
instance, one may recall the chapter in *Un Mariage
dans le Monde* which relates the escapade of Lionel
and his betrothed on the day before their wedding.
A conventional mother, busy with preparations for
the ceremony, intrusts her daughter to the
chaperonage of an old aunt, who is, we might suppose,
exactly the person for the office.  But old aunts
are sometimes wonderfully made; sometimes they
keep the most unlooked-for surprises up those
capacious old-fashioned sleeves of theirs.  This one
was a fairy godmother in disguise, and, I suspect,
a pupil of the grimly-benevolent Blackstick.  With
good-humoured cynicism, she remarks that the
happiest period of even the happiest married life is the
day before it begins, and she advises her young
charges to make the most of it—chases them,
indeed, from her presence.  "Be off with you, my
children!  Come, be off with you at once!"  They
escape to the park, where they romp like a pair of
truant school-children.  That is all; but in
Feuillet's hands it becomes a fairy idyl.  It serves,
besides, the symbolic purpose of striking at the
outset the note of joyousness which he means to
repeat at the end, though the book is one that
threatens, almost to the last page, to end on a
note of despair.  For *Un Mariage dans le Monde*,
if far from being the most successful of Feuillet's
novels, exhibits, none the less, some of his cleverest
craftsmanship.  He hoodwinks us into the fear
that he meditates disaster, only pleasantly,
genially, at the right moment, to disappoint us with the
denouement we could have wished.

Feuillet's geniality, for that matter, runs through
all his books, and is one of the vital principles of
his talent.  It is never the flaccid geniality, the
amiability, of the undiscerning person; it is, rather,
the wise and alert geniality of the benign magician,
who is sometimes constrained to weave black
spells, because that is a part of the game, and in
the day's work, as it were, but who puts his heart
only into the weaving of spells that are rose-coloured.
This is perhaps why Feuillet's nice people
nearly always take flesh and live and breathe, his
horrid people hardly ever—another resemblance,
by-the-bye, between him and the writer of fairy-tales.
The nice women, with their high-bred lovers,
who step so daintily through his pages, to the
flutter of perfumed fans and the rustle of fine silks,
are as convincing as the palpitantly convincing
princesses of Hans Andersen and Grimm; but
Feuillet's villains and adventuresses, like the ogres
and the witches we never very heartily believe in,
are, for the most part, the merest stereotypes of
vice and wickedness, always artificial, too often a
trifle absurd.

In *Monsieur de Camors*, for example, we have an
elaborate study of a man who has determined to live
by the succinct principle, "Evil, be thou my good"—a
succinct enough principle, in all conscience,
though Feuillet requires a lengthy chapter and a
suicide to enunciate it.  The idea, if not original,
might, in some hands, lend itself to interesting
development; but not so in Feuillet's.  From the
threshold we feel that he is handicapped by his
theme.  It hangs round his neck like the mill-stone
of the adage; it checks his artistic impulses,
obscures his artistic instincts.  The quips and cranks,
the wreathed smiles, of Feuillet the humourist,
were out of place in a stupendous epopee of this
sort; so, for the sake of a psychological abstraction,
which hasn't even the poor merit of novelty,
we must look on ruefully, while our merryman,
divested of cap and bells, proses to the end of his
four sad hundred pages.  There are novelists who
must work with an abstraction, who can see their
characters and their incidents only as they illustrate
an abstraction; and these also achieve their effects
and earn their rewards.  But Feuillet belongs in a
different galley.  A handful of human nature, a
pleasing countryside, and Paris in the distance—these
are his materials.  The philosophy and the plot
may come as they will, and it really doesn't much
matter if they never come at all.  To give
Feuillet a subject is to attach a chain and ball to his
pen.  He is never so debonair, so sympathetic, so
satisfying a writer, as when he has something just
short of nothing to write about.

In *Monsieur de Camors* he has a tremendous
deal to write about; his subject weighs his pen to
the earth.  The result is a book that's a monstrosity,
and a protagonist who's a monster.  Louis de
Camors is as truly a monster as any green dragon
that ever spat fire or stole king's daughters (though
by no means so exciting a monster), and he hasn't
even the virtue of being a monster that hangs
together.  For, while we are asked to think of him
as destitute of natural affections, he is at the same
time shown to us as the fond idolater of his wife,
his wife's mother, and his son.  On his son's
account, indeed, he goes so far as to spend a long
cold night in a damp and uncomfortable wood,
only to be dismissed in the morning without the
embrace, in the hope of gaining which he has
violated his philosophy and taken the chances of
rheumatism.  Altogether, a man devoid of affections,
who loves his son, his wife, and his mother-in-law,
may be regarded as doing pretty well.  Again
(since we are on the chapter of inconsistencies),
in that dreary and pompous letter written to Louis
by his father, which expounds the text of what
becomes the son's rule of conduct, he is gravely
charged to fling religion and morality out of the
window, but to cherish "honour" as it were his
life.  "It is clear that a materialist can't be a saint,
but he can be a gentleman, and that is something,"
complacently writes the elder Comte de Camors.
Louis, however, though he makes loud acts of
faith in this inexpensive gospel, never hesitates to
betray his friend, to seduce the wife of his
benefactor, nor to marry an unsuspecting child, who
loves him, for the sheer purpose of screening an
intrigue with "another lady," which he still intends
to carry on.  Feuillet, perhaps, saves his face by
heaping upon this impossible being's head all the
punishments that are poetically due to crime, but
he doesn't save *Monsieur de Camors*.  It is a
dismal volume, uncommonly hard to read.  And yet—art
will out; and dismal as it is, it presents to
us one of Feuillet's most captivating women, Louis
de Camors' ingenuous little wife.  Listen to her
artless pronouncement upon Monsieur's evangel
of "honour."  "Mon Dieu," she says, "I'm not
sure, but it seems to me that honour apart from
morality is nothing very great, and that morality
apart from religion is nothing at all.  It's like a
chain: honour hangs in the last link, like a flower;
but when the chain is broken, the flower falls with
the rest."

If, however, Feuillet's villains are failures, his
adventuresses and bad women are grotesquer
failures still.  And no wonder.  His reluctance to
fashion an ugly thing out of material that would,
in the natural course of his impressions, suggest to
him none but ideas of beauty, is quite enough to
account for it.  Octave Feuillet is too much a
gentleman, too much a *preux chevalier*, to be able
to get any intellectual understanding of a bad
woman; the actual operations of a bad woman's
soul are things he can get no "realizing sense" of.
So he dresses up a marionette, which shall do all
the wicked feminine things his game necessitates,
which shall plot and poison, wreck the innocent
heroine's happiness, attitudinize as a fiend in
woman's clothing, and even, at a pinch, die a violent
death, but which shall never let us forget that it is
stuffed with saw-dust and moved by strings.
Madame de Campvallon, Sabine Tallevaut,
Mademoiselle Hélouin, even Julia de Trécoeur—the
more they change, the more they are the same:
sister-puppets, dolls carved from a common
parent-block, to be dragged through their appointed
careers of improbable naughtiness.  You can
recognise them at once by their haunting likeness to
the proud beauties of the hair-dresser's window.
They are always statuesque, always cold, reserved,
mysterious, serpentlike, goddesslike—everything,
in fine, that bad women of flesh and blood are not.
Octave Feuillet, the wit and the man of the world,
knows this as well as we do; and knowing it, he
tries, by verbal fire-works, to make us forget it.
"She charms me—she reminds me of a sorceress,"
says some one of Sabine Tallevaut.  "Do you
notice, she walks without a sound?  Her feet scarcely
touch the earth—she walks like a somnambulist-like
Lady Macbeth."  It is the old trick, the
traditional *boniment* of the showman; but not all the
*boniments* in Feuillet's sack can make us believe in
Sabine Tallevaut.

One can recognise Feuillet's bad women, too,
by the uncanny influence they immediately cast
upon his men.  "More taciturn than ever, absent,
strange, as if she were meditating some profound
design, all at once she seemed to wake; she lifted
her long lashes, let her blue eyes wander here
and there, and suddenly looked straight at
Camors, who was conscious of a thrill"—that is
how Mme. de Campvallon does it, and the fact
is conclusive, so far as her moral character is in
question.  None of Feuillet's good women would
ever dream of making a man "thrill" at her first
encounter with him.  But Feuillet's bad women
will stop at nothing.  Julia de Trécoeur takes her
own step-father, a middle-aged, plain, stout,
prosaic country gentleman, and throws him into a
paroxysm that has to be expressed in this wise:
"It was a mad intoxication, which the savour
of guilt only intensified.  Duty, loyalty, honour,
whatsoever presented itself as an obstacle to his
passion, did but exasperate its fury.  The pagan
Venus had bitten him in the heart, and injected
her poisons.  A vision of Julia's fatal beauty was
present without surcease, in his burning brain,
before his troubled eyes.  Avidly, in spite of
himself, he drank in her languors, her perfumes,
her breath."

*Julia de Trécoeur* has sometimes been called
Feuillet's master-piece.  One eminent critic
remarks that in writing it Feuillet "dived into the
vast ocean of human nature, and brought up a
pearl."  Well, there are pearls and pearls; there
are real pearls and artificial pearls; there are white
pearls and black pearls.  It might seem to some
of us that *Julia de Trécoeur* is an artificial black
one.  Frankly, as a piece of literature, the novel
is just in three words a fairly good melodrama.
Julia herself is the proper melodramatic heroine.
Her beauty is "fatal," her passions are ungovernable,
and she dearly loves a scene.  Now she
contemplates retirement into a convent, now
matrimony, now a leap from the cliffs; and each
change of mood is inevitably the occasion for
much ranting and much attitudinizing.  Her
history is a fairly good melodrama.  That it is not
a tip-top melodrama is due to the circumstance
that Feuillet was too intelligent a man to be able
to make it so.  He can't keep out his wit; and
every now and again his melodrama forgets itself,
and becomes sane comedy.  He can't keep out
his touches of things simple and human; the
high-flown, unhuman remainder suffers from the
contrast.

Why, one wonders, with his flair for the subtleties
of the normal, with his genius for extracting
their charm from trifles, why should Feuillet
have turned his hand to melodrama at all?  Is
it partly because he lived in and wrote for a
highly melodramatic period—"the dear, good days
of the dear, bad Second Empire"?  Partly, too,
no doubt, because, as some one has said, the artist
can never forgive, though he can easily forget, his
limitations.  Like the comic actor who will not
be happy till he has appeared as Hamlet, the
novelist, also, will cherish his unreasoning
aspirations.  And then, melodrama is achieved before
you know it.  Any incident that is not in itself
essentially *un*\dramatic will become melodramatic,
when you try to treat it, it will become forced
and stagey, if dramatic incidents are not the
spontaneous issue of your talent.  Dramatic incidents
are far from being the spontaneous issue of
Feuillet's talent; they are its changelings.  His talent
is all preoccupied in fathering children of a quite
opposite complexion.  Style, suavity, elegance,
sentiment, colour, atmosphere—these are
Feuillet's preoccupations.  Action, incident, are, when
necessary, necessary evils.  So his action, when
he is at his best, loiters, saunters, or even stops
dead-still; until suddenly he remembers that, after
all, his story must some time reach its period, and
that something really must happen to advance it.
Thereupon, hurriedly, perfunctorily, carelessly, he
"knocks off" a few pages of incident—of incident
fast and furious—which will, as likely as not, read
like the prompt-book of a play at the Adelphi.

That absurd Sabine Tallevaut, whose feet
scarcely touch the earth, with poison in her hand
and adultery in her heart, is the one disfigurement
upon what might otherwise have been Feuillet's
most nearly perfect picture.  In spite of her, *La
Morte* remains a work of exquisite and tender
beauty; and I'm not sure whether Aliette de
Vaudricourt isn't the very queen of all his women.
If Feuillet was too much a gentleman to be able
to paint a bad woman, he was too much a man
not to revel in painting a charming one.  As we
pass through his gallery of delightful heroines,
from Aliette de Vaudricourt to Clothilde de
Lucan, to Mme. de Técle, Marie FitzGerald, "Miss
Mary" de Camors, Marguerite Laroque, even to
Jeanne de Maurescamp, we can feel the man's
admiration pulsing in every stroke of the artist's
brush.  He takes the woman's point of view,
espouses her side of the quarrel, offers himself
as her champion wherever he finds that a
champion is needed.  And he sticks to his allegiance
even after, as in the case of Jeanne de Maurescamp,
she might seem to have forfeited her claim
to it.  Of Jeanne he can still bring himself to
say, at the end of *L'Histoire d'une Parisienne*:
"Decidedly, this angel had become a monster;
but the lesson of her too-true story is, that, in
the moral order, no one is born a monster.  God
makes no monsters.  It is man who makes them."

In this instance, however, Feuillet is, perhaps,
rather the apologist than the champion.  His
contention is that Jeanne was by nature virtuous, and
that her virtue has been destroyed by the
stupidity and the brutality of her ill-chosen
husband.  But Feuillet has too fine and too judicious
a wit to insist upon the note of strenuousness.
Seeing the woman's point of view, he sees its
humours as well as its pathos.  Admitting that
men for the most part are grossly unworthy of
her, and that woman has infinitely the worst of
it in the arrangements of society, admitting and
deploring it, he doesn't profess to know how to
set it right; he has no practical reform to preach.
His business is to divert us, and, if he must be
serious, to be serious gaily and charmingly.  And
perhaps he is most serious, not when composing
an epitaph for Jeanne de Maurescamp, but when
he is lightly saying (in the person of the Comtesse
Jules): "Always remember, my poor dear, that
women are born to suffer—and men to be suffered."

Charmingly serious himself, Feuillet's heroines
likewise are always serious, in their different
charming ways.  They may be wilful and
capricious, like Marguerite Laroque, or fond of the
excitements of the world, like Mme. de Rias,
or wise in their generation, like Mme. de la
Veyle, but they are always womanly and human
at the red-ripe of the heart, and they are almost
always religious.  A sceptic, scepticlike, Feuillet
utterly discountenances scepticism in woman.
Even his most recusant of masculine unbelievers,
the Vicomte de Vaudricourt, proclaims his
preference for a pious wife.  "Not, of course," he says,
"that I exaggerate the moral guarantees offered
by piety, or that I mistake it for a synonym of
virtue.  But still it is certain that with women
the idea of duty is rarely dissociated from religious
ideas.  Because religion doesn't keep all of them
straight, it is an error to conclude that it keeps
none of them straight; and it's always well to be
on the safe side."  Elsewhere Feuillet gives us
his notion of the moral outlook of the woman
who is not religious.  Evil for her, he tells us,
ceases to be evil, and becomes simply *inconvenance*.
'Tis a very mannish, a very Frenchmannish,
way of viewing the thing.

One has sometimes heard it maintained that
only women can reveal themselves with perfect
grace in a form so intimate as letters or a diary;
that a man's hand is apt to be too heavy, his
manner too self-conscious.  Perhaps it is Feuillet's
sympathy with women that has made him the
dab he is at this womanly art.  In *La Morte*, for
instance, we learn vastly more of Bernard's
character from his diary than we should from thrice
the number of pages of third-personal exposition.
The letters from Marie to her mother, in
*Monsieur de Camors*, furnish the single element of
relief in that lugubrious composition.  Even those
that pass between Rias and Mme. de Lorris, in
*Un Mariage dans le Monde*—though their
subject-matter is sufficiently depressing, though the
man is an egotistical cad, and the great lady who
is giving him her help and pity ought rather to
despise and spurn him—are exceedingly good and
natural letters; and the letter from Mme. de Rias
to Kévern, which ends the book, is a very jewel
of a letter.  But it is in the diary of his poor
young man that Feuillet's command of the first
person singular attains its most completely
satisfying results.

*Le Roman d'un Jeune Homme Pauvre* is a tale
of youth, for the young; and the eldest of us may
count himself still young if he can still enjoy it.
Here we have romance pure and simple, a thing
of glamour all compact; and the danger-line that
so definitely separates romance from absurdity, yet
leaves them so perilously near together, is never
crossed.  The action passes in the country, and in
the most delectable sort of country at that—the
country of the appreciative and imaginative cit.
Before all things a Parisian, Feuillet is never
particularly happy in presenting Paris.  His Paris is
correct enough in architecture and topography, no
doubt; but the spirit of Paris, the whatever it is
which makes Paris Paris, and not merely a large
town, somehow evades him.  Possibly he knew
his Paris too well; familiarity had bred a kind of
inability to see, to focus, a kind of "staleness."  Anyhow,
it is when he gets away from Paris that he
wakes to the opportuneness and the opportunities
of scenic backgrounds.  His eye, "stale" to town,
is now all eagerness, all freshness.  Impressions of
beauty crowd upon him.  He sees the country as
it is doubtful whether the countryman ever sees
it—the countryman who has been surfeited with
it, who has long since forgotten its first magical
effect.  He brings to the country the sensitiveness
which is the product of the city's heat and strife.
Dew and wild flowers, the green of grass and trees,
the music of birds, the flutter of their wings, the
pure air, the wide prospects, the changing lights—it
is to the appreciative and imaginative townsman
that these speak their finest message.

But Feuillet is more than a townsman: he is
a teller of fairy-tales.  To him the country is a
free playground for his fancy.  There beautiful
ladies and gallant knights have nothing to do but
to love and to sing; and there, without destroying
our illusion, he can leave them to live happily
forever after.  The Brittany, in which Maxime and
Marguerite meet and misunderstand and woo and
wed, is not that northwestern corner of France
that one can reach in a few hours by steamer from
Southampton; it is a Brittany of fairy woods and
streams and castles, that never was, save in the
poet's dream.  For if others of Feuillet's novels
have been only in part fairy-tales, or only rather
like fairy-tales, the *Romance of a Poor Young Man*
is a fairy-tale wholly and absolutely.  The
personages of the story are the invariable personages of
the fairy-tale: the prince disguised as a wood-cutter,
in the Marquis de Champcey disguised as a
farm-bailiff; the haughty princess, who will not
love, yet loves despite her will, and is rewarded by
the wood-cutter's appearing in all the prince's
splendour at the proper time, in Marguerite Laroque;
the bad prince and the bad princess, in M. de
Bévallon and Mlle. Hélouin; the good magician,
in M. Laubépin; and the delightfullest of
conceivable fairy godmothers, in Mlle. de Porhoët.  And
the progress of the story is the wonted progress of
the fairy-tale.  There is hardship, but it is overcome;
there are perils, but they are turned; misconceptions,
but they are cleared up.  There are empty pockets,
but there is the bag of gold waiting to fill them.
The marvellous never shocks our credulity, the
longest-armed coincidences seem the most natural
happenings in the world.  We are not in the least
surprised when, at the right moment, the bag of
gold appears at Maxime's feet, enabling him to
marry; it is the foregone consequence of his
having a fairy godmother.  We don't even raise the
eyebrow of doubt when the Laroques contemplate
relinquishing their fortune to the poor, so that
Marguerite may come to her lover empty-handed;
that is the accepted device of the fairy-tale for
administering to the proud princess her
well-deserved humiliation.  In one small detail only
does the fairy-tale teller lose himself, and let the
novelist supplant him; that is where he implies
that the bad prince and princess, after their wicked
wiles had been discovered, took the train to Paris.
They did nothing of the sort.  They were turned
into blocks of stone, and condemned to look on at
the happiness of the good prince and princess from
the terrace of the Château de Laroque.

But it must not be supposed, because the
personages of the *Romance of a Poor Young Man* are
fairy-tale personages, that therefore they are not
human personages.  It is, on the contrary, the
humanity of its personages that makes your
fairy-tale interesting.  You stick to human men and
women, you merely more or less improve the
conditions of their existence, you merely revise and
amend a little the laws of the external universe—an
easy thing to do, in spite of the unthinking
people who prate of those laws as immutable.
Then the fun consists in seeing how human nature
will persist and react.  Surely none of Feuillet's
heroines is more engagingly human than
Marguerite Laroque.  It is true that we see her only
through the eyes of a chronicler who happens to
be infatuated with her, but we know what
discount to allow for that.  We are confident from
her first entrance that if, as we hope, our poor
young man's head is screwed on as poor young
men's heads should be, Marguerite will turn it.
We learn that she is capricious, therefore Maxime
will be constant; that she is proud, therefore, in
all humility, he will be prouder; that she is
humble, therefore, in all pride, he will humble himself
at her feet.  But antecedent to all this, and just
because his ostensible business in Brittany is the
management of the Laroques' estate, no one needs
to warn us that his real business will be the
conquest of the Laroques' daughter.  We can foresee
with half an eye that the affairs of the estate are
affairs which our disguised marquis will
conscientiously neglect.  Indeed, Mme. Laroque
herself seems to have been haunted by something of
the same premonition.  What does she say to the
sous-préfet?  "Mon Dieu, ne m'en parlez pas;
il-y-a là un mystère inconcevable.  Nous pensons
que c'est quelque prince déguisé....  Entre
nous, mon cher sous-préfet, je crois bien que c'est
un très-mauvais intendant, mais vraiment c'est un
homme très-agréable."

She might have added "un homme très-digne."  For
if we have a fault to find with Maxime, it is
that he seems just possibly a thought too "digne."  But
that is a fault common to so many men in
fiction.  French novelists, like English lady novelists,
are terribly apt to make their men too "digne"—when
they don't make them too unspeakably *indigne*.
Maxime, however, we mustn't forget, is his
own portraitist, and we'll hope in this detail the
portrait errs.  For the rest, we are content to
accept it as he paints it.  He is a poor young man,
but he is also a fairy prince.  Therefore he can
vaunt himself as an ordinary poor young man
could hardly do with taste.  He can perform and
narrate his prodigies of skill and valour without
offending.  He can rescue an enormous Newfoundland
dog from a raging torrent, for example, with
the greatest ease in the world, an exploit you or I
might have found ticklish, and he can tell us of it
afterward, a proceeding you or I might have shrunk
from as vainglorious.  For Maxime is a fairy prince;
the dog belongs to the fairy princess; and the bad
prince, the rival, who is standing by, doesn't know
how to swim.  Again, with splendid indifference,
he can accomplish and record his leap from the
Tour d' Elven to save the fairy princess from a
situation that might, in Fairyland, have
compromised her; hadn't the princess unjustly impugned
his honour, and insinuated that the situation was
one he had deliberately brought to pass?  "Monsieur
le Marquis de Champcey, y a t-il eu beaucoup
de lâches dans votre famille avant vous?" superbly
demands Marguerite; and we can see her kindling
eye, the scornful curl of her lip, we can hear
the disdainful tremor of her voice.  Maxime
would be a poor-spirited poor young man, indeed,
if, after that, he should hesitate to jump.  And
he has his immediate compensation.  "Maxime!
Maxime!" cries the haughty princess, now all
remorse, "par grâce, par pitié! au nom du bon
Dieu, parlez-moi! pardonnez-moi!"  So that,
though the prince goes away with a broken arm,
the lover carries exultancy in his heart.

Is Maxime perhaps just a thought too "digne,"
also, in his relations with his little sister—when
he visits her at school, for instance, and promises
to convey the bread she cannot eat to some
deserving beggar?  At the moment he is the most
deserving beggar he chances to know of, but he is
resolved to keep his beggary a secret from Hélène.
"Cher Maxime," says she, "a bientôt, n'est-ce pas?
Tu me diras si tu as rencontré un pauvre, si tu lui
as donné mon pain, et s'il l'a trouvé bon."  And
Maxime, in his journal: "Oui, Hélène, j'ai
rencontré un pauvre, et je lui ai donné ton pain, qu'il
a emporté comme une proie dans sa mansarde solitaire,
et il l'a trouvé bon; mais c'était un pauvre
sans courage, car il a pleuré en devorant l'aumône
de tes petites mains bien-aimeés.  Je te dirai tout
celà, Hélène, car il est bon que tu saches qu'il y a
sur la terre des souffrances plus sérieuses que tes
souffrances d'enfant: je te dirai tout, excepté le
nom du pauvre."  It certainly *is* "digne," isn't it?
Is it a trifle too much so?  Isn't it a trifle priggish,
a trifle preachy?  Is it within the limits of pure
pathos?  Or does it just cross the line?  I don't know.

I am rather inclined to think that Maxime is
at his best—at once most human and most fairy
princelike—in his relations with the pre-eminently
human fairy Porhoët.  He is entirely human, and
weak, and nice, when he blurts out to her the
secret of his high birth.  Hadn't she just been
boasting of her own, and invidiously citing
Monsieur l'intendant as a typical plebeian?  "En ce
qui me concerne, mademoiselle," he has the human
weakness to retort, "vous vous trompez, car ma
famille a eu l'honneur d'être alliée à la vôtre, et
réciproquement."  He remains human and weak
throughout the somewhat embarrassing explanations
that are bound to follow; and if, in their
subsequent proceedings, after she has adopted him
as "mon cousin," he will still from time to time
become a trifle priggish and a trifle preachy, we
must remember that mortal man, in the hands of
a French novelist, has to choose between that and
a career of profligacy.

It is by his *Roman d'un Jeune Homme Pauvre*
that Feuillet is most widely known outside of
France; it is by this book that he will "live," if
he is to live.  Certainly it is his freshest, his
sincerest, his most consistently agreeable book.

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HENRY HARLAND.





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   BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE

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Octave Feuillet was born at Saint-Lô, in
the department of the Manche, on the 11th of
August, 1821.  His father, who belonged to one of
the oldest Norman families, was secretary-general
to the prefect, and a little later, in the revolution
of 1830, played a prominent part in politics.  A
hereditary nervousness, amounting finally to a
disease, alone prevented him, according to Guizot,
from being given a portfolio in the new ministry.
Octave inherited his father's excessive sensibility,
although in later years he held it more under
control.  After the death of his mother, which
occurred as he was developing in boyhood, he became
so melancholy that, at the advice of the physicians,
he was sent to a school in Paris, where his health
gradually became re-established; afterward, at the
Collège de Louis-le-Grand, he greatly distinguished
himself as a scholar.  It was his father's design
to prepare him for the diplomatic career, but
already the desire to write had awakened itself in
him.  When the moment came for choosing a
profession, Octave timidly confessed his determination
to make literature his business in life; the irascible
old gentleman at Saint-Lô turned him out of the
house, and cut off his allowance.  He returned to
Paris, and for three years had a hard struggle
with poverty.  During this time, under the
encouragement of the great actor Bocage, Octave
Feuillet brought out three dramas, "Échec et Mat,"
"Palma," and "La Vieillesse de Richelieu," under
the pseudonym of "Désiré Hazard."  These were
successful, and the playwright's father forgave and
welcomed him back to his favour.  Octave remained
in Paris, actively engaged in literary work, mainly
dramatic, but gradually in the line of prose fiction
also.  In 1846 he published his novel of "Polichinelle,"
followed in 1848 by "Onesta," in 1849 by
"Redemption" and in 1850 by "Bellah."  None of
these are remembered among Octave Feuillet's best
works, but he was gaining skill and care in
composition.  In 1850, however, he was suddenly
summoned home to Saint-Lô by the increased
melancholy of his father, who could no longer safely be
left alone in the gloomy ancestral mansion which he
refused to leave.  Octave, with resignation,
determined to sacrifice his life to the care of his
father, and in this piety he was supported by his
charming cousin, Valérie Feuillet, a very
accomplished and devoted woman, whom he married in
1851.  For eight years they shared this painful
exile, the father of Octave scarcely permitting them
to leave his sight, and refusing every other species
of society.  Strangely enough, this imprisonment
was not unfavourable to the novelist's genius; the
books he wrote during this period—"Dalila," "La
Petite Comtesse" (1856), "Le Village," and finally
"Le Roman d'un Jeune Homme Pauvre" (1858)—being
not only far superior to what he had previously
published, but among the very finest of all his
works.  By a grim coincidence, on almost the only
occasion on which Octave Feuillet ventured to
absent himself for a day or two, to be present at the
performance of his "Roman d'un Jeune Homme
Pauvre," when it was dramatized in 1858, the
father suddenly died while the son was in Paris.
This was a great shock to Feuillet, who bitterly
and unjustly condemned himself.  He was now,
however, free, and, with his wife and children,
he returned to Paris.  He was now very successful,
and soon became a figure at Compiègne and in
the great world.  In 1862 he published "Sibylle,"
and was elected a member of the French Academy.
A great favourite of the Emperor and Empress,
he was tempted to combine the social life at Court
with the labours of literature.  His health began
to suffer from the strain, and, to recover, he
retired again to Saint-Lô, where he lived, not in the
home of his ancestors, but in a little house above
the ramparts, called Les Paillers; for the future
he spent only the winter months in Paris.  His
novels became fewer, but not less carefully
prepared; he enjoyed a veritable triumph with
"Monsieur de Camors" in 1867.  Next year he was
appointed Royal Librarian at Fontainbleu, an office
which he held till the fall of the Empire.  He then
retired to Les Paillers again, where he had written
"Julia de Trécoeur" in 1867.  The end of his life was
troubled by domestic bereavement and loss of health;
he hurried restlessly from place to place, a prey
to constant nervous agitation.  His later writings
were numerous, but had not the vitality of those
previously mentioned.  Octave Feuillet died in
Paris, December 28, 1890, and was succeeded at the
French Academy by Pierre Loti.  Octave was the
type of a sensitive, somewhat melancholy fine
gentleman; he was very elegant in manners, reserved
and ceremonious in society, where he held himself
somewhat remote in the radiance of his delicate
wit; but within the bosom of his family he was
tenderly and almost pathetically demonstrative.
The least criticism was torture to him, and it is
said that when his comedy of "La Belle au Bois
Dormant" was hissed off the boards of the Vaudeville
in 1865, for three weeks afterward the life of
Feuillet was in danger.  Fortunately, however, for
a "fiery particle" so sensitive, the greater part of
his career was one continuous triumph.

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   E.G.

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   LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

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`Portrait of Octave Feuillet`_ . . . . . . . . . . . . *Frontispiece*

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   COLOURED PLATES

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`"You do not ask me where I am taking you," she said`_
(see page `123`_)

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`"I fell on my knees, I could not keep back my tears"`_
(see page `245`_)

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`"I felt her lips on mine——I thought my soul was
escaping from me"`_ (see page `246`_)

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THE PORTRAITS OF OCTAVE FEUILLET

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`In 1850, after a drawing by the engraver Monciau`_

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`In 1879, after a sketch made in Geneva`_

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`After a photograph taken in 1880`_

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`The last photograph taken in 1889`_

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`Sketch by Dantan, about 1878`_





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   THE ROMANCE
   OF A POOR YOUNG MAN

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   *Sursum corda!*

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   PARIS, *April 25, 185-*.

The second evening I have passed in this
miserable room, staring gloomily at the bare hearth,
hearing the dull monotone of the street, and
feeling more lonely, more forsaken, and nearer to
despair in the heart of this great city than a
ship-wrecked man shivering on a broken plank in mid-ocean.

I have done with cowardice.  I will look my
destiny in the face till it loses its spectral air.
I will open my sorrowful heart to the one
confidant whose pity will not hurt, to that pale
last friend who looks back at me from the
glass.  I will write down my thoughts and my
life, not in trivial and childish detail, but without
serious omissions, and above all without lies.  I
shall love my journal; it will be a brotherly echo
to cheat my loneliness, and at the same time a
second conscience warning me not to allow
anything to enter into my life which I dare not write
down calmly with my own hand.

Now, with sad eagerness I search the past for
the facts and incidents which should have long
since enlightened me, had not filial respect, habit,
and the indifference of a happy idler blinded me.
I understand now my mother's deep and constant
melancholy; I understand her distaste for society,
and why she wore that plain, unvaried dress which
sometimes called forth sarcasms, sometimes wrath
from my father.—"You look like a servant," he
would say to her.

I could not but be conscious that our family
life was broken by more serious quarrels, though
I was never an actual witness of them.  All I
heard were my father's sharp and imperious tones,
the murmur of a pleading voice, and stifled sobs.
These outbursts I attributed to my father's violent
and fruitless attempts to revive in my mother the
taste for the elegant and brilliant life which she
had once enjoyed as much as becomes a virtuous
woman, but into which she now accompanied my
father with a repugnance that grew stronger every
day.  After such crises, my father nearly always
ran off to buy some costly trinket which my
mother found in her table-napkin at dinner, and
never wore.  One day in the middle of winter she
received a large box of rare flowers from Paris;
she thanked my father warmly, but directly he
had left the room, I saw her slightly raise her
shoulders and look up to heaven with an
expression of hopeless despair.

During my childhood and early youth I had a
great respect for my father, but not much
affection.  Indeed, throughout this period I saw only
the sombre side of his character—the one side that
showed itself in domestic life, for which he was
not fitted.  Later, when I was old enough to go
out with him, I was surprised and charmed to find
in him a person perfectly new to me.  It seemed
as if, in our old family house, he felt himself
constrained by some fatal spell; once beyond its
doors, his forehead cleared, his chest expanded,
and he was young again.  "Now, Maxime," he
would cry, "now for a gallop!"  And joyously
we would rush along.  His shouts of youthful
pleasure, his enthusiasm, his fantastic wit, his
bursts of feeling, charmed my young heart, and I
longed to bring something of all this back to my
poor mother, forgotten in her corner at home.  I
began to love my father; and when I saw all the
sympathetic qualities of his brilliant nature
displayed in all the functions of social life—at hunts
and races, balls and dinners—my fondness for him
became an actual admiration.  A perfect horseman,
a dazzling talker, a bold gambler, daring and
open-handed, he became for me the finished type
of manly grace and chivalrous nobility.  Indeed,
he would speak of himself—smiling with some
bitterness—as the last of the gentlemen.

Such was my father in society; but as soon
as he returned to his home my mother and I saw
only a restless, morose, and violent old man.

My father's outbursts to a creature so sweet
and delicate as my mother would certainly have
revolted me had they not been followed by the
quick returns of tenderness and the redoubled
attentions I have mentioned.  Justified in my
eyes by these proofs of penitence, my father
seemed to be only a naturally kind, warm-hearted
man sometimes irritated beyond endurance by an
obstinate and systematic opposition to all his
tastes and preferences.  I thought my mother was
suffering from some nervous derangement.  My
father gave me to understand so, though, and as I
thought very properly, he only referred to this
subject with great reserve.

I could not understand what were my mother's
feelings towards my father; they were—for
me—beyond analysis or definition.  Sometimes a
strange severity glittered in the looks she fixed
on him; but it was only a flash, and the next
moment her beautiful soft eyes and her unchanged
face showed nothing but tender devotion and
passionate submission.

My mother had been married at fifteen, and I
was nearly twenty-two when my sister, my poor
Hélène, was born.  One morning soon afterwards
my father came out of my mother's room looking
anxious.  He signed to me to follow him into
the garden.

"Maxime," he said, after walking in silence
for a little, "your mother gets stranger and
stranger."

"She is so ill just now, father."

"Yes, of course.  But now she has the oddest
fancy: she wants you to study law."

"Law!  What!  Does my mother want me,
at my age, with my birth and position, to sit
among school-boys on the forms of a college
classroom?  It is absurd."

"So I think," said my father dryly, "but your
mother is ill, and—there's no more to be said."

I was a young puppy then, puffed up by my
name, my importance, and my little drawing-room
successes; but I was sound at heart, and I
worshipped my mother, with whom I had lived for
twenty years in the closest intimacy possible
between two human souls.  I hastened to assure her
of my obedience; she thanked me with a sad
smile and made me kiss my sister who was
sleeping on her lap.

We lived about a mile and a half from Grenoble,
so I could attend the law classes at the
university without leaving home.  Day by day my
mother followed my progress with such intense
and persistent interest that I could not help
thinking that she had some stronger motive than the
fancy of an invalid; that perhaps my father's hatred
and contempt for the practical and tedious side of
life might have brought about a certain embarrassment
in our affairs which, my mother thought, a
knowledge of law and a business training would
enable me to put right.  This explanation did
not satisfy me.  No doubt my father had often
complained bitterly of our losses during the
Revolution, but his complaints had long ceased, and I
had never thought them well-founded, because, as
far as I could see, our position was in every way
satisfactory.

We lived near Grenoble in our hereditary
château, which was famous in our country as an
aristocratic and lordly dwelling.  My father and I
have often shot or hunted for a whole day without
going off our own land or out of our own woods.
Our stables were vast, and filled with expensive
horses of which my father was very fond and very
proud.  Besides, we had a town-house in Paris on
the Boulevard des Capucines, where comfortable
quarters were always reserved for occasional visits.
And nothing in our ordinary way of living could
suggest either a small income or close management.
Even as regards the table, my father insisted
upon a particular degree of delicacy and
refinement.

My mother's health declined almost imperceptibly.
In time there came an alteration in her
disposition.  The mouth which, at all events in
my presence, had spoken only kind words, grew
bitter and aggressive.  Every step I took beyond
the house provoked a sarcasm.  My father was
not spared, and bore these attacks with a patience
that seemed to me exemplary, but he got more
and more into the habit of living away from home.
He told me that he must have distraction and
amusement.  He always wanted me to go with
him, and my love of pleasure, and the eagerness
of youth, and, to speak truly, my lack of moral
courage, made me obey him too readily.

In September, 185-, there were some races
near the château, and several of my father's horses
were to run.  We started early and lunched on
the course.  About the middle of the day, as I
was riding by the course watching the fortunes of
a race, one of our men came up and said he had
been looking for me for more than half an hour.
He added that my father had already been sent for
and had gone back to my mother at the château,
and that he wanted me to follow him at once.

"But what in Heaven's name is the matter?"

"I think madame is worse," said the servant.

I set off like a madman.

When I reached home my sister was playing
on the lawn in the middle of the great, silent
courtyard.  As I dismounted, she ran up to
embrace me, and said, with an air of importance and
mystery that was almost joyful:

"The curé has come."

I did not, however, perceive any unusual
animation in the house, nor any signs of disorder
or alarm.  I went rapidly up the staircase, and
had passed through the boudoir which communicated
with my mother's room, when the door
opened softly, and my father appeared.  I stopped
in front of him; he was very pale, and his lips
were trembling.

"Maxime," he said, without looking at me,
"your mother is asking for you."

I wished to question him, but he checked me
with a gesture, and walked hurriedly towards a
window, as if to look out.  I entered.  My
mother lay half-reclining in an easy-chair, one
of her arms hanging limply over the side.  Again
I saw on her face, now as white as wax, the
exquisite sweetness and delicate grace which lately
had been driven away by suffering.  Already the
Angel of Eternal Rest was casting the shadow of
his wing over that peaceful brow.  I fell upon
my knees; she half-opened her eyes, raised her
drooping head with an effort, and enveloped me
in a long, loving look.  Then, in a voice which
was scarcely more than a broken sigh, she slowly
spoke these words:

"Poor child! ... I am worn out, you see!
Do not weep.  You have deserted me a little
lately, but I have been so trying.  We shall meet
again, Maxime, and we shall understand one
another, my son.  I can't say any more....  Remind
your father of his promise to me....  And you,
Maxime, be strong in the battle of life, and
forgive the weak."

She seemed to be exhausted, and stopped for
a moment.  Then, raising a finger with difficulty,
and looking at me fixedly, she said: "Your
sister!"

Her livid eyelids closed; then suddenly she
opened them, and threw out her arms with a rigid
and sinister gesture.  I uttered a cry; my father
came quickly, and, with heartrending sobs, pressed
the poor martyr's body to his bosom.

Some weeks later, at the formal request of my
father, who said that he was obeying the last wishes
of her whom we mourned, I left France, and
began that wandering life which I have led nearly
up to this day.  During a year's absence my heart,
becoming more affectionate as the selfish frenzy of
youth burnt out, urged me to return and renew
my life at its source, between my mother's tomb
and my sister's cradle.  But my father had fixed
the duration of my travels, and he had not
brought me up to treat his wishes lightly.  He
wrote to me affectionately, though briefly,
showing no desire to hasten my return.  So I was the
more alarmed when I arrived at Marseilles, two
months ago, and found several letters from him,
all feverishly begging me to return at once.

It was on a sombre February evening, that I
saw once more the massive walls of our ancient
house standing out against the light veil of snow
that lay upon the country.  A sharp north wind
blew in icy gusts; flakes of frozen sleet dropped
like dead leaves from the trees of the avenue, and
struck the wet soil with a faint and plaintive
sound.  As I entered the court a shadow, which
I took to be my father's, fell upon a window of
the large drawing-room on the ground floor—a
room which had not been used during my
mother's last days.  I hurried on, and my father,
seeing me, gave a hoarse cry, then opened his
arms to me, and I felt his heart beating wildly
against my own.

"Thou art frozen, my poor child," he said,
much against his habit, for he seldom addressed
me in the second person.  "Warm thyself, warm
thyself.  This is a cold room, but I prefer it now;
at least one can breathe here."

"Are you well, father?"

"Pretty well, as you see."

Leaving me by the fireplace, he resumed his
walk across the vast *salon*, dimly lighted by two
or three candles.  I seemed to have interrupt
this walk of his.  This strange welcome alarmed
me.  I looked at my father in dull surprise.

"Have you seen my horses?" he said suddenly,
without stopping.

"But, father——"

"Ah, yes, of course, you've only just come."  After
a silence he continued.  "Maxime," he said,
"I have something to tell you."

"I'm listening, father."

He did not seem to hear me, but walked about
a little, and kept on repeating, "I have something
to tell you, my son."  At last he sighed deeply,
passed his hand across his forehead, and sitting
down suddenly, signed to me to take a seat
opposite to him.  Then, as if he wanted to speak and
had not the courage to do so, his eyes rested on
mine, and I read in them an expression of
suffering, humility, and supplication that in a man so
proud as my father touched me deeply.  Whatever
the faults he found it so hard to confess, I
felt from the bottom of my heart that he was
fully pardoned.

Suddenly his eyes, which had never left mine,
were fixed in an astonished stare, vague and
terrible.  His hand stiffened on my arm; he raised
himself in his chair, then drooped, and in an
instant fell heavily on the floor.  He was dead.

The heart does not reason or calculate.  That
is its glory.  In a moment I had divined everything.
One minute had been enough to show me
all at once, and without a word of explanation—in
a burst of irresistible light, the fatal truth which
a thousand things daily repeated under my eyes
had never made me suspect.  Ruin was here, in
this house, over my head.  Yet I do not think
that I should have mourned my father more
sincerely or more bitterly if he had left me loaded
with benefits.  With my regret and my deep
sorrow there was mingled a pity, strangely poignant
in that it was the pity of a son for his father.
That beseeching, humbled, hopeless look haunted
me.  Bitterly I regretted that I had not been
able to speak a word of consolation to that heart
before it broke!  Wildly I called to him who
could no longer hear me, "I forgive you, I
forgive you."  My God, what moments were these!
As far as I have been able to guess, my mother,
when she was dying, had made my father promise
to sell the greater part of his property; to pay off
the whole of the enormous debt he had incurred
by spending every year a third more than his
income, and to live solely and strictly on what he
had left.  My father had tried to keep to this
engagement; he had sold the timber and part of
the estate, but finding himself master of a
considerable capital, he had applied only a small
portion of it to the discharge of his debts, and had
attempted to restore our fortunes by staking the
remainder in the hateful chances of the Stock
Exchange.  He had thus completed his ruin.  I have
not yet sounded the depths of the abyss in which
we are engulfed.  A week after my father's death
I was taken seriously ill, and after two months of
suffering I was only just able to leave my ancient
home on the day that a stranger took possession
of it.  Fortunately an old friend of my mother's,
who lives at Paris, and who formerly acted as
notary to our family, has come to my help.  He
has offered to undertake the work of liquidation
which to my inexperienced judgment seemed
beset with unconquerable difficulties.  I left the
whole business to him, and I presume that now
his work is completed.  I went to his house
directly I arrived yesterday; he was in the country,
and will not return till to-morrow.

These have been two cruel days; uncertainty
is the worst of all evils, because it is the only one
that necessarily stops the springs of action and
checks our courage.  I should have been very
much surprised if, ten years ago, any one had told
me that the old notary, whose formal language
and stiff politeness so much amused my father and
me, would one day be the oracle from whom I
should await the supreme sentence of my destiny.

I do my best to guard against excessive hopes;
I have calculated approximately that, after paying
all the debts, we should have a hundred and twenty
to a hundred and fifty thousand francs left.  A
fortune of five millions should leave so much
salvage at least.  I intend to take ten thousand
francs and seek my fortune in the new States of
America; the rest I shall resign to my sister.

Enough of writing for to-night.  Recalling
such memories is a mournful occupation.  Nevertheless,
I feel that it has made me calmer.  Work
is surely a sacred law, since even the lightest task
discharged brings a certain contentment and
serenity.  Yet man does not love work; he cannot fail
to see its good effects; he tastes them every day,
and blesses them, and each day he comes to his
work with the same reluctance.  I think that is a
singular and mysterious contradiction, as if in toil
we felt at once a chastisement, and the divine and
fatherly hand of the chastiser.

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   *Thursday*

When I woke this morning a letter from old
M. Laubépin was brought to me.  He invited me
to dinner and apologized for taking such a liberty.
He said nothing about my affairs.  I augured
unfavourably from this silence.

In the meantime I fetched my sister from her
convent, and took her about Paris.  The child
knows nothing of our ruin.  In the course of the
day she had some rather expensive fancies.  She
provided herself liberally with gloves, pink
note-paper, bonbons for her friends, delicate scents,
special soaps, and tiny pencils, all very necessary
useful things, but not as necessary as a dinner.
May she never have to realize this!

At six o'clock I was at M. Laubépin's in the
Rue Cassette.  I do not know our old friend's
age, but to-day I found him looking just the same
as ever—tall and thin, with a little stoop, untidy
white hair, and piercing eyes under bushy black
eyebrows—altogether a face at once strong and
subtle.  I recognised the unvarying costume, the
old-fashioned black coat, the professional white
cravat, the family diamond in the shirt-frill—in
short, all the outward signs of a serious,
methodical, and conservative nature.  The old
gentleman was waiting for me at the open door of his
little *salon*.  After making me a low bow, he took
my hand lightly between two of his fingers and
conducted me to a homely looking old lady who
was standing by the fire-place.

"The Marquis de Champcey d'Hauterive!"
said M. Laubépin, in his strong, rich, and
emphatic voice, and turning quickly to me, added
in a humbler tone, "Mme. Laubépin!"

We sat down.  An awkward silence ensued.
I had expected an immediate explanation of my
position.  Seeing that this was to be postponed,
I assumed at once that it was unfavourable, an
assumption confirmed by the discreet and
compassionate glances with which Mme. Laubépin
furtively honoured me.  As for M. Laubépin, he
observed me with a remarkable attention not
altogether kindly.  My father, I remember, always
maintained that at the bottom of his heart and
under his respectful manner the ceremonious old
scrivener had a little of *bourgeois* democratic and
even Jacobin leaven.  It seemed to me that this
leaven was working just now, and that the old
man found some satisfaction for his secret
antipathies in the spectacle of a gentleman under
torture.  In spite of my real depression, I began to
talk at once, trying to appear quite unconcerned.

"So, M. Laubépin," I said, "you've left the
Place des Petits-Pères, the dear old Place.  How
could you bring yourself to do it?  I would never
have believed it of you."

"*Mon Dieu*, marquis," replied M. Laubépin,
"I must admit that it is an infidelity unbecoming
at my age; but in giving up the practice I had to
give up my chambers as well, for one can't carry
off a notary's plate as one can a sign-board."

"But you still undertake some business?"

"Yes, in a friendly way, marquis.  Some of
the honourable families, the important families,
whose confidence I have had the good fortune to
secure in the course of forty-five years of practice,
are still glad, especially in situations of unusual
delicacy, to have the benefit of my experience,
and I believe I may say they rarely regret having
followed my advice."

As M. Laubépin finished this testimonial to
his own merits, an old servant came in and
announced that dinner was served.  It was my
privilege to conduct Mme. Laubépin into the
adjacent dining-room.  Throughout the meal the
conversation never rose above the most ordinary
commonplaces.  M. Laubépin continued to look
at me in the same penetrating and ambiguous
manner, while Mme. Laubépin offered me each
dish in the mournful and compassionate tone we
use at the bedside of an invalid.  In time we left
the table, and the old notary took me into his
study, where coffee was served immediately.  He
made me sit down, and standing before the
fireplace, began:

"Marquis," he said, "you have done me the
honour of intrusting to me the administration
of the estate of your father, the late Marquis
de Champcey d'Hauterive.  Yesterday I was
about to write to you, when I learned of your
arrival in Paris.  This enables me to convey to
you, *vivâ voce*, the result of my zeal and of my
action."

"I foresee, M. Laubépin, that the result is not
favourable."

"Marquis, it is not favourable, and you will
need all your courage to bear it.  But it is my
rule to proceed methodically.—In the year 1820
Mlle. Louise Hélène Dugald Delatouche d'Erouville
was sought in marriage by Charles-Christian
Odiot, Marquis de Champcey d'Hauterive.  A
tradition a century old had placed the management
of the Dugald Delatouche affairs in my hands, and
I was further permitted a respectful intimacy with
the young heiress of the house.  I thought it my
duty, therefore, to oppose her infatuation by every
argument in my power and to dissuade her from
this deplorable alliance.  I say deplorable alliance
without reference to M. de Champcey's fortune,
which was nearly equal to that of Mlle. Delatouche,
though even at this time he had mortgaged
it to some extent.  I say so because I knew
his character and temperament, which were in the
main hereditary.  Under the fascinating and
chivalrous manner common to all of his race I saw
clearly the heedless obstinacy, the incurable
irresponsibility, the mania for pleasure, and, finally,
the pitiless selfishness."

"Sir," I interrupted sharply, "my father's
memory is sacred to me, and so it must be to
every one who speaks of him in my presence."

"Sir," replied the old man with a sudden and
violent emotion, "I respect that sentiment, hut
when I speak of your father I find it hard to
forget that he was the man who killed your mother,
that heroic child, that saint, that angel!"

I had risen in great agitation.  M. Laubépin,
who had taken a few steps across the room, seized
my arm.  "Forgive me, young man," he said to
me.  "I loved your mother and wept for her.
You must forgive me."  Then returning to the
fire-place, he continued in his usual solemn tone:

"I had the honour and the pain of drawing up
your mother's marriage contract.

"In spite of my remonstrance, the strict
settlement of her property upon herself had not been
adopted, and it was only with much difficulty that
I got included in the deed a protective clause by
which about a third of your mother's estate could
not be sold, except with her consent duly and
legally authenticated.  A useless precaution,
marquis; I might call it the cruel precaution of an
ill-advised friendship.  This fatal clause brought
most intolerable sufferings to the very person
whose peace it was intended to secure.  I refer to
the disputes and quarrels and wrangles the echo
of which must sometimes have reached your ears,
and in which, bit by bit, your mother's last
heritage—her children's bread—was torn from her!"

"Spare me, M. Laubépin!"

"I obey....  I will speak only of the present.
Directly I was honoured with your confidence,
marquis, my first duty was to advise you not to
accept the encumbered estate unless after paying
all liabilities."

"Such a course seemed to cast a slur on my
father's memory, and I could not adopt it."

M. Laubépin darted one of his inquisitorial
glances at me, and continued:

"You are apparently aware that by not having
availed yourself of this perfectly legal method,
you became responsible for all liabilities, even if
they exceed the value of the estate itself.  And
that, it is my painful duty to tell you, is the case
in the present instance.  You will see by these
documents that after getting exceptionally favourable
terms for the town-house, you and your sister
are still indebted to your father's creditors to the
amount of forty-five thousand francs."

I was utterly stunned by this news, which far
exceeded my worst apprehensions.  For a minute
I stared at the clock without seeing the hour it
marked, and listened dazed to the monotonous
sound of the pendulum.

"Now," continued M. Laubépin, after a
silence, "the moment has come to tell you,
marquis, that your mother, in view of contingencies
which are unfortunately realized to-day, deposited
with me some jewels which are valued at about
fifty thousand francs.  To exempt this small sum,
now your sole resource, from the claims of the
creditors of the estate, we can, I believe, make use
of the legal resource which I shall have the honour
of submitting to you."

"That will not be necessary, M. Laubépin.  I
am only too glad to be able, through this unexpected
means, to pay my father's debts in full, and
I beg you to devote it to that purpose."

M. Laubépin bowed slightly.

"As you wish, marquis," he said, "but I must
point out to you that when this deduction has
been made, the joint fortune of Mlle. Hélène and
yourself will consist of something like four or five
thousand livres, which, at the present rate of
interest, will give you an income of two hundred
and twenty-five francs.  That being so, may I
venture to ask in a confidential, friendly, and
respectful way whether you have thought of any
way of providing for your own existence and for
that of your ward and sister?  And, generally,
what your plans are?"

"I tell you frankly I have none.  Whatever
plans I may have had are quite impossible in the
state of destitution to which I am now reduced.
If I were alone in the world I should enlist, but I
have my sister, and I cannot endure the thought
of seeing the poor child subjected to toil and
privations.  She is happy in the convent and young
enough to stay there some years longer.  I would
gladly accept any employment which would enable
me, by the strictest personal economy, to pay her
expenses each year and provide for her dowry in
the future."

M. Laubépin looked hard at me.

"At your age, marquis, you must not expect,"
he replied, "to achieve that praiseworthy object
by entering the slow ranks of public officials and
governmental functionaries.  You require an
appointment which will assure you from the outset
a yearly revenue of five or six thousand francs.
And I must also tell you that this desideratum
is not, in the present state of our social
organization, to be obtained by simply holding out your
hand.  Happily, I am in a position to make some
propositions to you which are likely to modify
your present situation immediately and without
much trouble."

M. Laubépin fixed his eyes on me more
penetratingly than ever.

"In the first place, marquis," he went on, "I
am the mouthpiece of a clever, rich, and influential
speculator.  This personage has originated
an idea for an important undertaking, the nature
of which will be explained to you at a later
period.  Its success largely depends on the
co-operation of the aristocracy of this country.  He
believes that an old and illustrious name like
yours, marquis, appearing among the originators
of the enterprise, would have great weight with
the special public to whom the prospectus will
be addressed.  In return for this service, he
engages to hand over to you a certain number of
fully paid-up shares, which are now valued at ten
thousand francs, and which will be worth two or
three times that amount when the affair is well
launched.  In addition, he——"

"That is enough, M. Laubépin.  Such infamies
are unworthy of the trouble you take
in mentioning them."

For a moment I saw his eyes flash and sparkle.
The stiff folds in his face relaxed as he smiled
faintly.

"If you do not approve of this proposition,
marquis," he said unctuously, "neither do I.
However, I thought it was my duty to submit
it for your consideration.  Here is another, which,
perhaps, will please you more, and which is really
more attractive.  One of my oldest clients is a
worthy merchant who has lately retired from
business, and now passes his life with an only and
much-loved daughter, in the quiet enjoyment of
an *aurea mediocritas* of twenty-five thousand
francs a year.  Two or three days ago my client's
daughter, by some accident, heard of your
position.  I thought it right—indeed, to speak
frankly, I was at some trouble—to ascertain that
the young lady would not hesitate for a moment
to accept the title of Marquise de Champcey.
Her appearance is agreeable, and she has many
excellent qualities.  Her father approves.  I await
only a word from you, marquis, to tell you the
name and residence of this interesting family."

"M. Laubépin, this quite decides me; from
to-morrow I shall cease to use a title which is
ridiculous for one in my position, and which, it
seems, makes me the object of the most paltry
intrigues.  My family name is Odiot, and
henceforth I shall use no other.  And now, though I
recognise gratefully the keen interest in my
welfare which has induced you to be the channel of
such remarkable propositions, I must beg you to
spare me any others of a like character."

"In that case, marquis, I have absolutely
nothing more to tell you," said M. Laubépin, and,
as if suddenly taken with a fit of joviality, he
rubbed his hands together with a noise like the
crackling of parchment.

"You are a difficult man to place, M. Maxime,"
he added, smiling.  "Oh, very difficult!
It is remarkable that I should not have already
noticed your striking likeness to your mother,
particularly your eyes and your smile ... but
we must not digress; and, since you are resolved
to maintain yourself by honest work, may I ask
what are your talents and qualifications?"

"My education, monsieur, was naturally that
of a man destined for a life of wealth and case.
However, I have studied law, and am nominally
a barrister."

"A barrister!  The devil you are!  But the
name is not enough.  At the bar, more than in
any other career, everything depends on personal
effort; and now—let us see—do you speak well,
marquis?"

"So badly that I believe I am incapable of
putting two sentences together in public."

"H'm!  Scarcely what one could call a heaven-born
orator.  You must try something else; but
the matter requires more careful consideration.
I see you are tired, marquis.  Here are your
papers, which you can examine at your leisure.
I have the honour to wish you farewell.  Allow
me to light you down.  A moment—am I to
await your further instructions before applying
the value of those jewels to the payment of your
creditors?"

"Oh, by no means.  But I should wish you
rather to deduct a just remuneration for your
kind exertions."

We had reached the landing of the staircase;
M. Laubépin, who stooped a little as he walked,
sharply straightened himself.

"So far as your creditors are concerned," he
said, "you may count upon my obedience, marquis.
As to me, I was your mother's friend, and
I beg humbly but earnestly that her son will
treat me as a friend."

I gave my hand to the old gentleman; he
shook it warmly and we parted.

Back in the little room I now occupy, under
the roof of the *hôtel*, which is mine no longer, I
wished to convince myself that the full
knowledge of my misery had not depressed me to a
degree unworthy of a man.  So I have sat down
to write an account of this decisive day of my
life, endeavouring to preserve exactly the phraseology
of the old notary, a mixture of stiffness and
courtesy, of mistrust and kind feeling, which more
than once made me smile, though my heart was
bleeding.

I am face to face with poverty.  Not the
haughty, hidden, and poetic poverty that among
forests and deserts and savannas fired my
imagination, but actual misery, need, dependence,
humiliation, and something worse even—the
poverty of the rich man who has fallen; poverty in a
decent coat; the poverty that hides its ungloved
hands from the former friends it passes in the
street.  Come, brother, courage, courage...!



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   *Monday, April 27th*.

For five days I have been waiting in vain for
news of M. Laubépin.  I had counted considerably
on the interest that he had appeared to feel
in me.  His experience, his business connections,
and the number of people he knows, would
enable him to be of service to me.  I was ready
to take all necessary steps under his direction,
but, left to myself, I do not know which way to
turn.  I thought he was one of the men who
promise little and do much.  I am afraid that
I have been mistaken.  This morning I determined
to go to his house on the pretext of returning
the papers he had given me, after verifying
their dreary exactitude.  I was told that he had
gone to enjoy a taste of country life at some
château in the heart of Brittany.  He would be
away two or three days longer.  I was completely
taken aback.  I had not only the pain of finding
indifference and desertion where I had looked for
the readiness of devoted friendship, I had, in
addition, the bitter disappointment of returning, as
I went, with an empty purse.  I had, in fact,
intended to ask M. Laubépin to advance me
some money from the three or four thousand
francs due to us after full payment of our debts.
In vain have I lived like an anchorite since
came to Paris.  The small sum I had reserved
for my journey is completely exhausted—so
completely that, after making a truly pastoral
breakfast this morning—*castanceæ molles et pressi
copia lactis*—I was obliged to have recourse to a
kind of trickery for my dinner to-night.  I will
make melancholy record of it here.

The less one has had for breakfast, the more
one wants for dinner.  I had felt all the force of
this axiom long before the sun had finished its
course.  Among the strollers whom the mild air
had attracted to the Tuileries this afternoon to
watch the first smiles of spring playing on the
faces of the marble fauns, the observant might
have noted a young man of irreproachable
appearance who seemed to study the awakening of
nature with extraordinary interest.  Not satisfied
with devouring the fresh verdure with his eyes,
he would furtively detach the young, appetizing
shoots and the half-opened leaves from their
stems, and put them to his lips with the curiosity
of a botanist.  I convinced myself in this way
that this form of nourishment, suggested by
accounts of shipwrecks, is of very little value.
Still, I enriched my experience with some
interesting discoveries: for instance, I know now that
the foliage of the chestnut has an exceedingly
bitter taste; that the rose is not unpleasant; that
the lime is oily and rather agreeable; the lilac
pungent—and I believe unwholesome.

Meditating on these discoveries, I walked
towards Hélène's convent.  I found the parlour
as crowded as a hive, and I was more than
usually bewildered by the tumultuous confidences of
the young bees.  Hélène arrived, her hair in
disorder, her cheeks flushed, her eyes red and
sparkling.  In her hand she had a piece of bread as
long as her arm.  As she embraced me in an
absent way, I asked:

"Well, little girl, what is the matter?  You've
been crying."

"No, Maxime, no, it's nothing."

"Well, what is it?  Now tell me...."

In a lower tone she said:

"Oh, I am very miserable, dear Maxime!"

"Really?  Tell me all about it while you eat
your bread."

"Oh, I shall certainly not eat my bread.  I am
too miserable to eat.  You know Lucy—Lucy
Campbell, my dearest friend.  Well, we've
quarrelled completely."

"Oh, *mon Dieu*!  Don't worry, darling, you'll
make it up.  It will be all right, dear."

"Oh, Maxime, that's impossible.  It was such
a serious quarrel.  It was nothing at first, but you
know one gets excited and loses one's head.
Listen, Maxime!  We were playing battledore, and
Lucy made a mistake about the score.  I was six
hundred and eighty, and she was only six hundred
and fifteen, and she declared she was six hundred
and sixty-five!  You must say that was a little
too bad.  Of course I said my figure was right,
and she said hers was.  'Well, mademoiselle,' I
said to her, 'let us ask these young ladies.  I
appeal to them.'  'No, mademoiselle,' she replied,
'I am sure I am right, and you don't play
fair.'  'And—and you, mademoiselle,' I said to
her—'you are a liar!'  'Very well, mademoiselle,'
she said then, 'I despise you too much to answer
you.'  Just at that moment Sister Sainte-Félix
came up, which was a good thing, for I am
sure I should have hit her.  Now, you know
what happened.  Can we possibly make it up?
No, it is impossible; it would be cowardly.
But I can't tell you how I suffer.  I don't
believe there's any one in the world so miserable
as I am."

"Yes, dear, it's difficult to imagine anything
more distressing; but it seems to me that you
partly brought it on yourself, for it was you who
used the most offensive word.  Tell me, is Lucy
in the parlour?"

"Yes, there she is, in the corner."

With a dignified and careful movement of her
head she indicated a very fair little girl.  Her
cheeks, too, were flushed, and her eyes were red.
Apparently she was giving an account of the
drama, which Sister Sainte-Félix had so fortunately
interrupted, to an old lady who was listening
attentively.

Mlle. Lucy, while she talked with an earnestness
appropriate to the subject, kept looking
furtively at Hélène and me.

"Dear child," I said to Hélène, "do you trust me?"

"Yes, Maxime, I trust you very much."

"In that case I will tell you what to do.  Go
very gently behind Mlle. Lucy's chair; take her
head in your hands—like this, when she is not
looking—and kiss her on both cheeks—like this,
with all your might—and then you will see what
she will do in her turn."

For a second or two Hélène seemed to hesitate;
then she set off at a great rate, fell like a
thunder-clap on Mlle. Campbell, but nevertheless
gave her the sweetest of surprises.  The two
young sufferers, at last eternally united, mingled
their tears in a touching group, while the respectable
old Mrs. Campbell blew her nose with a noise
as of a bagpipe.

Hélène came back to me radiant.

"Well, dear," I said, "I hope you're going to
eat your bread now."

"Oh, no!  I can't, Maxime.  I am too much
excited, and—besides, I must tell you—to-day a
new pupil came and gave us quite a feast of
meringues, éclairs, and chocolate-creams, and I am
not a bit hungry.  And I am in a great difficulty
about it, because when we're not hungry we have
to put our bread back in the basket, and in my
trouble I forgot, and I shall be punished.  But,
Maxime, as we're crossing the court when you go,
I shall try to drop it down the cellar without any
one seeing.

"What, little sister!" I said, colouring a little,
"you are going to waste that large piece of
bread?"

"It isn't good of me I know, because, perhaps,
there are poor people who would be very glad of
it, aren't there, Maxime?"

"There certainly are, dear."

"But what do you want me to do?  The poor
people don't come in here."

"Look here, Hélène, give me the bread, and
I'll give it in your name to the first poor man I
meet.  Will you?"

"Oh, yes!"

The bell rang for school.  I broke the bread in
two and hid the pieces shamefacedly in my great
coat pockets.

"Dear Maxime," said my sister, "you'll come
again soon, won't you?  Then you'll tell me
whether you met a poor man and gave him my
bread, and whether he liked it?  Good-bye,
Maxime."

"Yes, Hélène, I met a poor man and gave him
your bread, which he seized and carried off to his
solitary garret, and he liked it.  But this poor
man had not courage, for he wept as he ate the
food that had come from your dear little hands.
I will tell you all this, Hélène, because it is good
for you to know that there are sufferings more
serious than your childish woes.  I will tell you
everything, except the name of the poor man."



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   *Tuesday, April 28th*.

At nine o'clock this morning I called at
M. Laubépin's in the vague hope that he might have
returned earlier than he intended, but he is not
expected until to-morrow.  I thought at once of
seeing Mme. Laubépin and explaining the awkward
position I was placed in through her husband's
absence.  While I hesitated in a conflict of
shame and necessity, the old servant, alarmed,
perhaps, by my hungry gaze, settled the question by
suddenly shutting the door.  I made up my mind
hereupon to fast until the next day.  After all, I
said to myself, a day's abstinence does not kill
one.  If this showed an excessive pride, at all
events I was the only one to suffer, and
consequently it concerned no one but myself.  I
accordingly made my way to the Sorbonne, where I
attended several lectures, trying to fill up my
corporeal vacuum by spiritual sustenance.  But when
this resource came to an end I found it had been
quite inadequate.  And I had an attack of
nervous irritation which I tried to calm by walking.
It was a cold, misty day.  As I crossed the Pont
des Saints-Pères I stopped for a minute in spite
of myself.  Leaning on the parapet, I watched
the troubled water rushing under the arches.  I
know not what unholy thoughts shot through my
worn and weakened brain.  I saw in the gloomiest
colours a future of ceaseless struggle, of
dependence, and of humiliation, which I was approaching
by the dark gate of hunger; I felt a profound and
utter disgust of life; it seemed impossible to me
under such conditions.  At the same time a flame
of fierce and brutal anger leaped up in me.
Dazed and reeling, I hung over the void, and saw
all the river glittering with sparks of fire.

I will not say, as is usual, God would not have
it so.  I hate these cant phrases, and I dare to say
*I* would not.  God has made us free, and if ever
before I had doubted it, this supreme moment—when
soul and body, courage and cowardice, good
and evil, held mortal combat within me—would
have swept my doubts away forever.

Master of myself again, those terrible waves
only suggested an innocent, and rather absurd
longing to quench the thirst that tortured me.  I
soon remembered that I should find much purer
water in my room at home.  I went quickly
towards the *hôtel*, imagining that the most delicious
pleasures awaited me there.  With pathetic
childishness I delighted in this glorious device, and
wondered I had not thought of it sooner.  On
the boulevard I suddenly came face to face with
Gaston de Vaux, whom I had not seen for two
years.  After a moment's hesitation he stopped,
grasped my hand cordially, said a word or two
about my travels, and left me hurriedly.  But he
turned back.

"My friend," he said to me, "you must allow
me to let you share a piece of good luck I've just
had.  I have put my hand on a treasure; I have
got some cigars which cost me two francs each,
but really they are beyond price.  Here's one;
you must tell me how you like it.  *An revoir*,
old man!"

Wearily I mounted the six flights to my room,
and trembling with emotion, I seized my friendly
water-bottle and swallowed the contents in small
mouthfuls.  Afterward I lighted my friend's
cigar, and smiled encouragement at myself in the
glass.  Feeling that movement and the distraction
of the streets were good for me, I went out again
directly.  Opening my door, I was surprised and
annoyed to see the wife of the concierge of the
*hôtel* standing in the narrow corridor.  My
sudden appearance seemed to disconcert her.  This
woman had formerly been in my mother's service,
and had become a favourite with her, and when
she married, my mother had given her the profitable
post she still held.  For some days I had an
idea that she was watching me, and now, having
nearly caught her in the act, I asked her roughly
what she wanted.

"Oh, nothing, M. Maxime, nothing," she replied,
much confused.  "I was seeing to the gas."

I shrugged my shoulders and went away.

Night was falling, so I could walk about in the
more frequented places without being fearful of
awkward recognitions.  I was obliged to throw
away my cigar—it made me feel sick.  My promenade
lasted two or three hours, and painful hours
they were.  There is something peculiarly poignant
in feeling oneself attacked, in the midst of
the brilliance and plenty of civilization, by the
scourge of savage life—hunger.  It brings you
near to madness.  It's a tiger springing at your
throat in the middle of the boulevards.

I made some original reflections.  Hunger,
after all, is not an empty word.  There actually
is a complaint of that name, and there are human
beings who endure nearly every day what through
a mere accident I am suffering for once in my life.
And how many have their misery embittered by
troubles which I am spared!  I know that the
one being in the world whom I love is sheltered
from such sufferings as mine.  But how many
cannot suffer alone; how many must hear the
heart-rending cry of nature repeated on beloved
lips that ask for food; how many for whom pale
women and unsmiling children are waiting in bare
cold rooms!  Poor creatures!  Blessed be holy
charity!

After these thoughts I dared not complain;
they gave me courage to bear my trial to the end.
As a matter of fact I could have shortened it.
There are two or three restaurants where I am
known, and where, when I was rich, I had often
gone in without hesitation, though I had forgotten
to bring my purse.  I might have made some
such pretext.  Nor would it have been difficult
for me to borrow a franc or two in Paris.  But I
recoiled from such expedients.  They suggested
poverty too plainly, and they came too near to
trickery.  That descent is swift and slippery for
the poor, and I believe I would rather lose honesty
itself than the delicacy which gives distinction to
the commonplace virtue.  I have seen too often
with what facility this exquisite sentiment of
honesty loses its bloom, even in the finest natures,
not merely under the breath of misery, but at the
slightest contact with privation.  So I shall keep
strict watch over myself.  I shall be on my guard
henceforth against even the most innocent
compromise with conscience.  When bad times come,
do not accustom your soul to suppleness; it is
only too prone to yield.

Fatigue and cold drove me back about nine
o'clock.  The door of the *hôtel* was open.
Treading as lightly as a ghost, I had reached the
staircase when the sound of a lively conversation came
from the concierge's room.  They were talking
about me, for at this very moment the tyrant of
the house pronounced my name with unmistakable
contempt.

"Be good enough, Mme. Vauberger," said
the concierge, "not to trouble me with your
Maxime.  Did I ruin your Maxime?  Then what
are you talking to me about?  If he kills himself,
they'll bury him, won't they?"

"I tell you, Vauberger," his wife answered,
"it would have made your heart bleed to see him
drain his water-bottle.  And if I believed you
meant what you say in that offhand manner—just
like an actor—'If he kills himself, they'll bury
him!'  I would——  But I know you don't, because
you're a good sort, although you don't like
being upset.  Fancy being without fire or bread!
And that after being fed on dainties all your life,
and wrapped up in furs like a little pet cat.  It's a
shame and a disgrace.  A nice sort of government
yours is to allow such things!"

"But it has nothing to do with the government,"
said M. Vauberger, reasonably enough.
"And I'm sure you're wrong; it's not so bad as
all that.  He can't be wanting bread; it's impossible."

"All right, Vauberger.  I've more to tell you.
I've followed him.  I've watched him, and made
Edouard watch him, too.  Yes, I have.  I'm
certain he had no dinner yesterday, and no breakfast
to-day; and as I've searched his pockets and all
the drawers, and not found so much as a red cent,
you may be sure he hasn't had any dinner to-day,
for he's much too high and mighty to go and
beg one."

"Oh, is he?  So much the worse for him.
Poor people shouldn't be proud," said the
worthy concierge, true to the sentiments of his
calling.

I had had enough of this dialogue, and put an
end to it abruptly by opening the door and asking
M. Vauberger for a light.  I could not have
astounded him more if I had asked for his head.
Though I particularly wished not to give way
before these people, I could not help stumbling
once or twice as I went up the stairs.  My head
was swimming.  Usually my room was as cold as
ice.  Imagine my surprise at finding a bright,
cheerful fire, which sent a pleasant warmth through
the room.  I wasn't stoic enough to put it out,
and I blessed the kind hearts there are in the
world.  I stretched myself out in an old arm-chair
of Utrecht velvet, which, like myself, had been
brought by reverses from the first floor to the
garret.  I tried to sleep.  For half an hour I had been
dreaming in a kind of torpor of sumptuous
banquets and merry junketings, when the noise of the
door opening made me jump up with a start.  I
thought I was dreaming still when Mme. Vauberger
came in, carrying a big tray with two or
three savoury dishes steaming on it.  Before I
could shake off my lethargy she had put the tray
down and had begun to lay the cloth.  At last I
started up hastily.

"Well," I said, "what does this mean?  What
are you doing?"

Mme. Vauberger pretended to be greatly surprised.

"I thought you ordered dinner, sir?"

"Oh, no."

"Edouard told me that——"

"Edouard made a mistake; it's for one of the
other tenants; you had better see."

"But there's no other tenant on this floor,
sir ... I can't make out..."

"Well, it was not for me.  What does all
this mean?  Oh, you annoy me!  Take it away."

The poor woman began to fold the cloth,
looking at me reproachfully, like a favourite dog
who has been beaten.

"I suppose you've had dinner already, sir,"
she said, timidly.

"No doubt."

"That is a pity, because this dinner is quite
ready, and now it will be wasted, and the boy'll
get a scolding from his father.  If you hadn't had
your dinner already, sir, you would have very
much obliged me if——"

I stamped my foot violently.

"Leave the room, I tell you," I said, and as
she was going out I went up to her.  "My good
Louison," I said, "I understand, and I thank
you; but I am not very well to-night, and I have
no appetite."

"Ah, M. Maxime," she exclaimed, in tears,
"you don't know how you hurt my feelings.
Well, you can pay me for the dinner; you shall
if you like; you can give me the money as soon
as you get some ... but if you gave me a
hundred thousand francs, it wouldn't make me so
happy as seeing you eat my poor dinner.  You
would do me a great kindness, M. Maxime.  You,
who are so clever, you ought to understand how
I feel.  Oh, I know you will, M. Maxime!"

"Well, my dear Louison, what am I to do?
I can't give you a hundred thousand francs ... but
... I am going to eat your dinner.  All by
myself, too, if you don't mind."

"Certainly, sir.  Oh, thank you, sir; I thank
you very much indeed.  You have a kind heart, sir."

"And a good appetite, Louison.  Give me
your hand—oh, not to put money in, you may be
sure.  There!  *Au revoir*, Louison."

The good woman went out sobbing.

I did justice to Louison's dinner, and had just
finished writing these lines when a grave and
heavy footstep sounded on the stairs, and at the
same time I thought I heard the voice of my
humble providence whispering confidences in
hurried, nervous tones.  A moment or two later
there was a knock.  Louison slipped away in
the darkness, and the solemn outline of the old
notary appeared in the doorway.

M. Laubépin cast a keen glance at the tray
where I had left the fragments of my dinner.
Then coming towards me and opening his arms,
at once confused and reproachful, he said:

"In Heaven's name, marquis, why did you
not——"

He broke off, strode quickly about the room,
and then coming to a sudden halt, exclaimed:

"Young man, you had no right to do this;
you have given pain to a friend, and you have
made an old man blush."

He was much moved.  I looked at him, a
little moved myself and not knowing what to say,
when he suddenly clasped me in his arms and
murmured in my ear, "My poor child...!"

For a moment we said nothing.  When we
had sat down, M. Laubépin continued.

"Maxime," he said, "are you in the same
mind as when I left you?  Have you the courage
to accept the humblest work, the least
important occupation, provided it is honourable,
and that it gives you a livelihood and preserves
your sister from the sufferings and dangers of
poverty?"

"Most certainly I am; it's my duty, and I am
ready to do it."

"Very well, my friend.  Now listen to me.
I have just returned from Brittany.  In that
ancient province there is a family called Laroque,
who have for many years past honoured me with
their entire confidence.  This family is now
represented by an old man and two ladies whom age
or disposition render incapable of business.  The
Laroques have a substantial income derived from
their large estates in land, which have latterly
been managed by an agent whom I took the
liberty to regard as a rogue.  The day following our
last interview, Maxime, I received intelligence of
the death of this man.  I immediately set out for
the Château Laroque and asked for the appointment
for you.  I laid stress on your having been
called to the bar, and dwelt particularly on your
moral qualities.  Respecting your wishes, I did
not allude to your birth; you are not, and will
not, be known in that house under any name but
that of Maxime Odiot.  A pavilion at some
distance from the house will be allotted to you, and
you will be able to have your meals there when,
for any reason, you do not care to join the family
at table.  Your salary will be six thousand francs
a year.  How will that suit you?"

"It will suit me perfectly.  You must let me
acknowledge at once how much I feel the consideration
and delicacy of your friendship.  But to
tell you the truth, I am afraid I am rather a
strange kind of business man—rather a novice,
you know."

"You need have no anxiety on that score, my
friend.  I anticipated your scruples, and concealed
nothing from the parties concerned.  'Madame,'
I said to my excellent friend, Mme. Laroque,
'you require an agent and an administrator of
your income.  I offer you one.  He is far from
possessing the talents of his predecessor; he is by
no means versed in the mysteries of leases and
farm-freeholds; he does not know the alphabet
of the affairs you are so good as to intrust to him;
he has had no experience, no practice, and no
opportunity of learning; but he has something
which his predecessor lacked, which sixty years
of experience had not given him, and which he
would not have acquired in ten thousand years—and
that is honesty, madame.  I have seen him
under fire, and I will answer for him.  Engage
him; he will be indebted to you, and so shall
I.'  Young man, Mme. Laroque laughed very much
at my way of recommending people, but in the
end it turned out to be a good way, for it has
succeeded."

The worthy old gentleman then offered to
impart to me some elementary general notions
on the kind of administration I was about to
undertake, and to these he added, in connection
with the interests of the Laroque family, the
results of some inquiries which he had made
and put into shape for me.

"And when am I to go, my dear sir?"

"To say the truth, my boy" (he had entirely
dropped the "marquis"), "the sooner the better,
for those good people could not make out a
receipt unaided.  My excellent friend, Mme. Laroque,
more especially, though an admirable woman
in many respects, is beyond conception careless,
indiscreet, and childish in business matters.  She
is a Creole."

"Ah! she is a Creole," I repeated with some
vivacity.

"Yes, young man, an old Creole lady," M. Laubépin
said dryly.  "Her husband was a Breton;
but these details will come in good time....
Good-bye till to-morrow, Maxime, and be of good
cheer.  Ah!  I had forgotten.  On Thursday
morning, before my departure, I did something which
will be of service to you.  Among your creditors
there are some rogues, whose relations with your
father were obviously usurious.  Armed with the
thunders of the law, I reduced their claims on
my own responsibility, and made them give me
receipts in full.  So now your capital amounts
to twenty thousand francs.  Add to this reserve
what you are able to save each year from your
salary, and in ten years' time we shall have a good
dowry for Hélène.  Well, well, come and lunch
with Mâitre Laubépin to-morrow, and we will
settle all the rest.  Good-bye, Maxime;
good-night, my dear child!"

"God bless you, sir!"



.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: right

   CHÂTEAU DE LAROQUE (D'ARZ), *May 1st*.

I left Paris yesterday.  My last interview with
M. Laubépin was painful.  I feel the affection
of a son for the old man.  Then I had to bid
Hélène farewell.  It was necessary to tell her
something of the truth, to make her understand
why I was compelled to accept an appointment.
I talked vaguely of temporary business difficulties.
The poor child understood, I think, more
than I had said; her large, wondering eyes filled
with tears as she fell upon my neck.

At last I got away.  I went by train to
Rennes, where I stayed the night.  This morning
I took the diligence, which put me down, four
or five hours ago, at a little Morbilian town not
far from the château of Laroque.  We had
travelled ten leagues or more from Rennes, and still
I had seen nothing to justify the reputed
picturesqueness of our ancient Armorica.  A flat,
green country without variety; eternal apple-trees
in eternal fields; ditches and wooded slopes
shutting off the view on both sides of the road;
here and there a nook full of rural charm, and
a few blouses and glazed hats relieving the very
ordinary scene.  All this strongly inclined me to
think that poetic Brittany was merely a
pretentious and somewhat pallid sister of Lower
Normandy.  Tired of disillusions and apple-trees, I
had for more than an hour ceased to take any
notice of the country.  I was dozing heavily,
when I felt suddenly that the lumbering vehicle
was lurching forward heavily.  At the same
time the pace of the horses slackened, and a
clanking noise, together with a peculiar
vibration, proclaimed that the worst of drivers had
applied the worst of brakes to the worst of
diligences.  An old lady clutched my arm with the
ready sympathy excited by a sense of common
danger.  I put my head out of the window; we
were descending, between two lofty slopes, an
extremely steep hill, evidently the work of an
engineer too much enamoured of the straight line.

Half-sliding, half-rolling, we soon reached the
bottom of a narrow valley of gloomy aspect.  A
feeble brook flowed silently and slowly among
thick reeds, and over its crumbling banks hung a
few moss-grown tree-trunks.  The road crossed
the stream by a bridge of a single arch, and, climbing
the farther hill, cut a white track across a wide,
barren, and naked *lande* whose crest stood out
sharply against the horizon in front of us.  Near
the bridge and close to the road was a ruined
hovel.  Its air of desolation struck to the heart.
A young, robust man was splitting wood by the
door; his long, fair hair was fastened at the back
by a black ribbon.  He raised his head, and I was
surprised at the strange character of his features
and at the calm gaze of his blue eyes.  He greeted
me in an unknown tongue and with a quiet, soft,
and timid accent.  A woman was spinning at the
cottage window; the style of her hair and dress
reproduced with theatrical fidelity the images of
those slim chatelaines of stone we see on tombs.
These people did not look like peasants; they had,
in the highest degree, that easy, gracious, and
serious air we call distinction.  And they had, too,
the sad and dreamy expression often seen among
people whose nationality has been destroyed.

I had got down to walk up the hill.  The
*lande*, which was not separated from the road,
extended all round me as far and farther than I
could see; stunted furze clung to the black
earth on every side; here and there were ravines,
clefts, deserted quarries, and low rocks, but no
trees.

Only when I had reached the high ground I
saw the distant sombre line of the heath broken
by a more distant strip of the horizon.  A little
serrated, blue as the sea and steeped in sunlight, it
seemed to open in the midst of this desolation the
sudden vision of some radiant fairy region.  At
last I saw Brittany!

I had to engage a carriage to take me the two
leagues that separated me from the end of my
journey.  During the drive, which was not by any
means a rapid one, I vaguely remember seeing
woods, glades, lakes, and oases of fresh verdure in
the valleys; but as we approached the Château
Laroque I was besieged by a thousand apprehensions
which left no room for tourist's reflections.
In a few minutes I was to enter a strange
family on the footing of a sort of servant in
disguise, and in a position which would barely secure
me the consideration and respect of the lackeys
themselves.  This was something very new to me.
The moment M. Laubépin proposed this post of
bailiff, all my instincts, all my habits, had risen in
violent protest against the peculiar character of
dependence attached to such duties.  Nevertheless,
I had thought it impossible to refuse without
appearing to slight my old friend's zealous efforts
on my behalf.  Moreover, in a less dependent
position, I could not have hoped to obtain for
many years the advantages which I should have
here from the outset, and which would enable me
to work for my sister's future without losing time.
I had therefore overcome my repugnance, but it
had been very strong, and now revived more
strongly than ever in face of the imminent reality.
I had need to study once more the articles on
duty and sacrifice in the moral code that every
man carries in his conscience.  At the same time
I told myself that there is no situation, however
humble, where personal dignity cannot maintain
itself—and none, in fact, that it cannot ennoble.
Then I sketched out a plan of conduct towards the
Laroque family, and promised myself to show a
conscientious zeal for their interests, and, to
themselves, a just deference equally removed from
servility and from stiffness.  But I could not conceal
from myself that the last part of my task,
obviously the most delicate, would be either greatly
simplified or complicated by the special characters
and dispositions of the people with whom I was
to come into contact.  Now, M. Laubépin, while
recognising that my anxiety on these personal
questions was quite legitimate, had been
stubbornly sparing of information and details on the
subject.  However, just as I was starting, he had
handed me a private memorandum counselling me
at the same time to throw it in the fire as soon as
I had profited by its contents.  This memorandum
I took from my portfolio and proceeded to study
its sibylline utterances, which I here reproduce
exactly.

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: center

   "CHÂTEAU DE LAROQUE (D'ARZ)

.. class:: center

   "LIST OF PERSONS LIVING AT THE AFORESAID CHÂTEAU

"1st.  M. Laroque (Louis-Auguste), octogenarian,
present head of the family, main source of
its wealth: an old sailor, famous under the first
empire as a sort of authorized pirate; appears to
have enriched himself by lawful enterprises of
various kinds on the sea; has lived in the colonies
for a long while.  Born in Brittany, he returned
and settled there about thirty years since,
accompanied by the late Pierre-Antoine Laroque, his
only son, husband of

"2d.  Mme. Laroque (Joséphine-Clara),
daughter-in-law of the above-mentioned; by origin a
Creole; aged forty years; indolent disposition;
romantic temperament; certain whimsies: a
beautiful nature.

"3d.  Mlle. Laroque (Marguerite-Louise), the
grand-daughter, daughter, and presumptive heiress
of the preceding, aged twenty years; Creole and
Bretonne; cherishes certain chimeras; a beautiful
nature.

"4th.  Mme. Aubry, widow of one Aubry, a
stock-broker, who died in Belgium; a second
cousin, lives with the family.

"5th.  Mlle. Hélouin (Caroline-Gabrielle), aged
twenty-six; formerly governess, now companion;
cultivated intellect; character doubtful.

"Burn this."

.. vspace:: 2

In spite of its reticence, this document was of
some service to me.  Relieved from the dread of
the unknown, I felt that my apprehensions had
partly subsided.  And if, as M. Laubépin asserted,
there were two fine characters in the Château
Laroque, it was a higher proportion than one could
have expected to find among five inhabitants.

After a drive of two hours the coachman stopped
at a gate flanked by two lodges.

I left my heavy luggage there, and went towards
the château, carrying a valise in one hand,
while I used the other to cut off the heads of the
marguerites with my cane.  After walking a little
distance between rows of large chestnuts I came
to a spacious circular garden, emerging into a park
a little farther on.  Right and left I saw deep
vistas opening out between groves already verdant,
water flowing under trees, and little white boats
laid up in rustic boat-houses.

Facing me was the château, an imposing building
in the elegant half-Italian style of the early
years of Louis XIII.  At the foot of the double
perron, and under the lofty windows of the façade
stretched a long terrace, which formed a kind of
private garden, approached by several broad, low
steps.  The gay and sumptuous aspect of this
place caused me a real disappointment, which was
not lessened when, as I drew nearer to the terrace,
I heard the noise of young and laughing voices
rising above the distant tinkle of a piano.  Plainly
I had come to an abode of pleasure very different
from the old and gloomy donjon of my imaginings.
However, the time for reflection had passed.
I went quickly up the steps, and suddenly found
myself in the midst of a scene, which in any other
circumstances I should have thought extremely
pretty.

On one of the lawns of the flower-garden half
a dozen young girls, linked in couples and laughing
at themselves, whirled in a flood of sunshine,
while a piano, touched by a skilful hand, sent
the rhythms of a riotous waltz through an open
window.

But I had scarcely had time to note the
animated faces of the dancers, their loosened hair,
and large hats flapping on their shoulders.  My
sudden appearance had been received with a cry
of general alarm, succeeded by profound silence.
The dancing ceased, and all the band awaited the
advance of the stranger in array of battle.  But
the stranger had come to a halt with signs of
evident embarrassment.  Though for some time past
I had scarcely troubled my head about my social
claims, I must confess that at this moment I
should gladly have got rid of my hand-bag.  But
I had to make the best of the situation.  As I
advanced, hat in hand, towards the double
staircase leading to the vestibule of the château the
piano ceased abruptly.  A large Newfoundland
first presented himself at the window, putting his
lion-like head on the cross-bar between his two
hairy paws; immediately after there appeared a
tall young girl, whose somewhat sunburnt face
and serious expression were framed in a mass of
black and lustrous hair.  Her eyes, which I thought
extraordinarily large, examined the scene outside
with nonchalant curiosity.

"Well, what is the matter?" she asked in a
quiet tone.

I made her a low bow, and once more cursing
the bag which evidently amused the young ladies,
I crossed the perron hastily, and entered the house.

In the hall a gray-haired servant, dressed in
black, took my name.  A few minutes later I
was shown into a large drawing-room hung with
yellow silk.  There I at once recognised the
young lady I had just seen at the window.  She
was beyond question remarkably beautiful.  By
the fire-place, where a regular furnace was blazing,
a lady of middle age and of marked Creole type
of feature, sat buried in a large arm-chair among
a mass of eider-down pillows and cushions of all
sizes.  Within her reach stood an antique tripod
surmounted by a *brasero*, to which she frequently
held her pale and delicate hands.  Near
Mme. Laroque sat a lady knitting, whom I recognised
at once by her morose and disagreeable expression
as the second cousin, the widow of the stock-broker
who died in Belgium.  Mme. Laroque
looked at me as if she were more than surprised,
as if she were astounded.  She asked my name
again.

"I beg your pardon ... Monsieur...?"

"Odiot, madame."

"Maxime Odiot—the manager, the steward—that
M. Laubépin...?"

"Yes, madame."

"You are quite sure?"

I could not help smiling.

"Yes, madame, quite sure."

She glanced quickly at the widow of the
stock-broker, and then at the grave young girl,
as if to say, "Is it possible?"  Then she moved
slightly among her cushions, and continued:

"Pray sit down, M. Odiot," she said.  "I
must thank you very much for placing your
talents at our service.  We need your help badly,
I assure you, for—it cannot be denied—we have
the misfortune to be very wealthy."

Seeing the second cousin raise her shoulders
at this, Mme. Laroque went on: "Yes, my dear
Mme. Aubry, I do say so, and I hold to it.  God
sent me riches to try me.  Most certainly I was
born for poverty and privation, for devotion and
sacrifice; but I have always been crossed.  For
instance, I should have loved to have had an
invalid husband.  M. Laroque was an exceptionally
healthy man.  That is how my destiny has been
and will be marred from beginning to end——"

"Oh, don't talk like that!" said Mme. Aubry
dryly.  "Poverty would agree with you—a person
who can't deny herself a single indulgence or
refinement!"

"One moment, my dear madame," returned
Mme. Laroque, "I do not believe in useless
sacrifices.  If I subjected myself to the worst
privations, who would be the better for it?  Would
you be any happier if I shivered with cold from
morning till night?"

By an expressive gesture Mme. Aubry signified
that she would not be any happier, but that
she considered Mme. Laroque's language
extremely affected and ridiculous.

"After all," continued Mme. Laroque, "good
fortune or ill fortune, what does it matter?  As I
said, M. Odiot, we are very rich, and little as I
may value our wealth, it is my duty to preserve
it for my daughter, though the poor child cares no
more for it than I.  Do you, Marguerite?"

A slight smile broke the curve of Mlle. Marguerite's
disdainful lips at this question, and the
low arch of her eyebrows contracted momentarily;
then the grave, haughty face subsided into repose
again.

"M. Odiot," resumed Mme. Laroque, "you
shall be shown the place, which, at M. Laubépin's
explicit request, has been reserved for you; but
before this I should like you to be introduced to
my father-in-law, who will be very much pleased
to see you.  My dear cousin, will you ring?
M. Odiot, I hope that you will give us the pleasure of
your company at dinner to-day.  Good-bye—for
the present."

I was intrusted to the care of a servant, who
asked me to wait in a room next to the one I had
just left, until he had ascertained M. Laroque's
wishes.  He had not closed the door of the *salon*,
so it was impossible for me not to hear these
words spoken by Mme. Laroque with the
good-natured irony habitual to her:

"There!  Can you understand Laubépin?  He
talked of a man of a certain age; very simple, very
steady, and he sends me a gentleman like that!"

Mlle. Marguerite said something, but so quietly
that I could not hear it, much to my regret, I
confess.  Her mother replied immediately:

"That may be so, my dear, but it is none the
less absolutely ridiculous of Laubépin.  Do you
expect that a man of that kind will go running
about ploughed fields in *sabots*?  I will wager that
man has never worn *sabots*; he doesn't know what
they are.  Well, it may be a prejudice of mine,
dear, but *sabots* seem to me essential to a good
bailiff.  Marguerite, it has just occurred to me,
you might take him to your grandfather."

Mlle. Marguerite entered the room where I
was almost directly.  She seemed vexed to find
me there.

"Pardon me, mademoiselle," I said, "but the
servant asked me to wait here."

"Will you be so good as to follow me, sir?"

I followed her.  She made me climb a staircase,
cross many corridors, and at last brought me
to a kind of gallery, where she left me.  I
amused myself by examining the pictures.  They
were, for the most part, very ordinary sea pieces
painted to glorify the old privateersmen of the
Empire.  There were several rather murky sea-fights,
in which it was very evident that the little
brig Amiable, Captain Laroque, twenty-six guns,
gave John Bull a great deal of trouble.  Then
came several full-length portraits of Captain
Laroque, which naturally attracted my particular
attention.  With certain slight variations they all
represented a man of gigantic height, wearing
a sort of republican uniform with large facings, as
luxuriant of locks as Kléber, and looking straight
before him with an energetic, glowing, and
sombre expression.  Altogether not exactly a pleasant
sort of man.  While I studied this mighty figure,
which perfectly realized the general idea of a
privateersman and even of a pirate, Mlle. Marguerite
asked me to come into the room.  I found myself
face to face with a shrivelled and decrepit old
man, whose eyes showed scarcely a spark of life,
and who, as he welcomed me, touched with
trembling hand the cap of black silk which covered a
skull that shone like ivory.

"Grandfather," said Mlle. Marguerite, raising
her voice, "this is M. Odiot."

The poor old privateersman raised himself a
little, as he looked at me with a dull and wavering
expression.

I sat down at a sign from Mlle. Marguerite,
who repeated:

"M. Odiot, the new bailiff, grandfather."

"Ah—good-day, sir," murmured the old man.

An interval of most painful silence followed.
Captain Laroque, his body bent in two and his
head hanging down, fixed a bewildered look on
me.  At last, having apparently found a highly
interesting subject of conversation, he said in a
dull, deep voice:

"M. de Beauchêne is dead!"

I was not provided with a reply to this
unexpected communication.  I had not the slightest
idea who M. de Beauchêne might be; Mlle. Marguerite
did not take the trouble to tell me; so
I limited the expression of my regret at this
unhappy event to a slight exclamation of
condolence.  But the old captain apparently thought
this was not adequate, for the next moment he
repeated, in the same mournful voice:

"M. de Beauchêne is dead!"

This persistence increased my embarrassment.
I saw Mlle. Marguerite impatiently tapping her
foot on the floor.  Despair seized me, and,
catching at the first phrase that came into my head,
I said:

"Yes; and what did he die of?"

I had scarcely asked the question, when an
angry look from Mlle. Marguerite told me that
I was suspected of irreverent mockery.  Though
I was not conscious of anything worse than a
foolish *gaucherie*, I did all I could to give the
conversation a more pleasant character.  I spoke
of the pictures in the gallery, of the great
emotions they must recall, of the respectful interest
I felt in contemplating the hero of these glorious
scenes.  I even went into detail, and instanced
with no certain warmth of feeling two or three
battles in which I thought the brig Aimable
had actually accomplished miracles.  While I
thus expressed the courteous interest of good
breeding, Mlle. Marguerite still, to my surprise,
regarded me with manifest dissatisfaction and
annoyance.

Her grandfather, however, listened attentively,
and I saw that his head was rising little by little.
A strange smile lighted up his haggard face and
swept away his wrinkles.  All at once he rose, and,
seizing the arms of his chair, drew himself up to
his full height; the glare of battle flashed from
the hollow sockets of his eyes, and he shouted in
a sonorous voice that made me start:

"Helm to windward!  Hard to windward!
Larboard fire!  Lay to; lay to!  Grapple, smart
now, we have them!  Fire, there above!  Sweep
them well, sweep the bridge!  Now follow
me—together—down with the English, down with the
cursed Saxon!  Hurrah!"

With this last cry, which rattled hoarsely in his
throat, he sank exhausted into his chair; in vain
his grand-daughter sought to aid him.  Mlle.
Laroque, with a quick imperious gesture, urged
me to depart, and I left the room immediately.
I found my way as best I could through the
labyrinth of corridors and staircases, congratulating
myself very much on the talent for *apropos*
which I had displayed in my interview with the
old captain of the Aimable.

Alain, the gray-haired servant who had received
me when I arrived, was waiting for me in the hall
to tell me from Mme. Laroque that I should not
have time to go to my quarters before dinner, and
that it would not be necessary for me to change
my dress.  As I entered the *salon*, a company of
about twenty people were leaving it in order of
precedence on their way to the dining-room.  This
was the first time I had taken part in any social
function since the change in my condition.
Accustomed to the small distinctions which the
etiquette of the drawing-room grants to birth and
fortune, I felt keenly the first symptoms of that
indifference and contempt to which my new situation
must necessarily expose me.  Repressing as
well as I could this ebullition of false pride, I gave
my arm to a young lady, well made and pretty,
though rather small.  She had kept in the
background as the guests passed out, and, as I had
guessed, she proved to be the governess,
Mlle. Hélouin.  The place at table marked as mine was
next to hers.  While we were taking our seats,
Mlle. Marguerite appeared guiding like Antigone
the slow and dragging steps of her grandfather.
With the air of tranquil majesty peculiar to her,
she came and sat down on my right, and the big
Newfoundland, who seemed to be the official
guardian of this princess, took up his place as
sentinel behind her chair.  I thought it my duty to
express at once my regret at having so maladroitly
aroused memories which seemed to have such an
unfortunate effect on her grandfather.

"It is for me to apologize," she answered.  "I
should have warned you never to speak of the
English in my grandfather's presence....  Do
you know Brittany well?"

I said that I had not seen it till to-day, but
that I was perfectly delighted to know it, and to
show, moreover, that I was worthy so to do, I
enlarged in lyric style on the picturesque beauties
that had struck me during the journey.  Just as I
was hoping that this clever flattery would secure
me the good graces of the young Bretonne, I was
surprised to see her show symptoms of impatience
and boredom.  Decidedly I was not fortunate
with this young lady.

"Good!  I see," she said with a singular
expression of irony, "that you love all that is
beautiful, all that appeals to the soul and the
imagination—nature, bloom, heather, rocks, and the fine
arts.  You will get on wonderfully well with
Mlle. Hélouin, who adores all those things.  For
my part I care nothing about them."

"Then in Heaven's name, mademoiselle, what
are the things you love?"

I asked the question in a playful tone.
Mlle. Marguerite turned sharply on me, flashed a
haughty look at me, and replied curtly:

"I love my dog.  Here, Mervyn!"

She thrust her hand fondly into the Newfoundland's
thick coat.  Standing on his hind
legs, he had already stretched his huge head
between my plate and Mlle. Marguerite's.

I began to observe this young lady with more
interest, and to search for the outward signs of the
unimpressionable soul on which she appeared to
pride herself.

I had at first supposed that Mlle. Laroque was
very tall, but this impression was due to the noble
and harmonious character of her beauty.  She is
really of medium height.  The rounded oval of
her face and her haughty and well-poised neck are
lightly tinged with sombre gold.  Her hair, which
lies in strong relief upon her forehead, ripples at
every movement of her head with bluish reflections.
The fine and delicate nostrils seem to have
been copied from the divine model of a Roman
Madonna, and cut in living pearl.  Under the
large, deep, and pensive eyes, the golden sun-burn
of the cheeks deepens into an aureole of deeper
brown, which looks like the shadow of the
eyelashes, or may be a circle seared by the burning
glances of her eyes.

It is hard to describe the sovereign sweetness of
the smile which animates this lovely face at
intervals, and tempers the splendour of the great eyes.
Of a surety, the goddess of poetry, of reverie, and
of fairy realms might boldly claim the homage of
mortals under the form of this child, who loves
nothing but her dog.  In her rarest creations
nature often reserves her most cruel deceptions
for us.

After all, it matters little to me.  I see plainly
that I am to play in the imagination of
Mlle. Marguerite a part something like that of a negro,
which, as we know, is not an object particularly
attractive to Creoles.  For my part, I flatter
myself that I am quite as proud as Mlle. Marguerite.
The most impossible kind of love for me is one
which might lay me open to the charge of scheming
or self-seeking.  But I fancy that I shall not
require much moral courage to meet so remote a
danger, for Mlle. Marguerite's beauty is of the
kind which attracts the contemplation of the
artist, rather than any warmer and more human
sentiment.

However, at the name of Mervyn, which
Mlle. Marguerite had given to her body-guard,
Mlle. Hélouin, my left-hand neighbour, plunged boldly
into the Arthurian cycle, and was so good as to
inform me that Mervyn was the correct name of the
celebrated enchanter, whom the vulgar call
Merlin.  From the Knights of the Round Table she
worked back to the days of Cæsar and all the
hierarchy of druids, bards, and ovates defiled in tedious
procession before me.  After them we fell, as a
matter of course, from *dolmen* to *menhir* and from
*galgal* to *cromlech*.

While I wandered in Celtic forests with
Mlle. Hélouin, who wanted only a little more flesh to
make quite a respectable druidess, the widow of
the stock-broker made the echoes resound with
complaints as ceaseless and monotonous as those
of a blind beggar: They had forgotten to give
her a foot-warmer!  They gave her cold soup!
They gave her bones without meat!  That was
how she was treated!  Still, she was used to it.
Ah, it is sad to be poor, very sad!  She wished
she were dead.

"Yes, doctor"—she was speaking to her
neighbour, who listened to her wailings with
slightly ironical interest—"yes, doctor, I am not
joking; I do wish I were dead.  I am sure it
would be a great relief to everybody.  Think
what it must be—to have been in the position
I've been in, to have eaten off silver plate with
one's own coat of arms, and now to be reduced to
charity, to be the sport of servants!  No one
knows what I suffer in this house; no one ever
will know.  The proud suffer without complaining,
so I say nothing, doctor, but I think all the more."

"Of course, dear lady," said the doctor, whose
name was Desmarets.  "Don't say any more.
Take a good drink.  That will calm you."

"Nothing but death will calm me, doctor."

"Very well, madame, I am ready when you
are," said the doctor resolutely.

Towards the centre of the table the attention
of the company was monopolized by the careless,
caustic, and animated braggadocio of a M. de
Bévallan, who seemed to be allowed the latitude
of a very intimate friend.  He is a very tall man,
no longer young, of a type closely akin to that of
Francis I.

They listened to him as if he were an oracle,
and Mlle. Laroque herself showed as much interest
and admiration as she seemed capable of
feeling for anything in this world.  But, as most of
his popular witticisms referred to local anecdotes
and parish gossip, I could not adequately
appreciate the merits of this Armorican lion.

I had reason, however, to appreciate his
courtesy; after dinner he offered me a cigar, and
showed me the way to the smoking-room, where
he did the honours to three or four extremely
young men, who evidently thought him a model
of good manners and refined wickedness.

"Well, Bévallan," said one of these young
fellows, "you've not given up hopes of the
priestess of the sun-god?"

"Never!" replied M. de Bévallan.  "I would
wait ten months—ten years, if necessary—but I
will marry her or no one shall!"

"You're a lucky chap!  The governess will
help you to be patient."

"Must I cut out your tongue, or cut off your
ears, young Arthur?" said M. de Bévallan, going
towards him and indicating my presence with a
hasty gesture.

A delightful conversational pell-mell then
followed, which introduced me to all the horses, all
the dogs, and all the ladies of the neighbourhood.
It would not be a bad thing for ladies if, for once
in their lives, they could hear the kind of
conversation which goes on between men in the effusive
mood that follows a copious repast.  It would
show them exactly the delicacy of our manners,
and the amount of confidence they are calculated
to inspire.  I am not in the least prudish, but in
my opinion this conversation outran the limits
of the freest jesting; it touched on everything,
gaily outraged everything, took on a gratuitous
tone of universal profanation.  My education is,
perhaps, incomplete, for it has left me with a
certain reserve of reverence, that I think should be
maintained even in the wildest extravagances of
high spirits.

But we have in the France of to-day our young
America, which is not happy unless it can
blaspheme a little after drinking; we have the future
hopes of the nation, those amiable little ruffians,
without father or mother, without God or country,
who seem to be the raw products of some heartless
and soulless machine, which has accidentally
deposited them on this planet not at all to its
beautification.

In short, M. de Bévallan, who had appointed
himself professor of cynicism to these beardless
*roués*, did not please me, nor do I think that I
pleased him.  I retired very early on the ground
of fatigue.

At my request old Alain procured a lantern
and guided me across the park to my future
quarters.  After a few minutes' walk, we crossed a
wooden bridge over a stream and found ourselves
in front of a massive arched doorway, flanked by
two small towers.  It was the entrance to the
ancient château.  A ring of aged oak and pine
shut in this feudal fragment, and gave it an air of
profound seclusion.  It is in this ruin that I am
to live.  My apartments run above the door from
one of the towers to the other, and consist of
three rooms very neatly hung with chintz.  I am
not displeased with this gloomy abode; it suits
my fortunes.  As soon as I had got rid of
Alain I began to write the account of this eventful
day, breaking off occasionally to listen to the
gentle murmur of the stream under my window,
and to the call of the legendary owl celebrating
his doleful loves in the neighbouring woods.



.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: right

   *July 1st*.

I must now try to pick up the thread of my
personal and private life, which for the past two
months has been somewhat lost among the daily
duties of my post.

The day after my arrival I stayed at home for
some hours, studying the ledgers and papers of
my predecessor, *le père Hivart*, as they call him
here.  I lunched at the château, where only a few
of last night's guests remained.  Mme. Laroque
had lived a great deal in Paris before her father-in-law's
health condemned her to perpetual rusticity.
In her retirement she had kept her taste for the
culture, elegance, or frivolity which had centred
in the Rue du Bac when Mme. de Staël and her
turban held sway.  She had also visited most
of the large cities of Europe, and had brought
away from them an interest in literature far
exceeding the ordinary Parisian curiosity and
erudition.  She read a great many newspapers and
reviews, and endeavoured to follow, as far as it
was possible at such a distance, the movement of
that refined civilization of which museums and
new books are the more or less ephemeral fruit
and flowers.  We were talking at lunch about a
new opera, and Mme. Laroque asked M. de Bévallan
a question about it which he could not answer,
although he professes to be well informed of all
that takes place on the Boulevard des Italiens.
Mme. Laroque then turned to me with an air that
showed how little she expected her man of
business to be acquainted with such matters; but it
happened, unfortunately, that these were the only
"affairs" with which I was familiar.  I had heard
in Italy this very opera which had just been played
in France for the first time.  The very reserve of
my answers excited Mme. Laroque's curiosity;
she questioned me closely, and before long put me
in possession of all the enthusiasms, souvenirs, and
impressions she had got in her travels.  Soon we
were discussing the most celebrated theatres and
galleries of the Continent like old friends, and
when we left the table our conversation was so
animated that, to avoid breaking the thread of it,
Mme. Laroque almost unconsciously took my arm.
We continued our exchange of sympathies in the
drawing-room, Mme. Laroque gradually dropping
the kindly, patronizing tone which had rather
grated on me hitherto.

She confessed that she was possessed by a
mania for the theatre, and that she thought of
having some theatricals at the château.  She asked
my advice on the management of this amusement,
and I gave her some details of particular plays
that I had seen in Paris and St. Petersburg.
Then, as I had no intention of abusing her
good-nature, I rose quickly, saying that I meant to
inaugurate my work at once by examining a large
farm about two leagues from the château.  This
announcement seemed to fill Mme. Laroque with
consternation; she looked at me, fidgeted among
her cushions, held her hands to the brazier, and at
last said in a low voice:

"Oh, what does it matter?  You can put it off."

And as I insisted, she replied with comical
embarrassment:

"But you cannot; the roads are horrible....
You must wait for the fine weather."

"No, madame," I said, smiling, "I will not
wait a minute; if I am to be your bailiff I must
look after your affairs."

"Madame," said old Alain, who had come in,
"M. Odiot could have *le père Hivart's* old gig; it
is not on springs, but it's all the more solid for
that."

Mme. Laroque darted a withering glance at
the miserable Alain for daring to suggest *le père
Hivart's* gig to an agent who had been to the
Grand Duchess Hélène's theatricals.

"Wouldn't the buggy be able to do it,
Alain?" she asked.

"The buggy, madame?  Oh, no!  I don't believe
it could get into the lane, and if it did, it
would certainly not come out whole."

I declared that I could walk easily.

"No, no," declared Mme. Laroque; "that's
impossible.  I couldn't allow it.  Let me see
... We have half a dozen horses here doing nothing;
but perhaps you don't ride?"

"Oh, I ride, but—you really need not—I am
going to——"

"Alain, get a horse saddled for M. Odiot....
Which do you suggest, Marguerite?"

"Give him Proserpine," whispered M. de Bévallan
maliciously.

"Oh, no! not Proserpine," declared Marguerite.

"And why not Proserpine?" I asked.

"Because she'd throw you," said the girl frankly.

"Oh, would she?  Really?  May I ask,
mademoiselle, if you ride her?"

"Yes, I do, but she gives me some trouble."

"Oh, well, perhaps she'll give you less when
I've ridden her once or twice!  That decides me.
Have Proserpine saddled, Alain."

Mlle. Marguerite's dark eyebrows contracted
as she sat down with a gesture that disclaimed all
responsibility for the catastrophe she foresaw.

"If you want spurs," said M. de Bévallan,
who evidently did not mean me to return alive,
"I have a pair at your service."

Without appearing to notice Mlle. Marguerite's
reproachful look at the obliging gentleman,
I accepted his offer.  Five minutes later a
frantic scuffling announced the approach of
Proserpine, who was brought with some difficulty to
one of the flights of steps under the private
garden.  She was a fine half-bred, as black as jet.
I at once went down the perron.  Some kind
people, with M. de Bévallan at their head,
followed me to the terrace—from motives of
humanity, no doubt—and at the same time the three
windows of the *salon* were opened for the use of
the women and old men.  I would willingly have
dispensed with all this publicity, but it could not
be helped, and besides, I had very little anxiety
about the result of this adventure.  I might be a
very young land agent, but I was an old horseman.
I could scarcely walk when my father put me
upon a horse—to my mother's great alarm—and
afterward he took the greatest pains to render me
his equal in an art in which he excelled.  Indeed,
he had carried my training to the verge of
extravagance, sometimes making me put on the heavy
ancestral armour to perform my feats of equitation.

Proserpine allowed me to disentangle the reins,
and even to touch her neck without giving the
slightest sign of irritation; but as soon as she felt
my foot in the stirrup she shied at once, and sent
a volley of kicks above the marble vases on the
staircase; then sat comfortably down on her
hindquarters and beat the air with her forefeet.  After
this she rested, quivering all over.  "A bit fidgety
to mount," said the groom, with a wink.

"So I see, my good fellow, but I shall astonish
her.  See," and at the same time I sprang into the
saddle without touching the stirrup and got my
seat before Proserpine had quite realized what had
happened.  The instant after we shot at a hard
gallop into the chestnut avenue, followed by some
clapping of hands, which M. de Bévallan had the
grace to start.

That evening I could see, from the way
people treated me, that this incident, trifling as it
was, had raised me in the public opinion.  Some
other talents of the same sort, which I owed to my
education, helped me to secure the only kind of
consideration I wished for—one which respected
my personal dignity.  Besides, I made it quite
evident that I should not abuse the kindness and
consideration shown me, by usurping a position
incompatible with my humble duties at the château.
I shut myself up in my tower as much as I could
without being boorish; in a word, I kept strictly
in my place, so that none should be tempted to
remind me of it.

A few days after my arrival, during one of the
large dinners which at that season were of nearly
daily occurrence, I heard the *sous-préfet* of the
neighbouring little town, who was sitting next to
the lady of the house, ask her who I was.
Mme. Laroque, who is rather forgetful, did not
remember that I was quite close, and, *nolens volens*, I
heard every word of her reply.

"Please, don't ask me," she said.  "There's
some extraordinary mystery about him.  We think
he must be a prince in disguise....  There are so
many who like to see the world in this fashion.
This one has every conceivable talent: he rides,
plays the piano, draws, and does each to
perfection! ... Between ourselves, my dear *sous-préfet*,
I believe he is a very bad steward, but there's no
doubt he is a very agreeable man."

The *sous-préfet*—who also is a very agreeable
man, or thinks he is, which is just as satisfactory
to himself—stroked his fine whiskers with his
plump hand and said sweetly that there were
enough beautiful eyes in the château to explain
many mysteries; that he quite understood the
steward's object, and that Love was the legitimate
father of Folly, and the proper steward of the
Graces....  Then, changing his tone abruptly,
he added:

"However, madame, if you have the slightest
anxiety about this person, I will have him
interrogated to-morrow by the head constable."

Mme. Laroque protested against this excess
of gallantry.  The conversation so far as it
concerned me went no further.  But I was very
much annoyed, not with the *sous-préfet*, who had
greatly amused me; but with Mme. Laroque, who
seemed to have been more than just to my
personal qualities, and not sufficiently convinced of
my official abilities.

As it happened, I had to renew the lease of one
of the larger farms on the day following.  The
business had to be transacted with a very astute
old peasant, but, nevertheless, I held my own with
him, thanks to a judicious combination of legal
phraseology and diplomatic reserve.  When we
had agreed on the details, the farmer quietly
placed three *rouleaux* of gold on my desk.
Though I did not understand this payment, as
there was nothing due, I refrained from showing
any surprise.  By some indirect questions, which
I asked as I unfolded the packets, I ascertained
that this sum was the earnest-money of the
bargain; or, in other words, a sort of bonus which the
farmers present to the landlord when their leases
are renewed.

.. _`"You do not ask me where I am taking you," she said`:

.. figure:: images/img-082.jpg
   :align: center
   :alt: "You do not ask me where I am taking you," she said (see page 123)

   "You do not ask me where I am taking you," she said (see page `123`_)

I had not thought of claiming this, as I had
not found it mentioned in the leases drawn up
by my able predecessor, which had been my
models.  For the moment I drew no conclusions
from his silence on this point, but when I handed
over the windfall to Mme. Laroque her surprise
astonished me.

"And what is this?" she said.

I explained the nature of the payment, and
had to repeat my explanation.

"And is it a usual custom?" she continued.

"Yes, madame, whenever a lease is renewed."

"But, to my knowledge, there have been ten
leases renewed in the last thirty years....  How
is it we never heard of such a custom?"

"I cannot say, madame."

Mme. Laroque fell into an abyss of reflections,
in which, perhaps, she encountered the
venerable shade of le père Hivart.  At length she
slightly shrugged her shoulders, looked at me,
then at the gold, then again at me, and seemed
to hesitate.  At last, leaning back in her chair,
sighing deeply, and speaking with a simplicity
which I greatly appreciated, she said:

"Very well, monsieur.  Thank you."

Mme. Laroque had the good taste not to
compliment me on this instance of ordinary
honesty; but, none the less, she conceived a
great idea of her steward's ability and virtues.  A
few days later I had a proof of this.  Her
daughter was reading an account of a voyage to the
pole to her, in which an extraordinary bird is
mentioned—-"*qui ne vole pas*."[#]

.. vspace: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[#] "Which does not *fly*."  But the French verb
*voler* is also to steal; hence the application.

.. vspace:: 2

"Like my steward," she said.

I sincerely believe that from this time my
devotion to the work I had undertaken gave me
a claim to a more positive commendation.  Soon
afterward, when I went to see my sister in Paris,
M. Laubépin thanked me warmly for having so
creditably redeemed the pledges he had given on
my behalf.

"Courage, Maxime," he said.  "We shall give
Hélène her dowry.  The poor child will not have
noticed anything unusual, and you, my friend,
will have nothing to regret.  Believe me, you
possess what in this world comes nearest to
happiness, and I am sure you will always possess it,
thank Heaven!  It is a peaceful conscience and
the manly serenity of a soul devoted to duty."

The old man is right, of course.  I am at
peace, but I cannot say that I am happy.  My
soul is not yet ripe for the austere delights of
sacrifice; it has its outbursts of youthfulness and
of despair.  My life is no longer my own: it is
devoted and consecrated to a weaker, dearer life;
it has no future: it is imprisoned in a cloister that
will never be opened.  My heart must not beat,
my brain must not think, save for another.  So
be it!  May Hélène be happy!  Years are stealing
upon me.  May they come quickly!  I pray
that they will; the coldness that comes with them
will strengthen my courage.

Besides, I cannot complain of a situation
which has, in fact, fallen agreeably short of my
worst forebodings, and has even surpassed my
brightest expectations.  My work, my frequent
journeys into the neighbouring departments, and
my love of solitude, often keep me away from
the château, where I particularly avoid all the
more festive gatherings.  And perhaps it is
because I go to them so seldom that I am welcomed
so kindly.  Mme. Laroque, in particular, shows
a real affection for me; she makes me the
confidant of her curious and perfectly sincere fancies
about poverty, sacrifice, and poetic abnegation,
which form such an amusing contrast to the chilly
Creole's multitudinous contrivances for comfort.

Sometimes she envies the gipsies carrying
their children on a wretched cart along the
roads, and cooking their food under hedges;
sometimes it is the Sisters of Chanty;
sometimes the *cantinières*, whose heroic work she
longs to share.

And she never ceases to lament the late
M. Laroque's admirable health, which prevented his
wife from showing that nature had meant her for
a sick-nurse.  Nevertheless, she has lately had
fixed to her chair a kind of niche like a
sentry-box, as a protection from draughts.  The other
morning I found her triumphantly installed in
this kiosk, where she really awaits her
martyrdom in considerable comfort.

I have scarcely less reason to be satisfied with
the other inhabitants of the château.
Mlle. Marguerite, who is always plunged like a Nubian
sphinx in some mysterious vision, nevertheless
condescends to treat me to my favourite airs with
the utmost good-nature.  She has a fine contralto
voice, which she uses with perfect art, but at the
same time with an indifference and coldness
which I think must be deliberate.  Sometimes, in
an unguarded moment, I have heard her tones
become impassioned, but almost immediately she
has returned to an icy correctness, as if ashamed
of the lapse from her character or from her role.

A few games of piquet with M. Laroque,
which I had the tact to lose, won me the favour
of the poor old man.  Sometimes I find his dim
and feeble gaze fixed on me with strange intentness,
as if some dream of the past, some fanciful
resemblance, had half revived among the mists of
an exhausted memory, in which the images of
a century hover confusedly.

They actually wanted to return me the money
I lost to him.  Mme. Aubry, who usually plays
with the old captain, accepts these restitutions
without scruple; but this does not prevent her
from winning pretty frequently, on which
occasions she has furious encounters with the old
corsair.  M. Laubépin was lenient when he
described this lady merely as embittered.  I have
no liking for her, but, out of consideration for the
others, I have made an effort to gain her
good-will, and have succeeded in doing so by listening
patiently first to her lamentations over her
present position, and then to her impressive
description of her former grandeur, her silver, her
furniture, her lace, and her gloves.

It must be confessed that I have come to the
right school to learn to despise the advantages I
have lost.  Every one here by their attitude and
language eloquently exhorts me to the contempt
of riches.  Firstly, Mme. Aubry, who might be
aptly compared to those shameless gluttons whose
greediness takes away one's appetite, and who
disgust one with the dishes they praise; the old
man, perishing as sadly among his millions as
Job on his dunghill; the good woman, romantic
and *blasé*, who in the midst of her inopportune
prosperity dreams of the forbidden fruit of
suffering; and lastly, the haughty Marguerite, who
wears like a crown of thorns the diadem of
beauty and opulence which Heaven has forced
on her brow.  A strange girl!

Nearly every fine morning I see her ride past
the windows of my belfry; she bows gravely to
me, the black plume of her felt riding hat
dipping and waving in the wind; and then she
slowly disappears along the shaded path that runs
through the ruins of the ancient château.
Sometimes old Alain follows her, and sometimes her
only companion is the huge and faithful Mervyn,
who strides at the side of his beautiful mistress
like a pensive bear.  So attended, she covers all
the country round on her errands of charity.
She does not need a protector, for there is not a
cottage within six leagues where she is not known
and worshipped as the goddess of good works.
The poor people call her "Mademoiselle," as if
they were speaking of one of those daughters of
kings who give poetry to their legends, and whose
beauty and power and mystery they recognise
in her.

I, meanwhile, am seeking the key to the
sombre preoccupation that clouds her brow, the
haughty and defiant severity of her eyes, the cold
bitterness of her tongue.  I ask myself if these
are the natural traits of a strange and complex
character, or the symptoms of some secret suffering,
remorse, or fear, or love, which preys on this
noble heart.  However slightly one may be interested
in the question, it is impossible not to feel a
certain curiosity about a person so remarkable.
Last night, while old Alain, with whom I am a
favourite, was serving my solitary repast, I said:

"Well, Alain, it's been a lovely day.  Have
you been riding?"

"Yes, sir, this morning, with mademoiselle."

"Oh, indeed!"

"You must have seen us go by, sir."

"Very likely.  I sometimes do see you pass.
You look well on horseback, Alain."

"You're very kind, sir.  But mademoiselle
looks better than I do."

"She is a very beautiful young lady."

"You're right, sir, and she's fair inside as well
as outside.  Just like her mother.  I'll tell you
something, sir.  You know, perhaps, that this
property belonged to the last Comte de Castennec,
whom I had the honour of serving.  When the
Laroques bought the château I must own that I
was rather upset, and not inclined to stay with the
new people.  I had been brought up to respect
the nobility, and it went against my feelings to
live with people of no birth.  You may have
noticed, sir, that I am glad to wait upon you; that
is because I think you look like a gentleman.
Are you quite sure you don't belong to the
nobility, sir?"

"Quite sure, my poor Alain."

"Well, it's of no consequence, sir, and this is
what I wanted to tell you," said Alain, with a
graceful inclination.  "In the service of these
ladies I have learned that nobility of the heart
is as good as the other, more especially that of the
Comte de Castennec, who had a weakness for
beating his servants.  Still, sir, it's a great pity
mademoiselle cannot marry a gentleman with a
fine old name.  Then she would be perfect."

"But, Alain, it seems to me that it only
depends on herself."

"If you refer to M. de Bévallan, sir, it
certainly does, for he asked for her more than six
months ago.  Madame was not opposed to the
marriage, and, in fact, after the Laroques, M. de
Bévallan is the richest man hereabouts; but
mademoiselle, though she didn't positively refuse,
wanted time to think the matter over."

"But if she loves M. de Bévallan, and can
marry him whenever she likes, why is she always
so sad and thoughtful?"

"It's very true, sir, that mademoiselle has
changed a good deal in the last two or three years.
Before that she was as merry as a bird; now she
seems to have something on her mind, but, if I
may say so, it is not love for this gentleman."

"You don't seem very fond of M. de Bévallan
yourself, Alain.  But his family is excellent."

"That does not prevent him from being a bad
lot, sir, always running after the country girls, and
for no good either.  And if you used your eyes,
sir, you might see that he is quite ready to play
the sultan here in the château itself while he's
waiting for something better."

After a significant pause Alain went on.

"Pity you haven't a hundred thousand francs
a year, sir."

"And why, Alain?"

"Because..." and Alain shook his head
thoughtfully.



.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: right

   *July 25th*.

During the past month I have made one
friend and two enemies.  The enemies are
Mlle. Marguerite and Mlle. Hélouin.  The friend is a
maiden lady of eighty-eight.  Scarcely a
compensation!  I will first make up my account with
Mlle. Hélouin, an ungrateful young lady.  What
she considers my offences should rather have
secured her esteem.  But she is one of the many
women who do not care either to give, or to
inspire, such a commonplace sentiment.  From the
first I had been inclined to establish friendly
relations with her.  The governess and the steward
were on a similar footing; we had a common
ground in our subordinate position at the château.
I have always tried to show to ladies in her
position the consideration which seems to me due to
those in circumstances so precarious, humiliating,
and hopeless.  Besides, Mlle. Hélouin is pretty,
intelligent, and accomplished, though she rather
deducts from these qualities by the exaggerated
liveliness of manner, the feverish coquetry, and
the tinge of pedantry which are the failings of her
profession.

I do not claim any credit for my chivalrous
attitude towards her.  It seemed to me a sort of
duty when, as various hints had warned me, I
became aware that a devouring lion in the semblance
of King Francis I was prowling round my young
*protégée*.  This duplicity, which did credit to
M. de Bévallan's audacity, was carried on, under cover
of a friendly interest, with an astuteness and
confidence well calculated to deceive the careless and
unsuspecting.  Mme. Laroque and her daughter,
especially, are too little acquainted with the
wickedness of this world, and too little in touch with
realities to have the slightest suspicion.  For my
own part, I was angry with this insatiable
lady-killer, and did my best to spoil his plans.  More
than once I secured the attention he desired to
monopolize; and I tried more especially to
counteract or diminish the bitter sense of neglect and
isolation, which makes women in Mlle. Hélouin's
position ready to accept the kind of consolation
which was being offered to her.  Have I ever
throughout this ill-advised contest outstepped the
delicate limits of brotherly protection?  I think
not.  The very words of the brief dialogue which
has suddenly altered the character of our
relations bear witness to my discretion.  One
evening last week we were taking the air on the
terrace.  During the day I had had occasion to
show some kindly attention to Mlle. Hélouin,
and she now took my arm and said, as she
bit at an orange-blossom with her small white
teeth:

"M. Maxime, you are very good to me."

Her voice was a little unsteady.

"I hope so, mademoiselle."

"You are a true friend."

"Yes, indeed."

"But what kind of a friend?"

"A true friend, as you say."

"A friend who—loves me?"

"Surely."

"Much?"

"Most decidedly."

"Passionately?"

"No."

At this word, which I uttered very clearly and
with a steady look, Mlle. Hélouin flung the
orange-blossom away and dropped my arm.  Since
this unlucky hour I have been treated with a
contempt I do not deserve, and I should have been
convinced that friendship between man and
woman is a mere illusion, if I had not had on the
following day something like an antithesis to this
adventure.

I had gone to spend the evening at the
château, and as the two or three families who had
been staying there for the last fortnight had left
in the morning, I met only the *habitués*—the curé,
the tax-collector, Dr. Desmarets, and General de
Saint-Cast and his wife, who, like the doctor,
lived at the neighbouring little town.

When I came in, Mme. de Saint-Cast, who
had apparently brought her husband a handsome
fortune, was in close conversation with
Mme. Aubry.  As usual, these ladies were in perfect
agreement.  In language in which distinction of
form rivalled elevation of thought, they, like two
shepherds in an eclogue, alternately lauded the
incomparable charms of wealth.

"You are perfectly right, madame," said
Mme. Aubry.  "There is only one thing in the world
worth having, and that is money.  When I had
money I utterly despised every one who had not,
and now I think it quite natural for people to
despise me, and I don't complain if they do."

"No one despises you on that account,
madame," replied Mme. de Saint-Cast, "most
certainly not; but all the same there's a very great
difference between poverty and riches, I must
confess, as the general knows well enough.  Why,
he had absolutely nothing when I married
him—except his sword—and one doesn't get fat on a
sword, does one, madame?"

"No, no, indeed, madame!" exclaimed
Mme. Aubry, delighted with this bold metaphor.
"Honour and glory are all very well in novels,
but a nice carriage is much better in practice, isn't
it, madame?"

"Of course it is, madame; and that's just what
I was saying to the general this morning as we
came here.  Isn't it, general?"

"Eh, what?" growled the general, who was
playing cards in a corner with the old corsair.

"You hadn't a penny when I married you,
general, had you?" continued Mme. de Saint-Cast.
"You won't think of denying that, I suppose."

"We've heard it often enough, I should say,"
growled the general.

"That doesn't alter the fact that if it hadn't
been for me, general, you'd have had to travel on
foot, and that wouldn't have been a fine thing for
you with your wounds.  Your half-pay of six or
seven hundred francs wouldn't have kept a
carriage for you, my friend.  I was saying this to
him to-day *apropos* of our new carriage, which is
as easy as an arm-chair.  Of course I paid a good
price for it; it's four thousand francs out of my
pocket, madame."

"I can well believe it, madame.  My best
carriage cost me fully five thousand, including the
tiger-skin mat, which was worth five hundred francs
alone."

"Yes," replied Mme. de Saint-Cast; "but I
have had to be a little careful, for I've just been
getting new drawing-room furniture; the carpet
and curtains alone cost me fifteen thousand francs.
You'll say it's too good for a country hole like
this.  You're right.  But the whole town is lost
in admiration, and, after all, one does like to be
respected, madame!"

"Of course, madame," replied Mme. Aubry,
"we like to be respected, and we are respected
according to the money we have.  For my part, I
console myself for not being respected now, by
remembering that if I were as well off as I once
was, I should see all the people who despise me at
my feet again."

"Except me, by God!" cried Dr. Desmarets,
jumping up.  "You might have a hundred millions
a year, and I give you my word of honour
you wouldn't see me at your feet!  And now I'll
go and get some air, for, devil take me, if one can
breathe here!"

So saying, the honest doctor left the room, and
my heart went out to him for the outburst that
had relieved my own sense of disgust and indignation.

Although M. Desmarets was received at the
house as a Chrysostom to whom great license of
speech was allowed, his language had been so
forcible that it had produced a certain embarrassment
in the company, and an awkward silence ensued.
Mme. Laroque broke it adroitly by asking her
daughter whether it was eight o'clock.

"It can't be, mother," replied Mlle. Marguerite,
"for Mlle. de Porhoët has not come yet."

The minute after, as the clock struck, the door
opened, and Mlle. Jocelynde de Porhoët-Gaël
entered the room, with astronomical punctuality, on
the arm of Dr. Desmarets.

Mlle. de Porhoët-Gaël, who had this year
seen her eighty-eighth spring, and whose appearance
suggested a tall reed wrapped in silk, is the
last scion of a noble race, whose earliest ancestors
must be sought among the legendary kings of
ancient Armorica.  Of this house, however, there
is no authentic record in history until the twelfth
century, when Juthail, son of Conan le Tort, who
belonged to the younger branch of the reigning
family of Brittany, is mentioned.  Some drops of
the Porhoët blood have mingled with that of the
most illustrious veins of France—those of the
Rohans, the Lusignans, the Penthièvres, and these
*grands seigneurs* had admitted that it was not the
least pure of their blood.  I remember that when
in a fit of youthful vanity I studied the alliances
of my family, I noticed the strange name of
Porhoët, and that my father, who was very learned in
such matters, spoke highly in its praise.  Mlle. de
Porhoët, who is now the sole bearer of the name,
had always refused to marry, because she wished
to preserve as long as possible in the firmament
of the French nobility the constellation of those
magic syllables, Porhoët-Gaël.  It happened one
day that the origin of the house of Bourbon was
referred to in her presence.

"The Bourbons," said Mlle. de Porhoët,
sticking her knitting-needle into her blond peruke,
"the Bourbons are a good family, but" (with an
air of modesty) "there are better."

However, it is impossible not to render
homage to this august old lady, who bears with
surprising dignity the heavy and triple majesty of
birth, age, and misfortune.  A wretched lawsuit in
some foreign country which she has persisted in
carrying on for fifteen years, has gradually reduced
a fortune, which was but small to begin with; and
now she has scarcely a thousand francs a year.
Privation has not broken her pride or embittered
her temper.  She is gay, good-humoured, and
courteous.  She lives, no one quite knows how,
in her small house with her little servant, and
contrives even to find money for charity.  To their
great honour, Mme. Laroque and her daughter
are devoted to their poor and noble neighbour.
At their house she is treated with a respectful
attention which amazes Mme. Aubry.  I have often
seen Mlle. Marguerite leave the gayest dance to
make a fourth for Mlle. de Porhoët's rubber, for
the world would come to an end if Mlle. de
Porhoët's whist (halfpenny points) was omitted for a
single day.  I am one of the old lady's favourite
partners, and on this particular evening soon
found myself, with the curé and the doctor, seated
at the whist-table with the descendant of Conan
le Tort.

I ought to mention here that at the commencement
of the last century a grand-uncle of
Mlle. de Porhoët, who held an office in the
establishment of the Duke d'Anjou, crossed the
Pyrenees in the suite of the young prince, who
became Philip V, settled in Spain, and prospered
there.  His posterity became extinct about
fifteen years ago, and Mlle. de Porhoët, who had
never lost sight of her Spanish relatives, at
once declared herself heiress to their considerable
property.  Her claims were contested, only
too justly, I fear, by one of the oldest Castilian
families allied to the Spanish branch of the
Porhoëts.

Hence the lawsuit which the unfortunate
octogenarian maintained at great expense, going
from court to court with a persistence akin to
mania, which her friends deplored and other
people ridiculed.  Dr. Desmarets, despite his respect
for Mlle. de Porhoët, belongs to the party who
laughs; more particularly, because he strongly
disapproves of the use to which the poor lady has
prospectively devoted her fictitious heritage.  She
intends to build in the neighbouring town a
cathedral in the richest *flamboyant* style, which
shall perpetuate the name of the foundress and of
a great departed race to all future generations.
This cathedral—dream begotten of a dream!—is
the harmless hobby of the old lady.  She has had
the plans made; she spends her days and
sometimes her nights brooding on its splendours,
altering its arrangements, or adding to its decoration.
She speaks of it as already existent: "I was in
the nave of my cathedral; to-night I noticed
something very ugly in the north aisle of my
cathedral; I have altered the uniform of the
*suisse*;" etc., etc.

"Well, mademoiselle," said the doctor,
shuffling the cards, "have you been working at the
cathedral since yesterday?"

"Yes, of course I have, doctor; and I've had
a rather happy idea.  I have replaced the solid
wall, which you know separates the choir from
the sacristy, by a screen of carved foliage in
imitation of the Clisson chapel in the church at
Josselin.  It is much lighter."

"No doubt; but in the meanwhile what is
the news from Spain?  Can it be true, as I think
I saw in the *Revue des Deux Mondes* this
morning, that the young duke of Villa-Hermosa
proposes to put an end to the case in a friendly way,
by offering to marry you?"

Mademoiselle de Porhoët disdainfully shook
the plume of faded ribbons attached to her cap.

"I should refuse absolutely," she said.

"Ah, yes, you say so, mademoiselle!  But how
about the guitar that's been heard under your
windows the last few nights?"

"Bah!"

"Bah?  And that Spaniard who has been
prowling about the country in a mantle and
yellow boots, sighing as if his heart would burst?"

"You are a feather-head, Dr. Desmarets," said
Mademoiselle de Porhoët, calmly opening her
snuff-box.  "Still, as you wish to know—I may
say that my man of business wrote to me from
Madrid a day or two ago that with a little more
patience we should see the end of all our troubles."

"I can quite believe that!  Do you know
where your man of business comes from, madame?
Straight from Gil Blas' cavern.  He'll drain you
of your last shilling, and then he'll laugh in your
face.  How much better it would be to give up
this folly for good and all, and live at ease quietly!
What good will these millions do you?  Aren't
you happy and respected ... what more do you
want? ... As for your cathedral, I won't speak
of it, because—it is a bad joke."

"My cathedral is not a bad joke to any but
bad jokers, Dr. Desmarets; besides, I am
defending my rights, I am fighting for justice; the
property belongs to me.  I have heard my father say
so a hundred times, and never, with my consent,
shall it go to people who are actually as much
strangers to our family as yourself, my friend, or,"
she added, indicating me, "this gentleman."

I was childish enough to resent this remark,
and at once replied: "As far as I am concerned,
mademoiselle, you are mistaken; for my family
has had the honour of being allied to yours, and
*vice versa*."

At this startling announcement Mlle. de
Porhoët hastily brought her cards, which she held
spread out fanwise, nearer to her pointed chin,
and straightening her spare figure, looked me
in the face as if she doubted my sanity.  By a
tremendous effort she recovered her self-possession,
and said, as she carried a pinch of Spanish
snuff to her thin nose, "Young man, you will
have to prove what you say to me."

Ashamed of my foolish boast, and embarrassed
by the attention it had aroused, I bowed
awkwardly without speaking.  Our rubber was played
in gloomy silence.  It was ten o'clock, and I was
preparing to slip off, when Mlle. de Porhoët
touched my arm.

"Sir," she said, "will you be so kind as to
accompany me to the end of the avenue?"

I bowed again and followed her into the park.
The little servant in Breton costume went first,
carrying a lantern; then came Mlle. de Porhoët,
stiff and silent, carefully holding up her worn silk
frock; she had coldly declined the offer of my
arm, and I walked humbly at her side, feeling
very much dissatisfied with myself.  After a few
minutes of this funeral march the old lady spoke.

"Well, sir?" she said.  "You may speak; I
am waiting.  You have asserted that your family
is allied to mine, and as an alliance of this kind is
a piece of history entirely new to me, I shall be
greatly obliged if you will enlighten me on the
subject."

I had decided that I must at all costs keep the
secret of my incognito.

"I venture to hope, mademoiselle, that you
won't take a mere joke quite seriously."

"A joke!" exclaimed Mlle. de Porhoët.  "A
nice subject to joke upon!  And, sir, what do
you people of to-day call the jokes that can be
boldly addressed to an old and defenceless woman,
but which you would not dare to utter in the
presence of a man?"

"Mademoiselle, you leave me no choice; I
must trust to your discretion.  I do not know
whether the name of Champcey d'Hauterive is
familiar to you?"

"I know the Champcey d'Hauterives perfectly
well, sir.  They are a good, an excellent Dauphin
family.  What inference am I to make from your
question?"

"I am the present representative of that family."

"You!" exclaimed Mlle. de Porhoët, coming
to a sudden halt.  "You are a Champcey d'Hauterive?"

"Yes, the male representative, mademoiselle."

"That alters the question," she said.  "Give
me your arm, cousin, and tell me your history."

I thought that in the circumstances it would
be better not to conceal anything from her.  As
I finished the painful story of my family troubles,
we found ourselves opposite a small house,
remarkably low and narrow.  On one side stood a
kind of low pigeon-house with a pointed roof.

"Enter, marquis," said the daughter of the
kings of Gaël at the threshold of her lowly palace.
"I beg that you will enter."

The next moment I stepped into a little *salon*
meanly paved with brick; on the faded tapestry
of the walls hung portraits of ancestors gorgeous
in ducal ermine.  Over the mantel-piece sparkled
a magnificent clock in tortoise-shell and brass,
surmounted by a group representing the chariot of
the sun.  Some oval-backed arm-chairs and an old
spindle-legged couch completed the furniture of
the room.  Everything shone with cleanliness, and
the air was filled with mingled odours of iris,
Spanish snuff, and aromatic essences.

"Pray be seated," said the old lady, taking her
place on the couch; "pray be seated, my cousin.
I call you cousin, though we are not related, and
cannot be, as Jeanne de Porhoët and Hugues de
Champcey were so ill-advised as to leave no issue.
But, with your permission, I should like to treat
you as a cousin when we are alone, if only to
make me forget for a moment that I am alone in
the world.

"So, cousin, I see how you are situated; the
case is a hard one, most assuredly.  But I will
suggest one or two reflections which have solaced
me, and which I think are likely to bring
consolation to you.

"In the first place, my dear marquis, I often
tell myself that among all the charlatans and
ex-lackeys one now sees rolling in carriages, poverty
has a peculiar perfume of distinction and good
taste.  And also I am inclined to believe that
God has brought some of us down to a poor and
narrow life, that this coarse, materialistic,
money-grubbing age may have before it the type of a
merit, dignity, and splendour which owes nothing
to money, that money cannot buy—that is not
for sale.  In all probability, my cousin, such is the
providential justification of your situation and of
mine."

I conveyed to Mlle. de Porhoët my satisfaction
at having been chosen with her to give the
world the noble example it needs so much, and
shows itself so ready to profit by.

"For my own part," she went on, "I am
inured to privation, and I do not feel it much.
When, in the course of a life that has been too
long, one has seen a father and four brothers,
worthy of their father, perish before their time,
by sword or bullet; when one has lost, one by
one, all the objects of one's affection and worship,
one must have a very paltry soul to be much
concerned about more or less ample meals and more
or less dainty clothing.  Certainly, marquis, you
may be sure that if my personal comfort only
were at stake, I should not trouble about my
Spanish millions; but to me it seems but right
and proper and exemplary that a house like mine
should not disappear without leaving some
permanent sign, some striking monument of its
grandeur and its faith.  And that is why, cousin, I
have, in imitation of some of my ancestors,
thought of the pious foundation of which you
must have heard, and which, while I have life,
I shall not relinquish."

Assured of my sympathy, the noble old lady
seemed to lose herself in meditation, and as she
looked sadly at the fading portraits of her
ancestors, only the beat of the hereditary clock broke
the silence of midnight in the dim room.

"There will be," Mlle. de Porhoët suddenly
resumed, in a solemn voice, "there will be a
chapter of regular canons attached to the church.
Each day at matins, a mass will be said in the
private chapel of my family, for the repose of my
soul and the souls of my ancestors.  The feet of
the celebrant priest will tread a slab of unlettered
marble, which will form the step of the altar and
cover my ashes."

I bent towards her with evident emotion, with
visible respect.  Mlle. de Porhoët took my hand
and pressed it gently.

"Cousin," she said, "I am not mad, whatever
they may say.  My father, who was truth itself,
always declared that when the direct line of our
Spanish branch became exhausted we should be
sole heirs to the estate.  Unfortunately, his
sudden and violent death prevented him from giving
us more exact information; but, as I cannot doubt
his word, I do not doubt my rights.  However,"
she added, after a little pause, and in accents of
touching sadness, "if I am not mad, I am old,
and the people in Spain know it.  For fifteen
years they have dragged me on from one delay
to another; they are waiting for my death to
finish everything.  And ... they will not have
to wait long.  Some morning, very soon now, I
must make my last sacrifice.  My dear cathedral—my
only love, which has taken the place of so
many broken or suppressed attachments—will
have but one stone—that of my tomb."

She was silent; her thin hands wiped away
two tears that flowed down her worn face, as,
striving to smile, she said:

"Forgive me, cousin, you have enough troubles
of your own.  Besides, it is late—you must go.
You will compromise me!"

Before leaving, I again recommended the
greatest discretion in reference to the secret I
had intrusted to her.  She replied, a little naïvely,
that I need not be anxious, and that my peace of
mind and dignity were safe in her hands.
Nevertheless, during the next few days, I suspected,
from Mme. Laroque's increased attentions, that
my excellent friend had handed on my confidence.
Indeed, Mlle. de Porhoët admitted the fact,
declaring that the honour of her family demanded
this, and assured me that Mme. Laroque was
incapable of betraying a secret intrusted to her,
even to her own daughter.

Our interview had filled me with sympathetic
respect for the old lady, which I tried to express
by my actions.  The evening of the next day I
taxed all the resources of my pencil in the
invention of decorations, internal and external, for her
beloved cathedral.  The attention seemed to please
her very much, and I soon got into the habit of
working on the cathedral every evening after our
whist, enriching the ideal edifice with a statue, a
pulpit, and a rood-loft.  Mlle. Marguerite, who
seems to feel a kind of adoration for her old
neighbour, associated herself with my work of
charity by devoting a special album to the Basilica
Porhoët, which it is my duty to fill with designs
and drawings.

And in addition, I offered my old confidant to
take my share in the inquiries and other matters
of business connected with her lawsuit.  The
poor lady confessed that I should do her a
service; that though she could still keep up her
ordinary correspondence, her sight was too weak to
decipher the manuscripts of her archives.
Hitherto she had not associated any one with her
in this important work, for fear of giving more
occasion to the rustic humourists.  In short, she
accepted me as counsellor and collaborator.
Since this, I have conscientiously studied the
voluminous documents of her lawsuit, and I have
been convinced that the case, which must be
sooner or later definitively settled, is absolutely
hopeless from the beginning.  M. Laubépin
agrees with me in this opinion, which as far as
possible I have concealed from the old lady.
Meanwhile I have pleased her by going through
her family archives piece by piece; she still hopes
to find among them some incontestable proof in
favour of her claim.  Unfortunately, the records
are very copious, and fill the pigeon-house from
floor to roof.  Yesterday I went early to
Mlle. de Porhoët's to finish before lunch the
examination of packet No. 115, which I had begun
overnight.  The lady of the house had not risen yet,
so, with the help of the little servant, I quietly
installed myself in the *salon* and settled down to
my dusty work.  About an hour later, as I was
going joyfully through the last sheet of packet
No. 115, Mlle. de Porhoët came in, dragging a
huge bundle neatly wrapped up in a white linen
cover.

"Good-morning, my dear cousin," she said.
"I've heard how you have been working for me
this morning, so I determined to work for you.
Here is packet No. 116."

I must confess that at this moment Mlle. de
Porhoët reminded me of the cruel fairy of folklore,
who shuts the princess up in a lonely tower
and imposes a succession of extraordinary and
impossible tasks on her.

"Last night," she continued, "I dreamed that
the key of my Spanish treasure lay in this packet.
So you will very much oblige me by examining it
at once.  Afterward I hope you will do me the
honour to share a frugal repast in the shade of my
arbour."

There was no help for it.  I obeyed, and I
need not say that the wonderful packet No. 116
contained, like its predecessors, nothing more
valuable than the dust of centuries.  Precisely at
noon, the old lady came to offer me her arm and
conduct me formally to a little box-bordered
garden which, with a bit of adjoining meadow, now
constitutes the sole domain of the Porhoëts.
The table was set out under an arched bower of
foliage, and through the leaves the sunshine of
a fine summer's day dappled the spotless,
sweet-smelling table-cloth.  I had done justice to the
chicken, the fresh salad, and the bottle of old
Bordeaux, which made up the *menu* of the
banquet, when Mlle. de Porhoët, who seemed
charmed with my appetite, turned the
conversation on to the Laroque family.

"I will own," she said to me, "that I do not
care for the old buccaneer.  When he first came
here he had a large and favourite ape, which he
dressed up like a servant, and which he seemed to
be able to communicate with perfectly.  The
animal was a nuisance to the whole country, and
only a man without education or decency could
have kept it.  I agreed when they told me that
it was an ape, but, as a fact, I have always
believed that it was a negro, more especially as I
had always suspected its master of having
trafficked in that commodity in Africa.  But
M. Laroque, the son, was a good sort of man, and quite
a gentleman.  As to the ladies—I refer, of course,
to Mme. Laroque and her daughter, and in no
way to the widow Aubry, an extremely common
person—as to the ladies, I say, they deserve every
good thing one can say of them."

Just then we heard the hoofs of a horse on the
path that runs outside the garden wall, and the
next moment some one was knocking sharply at a
small door near the arbour.

"Yes," said Mlle. de Porhoët.  "Who goes there?"

I looked up, and saw a black plume above the
top of the wall.

"Open," said a gay voice outside, full of
musical intonations.  "Open.  'Tis the fortune of
France!"

"What?  Is it you, my darling?" said the old
lady.  "Quick, cousin, run!"

As I opened the door Mervyn rushed between
my legs, nearly throwing me down.  Mlle. Marguerite
was tying up her horse to the fence by his
reins.

"*Bonjour*, M. Odiot," she said, without
showing any surprise at finding me there.  Throwing
the long folds of her habit over her arm, she
entered the garden.

"Welcome this lovely day, my lovely girl!"
said Mlle. de Porhoët.  "Kiss me, dear.  You've
been riding too fast, you foolish child.  I can tell
by your colour and the fire that literally seems to
flash from your eyes.  What can I offer you, my
beauty?"

"Let me see," said Mlle. Marguerite, glancing
at the table.  "What have you got?  Has M. Odiot
eaten up everything?  Not that it matters.
I am thirsty, not hungry."

"I utterly forbid you to drink while you're so
hot.  But wait a moment; there are some
strawberries left in that bed."

"Strawberries!  *O giòia*!" sang the girl.
"Take one of those fig-leaves, M. Odiot, and come
with me.  Quick!"

While I chose the largest of the fig-leaves,
Mlle. de Porhoët half-closed one eye, and
followed her favourite with the other, as she walked
proudly along the sunlit alley.

"Look at her, cousin," she whispered, with
an approving smile; "isn't she worthy to be one
of us?"

Meanwhile, Mlle. Marguerite, bending over the
bed and catching her foot in her train at every
step, greeted each strawberry she found with a
little cry of delight.  I kept near to her, holding
out the fig-leaf, in which she put one strawberry
for every two she ate, to help her to be patient.
When she was satisfied with the harvest we
returned in triumph to the arbour.  The rest of the
strawberries were sprinkled with sugar, and crushed
by the prettiest teeth in Brittany with great relish.

"Oh, that's done me good!" exclaimed
Mlle. Marguerite, throwing her hat on the seat and
leaning back against the side of the bower.  "And
now, dearest lady, to complete my happiness, you're
going to tell me stories of the old days when you
were a fair warrior."

Mlle. de Porhoët, smiling and charmed, needed
no pressing, and began to tell us some of the
most striking events of her famous expeditions
with Lescure and La Rochefoucauld.  And on this
occasion my old friend gave me another proof of
her nobility of nature, for she paid her tribute to
the heroes of those troublous wars without
distinction of party.  She spoke of General Hoche,
whose prisoner she had been, with almost tender
admiration.  Mlle. Marguerite listened with an
impassioned attention which surprised me.  At
one moment, half-buried in her leafy niche, her
long eyelashes a little lowered, she sat as motionless
as a statue; at another, when the story became
more exciting, she put her elbows on the table,
plunged a beautiful hand into the masses of her
loosened hair, and fixed the lightning of her
brilliant eyes eagerly on the old *Vendienne*.

Among the sweetest hours of my dull life, I
shall always count those I spent watching that
noble face, irradiated by the reflections of the
glowing sky and the impressions of a valiant
heart.

When the story-telling was over, Mlle. Marguerite
embraced her old friend, and waking up
Mervyn, who was asleep at her feet, declared that
she must return to the château.  As I was sure it
would cause her no embarrassment, I had no
hesitation in leaving at the same time.  Apart from
my personal insignificance in the sight of the rich
heiress, Mlle. Laroque was quite at her ease
without a chaperon.  Her mother had given her the
same kind of liberal education she had herself
received in one of the British colonies.  And we
know that the English method accords to women
before marriage all that independence which we
so wisely give them only when the abuse of it
becomes irreparable.  So we went out of the garden
together.  I held her stirrup while she mounted,
and we set off towards the château.

"Really, M. Odiot," she said, after a few
steps, "I am afraid I spoiled your *tête-à-tête* in the
garden.  You seemed to be very happy."

"Certainly, mademoiselle, but as I had already
been there a long time, I forgive you; nay, more,
I thank you."

"You are very good to our poor friend.  My
mother is very grateful to you."

"And your mother's daughter?" I said, laughing.

"Oh, I'm not so easily impressed.  I am
afraid you will have to wait a little before you get
any praises from me.  I don't judge people's
actions leniently; there is generally more than one
explanation of them.  I grant that your
behaviour towards Mlle. de Porhoët looks very well,
but——" she paused, shook her head, and went
on in a serious, bitter, and frankly insulting tone,
"but I am not at all certain that you are not
paying court to her in the hope that she may make
you her heir."

I felt myself grow pale.  But, seeing how absurd
it would be to answer this young girl angrily,
I controlled myself, and replied grandly, "Allow
me, mademoiselle, to express my sincere pity for you."

She appeared very much surprised.  "Your
sincere pity?"

"Yes, mademoiselle, the respectful pity to
which I think you have a right."

"Pity!" she said, stopping her horse and slowly
turning her disdainful, half-closed eyes towards
me.  "I am not so fortunate as to understand you."

"It is really quite simple, mademoiselle; if
disillusion, doubt, and callousness are the bitterest
fruits of long experience, nothing in the world
deserves pity so much as a heart withered by
mistrust before it has even seen life."

"Sir," said Mlle. Laroque, with a strange
vehemence, "you do not know what you are
talking about.  And," she added more harshly, "you
forget to whom you are speaking!"

"That is true, mademoiselle," I answered
gently, bowing.  "I may have spoken without
much knowledge, and perhaps I forgot, to some
extent, to whom I was speaking.  But you set me
the example."

Her eyes fixed on the top of the trees that
bordered the road, Mlle. Marguerite asked, with
haughty irony:

"Must I beg your pardon?"

"Most certainly, mademoiselle," I replied
firmly, "if either of us should ask pardon, it is
you.  You are rich, I am poor; you can humble
yourself....  I cannot."

There was silence.  Her tightened lips, her
quivering nostrils, and the sudden whiteness of
her forehead, showed what a struggle was going
on within her.  Suddenly lowering her whip as if
to salute, she said:

"Very well, I beg your pardon."

At the same moment she gave her horse a
sharp cut and set off at a gallop, leaving me in
the middle of the road.

I have not seen her since.



.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: right

   *July 30th*.

The calculation of probabilities is never more
misleading than when it has to do with the
thoughts and feelings of a woman.  After the
painful scene between Mlle. Marguerite and
myself, I had not been very anxious to encounter her.
For two days I had not been to the château and
I scarcely expected that the resentment I had
aroused in this proud nature, would have subsided
in this short interval.  However, about seven
o'clock on the morning of the day before
yesterday, when I was working at the open window of
my tower, I heard my name called out in a most
friendly way by the very person of whom I
thought I had made an enemy.

"M. Odiot, are you there?"

I went to the window and saw Mlle. Marguerite
standing in the boat that was kept by the
bridge.  She was holding back the brim of her
brown straw hat and looking up at my dark tower.

"Here I am, mademoiselle," I said eagerly.

"Are you coming out?"

After my well-founded apprehension of the
last two days, so much condescension made me
think, to use the accepted formula, I was the dupe
of a disordered fancy.

"I beg your pardon....  What did you say?"

"Will you come out for a little with Alain,
Mervyn, and me?"

"With pleasure, mademoiselle."

"Very well—bring your album."

I went down quickly and hurried to the bank.

"Ah! ah!" said the girl, laughing, "you're in
a good-humour this morning, it seems."

I awkwardly murmured something to the
effect that I was always in a good-humour, but
Mlle. Marguerite scarcely seemed convinced of
the fact.  Then I stepped into the boat and sat
down at her side.

"Row away, Alain," she said immediately; and
old Alain, who prides himself on being a first-rate
oarsman, set to work steadily, the long oars
moving to and fro at his sides, making him look like
a heavy bird trying to fly.

"I was obliged to come and save you from
your donjon," said Mlle. Marguerite, "where you
have been ailing for two whole days."

"Mademoiselle, I assure you that only
consideration for you—respect—fear of..."

"Respect!  Fear!  Oh, dear, no!  You were
sulking, that is all.  We behave much better than
you.  My mother, for some reason or other,
thinks you ought to be treated with special
consideration, and has implored me to sacrifice myself
on the altar of your pride; so, like an obedient
daughter, I sacrifice myself."

I expressed my gratitude frankly and warmly.

"Not to do things by halves," she continued,
"I have determined to give you a treat to your
taste.  So here you have a lovely summer
morning, woods and glades with all the proper light
effects, birds warbling in the foliage, a mysterious
bark gliding on the waves.  As this is the sort of
thing you like, you ought to be satisfied."

"Mademoiselle, I am charmed."

"Well, that's all right."

For the moment I was fairly contented with
my fate.  The air was sweet with the scent of the
new-mown hay lying in swaths on either bank;
the sombre avenues of the park, dotted with
patches of sunshine, slipped past us, and from the
flower-cups came the happy drone of myriads of
insects feasting on the dew.  Opposite me, old
Alain smiled complacently at me with a protecting
look at each stroke of his oars, and closer to me
Mlle. Marguerite, dressed in white—contrary to
her custom—beautiful and fresh and pure as a
periwinkle blossom, shook with one hand the
pearls of dew from her veil while she held out the
other as a bait for Mervyn, who was swimming
after the boat.  I should not have wanted much
persuasion to go to the end of the world in that
little white boat.

As we passed under an arch in the wall that
bounds the park the young Creole said to me:

.. _`123`:

"You do not ask where I am taking you?"

"No, mademoiselle, I do not.  It is all the
same to me."

"I am taking you into fairyland."

"I thought so, mademoiselle."

"Mlle. Hélouin, more versed in poetic lore
than I am, has no doubt told you that the thickets
that cover the country for twenty miles round are
the remains of the ancient forest of Brouliande,
the hunting-ground of those beings of Gaël,
ancestors of your friend Mlle. de Porhoët, and the
place where Mervyn's ancestor, wizard though he
was, came under the magic spells of a damsel
called Vivien.  Now we shall soon be in the
centre of that forest.  And if this is not enough to
fire your imagination, let me tell you that these
woods are full of remains of the mysterious
religion of the Celts; they are paved with them.  In
every shady nook you picture to yourself a
white-robed Druid, and in every ray of sunlight the
glitter of a golden sickle.  The religion of these old
bores has left near here, in a solitary and romantic
place, a monument before which people subject to
ecstasy are usually in raptures.  I thought you
would like to sketch it, and as it is not easy to
find, I will show you the way, on condition that
you suppress the explosions of an enthusiasm I
cannot share."

"Agreed, mademoiselle, I will control myself."

"Yes, please do."

"I promise.  And what is the name of this monument?"

"I call it a heap of big stones, but the
antiquaries have more than one name for it.  Some
call it simply a *dolmen*, others, more pedantic, say
it's a *cromlech*, and the country people—I do not
know why—call it the *migourdit*."[#]

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent small

[#] In the wood of Cadoudal (Morbihan).

.. vspace:: 2

Meanwhile we glided gently with the current
of the stream between two strips of wet meadow.
Here and there, small black cattle with large
pointed horns turned and looked fiercely at us.
The valley through which the widening river crept,
was shut in on both sides by a chain of hills, some
covered with dry heather and furze, and some with
green brushwood.  Sometimes, at the end of a
transversal cleft between two hills, we could see
the crest of a mountain, blue and round in the
distance.  In spite of her indifference, Mlle. Marguerite
was careful to draw my attention to all
the beauties of this austere and peaceful country,
and careful also, to qualify each remark with some
ironic comment.

For a little while a dull, continuous sound had
told us that we were approaching a waterfall.
Suddenly the valley narrowed into a wild and
lonely gorge.  On the left stood a high wall of
rock overgrown with moss; oaks and firs mixed
with ivy and straggling brushwood rose one above
the other in every crevice till they reached the top
of the cliff, throwing a mysterious shade on to the
deeper water at the foot of the rocks.  A hundred
paces in front of us, the water boiled and foamed,
and then disappeared all at once, and the broken
line of the stream stood out in a veil of white
spray, against a distant background of vague
foliage.  On our right, the bank opposite to the
cliff had only a narrow margin of sloping meadow,
fringed with the sombre velvet of the wooded hills.

"Land, Alain," said the young Creole.  Alain
moored the boat to a willow.

"Now, sir," she said, stepping lightly on to
grass, "aren't you overcome?  Aren't you troubled,
petrified, thunderstruck?  You ought to be, for
this is supposed to be a very pretty place.  I like
it because it is always fresh and cool.  But follow
me through the woods—if you are not too much
afraid—and I will show you the famous stones."

Bright, alert, and gay as I had never seen her
before, Mlle. Marguerite crossed the fields with
a bounding step, and took a path which led along
the hills to the forest.  Alain and I followed
in Indian file.  After a few minutes' quick
walking our guide stopped and seemed to hesitate, and
looked about her for a moment.  Then, deliberately
separating two interlaced branches, she left
the beaten track and plunged into the
undergrowth.  It was very difficult to make way
through the thicket of strong young oaks whose
slanting stems and twisted branches were knotted
together as closely as Robinson Crusoe's palisade.
At least Alain and I, bent double, advanced very
slowly, catching our heads against something at
every step, and at each of our clumsy movements
bringing down a shower of dew upon us.  But
Mlle. Marguerite, with the greater dexterity and
the catlike suppleness of her sex, slipped without
any apparent effort through the meshes of the
labyrinth, laughing at our sufferings, and
carelessly letting the branches spring back after her
into our faces.  At last we reached a narrow
glade on the top of the hill.  There, not without
emotion, I saw the dark and monstrous table of
stone supported by five or six huge blocks half
sunk in the earth, forming a cavern full of sacred
horror.  At first sight this perfect monument of a
time almost fabulous, and of a primitive religion,
has an aspect of eternal verity and of a real
mysterious presence, that takes hold of the
imagination, and fills the mind with awe.

The sunshine streaming through the leaves
stole through the interstices in the roughly joined
blocks, played about the sinister slab, and lent
an idyllic charm to this barbarous altar.  Even
Mlle. Marguerite seemed pensive and brooding.
For my part I entered the cavern, and, after
examining the *dolmen* thoroughly, set to work to
sketch it.  For ten minutes I had been absorbed
in this work, forgetting everything that was going
on about me, when Mlle. Marguerite suddenly spoke:

"Do you want a Velleda to enliven your picture?"

I looked up.  She had wound a wreath of
oak-leaves round her forehead and stood at the
head of the *dolmen*, leaning lightly against a
sheaf of saplings.  In the half-light, under the
branches, her white dress looked like marble, and
her eyes shone with strange fire in the shadow of
the oaken crown.  She was beautiful, and I think
she knew it.  I looked at her and found it hard
to speak.

"If I am in the way, I'll move," she said.

"Oh, no! please don't."

"Well, make haste; put Mervyn in too.
He'll be the Druid and I the Druidess."

I was so lucky—thanks to the vagueness of a
sketch—as to reproduce this poetic vision pretty
faithfully.  Evidently interested, she came and
looked at the drawing.

"It isn't bad," she said, laughing, as she threw
her crown away.  "You must admit that I am
very good to you."

I did.  I might even have added, if she had
asked me, that she was not without a spice of
coquetry.  But without that she would not have
been a woman.  Perfection is detestable, and
even goddesses need something besides their
deathless beauty to win love.

We went back through the tangled underwood
to the path in the wood, and thence
returned to the river.

"Before we return," said the young girl, "I
want to show you the waterfall, more especially
as I am looking forward to a little diversion on
my own account.  Come, Mervyn, come along,
dear dog.  Oh, you are lovely!"

We soon reached the bank facing the rocks
which blocked the bed of the river.  The water
fell from a height of many feet into a large and
deeply sunk circular basin, which seemed to be
shut in on all sides by an amphitheatre of
vegetation, broken by dripping rocks.  But there were
unseen outlets for the overflow of the little lake,
and the streams so formed reunited a little lower
down.

"It is not exactly a Niagara," said Mlle. Marguerite,
raising her voice against the noise of the
falling waters, "but I have heard connoisseurs
and artists say that it is rather pretty,
nevertheless.  Have you admired it?  Good!  Now I
hope you'll bestow any enthusiasm you may have
left on Mervyn.  Here, Mervyn!"

The Newfoundland ran to his mistress, and,
trembling with impatience, watched her while she
tied some pebbles into her handkerchief.  She
threw it into the stream a little above the fall,
and at the same moment Mervyn fell like a block
into the lower basin and struck out swiftly from
the edge.  The handkerchief followed the
current, reached the rocks, danced in an eddy for
a minute, and then, shooting like an arrow past
the smooth rock, swept in a mass of foam under
the eyes of the dog, who seized it dexterously in
his mouth, after which Mervyn returned proudly
to the bank, where Mlle. Marguerite stood
clapping her hands.

This feat was performed several times with
great success.  At the sixth repetition, either
because the dog started too late or because the
handkerchief was thrown too soon, Mervyn
missed it.  The handkerchief, swept on by the
eddies from the fall, was carried among some
thorny brushwood that overhung the water a
little farther on.  Mervyn went to fetch it, but
we were very much surprised to see him suddenly
struggle convulsively, drop his booty, and raise
his head towards us, howling pitifully.

"My God! what has happened?" exclaimed
Mlle. Marguerite.

"He seems to be caught among the bushes.
He'll free himself directly, no doubt."

But soon one had to doubt, and even to despair,
of this issue.  The network of creepers in
which the dog had been caught lay directly below
one of the mouths of the sluice, which poured a
mass of seething water continuously on Mervyn's
head.  The poor beast, half-suffocated, ceased to
make the slightest effort to release himself, and
his plaintive cries sounded more and more like
a death-rattle.  At this moment Mlle. Marguerite
seized my arm, and whispered almost in my ear:

"He is lost.  It's no use....  Let us go."

I looked at her.  Grief, pain, and her violent
effort to control herself had distorted her pale
features and brought dark circles under her eyes.

"It is impossible," I said, "to get the boat
down there; but if you will allow me, I can swim
a little, and I'll go and give a hand to the poor
fellow."

"No, no; don't attempt it.  It's too far.
And they say it's very deep and dangerous under
the fall."

"You needn't fear, mademoiselle; I am very
cautious."

At the same moment I took off my coat and
went into the water, taking care to keep a good
distance from the fall.  It was very deep, and I
did not find a footing till I reached the exhausted
Mervyn.  I do not know whether there had been
an islet here which had dwindled and crumbled
away, or whether a sudden rising of the river had
swept away part of the bank, and deposited the
fragments in this place; but, whatever the cause,
there was an accumulated and flourishing mass
of entangled brushwood and roots under this
treacherous water.  I got my feet on a trunk from
which the bushes seemed to spring, and
managed to release Mervyn.  Feeling himself free,
he recovered at once, and struck out for the bank,
leaving me to my fate with all the goodwill
imaginable.  This was scarcely acting up to the
chivalrous reputation of his breed, but Mervyn
has lived a long while among men, and I
suppose has become a bit of a philosopher.  But
when I tried to follow him, I found, to my
disgust, that, in my turn, I was caught in the
nets of the jealous and malignant naiad who
reigns in the pool.  One of my legs was
entangled in the creepers, and I could not free it.
It is difficult to exert all one's strength in deep
water, and on a bed of sticky mud.  And besides,
I was half-blinded by the bubbling spray.  In
short, my situation was becoming awkward.  I
looked towards the bank; Mlle. Marguerite,
holding to Alain's arm, hung over the gulf, and
watched me with mortal anxiety.  I told
myself that it rested with me to be wept for by
those bright eyes, and to end a miserable
existence in an enviable fashion.  Then I shook off
such maudlin fancies vigorously, and freed myself
by a violent effort.  I tied the little handkerchief,
now in rags, round my neck, and easily regained
the shore.

As I landed, Mlle. Marguerite offered me her
hand.  It trembled a little, and I was pleased.

"What rashness!  You might have been
drowned, and for a dog!"

"It was yours," I whispered in the same low
tone she had used to me.

This speech seemed to annoy her; she
withdrew her hand quickly, and turning to Mervyn,
who lay yawning and drying himself in the sun,
began to punish him.

"Oh, the stupid! the big stupid!" she said.
"What an idiot he is!"

But the water was streaming from my clothes
on to the grass.  I did not quite know what to do
with myself, till Mlle. Marguerite came back, and
said very kindly:

"Take the boat, M. Maxime, and get away as
fast as you can.  You'll keep warm rowing.  I
will come back with Alain through the wood; it
is the shortest way."

I agreed to this arrangement, which was in
every way the best.  I said farewell, touched her
hand for the second time, and got into the boat.
To my surprise, when I was dressing at home I
found the little handkerchief still round my neck.
I had forgotten to restore it to Mlle. Marguerite,
who must have given it up for lost, so I shamelessly
determined to keep it as the reward of my
watery adventure.

I went to the château in the evening.  Mlle. Laroque
received me with her habitual air of disdainful
indolence, sombre preoccupation, and embittered
*ennui*, which was in singular contrast with
the gracious friendliness and playful vivacity of
my companion of the morning.

During dinner, at which M. de Bévallan was
present, she spoke of our excursion in a manner
that stripped it of all sentiment, and as she went
on, said some sharp things about lovers of nature,
and finished with an account of Mervyn's
misadventure, without mentioning my share in it.  If,
as I thought, this was meant as a hint of the line
I was to take, the young lady had been at needless
trouble.  However that may be, M. de Bévallan,
on hearing the story, nearly deafened us with his
cries of despair.  What!  Mlle. Marguerite had
endured such anxiety, the brave Mervyn had been
in such danger, and he, Bévallan, had not been
there.  Cruel fate!  He would never get over it.
There was nothing for him to do but hang himself,
like Crillon.

"Well," said Alain, "if it depended on me to
cut him down, I should take my time about it."

The next day did not begin so pleasantly for
me as its predecessor.  In the morning I received
a letter from Madrid, asking me to inform Mlle. de
Porhoët that her lawsuit was finally lost.  Her
agent also informed me that her opponents would
not profit by their victory, as the Crown, attracted
by the millions at stake, claimed to succeed under
the law by which the property escheats to the
state.

After careful consideration, I decided that it
would be kinder not to let my old friend know of
the total destruction of her hopes.  I intend,
therefore, to secure the assistance of her agent in
Spain; he will allege further delays, and on my
side I shall continue my researches among the
archives, and do my best to preserve the poor
soul's cherished delusions to the end.  However
innocent and legitimate this deception might be,
I could not feel at rest until it had been approved
by some one whose judgment in such matters I
could trust.  I went to the château in the
afternoon, and made confession to Mme. Laroque,
who approved of my plan, and commended me
rather more than the occasion warranted.  And to
my great surprise she finished the interview with
these words:

"I must take this opportunity of telling you,
M. Odiot, that I am deeply grateful for your
devotion to my interests, that each day I appreciate
your character more truly, and enjoy your company
more thoroughly.  I could wish—you must
forgive my saying it, as you are scarcely likely to
share my wish—I could wish that you could
always remain with us ... and I humbly pray
heaven to perform the miracles necessary to bring
this about ... for I know that only miracles
can do so."

I did not quite grasp the meaning of this
language, nor could I explain the sudden emotion
that shone in the eyes of the excellent lady.  I
acknowledged her kindness properly, and went
away to indulge my melancholy in the fields.

By an accident—not purely fortuitous, I must
admit—I found myself, after an hour's walking,
in a deserted valley, and on the brink of the pool
which had been the scene of my recent prowess.
The amphitheatre of rocks and greenery which
surrounds the small lake realizes the very ideal of
solitude.  There you are at the end of the world,
in a virgin country, in China—where you will!  I
lay down among the heather, recalling my expedition
of yesterday, one not likely to occur again
in the course of the longest life.  Already I felt
that if such good fortune should come to me a
second time, it would not have that charm of
surprise, of peacefulness, and—in one word—of
innocence.  I had to own that this fresh romance of
youth, which gave a perfume to my thoughts,
could have but one chapter, one page, and that I
had read it.  Yes, this hour, this hour of love, to
call it by its true name, had been royally sweet,
because it had not been premeditated, because I
had not known what it was till it had gone,
because I had had the rapture, and had been spared
remorse.  Now my conscience was awake.  I saw
myself on the verge of an impossible, a ridiculous
love, and worse, of a culpable passion.  Poor and
disinherited as I am, it is time to keep a strict
watch over myself.

I was addressing these warnings to myself in
this solitary place—any other would have served
my purpose as well—when the sound of voices
interrupted my reflections.  I rose, and saw a
company of four or five people who had just
landed, advancing towards me.  First came
Mlle. Marguerite leaning on M. de Bévallan's arm;
next Mlle. Hélouin and Mme. Aubry, followed
by Alain and Mervyn.  The sound of their
approach had been drowned in the roar of the
waterfall; they were only a few yards off; there was
no time for retreat, so I had to resign myself to
being discovered in the character of the romantic
recluse.  But my presence did not excite any
particular attention, though I saw a shadow of
annoyance on Mlle. Marguerite's face, and she
returned my bow with marked stiffness.

M. de Bévallan, standing at the verge of the
pool, wearied the echoes with the clamour of his
conventional admiration.  "Delicious!  How
picturesque!  What a feast!  The pen of George
Sand....  The pencil of Salvator Rosa!"

All this was accompanied by violent gestures,
by which he appeared to be snatching from these
great artists, the instruments of their genius.

At last he became calmer, and asked to be
shown the dangerous channel where Mervyn had
nearly been drowned.  Again Mlle. Marguerite
related the adventure, and again she suppressed the
part I had taken in the denouement.  With a kind
of cruelty, evidently levelled at me, she enlarged
on the cleverness, courage, and presence of mind
her dog had shown in his trying situation.
Apparently she seemed to think that her transient
good-humour, and the service I had been so
fortunate as to render her, had filled my head with
some presumptuous notions, which it was
necessary to nip in the bud.

As Mlle. Hélouin and Mme. Aubry particularly
wished to see Mervyn repeat his wonderful
exploit, his mistress called the Newfoundland,
and, as before, threw her handkerchief into the
current.  But at the signal the brave Mervyn,
instead of jumping into the lake, rushed up and
down the bank, barking furiously, lashing about
with his tail, showing, in fact, the greatest interest
in the proceedings, but at the same time an
excellent memory.  Evidently the head controls the
heart in this sagacious beast.  In vain Mlle. Marguerite,
angry and confused, first tried caresses
and then threats to overcome her favourite's
obstinacy.  Nothing could persuade the intelligent
creature to trust himself again in those dangerous
waters.  After such high-flown announcements,
Mervyn's stubborn prudence was really amusing.
I had a better right to laugh than any one present,
and I did so without compunction.  Besides, the
merriment soon became general, and in the end
Mlle. Marguerite herself joined in, rather
half-heartedly.

"And now," she said, "I've lost another handkerchief."

The handkerchief, carried along by the eddies,
had naturally landed among the branches of the
fatal bush, not far from the further bank.

"Rely upon me, mademoiselle," cried M. de
Bévallan.  "In ten minutes you shall have your
handkerchief, or I shall exist no longer."

At this magnanimous declaration I thought
that Mlle. Marguerite looked stealthily at me, as
much as to say, "You see, there are others who
are devoted to me!"  Then she answered M. de
Bévallan.

"For Heaven's sake, don't be so foolish!  The
water is very deep....  it is really dangerous."

"It is all the same to me," said M. de
Bévallan.  "Have you a knife, Alain?"

"A knife?" said Mlle. Marguerite, surprised.

"Yes, a knife.  Please allow me ... I know
what I mean to do."

"But what do you mean to do with a knife?"

"I mean to cut a switch," said M. de
Bévallan.

The girl looked at him gravely.

"I thought," she murmured, "that you were
going to swim for it."

"To swim!" said M. de Bévallan; "excuse
me, mademoiselle....  Firstly, I am not in
swimming costume; next, I must admit that
I cannot swim."

"If you cannot swim," she said dryly, "the
question of costume is not important."

"You are quite right," said M. de Bévallan,
with amusing coolness; "but you are not
particularly anxious that I should drown myself, are
you?  You want your handkerchief, that is the
point.  When I have got it, you will be
satisfied.  Isn't that so?"

"Well, go and cut your switch," she said,
sitting down resignedly.

M. de Bévallan is not easily disconcerted.
He disappeared into the nearest thicket, and soon
we heard the branches crack.  He came back
armed with a long switch from a nut-tree, and
proceeded to strip the leaves off.

"Do you think you'll reach the other side
with that stick?" asked Mlle. Marguerite, who
was beginning to be amused.

"Allow me to manage it my own way.  That
is all I ask," said the imperturbable gentleman.

We left him alone.  He finished his switch,
and then set out for the boat.  We at last
understood that he meant to cross the river in the boat,
to land above the waterfall, and to harpoon the
handkerchief, which he could easily do from the
bank.  At this discovery there was an indignant
outcry from the ladies, who, as we all know, are
extremely fond of dangerous adventures—in
which they are not themselves concerned.

"A pretty contrivance, M. de Bévallan.
Aren't you ashamed of yourself?"

"Tu-tu, ladies!  Remember Columbus and
the egg.  The idea is everything, you know."

Contrary to our expectation, this apparently
harmless expedition was not to be carried through
without some emotions, and some risks, for
M. de Bévallan, instead of making for the bank
immediately opposite the little bay, where the
boat had been moored, unluckily decided to land
nearer the cataract.  He pushed the boat into the
middle of the stream and let it drift for a
moment, till he saw that as the river approached the
fall, its pace increased with alarming rapidity.
We appreciated the danger when we saw him put
the boat across the current, and begin to row
with feverish energy.  For a few seconds he
struggled with doubtful success.  But, little by
little, he got nearer to the bank, though the
stream still swept him fiercely towards the
cataract, which thundered ominously in his ears.
He was only a few feet from it, when a
supreme effort brought him near enough to the
shore to put him out of danger.  With a vigorous
spring he leaped on to the slope of the bank,
sending the boat out among the rocks, where it
was at once overturned.  It presently floated into
the pool keel upward.  While the danger lasted,
our only feeling was one of keen anxiety, but
when it was over, the contrast between the comic
*dénouement* and its hero's usual coolness and
self-confidence, could not fail to tickle our sense of
humour.  Besides, laughter is a natural relief
when a danger is happily past.  Directly we saw
that M. de Bévallan was out of the boat, we all
gave ourselves up to unrestrained merriment.  I
should say, that at this moment his bad luck was
completed by a truly distressing detail.  The
bank on which he had jumped sloped sharply and
was very wet.  His feet had scarcely touched it
when he fell backwards.  Fortunately there were
some strong branches within his reach.  He hung
on to them desperately, his legs beating the
shallow water like two angry oars.  As there was no
danger, his situation became purely ridiculous,
and I suppose that this thought made him struggle
so frantically and awkwardly, that his efforts
defeated their purpose.  He succeeded, however,
in raising himself and getting another footing on
the slope.  Then, all of a sudden, we saw him
slide down again, tearing the bushes and
brushwood as he went, and renewing his wild
pantomime in the water in evident desperation.  It
was irresistible.  Never, I believe, had
Mlle. Marguerite been at such an entertainment.  She
had utterly lost all care for her dignity.  Like
some mirthful Bacchante, she filled all the grove
with bursts of almost convulsive gaiety.
Between her shouts of laughter she clapped her
hands and called out in a half-suffocated voice:

"Bravo! bravo!  M. de Bévallan!  Very pretty!
Delicious!  Picturesque!  Salvator Rosa!"

At last M. de Bévallan succeeded in dragging
himself to *terra firma*.  Then, turning to the
ladies, he made them a speech which the noise of
the waterfall prevented us from hearing distinctly;
but, from his animated gestures, the illustrative
movements of his arms, and his air of forced
good-humour, we understood that he was giving us a
reasoned explanation of his disaster.

"Yes, yes," replied Mlle. Marguerite, continuing
to laugh with a woman's implacable barbarity.
"it was a great success.  I congratulate you!"

When she was a little more serious, she asked
me how we should recover the capsized boat,
which, by-the-bye, was the best we had.  I
promised to bring some men the next day, and
superintend the rescue.  Then we struck across the fields
towards the château.  M. de Bévallan, not being
in swimming costume, could not rejoin us.  With
a melancholy air he disappeared behind the rocks
above the farther bank.



.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: right

   *August 20th*.

At last this extraordinary girl has revealed the
secret of her stormy soul to me.  Would that she
had preserved it forever!

During the day that followed the scenes I have
just described, Mlle. Marguerite, as if ashamed of
the impulses of youthful frankness to which she
had yielded, wrapped herself more closely than
ever in her veil of mournful pride, disdain, and
mistrust.  In the midst of the noisy pleasures, the
*fêtes*, and dances that succeeded one another, she
passed like a ghost, indifferent, icy, and sometimes
angry.

Her irony vented itself with inconceivable
bitterness, sometimes on the purest pleasures of the
mind, those that come from contemplation and
study, sometimes on the noblest and most sacred
sentiments.  If an instance of courage or virtue
was mentioned in her presence, she examined it
minutely in search of its selfish motive; or if by
chance one burned the smallest grain of incense
on the altar of art, she extinguished it with a
disdainful wave of her hand.  With her short, abrupt,
and terrible laugh, like the mocking of a fallen
angel, she seemed determined to blight (wherever
she saw a trace of them) the most generous
faculties of the human soul—enthusiasm and passion.
I noticed that this strange spirit of disparagement
took on a special character of persecution—positive
hostility—when directed against me.  I did not
understand, and even now I do not quite understand,
why I have attracted these particular attentions.
True, I carry in my heart the worship of
things ideal and eternal, which only death can tear
from me (great God, what would be left me if I
had not that!); but I am not given to public
ecstasies, and my admiration, like my love, will
never be obtrusive.  In vain I maintained more
scrupulously than ever the modesty which springs
from real feeling.  I gained nothing by it.  The
most romantic fancies were attributed to me just
for the pleasure of combating them, and perpetually
some kind of grotesque harp was thrust into
my hands, solely for the amusement of breaking
its strings.

Although this open warfare against anything
higher than the material interests and sordid
realities of life, was not a new trait in Mlle. Marguerite's
character, it had been suddenly exaggerated
and embittered to the point of wounding the
hearts most devoted to this young girl.  One day
Mlle. de Porhoët, weary of this incessant mocking,
said to her in my presence:

"My darling, for some time past you have
been possessed by a devil which you would do
well to cast out as soon as possible, or you will
finish by making up a trio with Mme. Aubry
and Mme. de Saint-Cast.  For my part, I do not
pride myself on being, or ever having been,
particularly romantic, but I like to think that there
are still some people in the world who are capable
of generous sentiments; I believe in disinterestedness,
if only in my own, and I even believe in
heroism, because I have known heroes.  More, I
love to hear the little birds singing under my
arbour, and I like to build my cathedral in the
drifting clouds.  All this may sound very
ridiculous, my dear, but I venture to remind you that
these illusions are the riches of the poor, that
M. Odiot and I have no other kind of wealth,
and that we are so singular as not to complain."

On another occasion, when I had just received
Mlle. Marguerite's sarcasm with my usual
impassibility, her mother drew me aside.

"M. Maxime," she said, "my daughter teases
you a little, but I hope you will excuse her.  You
must have noticed that she has changed very
much lately."

"Your daughter seems to be more preoccupied
than usual."

"And not without good reason; she is about
to come to a very serious decision, and at such a
moment young girls are apt to be capricious."

I bowed and said nothing.

"You are now a friend of the family," continued
Mme. Laroque, "and as such I ask you to
give me your opinion of M. de Bévallan."

"I believe, madame, that M. de Bévallan has
a very handsome fortune—not so large as yours,
but undeniably handsome—about a hundred and
fifty thousand francs a year!"

"Yes, but what do you think of him personally,
and of his character?"

"M. de Bévallan is what the world calls a
perfect gentleman.  He has wit; he is considered an
honourable man."

"But do you think he will make my daughter happy?"

"I do not think he will make her unhappy.
He is not unkind."

"What do you think I ought to do?  I am
not entirely satisfied with him ... but he is the
only one Marguerite at all cares for ... and
there are so few men with a hundred thousand
francs a year.  You can understand that my
daughter—in her position—has had plenty of
offers.  For the last two or three years we have
been literally besieged....  Well, it is time we
decided....  I am not strong....  I may go
any day....  My daughter would be unprotected.
Here is an unexceptionable suitor whom the
world will certainly approve—it is my duty to
welcome him.  Already people say that I have
filled my daughter's head with romantic notions—which
is not the truth.  She has her own ideas.
Now, what do you advise me to do?"

"May I ask what is Mlle. de Porhoët's
opinion?  She is a lady of great judgment and
experience, and besides, entirely devoted to you."

"Oh, if I listened to Mlle. de Porhoët I
should send M. de Bévallan about his business.
But it is all very well for Mlle. de Porhoët to
talk.  When he's gone, she won't marry my
daughter for me."

"But, madame, from the monetary point of
view, M. de Bévallan is certainly a fine match.  I
do not dispute it for a moment, and if you stand
out for a hundred thousand francs a year."

"But, my dear sir, I care no more for a
hundred thousand francs than for a hundred pence!
However, I am not talking of myself, but of my
daughter.  Well, I can't let her marry a mason,
can I?  I should have rather liked to be the wife
of a mason, but it does not follow that what would
have made me happy would make her so.  I
ought, in marrying her, to be guided by received
opinion, not merely by my own."

"Well, then, madame, if this marriage suits
you, and suits your daughter equally well..."

"Ah, no! ... it does not suit me ... nor
does it suit my daughter any better.  It is a
marriage ... to speak plainly, it is *un mariage de
convenance*."

"Am I to understand that it is quite settled?"

"No, or I should scarcely ask your advice.  If
it were, my daughter would be more at ease.  Her
misgivings disturb her, and then..."

Mme. Laroque sank back into the shadow of
the hood over her chair and added:

"Have *you* any idea of what is going on in
that unfortunate head?"

"None, madame."

She fixed her sparkling eyes on me for a moment,
sighed deeply, and said, gently and sadly:

"You may go ... I won't detain you any longer."

The confidence with which I had just been
honoured, had not surprised me much.  For some
time it had been evident that Mlle. Marguerite
reserved for M. de Bévallan whatever sympathy
she had left for humanity.  But she seemed to
show rather a friendly preference than an
impassioned tenderness.  And I ought to say that the
preference was quite intelligible.  I have never
liked M. de Bévallan, and in these pages I have,
in spite of myself, given a caricature rather than a
portrait of him, but I admit that he combines
most of the qualities and defects that are popular
with women.  He is absolutely devoid of modesty,
which is a great advantage, as women do not
like it.  He has the cool, mocking, and witty
assurance which nothing can daunt, which easily
daunts others, and which gives to its possessor a
kind of domination and a factitious superiority.
His tall figure, his bold features, his skill in
athletic exercises, his reputation as a sportsman, give
him a manly authority which impresses the timid
sex.  And he has an air of daring, enterprise, and
conquest which attracts and troubles women, and
fills their souls with secret ardour.  Such advantages,
it is true, are, as a rule, chiefly impressive to
vulgar natures; but though, as usual, I had at first
been tempted to put Mlle. Marguerite's nature on
a level with her beauty, she had for some time
past seemed to make a positive parade of very
mediocre sentiments, and I believed she was
capable of yielding without resistance as without
enthusiasm, and with the passive coldness of a
lifeless imagination, to the charms of a common-place
lady-killer, and, later, to the yoke of a
respectable marriage.

AH this made it necessary for me to accept
the inevitable, and I did so more easily than I
should have thought possible a month ago.  For
I had summoned all my courage to combat the
first temptations of a love, equally condemned by
good sense and by honour.  And she who had
unwittingly imposed this combat on me, had also
unwittingly powerfully helped me in my resistance.
If she could not hide her beauty from me,
she also unveiled her soul, and mine had recoiled.
Small loss, no doubt, for the young millionaire,
but a good thing for me.

Meanwhile I had to go to Paris, partly on
Mme. Laroque's business and partly on my own.
I returned two days ago, and as I arrived at the
château I was told that old M. Laroque had
repeatedly asked for me since the morning.  I
hurried to his apartment.  A smile flickered
across his withered cheeks as he saw me.  He
looked at me with an expression of malignant joy
and secret triumph; then he said, in his dull,
hollow voice:

"M. de Saint-Cast is dead."

This news, which the strange old man had
wanted to tell me himself, was correct.  On the
previous night poor General de Saint-Cast had
had a stroke of apoplexy, and an hour later had
been snatched from the life of wealth and luxury
which he owed to his wife.  Directly the news
came to the château, Mme. Aubry had started off
to her friend, and the two had, as Dr. Desmarets
told us, passed the day chanting a sort of litany of
original and piquant ideas on the subject of
death—the swiftness with which it strikes its prey, the
impossibility of preventing or guarding against it,
the futility of regrets, which cannot bring back the
departed, the consoling effects of time, etc., etc.

After which they sat down to dinner, and
gradually recovered their spirits.  "Madame,"
said Mme. Aubry, "you must eat, you must keep
yourself alive.  It is our duty and the will of God."

At dessert Mme. de Saint-Cast had a bottle of
the poor general's favourite Spanish wine, and
begged Mme. Aubry to taste it for his sake.  But,
as Mme. Aubry firmly refused to be the only one
to partake of it, Mme. de Saint-Cast allowed
herself to be persuaded that God also wished her to
have a glass of Spanish wine and a crust of bread.
The general's health was not drunk.  Early
yesterday morning, Mme. Laroque and her daughter,
both in mourning, took their places in the
carriage.  I accompanied them.  About ten o'clock
we were at the little town.  While I attended the
general's funeral, the ladies joined the widow's
circle of official sympathizers.  After the service
I returned to the house, and with some other
friends I was introduced into the famous drawing-room,
the furniture of which had cost fifteen
thousand francs.  In the funereal half-light I
distinguished the inconsolable Mme. de Saint-Cast
sitting on a twelve-hundred-franc sofa, enveloped
in crape, the price of which we were told before
long.  At her side was Mme. Aubry, an image of
physical and moral prostration.  Half a dozen
friends and relatives completed this doleful group.
As we took up our positions in line at the farther
end of the *salon*, there was a sound of shuffling
feet and some cracking of the parquet, then
gloomy silence fell again on this mausoleum.
Only from time to time a lamentable sigh, faithfully
echoed by Mme. Aubry, rose from the sofa.

At last a young man appeared.  He had lingered
in the street to finish the cigar he had lighted
as he left the cemetery.  As he slipped discreetly
into our ranks Mme. de Saint-Cast perceived him.

"Is that you, Arthur?" she said in a lugubrious
voice.

"Yes, aunt," said the young man, advancing
in front of the line.

"Well," continued the widow, in the same
plaintive drawl, "is it over?"

"Yes, aunt," said Arthur, in curt, deliberate
accents.  He seemed to be a young man who was
perfectly satisfied with himself.

There was a pause, after which Mme. de
Saint-Cast drew from the depths of her expiring soul
this new series of questions:

"Did it go off well?"

"Very well, aunt, very well."

"Were there many people?"

"The whole town, aunt, the whole town."

"The military?"

"Yes, aunt, the whole garrison, and the band."

Mme. de Saint-Cast groaned, and added:

"The fire brigade?"

"The fire brigade too, aunt—certainly."

I do not quite see why this last detail should
have particularly affected Mme. de Saint-Cast, but
she could not resist it.  A sudden swoon,
accompanied by infantile wailings, summoned all the
resources of feminine sensibility to her aid, and
gave us the opportunity of slipping away.  I was
glad of it.  I could not bear to see this ridiculous
vixen performing her hypocritical mummeries
over the tomb of the weak, but good and loyal
fellow, whose life she had embittered, and whose
end she had probably hastened.

A few moments later, Mme. Laroque asked
me to accompany her to the Langoat farm, five or
six leagues farther on towards the coast.  She
intended to dine there with her daughter.  The
farmer's wife, who had been Mlle. Marguerite's
nurse, was ill, and the ladies had for some time
meant to give her this proof of their interest in
her welfare.  We started at two o clock in the
afternoon.  It was one of the hottest days of this
hot summer.  Through the open windows of the
carriage, the heavy, burning gusts which rose in
waves from the parched *lande* under the torrid
sky, swept across us.

The conversation suffered from our oppression.
Mme. Laroque, who declared that she was in paradise,
had at last thrown off her furs and remained
sunk in a gentle ecstasy.  Mlle. Marguerite fanned
herself with Spanish gravity.  While we slowly
climbed the interminable hills, we saw the calcined
rocks swarming with legions of silver-coated
lizards, and heard the continuous crackling of the
furze opening its ripe pods to the sun.

In the middle of one of our laborious ascents
a voice suddenly called out from the side of the
road:

"Stop, if you please."

At the same time a big girl with bare legs,
holding a distaff in her hand, and wearing the
ancient costume and ducal coif of the peasants of
this country, leaped quickly across the ditch,
knocking over as she came along some of the sheep she
was tending.  She perched herself with a kind of
grace on the carriage-step, and stood before us
with her brown, self-possessed, and smiling face
framed in the window.

"Pardon, ladies," she said in the quick, melodious
tones of her country, "will you be so kind
as to read this to me?"

She took from her bodice a letter folded in the
ancient fashion.

"Read it, M. Odiot," said Mme. Laroque,
laughing, "and read it aloud, if necessary."

It was a love-letter, addressed very carefully to
Mlle. Christine Ogadec, ——'s Farm, in the
commune of ——, near ——.  It was written by an
awkward but sincere hand.  The date showed that
Mlle. Christine had received it two or three weeks
ago.  Not being able to read, and fearing to trust
her secret to the ill-nature of her associates, the
poor girl had kept the letter in the hope that some
passing stranger, at once good-natured and
educated, would interpret the mystery that had been
burning in her bosom for more than a fortnight.
Her blue, wide-opened eyes were fixed on me with
an air of ineffable satisfaction as I laboriously read
the sloping lines which conveyed this message:

"Mademoiselle, this is to tell you that my
intentions have not changed since the day we spoke
on the *lande* after vespers, and that I am anxious
about yours.  My heart is all yours, mademoiselle,
and I wish yours to be all mine; and if it is you
may be sure and certain that no one alive is
happier on earth or in heaven than your friend—who
does not put his name here, but you know quite
well who he is, mademoiselle."

"And do you know, Mlle. Christine?" I said,
returning the letter.

"Very likely I do," she said, with a smile that
showed her white teeth, while she gravely nodded,
her young face radiant with happiness.  "Thank
you, ladies and gentleman!"

She jumped off the step and soon disappeared
among the bushes, chanting as she went the deep
and joyful notes of some Bretonne ballad.

Mme. Laroque had followed with evident rapture
all the details of this pastoral scene, which
harmonized deliciously with her favourite
fancies.  She smiled and dreamed at the vision of
this happy, barefooted girl as if she were under a
spell.  However, when Mlle. Ogadec was out of
sight, a strange notion came into Mme. Laroque's
head.  After all, she thought, it would not have
been a bad thing to have given the girl a five-franc
piece—in addition to her admiration.

"Call her back, Alain," she cried.

"But, mother, why?" said Mlle. Marguerite
quickly, though so far she had apparently taken no
notice of the incident.

"My dear child, perhaps this girl does not
thoroughly understand how much I should enjoy,
and how much she ought to enjoy, running about
barefooted in the dust.  It would be nice, at any
rate, to leave her some little souvenir."

"Money!" replied Mlle. Marguerite.  "Oh,
mother, don't!  Don't soil her happiness with
money."

This delicate sentiment—which, by the way,
poor Christine might not have appreciated—was
astonishing enough in the mouth of Mlle. Marguerite,
who did not, as a rule, pride herself on
such subtlety.  Indeed, I thought she was joking,
though she showed no signs of amusement.
However that may be, her mother took the caprice
very seriously.  It was decided enthusiastically to
leave this idyll to innocence and bare feet.

After this pretty episode Mme. Laroque relapsed
into her smiling ecstasy, and Mlle. Marguerite
fanned herself more seriously than ever.
An hour later we reached our destination.  Like
most of the farms in this country, where the
uplands and plateaux are the sterile *lande*, the farm
of Langoat lies in the hollow of a valley, with
a water-course running through it.

The farmer's wife was better, and at once set
to work preparing dinner, the chief elements of
which we had been careful to bring with us.  It
was served on the natural lawn of a meadow,
under the shade of an enormous chestnut.
Mme. Laroque, though sitting in a most uncomfortable
attitude, on one of the cushions from the carriage,
seemed perfectly radiant.  She said our party
reminded her of the groups of reapers we see
crowding under the shade of a hedge, whose
rustic feasts she had always envied.  As for me, I
might perhaps at another time have found a
singular sweetness in the close and easy intimacy,
which an outdoor meal of this kind usually
creates among the guests.  But, with a painful
feeling of constraint, I thrust away an enjoyment
that might inflict regret, and the bread of this
transient fraternity was bitter in my mouth.

"Have you ever been up there?" said Mme. Laroque
to me as we finished dinner.  She
indicated the top of a lofty hill which commanded
the meadow we were in.

"No, madame."

"Oh, but you should go.  You get such a
lovely view.  You must see it ... Marguerite
will take you while they're putting the horses in.
Won't you?"

"I, mother?  I have only been there once,
and it was a long time ago ... However, I
daresay I can find the way.  Come, M. Odiot,
and be prepared for a stiff climb."

Mlle. Marguerite and I started at once to
climb a very steep path which wound along the
side of the mountain, passing in some places
through clumps of trees.  The girl stopped from
time to time in her swift and easy ascent to see if
I were following her, and, panting a little, smiled
at me without speaking.  On reaching the bare
heath which formed the plateau, I saw, a short
way off, a village church, the lines of its little
steeple sharply defined against the sky.

"That's where it is," said my young guide,
quickening her pace.

Beyond the church was a cemetery shut in by
walls.  She opened the gate, and made her way
with difficulty through the tall grass and trailing
brambles, which choked the place of rest, towards
a kind of semicircular *perron* which stood at the
farther end.  Two or three rough steps, defaced
by time and rather strangely ornamented with
massive balls, led to a narrow platform raised to
the level of the wall.  A granite cross stood in
the centre of the semicircle.

Mlle. Marguerite had scarcely reached the
platform and looked into the space that opened
before her, when I saw her place her hand before
her eyes as if she were suddenly dazzled.  I
hastened to join her.  The beautiful day, nearing to
its end, lighted with its last splendours a scene so
vast, so strange, and so sublime, that I shall never
forget it.

.. _`"I fell on my knees, I could not keep back my tears"`:

.. figure:: images/img-162.jpg
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   :alt: "I fell on my knees, I could not keep back my tears" (see page 245)

   "I fell on my knees, I could not keep back my tears" (see page `245`_)

Facing us, and at a great depth below the
platform, extended, farther than we could see, a
sort of marsh studded with shining patches, and
looking like a region slowly emerging from a
deluge.  This great bay stretched from under our
feet to the heart of the jagged mountains.  On
the banks of mud and sand which separated the
shifting lagoons, a growth of reeds and sea plants
tinged with a thousand shades, sombre but
distinct, contrasted sharply with the gleaming
surfaces of the waters.  At each of its rapid strides
to the horizon, the sun lit up or darkened some
of the many lakes which checkered the half-dried
gulf.  He seemed to take in turn from his
celestial casket the most precious substances—silver
and gold, ruby and diamond—and make them
flash on each point of this gorgeous plain.  As
the planet neared the end of his career, a strip
of undulating mist at the farther limit of the
marshes, reddened all at once with the glare of a
conflagration, and for a moment, kept the radiant
transparency of a cloud furrowed by lightning.
I was absorbed in the contemplation of a
picture so full of divine grandeur, and enriched as
with another ray of glory by the great memory
of Cæsar, when a low, half-stifled voice murmured:

"Oh, how beautiful it is!"

I had not expected this sympathetic outburst
from my companion.  I turned eagerly towards
her with a surprise that was not lessened, when the
emotion in her face, and the slight trembling of
her lips, had convinced me of the profound
sincerity of her admiration.

"You admit that it is beautiful?" I said to her.

She shook her head; but at the same moment
two tears fell slowly from her great eyes.  She
felt them rolling down her cheeks, made a gesture
of annoyance, and then throwing herself suddenly
on the granite cross, on the base of which she was
standing, she embraced it with both hands, pressed
her head close against the stone, and sobbed
convulsively.

I did not think it right to say a word that
might trouble the course of this sudden emotion,
and I turned reverently away.  After a moment,
seeing her raise her forehead, and hastily replace
her loosened hair, I came nearer.

"I am ashamed of myself," she murmured.

"You have more reason to rejoice.  Believe
me, you must give up trying to destroy the source
of those tears; it is holy.  Besides, you will never
succeed."

"I must," said the girl desperately.  "See, it
is done!  This weakness took me by surprise.  I
want to hate everything that is good and beautiful."

"In God's name, why?"

"Because I am beautiful, and I can never be
loved."

Then, as a long-repressed torrent bursts its
barriers at last, she continued, with extraordinary
energy:

"It is true."

She put her hand on her heaving bosom.

"God had put into this heart all the qualities
that I ridicule, that I blaspheme every hour of
the day.  But when he condemned me to be rich,
he withdrew with one hand all that he had lavished
with the other.  What is the good of my beauty?
What is the good of the devotion, tenderness, and
enthusiasm which I feel burning within me?
These are not the charms which make so many
cowards weary me with their homage.  I see it
I know it—I know it too well.  And if ever
some disinterested, generous, and heroic soul loved
me for what I am, and not for what I have ... I
should never know ... never believe it.
Eternal mistrust!  That is my sentence—that is my
torture.  So I have decided ... I will never
love.  I will never pour into some vile, worthless,
and venal heart the pure passion which is burning
in mine.  My soul will die virgin in my bosom.
Well, I am resigned, but—everything that is
beautiful, everything that sets me dreaming, everything
that speaks to me of realms forbidden, everything
that stirs these vain fires in me—I thrust it away,
I hate it, I will have nothing to do with it."

She stopped, trembling; then, in a lower tone,
she said:

"Monsieur, I did not seek this opportunity.
I have not chosen my words ... I did not mean
to tell you, but I have spoken ... you know all,
and if at any time I have wounded your feelings,
I think you will forgive me now."

She held out her hand.  When my lips touched
that soft hand, still wet with tears, a mortal
languor stole through my veins.  Marguerite turned
her head away, looked into the sombre sky, and
then slowly descended the steps.

"Let us go," she said.

Another road, longer, but easier than the steep
ascent of the mountain, brought us into the
farmyard.  Neither of us spoke a single word the
whole way.  What could I have said, I who was
more to be suspected than any other?  I felt that
every word from my overcharged heart would
separate me still further from this stormy, but
adorable soul.

Night had fallen, and hid from every one the
signs of our common emotion.  We drove away.
After telling us again how much she had enjoyed
her day, Mme. Laroque gave herself up to dreaming
about it.  Mlle. Marguerite, invisible and
motionless in the deep shadow, seemed also to be
sleeping; but when a bend in the road caused a
ray of pale light to fall upon her, the fixed and
open eyes showed that she was wakeful and silent,
beset by the thought that caused her despair.  I
can scarcely say what I felt.  A strange sensation
of deep joy and deep bitterness possessed me
entirely.  I yielded to it as one sometimes yields
consciously to a dream the charm of which we are
not strong enough to resist.

We reached home about midnight.

I got down at the beginning of the avenue,
and took the short way through the park to my
quarters.  Entering a dim alley, I heard a faint
sound of voices and approaching footsteps, and
saw vaguely in the darkness two shadowy figures.
It was late enough to justify me in stepping into
a clump of trees, to watch these nocturnal
wanderers.  They passed slowly in front of me.  I
recognised Mlle. Hélouin; she was leaning on
M. de Bévallan's arm.  At this moment the sound of
the carriage alarmed them; they shook hands and
separated hurriedly, Mlle. Hélouin going towards
the château, the other to the woods.

In my own room, fresh from my adventure, I
asked myself indignantly whether I was to allow
M. de Bévallan to carry on his double love affair
uninterrupted, and to let him find a *fiancée* and a
mistress in the same house.  I am too much a
man of my age and time to feel the Puritan's
horror of certain weaknesses, and I am not hypocrite
enough to affect what I do not feel.  But I
believe that the morality which is easiest and most
indulgent in this respect, still demands some
degree of dignity, self-respect, and delicacy.  Even
in these devious ways a man must walk straight to
some extent.  The real excuse of love is that it *is*
love.  But M. de Bévallan's catholic tendernesses
exclude all possibility of self-forgetful passion.
Such love-affairs are not even sins; they are
something altogether lower in the moral scale; they are
but the calculations and the wagers of brutalized
horse-dealers.

The various incidents of this evening, combined
to convince me, that this man was utterly
unworthy of the hand and heart he dared to covet.
Such a union would be monstrous.  But I saw at
once, that I should not be able to prevent it by
using the weapons that chance had put into my
hands.  The best of objects does not justify base
methods, and nothing can excuse the informer.
This marriage will take place, and heaven will
permit one of its noblest creatures to fall into the
arms of a cold-hearted libertine.  It will permit
that profanation.  Alas, it allows so many others!

I tried to imagine how this young girl could
have chosen this man, by what process of false
reasoning she had come to prefer him to all others.
I think I have guessed.  M. de Bévallan is very
rich; he brings a fortune nearly equal to the one
he acquires.  That is a kind of guarantee; he
could do without this additional wealth; he is
assumed to be more disinterested than others,
because he is better off.

How foolish an argument!  What a terrible
mistake to estimate people's venality by the amount
of their wealth!  In nine cases out of ten,
opulence increases greed!  The most self-seeking are
not the poorest!

Was there, then, no hope that Marguerite
would see the worthlessness of her choice, no hope
that her own heart would give her the counsel I
could not suggest?  Might not a new, unlooked-for
feeling arise in her heart, and, breathing on the
vain resolutions of reason, destroy them?  Was
not this feeling already born, indeed, and had I
not received irrefutable proofs of it?  The strange
caprices, the humiliations, struggles, and tears of
which I had been so long the object, or the
witness, proclaimed beyond doubt a reason that
wavered, not mistress of itself.  I had seen enough
of life, to know that a scene like that of which
chance had this evening made me the confidant,
and almost the accomplice, does not, however
spontaneous it may seem, occur in an atmosphere
of indifference.  Such emotions, such shocks, prove
that there are two souls already shaken by the
same storm, or about to be so shaken.

But if it were true, if she loved me, as too
certainly I loved her, I might say of that love what
she had said of her beauty: "What is the good of
it?"  For I could never hope that it would be
strong enough to triumph over the eternal mistrust,
which is at once the defect, and quality, of
that noble girl.  My character, I dare say it,
resents the outrage of this mistrust; but my situation,
more than that of any other, is calculated to
rouse it.  What miracle is to bridge the abyss
between these suspicions, and the reserve they
force upon me?

Finally, granting the miracle, if she offered me
the hand for which I would give my life, but for
which I will never ask, would our union be
happy?  Should I not have to fear, early or late,
in this restless imagination, the slow awakening of
a half-stifled mistrust?  Could I, in the midst of
wealth not mine, guard myself against misgivings?
Could I really be happy in a love that is sullied
by being a benefit as well?  Our part as the
protector of women is so strictly laid upon us by all
sentiments of honour, that it cannot, even from
the highest motives, be reversed for an instant
without casting upon us some shadow of doubt
and suspicion.  Truly, wealth is not so great an
advantage that we cannot find some counterpoise
to it.  I imagine that a man who brings his wife,
in exchange for some bags of gold, a name that
he has made illustrious, acknowledged worth, a
great position, or the promise of a great future,
does not feel that he is under a crushing
obligation.  But my hands are empty, my future is no
better than my present; of all the advantages
which the world worships I have only one—my
title—and I am determined not to bear it, that it
may not be said it was the price of a bargain.  I
should receive all and give nothing.  A king may
marry a shepherdess; that is generous and
charming, and we congratulate him with good reason;
but a shepherd who lets a queen marry him does
not cut so fine a figure.

I have spent the night thinking these things
over, and seeking a solution that I have not yet
found.  Perhaps I ought to leave this house and
this place at once.  Prudence counsels it.  This
business cannot end well.  How often one minute
of courage and firmness would spare us a lifetime
of regret!  I ought at least to be overwhelmed by
sadness; I have never had such good reason for
melancholy.  But I cannot grieve.  My brain,
distracted and tortured, yet holds a thought which
dominates everything, and fills me with more than
mortal joy.  My soul is as light as a bird of the
air.  I see—I shall always see—that little cemetery,
that distant ocean, that vast horizon, and on that
glowing hilltop, that angel of beauty bathed in
divine tears!  Still, I feel her hand under my lips,
her tears in my eyes and in my heart.  I love
her!  Well, to-morrow, if so it must be, I will
decide.  Till then, for God's sake, let me have a
little rest.  I have not been overdone with
happiness.  I may die of this love, but I will live in
peace with it for one day at least.



.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: right

   *August 26th*.

That day, the single day I asked, has not been
granted me.  My brief weakness has not had long
to wait for its punishment, which will be lasting.
How could I have forgotten?  Moral laws can
no more be broken with impunity than physical,
and their invariable action constitutes the
permanent intervention of what we call Providence in
the affairs of this world.  A great, though weak
man, writing the gospel of a sage with the hand
of a quasi-maniac, said of the passions that were at
once his misery, his reproach, and his glory:

"All are good while we are their masters; all
are bad when we let them enslave us.  Nature
forbids us to let our attachments exceed our
strength; reason forbids us to desire what we
cannot obtain; conscience does not forbid us to
be tempted, it does forbid us to yield to temptation.
It does not rest with us to have or not to
have passions, but it does rest with us to control
them.  All the feelings which we govern are
legitimate; all those that govern us are criminal.
Attach your heart only to the beauty that does
not perish; limit your desires by your conditions;
put your duties before your passions; extend the
law of necessity to things moral; learn to lose
what may be taken from you; learn to give up
everything at the command of virtue!"

Yes, such is the law.  I knew it; I have
broken it; I am punished.  It is right.  I had
scarcely set foot on my cloud of folly when I was
thrown violently off, and now, after five days, I
have barely courage to recount the almost
ridiculous details of my downfall.

Mme. Laroque and her daughter had gone in
the morning to pay another visit to Mme. de
Saint-Cast, and to bring back Mme. Aubry.  I
found Mlle. Hélouin alone at the château.  I had
brought her quarter's salary; for, though my
duties do not, in a general way, trench on the
maintenance and internal discipline of the house,
the ladies had wished, no doubt from consideration
for Mlle. Hélouin and for me, that I should
pay both our salaries.  The young lady was
sitting in the small boudoir near the dining-room.
She received me with a pensive sweetness which
touched me.  For at that moment I felt in myself
that fulness of heart which inclines us to
confidence and kindness.  I quixotically resolved to
hold out a helping hand to this poor lonely
creature.

"Mademoiselle," I said, abruptly, "you have
withdrawn your friendship from me, but my
friendship for you remains unaltered.  May I
give you a proof of it?"

She looked at me and murmured a timid assent.

"Well, my poor child, you are bent on your
own ruin."

She rose quickly.

"You saw me in the park that night!" she cried.

"I did."

"My God!"

She came towards me.

"M. Maxime, I swear to you that I am a
virtuous girl."

"I believe it, mademoiselle, but I must warn
you that in this little romance, perfectly innocent,
no doubt, on your side, whatever it may be on the
other, you are imperilling your reputation and
your peace of mind.  I beg you to reflect
seriously on this matter, and at the same time I beg
to assure you that no one but you will ever hear a
word on this subject from me."

I was leaving the room, when she sank on her
knees before a couch, and burst out sobbing,
leaning her forehead against my hand, which she had
seized.  It was not long since I had seen sweeter
and nobler tears, but still I was touched.

"Come, my dear young lady," I said; "it is
not too late, is it?"

She shook her head decisively.

"Very well, my child.  Be brave, and we will
save you.  What can I do to help you—tell me?
Has this man any proof, any letter, I can demand
from him on your behalf?  Command me as if I
were your brother."

She released my hand angrily.

"How hard you are!" she said.  "You talk
of saving me ... it is you who are ruining me.
After pretending to love me, you repulsed me
... you have humiliated me and made me desperate.
You are the sole cause of what has happened."

"Mademoiselle, you are unjust.  I never pretended
to love you.  I had a sincere affection for
you, and I have it still.  I admit that your
beauty, your wit, and your talents fully entitle
you to look for more than fraternal friendship
from those who see you every day.  But my
situation, and my duties to my family preclude my
indulging any other feeling for you without being
dishonourable.  I tell you frankly that I think
you are charming, and I assure you that in
restricting my sentiments towards you within the
limits imposed by loyalty, I have not been
without merit.  I see nothing humiliating for you in
that; what might, indeed, humiliate you,
mademoiselle, would be the determined pursuit of a
man determined not to marry you."

She gave me an evil look.

"What do you know about it?" she said.
"Every man is not a fortune-hunter."

"Oh! mademoiselle, are you a spiteful little
person?" I said, very calmly.  "If so, I will wish
you good-day."

"M. Maxime!" she cried, rushing forward to
stop me, "forgive me! have pity on me!  Alas!
I am so unhappy.  Imagine what must be the
thoughts of a poor creature like me, who has been
given—cruelly—a heart, a soul, a brain ... and
who can only use them to suffer ... and to
hate!  What is my life?  What is my future?
My life is the perception of my poverty,
ceaselessly aggravated by the luxury which surrounds
me!  My future will be to regret, some day, to
weep bitterly for even this life—this slave's life,
odious as it is!  You talk of my youth, my wit,
and my talents.  Would that I had never had the
capacity for anything higher than breaking stones
on the road!  I should have been happier.  My
talents!  I shall have passed the best part of my
life in decking another woman with them, and
giving her thereby additional beauty, power—and
insolence.  And when my best blood has passed
into this doll's veins, she will go off on the arm of
a happy husband to take her part in the best
pleasures of life, while, old, solitary, and deserted,
I shall go to die in some hole with the pension of
a lady's maid.  What have I done to deserve this
fate, tell me that?  Why should it be mine rather
than that of those other women?  Because I am
not as good as they are?  If I am bad, it is
because suffering has envenomed me, because
injustice has blackened my soul.  I was born with a
disposition as great as theirs—perhaps greater—to
be good and loving and charitable.  My God! benefits
cost little when you're rich, and kindness
is easy when you're happy.  If I were in their
place, and they in mine, they would hate me
... as I hate them....  We do not love our masters.
Ah! this is horrible—what I am saying to you.
I know it, and this is the crowning bitterness—I
feel my own degradation, I blush for it ... and
increase it.  Alas! now you despise me more
than ever ... you, whom I could have loved so
much, if you would have let me; you, who could
have given me all that I have lost hope, peace,
goodness, self-respect!  Ah! there was a moment
when I believed that I was saved ... when for
the first time I dreamed of happiness, of hope, of
pride! ... Poor wretch! ..."

She had seized both my hands; her head fell
on them, and she wept wildly under her long,
flowing curls.

"My dear child," I said to her, "I know better
than any one the trials and humiliations of
your position, but let me tell you that you increase
them greatly by nourishing the sentiments you
have just expressed.  They are hideous, and you
will end by deserving all the hardships of your lot.
But, after all, your imagination strangely
exaggerates those hardships.  As for the present,
whatever you may say, you are treated like a friend
here; as to the future, I see nothing to prevent
you from leaving this house on the arm of a
happy husband, too.  For my part, I shall be
grateful for your affection throughout my life;
but—I will tell you once more, and finish with the
subject forever—I have duties that bind me, and
I do not wish, nor am I able, to marry."

She looked at me suddenly.

"Not even Marguerite?" she said.

"I do not see that it is necessary to introduce
Mlle. Marguerite's name."

With one hand she threw back the hair which
fell over her face, and the other she held out at
me with a menacing gesture.

"You love her!" she said in a hoarse voice.
"No, you love her money, but you shall not
have it!"

"Mademoiselle Hélouin!"

"Ah!" she continued, "you must be a child
indeed if you think you can deceive a woman who
was fool enough to love you.  I see through your
manoeuvres.  Besides, I know who you are.  I
was not far off when Mlle. de Porhoët conveyed
your well-calculated confidence to Mme. Laroque——"

"So you listen at doors, mademoiselle!"

"I care nothing for your insults....  Besides,
I shall avenge myself, and soon, too....  Oh,
there's no doubt you're very clever, M. de
Chamcey!  I congratulate you.  Wonderfully well
have you played your little part of disinterestedness
and reserve, as your friend Laubépin advised
you to do when he sent you here.  He knew the
person you would have to deal with.  He knew
well enough this girl's absurd mania.  And you
think you've already got your prey, don't you?
Adorable millions, aren't they?  There are queer
stories about their origin.  But, at any rate, they
will serve very well to furbish up your marquisate,
and regild your escutcheon.  Well, from this
moment you can give up that idea ... for I swear
you shall not keep your mask a day longer, and
this hand shall tear it from you."

"Mlle. Hélouin, it is quite time we brought
this scene to an end; we are verging on
melodrama.  You have given me an opportunity
of forestalling you in tale-bearing and calumniation;
but you are perfectly safe.  I give you
my word of honour that I shall not use those
weapons.  And, mademoiselle, I am your humble
servant."

I left the unhappy girl with a feeling of
mingled disgust and pity.  I have always thought
that the highest organization must, from its very
nature, be galled and warped in a situation as
equivocal and humiliating as that which
Mlle. Hélouin occupies here.  But I was not prepared
for the abyss of venom that had just opened
under my eyes.  Most assuredly—when one
thinks the matter out—one can scarcely conceive
a situation which subjects a human soul to more
hateful temptations, or is better calculated to
develop and sharpen envy, to arouse the protests
of pride, and to exasperate feminine vanity and
jealousy.  Most of the unhappy girls who are
driven to this occupation only escape the troubles
Mlle. Hélouin had not been able to guard herself
against, either by the moderation of their feeling,
or, by the grace of God, through the firmness
of their principles.  Sometimes I had thought
that our misfortunes might make it necessary for
my sister to go as governess into some rich family.
I swore then that whatever future might be
reserved for us, I would rather share the hardest
life in the poorest garret with Hélène than let
her sit at the poisoned banquets of an opulent
and hateful servitude.

Though I had firmly resolved to leave the
field free to Mlle. Hélouin, and on no account to
engage personally in the recriminations of a
degrading contest, I could not regard without
misgiving the probable consequences of the treacherous
war just declared against me.  Evidently, I
was threatened where I was most sensitive—in my
love and in my honour.  Mistress of the secret
of my heart, mingling truth and falsehood with
the skilful perfidy of her sex, Mlle. Hélouin
might easily show my conduct in an unfavourable
light, turn all the precautions and scruples of my
delicacy against me, and give my simplest actions
the appearance of deliberate intrigue.  I could
not foresee the form her malevolence would take,
but I could depend upon her to choose the most
effectual methods.  Better than any one, she
knew the weak places in the imaginations she
wished to impress.  Over Mlle. Marguerite and
her mother she had the advantage which dissimulation
usually has over frankness, and cunning
over simplicity.  They trusted her with the trust
that is born of long use and daily association.
Her masters, as she called them, were not likely
to suspect that under the pretty brightness and
obsequious consideration which she assumed with
such consummate art she concealed a frenzy of
pride and ingratitude which was eating her
miserable heart away.  It was too probable that a hand
so sure and skilful would pour its poison with
complete success into hearts thus prepared.  It
was true Mlle. Hélouin might be afraid that by
yielding to her resentment she would thrust
Mlle. Marguerite's hand into that of M. de Bévallan,
and hasten a marriage which would be the ruin
of her own ambition; but I knew that the woman
who hates does not calculate, and risks everything.
So I awaited from her the swiftest and blindest
of vengeance, and I was right.

In painful anxiety I passed the hours that
should have been given to sweeter thoughts.  All
that a proud spirit finds most galling in dependence,
the suspicion hardest for a loyal conscience,
the scorn most bitter to a loving heart, I endured
in anticipation.  Never in my worst hours had
adversity offered me a cup so full.  However, I
tried to work as usual.  About five o'clock I went
to the château.  The ladies had returned during
the afternoon.  In the drawing-room I found
Mlle. Marguerite, Mme. Aubry, M. de Bévallan, and
two or three casual guests.  Mlle. Marguerite did
not appear to be aware of my presence, but
continued to talk to M. de Bévallan in a more
animated style than usual.  They were discussing an
impromptu dance, which was to take place the
same evening at a neighbouring château.  She was
going with her mother, and urged M. de Bévallan
to accompany them.  He excused himself on the
ground that he had left his house that morning
before receiving the invitation, and that his
costume was inadmissible.  With an eager and
affectionate coquetry which evidently surprised even
him, Mlle. Marguerite persisted, saying that
there was still time to go back and dress and
return to fetch them.  She promised that a nice
little dinner should be kept for him.  M. de
Bévallan said that his carriage horses were not
available, and that he could not ride back in evening
dress.

"Very well," replied Mlle. Marguerite; "they
shall drive you over in the dog-cart."

At the same moment she turned towards me
for the first time, with a look in which I saw the
thunderbolt that was about to fall.

"M. Odiot," she said in a sharp, imperious
tone, "go and tell them to put the horse in."

This imperious order was so little in harmony
with such as I was accustomed to receive here, or
such as I could be expected to tolerate, that the
attention and curiosity of the most indifferent were
excited.

There was an awkward silence.  M. de Bévallan
glanced in surprise at Mlle. Marguerite; then
he looked at me, and got up with a very serious
air.  If they thought I should give way to some
mad prompting of anger they were mistaken.  It
was true that the insulting words which had just
fallen on me from a mouth so beautiful, so
beloved, and so cruel, had struck the icy coldness of
death to the very depths of my being.  A blade
of steel piercing my heart could hardly have caused
me keener pain.  But never had I been calmer.
The bell which Mme. Laroque uses to summon
her servants stood on a table within my reach.  I
touched it with my finger.  A man-servant entered
almost directly.

"I think," I said to him, "Mlle. Marguerite
has some orders to give you."

At this speech, which she had heard in amazement,
Marguerite shook her head quickly, and dismissed
the man.  I longed to get out of this
room, where I seemed to be choking, but, in view
of M. de Bévallan's provoking manner, I could
not withdraw.

"Upon my word," he murmured, "there's
something very strange about all this."

I took no notice of him.  Mlle. Marguerite
said something to him under her breath.

"I obey, mademoiselle," he said in a louder
tone; "but you will allow me to express my
sincere regret that I have not the right to interpose
here."

I rose immediately.

"M. de Bévallan," I said, standing within a
pace or two of him, "that regret is quite superfluous,
for though I have not thought fit to obey
Mlle. Laroque's orders, I am entirely at yours
... and I shall expect to receive them."

"Very good, very good, sir; nothing could be
better," replied M. de Bévallan, waving his hand
airily to reassure the ladies.

We bowed to one another and I went out.  I
dined alone in my tower.  Poor Alain waited on
me as usual.  No doubt he had heard of what
had occurred, for he kept looking at me mournfully,
sighed often and deeply, and, contrary to his
custom, preserved a gloomy silence, only breaking
it to reply, in answer to my question, that the
ladies had decided not to go to the ball.

After a hurried meal, I put my papers in order
and wrote a few words to M. Laubépin.  In view
of a possible contingency I recommended Hélène
to his care.  The thought that I might leave her
unprotected and friendless nearly broke my heart,
without in the least affecting my immovable
principles.  I may deceive myself, but I have always
thought that honour in our modern life is
paramount in the hierarchy of duties.  It takes the
place of so many virtues which have nearly faded
from our consciences, of so many dormant beliefs;
it plays such a tutelary part in the present state of
society, that I would never consent to weaken its
claims, or lessen its obligations.  In its indefinite
character, there is something superior to law
and morality: one does not reason about it; one
feels it.  It is a religion.  If we have no longer
the folly of the Cross, let us keep the folly of
Honour!  Moreover, no sentiment has ever taken
such deep root in the human soul without the
sanction of reason.  It is better that a girl or a
wife should be alone in the world, than that she
should be protected by a dishonoured brother or
husband.

Each moment I expected a letter from M. de
Bévallan.  I was getting ready to go to the
collector of taxes in the town, a young officer who
had been wounded in the Crimea, and ask him to
be my second, when some one knocked at my
door.  M. de Bévallan himself came in.  Apart
from a slight shade of embarrassment, his face
expressed nothing but a frank and joyful kindliness.

"M. Odiot," he said, as I looked at him in
surprise, "this is rather an unusual step, but,
thank Heaven, my service-records place my
courage beyond suspicion.  On the other hand, I have
such good reason for feeling happy to-night that I
have no room for rancour or enmity.  Lastly, I
am obeying orders which will now be more sacred
to me than ever.  In short, I come to offer you
my hand."

I bowed gravely and took his hand.

"Now," he went on as he sat down, "I can
execute my commission comfortably.  A little
while ago Mlle. Marguerite, in a thoughtless
moment, gave you some instructions which most
assuredly did not come within your province.
Very properly, your susceptibility was aroused,
we quite recognise that, and now the ladies
charge me to beg that you will accept their
regrets.  They would be in despair if the
misconception of a moment could deprive them of your
good offices, which they value extremely, and put
an end to relations which they esteem most highly.
Speaking for myself, I have this evening acquired
the right to add my entreaties to those of the
ladies.  Something I have long desired has been
granted me, and I shall be personally indebted
to you if you will prevent the happy memories
of this day from being marred by a separation
which would be at once disadvantageous and
painful to the family into which I shall shortly
enter."

"M. de Bévallan," I said, "I fully recognise
and appreciate all that you have said on behalf of
the ladies, as well as on your own account.  You
will excuse me from giving a final answer
immediately.  This is a matter which requires more
judicial consideration than I can give it at present.

"At least," said M. de Bévallan, "you will let
me take back a hopeful report.  Come, M. Odiot,
since we have the opportunity, let us break
through the barrier of ice that has kept us apart
till now.  As far as I am concerned, I am quite
willing.  In the first place, Mme. Laroque,
without revealing a secret that does not belong to her,
has given me to understand that under the kind
of mystery with which you surround yourself,
there are circumstances which reflect the highest
credit on you.  And, besides, I have a private
reason for being grateful to you.  I know that
you have lately been consulted in reference to
my intentions towards Mlle. Laroque, and that
I have cause to congratulate myself on your
opinion."

"My dear sir, I do not think I deserve——"

"Oh, I know!" he continued, laughing.  "You
didn't praise me up to the skies, but, at all events,
you did me no harm.  And I admit that you
showed real insight.  You said that though
Mlle. Marguerite might not be absolutely happy with me,
she would not be unhappy.  Well, the prophet
Daniel could not have spoken better.  The truth
is, the dear child will never be absolutely happy
with any one, because she will not find in the
whole world a husband who will talk poetry to
her from morning to night....  They're not to
be had.  I am no more capable of it than any one
else, I own; but—as you were good enough to
say—I am an honourable man.  And really, when
we know one another better, you will be
convinced of it.  I am not a brute; I am a good
fellow.  God knows I have faults ... one
especially: I am fond of pretty women....  I am,
I can't deny it.  But what does it matter?  It
shows that one has a good heart.  Besides, here I
am in port ... and I am delighted, because—between
ourselves—I was getting into a bit of a
mess.  In short, I mean only to think about my
wife and children in future.  So, like you, I
believe Marguerite will be perfectly happy—that
is to say, as far as she could be in this world with
ideas like hers.  For, after all, I shall be good to
her; I shall refuse her nothing, and I shall do
even more than she desires.  But if she asks me
for the moon and the stars, I can't go and fetch
them to please her ... that's not possible....
And now, my dear friend, your hand once more."

I gave it him.  He got up.

"Good!  I hope that you will stay with us
now....  Come, let me see that a brighter
face!  We will make your life as pleasant as
possible, but you'll have to help us a bit, you know.
You cultivate your sadness, I fancy.  You live, if
I may say so, too much like an owl.  You're a
kind of Spaniard such as one rarely sees.  You
must drop that sort of thing.  You are young
and good-looking, you have wit and talents;
make the best of those qualities.  Listen.  Why
not try a flirtation with little Hélouin....  It
would amuse you.  She is very charming, and she
would suit you.  But, deuce take me!  I am
rather forgetting my promotion to high
dignities! ... And now, good-bye, Maxime, till to-morrow,
isn't it?"

"Till to-morrow, certainly."

And this honest gentleman—who is the sort
of Spaniard one often sees!—left me to my reflections.



.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: right

   *October 1st*.

A strange thing has happened.  Though the
results are not, so far, very satisfactory, they have
done me good.  The blow I had received had left
me numb with grief.  This at least makes me feel
that I am alive, and for the first time for three long
weeks I have had the courage to open this book
and take up my pen.  Every satisfaction having
been given to me, I thought there was no longer
any reason for leaving, at least suddenly, a
position and advantages which, after all, I need, and
could not easily replace.  The mere prospect
of the personal sufferings I had to face, which,
moreover, were the result of my own weakness,
could not entitle me to shirk duties which
involved other interests than my own.  And more;
I did not intend that Mlle. Marguerite should
interpret my sudden flight as the result of pique at
the loss of a good match.  I made it a point of
honour to show her an unruffled front up to the
altar itself.  As for my heart—that she could not
see.  So I contented myself with informing
M. Laubépin that certain things incident to my
situation might at any moment become unbearable,
and that I eagerly desired some less lucrative but
more independent occupation.

The next day I appeared at the château, where
M. de Bévallan received me cordially.  I greeted
the ladies with all the self-possession I could
command.  There was, of course, no explanation.
Mme. Laroque seemed moved and thoughtful;
Mlle. Marguerite was a little highly strung still,
but polite.  As for Mlle. Hélouin, she was very
pale, and kept her eyes fixed on her work.  The
poor girl could not have been very much delighted
with the final result of her diplomacy.  She
endeavoured once or twice to dart a look of scorn
and menace at M. de Bévallan; but though this
stormy atmosphere might have troubled a
neophyte, M. de Bévallan breathed, moved, and
fluttered about in it entirely at his ease.  His regal
self-possession evidently irritated Mlle. Hélouin,
but it quelled her at the same time.  I am sure,
however, that she would have played him the
same sort of trick she had played me the day
before, and with far more excuse, if she had not been
afraid of ruining herself as well as her accomplice.
But it was most likely that if she yielded to her
jealous rage, and admitted her ingratitude and
duplicity, she would ruin herself only, and she was
quite clever enough to see this.  In fact, M. de
Bévallan was not the kind of man to have run any
risks with her, without having provided himself
with some very effective weapon which he would
use with pitiless indifference.  Of course,
Mlle. Hélouin might tell herself that the night before
they had believed her when she made other false
accusations, but she knew that the falsehood
which flatters or wounds is much more readily
believed than mere general truth.  So she suffered
in silence, not, I suppose, without feeling keenly
that the sword of treachery sometimes turns
against the person who makes use of it.  During
this day and those which followed I had to bear a
kind of torture I had foreseen, though without
realizing how painful it would be.  The marriage
was fixed for a month later.  All the preparations
had to be made at once and in great haste.
Regularly each morning came one of Mme. Provost's
bouquets.  Laces, dresses, jewels poured in and
were exhibited every evening to interested and
envious ladies.  I had to give my opinion and my
advice on everything.  Mlle. Marguerite begged
for them with almost cruel persistence.  I
responded as graciously as I could, and then
returned to my tower and took from a secret
drawer the tattered handkerchief I had won at
the risk of my life, and I dried my tears with it.
Weakness again!  But what would you have?
I love her.  Treachery, enmity, hopeless
misunderstandings, her pride and mine, separate us
forever!  So let it be, but nothing can prevent me
from living and dying with my heart full of her.

As for M. de Bévallan, I did not hate him; he
was not worthy of it.  He is a vulgar but harmless
soul.  Thank God!  I could receive the overtures
of his shallow friendliness without hypocrisy, and
put my hand tranquilly in his.  But if he was too
insignificant for my resentment, that did not lessen
the deep and lacerating agony with which I
recognised his unworthiness of the rare creature he
would soon possess—and never know.  I cannot,
and I dare not, describe the flood of bitter
thoughts, of nameless sensations which have been
aroused in me at the thought of this odious
*mésalliance*, and have not yet subsided.  Love, real
true love, has something sacred in it, which gives
an almost superhuman character to its pain as to
its joy.

To the man who loves her, a woman has a sort
of divinity of which no other man knows the
secret, which belongs only to her lover, and to see
even the threshold of this mystery profaned by
another gives us a strange and indescribable shock—a
horror, as of sacrilege.  It is not merely that
a precious possession is taken from you; it is an
altar polluted, a mystery violated, a god defiled!
This is jealousy.  At least, it is mine.  In all
sincerity it seemed to me that in the whole world I
only had eyes to see, intelligence to understand,
and a heart to worship in its full perfection the
beauty of this angel.  With any other she would
be cast away, and lost; body and soul, she was
destined for me from all eternity.  So vast was my
pride!  I expiated it with suffering as immeasurable.

Nevertheless, some mocking demon whispered
that in all probability Marguerite would find more
peace and real happiness in the kindly friendship
of a judicious husband, than she would have
enjoyed in the poetic passion of a romantic lover.
Is it true?  Is it possible?  I do not believe it.
She will have peace!  Granted.  But peace, after
all, is not the best thing in life, nor the highest
kind of happiness.  If insensibility and a petrified
heart sufficed to make us happy, too many people
who do not deserve it would be happy.  By dint
of reasoning and calculation we come to blaspheme
against God, and to degrade his work.  God
gives peace to the dead; to the living he gives
passion!  Yes, in addition to the vulgar interests
of daily life, which I am not so foolish as to
expect to set aside, a certain poetry is permitted,
nay, enjoined.  That is the heritage of the
immortal soul.  And this soul must feel, and
sometimes reveal itself, whether by visions that
transcend the real, by aspirations that out-soar the
possible, by storms, or by tears.  Yes, there is
suffering which is better than happiness, or, rather,
which is itself happiness—that of a living
creature who knows all the agonies of the heart, and
all the illusions of the mind, and who accepts
these noble torments with an equable mind and
a fraternal heart.  That is the romance which
every one who claims to be a man, and to justify
that claim, may, and indeed is bound to put into
his life.

And, after all, this boasted peace will not be
hers.  The marriage of two stolid hearts, of two
frozen imaginations, may produce the calm of
lifelessness.  I can believe that, but the union of
life with death cannot be endured without a
horrible oppression and ceaseless anguish.

In the midst of these personal miseries, which
increased each day in intensity, my only refuge
was my poor old friend, Mlle. de Porhoët.  She
did not know, or pretended not to know, the
state of my heart; but with her remote and
perhaps involuntary allusions she touched my
bleeding wounds with a woman's light and delicate
hand.  And this soul, the living symbol of sacrifice
and resignation, which seemed already to float
above our earth, had a detachment, a calmness,
and a gentle firmness, which seemed to descend
on me.  I came to understand her innocent
delusion, and to share it with something of the same
simplicity.  Bent over the album, I wandered with
her for hours through the cloisters of her
cathedral, and breathed for a while the vague perfumes
of an ideal serenity.

I further found at the old lady's house another
kind of distraction.  Habit gives an interest to
every kind of work.  To prevent Mlle. de Porhoët
from suspecting the final loss of her case, I
regularly continued the exploration of the family
archives.  Among the confused mass I occasionally
came across traditions, legends, and traces of
old-world customs which awakened my curiosity
and carried back my thoughts to far-off days
remote from the crushing reality of life.  My
perseverance maintained Mlle. de Porhoët in her
illusions, and she was grateful to me beyond my
deserts.  For I had come to take an interest in
this work—-now practically useless—which repaid
me for all my trouble, and gave me a wholesome
distraction from my grief.

As the fateful day approached, Mlle. Marguerite
lost the feverish vivacity which had
seemed to inspire her since the date of the
marriage had been fixed, and relapsed at times into
the fits of indolence and sombre reverie formerly
habitual to her.  Once or twice I surprised her
watching me in wondering perplexity.  Mme. Laroque,
too, often looked at me with an anxious
and hesitating air, as if she wished and yet
feared to discuss some painful subject with me.
The day before yesterday I found myself by
chance alone with her in the *salon*, which
Mlle. Hélouin had just left to give some order.  The
trivial conversation in which we had been
engaged ceased suddenly, as by common consent.
After a short silence, Mme. Laroque said, in a
voice full of emotion:

"M. Odiot, you are not wise in your choice
of confidants."

"Confidants, madame?  I do not follow you.
Except Mlle. de Porhoët, I have had no confidant
in this place."

"Alas!" she replied, "I wish to believe
you ... I *do* believe you ... but that is not
enough——"

At this moment Mlle. Hélouin came in, and
no more could be said.

The day after—yesterday—I had ridden over
in the morning to superintend some wood-cutting
in the neighbourhood.  I was returning to the
château about four in the afternoon, when, at a
sharp turn of the road, I found myself face to
face with Mlle. Marguerite.  She was alone.  I
prepared to pass her with a bow, but she stopped
her horse.

"What a fine autumn day!" she said.

"Yes, mademoiselle.  You are going for a ride?"

"As you see.  I am making the best of my
moments of independence, and, in fact, I
have been rather abusing my liberty, for I am
somewhat tired of solitude.  But Alain is wanted
at the house....  Poor Mervyn is lame....
You would not care to take his place?"

"With pleasure.  Where are you going?"

"Well ... I thought of riding as far as the
tower of Elven."

With her whip she indicated the misty summit
of a hill which rose on the right of the road.

"I think," she went on, "you've never made
that pilgrimage?"

"I have not.  I have often meant to, but
until now I have always put it off.  I don't
know why."

"Well, that is fortunate; but it is getting
late; we must make haste, if you don't mind."

I turned my horse and we set off at a gallop.

As we rode along, I tried to account for this
unexpected fancy which had an air of premeditation.
I imagined that time and reflection had
weakened the first impression that calumnies had
made on Mlle. Marguerite.  Apparently, she had
conceived some doubts of Mlle. Hélouin's
veracity, and had seized an opportunity to make, in
an indirect way, a reparation which might be due
to me.  My mind full of such preoccupations, I
gave little thought to the particular object of this
strange ride.  Still, I had often heard the tower
of Elven described as one of the most interesting
ruins of the country.  I had never gone along
either of the roads—from Rennes or from
Josselin—which lead to the sea, without looking
longingly at the confused mass rearing up
suddenly among the distant heaths like some huge
stone on end.  But I had had neither time nor
opportunity to examine it.

Slackening our pace, we passed through the
village of Elven, which preserves to a remarkable
extent the character of a mediæval hamlet.  The
form of the low, dark houses has not changed for
five or six centuries.  You think you are dreaming,
when, looking into the big arched bays which
serve as windows, you see the groups of mild-eyed
women in sculpturesque costume plying their
distaffs in the shade, and talking in low tones an
unknown tongue.  These gray spectral figures seem
to have just left their tombs to repeat some
scene of a bygone age, of which you are the
only witness.  It gives a sense of oppression.
The sluggish life that stirs around you in the
single street of the village has the same stamp
of archaic strangeness transmitted from a
vanished world.

A little way from Elven we took a cross-road
that brought us to the top of a bare hillock.
Thence, though still some distance off, we could
plainly see the feudal colossus crowning a wooded
height in front of us.  The *lande* we were on
sloped steeply to some marshy meadows inclosed
by thickets.

We descended the farther side and soon
entered the woods.  Then we struck a narrow
causeway, the rugged pavement of which must once
have rung to the hoofs of mail-clad horses.  For
some time I had lost sight of the tower of Elven,
and could not even guess where it was, when all
at once it stood out like an apparition from among
the foliage a few paces in front of us.  The tower
is not a ruin; it preserves its original height of
more than a hundred feet, and the irregular
courses of granite which make up its splendid
octagonal mass give it the appearance of a huge
block cut out but yesterday by some skilful chisel.
It would be difficult to imagine anything more
proud, sombre, and imposing than this old donjon,
impassible to the course of ages, and lost in the
depths of the forest.  Full-grown trees have
sprung up in the deep moats which surround it,
and their tops scarcely touch the openings of the
lowest windows.  This gigantic vegetation, which
entirely conceals the base of the edifice, completes
its air of fantastic mystery.  In this solitude,
among these forests, before this mass of weird
architecture, which seems to start up suddenly out
of the earth, one thinks involuntarily of those
enchanted castles in which beautiful princesses
slept for centuries awaiting a deliverer.

"So far," said Mlle. Marguerite, to whom I
had endeavoured to convey these impressions,
"this is all I have seen of it, but if you want to
wake the princess, we can go in.  I believe there is
always somewhere near a shepherd or shepherdess
who has the key.  Let us tie up the horses and
search, you for the shepherd, and I for the
shepherdess."

We put the horses into a small inclosure near
and separated for a little while, but found neither
shepherd nor shepherdess.  Of course this
increased our desire to visit the tower.  Crossing
a bridge over the moat, we found to our great
surprise that the heavy door was not closed.  We
pushed it and entered a dark and narrow space
choked with rubbish, which may have been the
guard-room.  We passed thence into a large,
almost circular hall, where an escutcheon in the
chimneypiece still displayed the bezants of a
crusader.  A large window faced us, divided by
the symbolic cross clearly carved in stone.  It
lighted all the lower part of the room, leaving the
vaulted and ruined ceiling in shadow.  At the
sound of our steps a flock of birds whirled off,
sending the dust of ages on to our heads.

By standing on the granite benches, which ran
like steps along the side of the walls, in the
embrasure of the window, we could see the moat
outside and the ruined parts of the fortress.  But
as we came in we had noticed a staircase cut out
of the solid wall, and we were childishly eager
to extend our discoveries.  We began the ascent,
I leading, and Mlle. Marguerite following bravely,
and managing her long skirts as best she could.
The view from the platform at the top is vast
and exquisite.  The soft hues of twilight tinged
the ocean of half-golden autumnal foliage, the
gloomy marshes, the fresh pastures, and the
distant horizons of intersecting slopes, which mingled
and succeeded each other in endless perspective.
Gazing on this gracious landscape, in its infinite
melancholy, the peace of solitude, the silence of
evening, the poetry of ancient days fell like some
potent spell upon our hearts and spirits.  This
hour of common contemplation and emotions of
purest, deepest pleasure, no doubt the last I should
spend with her, I entered into with an almost
painful violence of enjoyment.  I do not know
what Marguerite was feeling; she had sat down
on the ledge of the parapet, and was gazing into
the distance in silence.

I cannot say how many moments passed in
this way.  When the mists gathered in the lower
meadows, and the distant landscape began to fade
into the growing darkness, Marguerite rose.

"Come," she said in a low voice, as if the
curtain had fallen on some beautiful spectacle;
"come; it's over."

She began to descend the stairs, and I followed her.

But when we tried to get out of the donjon, to
our great surprise we found the door closed.  Most
likely the doorkeeper, not knowing that we were
there, had locked it while we were on the
platform.  At first this amused us.  The tower was
really an enchanted tower.  I made some vigorous
efforts to break the spell, but the huge bolt
of the old lock was firmly fixed in its granite
socket, and I had to give up all hope of moving
it.  I attacked the door itself, but the massive
hinges and the oak panels studded with iron
stolidly resisted all my efforts.  Some stone
mullions, which I found among the rubbish and
hurled against the door, only shook the vault
and brought some fragments from it to our feet.
Mlle. Marguerite at last made me give up a task
that was hopeless, and not without danger.  I then
ran to the window and shouted, but no one
replied.  For ten minutes I continued shouting, and
to no purpose.  We took advantage of the last
rays of light to explore the interior of the
donjon very carefully.  But the door, which was as
good as walled up for us, and the large window,
thirty feet above the moat, were the only exits
we could discover.

Meanwhile, night had fallen on the fields, and
the shadows deepened in the old tower.  The
moonbeams shone in through the window, streaking
the steps with oblique white lines.  Mlle. Marguerite's
gaiety had gradually died away, and she
had even ceased to answer the more or less
probable conjectures with which I still tried to calm
her apprehensions.  While she kept silent and
immovable in the shadow, I sat in the full light
on the step nearest the window, still shouting at
intervals for help; but, to speak the truth, the
more uncertain the success of my attempts
became, the more I was conscious of a feeling of
irresistible joyfulness.  For suddenly I saw the
eternal and impossible dream of lovers realized
for me; I was shut in the heart of a desert and
in the most complete solitude with the woman I
loved.  For long hours there would be but she
and I in the world, but her life and mine.  I
thought of all the sweet evidences of protection
and of tender respect it would be my right and
my duty to show her.  I imagined her fears at
rest, her confidence restored, finally her slumbers
guarded by me.  I told myself, in rapture, that
this auspicious night, though it could not give
me her love, would at least insure me her
unalterable respect.

As I yielded, with the egotism of passion, to
my secret ecstasy, some trace of which, perhaps,
expressed itself in my face, I was suddenly
awakened by these words, spoken in a dull tone, and
with affected calm:

"M. le Marquis de Champcey, have there been
many cowards in your family before you?"

I rose, and immediately fell back again on the
stone bench, looking stupidly into the darkness,
where I saw dimly the ghostly figure of the
young girl.  Only one idea occurred to me—a
terrible idea—that grief and fear had affected her
reason—that she was going mad.

"Marguerite!" I cried, without knowing that
I spoke.

The word no doubt put a climax to her irritation.

"My God, this is hateful!" she continued.
"It is cowardly.  I repeat, it is cowardly."

I began to see the truth.  I descended one of
the steps.

"What is the matter?" I said coldly.

She replied with abrupt vehemence: "You
paid that man or child, whichever it was, to shut us
up in this wretched tower.  To-morrow I shall be
ruined ... my reputation lost ... then I shall
have perforce to belong to you.  That was your
calculation, wasn't it?  But, I warn you, it will
not serve you any better than the rest.  You still
know me very little if you think I would not
prefer dishonour, the convent, death, anything, to
the vileness of yielding my hand—my life—to
yours.  And suppose this infamous trick had
succeeded, suppose I had been weak enough—which
of a surety I never shall be—to yield myself,
and what you covet more, my fortune to
you, what kind of a man can you be?  What
mud are you made of, to desire wealth and a
wife by such means?  Ah! you may thank me
for not yielding to your wishes.  They are
imprudent, believe me; for if ever shame and
public ridicule drove me to your arms, I have such
a contempt for you that I would break your
heart.  Yes, were it as hard and cold as these
stones, I would press blood and tears from it!"

"Mademoiselle," I said, with all the calm I
could command, "I beg you to return to yourself,
to your senses.  On my honour I assure you
that you do me injustice.  Think for a moment.
Your suspicions are quite absurd.  In no possible
way could I have accomplished the treachery of
which you accuse me; and even if I could have
done so, when have I ever given you the right to
think me capable of it?"

"Everything I know of you gives me this
right!" she cried, lashing the air with her whip.
"I will tell you once for all what has been in my
thoughts for a long time.  Why did you come
into our house under a false name, in a false
character?  My mother and I were happy and
at peace.  You have brought trouble, anxiety,
and sorrow upon us.  To attain your object, to
restore your fallen fortunes, you usurped our
confidence ... you destroyed our peace ... you
have played with our purest, deepest, and holiest
feelings ... you have bruised and shattered our
hearts without pity.  That is what you have done
or tried to do, it doesn't matter which.  Well, I
am utterly weary of, utterly disgusted with, all
this.  I tell you plainly.  And when now you
offer to pledge your honour as a gentleman, the
honour that has already allowed you to do so
many unworthy things, certainly I have the right
not to believe in it—I do not believe in it."

I lost all control of myself.  I seized her
hands in a transport of violence which daunted
her.  "Marguerite, my poor child, listen.  I love
you, it is true, and a love more passionate, more
disinterested, more holy, never possessed the heart
of man.  But you—you love me too!  Unhappy
girl, you love me and you are killing me.  You
talk of a bruised and a broken heart.  What have
you done to mine?  But it is yours.  I give it up
to you.  As for my honour, I keep it ... it is
intact, and before long I shall compel you to
acknowledge this.  And on that honour I swear
that if I die, you will weep for me; that if I
live—worshipped though you are—never, never,
were you on your knees before me, would I
marry you unless you were as poor as I, or I as
rich as you.  And now pray! pray!  Ask God
for a miracle; it is time!"

Then I pushed her roughly far from the
embrasure, and sprang on to the highest step.  A
desperate idea had come to me.  I carried it
out with the precipitation of positive madness.
As I have said, the tops of the beeches and
oaks that grew in the moat were on the level
of the window.  With my bent whip I drew the
ends of the nearest branches to me, seized them
at random, and let myself drop into the void.  I
heard my name—"Maxime!"—uttered with a wild
cry above my head.  The branches I held bent
their full length towards the abyss; there was
an ominous crack, and they broke under my
weight.  I fell heavily on the ground.  The
muddy nature of the soil must have deadened
the shock, for I felt that I was alive, though a
good deal hurt.  One of my arms had struck the
stonework of the moat, and I was in such pain
that I fainted.  Marguerite's despairing voice
recalled me to myself.

"Maxime!  Maxime!" she cried, "for pity's
sake, for God's sake, speak to me!  Forgive me!"

I got up and saw her in the bay of the window,
standing in an aureole of pale light, her head
bare, her hair loose, her hands grasping the bar of
the cross, while her glowing eyes searched the
dark abyss.

"Don't be alarmed," I said; "I'm not hurt.
Only be patient for an hour or two.  Give me
time to get to the château—that is the best place
to go.  You may be sure I shall keep your secret
and save your honour, as I have just saved my
own."

I scrambled painfully out of the moat and
went to look for my horse.  I used my handkerchief
as a sling for my left arm, which was quite
disabled and gave me great pain.  The night was
clear and I found the way easily.  An hour later
I was at the château.  They told me that
Dr. Desmarets was in the drawing-room.  I hurried
there and found him and a dozen others, all
looking anxious and alarmed.

"Doctor," I said lightly as I came in, "my
horse shied at his own shadow and came down in
the road.  I think my left arm is put out.  Will
you see?"

"Eh, what?—put out?" said M. Desmarets,
after he had removed the handkerchief.  "Your
arm's broken, my poor boy."

Mme. Laroque started up with a little scream
and came towards me.

"It seems we are to have an evening of
misfortunes," she said.

"What else has happened?" I asked, as if surprised.

"I am afraid my daughter must have had an
accident.  She went out on horseback about
three; it is now eight, and she has not returned!"

"Mlle. Marguerite?  Why, I met her..."

"Met her?  When?  Where?  Forgive a
mother's selfishness, M. Odiot."

"Oh, I met her on the road, about five.  She
told me she thought of going as far as the tower
of Elven."

"The tower of Elven!  She has lost her way
in the woods.  We must send at once and search."

M. de Bévallan ordered horses to be got ready
immediately.  At first I pretended that I meant
to be of the party, but Mme. Laroque and the
doctor would not hear of it.  Without much
trouble I was persuaded to take to my bed, which,
truth to tell, I needed badly.  M. Desmarets
attended to my arm, and then drove away with
Mme. Laroque, who was to await the result of
the search inaugurated by M. de Bévallan at the
village of Elven.

About ten o'clock Alain came to tell me that
Mlle. Marguerite had been found.  He related
the story of her imprisonment without omitting
any details, except, of course, those known only
to me and the young girl.  The news was soon
confirmed by the doctor, and afterwards by
Mme. Laroque, and I had the satisfaction of seeing that
no one suspected what had actually occurred.

I passed the night in repeating the dangerous
leap from the window of the donjon with all the
grotesque complications of fever and delirium.  I
did not get used to it.  Every moment the
sensation of falling through emptiness caught me by
the throat, and I awoke breathless.  At last day
came, and I got calm.  At eight o'clock Mlle. de
Porhoët came in and took her place at my bedside
with her knitting in her hand.  She did the
honours of my room to the visitors who followed one
another throughout the day.  Mme. Laroque was
the first after my old friend.  As she held my
hand and pressed it earnestly I saw tears on her
face.  Has her daughter confided in her?

Mlle. de Porhoët told me that old M. Laroque
had been confined to his bed since yesterday.
He had a slight attack of paralysis.  To-day
he cannot speak, and they are much alarmed
about him.  The marriage is to be hastened.
M. Laubépin has been sent for from Paris; he
is expected to-morrow, and the contract will be
signed the following day, under his direction.

I have been able to sit up for some hours this
evening, but, according to M. Desmarets, I should
not have written while the fever was on me, and
I am a great idiot.



.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: right

   *October 3d*.

Really it seems as if some malign power were
hard at work devising the strangest and most
cruel tests for my conscience and heart alternately.

M. Laubépin not having arrived this morning,
Mme. Laroque has asked me to give her some
of the information necessary for drawing up the
general conditions of the contract, which is to be
signed to-morrow.  As I am obliged to keep my
room for some days yet, I asked Mme. Laroque
to send me the title-deeds and private documents
in her father-in-law's possession, as they were
indispensable for the clearing up of the points she
had mentioned to me.

Very soon they brought me two or three
drawers full of papers which they had taken out of
M. Laroque's cabinet while he was asleep, for the
old gentleman would never let any one touch his
secret archives.  On the first paper that I took
up I saw my family name repeated several times.
My curiosity was irresistibly aroused.  Here is
the literal text of the document:

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: center

To MY CHILDREN

The name I bequeath to you, and which I
have honoured, is not mine.  My father's name
was Savage.  He was overseer of a large
plantation in the Island of St. Lucia (then French),
which belonged to a rich and noble family of
Dauphiné—the Champcey d'Hauterives.  In 1793
my father died, and, though I was quite young, I
succeeded to the trust the Champceys reposed in
him.  Towards the end of that disastrous year
the French Antilles were taken by the English or
given up to them by the rebel colonists.  The
Marquis of Champcey d'Hauterive (Jacques-Auguste),
whom the orders of the Convention had
not yet struck down, then commanded the *Thetis*
frigate, which had been cruising on this coast for
three years.  A good number of the French
colonists of the Antilles had succeeded in realizing
their fortunes, which had been in imminent peril.
They had arranged with the Commandant de
Champcey to get together a fleet of light
transports, to which their property had been
transferred, and which was to sail for France under the
protection of the guns of the *Thetis*.  In view of
imminent disasters, I had myself received, a long
time back, an order and authority to sell the
plantation at any price.  On the night of November 14,
1793, I put out alone in a boat for the Point of
Morne-au-Sable and secretly left St. Lucia, already
occupied by the enemy.  I brought with me in
English notes and guineas the amount I had
received for the plantation.  M. de Champcey,
thanks to his intimate knowledge of the coast,
had slipped past the English cruiser and had
taken refuge in the dangerous and unknown
channel of Gros-Ilet.  He had instructed me to
join him there this night, and only awaited my
arrival to leave the channel with his convoy and
make for France.  In crossing, I fell into the
hands of the English.  These experts in treason
gave me the choice of being shot on the spot or
of selling them, for the million I had with me,
which they agreed to leave in my hands, the
secret of the channel where the fleet was hiding.
I was young ... the temptation was too great.
Half an hour later the *Thetis* was sunk, the convoy
taken, and M. de Champcey seriously wounded.
A year passed—a year without sleep....  I was
going mad....  I determined to make the
cursed English pay for the remorse I suffered.
I went to Guadeloupe; I changed my name; I
devoted the larger part of the money I had
received to the purchase of an armed brig, and
I fell upon the English.  For fifteen years I
washed in their blood and my own the stain
that in an hour of weakness I had brought on
my country's flag.  Though three parts of my
fortune have been acquired in honourable combats,
its origin was, nevertheless, the price of my
treachery.

Returning to France in my old age, I ascertained
the position of the Champcey d'Hauterives,
and found that they were happy and wealthy.  I
kept my own counsel.  I ask my children to
forgive me.  While I lived I had not the courage to
blush before them.  My death will reveal this
secret to them.  They must use it as their
consciences may direct.  For myself I have only one
prayer to address to them.  Soon or late there
will be a final war between France and her
neighbour.  We hate one another too much; there's
nothing else to be done; either we must devour
them or they must devour us.  If this war should
be declared during the life of my children or
grand-children, I desire that they give to the state a
corvette fully armed and completely equipped, on
one condition, that it shall be called the Savage,
and be commanded by a Breton.  At each broadside
she shall send on to the Carthaginian shore
my bones will tremble with joy in my grave.

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent

   RICHARD SAVAGE, called LAROQUE.

.. vspace:: 2

The memories that this terrible confession
awakened convinced me that it was correct.
Twenty times I had heard my father relate with
pride and indignation this incident in my
ancestor's career.  But in the family we believed that
Richard Savage—I remember the name quite well—had
been the victim, and not the contriver of
the treason or mischance which had betrayed the
commandant of the *Thetis*.  Now I understand
the peculiarities I had often noticed in the old
sailor's character, and especially his thoughtful and
timid bearing towards me.  My father had always
told me that I was the living portrait of my
grandfather, the Marquis Jacques, and perhaps
some dim perception of this resemblance had
penetrated to the old man's troubled brain.

This revelation threw me into a terrible perplexity.
I felt but little resentment against the
unhappy man who had redeemed a moment of
weakness by a long life of repentance, and by a
passion of desperation and hatred which was not
without greatness.  Nor could I, without admiration,
breathe the wild blast which animated the
lines written by this guilty but heroic hand.  Still,
what was I to do with this terrible secret?  My
first thought was that it removed all obstacles
between Marguerite and me; that henceforth the
fortune that had kept us apart would be almost an
obligatory bond, for I was the only person in the
world who could regularize her title to it by
sharing it with her.  But in truth this secret did not
belong to me, and though I had learned it by
the purest of accidents, strict honesty, perhaps,
demanded that I should leave it to come at its
own time into the hands for which it was destined.
But while I waited for that moment the irreparable
would be accomplished.  Eternal bonds were
to be forged.  The tomb was to close over my
love, my hopes, and my sorrowful heart.  And
should I allow it when I might prevent it by a
single word?  And the day these poor women
learned the truth, and blushed with shame to learn
it, perhaps they would share my regret and
despair.  They would be the first to cry:

"Ah! if you knew, why did you not speak?"

No, neither to-day nor to-morrow, nor ever,
shall those noble women blush for shame if I can
prevent it.  My happiness shall not be bought at
the price of their humiliation.  This secret is mine
alone.  The old man, henceforth speechless,
cannot betray himself.  The secret does not exist;
the flames have destroyed it.  I pondered it well.
I know what I have dared to do.  It was a will, a
sacred document, and I have destroyed it.  Moreover,
it did not benefit me alone.  My sister, who
is intrusted to my care, might have found a
fortune there, and, without consulting her, I have
plunged her back into poverty.  I know all that,
but I will not allow two pure proud souls to be
crushed and dishonoured by the burden of a crime
of which they are ignorant.  There is a principle
of equity at stake far superior to mere literal
justice.  If, in my turn, I have committed a crime, I
will answer for it.  But the struggle has exhausted
me.  I can do no more now.



.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: right

   *October 4th*.

M. Laubépin, after all, arrived yesterday.  He
came to see me.  He was brusque, preoccupied,
and seemed ill-pleased.  He spoke briefly of the
marriage.

"A very satisfactory business!" he said; "in
all respects an excellent combination, where
nature and society both receive the guarantees they
have the right to require in such matters.  And
so, young man, good-night.  I have to smooth
the delicate ground of the preliminary agreements,
that the hymeneal car of this interesting union
may reach its goal without jolting."

At one o'clock this afternoon the family
assembled in the drawing-room with all the
preparations and formalities observed at the signing of
a marriage contract.  I could not attend this
ceremony, and I blessed my broken arm for sparing
me the trial.  About three I was writing to little
Hélène, and taking care to assure her more
strongly than ever of my complete devotion to
her, when M. Laubépin and Mlle. de Porhoët
came into my room.  In his frequent visits to
Laroque, M. Laubépin has learnt to appreciate my
venerable friend, and the two old people have
formed a respectful and Platonic attachment,
which Dr. Desmarets tries in vain to misrepresent.
After an exchange of ceremonies, of interminable
bows and courtesies, they took the chairs I offered
them, and both set about considering me with an
air of grave beatitude.

"Well," I said, "it's over?"

"Yes," they replied in chorus, "it's over."

"It went off well?"

"Very well," said Mlle. de Porhoët.

"Wonderfully well," said M. Laubépin.  After
a pause he added: "Bévallan's gone to the
devil!"

"And the young Hélouin after him!" continued
Mlle. de Porhoët.

I exclaimed in surprise:

"Good God! what has happened?"

"My friend," said M. Laubépin, "the contemplated
union had every possible advantage, and it
would have without doubt insured the common
happiness of both the parties concerned, if
marriage were a purely commercial partnership; but
it is nothing of the sort.  As my assistance had
been asked, I thought it my duty to bear in mind
the inclination of the hearts and the agreement of
the character just as much as the relative
proportions of the estates.  Now, from the first, I had
the impression that the contemplated marriage
had one drawback.  It pleased no one, neither my
excellent friend Mme. Laroque, nor the amiable
*fiancée*, nor their most sensible friends—no one, in
fact, except perhaps the *fiancé*, about whom I
trouble myself very slightly.  It is true (I quote
here from Mlle. de Porhoët), it is true, I say, that
the *fiancé is *gentilhomme*...."

"A *gentleman*, if you please," Mlle. de Porhoët
interrupted severely.

"A *gentleman*," continued M. Laubépin, accepting
the correction, "but it is a kind of *gentleman*
I don't care for."

"Nor I," said Mlle. de Porhoët.  "There are
curious specimens of the kind.  Dissipated
stablemen, such as those whom we saw last century
deserting their English stables under the direction of
the Duc de Chartres to come over here and
prepare the Revolution."

"Oh, if they had only prepared the Revolution,"
said M. Laubépin, sententiously, "we should
forgive them."

"A million apologies, my dear sir; but—speak
for yourself!  Besides, that is not the question;
will you go on?"

"So," continued M. Laubépin, "seeing that
every one was approaching this wedding as if it
were a funeral, I searched for some honourable
and legal means, not to break the engagement
with M. de Bévallan, but to get him to withdraw
voluntarily.  This proceeding was the more
justifiable, as in my absence M. de Bévallan had
profited by the inexperience of my excellent friend,
Mme. Laroque, and the weakness of my colleague
in the neighbouring town, to make the most
exorbitant demand in his own interests.  Without
departing from the wording of the agreements, I
succeeded in materially altering their spirit.  But
there were limits which honour and the engagements
already entered into forbade me to pass.
And the contract remained favourable enough
to be accepted with confidence by any high-minded
man who had a sincere affection for his betrothed.
Was M. de Bévallan such a man?  We had to
take that risk.  I confess that I was not free from
emotion when I began to read the irrevocable
document before an imposing audience this morning."

"As for me," interrupted Mlle. de Porhoët,
"I hadn't a drop of blood left in my veins.  The
first part of the contract conceded so much to the
enemy that I thought all was lost."

"No doubt, mademoiselle; but, as we augurs
say among ourselves, 'the sting is in the tail,' *in
cauda venenum*.

"It was comical, my friend, to see the faces
of M. de Bévallan and my *confrère* from Rennes,
who assisted him, when I suddenly unmasked
my batteries.  At first they looked at each other
in silence; then they whispered together; at
last they rose, and, coming to the table where
I sat, asked me in a low voice for an explanation.

"'Speak up, gentlemen, if you please,' I said
to them.  'We must have no mysteries here.
What have you to say?'

"The company began to prick up their ears.
Without raising his voice, M. de Bévallan
suggested to me that the contract showed mistrust.

"'Mistrust, sir!' I replied, in my most
impressive tone.  'What do you intend to convey by
that?  Do you make that strange imputation
against Mme. Laroque, or against me, or against
my *confrère* here present?'

"'S-s-sh!  Silence!  No wrangling!' said the
Rennes notary discreetly; 'But listen: it was
agreed in the first place that the legal system
of dotation should not be insisted on.'

"'The legal system?  And where do you find
that mentioned?'

"'Oh, my dear sir, you know that you have
practically reconstituted it by a subterfuge.'

"'Subterfuge, monsieur?  Allow me, as your
senior, to advise you to withdraw that word from
your vocabulary.'

"'But, after all,' murmured M. de Bévallan,
'I'm tied hand and foot, and treated like a
school-boy.'

"'Indeed, sir!  What, in your opinion, are we
here for at this moment—a contract or a will?
You forget that Mme. Laroque is living; that
her father is living, and that it is a question of
marriage, not of inheritance—at least, not yet....
Really, you must have a little patience; you
must wait a little.'

"At these words Mlle. Marguerite rose.

"'That is enough,' she said.—'M. Laubépin,
throw that contract into the fire.  Mother, let
this gentleman's presents be returned.'

"Then she rose and left us like an outraged
queen.  Mme. Laroque followed her, and at the
same time I threw the contract into the fireplace.

"'Sir,' said M. de Bévallan in a threatening
tone, 'there's some trickery in this, and I will
find it out.'

"'Sir,' I replied, 'allow me to explain it to
you.  A young lady, who, with a just pride,
values herself very highly, feared that your offer
might have been influenced by her wealth; she
wished to be certain; she has no longer any
doubts.  I have the honour to wish you good-day!'

"Thereupon, my friend, I went after the
ladies, and—upon my honour—they embraced me.

"A quarter of an hour later, M. de Bévallan
left the château with my colleague from Rennes.
His departure and disgrace have naturally
loosened the servants' tongues, and very soon his
imprudent intrigue with Mlle. Hélouin was
revealed.  The young lady, already suspected on
other grounds for some time past, has asked to be
released from her duties, and the request has been
granted.  It is needless to say that our ladies will
secure her future.

"Well, my dear fellow, what do you say to
all this?  Are you worse?  You're as pale as
death!"

This unexpected news had aroused so many
emotions—pleasant and painful—that I felt
myself on the point of losing consciousness.

M. Laubépin, who has to leave at daybreak
to-morrow, came back this evening to wish me
farewell.  After some embarrassed remarks from
us both, he said:

"Never mind, my dear boy, I'll not cross-examine
you on what is going on here; but if
you should require a confidant and a counsellor,
I ask you to give me the preference."

As a matter of fact, I could not confide in a
heart more sympathetic or more friendly.  I gave
the worthy old gentleman the particulars of my
relations with Mlle. Marguerite.  I even read
some pages of this journal to him to show him
more exactly the state of affairs, and also the state
of my heart.  I hid nothing from him save
M. Laroque's secret.

When I had finished, M. Laubépin, who had
suddenly become very thoughtful, began:

"It is useless to conceal from you, my friend,
that when I sent you here I intended you to
marry Mlle. Laroque.  At first everything went
as I wished.  Your hearts, which I believe are
worthy of one another, could not associate without
sympathizing, but this strange event, of which
the tower of Elven was the romantic scene,
entirely disconcerts me, I must confess.  Allow me
to tell you, my young friend, that to jump out
of window at the risk of breaking your neck
was in itself a more than sufficient proof of your
disinterestedness.  It was quite superfluous to
add to this honourable and considerate proceeding
a solemn oath never to marry this poor girl
except in contingencies we cannot possibly expect
to see realized.  I pride myself on being a man
of resource—but I fully recognise that I cannot
give you two hundred thousand francs, or take
them away from Mlle. Laroque."

"Then tell me what to do, sir.  I have more
confidence in you than in myself, for I see that
misfortune, which is always exposed to suspicion,
has made me excessively susceptible on questions
of honour.  Speak.  Do you counsel me to
forget the imprudent but still solemn oath which
alone at this moment separates me from the
happiness you had imagined for your adopted son?"

M. Laubépin rose; his thick eyebrows drawn
down over his eyes, he strode about the room for
some minutes, then, stopping in front of me and
seizing my hand, he said:

"Young man, it is true that I love you like
my own child; but, even at the cost of breaking
your heart and my own, I will not be false to
my principles.  It is better in matters of honour
do too much than too little, and as regards
oaths, all those that are not extorted at the point
of the knife or the mouth of a pistol, should
either not be taken or should be kept.  That is
my opinion."

"It is mine too.  I will leave with you to-morrow
morning."

"No, Maxime, stay here a little longer.  I do
not believe in miracles, but I believe in God, who
seldom allows us to be ruined by our virtues.
Give Providence more time.  I know that I am
asking a very courageous effort from you, but I
claim it formally from your friendship.  If within
a month you do not hear from me—well—then
you can leave."

He embraced me and left me to my quiet
conscience and my desolate heart.



.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: right

   *October 12th*.

It is now two days since I have been able to
leave my retirement and appear at the château.
I had not seen Mlle. Marguerite since we
separated at the tower of Elven.  She was alone in
the *salon* when I entered.  Recognising me, she
made—involuntarily—an effort to rise.  Then she
sat motionless, and a flood of burning crimson
dyed her face.  It was infectious, for I felt that I
was blushing to the forehead.

"How are you, M. Odiot?" she said, holding
out her hand, and she spoke these simple words so
gently, so humbly—alas! so tenderly too—that I
longed to throw myself on my knees before her.
But I had to answer in a tone of icy politeness.
She looked sadly at me, lowered her great
eyes with an air of resignation, and went on with
her work.

Almost at the same moment her mother
called to her to come to her grandfather, whose
condition had become most alarming.  For some
days now he had lost voice and movement; the
paralysis was almost total.  The last gleams of
mental life were extinguished; only physical
sensibility and the capacity for suffering remained.
The end was not far off, but in this energetic
heart life was too deeply rooted to be
relinquished without an obstinate struggle.  The
doctor had foretold that his agony would last a long
time.  Still, at the first appearance of danger,
Mme. Laroque and her daughter had tended him
with the passionate self-sacrifice and utter
devotion which are the special virtue and glory of
their sex.  The day before yesterday they broke
down exhausted.  M. Desmarets and I offered to
take their places by M. Laroque to-night, and
they agreed to have a few hours' rest.  The
doctor, who was very much fatigued, soon told me
that he was going to throw himself on the bed in
the next room.

"I am no use here," he said; "the thing is
over.  You see the poor old fellow doesn't suffer
any more.  That lethargic state is not painful.
The awakening will be death.  So we can be
quiet.  Call me if you see any change, but I think
it won't come till to-morrow.  I'm dying for a
sleep."

He gave a great yawn and went out.  His
language and his conduct before the dying man
had shocked me.  He is an excellent man; but
to render to death the respect that is due to it,
one must not see only the brute matter it
dissolves, but believe in the immortal essence it
releases.

Left alone in the chamber of death, I sat near
the foot of the bed, where the curtains had been
withdrawn, and I tried to read by a lamp that
stood on a little table near me.  The book slipped
from my hands.  I could think only of the strange
combination of events which, after so many years,
gave this guilty old man the grandson of his
victim as witness and guardian of his last sleep.
Then, in the tranquility of that hour and place,
I recalled, in spite of myself, the scenes of
tumult and bloody violence which had filled the
life that was now ebbing away.  I looked for
traces of it on the face of the dying old man and
on the large features defined in the shadow with
the pale distinctness of a plaster mask.  I saw
only the solemnity and premature peace of the
tomb.  At intervals I went to the bedside to make
sure that the weakened breast still heaved with
vital breath.  Towards the middle of the night an
irresistible torpor seized me, and I slept, leaning
my forehead on my hand.  Suddenly I was awakened
by a strange and sinister sound.  I looked
up, and a shudder ran through the marrow of my
bones.  The old man was half-sitting up in bed,
staring at me with an intent, astonished look,
and an expression of life and intelligence that
I had not seen in him before.  When our eyes
met he started, stretched out his arms, and
said, in a beseeching voice, whose strange
unknown quality almost stopped the beating of
my heart:

"Marquis, forgive me!"

In vain I tried to rise, to speak.  I sat
petrified in my chair.

After a silence, during which the dying man's
eyes were still fixed on mine beseechingly, he
repeated:

"Marquis, deign to forgive me."

At last I summoned up strength to go to him.
As I approached he drew back fearfully, as if
shrinking from a dreadful contact.  I raised my
hand, and lowering it gently before his staring
and terror-stricken eyes:

"Rest in peace," I said; "I forgive you."

Before I had done speaking, his withered face
lighted up with a flash of joy and youth.  Two
tears burst from his dry and sunken orbits.  He
stretched a hand to me, then suddenly the hand
stiffened in a threatening gesture, and I saw his
eyes roll between their dilated lids, as if a ball had
gone through his heart.

"Oh, the English!" he whispered, and immediately
fell back on the pillow like a log.  He
was dead.  I called quickly, and the others came.
Soon he was surrounded by pious mourners,
weeping and praying for him.  I retired, my soul
deeply moved by this extraordinary scene, which
I had resolved should ever remain a secret between
myself and the dead man.

This sad event brought me cares and duties
which I needed to justify me in my own eyes
for remaining in the house.  I cannot fathom
M. Laubépin's motives for advising me to delay
my departure.  What did he hope from it?  To
me he seems to have yielded to a vague presentiment
and childish weakness, to which a man of
his stamp should never have given way, and to
which I also was wrong to submit.  Why did he
not see that besides bringing additional suffering
on me, he put me in a position that is neither
manly nor dignified?  What am I to do here now?
Would they not have good reason to reproach me
with trifling with sacred feelings?  My first
interview with Mlle. Marguerite had shown me how
hard and how unbearable was the trial to which I
had been condemned.  The death of M. Laroque
would make our relations easier, and give my
presence a sort of propriety.



*October 26th, Rennes*.

All is over!  God, how strong that tie was!
How it held my heart, and how it has torn it as it
broke!  Yesterday evening about nine, as I leaned
on my open window, I was surprised to see a faint
light coming towards my house through the dark
alleys of the park, and from a direction which the
servants at the château do not frequent.  A
moment afterward there was a knock at my door and
Mlle. de Porhoët came in breathless.

"Cousin," she said, "I have business with you."

I looked straight at her.

"A misfortune?" I said.

"No, it is not precisely that.  Besides, you
shall judge for yourself.  My dear child, you have
passed two or three evenings this week at the
château.  Have you noticed nothing unusual, nothing
peculiar, in the attitude of the ladies?"

"Nothing."

"Have you not even noticed an unusual serenity
in their appearance?"

"Perhaps I have.  Allowing for the melancholy
due to their recent sorrow, they seemed
calmer and happier than before."

"No doubt.  Other things would have struck
you if, like me, you had lived in daily intimacy
with them for fifteen years.  Thus, I have
observed signs of some secret understanding and
mysterious agreement between them.  Moreover,
their habits have been largely altered.
Mme. Laroque has given up her *braséro*, her sentry-box,
and all her little Creole fancies.  She rises at
marvellous hours, and at daybreak instals herself with
Marguerite at the work-table.  They are both
taken with a sudden passion for embroidery, and
have ascertained how much a woman can earn at
that work in a day.  In short, there is a riddle to
which I cannot find the answer.  But it has been
told me, and though I may be intruding on your
secrets, I thought it right to inform you at once."

I assured Mlle. Porhoët of my absolute confidence
in her, and she continued:

"Mme. Aubry came to see me this evening
secretly.  She began by throwing her wretched
arms round my neck, which displeased me very
much.  Then, to the accompaniment of a thousand
jeremiads about herself—which I will spare
you—she begged me to stop her relations on the
brink of ruin.  This is what she has heard,
through listening at doors, according to her pretty
habit: The ladies are trying to get permission to
transfer all their property to a community at
Rennes, so as to do away with the difference of
fortune which separates you and Marguerite.  As
they can't make you rich, they will make
themselves poor.  I thought it impossible to let you
remain ignorant of this determination, which is
equally worthy of those generous souls and of
those Quixotic heads.  You will forgive my
adding that it is your duty to put an end to this
design at any cost.  I need not point out the regrets
it will infallibly bring to our friends, nor the
terrible responsibility it will throw on you.  That
you will see at a glance.  If, my friend, you can
from this moment accept the hand of Marguerite,
everything will end in the best way possible.  But
in that respect you have tied yourself by an
engagement which is not the less binding because it
was made imprudently and blindly.  There is then
only one thing for you to do—to leave this
country and resolutely extinguish all the hopes that
your presence here must inevitably encourage.
When you are no longer here I shall have less
difficulty in bringing these two children to
reason."

"Very well.  I am ready.  I will go this very
night."

"Good!" she said.  "When I give you this
advice I obey a very rigorous law of honour.
You have made the last moments of my long
solitude pleasant, and you have given me back
the illusion of the sweet attachments of life,
which I had lost for so many years.  In
sending you away I make my last sacrifice; it is
immense."

She rose and looked at me for a moment without
speaking.

"At my age we do not embrace young people,"
she continued, smiling sadly; "we bless
them.  Adieu, dear child, and thank you.  May
God keep you!"

I kissed her trembling hands, and she left me
hastily.

I hurriedly prepared for my departure, and
then wrote a few lines to Mme. Laroque.  I
begged her to renounce a decision the effect of
which she could not foresee, and which, for my
part, I was determined to have no share in.  I
gave her my word—which she knew she could
rely on—that I would never accept my happiness
at the cost of her ruin.  And I finished—for the
sake of dissuading her from her fantastic project—by
speaking vaguely of a future which might
bring me fortune.

At midnight, when everything was silent, I
said farewell, a bitter farewell, to the old tower
where I had suffered—and loved—so much.  I
slipped into the château by a secret door of
which I had the key.  Furtively, like a criminal,
I passed along the empty and resounding galleries,
guiding myself as I best could in the dark.
At last I reached the *salon* where I had first seen
her.  She and her mother had not long left it,
and their recent presence was revealed by a sweet
and pleasant perfume which transported me.  I
searched, and I touched the basket where a few
moments before she had replaced her embroidery.
Alas, my poor heart!

I fell on my knees before the seat she generally
occupies, my forehead against the marble.
I wept.  I sobbed like a child.  God, how I
loved her!

The last hours of the night I spent in reaching
the little town secretly, and thence I drove to
Rennes this morning:

To-morrow evening I shall be in Paris.  O
poverty, solitude, and despair, which I had left
there, I shall find you again!  Last dream of
youth—dream of heaven, farewell!



.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: right

   PARIS.

The next day, in the morning, as I went to
the railway station, a post-chaise stood in the
courtyard of the *hôtel*, and I saw old Alain get
out.  His face brightened as he saw me.

"Oh, sir, what good luck!  You've not
gone!  Here is a letter for you."

I recognised M. Laubépin's writing.  He said
that Mlle. de Porhoët was seriously ill and was
asking for me.  I only allowed time to change the
horses, and threw myself into the chaise, after
forcing Alain to get in with me.  I questioned
him eagerly, and made him repeat his news, which
seemed incredible.

The evening before, Mlle. de Porhoët had
received an official despatch through M. Laubépin,
announcing her succession to the entire Spanish property.

"And it seems," said Alain, "that she owes it
to you, sir, for finding some old papers in the
pigeon-house that have proved the old lady's title.
I don't know how much truth there is in this, but
if it is so, what a pity she has those ideas about
the cathedral and won't give them up, for she's
more bent on it than ever.  When she first got
the news she fell flat on the floor, and we thought
she was dead.  But an hour after she began
talking about her cathedral, the choir, and the
nave, the north aisle and the south, the
chapter, and the canons.  To calm her we had to
fetch an architect and masons, and put the
plans of her blessed building on her bed.  At
last, after three hours of that kind of talk, she
quieted down a bit and dozed.  When she awoke
she asked for you, sir—M. le Marquis" (Alain
bowed, closing his eyes)—"and I had to run
after you.  It seems she wants to consult you
about the rood-loft."

This strange event took me entirely by
surprise.  Nevertheless, my memory, aided by the
confused details given me by Alain, enabled me to
find an explanation, which more precise information
completely confirmed.  As I have before
said, the affair of the Spanish inheritance of the
Porhoëts had gone through two phases.  There
had first been a long lawsuit between Mlle. de
Porhoët and one of the great families of
Castile, which my old friend had finally lost.  Then
there had been a new suit between the Spanish
heirs and the Crown, the latter claiming on the
grounds of intestacy.

Shortly after this, while pursuing my researches
in the Porhoët archives, I had, about
two months before leaving the château, laid hands
upon a curious document, which I will here
transcribe:

.. vspace:: 2

"Don Philip, by the Grace of God, King of
Castile, Leon, Aragon, the two Sicilies,
Jerusalem, Navarre, Grenada, Toledo, Valencia,
Galicia, Majorca, Seville, Sardinia, Cordova, Cadiz,
Murcia, Jaen, of the Algarves, of Algeciras,
Gibraltar, the Canary Islands, the West and
East Indies, the islands and continents of the
ocean, the Archduchy of Austria; Duke of
Burgundy, Brabant, and Milan; Count of Hapsburg,
Flanders, the Tyrol, and Barcelona; Lord of
Biscay and Molina, etc.

"To thee, Hervé-Jean Jocelyn, Lord of Porhoët-Gaël,
Count of Torre Nuevas, etc., who hast
followed me throughout my dominions, and served
me with exemplary fidelity, I promise, by special
favour, that in case of the extinction of thy direct
and legitimate progeny, the possessions of thy
house shall return, even to the detriment of my
Crown, to the direct and legitimate descendants
of the French branch of the Porhoët-Gaëls, as
long as any such shall exist.

"And I make this covenant for myself and
for my successors on my royal faith and word.

"Given at the Escorial, April 10, 1716.

.. class:: noindent

"YO EL REY."

.. vspace:: 2

Together with this document, which was
merely a translator's copy, I found the original
text, bearing the arms of Spain.  The importance
of this document had not escaped me, but
I had feared to exaggerate it.  I greatly doubted
whether the validity of a title of such ancient
date, and prior to so many momentous events,
would be recognised by the Spanish Government.
I even doubted whether it would have the power
to give effect to it, even if it had the will.  I
had therefore decided to say nothing to Mlle. de
Porhoët about a discovery, the consequences of
which seemed to me most problematic, and I had
contented myself with sending the document to
M. Laubépin.  As I had heard nothing more of
it, I had soon forgotten it in the midst of the
personal cares with which I was overwhelmed at the
time.  However, contrary to my unjust suspicions,
the Spanish Government had not hesitated
to carry out Philip V's covenant, and at the very
moment when a supreme decree had handed
over the vast possessions of the Porhoëts to the
Crown, it had nobly restored them to the
legitimate heir.

About nine that evening I stopped at the
humble house where this royal fortune had arrived
so tardily.  The little servant opened the door.
She was crying.

From the staircase above came the grave voice
of M. Laubépin.

"It is he," said the voice.

.. _`245`:

I went up the stairs quickly.  The old man
grasped my hand warmly, and took me into
Mlle. de Porhoët's room.  The doctor and the curé
stood silent in the shadow of the window.
Mme. Laroque knelt at the bedside; her daughter was
arranging the pillow where the pale face of my
old friend rested.  When the sick woman saw me
a faint smile flickered across her face.  Painfully
she moved one of her arms.  I took her hand; I
fell on my knees; I could not keep back my tears.

"My child," she said, "my dear child!"

Then she looked intently at M. Laubépin.
The old notary took from the bed a piece of
paper, and, as if he were continuing to read after an
interruption, he went on:

.. vspace:: 2

"For these reasons," he read, "I appoint by
this holograph will Maxime-Jacques-Marie Odiot,
Marquis de Champcey d'Hauterive, noble by heart
as by descent, sole and universal legatee of all my
property in Spain as well as in France, without
reserve or condition.  Such is my will.

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

   "JOCELYNDE JEANNE,
   "COMTESSE DE PORHOËT-GAËL."

.. vspace:: 2

In my astonishment I had risen and was about
to speak, when Mlle. de Porhoët, gently retaining
my hand, placed it in Marguerite's.  At this
sudden contact the dear creature trembled.  She bent
her young forehead on the mournful pillow, and,
blushing, whispered something in the dying
woman's ear.  I could not speak.  I fell on my knees,
and prayed to God.  Some minutes passed in
solemn silence, when Marguerite suddenly
withdrew her hand with a gesture of alarm.  The
doctor came up hastily.  I rose.  Mlle. de Porhoët's
head had fallen back; with a fixed and radiant
glance she looked towards heaven; her lips
half-opened, and as if she were speaking in a dream,
she whispered:

"God! the good God!  I see Him there ...
up there....  Yes ... the choir ... the golden
lamps ... the windows ... the sun
everywhere....  Two angels kneeling before the
altar ... in white robes ... their wings
move ... God, they are alive!"

This cry died on her lips, which remained
smiling.  She closed her eyes as if she were going
to sleep, and suddenly an air of immortal youth
fell on her face, making it almost unrecognisable
to us.

.. _`"I felt her lips on mine——I thought my soul was escaping from me"`:

.. figure:: images/img-246.jpg
   :align: center
   :alt: "I felt her lips on mine——I thought my soul was escaping from me" (see page 246)

   "I felt her lips on mine——I thought my soul was escaping from me" (see page `246`_)

Such a death, after such a life, had lessons
with which I desired to fill my soul.  I begged to
be left alone with the priest in the room.  This
pious vigil will not, I believe, be unavailing.
From that face, irradiated with a glorious peace,
where a supernatural light seemed to glow, more
than one forgotten or questioned truth came home
to me with irresistible force.  Noble and holy
friend, well I knew that the virtue of sacrifice was
yours!  Now I see that you have entered into
your reward.

About two hours after midnight, yielding to
fatigue, I longed to breathe the fresh air for a
moment.  I went down the dark staircase and into
the garden, avoiding the *salon* on the ground
floor, where I had seen a light.  The night was
profoundly dark.  As I approached the arbour at
the end of the little inclosure, I heard a faint
sound, and at the same moment a shadowy form
detached itself from the foliage.  I felt a sudden
rapture; my heart leaped, and I saw the heavens
fill with stars.

.. _`246`:

"Marguerite!" I cried, holding out my arms.
I heard a little cry, then my name murmured
faintly, then silence ... and I felt her lips on
mine.  I thought that my soul was escaping
from me.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: center white-space-pre-line

   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

.. vspace:: 1



I have given Hélène half my fortune.  Marguerite
is my wife.  I close these pages forever.
I have nothing more to intrust to them.  What
has been said of nations may be said of men:
"Happy are those who have no history."

.. vspace:: 4

.. class:: center white-space-pre-line

   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

.. vspace:: 4

.. class:: center large bold

   THE PORTRAITS OF OCTAVE FEUILLET

.. vspace:: 2


In spite of the fashionable
popularity achieved by
Octave Feuillet as early as
the year 1855, a popularity
which never waned to his
last hour, it seems that his
life, which we should have
pictured excessively
brilliant and public, was
in reality quiet and retired.
The author of "M. de
Camors" and of the
"Roman d'un Jeune
Homme pauvre" was, as
his portraits attest,
melancholy of temperament and
contemplative of mind, a man who was happiest in his own
study, who preferred the distant echoes of his literary triumphs
in his home, to noisy manifestations thereof in the world
of social pleasure.

.. _`In 1850, After a drawing by the engraver Monciau`:

.. figure:: images/img-251.jpg
   :align: left
   :alt: OCTAVE FEUILLET (In 1850) After a drawing by the engraver Monciau

   OCTAVE FEUILLET (In 1850) After a drawing by the engraver Monciau

Feuillet was the official novelist of the Second Empire, the
pet writer of the *Revue des Deux Mondes*.  He was received
at Court among the distinguished guests who had the *entrée* at
Compiègne and Fontainebleau.  His plays and *proverbes* were
acted in the Imperial theatres, at fashionable watering-places,
and on the miniature stages of marionettes.  The Empress
treated him with marked distinction.  It is difficult to
understand why an author so honoured and so much sought after
should have left so few portraits—canvases, medallions,
water-colours or engravings.  Feuillet evidently was not lavish
of his time in his sittings to artists, for neither Dubufe,
nor Carolus-Duran, nor Winterhalter reproduced his features—a
fact we find it almost hard to believe of a man who
enjoyed the popularity of
Feuillet.  But we must
accept the fact.

.. _`In 1879, After a sketch made in Geneva`:

.. figure:: images/img-252.jpg
   :align: left
   :alt: OCTAVE FEUILLET (In 1879) After a sketch made in Geneva

   OCTAVE FEUILLET (In 1879) After a sketch made in Geneva

Madame Octave Feuillet,
to whom I went for final
confirmation of this
supposed dearth of artistic
documents relating to her
deceased husband, showed
me everything she had as
mementoes of the delicate
psychologist to whose
success she so largely
contributed by her feminine
diplomacy, her social
observations, and her subtle and very cultivated mind.

"Alas!" she said, "I do not know why I am not richer in
pictures of my dear lost one, for he had endless opportunities
of being painted, but he was always too nervous and too
busy to undertake the sittings proposed by various artists.
This is why I can only show you a little portrait painted
by Bonvin just before 1850, which represents him with a
Musset-like face, and agrees pretty closely with a drawing
of the same period by the engraver Monciau, which could
easily be reproduced."

.. _`After a photograph taken in 1880`:

.. figure:: images/img-253a.jpg
   :align: right
   :alt: OCTAVE FEUILLET After a photograph taken in 1880

   OCTAVE FEUILLET After a photograph taken in 1880

"Beyond these souvenirs of
Octave Feuillet as a young man,"
continued his widow, "I have
nothing but a drawing by Dantan,
made at the time of the great
success of the *Sphinx* at the
Comedie Française, that is to say,
about ten years before his death,
and a large canvas by Hirch, a
full-length, painted after 1880.  But
isn't it too dark for reproduction?"

To these portraits of the author
of "Julia de Trécoeur" we may
add a number of photographs, all
of them taken after 1860.  First,
the large full-length portrait published by Goupil about 1869 in
the "Galerie Contemporaine."  In spite of the defects inherent
in all photographs, this is the most like him of all his portraits:
it is reproduced as the frontispiece of this volume.  We have
given several others, among
them one from Monciau's
drawing, which shows us an Octave
Feuillet of thirty-five, who is
nevertheless somewhat
morose-looking, and various
presentments of the quinquagenarian
Academician, with the white
hair and grey beard of a man
still in his prime, which offer a
much nobler and more attractive
semblance of the writer who
has been called "The family Musset."

.. _`The last photograph taken in 1889`:

.. figure:: images/img-253b.jpg
   :align: left
   :alt: OCTAVE FEUILLET The last photograph taken in 1889

   OCTAVE FEUILLET The last photograph taken in 1889

After the death of the famous
novelist and playwright, the sculptor Crauck executed a fine
bust of him with the aid of instructions given him by one of
the author's sons, Richard Feuillet.  Another bust, of little
interest and a poor likeness, is at the Hôtel de Ville of St. Lo,
where Feuillet was born, and where he often came to rest at
his property during the summer.

.. _`Sketch by Dantan, about 1878`:

.. figure:: images/img-254.jpg
   :align: center
   :alt: OCTAVE FEUILLET Sketch by Dantan, about 1878

   OCTAVE FEUILLET Sketch by Dantan, about 1878

Octave Feuillet's iconological record certainly does not
arrest attention by any curious, startling, or hitherto
unpublished elements.  We have no childish or youthful portraits,
nothing but the cold countenance of the man who had already
"arrived;" no whimsical artistic sketch, not even any satirical
caricature, to compromise, enliven, or give a Bohemian touch
to the dignified attitude and severe correctness of the writer of
the *Revue des Deux Mondes*.  It is, we think, to be regretted.
Octave Feuillet remains an over-official figure for us,
bearing too obviously the stamp of the photographer's solemn
poses, and sacramental "Quite still, please."

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent

   OCTAVE UZANNE.

.. vspace:: 6

.. pgfooter::