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THE WORKS OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT

VOLUME II

Monsieur Parent and Other Stories







Copyright, 1909, by
Bigelow, Smith & Co.





CONTENTS


   MONSIEUR PARENT

   THE FATHER

   A VAGABOND

   USELESS BEAUTY

   FLY

   THE MAD WOMAN

   THAT PIG OF A MORIN

   THE WOODEN SHOES

   A NORMANDY JOKE

   A COCK CROWED

   JULOT'S OPINION

   MADEMOISELLE

   THE MOUNTEBANKS

   THE SEQUEL TO A DIVORCE

   THE MAN WITH THE DOGS

   THE CLOWN

   BABETTE

   SYMPATHY

   THE DEBT

   AN ARTIST

   MADEMOISELLE FIFI

   THE STORY OF A FARM GIRL

   MAMMA STIRLING

   LILIE LALA

   MADAME TELLIER'S ESTABLISHMENT

   THE BANDMASTER'S SISTER

   FALSE ALARM

   WIFE AND MISTRESS

   MAD

   AN UNFORTUNATE LIKENESS

   THE NEW SENSATION




MONSIEUR PARENT


I

Little George was making hills of sand in one of the walks; he took it
up with both his hands, made it into a pyramid, and then put a chestnut
leaf on the top, and his father, sitting on an iron chair was looking at
him with concentrated and affectionate attention, and saw nobody but him
in that small public garden which was full of people. All along the
circular road other children were occupied in the same manner, or else
were indulging in childish games, while nursemaids were walking two and
two, with their bright cap ribbons floating behind them, and carrying
something wrapped up in lace, on their arms, and little girls in short
petticoats and bare legs were talking seriously together, during the
intervals of trundling their hoops.

The sun was just disappearing behind the roofs of the _Rue
Saint-Lazare_, but still shed its rays obliquely on that little
over-dressed crowd. The chestnut trees were lighted up with its yellow
rays, and the three fountains before the lofty porch of the church, had
the appearance of liquid silver.

Monsieur Parent looked at his son sitting in the dusk, he followed his
slightest movements with affection, but accidentally looking up at the
church clock, he saw that he was five minutes late, so he got up, took
the child by the arm and shook his dress which was covered with sand,
wiped his hands and led him in the direction of the _Rue Blanche_, and
he walked quickly, so as not to get in after his wife, but as the child
could not keep up with him, he took him up and carried him, though it
made him pant when he had to walk up the steep street. He was a man of
forty, turning gray already, rather stout, and had married, a few years
previously, a young woman whom he dearly loved, but who now treated him
with the severity and authority of an all-powerful despot. She found
fault with him continually for everything that he did, or did not do,
reproached him bitterly for his slightest acts, his habits, his simple
pleasures, his tastes, his movements and walk, and for having a round
stomach and a placid voice.

He still loved her, however, but above all he loved the child which he
had had by her, and George, who was now three, had become the greatest
joy, and had preoccupation of his heart. He himself had a modest private
fortune, and lived without doing anything on his twenty thousand francs
a year, and his wife, who had been quite portionless, was constantly
angry at her husband's inactivity.

At last he reached his house, put down the child, wiped his forehead and
walked upstairs, and when he got to the second floor, he rang. An old
servant who had brought him up, one of those mistress-servants who are
the tyrants of families, opened the door to him, and he asked her
anxiously: "Has Madame come in yet?" The servant shrugged her shoulders:
"When have you ever known Madame to come home at half past six,
Monsieur?" And he replied with some embarrassment: "Very well; all the
better; it will give me time to change my things, for I am very hot."

The servant looked at him with angry and contemptuous pity, and
grumbled: "Oh! I can see that well enough, you are covered with
perspiration, Monsieur. I suppose you walked quickly and carried the
child, and only to have to wait until half past seven, perhaps, for
Madame. I have made up my mind not to have it ready at the time. Shall
get it for eight o'clock, and if you have to wait, I cannot help it;
roast meat ought not to be burnt!" Monsieur Parent, however, pretended
not to hear, but only said: "All right! all right. You must wash
George's hands, for he has been making sand pits. I will go and change
my clothes; tell the maid to give the child a good washing."

And he went into his own room, and as soon as he got in he locked the
door, so as to be alone, quite alone. He was so used now to being abused
and badly treated, that he never thought himself safe, except when he
was locked in. He no longer ventured even to think, reflect and reason
with himself, unless he had guarded himself against her looks and
insinuations, by locking himself in. Having thrown himself into a chair,
in order to rest for a few minutes before he put on clean linen, he
remembered that Julie was beginning to be a fresh danger in the house.
She hated his wife, that was quite plain, but she hated his friend Paul
Limousin still more, who had continued to be the familiar and intimate
friend of the house, after having been the inseparable companion of his
bachelor days, which is very rare. It was Limousin who acted as a buffer
between his wife and himself, and who defended him ardently, and even
severely, against her undeserved reproaches, against crying scenes, and
against all the daily miseries of his existence.

But now for six months, Julie had constantly been saying things against
her mistress, and repeated twenty times a day: "If I were you, Monsieur,
I should not allow myself to be led by the nose like that. Well, well...
There, ... everyone according to his nature." And one day, she had even
ventured to be insolent to Henriette, who, however, merely said to her
husband, at night: "You know, the next time she speaks to me like that,
I shall turn her out of doors." But she, who feared nothing; seemed to
be afraid of the old servant, and Parent attributed her mildness to her
consideration for the old domestic who had brought him up, and who had
closed his mother's eyes. Now, however, it was finished, matters could
not go on like that much longer, and he was frightened at the idea of
what was going to happen. What could he do? To get rid of Julie seemed
to him to be such a formidable thing to do, that he hardly ventured to
think of it, but it was just as impossible to uphold her against his
wife, and before another month now, the situation would become
unbearable between the two. He remained sitting there, with his arms
hanging down, vaguely trying to discover some means to set matters
straight, but without success, and he said to himself: "It is only lucky
that I have George ... without him I should be very miserable."

Then he thought he would consult Limousin, but the recollection of the
hatred that existed between his friend and the servant made him fear
lest the former should advise him to turn her away, and again he was
lost in doubts and unhappy uncertainty. Just then the clock struck
seven, and he started up. Seven o'clock, and he had not even changed his
clothes yet! Then nervous and breathless, he undressed, put on a clean
shirt, and hastily finished his toilet, as if he had been expected in
the next room for some event of extreme importance, went into the
drawing-room, happy at having nothing to fear. He glanced at the
newspaper, went and looked out of the window, and then sat down on the
sofa again, when the door opened, and the boy came in, washed, brushed
and smiling, and Parent took him up in his arms and kissed him
passionately; then he tossed him into the air, and held him up to the
ceiling, but soon sat down again, as he was tired with all his efforts,
and taking George onto his knee, he made him ride a cock-horse, and the
child laughed and clapped his hands, and shouted with pleasure, as his
father did also, for he laughed until his big stomach shook, for it
amused him almost more than it did the child.

He loved him with all the heart of a weak, resigned, ill-used man. He
loved with mad bursts of affection, with caresses and with all the
bashful tenderness which was hidden in him, and which had never found an
outlet, even at the early period of his married life, for his wife had
always shown herself cold and reserved. Just then, however, Julie came
to the door, with a pale face and glistening eyes, and she said in a
voice which trembled with exasperation: "It is half past seven,
Monsieur." Parent gave an uneasy and resigned look at the clock and
replied: "Yes, it certainly is half past seven." "Well, my dinner is
quite ready, now."

Seeing the storm which was coming, he tried to turn it aside. "But did
you not tell me when I came in that it would not be ready before eight?"
"Eight! what are you thinking about? You surely do not mean to let the
child dine at eight o'clock? It would ruin his stomach. Just suppose
that he only had his mother to look after him! She cares a great deal
about her child. Oh! yes, we will speak about her; she is a mother. What
a pity it is that there should be any mothers like her!"

Parent thought it was time to cut short a threatened scene, and so he
said: "Julie, I will not allow you to speak like that of your mistress.
You understand me, do you not? Do not forget it for the future."

The old servant, who was nearly choked with surprise, turned round and
went out, slamming the door so violently after her, that the lusters on
the chandelier rattled, and for some seconds it sounded as if a number
of little invisible bells were ringing in the drawing room.

George who was surprised at first, began to clap his hands merrily, and
blowing out his cheeks, he gave a great _boum_ with all the strength of
his lungs, to imitate the noise of the door banging. Then his father
began to tell him stories, but his mind was so preoccupied that he every
moment lost the thread of his story, and the child, who could not
understand him, opened his eyes wide, in astonishment.

Parent never took his eyes off the clock; he thought he could see the
hands move, and he would have liked to have stopped them, until his
wife's return. He was not vexed with her for being late, but he was
frightened, frightened of her and of Julie, frightened at the thought of
all that might happen. Ten minutes more, would suffice to bring about an
irreparable catastrophe, explanations and acts of violence that he did
not dare to picture to himself. The mere idea of a quarrel, of their
loud voices, of insults flying through the air like bullets, the two
women standing face to face, looking at each other and flinging abuse at
one another, made his heart beat, and his tongue as parched as if he had
been walking in the sun, and made him as limp as a rag, so limp that he
no longer had the strength to lift up the child, and to dance him on his
knee.

Eight o'clock struck, the door opened once more and Julie came in again.
She had lost her look of exasperation, but now she put on an air of cold
and determined resolution, which was still more formidable. "Monsieur,"
she said, "I served your mother until the day of her death, and I have
attended to you from your birth until now, and I think it may be said
that I am devoted to the family." She waited for a reply, and Parent
stammered: "Why yes, certainly, my good Julie." She continued: "You know
quite well that I have never done anything for the sake of money, but
always for your sake; that I have never deceived you nor lied to you,
that you have never had to find fault with me..." "Certainly, my good
Julie." "Very well, then, Monsieur, it cannot go on any longer like
this. I have said nothing, and left you in your ignorance, out of
respect and liking for you, but it is too much, and everyone in the
neighborhood is laughing at you. Everybody knows about it, and so I must
tell you also, although I do not like to repeat it. The reason why
Madame comes in at any time she chooses is, that she is doing abominable
things."

He seemed stupefied, and not to understand, and could only stammer out:
"Hold your tongue, you know I have forbidden you ..." But she
interrupted him with irresistible resolution. "No, Monsieur, I must tell
you everything, now. For a long time Madame has been doing wrong with
Monsieur Limousin, I have seen them kiss scores of times behind the
doors. Ah! you may be sure that if Monsieur Limousin had been rich,
Madame would never have married Monsieur Parent. If you remember how the
marriage was brought about, you would understand the matter from
beginning to end." Parent had risen, and stammered out, deadly pale:
"Hold your tongue hold your tongue or ..." She went on, however: "No, I
mean to tell you everything. She married you from interest, and she
deceived you from the very first day. It was all settled between them
beforehand. You need only reflect for a few moments to understand it,
and then, as she was not satisfied with having married you, as she did
not love you, she has made your life miserable, so miserable that it has
almost broken my heart when I have seen it ..."

He walked up and down the room with his hands clenched, repeating: "Hold
your tongue ... hold your tongue ..." for he could find nothing else to
say; the old servant, however, would not yield; she seemed resolved on
everything, but George, who had been at first astonished, and then
frightened at those angry voices, began to utter shrill screams, and
remained behind his father, and he roared with his face puckered up and
his mouth open.

His son's screams exasperated Parent and filled him with rage and
courage. He rushed at Julie with both arms raised, ready to strike
her, and exclaiming: "Ah! you wretch! you will send the child out of
his senses." He was already touching her, when she said: "Monsieur, you
may beat me if you like, me who reared you, but that will not prevent
your wife from deceiving you, or alter the fact that your child is not
yours ..." He stopped suddenly, and let his arms fall, and he remained
standing opposite to her, so overwhelmed that he could understand
nothing more, and she added: "You need only look at the child to know
who is its father! He is the very image of Monsieur Limousin, you need
only look at his eyes and forehead, why, a blind man could not be
mistaken in him...."

But he had taken her by the shoulders, and was now shaking her with
all his might, while he said: "Viper ... viper! Go out the room,
viper! ... go out, or I shall kill you! ... Go out! Go out! ..."

And with a desperate effort he threw her into the next room. She fell
onto the table which was laid for dinner, breaking the glasses, and
then, getting up, she put it between her master and herself, and while
he was pursuing her, in order to take hold of her again, she flung
terrible words at him: "You need only go out this evening after dinner,
and come in again immediately ... and you will see! ... you will see
whether I have been lying! Just try it ... and you will see." She had
reached the kitchen door and escaped, but he ran after her, up the back
stairs to her bedroom into which she had locked herself, and knocking
at the door, he said! "You will leave my house this very instant." "You
may be certain of that, Monsieur," was her reply. "In an hour's time I
shall not be here any longer."

He then went slowly downstairs again, holding on to the banister, so as
not to fall, and went back to the drawing-room, where little George was
sitting on the floor, crying; he fell into a chair, and looked at the
child with dull eyes. He understood nothing, be knew nothing more, he
felt dazed, stupefied, mad, as if he had just fallen on his head, and he
scarcely even remembered the dreadful things the servant had told him.
Then, by degrees his reason grew clearer like muddy water, and the
abominable revelation began to work in his heart.

Julie had spoken so clearly, with so much force, assurance and
sincerity, that he did not doubt her good faith, but he persisted in not
believing her penetration. She might have been deceived, blinded by her
devotion to him, carried away by unconscious hatred for Henriette.
However, in measure as he tried to reassure and to convince himself, a
thousand small facts recurred to his recollection, his wife's words,
Limousin's looks, a number of unobserved, almost unseen trifles, her
going out late, their simultaneous absence, and even some almost
insignificant, but strange gestures, which he could not understand, now
assumed an extreme importance for him and established a connivance
between them. Everything that had happened since his engagement, surged
through his over-excited brain, in his misery, and he obstinately went
through his five years of married life, trying to recollect every detail
month by month, day by day, and every disquieting circumstance that he
remembered stung him to the quick like a wasp's sting.

He was not thinking of George any more, who was quiet now and on the
carpet, but seeing that no notice was being taken of him the boy began
to cry. Then his father ran up to him, took him into his arms, and
covered him with kisses. His child remained to him at any rate! What did
the rest matter? He held him in his arms and pressed his lips onto his
light hair, and relieved and composed, he whispered: "George, ... my
little George, ... my dear little George ..." But he suddenly remembered
what Julie had said! ... Yes! she had said that he was Limousin's
child... Oh! It could not be possible, surely! He could not believe it,
could not doubt, even for a moment, that he was his own child. It was
one of those low scandals which spring from servants' brains! And he
repeated: "George ... my dear little George." The youngster was quiet
again, now that his father was fondling him.

Parent felt the warmth of the little chest penetrate to his through
their clothes, and it filled him with love, courage and happiness; that
gentle heat soothed him, fortified him and saved him. Then he put the
small, curly head away from him a little and looked at it
affectionately, still repeating: "George! ... Oh! my little George! ..."
But suddenly he thought, "Suppose he were to resemble Limousin, ...
after all!"

There was something strange working within him, a fierce feeling, a
poignant and violent sensation of cold in his whole body, in all his
limbs, as if his bones had suddenly been turned to ice. Oh! if he were
to resemble Limousin and he continued to look at George, who was
laughing now. He looked at him with haggard, troubled eyes, and he tried
to discover whether there was any likeness in his forehead, in his nose,
mouth or cheeks. His thoughts wandered like they do when a person is
going mad, and his child's face changed in his eyes, and assumed a
strange look, and unlikely resemblances.

Julie had said: "A blind man could not be mistaken in him." There must,
therefore, be something striking, an undeniable likeness! But what? The
forehead? Yes, perhaps, Limousin's forehead, however, was narrower. The
mouth then? But Limousin wore a beard, and how could any one verify the
likeness between the fat chin of the child, and the hairy chin of that
man?

Parent thought: "I cannot see anything now, I am too much upset;
I could not recognize anything at present ... I must wait; I must
look at him well to-morrow morning, when I am getting up." And
immediately afterwards he said to himself: "But if he is like me,
I shall be saved! saved!" And he crossed the drawing-room in two strides,
to examine the child's face by the side of his own in the looking-glass.
He had George on his arm, so that their faces might be close together,
and he spoke out loud almost without knowing it. "Yes ... we have the
same nose ... the same nose ... perhaps, but that is not sure ... and
the same look ... But no, he has blue eyes ... Then good heavens! I shall
go mad ... I cannot see anything more ... I am going mad!..."

He went away from the glass to the other end of the drawing-room, and
putting the child into an easy chair, he fell into another and began to
cry; and he sobbed so violently that George, who was frightened at
hearing him, immediately began to scream.

The hall bell rang, and Parent gave a bound as if a bullet had gone
through him. "There she is," he said ... "What shall I do? ..." And he
ran and locked himself up in his room, so at any rate to have time to
bathe his eyes. But in a few moments another ring at the bell made him
jump again, and he remembered that Julie had left, without the housemaid
knowing it, and so nobody would go to open the door. What was he to do?
He went himself, and suddenly he felt brave, resolute, ready for
dissimulation and the struggle. The terrible blow had matured him in a
few moments, and then he wished to know the truth, he wished it with the
rage of a timid man, and with the tenacity of an easy-going man, who has
been exasperated.

But nevertheless he trembled! Was it fear? Yes . . . Perhaps he was
still frightened of her? Does one know how much excited cowardice there
often is in boldness? He went to the door with furtive steps, and
stopped to listen; his heart beat furiously, and he heard nothing but
the noise of that dull throbbing in his chest, and George's shrill
voice, who was still crying in the drawing room. Suddenly, however, the
noise of the bell over his head startled him like an explosion; then he
seized the lock, turned the key and opening the door, saw his wife and
Limousin standing before him on the stairs.

With an air of astonishment, which also betrayed a little irritation
she said: "So you open the door now? Where is Julie?" His throat
felt tight, and his breathing was labored and he tried to reply,
without being able to utter a word, so she continued: "Are you
dumb? I asked you where Julie is?" And then he managed to say:
"She ... she ... has ... gone ..." Whereupon his wife began to get
angry. "What do you mean by _gone_? Where has she gone? Why?" By
degrees he regained his coolness, and he felt immense hatred for that
insolent woman who was standing before him, rise up in him: "Yes,
she has gone altogether ... I sent her away ..." "You have sent away
Julie?... Why you must be mad." "Yes, I have sent her away because she
was insolent ... and because, because she was ill-using the child."
"Julie?" "Yes ... Julie." "What was she insolent about?" "About you."
"About me?" "Yes, because the dinner was burnt, and you did not come in."
"And she said ...?" "She said ... offensive things about you ... which
I ought not ... which I could not listen to ..." "What did she say?"
"It is no good repeating them." "I want to hear them." "She said it
was unfortunate for a man like me to be married to a woman like you,
unpunctual, careless, disorderly, a bad mother and a bad wife ..."

The young woman had gone into the anteroom followed by Limousin, who did
not say a word at this unexpected position of things. She shut the door
quickly, threw her cloak onto a chair, and going straight up to her
husband, she stammered out: "You say? ... you say? ... that I am ...?"

He was very pale and calm and replied: "I say nothing, my dear. I am
simply repeating what Julie said to me, as you wanted to know what it
was, and I wish you to remark that I turned her off just on account of
what she said."

She trembled with a violent longing to tear out his beard and scratch
his face. In his voice and manner she felt that he was asserting his
position as master, although she had nothing to say by way of reply, and
she tried to assume the offensive, by saying something unpleasant: "I
suppose you have had dinner?" she asked.

"No, I waited for you." She shrugged her shoulders impatiently. "It is
very stupid of you to wait after half past seven," she said. "You might
have guessed that I was detained, that I had a good many things to do,
visits and shopping."

And then suddenly, she felt that she wanted to explain how she had spent
her time, and she told him in abrupt, haughty words, that having to buy
some furniture in a shop a long distance off, very far off, in the _Rue
de Rennes_, she had met Limousin at past seven o'clock on the _Boulevard
Saint-Germain_, and that then she had gone with him to have something to
eat in a restaurant, as she did not like to go to one by herself,
although she was faint with hunger. That was how she had dined, with
Limousin, if it could be called dining, for they had only had some soup
and half a fowl, as they were in a great hurry to get back, and Parent
replied simply: "Well, you were quite right. I am not finding fault with
you."

Then Limousin, who had not spoken till then, and who had been half
hidden behind Henriette, came forward, and put out his hand, saying:
"Are you very well?" Parent took his hand, and shaking it gently,
replied: "Yes, I am very well." But the young woman had felt a reproach
in her husband's last words. "Finding fault! ... Why do you speak of
finding fault? ... One might think that you meant to imply something."
"Not at all," he replied, by way of excuse. "I simply meant, that I was
not at all anxious although you were late, and that I did not find fault
with you for it." She, however, took the high hand, and tried to find a
pretext for a quarrel. "Although I was late? ... One might really think
that it was one o'clock in the morning, and that I spent my nights away
from home." "Certainly not, my dear. I said _late_, because I could find
no other word. You said you should be back at half past six, and you
returned at half past eight. That was surely being late! I understand it
perfectly well ... I am not at all surprised ... even. But ... but ... I
can hardly use any other word." "But you pronounce them, as if I had
been out all night." "Oh! no, ... oh! no ..."

She saw that he would yield on every point, and she was going into her
own room, when at last she noticed that George was screaming, and then
she asked, with some feeling: "Whatever is the matter with the child?"
"I told you, that Julie had been rather unkind to him?" "What has the
wretch been doing to him?" "Oh! Nothing much. She gave him a push, and
he fell down."

She wanted to see her child, and ran into the dining-room but stopped
short at the sight of the table covered with spilt wine, with broken
decanters and glasses and overturned salt-cellars. "Who did all that
mischief?" she asked. "It was Julie who ..." But she interrupted him
furiously: "That is too much, really! Julie speaks of me as if I were a
shameless woman, beats my child, breaks my plates and dishes, turns my
house upside down, and it appears that you think it all quite natural."
"Certainly not, as I have got rid of her!" "Really ... you have got rid
of her! ... But you ought to have given her in charge. In such cases,
one ought to call in the Commissary of Police!" "But ... my dear ... I
really could not ... there was no reason ... It would have been very
difficult." She shrugged her shoulders disdainfully.

"There, you will never be anything but a poor, wretched fellow, a man
without a will, without any firmness or energy. Ah! she must have said
some nice things to you, your Julie, to make you turn her off like that.
I should like to have been here for a minute, only for a minute." Then
she opened the drawing-room door and ran to George, took him into her
arms and kissed him, and said: "Georgie, what is it, my darling, my
pretty one, my treasure?" But as she was fondling him he did not speak,
and she repeated: "What is the matter with you?" And he having seen,
with his child's eyes, that something was wrong, replied: "Julie beat
papa."

Henriette turned towards her husband, in stupefaction at first, but then
an irresistible desire to laugh shone in her eyes, passed like a slight
shiver over her delicate cheeks, made her upper lip curl and her
nostrils dilate, and at last a clear, bright burst of mirth came from
her lips, a torrent of gayety which was lively and sonorous as the song
of a bird. She repeated, with little mischievous exclamations which
issued from between her white teeth, and hurt Parent as much as a bite
would have done: "Ha!... ha!... ha!... ha! she beat ... she beat ... my
husband ... ha!... ha! ha!... How funny!... Do you hear, Limousin? Julie
has beaten ... has beaten ... my ... husband ... Oh! dear oh! dear ...
how very funny!"

But Parent protested: "No ... no ... it is not true, it is not true ...
It was I, on the contrary, who threw her into the dining room so
violently that she knocked the table over. The child did not see
clearly, I beat her!" "Here, my darling." Henriette said to her boy "did
Julie beat papa?" "Yes, it was Julie," he replied. But then, suddenly
turning to another idea, she said, "But the child has had no dinner?
You have had nothing to eat, my pet?" "No, mamma." Then she again turned
furiously onto her husband. "Why, you must be mad, utterly mad! It is
half past eight, and George has had no dinner!"

He excused himself as best he could, for he had nearly lost his wits by
the overwhelming scene and the explanation, and felt crushed by this
ruin of his life. "But, my dear, we were waiting for you, as I did not
wish to dine without you. As you come home late every day, I expected
you every moment."

She threw her bonnet, which she had kept on till then, into an easy
chair, and in an angry voice she said: "It is really intolerable to have
to do with people who can understand nothing, who can divine nothing,
and do nothing by themselves. So, I suppose, if I were to come in at
twelve o'clock at night, the child would have had nothing to eat? Just
as if you could not have understood that, as it was after half past
seven, I was prevented from coming home, that I had met with some
hindrance!..."

Parent trembled, for he felt that his anger was getting the upper hand,
but Limousin interposed and turning towards the young woman, he said:
"My dear friend, you are altogether unjust. Parent could not guess that
you would come here so late, as you never do so, and then, how would you
expect him to get over the difficulty all by himself, after having sent
away Julie?"

But Henriette was very angry and replied "Well, at any rate, he must
get over the difficulty himself, for I will not help him. Let him settle
it". And she went into her own room, quite forgetting that her child had
not had anything to eat.

Then Limousin immediately set to work to help his friend. He picked up
the broken glass which strewed the table and took them out. He replaced
the plates, knives and forks and put the child into his high chair.
While Parent went to look for the lady's maid, to wait at table; who
came in great astonishment. As she had heard nothing in George's room,
where she had been working. She soon however, brought in the soup, a
burnt leg of mutton, and mashed potatoes.

Parent sat by the side of the child, very much upset and distressed at
all that had happened. He gave the boy his dinner, and endeavored to eat
something him self. But he could only swallow with an effort, as if his
throat had been paralyzed. By degrees, he was seized by an insane desire
of looking at Limousin who was sitting opposite to him and making bread
pellets, to see whether George was like him, but he did not venture to
raise his eyes for some time; at last, however, he made up his mind to
do so, and gave a quick, sharp look at the face which he knew so well,
although he almost fancied that he had never looked at it carefully, as
it looked so different to what he had fancied. From time to time he
looked at him, trying to recognize a likeness in the smallest lines of
his face, in the slightest features, and then he looked at his son,
under the pretext of feeding him.

Two words were sounding in his ears "His father! his father! his
father!" They buzzed in his temples at every beat of his heart. Yes,
that man, that tranquil man who was sitting on the other side of the
table was, perhaps, the father of his son, of George, of his little
George. Parent left off eating; he could not manage any more; a terrible
pain, one of those attacks of pain which make men scream, roll on the
ground and bite the furniture, was tearing at his entrails, and he felt
inclined to take a knife and plunge it into his stomach. It would ease
him and save him, and all would be over.

For could he live now? Could he get up in the morning, join in the
meals, go out into the streets, go to bed at night and sleep with that
idea dominating him: "Limousin is Little George's father!" No, he would
not have the strength to walk a step, to dress himself, to think of
anything, to speak to anybody! Every day, every hour, every moment, he
should be trying to know, to guess, to discover this terrible secret.
And the little boy, his dear little boy, he could not look at him any
more without enduring the terrible pains of that doubt, of being
tortured by it to the very marrow of his bones. He would be obliged to
live there, to remain in that house, with that child whom he should love
and hate! Yes, he should certainly end by hating him. What torture! Oh!
If he were sure that Limousin was his father, he might, perhaps, grow
calm, become accustomed to his misfortune and his pain, but not to know,
was intolerable.

Not to know, to be always trying to find out, to be continually
suffering, to kiss the child every moment, another man's child, to take
him out for walks, to carry him, to caress him, to love him, and to
think continually: "Perhaps he is not my child? Would it not be better
not to see him, to abandon him,--to lose him in the streets, or to go
away, far away, himself so far away that he should never hear anything
more spoken about, never!"

He started when he heard the door open. His wife came. "I am hungry,"
she said; "are not you also, Limousin?" He hesitated a little, and then
said: "Yes, I am, upon my word." And she had the leg of mutton brought
in again, while Parent asked himself: "Have they had dinner? Or are they
late because they have had a lovers' meeting?"

They both ate with a very good appetite. Henriette was very calm, but
laughed and joked, and her husband watched her furtively. She had on a
pink dressing gown trimmed with white lace, and her fair head, her white
neck and her plump hands stood out from that coquettish and perfumed
dress, like from a sea shell, edged with foam. What had she been doing
all day with that man? Parent could see them kissing, and stammering out
words of ardent love! How was it that he could not manage to know
everything, to guess the whole truth, by looking at them, sitting side
by side, opposite to him?

What fun they must be making of him, if he had been their dupe since the
first day? Was it possible to make a fool of a man, of a worthy man,
because his father had left him a little money? Why could one not see
these things in people's souls, how was it that nothing revealed to
upright hearts the deceits of infamous hearts, how was it that voices
had the same sound for adoring as for lying, why was a false, deceptive
look the same as a sincere one? And he watched them waiting to catch a
gesture, a word, an intonation; then suddenly he thought: "I will
surprise them this evening," and he said: "My dear, as I have dismissed
Julie, I will see about getting another this very day, and I shall go
out immediately to procure one by to-morrow morning, so I may not be in
until late."

"Very well," she replied; "go, I shall not stir from here. Limousin will
keep me company. We will wait for you." And then, turning to the maid,
she said: "You had better put George to bed, and then you can clear away
and go up to your own room."

Parent had got up; he was unsteady on his legs, dazed and giddy, and
saying: "I shall see you again later on," he went out, holding onto the
wall, for the floor seemed to roll, like a ship. George had been carried
out by his nurse, whilst Henriette and Limousin went into the
drawing-room, and as soon as the door was shut, he said: "You must be
mad, surely, to torment your husband as you do?" She immediately turned
on him: "Ah! Do you know that I think the habit you have got into
lately, of looking upon Parent as a martyr, is very unpleasant?"

Limousin threw himself into an easy-chair, and crossed his legs: "I am
not setting him up as a martyr in the least, but I think that, situated
as we are, it is ridiculous to defy this man as you do, from morning
till night." She took a cigarette from the mantel-piece, lighted it, and
replied: "But I do not defy him, quite the contrary; only, he irritates
me by his stupidity ... and I treat him as he deserves." Limousin
continued impatiently: "What you are doing is very foolish! However, all
women are alike. Look here: he is an excellent, kind fellow, stupidly
confiding and good, who never interferes with us, who does not suspect
us for a moment, who leaves us quite free and undisturbed, whenever we
like, and you do all you can to put him into a rage and to spoil our
life."

She turned to him: "I say, you worry me. You are a coward, like all
other men are! You are frightened of that poor creature!" He immediately
jumped up and said, furiously: "I should like to know what he does, and
why you are so set against him? Does he make you unhappy? Does he beat
you? Does he deceive you and go with another woman? No, it is really too
bad to make him suffer, merely because he is too kind, and to hate him
merely because you are unfaithful to him." She went up to Limousin, and
looking him full in the face, she said: "And you reproach me with
deceiving him? You? You? What a filthy heart you must have?"

He felt rather ashamed, and tried to defend himself: "I am not
reproaching you, my dear; I am only asking you to treat your husband
gently, because we both of us require him to trust us. I think that you
ought to see that."

They were close together; he, tall, dark, with long whiskers, and the
rather vulgar manners of a good-looking man, who is very well satisfied
with himself; she, small, fair and pink, a little Parisian, half
shopkeeper, half one of those of easy virtue, born behind a shop,
brought up at its door to entice customers by her looks, and married,
accidentally, in consequence to a simple, unsophisticated man, who saw
her outside the door every morning when he went out, and every evening
when he came home.

"But do you not understand, you great booby," she said, "that I hate him
just because he married me, because he bought me; in fact, because
everything that he says and does, everything that he thinks, acts on my
nerves? He exasperates me every moment by his stupidity, which you call
his kindness, by his dullness, which you call his confidence, and then,
above all, because he is my husband, instead of you! I feel him between
us, although he does not interfere with us much. And then?... and
then?... No, it is, after all, too idiotic of him not to guess anything!
I wish he would at any rate be a little jealous. There are moments when
I feel inclined to say to him: 'Do you not see, you stupid creature,
that Paul is my lover?'"

Limousin began to laugh: "Meanwhile, it would be a good thing if you
were to keep quiet, and not disturb our life." "Oh! I shall not disturb
it, you may be sure! There is nothing to fear, with such a fool. No; but
it is quite incomprehensible that you cannot understand how hateful he
is to me, how he irritates me. You always seem to like him, and you
shake hands with him cordially. Men are very surprising at times."

"One must know how to dissimulate, my dear." "It is no question of
dissimulation, but of feeling. One might think that, when you men
deceive another, you liked him all the more on that account, while we
women hate the man from the moment that we have betrayed him." "I do not
see why one should hate an excellent fellow, because one has his wife."
"You do not see it?... You do not see it?... You all of you are wanting
in that fineness of feeling! However, that is one of those things which
one feels, and which one cannot express. And then, moreover, one ought
not.... No, you would not understand; it is quite useless. You men have
no delicacy of feeling."

And smiling, with the gentle contempt of a debauched woman, she put both
her hands onto his shoulders and held up her lips to him, and he stooped
down and clasped her closely in his arms, and their lips met. And as
they stood in front of the chimney glass, another couple exactly like
them, embraced behind the clock.

They heard nothing, neither the noise of the key, nor the creaking of
the door, but suddenly Henriette, with a loud cry, pushed Limousin away
with both her arms, and they saw Parent, who was looking at them, livid
with rage, without his shoes on, and his hat over his forehead. He
looked at them, one after the other, with a quick glance of his eyes
without moving his head. He appeared mad, and then, without saying a
word, he threw himself on Limousin; he seized him as if he were going to
strangle him, and flung him into the opposite corner of the room so
violently that the other lost his balance, and beating the air with his
hand, cracked against the wall with his head.

But when Henriette saw that her husband was going to murder her lover,
she threw herself onto Parent, seized him by the neck and digging her
ten delicate and rosy fingers into his neck, she squeezed him so
tightly, with all the vigor of a desperate woman, that the blood spurted
out under her nails, and she bit his shoulder, as if she wished to tear
it with her teeth. Parent, half-strangled and choked, loosened his hold
on Limousin, in order to shake off his wife, who was hanging onto his
neck; and putting his arms around her waist, he flung her also to the
other end of the drawing-room.

Then, as his passion was short-lived, like that of most good-tempered
men, and his strength was soon exhausted, he remained standing between
the two, panting, worn out, not knowing what to do next. His brutal fury
had expended itself in that effort, like the froth of a bottle of
champagne, and his unwonted energy ended in a want of breath. As soon as
he could speak, however he said: "Go away ... both of you ...
immediately ... go away!..."

Limousin remained motionless in his corner, against the wall, too
startled to understand anything as yet, too frightened to move a finger,
while Henriette, with her hands resting on a small, round table, her
head bent forward, with her hair hanging down, the bodice of her dress
unfastened and bosom bare, waited like a wild animal which is about to
spring, and Parent went on, in a stronger voice: "Go away
immediately.... Get out of the house!"

His wife, however, seeing that he had got over his first exasperation,
grew bolder, drew herself up, took two steps towards him, and grown
almost insolent already, she said: "Have you lost your head?... What is
the matter with you?... What is the meaning of this unjustifiable
violence?" But he turned towards her, and raising his fist to strike
her, he stammered out: "Oh!... oh!... this is too much!... too much!...
I ... heard everything! Everything!... do you understand?...
Everything!... you wretch ... you wretch ... you are two wretches!...
Get out of the house!... both of you!... Immediately ... or I shall
kill you!... Leave the house!..."

She saw that it was all over, and that he knew everything, that she
could not prove her innocence, and that she must comply, but all her
impudence had returned to her, and her hatred for the man, which was
exasperated now, drove her to audacity, made her feel the need of
bravadoes, and of defying him, and so she said in a clear voice: "Come,
Limousin, as he is going to turn me out of doors, I will go to your
lodgings with you."

But Limousin did not move, and Parent, in a fresh access of rage, cried
out: "Go, will you! go, you wretches!... or else!... or else!..." and he
seized a chair and whirled it over his head.

Then Henriette walked quickly across the room, took her lover by the
arm, dragged him from the wall to which he appeared fixed, and dragged
him towards the door, saying: "Do come, my friend ... you see that the
man is mad.... Do come!"

As she went out, she turned round to her husband, trying to think of
something that she could do, something that she could invent to wound
him to the heart as she left the house, and an idea struck her, one of
those venomous, deadly ideas in which all a woman's perfidy shows
itself, and she said resolutely: "I am going to take my child with me."

Parent was stupefied and stammered: "Your ... your ... child? You dare
to talk of your child?... You venture ... you venture to ask for your
child ... after ... after ... Oh! oh! that is too much!... Go, you
horrid wretch!... Go!..." She went up to him again, almost smiling,
almost avenged already, and defying him, standing close to him, and face
to face, she said: "I want my child, and you have no right to keep him,
because he is not yours ... do you understand?... he is not yours ... he
is Limousin's." And Parent cried out in bewilderment: "You lie ... you
lie you wretch!"

But she continued: "You fool! Everybody knows it, except you. I tell
you, this is his father. You need only look at him, to see it...."

Parent staggered back from her, and then he suddenly turned round, took
a candle and rushed into the next room; almost immediately, however, he
returned, carrying little George, wrapped up in his bed clothes, and the
child, who had been suddenly awakened, was crying with fright. Parent
threw him into his wife's arms, and then, without saying anything more,
he pushed her roughly out, towards the stairs, where Limousin was
waiting, from motives of prudence.

Then he shut the door again, double-locked it, and bolted it, and he had
scarcely got into the drawing-room, when he fell onto the floor at full
length.


II

Parent lived alone, quite alone. During the five weeks that followed
their separation, the feeling of surprise at his new life, prevented him
from thinking much. He had resumed his bachelor life, his habits of
lounging about, and he took his meals at a restaurant, as he had done
formerly. As he had wished to avoid any scandal, he made his wife an
allowance, which was settled by their lawyers. By degrees, however, the
thoughts of the child began to haunt him. Often, when he was at home
alone at night, he suddenly thought he heard George calling out _papa_,
and his heart used to begin to beat, and he got up quickly and opened
the door to see whether, by chance, the child might have returned, like
dogs or pigeons do. Why should a child have less instinct than an
animal?

After finding that he was mistaken, he went and sat down in his armchair
again and thought of the boy, and he thought of him for hours, and whole
days. It was not only a moral, but still more a physical obsession, a
nervous longing to kiss him, to hold and fondle him, to take him onto
his knees and dance him. He felt the child's little arms round his neck,
his little mouth pressing a kiss on his beard, his soft hair tickling
his cheeks, and the remembrance of all those childish ways, made him
suffer like the desire for some beloved woman, who has run away, and
then twenty or a hundred times a day he asked himself the question,
whether he was or was not George's father, and at night, especially, he
indulged in interminable speculations on the point, and almost before he
was in bed, he every night recommenced the same series of despairing
arguments.

After his wife's departure, he had at first not felt the slightest
doubt; certainly the child was Limousin's, but by degrees he began to
waver. Henriette's words could not be of any value. She had merely
braved him, and tried to drive him to desperation, and calmly weighing
the _pros_ and _cons_, there seemed to be every chance that she had
lied, though perhaps only Limousin could tell the truth. But how was he
to find it out, how could he question him or persuade him to confess the
real facts?

Sometimes Parent would get up in the middle of the night, fully
determined to go and see Limousin and to beg him, to offer him anything
he wanted, to put an end to this intolerable misery. Then he went back
to bed in despair, reflecting that her lover would also lie, no doubt!
He would be even sure to lie, in order to prevent him from taking away
the child, if he were really his father. What could he do, then?
Absolutely nothing!

And he was sorry that he had thus suddenly brought about the crisis,
that he had not taken time for reflection, that he had not waited and
dissimulated for a month or two, so as to find out for himself. He ought
to have pretended to suspect nothing, and have allowed them to betray
themselves at their leisure. It would have been enough for him, to see
the other kiss the child, to guess and to understand. A friend does not
kiss a child as a father does. He should have watched them behind the
doors. Why had he not thought of that? If Limousin, when left alone with
George, had not at once taken him up, clasped him in his arms and kissed
him passionately; if he had looked on indifferently while he was
playing, without taking any notice of him, no doubt or hesitation could
have been possible; in that case he would not have been the father, he
would not have thought that he was, would not have felt that he was.
Thus Parent would have kept the child, while he got rid of the mother,
and he would have been happy, perfectly happy.

He tossed about in bed, hot and unhappy, trying to recollect Limousin's
ways with the child. But he could not remember anything suspicious, not
a gesture, not a look, neither word nor caress. And the child's mother
took very little notice of him, and if she had had him by her lover, she
would, no doubt, have loved him more.

They had, therefore, separated him from his son, from vengeance, from
cruelty, to punish him for having surprised them, and he made up his
mind to go the next morning and obtain the magistrate's assistance to
gain possession of George, but almost as soon as he had formed that
resolution, he felt assured of the contrary. From the moment that
Limousin had been Henriette's lover, her adored lover, she would
certainly have given herself up to him, from the very first, with that
ardor of self-abandonment which makes women conceive. The cold reserve
which she had always shown in her intimate relations with him, Parent,
was surely also an obstacle to her having been fecundated by his
embrace.

In that case he would be claiming, he would take with him, constantly
keep and look after, the child of another man. He would not be able to
look at him, kiss him, hear him say "Papa" without being struck and
tortured by the thought, "he is not my child." He was going to condemn
himself to that torture, and that wretched life every moment! No, it
would be better to live alone, to grow old alone, and to die alone.

And every day and every night, these dreadful doubts and sufferings,
which nothing could calm or end, recommenced. He especially dreaded the
darkness of the evening, the melancholy feeling of the twilight. Then a
flood of sorrow invaded his heart, a torrent of despair, which seemed to
overwhelm him and drive him mad. He was as frightened of his own
thoughts as men are of criminals, and he fled before them as one does
from wild beasts. Above all things he feared his empty, dark, horrible
dwelling, and the deserted streets, in which, here and there, a gas lamp
flickers, where the isolated foot passenger whom one hears in the
distance seems to be a night-prowler, and makes one walk faster or
slower, according to whether he is coming towards you or following you.

And in spite of himself, and by instinct, Parent went in the direction
of the broad, well-lighted, populous streets. The light and the crowd
attracted him, occupied his mind and distracted his thoughts, and when
he was tired of walking aimlessly about amongst the moving crowd, when
he saw the foot passengers becoming more scarce, and the pavements less
crowded, the fear of solitude and silence drove him into some large
_café_ full of drinkers and of light. He went there like flies go to a
candle, and he used to sit down at one of the little round tables, and
ask for a _bock_[1], which he used to drink slowly, feeling uneasy every
time that a customer got up to go. He would have liked to take him by
the arm, hold him back and beg him to stay a little longer, so much did
he dread the time when the waiter would come up to him and say angrily:
"Come, Monsieur, it is closing time!"

[Footnote 1: Glass of Bavarian beer]

For every evening he stopped last. He saw them carry in the tables, turn
out the gas jets one by one, except his and that at the counter. He
looked unhappily at the cashier counting the money and locking it up in
the drawer, and then he went, being usually pushed out by the waiters,
who murmured: "Another one who has too much! One might think he had no
place to sleep in."

As soon as he was alone in the dark street, he began to think of George
again, and to rack his brains in trying to discover whether or not he
was this child's father.

He thus became in the habit of going to the beer houses, where the
continual elbowing of the drinkers brings you in contact with a familiar
and silent public, where the heavy clouds of tobacco smoke lulls
disquietude, while the heavy beer dulls the mind and calms the heart. He
almost lived there. He was scarcely up, before he went there to find
people to occupy his looks and his thoughts, and soon, as he felt too
idle to move, he took his meals there. About twelve o'clock he used to
rap on the marble table, and the waiter quickly brought a plate, a
glass, a table napkin, and his lunch when he had ordered it. When he had
done, he slowly drank his cup of black coffee, with his eyes fixed on
the decanter of brandy, which would soon procure him an hour or two of
forgetfulness. First of all he dipped his lips into the cognac, as if to
get the flavor of it with the tip of his tongue. Then he threw his head
back and poured it into his mouth, drop by drop, and turned the strong
liquor over on his palate, his gums and the mucous membrane of his
cheeks, and then he swallowed it slowly, and felt it going down his
throat, and into his stomach.

After every meal he thus during more than an hour, sipped three or four
small glasses of brandy, which stupefied him by degrees, and then his
head dropped onto his chest, he shut his eyes and went to sleep: then,
having drunk it, he raised himself on the seat covered with red velvet,
pulled his trousers up, and his waistcoat down, so as to cover the linen
which appeared between the two, drew down his shirt sleeves and took up
the newspapers again, which he had already read in the morning, and read
them all through again, from beginning to end, and between four and five
o'clock he went for a walk on the boulevards, to get a little fresh air,
as he used to say, and then came back to the seat which had been
reserved for him, and asked for his absinthe. He used to talk to the
regular customers, whose acquaintance he had made. They discussed the
news of the day, and political events, and that carried him on till
dinner-time, and he spent the evening like he had the afternoon, until
it was time to close. That was a terrible moment for him, when he was
obliged to go out into the dark, into the empty room full of dreadful
recollections, of horrible thoughts and of mental agony. He no longer
saw any of his old friends, none of his relations, nobody who might
remind him of his past life. But as his apartments were a hell to him,
he took a room in a large hotel, a good room on the ground floor, so as
to see the passers-by. He was no longer alone in that great building, he
felt people swarming round him, he heard voices in the adjoining rooms,
and when his former sufferings tormented him too much at the sight of
his bed which was turned back, and of his solitary fire-place, he went
out into the wide passages and walked up and down them like a sentinel,
before all the closed doors, and looked sadly at the shoes standing in
couples outside each, women's little boots by the side of men's thick
ones, and he thought that no doubt all these people were happy, and were
sleeping sweetly side by side or in each other's arms, in their warm
bed.

Five years passed thus; five miserable years with no other events
except from time to time a passing love affair which lasted a couple of
hours at the cost of forty francs. But one day when he was taking his
usual walk between the _Madeleine_ and the _Rue Drouot_, he suddenly saw
a lady, whose bearing struck him. A tall gentleman and a child were with
her, and all three were walking in front of him. He asked himself where
he had seen them before, when suddenly he recognized a movement of her
hand: it was his wife, his wife with Limousin and his child, his little
George.

His heart beat as if it would suffocate him, but he did not stop, for he
wished to see them and he followed them. They looked like a family of
the better middle class. Henriette was leaning on Paul's arm and
speaking to him in a low voice and looking at him sideways occasionally.
Parent saw her side face, and recognized its graceful outlines, the
movements of her lips, her smile and her caressing looks, but the child
chiefly took up his attention. How tall and strong he was! Parent could
not see his face, but only his long, fair curls. That tall boy with bare
legs, who was walking by his mother's side like a little man, was
George.

He saw them suddenly, all three, as they stopped in front of a shop.
Limousin had grown very gray, had aged, and was thinner; his wife, on
the contrary, was as young looking as ever, and had grown stouter;
George he would not have recognized, he was so different to what he had
been formerly.

They went on again, and Parent followed them, then walked on quickly,
passed them and then turned round, so as to meet them face to face. As
he passed the child he felt a mad longing to take him into his arms and
run off with him, and he knocked against him as if it were
accidentally. The boy turned round and looked at the clumsy man angrily,
and Parent went off hastily, struck and hurt by the look. He went off
like a thief, seized by a horrible fear lest he should have been seen
and recognized by his wife and her lover, and he went to his _café_
without stopping, and fell breathless into his chair, and that evening
he drank three absinthes.

For four months he felt the pain of that meeting in his heart. Every
night he saw the three again, happy and tranquil, father, mother and
child walking on the boulevard before going in to dinner, and that new
vision effaced the old one. It was another matter, another hallucination
now, and also a fresh pain. Little George, his little George, the child
he had so much loved and so often kissed formerly, disappeared in the
far distance, and he saw a new one, like a brother of the first, a
little boy with bare legs, who did not know him! He suffered terribly at
that thought. The child's love was dead; there was no bond between them;
the child would not have held out his arms when he saw him. He had even
looked at him angrily.

Then, by degrees he grew calmer, his mental torture diminished, the
image that had appeared to his eyes and which haunted his nights became
more indistinct and less frequent. He began once more to live nearly
like everybody else, like all those idle people who drink beer off
marble topped tables and wear out the seats of their trousers on the
threadbare velvet of the couches.

He grew old amidst the smoke from the pipes, lost his hair under the gas
lights, looked upon his weekly bath, on his fortnightly visit to the
barber's to have his hair cut, and on the purchase of a new coat or hat,
as an event. When he got to his _café_ in a new hat covering he used to
look at himself in the glass for a long time before sitting down, and
took it off and put it on again several times following, and at last
asked his friend, the lady at the bar, who was watching him with
interest, whether she thought it suited him.

Two or three times a year he went to the theater, and in the summer he
sometimes spent his evenings at one of the open air concerts in the
_Champs-Elysées_. He brought back from them some airs which ran in his
head for several weeks, and which he even hummed, beating time with his
foot, while he was drinking his beer, and so the years followed each
other, slow, monotonous and short, because they were quite uneventful.

He did not feel them glide past him. He went on towards death without
fear or agitation, sitting at a table in a _café_, and only the great
glass against which he rested his head, which was every day becoming
balder, reflected the ravages of time which flies and devours men, poor
men.

He only very rarely now thought of the terrible drama which had wrecked
his life, for twenty years had passed since that terrible evening, but
the life he had led since then had worn him out, and the landlord of his
café would often say to him: "You ought to pull yourself together a
little, Monsieur Parent; you should get some fresh air and go into the
country; I assure you that you have changed very much within the last
few months." And when his customer had gone out, he used to say to the
barmaid: "That poor Monsieur Parent is booked for another world; it is
no good never to go out of Paris. Advise him to go out of town for a day
occasionally; he has confidence in you. It is nice weather, and will do
him good." And she, full of pity and good will for such a regular
customer, said to Parent every day: "Come, Monsieur, make up your mind
to get a little fresh air; it is so charming in the country when the
weather is fine. Oh! If I could, I would spend my life there."

And she told him her dreams, the simple and poetical dreams of all the
poor girls who are shut up from one year's end to the other in a shop
and who see the noisy life of the streets go while they think of the
calm and pleasant life in the country, of life under the trees, under
the bright sun shining on the meadows, of deep woods and clear rivers,
of cows lying in the grass, and of all the different flowers, blue, red,
yellow, purple, lilac, pink and white, which are so pretty, so fresh, so
sweet, all the wild flowers which one picks as one walks, and makes into
large nosegays.

She liked to speak to him frequently of her continual, unrealized and
unrealizable longing, and he, an old man without hope, was fond of
listening to her, and used to go and sit near the counter to talk to
Mademoiselle Zoé and to discuss the country with her. Then, by degrees
he was seized by a vague desire to go just once and see whether it was
really so pleasant there, as she said, outside the walls of the great
city, and so one morning he said to her: "Do you know where one can get
a good lunch in the neighborhood of Paris?" "Go to the Terrace at
Saint-Germain; it is delightful there!"

He had been there formerly, just when he had got engaged, and so he made
up his mind to go there again, and he chose a Sunday without any special
reason, but merely because people generally do go out on Sundays, even
when they have nothing to do all the week, and so one Sunday morning he
went to Saint-Germain. It was at the beginning of July, on a very bright
and hot day. Sitting by the door of the railway-carriage, he watched the
trees and the strangely built little houses in the outskirts of Paris
fly past. He felt low-spirited, and vexed at having yielded to that new
longing, and at having broken through his usual habits. The view, which
was continually changing, and always the same, wearied him. He was
thirsty; he would have liked to get out at every station and sit down in
the _café_ which he saw outside and drink a _bock_ or two, and then take
the first train back to Paris. And then, the journey seemed very long to
him. He used to remain sitting for whole days, as long as he had the
same motionless objects before his eyes, but he found it very trying and
fatiguing to remain sitting while he was being whirled along, and to see
the whole country fly by, while he himself was motionless.

However, he found the Seine interesting, every time he crossed it. Under
the bridge at Chatou he saw some skiffs going at great pace under the
vigorous strokes of the bare-armed oarsmen, and he thought: "There are
some fellows who are certainly enjoying themselves!" And then the train
entered the tunnel just before you get to the station at Saint-Germain,
and soon stopped at the arrival platform, where Parent got out, and
walked slowly, for he already felt tired, towards the _Terrace_, with
his hands behind his back, and when he got to the iron balustrade, he
stopped to look at the distant horizon. The vast plain spread out before
him like the sea, green, and studded with large villages, almost as
populous as towns. White roads crossed it, and it was well wooded in
places; the ponds at Vesinet glistened like plates of silver, and the
distant ridges of Sannois and Argenteuil were covered with light, bluish
mist, so that they could scarcely be distinguished. The sun bathed the
whole landscape in its full, warm light, and the Seine, which twined
like an endless serpent through the plain, flowed round the villages and
along the slopes, and Parent inhaled the warm breeze which seemed to
make his heart young again, to enliven his spirits and to vivify his
blood, and said to himself: "It is very nice here."

Then he went on a few steps, and stopped again to look about him, and
the utter misery of his existence seemed to be brought out into full
relief, by the intense light which inundated the country. He saw his
twenty years of _café_-life, dull, monotonous, heart-breaking. He might
have traveled like others did, have gone amongst foreigners, to unknown
countries beyond the sea, have interested himself somewhat in everything
which other men are passionately devoted to, in arts and sciences, he
might have enjoyed life in a thousand forms, that mysterious life which
is either charming or painful, constantly changing, always inexplicable
and strange. Now, however, it was too late. He would go on drinking
_bock_ after _bock_ until he died, without any family, without friends,
without hope, without any curiosity about anything, and he was seized
with a feeling of misery and a wish to run away, to hide himself in
Paris, in his _café_ and his befuddlement! All the thoughts, all the
dreams, all the desires which are dormant in the sloth of stagnating
hearts, had reawakened, being brought to life by those rays of sunlight
on the plain.

He felt that if he were to remain there any longer, he should lose his
head, and so he made haste to get to the _Pavillon Henri IV_ for lunch,
to try and forget his troubles under the influence of wine and alcohol,
and at any rate to have someone to speak to.

He took a small table in one of the arbors, from which one can see all
the surrounding country, ordered his lunch and asked to be served at
once. Then some more people arrived and sat down at tables near him and
he felt more comfortable; he was no longer alone. Three persons were
lunching near him, and he had looked at them two or three times without
seeing them clearly, as one looks at total strangers, but suddenly a
woman's voice sent a shiver through him, which seemed to penetrate to
his very marrow. "George," it had said, "will you carve the chicken?"
And another replied: "Yes, Mamma."

Parent looked up, and he understood, he guessed immediately who those
people were! He should certainly not have known them again. His wife had
grown quite white and very stout, an old, serious, respectable lady, and
she held her head forwards as she ate, for fear of spotting her dress,
although she had a table napkin tucked under her chin. George had become
a man; he had a slight beard, that unequal and almost colorless beard
which becurls the cheeks of youths. He wore a high hat, a white
waistcoat and a single eyeglass, because it looked dandified, no doubt.
Parent looked at him in astonishment! Was that George, his son? No, he
did not know that young man; there could be nothing in common between
them. Limousin had his back to him, and was eating, with his shoulders
rather bent.

Well, all three of them seemed happy and satisfied; they came and dined
in the country, at well-known restaurants. They had had a calm and
pleasant existence, a family existence in a warm and comfortable house,
filled with all those trifles which make life agreeable, with affection,
with all those tender words which people exchange continually when they
love each other. They had lived thus, thanks to him, Parent, on his
money, after having deceived him, robbed him, ruined him! They had
condemned him, the innocent, the simple-minded, the jovial man to all
the miseries of solitude, to that abominable life which he had led
between the pavement and the counter, every moral torture and every
physical misery! They had made him a useless being, who was lost and
wretched amongst other people, a poor old man without any pleasures, or
anything to look forward to, and who hoped for nothing from anyone. For
him, the world was empty, because he loved nothing in the world. He
might go among other nations or go about the streets, go into all the
houses in Paris, open every room, but he would not find the beloved
face, the face of wife or child, that he was in search of, and which
smiles when it sees you, behind any door. And that idea worked upon him
more than any other, the idea of a door which one opens, to see and to
embrace somebody behind it.

And that was the fault of those three wretches! the fault of that
worthless woman, of that infamous friend and of that tall, light-haired
lad who put on insolent airs. Now, he felt as angry with the child as he
did with the other two! Was he not Limousin's son? Would Limousin have
kept him and loved him, otherwise would not Limousin very quickly have
got rid of the mother and of the child if he had not felt sure that it
was his, certainly his? Does anybody bring up other people's children?
And now they were there, quite close to him, those three who had made
him suffer so much.

Parent looked at them, irritated and excited at the recollection of all
his sufferings and of his despair, and was especially exasperated at
their placid and satisfied looks. He felt inclined to kill them, to
throw his syphon of Seltzer water at them, to split open Limousin's
head, which he every moment bent over his plate and raised it up again
immediately. And they continued to live like that, without cares or
anxiety of any kind. No! no! That was really too much, after all! He
would avenge himself, he would have his revenge now, on the spot, as he
had them under his hand. But how? He tried to think of some means, he
pictured such dreadful things as one reads of in the newspapers
occasionally, but could not hit on anything practical. And he went on
drinking to excite himself, to give himself courage not to allow such an
occasion to escape him, as he should certainly not meet with it again.

Suddenly an idea struck him, a terrible idea, and he left off drinking
to mature it. A smile rose to his lips, and he murmured: "I have got
them, I have got them. We will see; we will see." A waiter asked him:
"What would you like now, Monsieur?" "Nothing. Coffee and cognac. The
best." And he looked at them, as he sipped his brandy. There were too
many people in the restaurant for what he wanted to do, so he would wait
and follow them, for they would be sure to walk on the terrace or in the
forest. When they had got a little distance off, he would join them,
and then he would have his revenge, yes, he would have his revenge! It
was certainly not too soon, after twenty-three years of suffering. Ah!
They little guessed what was to happen to them.

They finished their luncheon slowly, and they talked in perfect
security. Parent could not hear what they were saying, but he saw their
calm movements, and his wife's face, especially, exasperated him. She
had assumed a haughty air, the air of a stout, devout woman, of an
irreproachably devout woman, sheathed in principles, iron-clad in
virtue. Then they paid the bill and got up, and then he saw Limousin. He
might have been taken for a retired diplomatist, for he looked a man of
great importance with his soft, white whiskers, the tips of which fell
onto the facings of his coat.

They went out. George was smoking a cigar and had his hat on one side,
and Parent followed them. First of all they went up and down the
terrace, and calmly admired the landscape, like people who have well
satisfied their hunger, and then they went into the forest, and Parent
rubbed his hands and followed them at a distance, hiding himself, so as
not to excite their suspicion too soon. They walked slowly, enjoying the
fresh green, and the warm air. Henriette was holding Limousin's arm and
walked upright at his side, like a wife who is sure, and proud of
herself. George was cutting off the leaves with his stick, and
occasionally jumped over the ditches by the road side, like a fiery
young horse ready to gallop off through the trees.

Parent came up to them by degrees, panting rather from excitement and
fatigue, for he never walked now. He soon came up to them, but he was
seized by fear, an inexplicable fear, and he passed them, so as to turn
round and meet them face to face. He walked on, his heart beating, for
he knew that they were just behind him now, and he said to himself:
"Come, now is the time. Courage! courage! Now is the moment!"

He turned round. They were all three sitting on the grass, at the foot
of a huge tree, and they were still talking, and he made up his mind,
and came back rapidly, and then stopping in front of them in the middle
of the road, he said abruptly, in a voice broken by emotion: "It is I!
Here I am! I suppose you did not expect me?" They all three looked at
him carefully, for they thought that he was mad, and he continued: "One
might think that you did not know me again. Just look at me! I am
Parent, Henri Parent. You did not expect me, eh? You thought it was all
over, and that you would never see me again. Ah! But here I am once
more, you see, and now we will have an explanation."

Henriette was terrified and hid her face in her hands, murmuring: "Oh!
Good Heavens!" And seeing this stranger who seemed to be threatening his
mother, George sprang up, ready to seize him by the collar, while
Limousin, who was thunderstruck, looked at this specter in horror, who,
after panting for a few moments, continued: "So now we will have an
explanation; the proper moment for it has come! Ah! you deceived me, you
condemned me to the life of a convict, and you thought that I should
never catch you!"

But the young man took him by the shoulders and pushed him back: "Are
you mad?" he asked. "What do you want? Go on your way immediately, or I
shall give you a thrashing!" But Parent replied: "What do I want? I want
to tell you who these people are." George, however, was in a rage and
shook him; was even going to strike him, but the other said: "Just let
me go. I am your father ... There, look whether they recognize me now,
the wretches!" And the alarmed young man, removed his hands, and turned
to his mother, while Parent, as soon as he was released, went towards
her.

"Well," he said, "tell him who I am, you! Tell him that my name is Henri
Parent, that I am his father because his name is George Parent, because
you are my wife, because you are all three living on my money, on the
allowance of ten thousand francs which I have made you, since I drove
you out of my house. Will you tell him also why I drove you out? Because
I surprised you with this beggar, this wretch, your lover! Tell him what
I was, an honorable man, whom you married for my money, and whom you
deceived from the very first day. Tell him who you are, and who I
am ..."

He stammered and panted for breath, in his rage, and the woman exclaimed
in a heartrending voice: "Paul, Paul, stop him; make him be quiet; do
not let him say this before my son!" Limousin had also got up, and he
said in a quite low voice: "Hold your tongue! Hold your tongue! Do
understand what you are doing!" But Parent continued furiously: "I quite
know what I am doing, and that is not all. There is one thing that I
will know, something that has tormented me for twenty years." And then
turning to George, who was leaning against a tree in consternation, he
said: "Listen to me. When she left my house, she thought it was not
enough to have deceived me, but she also wanted to drive me to despair.
You were my only consolation, and she took you with her, swearing that
I was not your father, but that he was your father! Was she lying? I do
not know, and I have been asking myself the question for the last twenty
years."

He went close up to her, tragic and terrible, and pulling away her hands
with which she had covered her face, he continued: "Well, I call upon
you now to tell me which of us two is the father of this young man; he
or I, your husband or your lover. Come! Come! tell us." Limousin rushed
at him, but Parent pushed him back, and sneering in his fury, he said:
"Ah! you are brave now! You are braver than you were that day when you
ran downstairs because I was going to half murder you. Very well! If she
will not reply, tell me yourself. You ought to know as well as she. Tell
me, are you this young fellow's father? Come! Come! Tell me!"

Then he turned to his wife again: "If you will not tell me, at any rate
tell your son. He is a man, now, and he has the right to know who is his
father. I do not know, and I never did know, never, never! I cannot tell
you, my boy." He seemed to be losing his senses, his voice grew shrill
and he worked his arms about as if he had an epileptic attack. "Come!...
Give me an answer.... She does not know.... I will make a bet that she
does not know ... No ... she does not know, by Jove!... She used to go
to bed with both of us! Ha! ha! ha!... nobody knows ... nobody.... How
can any one know such things?... You will not know, either, my boy, you
will not know any more than I do.... never.... Look here.... Ask her ...
you will find that she does not know.... I do not know either.... You
can choose ... yes, you can choose ... him or me.... Choose.... Good
evening.... It is all over.... If she makes up her mind to tell you,
come and let me know, will you? I am living at the _Hôtel des
Continents_.... I should be glad to know.... Good evening.... I hope you
will enjoy yourselves very much...."

And he went away gesticulating, and talking to himself under the tall
trees, into the empty, cool air, which was full of the smell of the sap.
He did not turn round to look at them, but went straight on, walking
under the stimulus of his rage, under a storm of passion, with that one
fixed idea in his mind, and presently he found himself outside the
station. A train was about to start and he got in. During the journey,
his anger calmed down, he regained his senses and returned to Paris,
astonished at his own boldness, and feeling as aching and knocked up, as
if he had broken some bones, but nevertheless he went to have a _bock_
at his brewery.

When she saw him come in, Mademoiselle Zoé was surprised and said:
"What! back already? are you tired?" "I am tired ... very tired.... You
know, when one is not used to going out.... But I have done with it. I
shall not go into the country again. I had better have stopped here. For
the future, I shall not stir out again."

But she could not persuade him to tell her about his little excursion,
although she wanted very much to hear all about it, and for the first
time in his life he got thoroughly drunk that night, and had to be
carried home.




THE FATHER


I

As he lived at Batignolles and was a clerk in the Public Education
Office, he took the omnibus every morning, when he went to the center of
Paris, sitting opposite a girl with whom he fell in love.

She went to the shop where she was employed, at the same time every day.
She was a little brunette, one of those dark girls whose eyes are so
dark that they look like spots, and whose complexion has a look like
ivory. He always saw her coming at the corner of the same street, and
she generally had to run to catch the heavy vehicle, and sprang upon the
steps before the horses had quite stopped. Then she got inside, rather
out of breath, and sitting down, she looked round her.

The first time that he saw her, François Tessier felt that her face
pleased him extremely. One sometimes meets one of those women whom one
longs to clasp madly in one's arms immediately, without even knowing
her. That girl answered to his inward desires, to his secret hopes, to
that sort of ideal of love which one cherishes in the depths of the
heart, without knowing it.

He looked at her intently, in spite of himself, and she grew embarrassed
at his looks and blushed. He saw it and tried to turn away his eyes; but
he involuntarily fixed them upon her again every moment, although he
tried to look in another direction, and in a few days they knew each
other without having spoken. He gave up his place to her when the
omnibus was full, and got outside, though he was very sorry to do it. By
this time, she had got so far as to greet him with a little smile; and
although she always dropped her eyes under his looks, which she felt
were too ardent, yet she did not appear offended at being looked at in
such a manner.

They ended by speaking. A kind of rapid intimacy had become established
between them, a daily intimacy of half an hour, and that was certainly
one of the most charming half hours in his life, to him. He thought of
her all the rest of the time, saw her continually during the long office
hours, for he was haunted and bewitched by that floating and yet
tenacious recollection which the image of a beloved woman leaves in us,
and it seemed to him that the entire possession of that little person
would be maddening happiness to him, almost above human realization.

Every morning now she shook hands with him, and he preserved the feeling
of that touch, and the recollection of the gentle pressure of her little
fingers, until the next day, and he almost fancied that he preserved the
imprint of it, on his skin, and he anxiously waited for this short
omnibus ride, all the rest of the time, while Sundays seemed to him
heart-breaking days. However, there was no doubt that she loved him, for
one Saturday, in spring, she promised to go and lunch with him at
Maisons-Laffitte the next day.


II

She was at the railway station first, which surprised him, but she said:
"Before going, I want to speak to you. We have twenty minutes, and that
is more than I shall take for what I have to say."

She trembled as she hung onto his arm, and she looked down, while her
cheeks were pale, but she continued: "I do not want to be deceived in
you, and I shall not go there with you, unless you promise, unless
you swear ... not to do ... not to do anything ... that is at all
improper ..."

She had suddenly become as red as a poppy, and said no more. He did not
know what to reply, for he was happy and disappointed at the same time.
At the bottom of his heart, he perhaps preferred that it should be so,
and yet ... yet during the night he had indulged in anticipations that
sent the hot blood flowing through his veins. He should love her less,
certainly, if he knew that her conduct was light, but then it would be
so charming, so delicious for him! And he made all a man's usual selfish
calculations in love affairs.

As he did not say anything, she began to speak again in an agitated
voice, and with tears in her eyes. "If you do not promise to respect me
altogether, I shall return home." And so he squeezed her arm tenderly
and replied: "I promise, you shall only do what you like." She appeared
relieved in mind, and asked with a smile: "Do you really mean it?" And
he looked into her eyes and replied: "I swear it." "Now you may take the
tickets," she said.

During the journey they could hardly speak, as the carriage was full,
and when they got to Maison-Laffitte they went towards the Seine. The
sun, which shone full onto the river, onto the leaves and onto the turf
seemed to be reflected in them in his brightness, and they went, hand
in hand, along the bank, looking at the shoals of little fish swimming
near the bank, and they went on brimming over with happiness, as if they
were raised from the earth in their lightness of heart.

At last she said: "How foolish you must think me!"

"Why?" he asked. "To come out like this, all alone with you?" "Certainly
not; it is quite natural." "No, no; it is not natural for me--because I
do not wish to commit a fault, and yet this is how girls fall. But if
you only knew how wretched it is, every day the same thing, every day in
the month, and every month in the year. I live quite alone with Mamma,
and as she has had a great deal of trouble, she is not very cheerful. I
do the best I can, and try to laugh in spite of everything, but I do not
always succeed. But all the same, it was wrong in me to come, though
you, at any rate, will not be sorry."

By way of an answer he kissed her ardently on her ear that was nearest
him, but she moved from him with an abrupt movement, and getting
suddenly angry, she exclaimed: "Oh! Monsieur François, after what you
swore to me!" And they went back to Maison-Laffitte.

They had lunch at the _Petit-Havre_, a low house, buried under four
enormous poplar trees, by the side of the river. The air, the heat, the
light wine, and the sensation of being so close together, made them red
and silent, with a feeling of oppression, but after the coffee, they
regained all their high spirits, and having crossed the Seine, they
started off along the bank, towards the village of La Frette, and
suddenly he asked: "What is your name?" "Louise." "Louise," he
repeated, and said nothing more.

The river, which described a long curve, bathed a row of white houses in
the distance, which were reflected in the water. The girl picked the
daisies and made them into a great bunch, whilst he sang vigorously, as
intoxicated as a colt that has been turned into a meadow. On their left,
a vine-covered slope followed the river, but suddenly François stopped
motionless with astonishment: "Oh! look there!" he said.

The vines had come to an end, and the whole slope was covered with lilac
bushes in flower. It was a violet colored wood! A kind of great carpet
stretched over the earth, reaching as far as the village, more than two
miles off. She also stood, surprised and delighted, and murmured: "Oh!
how pretty!" And crossing a meadow they ran towards that curious low
hill, which every year furnishes all the lilac which is drawn through
Paris on the carts of the street sellers.

A narrow path went beneath the trees, so they took it, and when they
came to a small clearing, they sat down.

Swarms of flies were buzzing around them and making a continuous, gentle
sound, and the sun, the bright sun of a perfectly still day, shone over
the bright slopes, and from that wood of flowers, a powerful aroma was
borne towards them, a breath of perfume, of that sweat of the flowers.

A church clock struck in the distance, and they embraced gently, then
clasped each other close, lying on the grass, without the knowledge of
anything except of that kiss. She had closed her eyes and held him in
her arms, pressing him to her closely, without a thought, with her
reason bewildered, and from head to foot in passionate expectation. And
she surrendered herself altogether, without knowing that she had given
herself to him. But she soon came to herself with the feeling of a great
misfortune, and she began to cry and sob with grief, with her face
buried in her hands.

He tried to console her, but she wanted to start, to return, and to go
home immediately, and she kept saying as she walked along quickly: "Good
heavens! good heavens!" He said to her: "Louise! Louise! Please let us
stop here." But now her cheeks were red and her eyes hollow, and as
soon as they got to the railway station in Paris, she left him, without
even saying good-bye.


III

When he met her in the omnibus next day, she appeared to him to be
changed and thinner, and she said to him: "I want to speak to you; we
will get down at the Boulevard."

As soon as they were on the pavement, she said: "We must bid each other
good-bye; I cannot meet you again after what has happened." "But why?"
he asked. "Because I cannot; I have been culpable, and I will not be so
again."

Then he implored her, tortured by desire, maddened by the wish of having
her entirely, in the absolute freedom of nights of love, but she replied
firmly: "No, I cannot, I cannot." He, however, only grew all the more
excited, and promised to marry her, but she said again: "No." And left
him.

For a week he did not see her. He could not manage to meet her, and as
he did not know her address, he thought that he had lost her altogether.
On the ninth day, however, there was a ring at his bell, and when he
opened it, she was there. She threw herself into his arms, and did not
resist any longer, and for three months she was his mistress. He was
beginning to grow tired of her, when she told him she was pregnant, and
then he had one idea and wish: To break with her at any price. As,
however, he could not do that, not knowing how to begin or what to say,
full of anxiety through the fear of that child which was growing, he
took a decisive step: One night he changed his lodgings, and
disappeared.

The blow was so heavy that she did not look for the man who had
abandoned her, but threw herself at her mother's knees and confessed her
misfortune, and some months after, she gave birth to a boy.


IV

Years passed, and François Tessier grew old without there having been
any alteration in his life. He led the dull, monotonous life of
_bureaucrates_, without hopes and without expectations. Every day he got
up at the same time, went through the same streets, went through the
same door, passed the same porter, went into the same office, sat in the
same chair, and did the same work. He was alone in the world, alone,
during the day in the midst of his colleagues, and alone at night in his
bachelor's lodgings, and he laid by a hundred francs a month, against
old age.

Every Sunday he went to the _Champs-Elysées_, to watch the elegant
people, the carriages and the pretty women, and the next day he used to
say to one of his colleagues: "The return of the carriages from the
_Bois de Boulogne_ was very brilliant yesterday." One fine Sunday
morning, however, he went into the _Parc Monceau_, where the mothers and
nurses, sitting on the sides of the walks, watched the children playing,
and suddenly François Tessier started. A woman passed by, holding two
children by the hand; a little boy of about ten and a little girl of
four. It was she.

He walked another hundred yards, and then fell into a chair, choking
with emotion. She had not recognized him, and so he came back, wishing
to see her again. She was sitting down now, and the boy was standing by
her side very quietly, while the little girl was making sand castles. It
was she, it was certainly she, but she had the serious looks of a lady,
was dressed simply, and looked self-possessed and dignified. He looked
at her from a distance, for he did not venture to go near, but the
little boy raised his head, and François Tessier felt himself tremble.
It was his own son, there could be no doubt of that. And as he looked at
him, he thought he could recognize himself as he appeared in an old
photograph taken years ago. He remained hidden behind a tree, waiting
for her to go, that he might follow her.

He did not sleep that night. The idea of the child especially harrassed
him. His son! Oh! If he could only have known, have been sure? But what
could he have done? However, he went to the house where she had lived,
and asked about her. He was told that a neighbor, an honorable man of
strict morals, had been touched by her distress, and had married her;
he knew the fault she had committed and had married her, and had even
recognized the child, his, François Tessier's child, as his own.

He returned to the _Parc Monceau_ every Sunday, for then he always saw
her, and each time he was seized with a mad, an irresistible longing, to
take his son into his arms, cover him with kisses and to steal him, to
carry him off.

He suffered horribly in his wretched isolation as an old bachelor, with
nobody to care for him, and he also suffered atrocious mental torture,
torn by paternal tenderness springing from remorse, longing and
jealousy, and from that need of loving one's own children, which nature
has implanted into all, and so at last he determined to make a
despairing attempt, and going up to her, as she entered the park, he
said, standing in the middle of the path, pale and with trembling lips:
"You do not recognize me." She raised her eyes, looked at him, uttered
an exclamation of horror, of terror, and, taking the two children by the
hand she rushed away, dragging them after her, whilst he went home and
wept, inconsolably.

Months passed without his seeing her again, but he suffered, day and
night, for he was a prey to his paternal love. He would gladly have
died, if he could only have kissed his son, he would have committed
murder, performed any task, braved any danger, ventured anything. He
wrote to her, but she did not reply, and after writing her some twenty
letters he saw that there was no hope of altering her determination, and
then he formed the desperate resolution of writing to her husband,
being quite prepared to receive a bullet from a revolver, if need be.
His letter only consisted of a few lines, as follows:

     "Monsieur,

     "You must have a perfect horror of my name, but I am so miserable,
     so overcome by misery, that my only hope is in you, and therefore I
     venture to request you to grant me an interview of only five
     minutes."

     "I have the honor, etc."

The next day he received the reply:

     "Monsieur,

     "I shall expect you to-morrow, Tuesday, at five o'clock."


V

As he went up the staircase, François Tessier's heart beat so violently
that he had to stop several times. There was a dull and violent noise in
his breast, the noise as of some animal galloping, and he could only
breathe with difficulty, and had to hold on to the banisters in order
not to fall.

He rang the bell on the third floor, and when a maidservant had opened
the door, he asked "Does Monsieur Flamel live here?" "Yes. Monsieur.
Kindly come in."

He was shown into the drawing-room; he was alone and waited, feeling
bewildered, as in the midst of a catastrophe, until a door opened and a
man came in. He was tall, serious, and rather stout, and wore a black
frock-coat, and pointed to a chair with his hand. François Tessier sat
down, and then said, panting: "Monsieur ... Monsieur ... I do not know
whether you know my name ... whether you know ..."

Monsieur Flamel interrupted him. "You need not tell it me, Monsieur, I
know it. My wife has spoken to me about you." He spoke in the dignified
tone of voice of a good man who wishes to be severe, and with the
common-place stateliness of an honorable man, and François Tessier
continued: "Well, Monsieur, I want to say this: I am dying of grief, of
remorse, of shame, and I would like once, only once to kiss ... the
child ..."

Monsieur Flamel got up and rang the bell, and when the servant came in,
he said: "Will you bring Louis here." When she had gone out, they
remained face to face, without speaking, as they had nothing more to say
to one another, and waited. Then, suddenly, a little boy of ten rushed
into the room, and ran up to the man whom he believed to be his father,
but he stopped when he saw a stranger, and Monsieur Flamel kissed him
and said: "Now go and kiss that gentleman, my dear." And the child went
up to him nicely, and looked at the stranger.

François Tessier had risen, he let his hat fall, and was ready to fall
himself as he looked at his son, while Monsieur Flamel had turned away,
from a feeling of delicacy, and was looking out of the window.

The child waited in surprise, but he picked up the hat and gave it to
the stranger. Then François, taking the child up in his arms, began to
kiss him wildly all over his face, on his eyes, his cheeks, on his
mouth, on his hair, and the youngster, frightened at the shower of
kisses tried to avoid them, turned away his head and pushed away the
man's face with his little hands. But suddenly, François Tessier put him
down, and cried: "Good-bye! Good-bye!" And he rushed out of the room as
if he had been a thief.




A VAGABOND


For more than a month he had been walking, seeking for work everywhere.
He had left his native place, Ville-Avary, in the department of la
Manche, because there was no work to be had. He was a journeyman
carpenter, twenty-seven years old, a steady fellow and good workman, but
for two months, he, the eldest son, had been obliged to live on his
family, with nothing to do but to cross his arms in the general stoppage
of work. Bread was getting scarce with them; the two sisters went out as
charwomen, but earned little, and he, Jacques Randel, the strongest of
them all, did nothing because he had nothing to do, and ate the others'
soup.

Then he went and inquired at the town-hall, and the mayor's secretary
told him that he would find work at the Labor-center, and so he started,
well provided with papers and certificates, and carrying another pair of
shoes, a pair of trousers and a shirt, in a blue handkerchief at the end
of his stick.

And he had walked almost without stopping, day and night, along
interminable roads, in the sun and rain, without ever reaching that
mysterious country where workmen find work. At first he had the fixed
idea that he must only work because he was a carpenter, but at every
carpenter's shop where he applied he was told that they had just
dismissed men on account of work being so slack, and finding himself at
the end of his resources, he made up his mind to undertake any job that
he might come across on the road. And so by turns he was a navvy,
stableman, stone sawer; he split wood, lopped the branches of trees, dug
wells, mixed mortar, tied up faggots, tended goats on a mountain, and
all for a few pence, for he only obtained two or three days work
occasionally, by offering himself at a shamefully low price, in order to
tempt the avarice of employers and peasants.

And now, for a week he had found nothing, and he had no money left, and
was eating a piece of bread, thanks to the charity of some women from
whom he had begged at house doors, on the road. It was getting dark, and
Jacques Randel, jaded, his legs failing him, his stomach empty, and with
despair in his heart, was walking barefoot on the grass by the side of
the road, for he was taking care of his last pair of shoes, as the other
pair had already ceased to exist for a long time. It was a Saturday,
towards the end of autumn. The heavy gray clouds were being driven
rapidly through the sky by the gusts of wind which whistled among the
trees, and one felt that it would rain soon. The country was deserted at
that time of the evening, and on the eve of Sunday. Here and there in
the fields there rose up stacks of thrashed out corn, like huge yellow
mushrooms, and the fields looked bare, as they had already been sown for
the next year.

Randel was hungry, with the hunger of some wild animal, such a hunger as
drives wolves to attack men. Worn out and weakened with fatigue, he took
longer strides, so as not to take so many steps, and with heavy head,
the blood throbbing in his temples, with red eyes and dry mouth, he
grasped his stick tightly in his hand, with a longing to strike the
first passer-by whom he should meet, and who might be going home to
supper, with all his force.

He looked at the sides of the road with the image of potatoes dug up and
lying on the ground before his eyes; if he had found any, he would have
gathered some dead wood, made a fire in the ditch, and have had a
capital supper off the warm, round vegetables, which he would first of
all have held burning hot, in his cold hands. But it was too late in the
year, and he would have to gnaw a raw beetroot, as he had done the day
before, which he picked up in a field.

For the last two days he had spoken aloud as he quickened his steps,
under the influence of his thoughts. He had never thought, hitherto, as
he had given all his mind, all his simple faculties, to his industrial
requirements. But now, fatigue, and this desperate search for work which
he could not get, refusals and rebuffs, nights spent in the open-air,
lying on the grass, long fasting, the contempt which he knew people with
a settled abode felt for a vagabond, and that question which he was
continually asked: "Why do you not remain at home?" Now, distress at not
being able to use his strong arms which he felt so full of vigor, the
recollection of his relations who had remained at home and who also had
not a half-penny, filled him by degrees with rage, which had been
accumulating every day, every hour, every minute, and which now escaped
his lips in spite of himself in short growling sentences.

As he stumbled over the stones which rolled beneath his bare feet, he
grumbled, "How wretched! how miserable!... A set of hogs ... to let a
man die of hunger ... a carpenter ... a set of hogs ... not two
pence ... not two pence ... and now it is raining ... a set of hogs!..."

He was indignant at the injustice of fate, and cast the blame on men, on
all men, because nature, that great, blind mother, is unjust, cruel and
perfidious, and he repeated through his clenched teeth: "A set of hogs,"
as he looked at the thin gray smoke which rose from the roofs, for it
was the dinner hour. And without thinking about that other injustice,
which is human, and which is called robbery and violence, he felt
inclined to go into one of those houses to murder the inhabitants, and
to sit down to table, in their stead.

He said to himself: "I have a right to live, now ... as they are letting
me die of hunger ... and yet I only ask for work ... a set of hogs!" And
the pain in his limbs, the gnawing in his heart rose to his head like
terrible intoxication, and gave rise to this simple thought in his
brain: "I have the right to live because I breathe, and because the air
is the common property of everybody, and so nobody has a right to leave
me without bread!"

A fine, thick, icy cold rain was coming down and he stopped and
murmured: "How miserable!... another month of walking before I get
home...." He was indeed returning home then; for he saw that he should
more easily find work in his native town where he was known,--and he did
not mind what he did,--than on the high roads, where everybody suspected
him. As the carpentering business was not going well he would turn
day-laborer, be a mason's hodman, ditcher, break stones on the road. If
he only earned tenpence a day, that would at any rate find him something
to eat.

He tied the remains of his last pocket handkerchief round his neck, to
prevent the cold water from running down his back and chest; but he soon
found that it was penetrating the thin material of which his clothes
were made, and he glanced round him with the agonized look of a man who
does not know where to hide his body and to rest his head, and has no
place of shelter in the whole world.

Night came on, and wrapped the country in obscurity, and in the
distance, in a meadow, he saw a dark spot on the grass; it was a cow,
and so he got over the ditch by the roadside and went up to her, without
exactly knowing what he was doing. When he got close to her, she raised
her great head to him, and he thought: "If I only had a jug, I could get
a little milk." He looked at the cow, and the cow looked at him, and
then suddenly giving her a violent kick in the side, he said: "Get up!"

The animal got up slowly, letting her heavy udders hang down below her;
then the man lay down on his back between the animal's legs, and he
drank for a long time, squeezing her warm swollen teats which tasted of
the cow stall, with both hands, and he drank as long as any milk
remained in that living well. But the icy rain began to fall more
heavily, and he saw no place of shelter on the whole of that bare plain.
He was cold, and he looked set a light which was shining among the
trees, in the window of a house.

The cow had lain down again, heavily, and he sat down by her side and
stroked her head, grateful for the nourishment she had given him. The
animal's strong, thick breath, which came out of her nostrils like two
jets of steam in the evening air, blew onto the workman's face, who
said: "You are not cold, inside there!" He put his hands onto her chest
and under her legs to find some warmth there, and then the idea struck
him, that he might pass the night against that large, warm stomach. So
he found a comfortable place and laid his forehead against the great
udder which had quenched his thirst just previously, and then, as he was
worn-out with fatigue, he fell asleep immediately.

He woke up, however, several times, with his back or his stomach half
frozen, according as he put one or the other to the animal's flank. Then
he turned over to warm and dry that part of his body which had remained
exposed to the night air, and he soon went soundly to sleep again.

The crowing of a cock woke him; the day was breaking, it was no longer
raining and the sky was bright. The cow was resting, with her muzzle on
the ground, and he stooped down, resting on his hands, to kiss those
wide nostrils of moist flesh, and said: "Good-bye, my beauty ... until
next time ... you are a nice animal ... Good-bye ..." Then he put on his
shoes and went off, and for two hours he walked straight on before him,
always following the same road, and then he felt so tired that he sat
down on the grass. It was broad daylight by that time, and the church
bells were ringing; men in blue blouses, women in white caps, some on
foot, some in carts, began to pass along the road, going to the
neighboring villages to spend Sunday with friends or relations.

A stout peasant came in sight, drawing a score of frightened, bleating
sheep in front of him, whom an active dog kept together, so Randel got
up and raising his cap, he said: "You do not happen to have any work
for a man who is dying of hunger?" But the other giving an angry look at
the vagabond, replied: "I have no work for fellows whom I meet on the
road."

And the carpenter went back, and sat down by the side of the ditch
again. He waited there for a long time, watching the country people
pass, and looking for a kind compassionate face, before he renewed his
request, and finally selected a man in an overcoat, whose stomach was
adorned with a gold chain. "I have been looking for work," he said, "for
the last two months and cannot find any, and I have not a half-penny in
my pocket." But the semi-gentleman replied: "You should have read the
notice which is stuck up at the beginning of the village: _Begging is
prohibited within the boundaries of this parish._ Let me tell you I am
the mayor, and if you do not get out of here pretty quickly, I shall
have you arrested."

Randel, who was getting angry, replied: "Have me arrested if you like; I
should prefer it, for at any rate I should not die of hunger." And he
went back and sat down by the side of his ditch again, and in about a
quarter of an hour two gendarmes appeared on the road. They were walking
slowly, side by side, well in sight, glittering in the sun with their
shining hats, their yellow accouterments and their metal buttons, as if
to frighten evildoers, and to put them to flight at a distance. He knew
that they were coming after him, but he did not move, for he was seized
with a sudden desire to defy them, to be arrested by them, and to have
his revenge later.

They came on without appearing to have seen him, walking with military
steps, heavily and balancing themselves as if they were doing _the
goose_ steps; and then suddenly as they passed him, they appeared to
have noticed him, and stopped and looked at him angrily and
threateningly, and the brigadier came up to him and asked: "What are you
doing here?" "I am resting," the man replied, calmly. "Where do you come
from?" "If I had to tell you all the places I have been to, it would
take me more than an hour." "Where are you going to?" "To Ville-Avary."
"Where is that?" "In La Manche." "Is that where you belong to?" "It is."
"Why did you leave it?" "To try for work."

The brigadier turned to his gendarme, and said, in the angry voice of a
man who is exasperated at last by the same trick: "They all say that,
these scamps. I know all about it." And then he continued: "Have you any
papers?" "Yes, I have some." "Give them to me."

Randel took his papers out of his pockets; his certificates, those poor
worn-out, dirty papers which were falling to pieces, and gave them to
the soldier, who spelled them through, hemming and hawing and then
having seen that they were all in order, he gave them back to Randel
with the dissatisfied look of a man whom someone cleverer than himself
has tricked.

After a few moments' further reflection, he asked him: "Have you any
money on you?" "No." "None whatever?" "None." "Not even a sou?" "Not
even a sou!" "How do you live then?" "On what people give me." "Then you
beg?" And Randel answered resolutely: "Yes, when I can."

Then the gendarme said: "I have caught you on the highroad in the act of
vagabondage and begging, without any resources or trade, and so I
command you to come with me." The carpenter got up and said: "Wherever
you please." And placing himself between the two soldiers, even before
he had received the order to do so, he added: "Come, lock me up; that
will at any rate put a roof over my head when it rains."

And they set off towards the village, whose red tiles could be seen
through the leafless trees a quarter of a league off. Service was just
going to begin when they went through the village. The square was full
of people, who immediately formed two hedges to see the criminal, who
was being followed by a crowd of excited children, pass. Male and female
peasants looked at the prisoner between the two gendarmes, with hatred
in their eyes, and a longing to throw stones at him, to tear his skin
with their nails, to trample him under their feet. They asked each other
whether he had committed murder or robbery. The butcher, who was an
ex-Spahl, declared that he was a deserter. The tobacconist thought that
he recognized him as the man who had that very morning passed a bad half
franc piece off on him, and the ironmonger declared that he was the
murderer of widow Malet, whom the police had been looking for, for six
months.

In the hall of the municipal council, into which his custodians took
him, Randel saw the mayor again, sitting on the magisterial bench, with
the schoolmaster by his side. "Ah! ah!" the magistrate exclaimed, "so
here you are again, my fine fellow. I told you I should have you locked
up. Well, brigadier, what is he charged with?"

"He is a vagabond without house or home, Monsieur le Maire, without any
resources or money, so he says, who was arrested in the act of begging,
but he is provided with good testimonials, and his papers are all in
order."

"Show me his papers," the mayor said. He took them, read them, reread,
returned them, and then said: "Search him;" so they searched him, but
found nothing, and the Mayor seemed perplexed, and asked the workman:

"What were you doing on the road this morning?" "I was looking for
work." "Work?... On the highroad?" "How do you expect me to find any, if
I hid in the woods?"

They looked at each other, with the hatred of two wild beasts which
belong to different, hostile species, and the magistrate continued: "I
am going to have you set at liberty but do not be brought up before me
again." To which the carpenter replied: "I would rather you locked me
up; I have had enough running about the country." But the magistrate
replied severely: "Be silent." And then he said to the two gendarmes:
"You will conduct this man two hundred yards from the village, and let
him continue his journey."

"At any rate, give me something to eat," the workman said; but the other
grew indignant: "It only remains for us to feed you! Ah! ah! ah! that is
rather strong!" But Randel went on firmly: "If you let me nearly die of
hunger again, you will force me to commit a crime, and then, so much the
worse for you other fat fellows."

The Mayor had risen, and he repeated: "Take him away immediately, or I
shall end by getting angry."

The two gendarmes thereupon seized the carpenter by the arms and
dragged him out. He allowed them to do it without resistance, passed
through the village again, and found himself on the highroad once more;
and when the men had accompanied him two hundred yards beyond the
village, the brigadier said: "Now off with you, and do not let me catch
you about here again, for if I do you will know it."

Randel went off without replying, or knowing where he was going. He
walked on for a quarter of an hour or twenty minutes, so stupefied that
he no longer thought of anything. But suddenly, as he was passing a
small house, where the window was half open, the smell of the soup and
boiled meat stopped him suddenly in front of it, and hunger, fierce,
devouring, maddening hunger seized him, and almost drove him against the
walls of the house, like a wild beast.

He said aloud, in a grumbling voice: "In heaven's name! they must give
me some, this time." And he began to knock at the door vigorously with
his stick, and as nobody came he knocked louder and called out: "He! he!
you people in there, open the door!" And then, as nothing moved, he went
up to the window, and pushed it open with his hand, and the close warm
air of the kitchen, full of the smell of hot soup, meat and cabbage
escaped into the cold, outer air, and with a bound the carpenter was in
the house. Two covers were laid on the table, and no doubt the
proprietors of the house, on going to church, had left their dinner on
the fire, their nice, Sunday boiled beef and vegetable soup, while there
was a loaf of new bread on the chimney-piece, between two bottles which
seemed full.

Randel seized the bread first of all, and broke it with as much violence
as if he were strangling a man, and then he began to eat it
voraciously, swallowing great mouthfuls quickly. But almost immediately
the smell of the meat attracted him to the fire-place, and having taken
off the lid of the saucepan, he plunged a fork into it and brought out a
large piece of beef tied with a string. Then he took more cabbage,
carrots and onions until his plate was full, and having put it onto the
table, he sat down before it, cut the meat into four pieces, and dined
as if he had been at home. When he had eaten nearly all the meat besides
a quantity of vegetables, he felt thirsty, and took one of the bottles
off the mantel-piece.

Scarcely had he poured the liquor into his glass, than he saw it was
brandy. So much the better; it was warming and would instill some fire
into his veins, and that would be all right, after being so cold; and he
drank some. He found it very good, certainly, for he had grown
unaccustomed to it, and he poured himself out another glassful, which he
drank at two gulps. And then, almost immediately he felt quite merry and
light-hearted from the effect of the alcohol, just as if some great
happiness were flowing through his system.

He continued to eat, but more slowly, and dipping his bread into the
soup. His skin had become burning, and especially his forehead, where
the veins were throbbing. But suddenly the church bells began to ring;
Mass was over, and instinct rather than fear, the instinct of prudence
which guides all beings, and makes them clear-sighted in danger, made
the carpenter get up. He put the remains of the loaf into one pocket,
and the brandy bottle into the other, and he furtively went to the
window and looked out into the road. It was still deserted, so he jumped
out and set off walking again, but instead of following the highroad,
he ran across the fields towards a wood which he saw a little way off.

He felt alert, strong, light-hearted, glad of what he had done, and so
nimble that he sprang over the enclosures of the fields at a single
bound and as soon as he was under the trees, he took the bottle out of
his pocket again and began to drink once more, swallowing it down as he
walked, and then his ideas began to get confused, his eyes grew dim and
his legs as elastic as springs and he started singing the old popular
song.

    _Oh! how nice, how nice it is,
    To pick the sweet, wild strawberries._

He was now walking on thick, damp, cool moss and that soft carpet under
his feet made him feel absurdly inclined to turn head over heels, like
he used to do as a child, so he took a run, turned a somersault, got up
and began over again. And between each time, he began to sing again:

    _Oh! how nice, how nice it is,
    To pick the sweet, wild strawberries._

Suddenly he found himself on the edge of a deep road and in the road he
saw a tall girl, a servant who was returning to the village with two
pails of milk. He watched, stooping down and with his eyes as bright as
those of a dog who scents a quail, but she saw him, raised her head and
said: "Was that you singing like that?" He did not reply, however, but
jumped down into the road, although it was at least six feet down, and
when she saw him suddenly standing in front of her, she exclaimed: "Oh!
dear, how you frightened me!"

But he did not hear her for he was drunk, he was mad, excited by another
requirement which was more imperative than hunger, more feverish than
alcohol; by the irresistible fury of the man who has been in want of
everything for two months, and who is drunk; who is young, ardent and
inflamed by all the appetites which nature has implanted in the vigorous
flesh of men.

The girl started back from him, frightened at his face, his eyes, his
half open mouth, his outstretched hands, but he seized her by the
shoulders, and without a word, threw her down in the road.

She let her two pails fall and they rolled over noisily, all the milk
was spilt and then she screamed, but comprehending that it would be of
no use to call for help in that lonely spot and seeing that he was not
going to make an attempt on her life, she yielded without much
difficulty, and not very angry neither, for he was a strong young
fellow, but really not too rough.

When she got up, the thought of her overturned pails suddenly filled
her with fury and taking off one of her wooden clogs, she threw it, in
her turn, at the man to break his head, if he did not pay her for her
milk.

But he, mistaking the reason for this sudden violent attack, somewhat
sobered, and frightened at what he had done, ran off as fast as he could
while she threw stones at him, some of which hit him in the back.

He ran for a long time, very long, until he felt more tired than he had
ever done before. His legs were so weak that they could scarcely carry
him; all his ideas were confused, he lost the recollection of
everything, and could no longer think about anything; and so he sat
down at the foot of a tree, and in five minutes was fast asleep. He was
soon awakened, however, by a rough shake and on opening his eyes he saw
two cocked hats of polished leather bending over him, and the two
gendarmes of the morning, who were holding him and binding his arms.

"I knew I should catch you again," said the brigadier, jeeringly. But
Randel got up without replying. The two men shook him, quite ready to
ill treat him if he made a movement, for he was their prey now, he had
become a jail-bird, caught by those hunters of criminals who would not
let him go again.

"Now start!" the brigadier said, and they set off, It was getting
evening and the autumn twilight was settling heavy and dark over the
land, and in half an hour they reached the village, where every door was
open, for the people had heard what had happened. Peasants and peasant
women and girls, excited with anger as if every man had been robbed and
every woman violated, wished to see the wretch brought back so that they
might overwhelm him with abuse. They hooted him from the first house in
the village until they reached the Mansion-house, where the Mayor was
waiting for him, being himself avenged on this vagabond and as soon as
he saw him, he cried from far:

"Ah! my fine fellow! here we are!" And he rubbed his hands, more pleased
than he usually was and he continued: "I said so. I said so the moment I
saw him in the road."

And then with increased satisfaction:

"Oh! you blackguard! Oh! you dirty blackguard! You will get your twenty
years, my fine fellow!"




USELESS BEAUTY


I

A very elegant victoria with two beautiful black horses was drawn up in
front of the mansion. It was the end of June at about half past five in
the afternoon, and the sun shone warm and bright into the large
courtyard.

The Countess de Mascaret came down just as her husband, who was coming
home, appeared in the carriage entrance. He stopped for a few moments to
look at his wife and grew rather pale. She was very beautiful, graceful
and distinguished looking, with her long oval face, her complexion like
gilt ivory, her large gray eyes and her black hair; and she got into her
carriage without looking at him, without even seeming to have noticed
him, with such a particularly high-bred air, that the furious jealousy
by which he had been devoured for so long, again gnawed at his heart. He
went up to her and said: "You are going for a drive?" She merely replied
disdainfully: "You see I am!" "In the Bois de Boulogne?" "Most
probably." "May I come with you?" "The carriage belongs to you."

Without being surprised at the tone of voice in which she answered him,
he got in and sat down by his wife's side, and said: "Bois de Boulonge."
The footman jumped up by the coachman's side, and the horses as usual
pawed the ground and shook their heads until they were in the street.
Husband and wife sat side by side, without speaking. He was thinking how
to begin a conversation, but she maintained such an obstinately hard
look, that he did not venture to make the attempt. At last, however, he
cunningly, accidentally as it were, touched the Countess's gloved hand
with his own, but she drew her arm away with a movement which was so
expressive of disgust, that he remained thoughtful, in spite of his
usual authoritative and despotic character, and he said: "Gabrielle!"
"What do you want?" "I think you are looking adorable."

She did not reply, but remained lying back in the carriage, looking like
an irritated queen. By that time they were driving up the _Champs
Elysées_, towards the _Arc de Triomphe_. That immense monument, at the
end of the long avenue, raised its colossal arch against the red sky,
and the sun seemed to be descending onto it, showering fiery dust on it
from the sky.

The stream of carriages, with the sun reflecting from the bright, plated
harness and the shining lamps, caused a double current to flow towards
the town and towards the wood, and the Count de Mascaret continued: "My
dear Gabrielle!"

But then, unable to bear it any longer, she replied in an exasperated
voice: "Oh! do leave me in peace, pray; I am not even at liberty to have
my carriage to myself, now." He, however, pretended not to hear her, and
continued: "You have never looked so pretty as you do to-day."

Her patience was decidedly at an end, and she replied with irrepressible
anger: "You are wrong to notice it, for I swear to you, that I will
never have anything to do with you in that way again." He was decidedly
stupefied and agitated, and his violent nature gaining the upper hand,
he exclaimed: "What do you mean by that?" in such a manner as revealed
rather the brutal master, than the amorous man. But she replied in a
low voice, so that the servants might not hear amidst the deafening
noise of the wheels: "Ah! What do I mean by that? What do I mean by
that? Now I recognize you again! Do you want me to tell everything?"
"Yes." "Everything that has been on my heart, since I have been the
victim of your terrible selfishness?"

He had grown red with surprise and anger, and he growled between his
closed teeth: "Yes, tell me everything."

He was a tall, broad-shouldered man, with a big, red beard, a handsome
man, a nobleman, a man of the world, who passed as a perfect husband and
an excellent father, and now for the first time since they had started
she turned towards him, and looked him full in the face: "Ah! You will
hear some disagreeable things, but you must know that I am prepared for
everything, that I fear nothing, and you less than anyone, to-day."

He also was looking into her eyes, and already he was shaking with
passion, and he said in a low voice: "You are mad." "No, but I will no
longer be the victim of the hateful penalty of maternity, which you have
inflicted on me for eleven years! I wish to live like a woman of the
world, as I have a right to do, as all women have the right to do."

He suddenly grew pale again, and stammered: "I do not understand you."
"Oh! yes; you understand me well enough. It is now three months since I
had my last child, and as I am still very beautiful, and as, in spite of
all your efforts you cannot spoil my figure, as you just now perceived,
when you saw me on the outside flight of steps, you think it is time
that I should become pregnant again." "But you are talking nonsense!"
"No, I am not. I am thirty, and I have had seven children, and we have
been married eleven years, and you hope that this will go on for ten
years longer, after which you will leave off being jealous."

He seized her arm and squeezed it, saying: "I will not allow you to talk
to me like that, for long." "And I shall talk to you till the end, until
I have finished all I have to say to you, and if you try to prevent me,
I shall raise my voice so that the two servants, who are on the box, may
hear. I only allowed you to come with me for that object, for I have
these witnesses who will oblige you to listen to me, and to contain
yourself; so now, pay attention to what I say. I have always felt an
antipathy for you, and I have always let you see it, for I have never
lied, Monsieur. You married me in spite of myself; you forced my
parents, who were in embarrassed circumstances, to give me to you,
because you were rich, and they obliged me to marry you, in spite of my
tears.

"So you bought me, and as soon as I was in your power, as soon as I had
become your companion, ready to attach myself to you, to forget your
coercive and threatening proceedings, in order that I might only
remember that I ought to be a devoted wife and to love you as much as it
might be possible for me to love you, you became jealous, you, as no man
has ever been before, with the base, ignoble jealousy of a spy, which
was as degrading for you as it was for me. I had not been married eight
months, when you suspected me of every perfidiousness, and you even told
me so. What a disgrace! And as you could not prevent me from being
beautiful, and from pleasing people, from being called in drawing-rooms,
and also in the newspapers, one of the most beautiful women in Paris,
you tried everything you could think of to keep admirers from me, and
you hit upon the abominable idea of making me spend my life in a
constant state of pregnancy, until the time when I should disgust every
man. Oh! do not deny it! I did not understand it for some time, but then
I guessed it. You even boasted about it to your sister, who told me of
it, for she is fond of me and was disgusted at your boorish coarseness.

"Ah! Remember our struggles, doors smashed in, and locks forced! For
eleven years you have condemned me to the existence of a brood mare on a
studfarm. Then as soon as I was pregnant, you grew disgusted with me,
and I saw nothing of you for months, and I was sent into the country, to
the family mansion, among fields and meadows, to bring forth my child.
And when I reappeared, fresh, pretty and indestructible, still seductive
and constantly surrounded by admirers, hoping that at last I should live
a little like a young rich woman who belongs to society, you were seized
by jealousy again, and you recommenced to persecute me with that
infamous and hateful desire from which you are suffering at this moment,
by my side. And it is not desire of possessing me, for I should never
have refused myself to you, but it is the wish to make me unsightly.

"Besides this, that abominable and mysterious circumstance took place,
which I was a long time in penetrating (but I grew acute by dint of
watching your thoughts and actions): You attached yourself to your
children with all the security which they gave you while I bore them in
my womb. You felt affection for them, with all your aversion for me, and
in spite of your ignoble fears, which were momentarily allayed by your
pleasure in seeing me grow stouter.

"Oh! How often have I noticed that joy in you! I have seen it in your
eyes and guessed it. You loved your children as victories, and not
because they were of your own blood. They were victories over me, over
my youth, over my beauty, over my charms, over the compliments which
were paid me, and over those who whispered round me, without paying them
to me. And you are proud of them, you make a parade of them, you take
them out for drives in your break in the Bois de Boulogne, and you give
them donkey rides at Montmorency. You take them to theatrical matinees
so that you may be seen in the midst of them, so that people may say:
'What a kind father,' and that it may be repeated...."

He had seized her wrist with savage brutality, and he squeezed it so
violently that she was quiet, and nearly cried out with the pain, and he
said to her in a whisper:

"I love my children. Do you hear? What you have just told me is
disgraceful in a mother. But you belong to me; I am master ... your
master ... I can exact from you what I like and when I like ... and I
have the law ... on my side."

He was trying to crush her fingers in the strong grip of his large,
muscular hand, and she, livid with pain, tried in vain to free them from
that vice which was crushing them; the agony made her pant, and the
tears came into her eyes. "You see that I am the master, and the
stronger," he said. And when he somewhat loosened his grasp, she asked
him: "Do you think that I am a religious woman?"

He was surprised and stammered: "Yes." "Do you think that I could lie if
I swore to the truth of anything to you, before an altar on which
Christ's body is?" "No." "Will you go with me to some church?" "What
for?" "You shall see. Will you?" "If you absolutely wish it, yes."

She raised her voice and said: "Philip!" And the coachman, bending down
a little, without taking his eyes from his horses, seemed to turn his
ear alone towards his mistress, who went on: "Drive to St.
Philip-du-Roule's." And the victoria, which had got to the entrance of
the Bois de Boulogne, returned to Paris.

Husband and wife did not exchange a word during the drive, and when the
carriage stopped before the church, Madame de Mascaret jumped out, and
entered it, followed by the count, a few yards behind her. She went,
without stopping, as far as the choir-screen, and falling on her knees
at a chair, she buried her face in her hands. She prayed for a long
time, and he, standing behind her, could see that she was crying. She
wept noiselessly, like women do weep when they are in great, poignant
grief. There was a kind of undulation in her body, which ended in a
little sob, which was hidden and stifled by her fingers.

But Count de Mascaret thought that the situation was lasting too long,
and he touched her on the shoulder. That contact recalled her to
herself, as if she had been burnt, and getting up, she looked straight
into his eyes. "This is what I have to say to you. I am afraid of
nothing, whatever you may do to me. You may kill me if you like. One of
your children is not yours, and one only; that I swear to you before
God, who hears me here. That is the only revenge which was possible for
me, in return for all your abominable tyrannies of the male, in return
for the penal servitude of childbearing to which you have condemned me.
Who was my lover? That you will never know! You may suspect everyone,
but you will never find out. I gave myself up to him, without love and
without pleasure, only for the sake of betraying you, and he also made
me a mother. Which is his child? That also you will never know. I have
seven; try and find out! I intended to tell you this later, for one has
not avenged oneself on a man by deceiving him, unless he knows it. You
have driven me to confess it to-day. I now have finished."

She hurried through the church, towards the open door, expecting to hear
behind her the quick steps of her husband whom she had defied, and to be
knocked to the ground by a blow of his fist, but she heard nothing, and
reached her carriage. She jumped into it at a bound, overwhelmed with
anguish, and breathless with fear; so she called out to the coachman:
"Home!" and the horses set off at a quick trot.


II

Countess de Mascaret was waiting in her room for dinner time, like a
criminal sentenced to death, awaits the hour of his execution. What was
he going to do? Had he come home? Despotic, passionate, ready for any
violence as he was, what was he meditating, what had he made up his
mind to do? There was no sound in the house, and every moment she looked
at the clock. Her lady's maid had come and dressed her for the evening,
and had then left the room again. Eight o'clock struck and almost at the
same moment there were two knocks at the door, and the butler came in
and told her that dinner was ready.

"Has the Count come in?" "Yes, Madame la Comtesse; he is in the
dining-room."

For a little moment she felt inclined to arm herself with a small
revolver which she had bought some time previously, foreseeing the
tragedy which was being rehearsed in her heart. But she remembered that
all the children would be there, and she took nothing except a smelling
bottle. He rose somewhat ceremoniously from his chair. They exchanged a
slight bow, and sat down. The three boys, with their tutor, Abbé Martin,
were on her right, and the three girls, with Miss Smith, their English
governess, were on her left. The youngest child, who was only three
months old, remained upstairs with his nurse.

The Abbé said grace as usual, when there was no company, for the
children did not come down to dinner when there were guests present;
then they began dinner. The Countess, suffering from emotion, which she
had not at all calculated upon, remained with her eyes cast down, while
the Count scrutinized, now the three boys, and now the three girls, with
uncertain, unhappy looks, which traveled from one to the other.
Suddenly, pushing his wine-glass from him, it broke, and the wine was
spilt on the tablecloth, and at the slight noise caused by this little
accident, the Countess started up from her chair, and for the first time
they looked at each other. Then, almost every moment, in spite of
themselves, in spite of the irritation of their nerves caused by every
glance, they did not cease to exchange looks, rapid as pistol shots.

The Abbé, who felt that there was some cause for embarrassment which he
could not divine, tried to get up the conversation, and he started
various subjects, but his useless efforts gave rise to no ideas and did
not bring out a word. The Countess, with feminine tact and obeying her
instincts of a woman of the world, tried to answer him two or three
times, but in vain. She could not find words, in the perplexity of her
mind, and her own voice almost frightened her in the silence of the
large room, where nothing else was heard except the slight sound of
plates and knives and forks.

Suddenly, her husband said to her, bending forward: "Here, amidst your
children, will you swear to me that what you told me just now, is true?"

The hatred which was fermenting in her veins, suddenly roused her, and
replying to that question with the same firmness with which she had
replied to his looks, she raised both her hands, the right pointing
towards the boys and the left towards the girls, and said in a firm,
resolute voice, and without any hesitation: "On the head of my children,
I swear that I have told you the truth."

He got up, and throwing his table napkin onto the table with an
exasperated movement, he turned round and flung his chair against the
wall, and then went out without another word, while she, uttering a deep
sigh, as if after a first victory, went on in a calm voice: "You must
not pay any attention to what your father has just said, my darlings; he
was very much upset a short time ago, but he will be all right again,
in a few days."

Then she talked with the Abbé and with Miss Smith, and had tender,
pretty words for all her children; those sweet spoiling mother's ways
which unfold little hearts.

When dinner was over, she went into the drawing-room with all her little
following. She made the elder ones chatter, and when their bedtime came
she kissed them for a long time, and then went alone into her room.

She waited, for she had no doubt that he would come, and she made up her
mind then, as her children were not with her, to defend her human skin,
as she defended her life as a woman of the world; and in the pocket of
her dress she put the little loaded revolver, which she had bought a few
days previously. The hours went by, the hours struck, and every sound
was hushed in the house. Only the cabs continued to rumble through the
streets, but their noise was only heard vaguely through the shuttered
and curtained windows.

She waited, energetic and nervous, without any fear of him now, ready
for anything, and almost triumphant, for she had found means of
torturing him continually, during every moment of his life.

But the first gleams of dawn came in through the fringe at the bottom of
her curtains, without his having come into her room, and then she awoke
to the fact, much to her stupefaction, that he was not coming. Having
locked and bolted her door, for greater security, she went to bed at
last, and remained there, with her eyes open, thinking, and barely
understanding it all, without being able to guess what he was going to
do.

When her maid brought her tea, she at the same time gave her a letter
from her husband. He told her that he was going to undertake a long
journey, and in a postscript he added that his lawyer would provide her
with any sums of money she might require for all her expenses.


III

It was at the Opéra, between two of the acts in _Robert the Devil_. In
the stalls, the men were standing up, with their hats on, their
waistcoats cut very low so as to show a large amount of white shirt
front, in which the gold and precious stones of their studs glistened,
and were looking at the boxes full of ladies in low dresses, covered
with diamonds and pearls, and who were expanding like flowers in that
illuminated hothouse, where the beauty of the faces and the whiteness of
their shoulders seemed to bloom in order to be looked at, in the midst
of the music and of human voices.

Two friends, with their backs to the orchestra were scanning those rows
of elegance, that exhibition of real or false charms, of jewels, of
luxury and of pretensions which showed itself off all round the
Grand-Théâtre, and one of them Roger de Salnis, said to his companion,
Bernard Grandin: "Just look how beautiful Countess de Mascaret still
is."

Then the older, in turn, looked through his opera glasses at a tall lady
in a box opposite, who appeared to be still very young, and whose
striking beauty seemed to appeal to the eyes in every corner of the
house. Her pale complexion, of an ivory tint, gave her the appearance
of a statue, while a small, diamond coronet glistened on her black hair
like a milky way.

When he had looked at her for some time, Bernard Grandin replied with a
jocular accent of sincere conviction: "You may well call her beautiful."
"How old do you think she is?" "Wait a moment. I can tell you exactly,
for I have known her since she was a child, and I saw her make her
_debut_ into society when she was quite a girl. She is ... she is ...
thirty ... thirty-six." "Impossible!" "I am sure of it." "She looks
twenty-five." "She has had seven children." "It is incredible." "And
what is more, they are all seven alive, as she is a very good mother. I
go to the house, which is a very quiet and pleasant one, occasionally,
and she realizes the phenomenon of the family in the midst of the
world." "How very strange! And have there never been any reports about
her?" "Never." "But what about her husband? He is peculiar, is he not?"

"Yes, and no. Very likely there has been a little drama between them,
one of those little domestic dramas which one suspects, which one never
finds out exactly, but which one guesses pretty nearly." "What is it?"
"I do not know anything about it. Mascaret leads a very fast life now,
after having been a model husband. As long as he remained a good spouse,
he had a shocking temper and was crabbed and easily took offense, but
since he has been leading his present, rackety life, he has become quite
indifferent; but one would guess that he has some trouble, a worm
gnawing somewhere, for he has aged very much."

Thereupon the two friends talked philosophically for some minutes about
the secret, unknowable troubles, which differences of character or
perhaps physical antipathies, which were not perceived at first, give
rise to in families, and then Roger de Salnis, who was still looking at
Madame de Mascaret through his opera-glasses, said: "It is almost
incredible that that woman has had seven children!" "Yes, in eleven
years; after which, when she was thirty, she put a stop to her period of
production in order to enter into the brilliant period of
representation, which does not seem near coming to an end." "Poor
women!" "Why do you pity them?"

"Why? Ah! my dear fellow, just consider! eleven years of pregnancy, for
such a woman! What a hell! All her youth, all her beauty, every hope of
success, every poetical ideal of a bright life, sacrificed to that
abominable law of reproduction which turns the normal woman into a mere
machine for reproduction." "What would you have? It is only nature!"

"Yes, but I say that nature is our enemy, that we must always fight
against nature, for she is continually bringing us back to an animal
state. You may be sure that God has not put anything onto this earth
that is clean, pretty, elegant, or accessory to our ideal, but the human
brain has done it. It is we who have introduced a little grace, beauty,
unknown charm and mystery into creation by singing about it,
interpreting it, by admiring it as poets, idealizing it as artists, and
by explaining it as learned men who make mistakes, but who find
ingenious reasons, some grace and beauty, some unknown charm and mystery
in the various phenomena of nature. God only created coarse beings, full
of the germs of disease, and who, after a few years of bestial
enjoyment, grow old and infirm, with all the ugliness and all the want
of power of human decrepitude. He only seems to have made them in order
that they may reproduce their species in a dirty manner, and then die
like ephemeral insects. I said, _reproduce their species in a dirty
manner_, and I adhere to that expression. What is there, as a matter of
fact, more ignoble and more repugnant than that filthy and ridiculous
act of the reproduction of living beings, against which all delicate
minds always have revolted, and always will revolt? Since all the organs
which have been invented by this economical and malicious Creator serve
two purposes, why did he not choose others that were not dirty and
sullied, in order to entrust them with that sacred mission, which is the
noblest and the most exalted of all human functions? The mouth, which
nourishes the body by means of material food, also diffuses abroad
speech and thought. Our flesh revives itself by means of itself, and at
the same time, ideas are communicated by it. The sense of smell, which
gives the vital air to the lungs, imparts all the perfumes of the world
to the brain: the smell of flowers, of woods, of trees, of the sea. The
ear, which enables us to communicate with our fellow men, has also
allowed us to invent music, to create dreams, happiness, the infinite
and even physical pleasure, by means of sounds! But one might say that
the cynical and cunning Creator wished to prohibit man from ever
ennobling and idealizing his commerce with women. Nevertheless, man has
found love, which is not a bad reply to that sly Deity, and he has
ornamented it so much with literary poetry, that woman often forgets the
contact she is obliged to submit to. Those among us who are powerless to
deceive themselves, have invented vice and refined debauchery, which is
another way of laughing at God, and of paying homage, immodest homage,
to beauty.

"But the normal man makes children; just a beast that is coupled with
another by law.

"Look at that woman! Is it not abominable to think that such a jewel,
such a pearl, born to be beautiful, admired, fêted and adored, has spent
eleven years of her life in providing heirs for the Count de Mascaret?"

Bernard Grandin replied with a laugh: "There is a great deal of truth in
all that, but very few people would understand you."

Salnis got more and more animated. "Do you know how I picture God
myself?" he said. "As am enormous creative organ, unknown to us, who
scatters millions of worlds into space, just as one single fish would
deposit its spawn in the sea. He creates, because it is His function as
God to do so, but He does not know what He is doing, and is stupidly
prolific in His work, and is ignorant of the combinations of all kinds
which are produced by his scattered germs. Human thought is a lucky
little local, passing accident, which was totally unforeseen and
condemned to disappear with this earth, and to recommence perhaps here
or elsewhere, the same or different, with fresh combinations of
eternally new beginnings. We owe it to this slight accident which has
happened to His intellect, that we are very uncomfortable in this world,
which was not made for us, which had not been prepared to receive us, to
lodge and feed us or to satisfy reflecting beings, and we owe it to Him
also that we have to struggle without ceasing against what are still
called the designs of Providence, when we are really refined and
civilized beings."

Grandin, who was listening to him attentively, as he had long known the
surprising outbursts of his fancy, asked him: "Then you believe that
human thought is the spontaneous product of blind, divine parturition?"
"Naturally? A fortuitous function of the nerve-centers of our brain,
like some unforeseen chemical action which is due to new mixtures, and
which also resemble a product of electricity, caused by friction, or the
unexpected proximity of some substance, which lastly resemble the
phenomena caused by the infinite and fruitful fermentations of living
matter.

"But, my dear fellow, the truth of this must be evident to any one who
looks about him. If human thought, ordained by an omniscient Creator,
had been intended to be what it has become, altogether different from
mechanical thoughts and resignation, so exacting, inquiring, agitated,
tormented, would the world which was created to receive the beings which
we now are, have been this unpleasant little dwelling place for poor
fools, this salad plot, this rocky wooded and spherical kitchen garden
where your improvident Providence had destined us to live naked, in
caves or under trees, nourished on the flesh of slaughtered animals, our
brethren, or on raw vegetables nourished by the sun and the rain?

"But it is sufficient to reflect for a moment, in order to understand
that this world was not made for such creatures as we are. Thought,
which is developed by a miracle in the nerves of the cells in our brain,
powerless, ignorant and confused as it is, and as it will always remain,
makes all of us, who are intellectual beings, eternal and wretched
exiles on earth.

"Look at this earth, as God has given it to those who inhabit it. Is it
not visibly and solely made, planted and covered with forests, for the
sake of animals? What is there for us? Nothing. And for them,
everything, and they have nothing to do but to eat, or go hunting and
eat each other, according to their instincts, for God never foresaw
gentleness and peaceable manners; He only foresaw the death of creatures
which were bent on destroying and devouring each other. Are not the
quail, the pigeon and the partridge the natural prey of the hawk? the
sheep, the stag and the ox that of the great flesh-eating animals,
rather than meat that has been fattened to be served up to us with
truffles, which have been unearthed by pigs, for our special benefit?

"As to ourselves, the more civilized, intellectual and refined we are,
the more we ought to conquer and subdue that animal instinct, which
represents the will of God in us. And so, in order to mitigate our lot
as brutes, we have discovered and made everything, beginning with
houses, then exquisite food, sauces, sweetmeats, pastry, drink, stuffs,
clothes, ornaments, beds, mattresses, carriages, railways, and
innumerable machines, besides arts and sciences, writing and poetry.
Every ideal comes from us and all the amenities of life, in order to
make our existence as simple reproducers, for which divine Providence
solely intended us, less monotonous and less hard.

"Look at this theater. Is there not here a human world created by us,
unforeseen and unknown by Eternal destinies, comprehensible by our minds
alone, a sensual and intellectual distraction, which has been invented
solely by and for that discontented and restless little animal that we
are.

"Look at that woman, Madame de Mascaret. God intended her to live in a
cave naked, or wrapped up in the skins of wild animals, but is she not
better as she is? But, speaking of her, does anyone know why and how her
brute of a husband, having such a companion by his side, and especially
after having been boorish enough to make her a mother seven times, has
suddenly left her, to run after bad women?"

Grandin replied: "Oh! my dear fellow, this is probably the only reason.
He found that always sleeping with her was becoming too expensive in the
end, and from reasons of domestic economy, he has arrived at the same
principles which you lay down as a philosopher."

Just then the curtain rose for the third act, and they turned round,
took off their hats, and sat down.


IV

The Count and Countess Mascaret were sitting side by side in the
carriage which was taking them home from the opera, without speaking.
But suddenly the husband said to his wife: "Gabrielle!" "What do you
want?" "Don't you think that this has lasted long enough?" "What?" "The
horrible punishment to which you have condemned me for the last six
years." "What do you want? I cannot help it." "Then tell me which of
them it is!" "Never!" "Think that I can no longer see my children or
feel them round me, without having my heart burdened with this doubt.
Tell me which of them it is, and I swear that I will forgive you, and
treat it like the others." "I have not the right to." "You do not see
that I can no longer endure this life, this thought which is wearing me
out, or this question which I am constantly asking myself, this question
which tortures me each time I look at them. It is driving me mad."

"Then you have suffered a great deal?" she said.

"Terribly. Should I, without that, have accepted the horror of living by
your side, and the still greater horror of feeling and knowing that
there is one among them whom I cannot recognize, and who prevents me
from loving the others." She repeated: "Then you have really suffered
very much?" And he replied in a constrained and sorrowful voice:

"Yes, for do I not tell you every day that it is intolerable torture for
me? Should I have remained in that house, near you and them, if I did
not love them? Oh! You have behaved abominably towards me. All the
affection of my heart I have bestowed upon my children, and that you
know. I am for them a father of the olden time, as I was for you a
husband of one of the families of old, for by instinct I have remained a
natural man, a man of former days. Yes, I will confess it, you have made
me terribly jealous, because you are a woman of another race, of another
soul, with other requirements. Oh! I shall never forget the things that
you told me, but from that day, I troubled myself no more about you. I
did not kill you, because then I should have had no means on earth of
ever discovering which of our ... of your children is not mine. I have
waited, but I have suffered more than you would believe, for I can no
longer venture to love them, except, perhaps, the two eldest; I no
longer venture to look at them, to call them to me, to kiss them; I
cannot take them onto my knee without asking myself: 'Can it be this
one?' I have been correct in my behavior towards you for six years, and
even kind and complaisant; tell me the truth, and I swear that I will do
nothing unkind."

He thought, in spite of the darkness of the carriage, that he could
perceive that she was moved, and feeling certain that she was going to
speak at last, he said: "I beg you, I beseech you to tell me...." "I
have been more guilty than you think, perhaps," she replied; "but I
could no longer endure that life of continual pregnancy, and I had only
one means of driving you from my bed. I lied before God, and I lied,
with my hand raised to my children's head, for I have never wronged
you."

He seized her arm in the darkness, and squeezing it as he had done on
that terrible day of their drive in the Bois de Boulogne, he stammered:
"Is that true?" "It is true." But he, in terrible grief, said with a
groan: "I shall have fresh doubts that will never end! When did you lie,
the last time or now? How am I to believe you at present? How can one
believe a woman after that? I shall never again know what I am to think.
I would rather you had said to me: 'It is Jacques, or, it is Jeanne.'"

The carriage drove them into the courtyard of their mansion, and when it
had drawn up in front of the steps, the Count got down first, as usual,
and offered his wife his arm, to help her up. And then, as soon as they
had reached the first floor, he said: "Can I speak to you for a few
moments longer?" And she replied: "I am quite willing."

They went into a small drawing-room, while a footman in some surprise,
lit the wax candles. As soon as he had left the room and they were
alone, he continued: "How am I to know the truth? I have begged you a
thousand times to speak, but you have remained dumb, impenetrable,
inflexible, inexorable, and now to-day, you tell me that you have been
lying. For six years you have actually allowed me to believe such a
thing! No, you are lying now; I do not know why, but out of pity for me,
perhaps!"

She replied in a sincere and convincing manner: "If I had not done so, I
should have had four more children in the last six years!" And he
exclaimed: "Can a mother speak like that?" "Oh!" she replied, "I do not
at all feel that I am the mother of children who have never been born.
It is enough for me to be the mother of those that I have, and to love
them with all my heart. I am, we are women who belong to the civilized
world, Monsieur, and we are no longer, and we refuse to be, mere females
who restock the earth."

She got up, but he seized her hands. "Only one word, Gabrielle. Tell me
the truth!" "I have just told you. I have never dishonored you."

He looked her full in the face, and how beautiful she was, with her gray
eyes, like the cold sky. In her dark hair dress, on that opaque night of
black hair, there shone the diamond coronet, like a milky way. Then he
suddenly felt, felt by a kind of intuition, that this grand creature was
not merely a being destined to perpetuate his race, but the strange and
mysterious product of all our complicated desires which have been
accumulating in us for centuries, but which have been turned aside from
their primitive and divine object, and which have wandered after a
mystic, imperfectly seen and intangible beauty. There are some women
like that, who blossom only for our dreams, adorned with every poetical
attribute of civilization, with that ideal luxury, coquetry and
aesthetic charm which surrounds woman, that living statue who brightens
our life, like sensual fevers and immaterial appetites.

Her husband remained standing before her, stupefied at that tardy and
obscure discovery, confusedly hitting on the cause of his former
jealousy, and understanding it all very imperfectly; and at last he
said: "I believe you, for I feel at this moment that you are not lying,
and formerly, I really thought that you were." She put out her hand to
him: "We are friends, then?" He took her hand and kissed it, and
replied: "We are friends. Thank you, Gabrielle."

Then he went out, still looking at her, and surprised that she was still
so beautiful, and feeling a strange emotion arising in him, which was,
perhaps, more formidable than antique and simple love.




FLY

RECOLLECTIONS OF A BOATMAN


He said to us: "I saw some very funny things and some funny girls when I
was a boatman, and I have often been tempted to write a little book to
be called _On the Seine_, telling all about that careless and vigorous,
that merry and poor life, a life of robust and noisy enjoyment, which I
led from the time I was twenty until I was thirty.

"I was a mere understrapper without a half-penny, and now I am a man who
has made his money, who has spent large sums on a momentary caprice. In
my heart, I had a thousand modest and unrealizable desires which gilded
my existence with imaginary hopes, though now, I really do not know that
any fancy would make me get out of my armchair where I am dozing. How
simple and nice and good it is to live like this, between my office in
Paris, and the river at Argenteuil. For ten years, the Seine was my
only, my absorbing passion. Ah! that beautiful, calm, diversified and
stinking river, full of mirage and filth. I think I loved it so much
because it seemed to give me a sense of life. Oh! what walks I had along
the grassy banks, where my friends the frogs were dreaming on the leaf
of a nenuphar, and where the coquettish and delicate water lilies
suddenly opened to me, behind a willow, a leaf of a Japanese album, and
when the kingfisher flashed past me like a blue flame! How I loved it
all, with the instinctive love of eyes which seemed to be all over my
body, and with a natural and profound joy.

"Just as other men keep the recollection of sweet and tender nights, so I
remember sunrises in the morning mist, floating, wandering vapors, which
were as pale as death, before the sun rose, and then as its first rays
glided over the meadows, lighted up with a rosy tint, which delighted
the heart. And then again, I have recollections of the moon silvering
the running, trembling water, with a brightness which made dreams
flourish. And all this, the symbol of eternal illusions, rose up in me
on that turbid water, which was carrying all the filth of Paris towards
the sea.

"And then, what a merry life it was, with my companions. There were five
of us, a band of grave men we are now; and as we were all poor, we had
founded an inexpressible colony in a horrible eating house at
Argenteuil, and which possessed only one bedroom, where I have
certainly spent some of the maddest nights of my life. We cared for
nothing except for amusing ourselves and rowing, for we all worshiped
the oar, with one exception. I remember such singular adventures, such
unlikely tricks invented by those five rascals, that no one would
believe them at present. People do not live like that any longer, even
on the Seine, for our mad fancies which we kept up, have died out now.

"We five only possessed one boat, which we had bought with great
difficulty, and on which we laughed, as we shall never laugh again. It
was a large yawl, called _The Leaf Turned Upside Down_, rather heavy,
but spacious and comfortable. I shall not describe my companions to you.
There was one little fellow, called _Petit Bleu_, who was very sharp; a
tall man, with a savage look, gray eyes and black hair, who was
nick-named _Tomahawk_, the only one who never touched an oar, as he said
he should upset the boat; a slender, elegant man, who was very careful
about his person, and whom we called _Only-One-Eye_, in remembrance of a
recent story about Cladel, and because he wore a single eyeglass, and,
lastly, I, who had been baptized Joseph Prunier. We lived together in
perfect harmony, and our only regret was that we had no boatwoman, for a
woman's presence is almost indispensable on a boat, because it keeps the
men's wits and hearts on the alert, because it animates them, and wakes
them up and she looks well walking on the green banks with a red
parasol. But we did not want an ordinary boatwoman for us five, for we
were not very like the rest of the world. We wanted something
unexpected, funny, ready for everything, something, in short, which it
would be almost impossible to find. We had tried many without success,
girls who had held the tiller, imbecile boatwomen who always preferred
wine that intoxicates to water which flows and carries the yawls. We
kept them for one Sunday, and then got rid of them in disgust.

"Well, one Saturday afternoon, Only-One-Eye brought us a little thin,
lively, jumping, chattering girl, full of drollery, of that drollery
which is the substitute for wit among the youthful male and female
workpeople who have developed in the streets of Paris. She was nice
looking without being pretty, the outline of a woman who had some of
everything, one of those silhouettes which draftsmen draw in three
strokes on the table in a café after dinner, between a glass of brandy
and a cigarette. Nature is like that, sometimes.

"The first evening she surprised us, amused us, and we could not form
any opinion about her, so unexpectedly had she come among us; but having
fallen into this nest of men, who were all ready for any folly, she was
soon mistress of the situation, and the very next day she made a
conquest of each one of us. She was quite cracked, into the bargain, and
must have been born with a glass of absinthe in her stomach, which her
mother drank at the moment she was being delivered, and she never got
sober since, for her wet nurse, so she said, recruited her strength with
draughts of rum, and she never called the bottles which were standing in
a line at the back of the wine merchant's shop anything but 'My holy
family.'

"I do not know which of us gave her the name of _Fly_, nor why it was
given her, but it suited her very well, and stuck to her, and our yawl
every week carried five merry, strong young fellows on the Seine between
Asnières and Maison Lafitte, who were ruled from under a parasol of
colored paper, by a lively and madcap young person, who treated us like
slaves whose business it was to row her about, and whom we were all very
fond of.

"We were all very fond of her, for a thousand reasons first of all, but
for only one, afterwards. In the stern of our boat, she was a kind of
small word mill, chattering to the wind which blew on the water. She
chattered ceaselessly, with that slight, continuous noise of those
pieces of winged mechanism which turn in the breeze, and she
thoughtlessly said the most unexpected, the funniest, the most
astonishing things. In that mind, all the parts of which seemed
dissimilar, like rags of all kinds and of every color, not sewn, but
merely tacked together, there appeared to be as much imagination as in
a fairy tale, a good deal of coarseness, indecency, impudence and of the
unexpected, and as much breeziness and landscapes as in a balloon
voyage.

"We put questions to her, in order to call forth answers which she had
found, no one could tell where, and the one with which we teased her
most frequently was: 'Why are you called Fly?' And she gave us such
unlikely reasons that we left off rowing, in order to laugh. But she
pleased us also as a woman; and La Toque, who never rowed, and who sat
by her side at the tiller the whole day long, once replied to the usual
question: 'Why are you called Fly?' 'Because she is a little Spanish
fly.'

"Yes, a little buzzing, exciting fly, not the classical, poisonous,
brilliant and mantled Spanish fly, but a little Spanish fly with red
wings, which began to disturb the whole crew of _The Leaf Turned Upside
Down_. And what stupid jokes were also made about this leaf where this
fly had alighted!

"Since the arrival of Fly on our boat, Only-One-Eye had taken a leading,
superior part among us, the part of a gentleman who has a wife, towards
four others who have not got one, and he abused that privilege so far as
to kiss Fly in our presence, when he put her on his knee after meals,
and by other prerogatives, which were as humiliating as they were
irritating.

"They had been isolated in the sleeping-room by means of a curtain, but I
soon perceived that my companions and I had the same arguments in our
minds, in our solitude: 'Why, and in virtue of what law of exception, or
of what unacceptable principle, should Fly, who does not appear
troubled by any prejudices, remain faithful to her lover, while wives in
the best are not faithful to their husbands.'

"Our reflections were quite right, and we were soon convinced of it, and
we ought only to have made them sooner, so as not to have needed to
regret any lost time, for Fly deceived Only-One-Eye, with all the others
of the crew of the _Leaf Turned Upside Down_, and she deceived him
without making any difficulties, without any resistance, the first time
any of us asked her.

"Of course, modest people will be terribly shocked! But why? What
courtesan who happens to be in the fashion, but has a dozen lovers, and
which of those lovers is stupid enough not to know it? Is it not the
correct thing to have an evening at the house of a celebrated and marked
courtesan, just as one has an evening at the _Opéra, the Théâtre
Français or the Odeon_? Ten men subscribe together to keep a mistress
just as they do to possess a race horse, which only one jockey mounts,
and this is a correct picture of the favored lover who does not pay
anything.

"From delicacy they left Fly to Only-One-Eye from Saturday night to
Monday morning, and we only deceived him during the week, in Paris, from
the Seine, which, for boatmen like us, was hardly deceiving him at all.
The situation had this peculiarity, that the four freebooters of Fly's
favors were quite aware of this partition of her among themselves, and
that they spoke of it to each other, and even then, with allusions that
made her laugh very much. Only-One-Eye alone seemed to know nothing, and
that peculiar position gave rise to some embarrassment between him and
us, and seemed to separate him from us, to isolate him, to raise a
barrier across our former confidence and our former intimacy. That gave
him a difficult and a rather ridiculous part to play towards us, the
part of a deceived lover, almost a husband's part.

"As he was very clever and gifted with the special faculty of not showing
what he felt, we sometimes asked each other whether he did not guess
anything, and he took care to let us know, in a manner that was painful
for us. We were going to breakfast at Bougival, and we were rowing
vigorously, when La Toque, who had, that morning, the triumphant look of
a man who was satisfied, and who, sitting by the steers-woman, seemed to
squeeze himself rather too close to her, in our estimation, stopped the
rowing by calling out: 'Stop!'

"The four oars were drawn out of the water, and then, turning to his
neighbor, he said to her: 'Why were you called Fly?' But before she
could reply, the voice of Only-One-Eye, who was sitting in the bows,
said dryly: 'Because she settles on all the carrion.'

"There was a dead silence, and an embarrassed pause, which was followed
by an inclination to laugh, while Fly herself looked very much confused,
and La Toque gave the order: 'Row on, all;' and the boat started again.
The incident was closed, and light let in upon the subject, and that
little adventure made no difference in our habits, but it only
re-established cordiality between Only-One-Eye and us. He once more
became the honored proprietor of the Fly from Saturday night until
Monday morning, as his superiority over all of us had been thoroughly
established by that definition, which, moreover, closed one of the
questions about the word Fly. For the future we were satisfied with
playing the secondary part of grateful and polite friends who profited
discreetly by the week days, without any contention of any kind among
ourselves.

"That answered very well for about three months, but then suddenly Fly
assumed a strange attitude towards us. She was less merry, nervous,
uneasy, and almost irritable, and we frequently asked her: 'What is the
matter with you?' And she replied: 'Nothing; leave me alone.'

"Only-One-Eye told us what was the matter with her, one Saturday evening.
We had just sat down to table in the little dining-room which our eating
house keeper, Barbichon, reserved for us at his inn, and, the soup being
finished, we were waiting for the fried fish, when our friend, who also
appeared thoughtful, took Fly's hand and said: 'My dear comrades, I have
a very grave communication to make to you, and one that may, perhaps,
give rise to a prolonged discussion, but we shall have to argue between
the courses. Poor Fly has announced a piece of disastrous news to me,
and at the same time has asked me to tell it to you: She is pregnant,
and I will only add two words. This is not the moment to abandon her,
and it is forbidden to try and find out who is the father.'[2]

[Footnote 2: _La recherche de la paternité est interdite._ A celebrated
clause in the Code Napoleon, whereby a man cannot be made chargeable for
a bastard.--TRANSLATOR.]

"At first we were stupefied, and felt as if some disaster had befallen
us, and we looked at each other with the longing to accuse some one, but
whom? Oh! Which of us? I have never felt as I did at that moment, the
perfidy of that cruel joke of nature, which never allows a man to know
for certainty whether he is the father of his child. Then, however, by
degrees a sort of feeling of consolation came over us and gave us
comfort, which sprung from a confused idea of joint responsibility.

"Tomahawk, who spoke but little, formulated a beginning of reassurance by
these words: 'Well, so much the worse, by Jove: _Union is Strength_,
however.' At that moment a scullion brought in the fried gudgeons, but
they did not fall to on them like they generally did, for they all had
the same trouble on their mind, and Only-One-Eye continued: 'Under these
circumstances she has had the delicacy to confess everything to me. My
friends, we are all equally guilty, so let us shake hands and adopt the
child.'

"That was decided upon unanimously; they raised their hands to the dish
of fried fish and swore: 'We will adopt it.' Then, when she was thus
suddenly saved, and delivered from the weight of the terrible anxiety
that had been tormenting her for a month, this pretty, crazy, poor child
of love, Fly, exclaimed: 'Oh! my friends! my friends! You have kind,
good hearts ... good hearts.... Thank you, all of you!' And she shed
tears for the first time before us all.

"From that time we spoke in the boat about the child, as if it were
already born, and each of us took an exaggerated interest, because of
our share in the matter, in the slow and regular development of our
mistress's waist, and we stopped rowing in order to say: 'Fly?' 'Here I
am,' she replied. 'Boy or girl?' 'Boy.' 'What will he be when he grows
up?'

"Then she indulged in the most fantastic flights of fancy. They were
interminable stories, astounding inventions, from the day of his birth
until his final triumph. In the unsophisticated, passionate and moving
fancy of this extraordinary little creature, who now lived chastely in
the midst of us five, whom she called 'her five papas.' She saw him as a
sailor, and told us that he would discover another America; as a
general, restoring Alsace and Lorraine to France, then as an emperor,
founding a dynasty of wise and generous rulers who would bestow settled
welfare on our country; then as a learned man and natural philosopher,
revealing, first of all, the secret of the manufacture of gold, then
that of living forever; then as an aeronaut, who invented the means of
soaring up to the stars, and of making the skies an immense promenade
for men; the realization of the most unforeseen and magnificent dreams.

"How nice and how amusing she was, poor little girl, until the end of the
summer, but the twentieth of September dissipated her dream. We had come
back from breakfasting at the Maison Lafitte and were passing
Saint-Germain, when she felt thirsty and asked us to stop at Pecq.

"For some time past, she had been getting very heavy, and that
inconvenienced her very much. She could not run about as she used to do,
nor jump from the boat to the shore, as she had formerly done. She would
try, in spite of our warnings and efforts to stop her, and she would
have fallen a dozen times, had it not been that our restraining arms
kept her back. On that day, she was imprudent enough to wish to land
before the boat had stopped; it was one of those pieces of bravado by
which athletes, who are ill or tired, sometimes kill themselves, and at
the very moment when we were going to come alongside, she got up, took a
spring and tried to jump onto the landing-stage. She was not strong
enough, however, and only just touched the stones with her foot, struck
the sharp angle with her stomach, uttered a cry and disappeared into the
water.

"We all five plunged in at the same moment, and pulled out the poor,
fainting woman, who was as pale as death, and was already suffering
terrible pain, and we carried her as quickly as possible to the nearest
inn, and sent for a medical man. For the six hours that her miscarriage
lasted, she suffered the most terrible pain with the courage of a
heroine, while we were grieving round her, feverish with anxiety and
fear. Then she was delivered of a dead child, and for some days we were
in the greatest fear for her life; at last, however, the doctor said to
us one morning: 'I think her life is saved. That girl is made of steel,'
and we all of us went into her room, with radiant hearts, and
Only-One-Eye, as spokesman for us all, said to her: 'The danger is all
over, little Fly, and we are all happy again.'

"Then, for the second time, she wept in our presence, and, with her eyes
full of tears, she said, hesitatingly:

"'Oh! If you only knew, if you only knew ... what a grief it is ... what
a grief it is to me ... I shall never get over it.' 'Over what, little
Fly?' 'Over having killed it, for I did kill it! Oh! Without intending
to! Oh! how grieved I am!...'

"She was sobbing, and we stood round, deeply touched, but without knowing
what to say, and she went on: 'Have you seen it?' And we replied with
one voice: 'Yes.' 'It was a boy, was it not?' 'Yes.' 'Beautiful, was it
not?' We hesitated a good deal, but Petit-Bleu, who was less scrupulous
than the rest of us, made up his mind to affirm it, and said: 'Very
beautiful.'

"He committed a mistake, however, for she began to sob, and almost to
scream with grief, and Only-One-Eye, who perhaps loved her more than the
rest of us did, had a happy thought. Kissing her eyes, that were dimmed
with tears, he said: 'Console yourself, little Fly, console yourself; we
will make another for you.'

"Her innate sense of the ridiculous was suddenly excited, and
half-convinced, and half-joking, still tearful and her heart sore with
grief, she said, looking at us all: 'Do you really mean it?' And we
replied all at once:

"'We really mean it.'"




THE MAD WOMAN


"I can tell you a terrible story about the Franco-Prussian war,"
Monsieur d'Endolin said to some friends assembled in the smoking-room of
Baron de Ravot's château. "You know my house in the Faubourg de Cormeil.
I was living there when the Prussians came, and I had for a neighbor a
kind of a mad woman, who had lost her senses in consequence of a series
of misfortunes, as at the age of seven and twenty she had lost her
father, her husband and her newly born child, all in the space of a
month.

"When death has once entered into a house, it almost invariably returns
immediately, as if it knew the way, and the young woman, overwhelmed
with grief, took to her bed and was delirious for six weeks. Then, a
species of calm lassitude succeeded that violent crisis, and she
remained motionless, eating next to nothing, and only moving her eyes.
Every time they tried to make her get up, she screamed as if they were
about to kill her, and so they ended by leaving her continually in bed,
and only taking her out to wash her, to change her linen and to turn her
mattress.

"An old servant remained with her, who gave her something to drink, or
a little cold meat, from time to time. What passed in that despairing
mind? No one ever knew, for she did not speak at all now. Was she
thinking of the dead? Was she dreaming sadly, without any precise
recollection of anything that had happened? Or was her memory as
stagnant as water without any current? But however this may have been,
for fifteen years she remained thus inert and secluded.

"The war broke out, and in the beginning of December the Germans came to
Cormeil. I can remember it as if it were but yesterday. It was freezing
hard enough to split the stones, and I, myself, was lying back in an
armchair, being unable to move on account of the gout, when I heard
their heavy and regular tread; I could see them pass, from my window.

"They defiled past interminably, with that peculiar motion of a puppet on
wires, which belongs to them. Then the officers billeted their men on
the inhabitants, and I had seventeen of them. My neighbor, the crazy
woman, had a dozen, one of whom was the Commandant, a regular violent,
surly swashbuckler.

"During the first few days everything went on as usual. The officers next
door had been told that the lady was ill, and they did not trouble
themselves about that in the least, but soon, that woman whom they never
saw, irritated them. They asked what her illness was, and were told that
she had been in bed for fifteen years, in consequence of terrible grief.
No doubt they did not believe it, and thought that the poor mad creature
would not leave her bed out of pride, so that she might not come near
the Prussians, not speak to them, nor even see them.

"He insisted upon her receiving him, and he was shown into the room, and
said to her roughly: 'I must beg you to get up, Madame, and to come
downstairs so that we may all see you,' but she merely turned her vague
eyes on him, without replying, and so he continued: 'I do not intend to
tolerate any insolence, and if you do not get up of your own accord, I
can easily find means to make you walk without any assistance.'

"But she did not give any signs of having heard him, and remained quite
motionless, and then he got furious, as he took that calm silence for a
mark of supreme contempt, and so he added: 'If you do not come
downstairs to-morrow....' And then he left the room."

       *        *        *        *        *

"The next day the terrified old servant wished to dress her, but the mad
woman began to scream violently, and resisted with all her might. The
officer ran upstairs quickly, and the servant threw herself at his feet
and cried: 'She will not come down, Monsieur, she will not. Forgive her,
for she is so unhappy.'

"The soldier was embarrassed, as in spite of his anger, he did not
venture to order his soldiers to drag her out, but suddenly he began to
laugh, and gave some orders in German, and soon a party of soldiers was
seen coming out supporting a mattress as if they were carrying a wounded
man. On that bed, which had not been unmade, the mad woman, who was
still silent, was lying quite quietly, for she was quite indifferent to
anything that went on, as long as they let her lie. Behind her, a
soldier was carrying a parcel of feminine attire, and the officer said,
rubbing his hands: 'We will just see whether you cannot dress yourself
alone, and take a little walk.'

"And then the procession went off in the direction of the forest of
Imauville; in two hours the soldiers came back alone, and nothing more
was seen of the mad woman. What had they done with her? Where had they
taken her to? No one knew.

"The snow was falling day and night, and enveloped the plain and the
woods in a shroud of frozen foam, and the wolves came and howled at our
very doors.

"The thought of that poor lost woman haunted me, and I made several
applications to the Prussian authorities in order to obtain some
information, and was nearly shot for doing so. When spring returned, the
army of occupation withdrew, but my neighbor's house remained closed;
the grass grew thick in the garden walks. The old servant had died
during the winter, and nobody troubled himself any longer about the
occurrence; I alone thought about it constantly. What had they done with
the woman? Had she escaped through the forest? Had somebody found her,
and taken her to a hospital, without being able to obtain any
information from her? Nothing happened to relieve my doubts; but, by
degrees, time assuaged my fears.

"Well, in the following autumn the woodcock were very plentiful, and as
my gout had left me for a time, I dragged myself as far as the forest. I
had already killed four or five of the long-billed birds, when I knocked
over one, which fell into a ditch full of branches, and I was obliged to
get into it, in order to pick it up, and I found that it had fallen
close to a dead human body, and immediately the recollection of the mad
woman struck me, like a blow in the chest. Many other people had perhaps
died in the wood during that disastrous year, but I do not know why, yet
I was sure, sure, I tell you, that I should see the head of that
wretched maniac.

"And suddenly I understood, I guessed everything. They had abandoned her
on that mattress in the cold, deserted wood; and, faithful to her fixed
idea, she had allowed herself to perish under that thick and light
counterpane of snow, without moving either arms or legs.

"Then the wolves had devoured her, and the birds had built their nests
with the wool from her torn bed, and I took charge of her remains, and I
only pray that our sons may never see any wars again."




THAT PIG OF A MORIN


I

"There, my friend," I said to Labarbe, "you have just repeated those
five words, _that pig of a Morin_. Why on earth do I never hear Morin's
name mentioned without his being called _a pig_?"

Labarbe, who is a Deputy, looked at me with eyes like an owl's, and
said: "Do you mean to say that you do not know Morin's story, and you
come from La Rochelle?" I was obliged to declare that I did not know
Morin's story, and then Labarbe rubbed his hands, and began his recital.

"You knew Morin, did you not, and you remember his large linen-draper's
shop on the _Quai de la Rochelle_?" "Yes, perfectly."

"All right, then. You must know that in 1862 or 63 Morin went to spend a
fortnight in Paris for pleasure, or for his pleasures, but under the
pretext of renewing his stock, and you also know what a fortnight in
Paris means for a country shopkeeper: it makes his blood grow hot. The
theater every evening, women's dresses rustling up against you, and
continual excitement; one goes almost mad with it. One sees nothing but
dancers in skin-tights, actresses in very low dresses, round legs, fat
shoulders, all nearly within reach of one's hands, without daring or
being able, to touch it, and one scarcely tastes some inferior dish,
once or twice. And one leaves it, one's heart still all in a flutter,
and one's mind still exhilarated by a sort of longing for kisses which
tickles one's lips."

       *       *       *       *       *

Morin was in that state when he took his ticket for La Rochelle by the
8:40 night express. And he was walking up and down the waiting-room at
the station, when he stopped suddenly in front of a young lady who was
kissing an old one. She had her veil up, and Morin murmured with
delight: "By Jove, what a pretty woman!"

When she had said "Good-bye" to the old lady, she went into the
waiting-room, and Morin followed her; then she went onto the platform,
and Morin still followed her; then she got into an empty carriage, and
he again followed her. There were very few travelers by the express, the
engine whistled, and the train started. They were alone. Morin devoured
her with his eyes. She appeared to be about nineteen or twenty, and was
fair, tall and with bold looks. She wrapped a railway rug round her
legs, and stretched herself on the seat to sleep.

Morin asked himself: "I wonder who she is?" And a thousand conjectures,
a thousand projects went through his head. He said to himself: "So many
adventures are told as happening on railway journeys that this may be
one that is going to present itself to me. Who knows? A piece of good
luck like that happens very quickly, and perhaps I need only be a little
venturesome. Was it not Danton who said: _Audacity, more audacity, and
always audacity_. If it was not Danton it was Mirabeau, but that does
not matter. But then, I have no audacity, and that is the difficulty.
Oh! If one only knew, if one could only read peoples' minds! I will bet
that every day one passes by magnificent opportunities without knowing
it, though a gesture would be enough to let me know that she did not ask
for anything better...."

Then he imagined to himself combinations which conducted him to triumph.
He pictured some chivalrous deed, or merely some slight service which he
rendered her, a lively, gallant conversation which ended in ... in what
do you think.

But he could find no opening; had no pretext, and he waited for some
fortunate circumstance, with his heart ravaged, and his mind
topsy-turvy. The night passed, and the pretty girl still slept, while
Morin was meditating his own fall. The day broke and soon the first ray
of sunlight appeared in the sky, a long, clear ray which shone on the
face of the sleeping girl, and woke her, so she sat up, looked at the
country, then at Morin and smiled. She smiled like a happy woman, with
an engaging and bright look, and Morin trembled. Certainly that smile
was intended for him, it was a discreet invitation, the signal which he
was waiting for. That smile meant to say: "How stupid, what a ninny,
what a dolt, what a donkey you are, to have sat there on your seat like
a post all night.

"Just look at me, am I not charming? And you have sat like that for the
whole night, when you have been alone with a pretty woman, you great
simpleton!"

She was still smiling as she looked at him, she even began to laugh; and
he lost his head, trying to find something suitable to say, no matter
what. But he could think of nothing, nothing, and then, seized with a
coward's courage, he said to himself: "So much the worse, I will risk
everything," and suddenly, without the slightest warning, he went
towards her, his arms extended, his lips protruding, and seizing her in
his arms, he kissed her.

She sprang up with a bound, crying out: "_Help! Help!_" and screaming
with horror, and then she opened the carriage door, and waved her arm
out, mad with terror, and trying to jump out, while Morin, who was
almost distracted, and feeling sure that she would throw herself out,
held her by the skirt and stammered: "Oh! Madame!... Oh! Madame!"

The train slackened speed, and then stopped. Two guards rushed up at the
young woman's frantic signals, who threw herself into their arms,
stammering: "That man wanted ... wanted ... to ... to ..." And then she
fainted.

They were at Mauzé station, and the gendarme on duty arrested Morin.
When the victim of his brutality had regained her consciousness, she
made her charge against him, and the police drew it up. The poor
linen-draper did not reach home till night, with a prosecution hanging
over him, for an outrage to morals in a public place.


II

At that time I was editor of the _Fanal des Charentes_, and I used to
meet Morin every day at the _Café du Commerce_, and the day after his
adventure he came to see me, as he did not know what to do. I did not
hide my opinion from him, but said to him: "You are no better than a
pig. No decent man behaves like that."

He cried. His wife had given him a beating, and he foresaw his trade
ruined, his name dragged through the mire and dishonored, his friends
outraged and taking no more notice of him. In the end he excited my
pity, and I sent for my colleague Rivet, a bantering, but very sensible
little man, to give us his advice.

He advised me to see the Public Prosecutor, who was a friend of mine,
and so I sent Morin home, and went to call on the magistrate. He told me
that the young woman who had been insulted was a young lady,
Mademoiselle Henriette Bonnel, who had just received her certificate as
governess in Paris, and spent her holidays with her uncle and aunt, who
were very respectable tradespeople in Mauzé, and what made Morin's case
all the more serious was, that the uncle had lodged a complaint; for the
public official had consented to let the matter drop if this complaint
were withdrawn, so we must try and get him to do this.

I went back to Morin's and found him in bed, ill with excitement and
distress. His wife, a tall raw-boned woman with a beard, was abusing him
continually, and she showed me into the room, shouting at me: "So you
have come to see that pig of a Morin. Well, there he is, the darling!"
And she planted herself in front of the bed, with her hands on her hips.
I told him how matters stood, and he begged me to go and see her uncle
and aunt. It was a delicate mission, but I undertook it, and the poor
devil never ceased repeating: "I assure you I did not even kiss her, no,
not even that. I will take my oath to it!"

I replied: "It is all the same; you are nothing but a pig." And I took a
thousand francs which he gave me, to employ them as I thought best, but
as I did not care venturing to her uncle's house alone, I begged Rivet
to go with me, which he agreed to do, on the condition that we went
immediately, for he had some urgent business at La Rochelle that
afternoon. So two hours later we rang at the door of a nice country
house. A pretty girl came and opened the door to us, who was assuredly
the young lady in question, and I said to Rivet in a low voice:
"Confound it! I begin to understand Morin!"

The uncle, Monsieur Tonnelet subscribed to _The Fanal_, and a fervent
political co-religionist of ours, who received us with open arms and
congratulated us and wished us joy; he was delighted at having the two
editors in his house and Rivet whispered to me: "I think we shall be
able to arrange the matter of that _Pig of a Morin_ for him."

The niece had left the room, and I introduced the delicate object. I
waved the scepter of scandal before his eyes: I accentuated the
inevitable depreciation which the young lady would suffer if such an
affair got known, for nobody would believe in a simple kiss, and the
good man seemed undecided, but he could not make up his mind about
anything without his wife, who would not be in until late that evening,
but suddenly he uttered an exclamation of triumph: "Look here, I have an
excellent idea. I will keep you here to dine and sleep, and when my wife
comes home, I hope we shall be able to arrange matters."

Rivet resisted at first, but the wish to extricate that _Pig of a
Morin_, decided him, and we accepted the invitation, and so the uncle
got up radiant, called his niece, and proposed that we should take a
stroll in his grounds, saying: "We will leave serious matters until the
morning." Rivet and he began to talk politics, while I soon found myself
lagging a little behind with the girl, who was really charming!
charming! and with the greatest precaution I began to speak to her about
her adventure, and try to make her my ally. She did not, however, appear
the least confused, and listened to me like a person who was enjoying
the whole thing very much.

I said to her: "Just think, Mademoiselle, how unpleasant it will be for
you. You will have to appear in Court, to encounter malicious looks, to
speak before everybody, and to recount that unfortunate occurrence in
the railway carriage, in public. Do you not think, between ourselves,
that it would have been much better for you to have put that dirty
scoundrel back into his place without calling for assistance, and merely
to have changed your carriage." She began to laugh, and replied: "What
you say is quite true! but what could I do? I was frightened, and when
one is frightened, one does not stop to reason with oneself. As soon as
I realized the situation, I was very sorry that I had called out, but
then it was too late. You must also remember that the idiot threw
himself upon me like a madman, without saying a word and looking like a
lunatic. I did not even know what he wanted of me."

She looked me full in the face, without being nervous or intimidated,
and I said to myself: "She is a funny sort of a girl, that; I can quite
see how that pig Morin came to make a mistake," and I went on, jokingly:
"Come, Mademoiselle, confess that he was excusable, for after all, a man
cannot find himself opposite such a pretty girl as you are without
feeling a legitimate desire to kiss her."

She laughed more than ever, and showed her teeth, and said: "Between the
desire and the act, Monsieur, there is room for respect." It was a funny
expression to use, although it was not very clear, and I asked
abruptly: "Well now, supposing I were to kiss you now, what would you
do?" She stopped to look at me from head to foot, and then said calmly:
"Oh! you? That is quite another matter."

I knew perfectly well, by Jove, that it was not the same thing at all,
as everybody in the neighborhood called me, _Handsome Labarbe_. I was
thirty years old in those days, but I asked her: "And why, pray?" She
shrugged her shoulders, and replied: "Well! because you are not so
stupid as he is." And then she added, looking at me shyly: "Nor so ugly,
either." And before she could make a movement to avoid me, I had
implanted a hearty kiss on her cheek. She sprang aside, but it was too
late, and then she said: "Well, you are not very bashful, either! But
don't do that sort of thing again."

I put on a humble look and said in a low voice: "Oh! Mademoiselle, as
for me, if I long for one thing more than another, it is to be summoned
before a magistrate for the same reason as Morin."

"Why?" she asked. And looking steadily at her, I replied: "Because you
are one of the most beautiful creatures living; because it would be an
honor and a glory for me to have wished to offer you violence, and
because people would have said, after seeing you: Well, Labarbe has
richly deserved what he has got, but he is a lucky fellow, all the
same."

She began to laugh heartily again, and said: "How funny you are!" And
she had not finished the word _funny_, before I had her in my arms, and
was kissing her ardently wherever I could find a place, on her forehead,
on her eyes, on her lips occasionally, on her cheeks, all over her
head, some part of which she was obliged to leave exposed, in spite of
herself, to defend others, but at last she managed to release herself,
blushing and angry. "You are very unmannerly, Monsieur," she said, "and
I am sorry I listened to you."

I took her hand in some confusion, and stammered out: "I beg your
pardon. I beg your pardon, Mademoiselle. I have offended you; I have
acted like a brute! Do not be angry with me for what I have done. If you
knew ..." I vainly sought for some excuse, and in a few moments she
said: "There is nothing for me to know, Monsieur." But I had found
something to say, and I cried: "Mademoiselle, I love you!"

She was really surprised, and raised her eyes to look at me, and I went
on: "Yes, Mademoiselle, and pray listen to me. I do not know Morin, and
I do not care anything about him. It does not matter to me the least if
he is committed for trial and locked up meanwhile. I saw you here last
year, and I was so taken with you, that the thought of you has never
left me since, and it does not matter to me whether you believe me or
not. I thought you adorable, and the remembrance of you took such a hold
on me that I longed to see you again, and so I made use of that fool
Morin as a pretext, and here I am. Circumstances have made me exceed the
due limits of respect, and I can only beg you to pardon me."

She read the truth in my looks, and was ready to smile again; then she
murmured; "You humbug!" But I raised my hand, and said in a sincere
voice, (and I really believe that I was sincere): "I swear to you that
I am speaking the truth," and she replied quite simply: "Really?"

We were alone, quite alone, as Rivet and her uncle had disappeared in a
sidewalk, and I made her a real declaration of love, while I squeezed
and kissed her hands, and she listened to it as something new and
agreeable, without exactly knowing how much of it she was to believe,
while in the end I felt agitated, and at last really myself believed
what I said: I was pale, anxious and trembling, and I gently put my arms
round her waist, and spoke to her softly, whispering into the little
curls over her ears. She seemed dead, so absorbed in thought was she.

Then her hand touched mine, and she pressed it, and I gently squeezed
her waist with a trembling, and gradually firmer, grasp. She did not
move now, and I touched her cheeks with my lips, and suddenly without
seeking them, mine met hers. It was a long, long kiss, and it would have
lasted longer still, if I had not heard a _hum! hum!_ just behind me, at
which she made her escape through the bushes, and turning round I saw
Rivet coming towards me, and standing in the middle of the path, he said
without even smiling: "So, that is the way in which you settle the
affair of _that pig Morin_." And I replied, conceitedly: "One does what
one can, my dear fellow. But what about the uncle? How have you got on
with him? I will answer for the niece." "I have not been so fortunate
with him," he replied.

Whereupon I took his arm, and we went indoors.


III

Dinner made me lose my head altogether. I sat beside her, and my hand
continually met hers under the table cloth, my foot touched hers, and
our looks encountered each other.

After dinner we took a walk by moonlight, and I whispered all the tender
things I could think of, to her. I held her close to me, kissed her
every moment, moistening my lips against hers, while her uncle and Rivet
were disputing as they walked in front of us. They went in, and soon a
messenger brought a telegram from her aunt, saying that she would not
return until the next morning at seven o'clock, by the first train.

"Very well, Henriette," her uncle said, "go and show the gentlemen their
rooms." She showed Rivet his first, and he whispered to me: "There was
no danger of her taking us into yours first." Then she took me to my
room, and as soon as she was alone with me, I took her in my arms again,
and tried to excite her senses and overcome her resistance, but when she
felt that she was near succumbing, she escaped out of the room, and I
got between the sheets, very much put out and excited and feeling rather
foolish, for I knew that I should not sleep much, and I was wondering
how I could have committed such a mistake, when there was a gentle knock
at my door, and on my asking who was there, a low voice replied: "I."

I dressed myself quickly, and opened the door, and she came in. "I
forgot to ask you what you take in the morning," she said: "chocolate,
tea or coffee?" I put my arms round her impetuously and said, devouring
her with kisses: "I will take ... I will take...." But she freed
herself from my arms, blew out my candle and disappeared, and left me
alone in the dark, furious, trying to find some matches, and not able to
do so. At last I got some and I went into the passage, feeling half mad,
with my candlestick in my hand.

What was I going to do? I did not stop to reason, I only wanted to find
her, and I would. I went a few steps without reflecting, but then I
suddenly thought to myself. "Supposing I should go into the uncle's
room, what should I say?...." And I stood still, with my head a void,
and my heart beating. But in a few moments, I thought of an answer: "Of
course, I shall say that I am looking for Rivet's room, to speak to him
about an important matter, and I began to inspect all the doors, trying
to find hers, and at last I took hold of a handle at a venture, turned
it and went in ... there was Henriette, sitting on her bed and looking
at me in tears. So I gently turned the key, and going up to her on
tip-toe, I said: "I forgot to ask you for something to read,
Mademoiselle." She struggled and resisted, but I soon opened the book I
was looking for. I will not tell you its title, but it is the most
wonderful of romances, the most divine of poems. And when once I had
turned the first page, she let me turn over as many leaves as I liked,
and I got through so many chapters that our candles were quite burnt
out. Then, after thanking her, I was stealthily returning to my room,
when a rough hand seized me, and a voice, it was Rivet's, whispered in
my ear: 'So you have not yet quite settled that affair of Morin's?'"

At seven o'clock the next morning, she herself brought me a cup of
chocolate. I have never drunk anything like it, soft, velvety,
perfumed, delicious. I could scarcely take my lips away from the cup,
and she had hardly left the room when Rivet came in. He seemed nervous
and irritable, like a man who had not slept, and he said to me crossly:
"If you go on like this, you will end by spoiling the affair of _that
pig of a Morin_!"

At eight o'clock the aunt arrived. Our discussion was very short, for
they withdrew their complaint, and I left five hundred francs for the
poor of the town. They wanted to keep us for the day, and they arranged
an excursion to go and see some ruins. Henriette made signs to me to
stay, behind her parents' back, and I accepted, but Rivet was determined
to go, and though I took him aside, and begged and prayed him to do this
for me, he appeared quite exasperated and kept saying to me: "I have had
enough of that pig Morin's affair, do you hear?"

Of course I was obliged to go also, and it was one of the hardest
moments of my life. I could have gone on arranging that business as long
as I lived, and when we were in the railway carriage, after shaking
hands with her in silence, I said to Rivet: "You are a mere brute!" And
he replied: "My dear fellow, you were beginning to excite me
confoundedly."

On getting to the _Fanal_ office, I saw a crowd waiting for us, and as
soon as they saw us they all exclaimed: "Well, have you settled the
affair of _that pig of a Morin_?" All La Rochelle was excited about it,
and Rivet, who had got over his ill-humor on the journey, had great
difficulty in keeping himself from laughing as he said: "Yes, we have
managed it, thanks to Labarbe." And we went to Morin's.

He was sitting in an easy chair, with mustard plasters on his legs, and
cold bandages on his head, nearly dead with misery. He was coughing with
the short cough of a dying man, without any one knowing how he had
caught it, and his wife looked at him like a tigress ready to eat him,
and as soon as he saw us he trembled so violently as to make his hands
and knees shake, so I said to him immediately: "It is all settled, you
dirty scamp, but don't do such a thing again."

He got up, choking, took my hands and kissed them as if they had
belonged to a prince, cried, nearly fainted, embraced Rivet and even
kissed Madame Morin, who gave him such a push as to send him staggering
back into his chair, but he never got over the blow: his mind had been
too much upset. In all the country round, moreover, he was called
nothing but, "that pig of a Morin," and that epithet went through him
like a sword thrust every time he heard it. When a street boy called
after him: "Pig!" he turned his head instinctively. His friends also
overwhelmed him with horrible jokes, and used to ask him, whenever they
were eating ham: "It's a bit of you?" He died two years later.

As for myself, when I was a candidate for the Chamber of Deputies in
1875, I called on the new notary at Fouserre, Monsieur Belloncle, to
solicit his vote, and a tall, handsome and evidently wealthy lady
received me. "You do not know me again?" she said. And I stammered out:
"But ... no Madame." "Henriette Bonnel." "Ah!" And I felt myself turning
pale, while she seemed perfectly at her ease, and looked at me with a
smile.

As soon as she had left me alone with her husband, he took both my
hands, and squeezing them as if he meant to crush them, he said: "I have
been intending to go and see you for a long time, my dear sir, for my
wife has very often talked to me about you. I know ... yes, I know under
what painful circumstances you made her acquaintance, and I know also
how perfectly you behaved, how full of delicacy, tact and devotion you
showed yourself in the affair...." He hesitated, and then said in a
lower tone, as if he had been saying something low and coarse.... "In
the affair of that pig of a Morin."




THE WOODEN SHOES


The old priest was sputtering out the last words of his sermon over the
white caps of the peasant women, and the rough or pomatumed heads of the
men. The large baskets of the farmer's wives who had come from a
distance to attend mass, were on the ground beside them, and the heavy
heat of a July day caused them all to exhale a smell like that of
cattle, or of a flock of sheep, and the cocks could be heard crowing
through the large west door, which was wide open, as well as the lowing
of the cows in a neighboring field.... "As God wishes. Amen!" the priest
said. Then he ceased, opened a book, and, as he did every week, he began
to give notice of all the small parish events for the following week. He
was an old man with white hair who had been in the parish for over forty
years, and from the pulpit he was in the habit of discoursing familiarly
to them all, and so he went on: "I recommend Désiré Vallin, who is very
ill, to your prayers, and also la Paumelle, who is not recovering from
her confinement satisfactorily."

He had forgotten the rest, and so he looked for the slips of paper which
were put away in a breviary, and at last he found two and continued: "I
will not have the lads and the girls come into the churchyard in the
evening, as they do; otherwise I shall inform the rural policeman.
Monsieur Césaire Omont would like to find a respectable girl servant."
He reflected for a few moments, and then added: "That is all, my
brethren, and I wish that all of you may find the Divine mercy."

And he came down from the pulpit, to finish mass.

When the Malandains had returned to their cottage, which was the last in
the village of La Sablière, on the road to Fourville, the father, a
thin, wrinkled old peasant, sat down at the table, while his wife took
the saucepan off the fire, and Adelaide, the daughter, took the glasses
and plates out of the sideboard, and he said: "I think that place at
Maître Omont's ought to be a good one, as he is a widower and his
daughter-in-law does not like him. He is all alone and has money. I
think it would be a good thing to send Adelaide there."

His wife put the black saucepan onto the table, took the lid off, and
while the steam, which smelt strongly of cabbage, rose into the air she
reflected, and he presently continued: "He has got some money, that is
certain, but any one going there ought to be very sharp, and Adelaide is
not that at all." And his wife replied: "I might go and see, all the
same," and turning to her daughter, a strapping, silly looking girl with
yellow hair and fat red cheeks like apples, she said: "Do you hear, you
great silly? You are to go to Maître Omont's and offer yourself as his
servant, and you will do whatever he tells you."

The girl began to laugh in a foolish manner, without replying, and then
all the three began their dinner. In ten minutes, the father continued:
"Listen to me, girl, and try not to make a mistake about what I am going
to say to you ..." And slowly and minutely he laid down for her her line
of conduct, anticipating the minutest details, and preparing her for the
conquest of an old widower who was on unfriendly terms with his family.
The mother ceased eating to listen to him, and she sat there, with her
fork in her hand, looking at her husband and her daughter by turns, and
following every word with concentrated and silent attention, while
Adelaide remained listless, docile and stupid, with vague and wandering
eyes.

As soon as their meal was over, her mother made her put her cap on, and
they both started off to see Monsieur Césaire Omont. He lived in a small
brick house adjoining his tenants' cottages, for he had retired, and was
living by subdividing and letting his land.

He was about fifty-five years old, and was stout, jovial and rough
mannered, as rich men often are. He laughed and shouted loud enough to
make the walls fall down, drank brandy and cider by the glassful, and
was still said to be of an amorous disposition, in spite of his age. He
liked to walk about his fields with his hands behind his back, digging
his wooden shoes into the fat soil, looking at the sprouting corn or the
flowering colza with the eye of an amateur at his ease, who likes to see
it, but does not trouble himself about it too much any longer, and they
used to say of him: "There is a Mr. Merry-man, who does not get up in a
good temper every day."

He received the two women, with his fat stomach against the table, as he
was finishing his coffee, and turning round he said: "What do you want?"

The mother was spokeswoman. "This is our girl Adelaide, and I have come
to ask you to take her as servant, as Monsieur le curé told us you
wanted one." Maître Omont looked at the girl, and then he said roughly:
"How old is the great she-goat?" "Twenty last Michaelmas-Day, Monsieur
Omont." "That is settled, she will have fifteen francs a month and her
food. I shall expect her to-morrow, to make my soup in the morning."
And he dismissed the two women.

The next day Adelaide entered upon her duties, and began to work hard,
without saying a word, as she was in the habit of doing at home, and at
about nine o'clock, as she was scrubbing the kitchen floor, Monsieur
Omont called her: "Adelaide!" She came immediately, saying: "Here I am,
master." As soon as she was opposite him, with her red and neglected
hands, and her troubled looks, he said: "Now just listen to me, so that
there may be no mistake between us. You are my servant, but nothing
else; you understand what I mean. We shall keep our shoes apart." "Yes,
master." "Each in our own place, my girl, you in your kitchen; I in my
dining room, and with that exception, everything will be for you just as
it is for me. Is that settled?" "Yes, master." "Very well; that is all
right, and now go to your work."

And she went out to attend to her duties and at midday she served up her
master's dinner in the little drawing-room with the flowered paper on
the walls, and then, when the soup was on the table, she went to tell
him. "Dinner is ready, master."

He went in, and sat down, looked round, unfolded his table napkin,
hesitated for a moment and then in a voice of thunder he shouted:
"Adelaide!" She rushed in terribly frightened, for he had shouted as if
he meant to murder her. "Well, in heaven's name, where is your place?"
"But, ... master ..." "I do not like to eat alone," he roared; "you will
sit there, or go to the devil, if you don't choose to do so. Go and get
your plate and glass."

She brought them in, feeling very frightened, and stammered: "Here I
am, master," and then sat down opposite to him, and he grew jovial;
clinked glasses with her, rapped the table, and told her stories to
which she listened with downcast eyes, without daring to say a word, and
from time to time she got up to fetch some bread, cider or plates. When
she brought in the coffee she only put one cup before him, and then he
grew angry again, and growled: "Well, what about yourself?" "I never
take any, master." "Why not?" "Because I do not like it."

Then he burst out afresh: "I am not fond of having my coffee by myself,
confound it! If you will not take it here, you can go to the devil. Go
and get a cup, and make haste about it."

So she went and fetched a cup, sat down again, tasted the black liquor
and made faces over it, but swallowed it to the last drop, under her
master's furious looks. Then he made her also drink her first glass of
brandy as an extra drop, the second as a livener and the third as a kick
behind, and then he told her to go and wash up her plates and dishes,
adding, that she was "a good sort of a girl."

It was the same at dinner, and then she had to play dominoes with him,
after which he sent her to bed, saying that he should come upstairs
soon. And she went to her room, a garret under the roof, and after
saying her prayers, she undressed and got into bed, but very soon she
sprung up in a fright, for a furious shout had shaken the house.
"Adelaide!" She opened her door, and replied from her attic: "Here I am,
master." "Where are you?" "In bed, of course, master." Then he roared
out: "Will you come downstairs, in heaven's name? I do not like to sleep
alone, and by G---- and if you object, you can just go at once."

Then in her terror, she replied from upstairs: "I will come, master," as
she looked for her candle, and he heard her small clogs pattering down
the stairs, and when she had got to the bottom steps, he seized her by
the arm, and as soon as she had left her light wooden shoes by the side
of her master's heavy boots, he pushed her into his room, growling out:
"Quicker than that, confound it!"

And she repeated continually, without knowing what she was saying: "Here
I am, here I am, master."

       *       *       *       *       *

Six months later, when she went to see her parents one Sunday, her
father looked at her curiously, and then said: "Are you not in the
family way?" She remained thunderstruck, and looked at her waist, and
then said: "No, I do not think so."

Then he asked her, for he wanted to know everything: "Just tell me,
didn't you mix your clogs together, one night?" "Yes, I mixed them the
first night, and then every other night." "Well, then you are full, you
great tub!"

On hearing that, she began to sob, and stammered: "How could I know? How
was I to know?" Old Malandain looked at her knowingly, and appeared very
pleased, and then he asked: "What did you not know?" And amid tears she
replied: "How was I to know that children were made in that way?" And
when her mother came back, the man said, without any anger: "There, she
is in the family way, now."

But the woman was furious, her woman's instinct revolted, and she called
her daughter, who was in tears, every name she could think of, "a
trollop" and "a strumpet." Then, however, the old man made her hold her
tongue, and as he took up his cap to go and talk the matter over with
Master Césaire Omont, he remarked: "She is actually more stupid than I
thought she was; she did not even know what he was doing, the fool!"

On the next Sunday, after the sermon, the old _Curé_ published the banns
between Monsieur Onufre-Césaire Omont and Celesté-Adelaide Malandain.




A NORMANDY JOKE


The procession came in sight in the hollow road which was shaded by tall
trees which grew on the slopes of the farms. The newly married couple
came first, then the relations, then the invited guests, and lastly the
poor of the neighborhood, while the village urchins, who hovered about
the narrow road like flies, ran in and out of the ranks, or climbed onto
the tree to see it better.

The bridegroom was a good looking young fellow, Jean Patu, the richest
farmer in the neighborhood, but he was, above all things, an ardent
sportsman who seemed to lose all common sense in order to satisfy that
passion, and who spent large sums on his dogs, his keepers, his ferrets
and his guns. The bride, Rosalie Roussel, had been courted by all the
likely young fellows in the district, for they all thought her
prepossessing, and they knew that she would have a good dowry, but she
had chosen Patu, partly, perhaps, because she liked him better than she
did the others, but still more, like a careful Normandy girl, because he
had more crown pieces.

When they went in at the white gateway of the husband's farm, forty
shots resounded without their seeing those who fired, as they were
hidden in the ditches, and the noise seemed to please the men, who were
sprawling about heavily in their best clothes, very much; and Patu left
his wife, and running up to a farm servant whom he perceived behind a
tree, he seized his gun and fired a shot himself, kicking his heels
about like a colt. Then they went on, beneath the apple-trees which
were heavy with fruit, through the high grass and through the midst of
the calves, who looked at them with their great eyes, got up slowly and
remained standing, with their muzzles turned towards the wedding party.

The men became serious when they came within measurable distance of the
wedding dinner. Some of them, the rich ones, had on tall, shining silk
hats, which seemed altogether out of place there; others had old
head-coverings with a long nap, which might have been taken for
moleskin, while the humblest among them wore caps. All the women had on
shawls, which they wore loose on their backs, and they held the tips
ceremoniously under their arms. They were red, parti-colored, flaming
shawls, and their brightness seemed to astonish the black fowls on the
dung-heap, the ducks on the side of the pond, and the pigeons on the
thatched roofs.

The extensive farm buildings seemed to be waiting there, at the end of
that archway of apple trees, and a sort of vapor came out of the open
door and windows, and an almost overwhelming smell of eatables was
exhaled from the vast building, from all its openings and from all its
very walls. The string of guests extended through the yard; when the
foremost of them reached the house, they broke the chain and dispersed,
while behind they were still coming in at the open gate. The ditches
were now lined with urchins and poor curious people, and the shots did
not cease, but came from every side at once, and mingled a cloud of
smoke, and that smell which has the same intoxicating effects as
absinthe, with the atmosphere.

The women were shaking their dresses outside the door, to get rid of
the dust, were undoing their cap strings and pulling their shawls over
their arms, and then they went into the house to lay them aside
altogether for the time. The table was laid in the great kitchen, that
would hold a hundred persons; they sat down to dinner at two o'clock and
at eight o'clock they were still eating, and the men, in their shirt
sleeves, with their waistcoats unbuttoned, and with red faces, were
swallowing the food and drink down, as if they had been whirlpools. The
cider sparkled merrily, clear and golden in the large glasses, by the
side of the dark, blood-colored wine, and between every dish they made
the hole, the Normandy hole, with a glass of brandy which inflamed the
body, and put foolish notions into the head.

From time to time, one of the guests, being as full as a barrel, would
go out for a few moments to get a mouthful of fresh air, as they said,
and then return with redoubled appetite. The farmers' wives, with
scarlet faces and their stays nearly bursting, did not like to follow
their example, until one of them, feeling more uncomfortable than the
others, went out, when all the rest followed her example, and they came
back quite ready for any fun, and the rough jokes began afresh.
Broad-sides of obscenities were exchanged across the table, and all
about the wedding-night, until the whole arsenal of peasant wit was
exhausted. For the last hundred years, the same broad jokes had served
for similar occasions, and although every one knew them, they still hit
the mark, and made both rows of guests roar with laughter.

At the bottom of the table four young fellows, who were neighbors, were
preparing some practical jokes for the newly married couple, and they
seemed to have got hold of a good one, by the way they whispered and
laughed, and suddenly, one of them profiting by a moment of silence,
exclaimed: "The poachers will have a good time to-night, with this
moon!... I say, Jean, you will not be looking at the moon, will you?"
The bridegroom turned to him quickly and replied: "Only let them come,
that's all!" But the other young fellow began to laugh, and said: "I do
not think you will neglect your business for them!"

The whole table was convulsed with laughter, so that the glasses shook,
but the bridegroom became furious at the thought that anybody would
profit by his wedding to come and poach on his land, and repeated: "I
only say: Just let them come!"

Then there was a flood of talk with a double meaning which made the
bride blush somewhat, although she was trembling with expectation, and
when they had emptied the kegs of brandy they all went to bed; the young
couple went into their own room, which was on the ground floor, as most
rooms in farmhouses are. As it was very warm, they opened the window and
closed the shutters. A small lamp in bad taste, a present from the
bride's father, was burning on the chest of drawers, and the bed stood
ready to receive the young people, who did not stand upon all the
ceremony which is usual among towns-people, in their first embraces.

The young woman had already taken off her wreath and her dress, and she
was in her petticoat, unlacing her boots, while Jean was finishing his
cigar, and looking at her out of the corners of his eyes. It was an
ardent look, more sensual than tender, for he felt more desire than
love for her, and suddenly with a brusque movement, like a man who is
going to set to work, he took off his coat. She had already taken off
her boots, and was now pulling off her stockings, and then she said to
him: "Go and hide yourself behind the curtains while I get into bed."

He seemed as if he were going to refuse, but then with a cunning look he
went and hid himself with the exception of his head. She laughed and
tried to cover up his eyes, and they romped in an amorous and happy
manner, without shame or embarrassment. At last he did as she asked him,
and in a moment she unfastened her petticoat, which slipped down her
legs, fell at her feet and lay on the ground in a circle. She left it
there, stooped over it, naked with the exception of her floating
chemise, and slipped into the bed, whose springs creaked beneath her
weight. He immediately went up to her, without his shoes and in his
trousers, and stooping over his wife he sought her lips, which she hid
beneath the pillow, when a shot was heard in the distance, in the
direction of the forest of Râpées, as he thought.

He raised himself anxiously and with his heart beating, and running to
the window, he opened the shutters. The full moon flooded the yard with
yellow light, and the reflection of the apple trees made black shadows
at their feet, while in the distance the fields gleamed, covered with
the ripe corn. But as he was leaning out, listening to every sound in
the still night, two bare arms were put round his neck, and his wife
whispered, trying to pull him back: "Do leave them alone; it has nothing
to do with you. Come to bed."

He turned round, put his arms round her, and drew her towards him,
feeling her warm skin through the thin material, and lifting her up in
his vigorous arms, he carried her towards their couch, but just as he
was laying her on the bed, which yielded beneath her weight, they heard
another report, considerably nearer this time, and Jean, giving way to
his tumultuous rage, swore aloud: "God, G...! Do you think I shall not
go out and see what it is, because of you?... Wait, wait a few minutes!"
He put on his shoes again, took down his gun, which was always hanging
within reach, against the wall, and, as his wife threw herself on her
knees in her terror to implore him not to go, he hastily freed himself,
ran to the window and jumped into the yard.

She waited one hour, two hours, until daybreak, but her husband did not
return. Then she lost her head, aroused the house, related how angry
Jean was, and said that he had gone after the poachers, and immediately
all the male farm-servants, even the boys, went in search of their
master. They found him two leagues from the farm, tied hand and foot,
half dead with rage, his gun broken, his trousers turned inside out, and
with three dead hares hanging round his neck, and a placard on his
chest, with these words: _Who goes on the chase, loses his place._

And later on, when he used to tell this story of his wedding night, he
generally added: "Ah! As far as a joke went, it was a good joke. They
caught me in a snare, as if I had been a rabbit, the dirty brutes, and
they shoved my head into a bag. But if I can only catch them some day,
they had better look out for themselves!"

That is how they amuse themselves in Normandy on a wedding day.




A COCK CROWED


Madame Berthe d'Avancelles had up till that time resisted all the
prayers of her despairing adorer, Baron Joseph de Croissard. He had
pursued her ardently in Paris during the winter, and now he was giving
fêtes and shooting parties in her honor at his Château at Carville, in
Normandy.

Monsieur d'Avancelles, her husband, saw nothing and knew nothing, as
usual. It was said that he lived apart from his wife on account of
physical weakness, for which Madame d'Avancelles would not pardon him.
He was a short, stout, bald man, with short arms, legs, neck, nose and
everything else, while Madame d'Avancelles, on the contrary, was a tall,
dark and determined young woman, who laughed in her husband's face with
sonorous laughter, while he called her openly _Mrs. Housewife_, who
looked at the broad shoulders, strong build and fair moustaches of her
titled admirer, Baron Joseph de Croissard, with a certain amount of
tenderness.

She had not, however, granted him anything as yet. The baron was ruining
himself for her, and there was a constant round of fêting, hunting
parties and new pleasures, to which he invited the neighboring nobility.
All day long the hounds gave tongue in the woods, as they followed the
fox or the wild boar, and every night dazzling fireworks mingled their
burning plumes with the boars, while the illuminated windows of the
drawing-room cast long rays of light onto the wide lawns, where shadows
were moving to and fro.

It was autumn, the russet-colored season of the year, and the leaves
were whirling about on the grass like flights of birds. One noticed the
smell of damp earth in the air, of the naked earth, like one smells the
odor of the bare skin, when a woman's dress falls off her, after a ball.

One evening, in the previous spring, during an entertainment, Madame
d'Avancelles had said to Monsieur de Croissard, who was worrying her by
his importunities: "If I do succumb to you, my friend, it will not be
before the fall of the leaf. I have too many things to do this summer to
have any time for it." He had not forgotten that bold and amusing
speech, and every day he became more pressing, every day he pushed his
approaches nearer--to use a military phrase--and gained a step in the
heart of the fair, audacious woman, who seemed only to be resisting for
form's sake.

It was the day before a large wild-boar hunt, and in the evening Madame
Berthe said to the baron with a laugh: "Baron, if you kill the brute, I
shall have something to say to you." And so, at dawn he was up and out,
to try and discover where the solitary animal had its lair. He
accompanied his huntsmen, settled the places for the relays, and
organized everything personally to insure his triumph, and when the
horns gave the signal for setting out, he appeared in a closely fitting
coat of scarlet and gold, with his waist drawn in tight, his chest
expanded, his eyes radiant, and as fresh and strong as if he had just
got out of bed. They set off, and the wild boar set off through the
underwood as soon as he was dislodged, followed by the hounds in full
cry, while the horses set off at a gallop through the narrow sides cut
in the forest, while the carriage which followed the chase at a
distance, drove noiselessly along the soft roads.

From mischief, Madame d'Avancelles kept the baron by her side, and
lagging behind at a walk in an interminably long and straight drive,
over which four rows of oaks hung, so as to form almost an arch, while
he, trembling with love and anxiety, listened with one ear to the young
woman's bantering chatter, while with the other he listened to the blast
of the horns and to the cry of the hounds as they receded in the
distance.

"So you do not love me any longer?" she observed. "How can you say such
things?" he replied. And she continued: "But you seem to be paying more
attention to the sport than to me." He groaned, and said: "Did you not
order me to kill the animal myself?" And she replied gravely: "Of course
I reckon upon it. You must kill it under my eyes."

Then he trembled in his saddle, spurred his horse until it reared, and,
losing all patience, exclaimed: "But, by Jove, Madame, that is
impossible if we remain here." Then she spoke tenderly to him, laying
her hand on his arm, or stroking his horse's mane, as if from
abstraction, and said with a laugh: "But you must do it ... or else ...
so much the worse for you."

Just then they turned to the right, into a narrow path which was
overhung by trees, and suddenly, to avoid a branch which barred their
way, she leaned towards him so closely, that he felt her hair tickling
his neck, and he suddenly threw his arms brutally round her, and
putting his thick moustache onto her forehead, he gave her a furious
kiss.

At first she did not move, and remained motionless under that mad
caress; then she turned her head with a jerk, and either by accident or
design her little lips met his, under their wealth of light hair, and a
moment afterwards, either from confusion or remorse, she struck her
horse with her riding-whip, and went off at full gallop, and they rode
on like that for some time, without exchanging a look.

The noise of the hunt came nearer, the thickets seemed to tremble, and
suddenly the wild boar broke through the bushes, covered with blood, and
trying to shake off the hounds who had fastened onto him, and the baron,
uttering a shout of triumph, exclaimed: "Let him who loves me, follow
me!" And he disappeared in the copse, as if the wood had swallowed him
up.

When she reached an open glade a few minutes later, he was just getting
up, covered with mud, his coat torn, and his hands bloody, while the
brute was lying stretched out at full length, with the baron's hunting
knife driven into its shoulder up to the hilt.

The quarry was cut at night by torchlight. It was a warm and dull
evening, and the wan moon threw a yellow light onto the torches which
made the night misty with their resinous smoke. The hounds devoured the
wild boar's stinking entrails, and snarled and fought for them, while
the prickers and the gentlemen, standing in a circle round the spoil,
blew their horns as loud as they could. The flourish of the
hunting-horns resounded beyond the woods on that still night and was
repeated by the echoes of the distant valleys, awaking the timid stags,
rousing the yelping foxes, and disturbing the little rabbits in their
gambols at the edge of the rides.

The frightened night-birds flew over the eager pack of hounds, while the
women, who were moved by all these gentle and violent things, leaned
rather heavily on the men's arms; and turned aside into the forest
rides, before the hounds had finished their meal, and Madame
d'Avancelles, feeling languid after that day of fatigue and tenderness,
said to the baron: "Will you take a turn in the park, my friend?" And
without replying, but trembling and nervous, he went with her, and
immediately they kissed each other. They walked slowly under the almost
leafless trees through which the moonbeams filtered, and their love,
their desires, their longing for a closer embrace became so vehement,
that they nearly yielded to it at the foot of a tree.

The horns were not sounding any longer, and the tired hounds were
sleeping in the kennels. "Let us return," the young woman said, and they
went back.

When they got to the château and before they went in, she said in a weak
voice: "I am so tired that I shall go to bed, my friend." And as he
opened his arms for a last kiss, she ran away, saying as a last good-bye:
"No.... I am going to sleep.... Let him who loves me follow me!"

An hour later, when the whole silent château seemed dead; the baron
crept stealthily out of his room, and went and scratched at her door,
and as she did not reply, he tried to open it, and found that it was not
locked.

She was in a reverie, resting her arms against the window ledge, and he
threw himself at her knees, which he kissed madly, through the
nightdress. She said nothing, but buried her delicate fingers
caressingly in his hair, and suddenly, as if she had formed some great
resolution, she whispered with her daring look: "I shall come back, wait
for me." And stretching out her hand, she pointed with her finger to an
indistinct white spot at the end of the room; it was her bed.

Then, with trembling hands and scarcely knowing what he was doing, he
quickly undressed, got into the cool sheets, and stretching himself out
comfortably, he almost forgot his love in the pleasure he found, tired
out as he was, in the contact of the linen. She did not return, however,
no doubt finding amusement in making him languish. He closed his eyes
with a feeling of exquisite comfort, and reflected peaceably while
waiting for what he so ardently longed for. But by degrees his limbs
grew languid and his thoughts became indistinct and fleeting, until his
fatigue gained the upper hand and he fell asleep.

He slept that unconquerable, heavy sleep of the worn-out hunter, and he
slept until daylight; and then, as the window had remained half open,
the crowing of a cock suddenly woke him, and the baron opened his eyes,
and feeling a woman's body against his, finding himself, much to his
surprise, in a strange bed, and remembering nothing for a moment, he
stammered:

"What? Where am I? What is the matter?"

Then she, who had not been asleep at all, looking at this unkempt man,
with red eyes and swollen lips, replied in the haughty tone of voice in
which she occasionally spoke to her husband:

"It is nothing; it is only a cock crowing. Go and sleep again, Monsieur,
it has nothing to do with you."




JULOT'S OPINION


The Duchess Huguette de Lionzac was very much infatuated with herself,
but then she had a perfect right to be, and who, in her place, would not
have shown a spice of conceit? There was no success which she had wished
for, that she had not attained. She had received a medal for sculpture
at the _Salon_, and at the _Exhibition of Excessives_ she had shown a
water-color which looked eccentric, even there.

She had published a collection of poems which was crowned by the French
Academy, and a small volume of _Rhythmic Prose_ of which the _Revue de
lemain_ said, "That it showed the most subtle and evanescent performance
of those fugitive pieces which was sure to descend to posterity," and
when she acted in private theatricals, some exclaimed:

"It is better than the _Comedié Française_," while others, who were more
refined, went so far as to utter the supreme praise: "Better than the
_Théâtre Libre_."

At one time, there had been a report, which had been propagated by the
newspapers, that she was going to come out at the _Opéra Comique_, in a
part that had been written especially for her extraordinary voice, for
it appeared that Massenet would not hear of anybody else for the part.

She was the circus-rider, Miss Edith, who, under that assumed name gave
that unique and never-to-be-forgotten exhibition of horsemanship, and
you remember what cheers there were, and what quantities of flowers
covered the arena! And you must not forget that this was before a
_paying public_!

Then, it was notorious that she had carried off the lovers of several
celebrated courtesans, which was not one of the smallest of her
triumphs, for she had chosen as her rivals some of those terrible and
hitherto unconquered women, of whom it was said:

"Oh! When she has got hold of a man, she does not let him go again. She
has some secrets that attach them to her."

There was, therefore, nothing surprising in the fact that the Duchess
Huguette should have been so proud of so many victories, and in such
various sports; but now, for the first time, a doubt had entered her
mind. In turning over the _Notules Psychologiques_[3] of her favorite
novel-writer, she had just read these two sentences which disturbed her:

[Footnote 3: Psychological Notes.]

"If anyone wishes to excel in an art, he must have gained a living by
it."

"What pleases us in a woman of the world who gives herself up to
debauchery, is the contrast between what she is, and what she would like
to be."

And she asked herself whether she could really have lived by those arts
in which she excelled, and whether the successes that she had obtained,
did not chiefly depend on her charm of a woman of the world, who wished
to be what she was not. The last _whether_, especially, made her
anxious. For was not it precisely that special charm which had given her
an advantage over courtesans who employed secrets?

Would she have been victorious if she had been deprived of that weapon?
How could she find out?

"And yet," she said to herself, "I must know, for everything depends on
this point. If I can win the game without playing that card, I am sure
of all my other triumphs; my mind will be easy then, whatever it may
cost."

She consulted her old god-father, Viscount Hugues de Pierras, on the
subject, and, after a few complimentary words, as she had begged him to
be sincere, he said:

"Good heavens! my dear child, I must confess that your psychologist is
not altogether wrong, nor your apprehensions either. I have, before now,
left many learned mistresses for women who were not in the least
learned, and who pleased me all the better on that account. But that did
not prevent the mistresses I had sacrificed from being women of
incomprehensible talents, in spite of their defeat. But what does that
matter? It ought to be enough for you, that you conquer, without
troubling yourself about the means by which you obtain your victory. I
do not suppose that you have any pretensions to being a _virtuosa_
in ..."

"In everything, yes. Excuse me, god-father, I have such pretensions. And
what I ask of you, is the means of obtaining absolute proof that my
pretensions are justified."

"Hum! Hum!" the viscount said, in some embarrassment, "I do not know of
any means, my dear child, unless we get together a jury...."

"Please do not joke about it!" Huguette exclaimed. "I am perfectly
serious."

"I am very serious also, I assure you, I think that a jury..."

"Composed of whom? Of men of the world, I suppose?"

"And what does this Julot do?"

"Oh! really, Duchess, you force me to speak of persons and things,
which ..."

"Yes, yes, I force you to; we understand that. But tell me! Bluntly,
without mincing matters, if necessary. You know that I have no objection
to that sort of thing, so go on. Do not keep me in suspense like this. I
am burning with curiosity. What does Julot do?"

"Very well, little volunteer, if you insist on knowing, I will tell you.
Julot, generally called _Fine-Gueule_, is a trier of women."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I will explain it to you. There are a few of us old amateurs in Paris,
who are too old and impatient to hunt for truffles, but who want them of
such and such a flavor, exactly to our taste. Now, Julot knows our
tastes, our various fancies, and he undertakes ..."

"Capital! Capital!"




MADEMOISELLE


He had been registered under the names of Jean Marie Mathieu Valot, but
he was never called anything but _Mademoiselle_. He was the idiot of the
district, but not one of those wretched, ragged idiots who live on
public charity. He lived comfortably on a small income which his mother
had left him, and which his guardian paid him regularly, and so he was
rather envied than pitied. And then, he was not one of those idiots with
wild looks, and the manners of an animal, for he was by no means an
unpleasing object, with his half-open lips and smiling eyes, and
especially in his constant make-up in female dress. For he dressed like
a girl, and showed by that, how little he objected to being called
_Mademoiselle_.

And why should he not like the nickname which his mother had given him
affectionately, when he was a mere child, and so delicate and weak, with
such a fair complexion, a poor little diminutive lad, that he was not as
tall as many girls of the same age? It was in pure love that, in his
earlier years, his mother whispered that tender _Mademoiselle_ to him,
while his old grandmother used to say jokingly:

"The fact is, that as for the _tip-cat_ he has got, it is really not
worth mentioning in a Christian. No offense to God in saying so." And
his grandfather who was equally fond of a joke, used to add: "I only
hope he will not lose it, as he grows bigger, like tadpoles do their
tails!"

And they treated him as if he had really been a girl and coddled him,
the more so as they were very prosperous, and did not require a man to
keep things together.

When his mother and grandparents were dead, _Mademoiselle_ was almost as
happy with his paternal uncle, an unmarried man, who had carefully
attended the idiot, and who had grown more and more attached to him by
dint of looking after him; and the worthy man continued to call Jean
Marie Mathieu Valot, _Mademoiselle_.

He was called so in all the country round as well, not with the
slightest intention of hurting his feelings, but, on the contrary,
because all thought they would please the poor gentle creature who
harmed nobody.

The very street boys meant no harm by it, accustomed as they were to
call the tall idiot in a frock and cap, so; but it would have struck
them as very extraordinary, and would have led them to in rude fun, if
they had seen him dressed like a boy.

_Mademoiselle_, however, took care of that, for his dress was as dear to
him as his nickname. He delighted in wearing it, and, in fact, cared for
nothing else, and what gave it a particular zest was, that he knew that
he was not a girl, and that he was living in disguise. And this was
evident, by the exaggerated feminine bearing and walk he put on, as if
to show that it was not natural to him. His enormous, carefully frilled
cap was adorned with large variegated ribbons. His petticoat, with
numerous flounces, was distended behind by many hoops. He walked with
short steps, and with exaggerated swaying of the hips, while his folded
arms and crossed hands were distorted into pretensions of comical
coquetry.

On such occasions, if anybody wished to make friends with him, it was
necessary to say:

"Ah! _Mademoiselle_, what a nice girl you make."

That put him into a good humor, and he used to reply, much pleased:

"Don't I? But people can see I only do it for a joke."

But, nevertheless, when they were dancing at village festivals in the
neighborhood, he would always be invited to dance as _Mademoiselle_, and
would never ask any of the girls to dance with him; and one evening when
somebody asked him the reason for this, he opened his eyes wide, laughed
as if the man had said something very stupid, and replied:

"I cannot ask the girls because I am not dressed like a lad. Just look
at my dress, you fool!"

As his interrogator was a judicious man, he said to him:

"Then dress like one, _Mademoiselle_."

He thought for a moment, and then said with a cunning look:

"But if I dress like a lad, I shall no longer be a girl; but then, I am
a girl;" and he shrugged his shoulders as he said it.

But the remark seemed to make him think.

For some time afterwards, when he met the same person, he asked him
abruptly:

"If I dress like a lad, will you still call me _Mademoiselle_?"

"Of course, I shall," the other replied. "You will always be called so."

The idiot appeared delighted, for there was no doubt that he thought
more of his nickname than he did of his dress, and the next day he made
his appearance in the village square without his petticoats and dressed
as a man. He had taken a pair of trousers, a coat and a hat, from his
guardian's clothes-press, and this created quite a revolution in the
neighborhood, for the people, who had been in the habit of smiling at
him kindly when he was dressed as a woman, looked at him in astonishment
and almost in fear, while the indulgent could not help laughing, and
visibly making fun of him.

The involuntary hostility of some, and the too evident ridicule of
others, the disagreeable surprise of all, were too palpable for him not
to see it, and to be hurt by it, and it was still worse when a street
urchin said to him in a jeering voice, as he danced round him:

"Oh! oh! _Mademoiselle_, you wear trousers! Oh! oh! _Mademoiselle_!"

And it grew worse and worse, when a whole band of these vagabonds were
on his heels, hooting and yelling after him, as if he had been somebody
in a masquerading dress, during the carnival.

It was quite certain that the unfortunate creature looked much more as
if he were in a disguise now than he had done formerly. By dint of
living like a girl, and by even exaggerating the feminine walk and
manners, he had totally lost all masculine looks and ways. His smooth
face, his long flax like hair, required a cap with ribbons, and became a
caricature under the high chimney-pot hat of the old doctor, his
grandson.

_Mademoiselle's_ shoulders, and especially her swelling stern danced
about wildly in this old fashioned coat and wide trousers. And nothing
was as funny as the contrast between his quiet dress and slow trotting
pace, the winning way he combed his head, and the conceited movements
of his hands, with which he fanned himself, like a silly girl.

Soon the older lads and the girls, the old women, men of ripe age and
even the Judicial Councilor joined the little brats, and hooted
_Mademoiselle_, while the astonished idiot ran away, and rushed into the
house with terror. There he took his poor head between both hands, and
tried to comprehend the matter. Why were they angry with him? For it was
quite evident that they were angry with him. What wrong had he done, and
whom had he injured, by dressing as a boy? Was he not a boy, after all?
For the first time in his life, he felt a horror for his nickname, for
had he not been insulted through it? But immediately he was seized with
a horrible doubt.

"Suppose that, after all, I was a girl?"

He would have liked to ask his guardian about it but he did not want to,
for he somehow felt, although only obscurely, that he, worthy man, might
not tell him the truth, out of kindness. And, besides, he preferred to
find out for himself, without asking anyone.

All his idiot's cunning, which had been lying latent up till then,
because he never had any occasion to make use of it, now came out and
urged him to a solitary and dark action.

The next day he dressed himself as a girl again, and made his appearance
as if he had perfectly forgotten his escapade of the day before, but the
people, especially the street boys, had not forgotten it. They looked at
him sideways, and, even the best of them, could not help smiling, while
the little blackguards ran after him and said:

"Oh! oh! _Mademoiselle_, you had on a pair of breeches!"

But he pretended to hear, moreover, to guess to whom they were alluding.
He seemed as happy, and glad to look about him as he usually did, with
half open lips and smiling eyes. As usual, he wore an enormous cap with
variegated ribbons, and large petticoats as usual, he walked with short,
mincing steps, swaying and wriggling his hips and crupper, and he
gesticulated like a coquette, and licked his lips, when they called him
_Mademoiselle_, while in his head, he would have liked too have jumped
at the throat of those who called him so.

Days and months passed, and by degrees these about him forgot all about
his strange escapade, but he had never left off thinking about it, nor
trying to find out, for which he was ever on the alert--how he could
find out what were his qualities as a boy, and how could he assert them
victoriously. Really innocent, he had reached the age of twenty without
knowing anything about it, or without ever having any natural impulse to
discover it, but being tenacious of purpose, curious and dissembling, he
asked no questions, but observed all that was said and done.

Often at their village dances, he had heard young fellows boasting about
girls whom they had seduced, and praising such and such a young fellow,
and often, also, after a dance, he saw the couples go away together,
with their arms round each other's waists. They had no suspicions of
him, and he listened and watched, until, at last, he discovered what was
going on.

And, then, one night, when dancing was over, and the couples were going
away with their arms round each other's waists, a terrible screaming was
heard at the corner of the woods through which those going to the next
village, had to pass. It was Josephine, pretty Josephine, for she was
brave as well, and when her screams were heard, they ran to her
assistance, and they arrived only just in time to rescue her, half
strangled from _Mademoiselle's_ clutches.

The idiot had watched her, and had thrown himself upon her in order to
treat her as the other young fellows did the girls, but she resisted him
so stoutly that he took her by the throat and squeezed with all his
might until she could not breathe, and was nearly dead.

In rescuing Josephine from him, they had thrown him on the ground, but
he jumped up again immediately, foaming at the mouth and slobbering, and
exclaimed:

"I am not a girl any longer, I am a young man, I am a young man, I tell
you."

And he proudly essayed to convince them that it was so, but the evidence
that he could adduce was very slight.




THE MOUNTEBANKS


Compardin, the clever manage of the _Eden Réunis Théâtre_, as the
theater critics invariably called him, was reckoning on a great success,
and he had invested his last franc in the affair, without thinking of
the morrow, or of the bad luck which had been pursuing him so inexorably
for months past. For a whole week, the walls, the kiosks, shopfronts,
and even the trees, had been placarded with flaming posters, and from
one end of Paris to the other carriages were to be seen which were
covered with fancy sketches of Chéret, that represented two strong,
well-built men who looked like ancient athletes. The younger of them,
who was standing with his arms folded, had the vacant smile of an
itinerant mountebank on his face, and the other, who was dressed in what
was supposed to be the costume of a Mexican trapper, held a revolver in
his hand. There were large type advertisements in all the papers, that
the Montefiores would appear without fail at the _Eden Réunis_, the next
Monday.

Nothing else was talked about, for the puff and humbug attracted people.
The Montefiores, like fashionable knicknacks, succeeded that whimsical
jade, Rose Péché, who had gone off the preceding autumn, between the
third and fourth acts of the burlesque, _Ousca Iscar_, in order to make
a study of love in company of a young fellow of seventeen, who had just
entered the university. The novelty and difficulty of their performance,
revived and agitated the curiosity of the public, for there seemed to
be an implied threat of death, or, at any rate, of wounds and of blood
in it, and it seemed as if they defied danger with absolute
indifference. And that always pleased women; it holds them and masters
them, and they grow pale with emotion and cruel enjoyment. Consequently,
all the seats in the large theater were let almost immediately, and were
soon taken for several days in advance. And stout Compardin losing his
glass of absinthe over a game of dominoes, was in high spirits, and saw
the future through rosy glasses, and exclaimed in a loud voice: "I think
I have turned up trumps, by George!"

       *       *       *       *       *

The Countess Regina de Villégby was lying on the sofa in her boudoir,
languidly fanning herself. She had only received three or four intimate
friends that day, Saint Mars Montalvin, Tom Sheffield, and his cousin,
Madame de Rhouel, a Creole, who laughed as incessantly as a bird sings.
It was growing dusk, and the distant rumbling of the carriages in the
Avenue of the Champs-Elysées sounded like some somnolent rhythm. There
was a delicate perfume of flowers; the lamps had not been brought in
yet, and chatting and laughing filled the room with a confused noise.

"Would you pour out the tea?" the Countess said, suddenly, touching
Saint Mars' fingers, who was beginning an amorous conversation in a low
voice, with her fan. And while he slowly filled the little china cup, he
continued: "Are the Montefiores as good as the lying newspapers make
out?"

Then Tom Sheffield and the others all joined in.

They had never seen anything like it, they declared; it was most
exciting, and made one shiver unpleasantly, like when the _espada_
comes to close quarters with the infuriated brute at a bull fight.

Countess Regina listened in silence, and nibbled the petals of a tea
rose.

"How I should like to see them!" giddy Madame de Rhouel exclaimed.

"Unfortunately, cousin," the Countess said, in the solemn tones of a
preacher, "a respectable woman dare not let herself be seen in improper
places."

They all agreeing with her, nevertheless, Madame de Villégby was present
at the Montefiores' performance two days later, dressed all in black,
and wearing a thick veil, at the back of a stage box.

And that woman was as cold as a steel buckler, and had married as soon
as she left the convent in which she had been to school, without any
affection or even liking for her husband, whom the most skeptical
respected as a saint, and who had a look of virgin purity on her calm
face as she went down the steps of the Madeleine on Sundays, after high
mass.

Countess Regina stretched herself nervously, grew pale, and trembled
like the strings of a violin, on which an artist had been playing some
wild symphony, and inhaled the nasty smell of the sawdust, as if it had
been the perfume of a bouquet of unknown flowers, and clenched her
hands, and gazed eagerly at the two mountebanks, whom the public
applauded rapturously at every feat. And contemptuously and haughtily
she compared those two men, who were as vigorous as wild animals that
have grown up in the open air, with the rickety limbs, which look so
awkward in the dress of an English groom, that had tried to inflame her
heart.

       *       *       *       *       *

Count de Villégby had gone back to the country, to prepare for his
election as Councilor-General, and the very evening that he started,
Regina again took the stage box at the _Eden Réunis_. Consumed by
sensual ardor as if by some love philter, she scribbled a few words on a
piece of paper--the eternal formula that women write on such occasions:

"A carriage will be waiting for you at the stage door after the
performance--An unknown woman who adores you."

And then she gave it to a box opener, who handed it to the Montefiore
who was the champion pistol shot.

Oh! that interminable waiting in a malodorous cab, the overwhelming
emotion, and the nausea of disgust, the fear, the desire of waking the
coachman who was nodding on the box, of giving him her address, and
telling him to drive her home. But she remained with her face against
the window, mechanically looking at the dark passage, that was
illuminated by a gas lamp, at the "actors' entrance," through which men
were continually hurrying, who talked in a loud voice, and chewed the
end of a cigar which had gone out. She remained as if she were glued to
the cushions, and tapped impatiently on the bottom of the cab with her
heels.

When the actor who thought it was a joke, made his appearance, she could
hardly utter a word, for evil pleasure is as intoxicating as adulterated
liquor, so face to face with this immediate surrender, and this
unconstrained immodesty, he at first thought that he had to do with a
street walker.

Regina felt various sensations, and a morbid pleasure throughout her
whole person. She pressed close to him, and raised her veil to show how
young, beautiful, and desirable she was. They did not speak a word, like
wrestlers before a combat. She was eager to be locked up with him, to
give herself to him, and, at last, to know that moral uncleanness, of
which, she was, of course, ignorant, as a chaste wife; and when they
left the room in the hotel together, where they had spent hours like
amorous deer, the man dragged himself along, and almost groped his way
like a blind man, while Regina was smiling, though nevertheless, she
retained her serene candor of an unsullied virgin, like she did almost
always on Sundays, after mass.

Then she took the second. He was very sentimental, and his head was full
of romance. He thought the unknown woman, who merely used him as her
plaything, really loved him, and he was not satisfied with furtive
meetings. He questioned her, besought her, and the Countess made fun of
him. Then she chose the two Mountebanks in turn. They did not know it,
for she had forbidden them ever to talk about her to each other, under
the penalty of never seeing her again, and one night the younger of them
said with humble tenderness, as he knelt at her feet:

"How kind you are, to love and to want me! I thought that such happiness
only existed in novels, and that ladies of rank only made fun of poor
strolling Mountebanks, like us!"

Regina knitted her golden brows.

"Do not be angry," he continued, "because I followed you and found out
where you lived, and your real name, and that you are a countess, and
rich, very rich."

"You fool!" she exclaimed, trembling with anger. "People would make you
believe things, as easily as they would a child!"

She had had enough of him; he knew her name, and might compromise her.
The Count might possibly come back from the country before the
elections, and then, the Mountebank began to love her. She no longer had
any feeling, any desire for those two lovers, whom a fillip from her
rosy fingers could bend to her will. It was time to go on to the next
chapter, and to seek for fresh pleasures elsewhere.

"Listen to me," she said to the champion shot, the next night. "I would
rather not hide anything from you. I like your comrade; I have given
myself to him, and I do not want to have anything more to do with you."

"My comrade!" he repeated.

"Well, what then? The change amuses me!"

He uttered a furious cry, and rushed at Regina with clenched fists. She
thought he was going to kill her, and closed her eyes, but he had not
the courage to hurt that delicate body, which he had so often covered
with caresses, and in despair, and hanging his head, he said hoarsely:

"Very well, we shall not meet again, since it is your wish."

The house at the _Eden Réunis_ was as full as an over-filled basket The
violins were playing a soft and delightful waltz of Gungl's, which the
reports of a revolver accentuated.

The Montefiores were standing opposite to one another, like in Chéret's
picture, and about a dozen yards apart, and an electric light was thrown
on to the youngest, who was leaning against a large white target, and
very slowly the other traced his living outline with bullet after
bullet. He aimed with prodigious skill, and the black dots showed on the
cardboard, and marked the shape of his body. The applause drowned the
orchestra, and increased continually, when suddenly a shrill cry of
horror resounded from one end of the hall to the other. The women
fainted, the violins stopped, and the spectators jostled each other. At
the ninth ball, the younger brother had fallen to the ground, an inert
mass, with a gaping wound in his forehead. His brother did not move, and
there was a look of madness on his face, while the Countess de Villégby
leaned on the ledge of her box, and fanned herself calmly, as implacable
as any cruel goddess of ancient mythology.

The next day, between four and five, when she was surrounded by her
usual friends in her little, warm, Japanese drawing room, it was strange
to hear in what a languid and indifferent voice she exclaimed:

"They say that an accident happened to one of those famous clowns, the
Monta ... the Monti ... what is his name, Tom?"

"The Montefiores, Madame!"

And then they began to talk about the sale at Angéle Velours, who was
going to buy the former follies, at the hotel Drouot, before marrying
Prince Storbeck.




THE SEQUEL TO A DIVORCE


Certainly, although he had been engaged in the most extraordinary, most
unlikely, most extravagant and funniest cases, and had won legal games
without a trump in his hand, although he had worked out the obscure law
of divorce, as if it had been a Californian gold mine Maitre[4]
Garrulier the celebrated, the only Garrulier, could not check a movement
of surprise, nor a disheartening shake of the head, nor a smile when the
Countess de Baudémont explained her affairs to him for the first time.

[Footnote 4: Title given to advocates in France.--TRANSLATOR.]

He had just opened his correspondence, and his long hands, on which he
bestowed the greatest attention, buried themselves in a heap of female
letters, and one might have thought oneself in the confessional of a
fashionable preacher, so impregnated was the atmosphere with delicate
perfumes.

Immediately, even before she had said a word, with the sharp glance of a
practiced man of the world, that look which made beautiful Madame de
Serpenoise say: "He strips your heart bare!" The lawyer had classed her
in the third category. Those who suffer came into his first category,
those who love, into the second, and those who are bored, into the
third, and she belonged to the latter.

She was a pretty windmill, whose sails turned and flew round, and
fretted the blue sky with a delicious shiver of joy, as it were. The
brain of a bird, in which four correct and healthy ideas could not exist
side by side, and in which all dreams and every kind of folly are
engulfed, like a great crevice.

Incapable of hurting a fly, emotional, charitable, with a feeling of
tenderness for the street girl who sold bunches of violets for a penny,
for a cab horse, which a driver was ill using, for a melancholy pauper's
funeral, when the body, without friends or relations to follow it, was
being conveyed to the common grave, doing anything that might afford
five minutes' amusement, not caring if she made men miserable for the
rest of their days, and taking pleasure in kindling passions which
consumed men's whole being, looking upon life as too short to be
anything else than one uninterrupted round of gaiety and enjoyment, she
thought that people might find plenty of time for being serious and
reasonable in the evening of life, when they are at the bottom of the
hill, and their looking glass showed them a wrinkled face, surrounded
with white hair.

A thoroughbred Parisian, whom one would follow to the end of the world
like a poodle; a woman whom one adores with the head, the heart and the
senses until one is nearly driven mad, as soon as one has inhaled the
delicate perfume that emanates from her dress and hair, or touched her
skin, and heard her laugh; a woman for whom one would fight a duel and
risk one's life without a thought; for whom a man would remove
mountains, and sell his soul to the devil several times over, if the
devil were still in the habit of frequenting the places of bad repute on
this earth.

She had perhaps come to see this Garrulier, whom she had so often heard
mentioned at five o'clock tea, near, so as to be able to describe him to
her female friends subsequently in droll phrases, to imitate his
gestures and the unctuous inflections of his voice, perhaps, in order to
experience some new sensation, or, perhaps, for the sake of dressing
like a woman who was going to try for a divorce; and, certainly, the
whole effect was perfect. She wore a splendid cloak embroidered with
jet, which gave an almost serious effect to her golden hair, to her
small slightly turned up nose, with its quivering nostrils, and to her
long eyes, full of enigmas and fun; and a dark stuff dress, which was
fastened at the neck by a sapphire and a diamond pin.

The barrister did not interrupt her, but allowed her to get excited and
to chatter, to enumerate her causes for complaint against poor Count de
Baudémont, who certainly had no suspicion of his wife's escapade, who
would have been very much surprised if any one had told him of it at
that moment, when he was taking his fencing lesson at the club.

When she had quite finished, he said coolly, as if he were throwing a
pail of water on some burning straw.

"But, Madame, there is not the slightest pretext for a divorce in
anything that you have told me, here...the judges would ask me whether I
took the Law Courts for a theater, and intended to make fun of them."

And seeing how disheartened she was, and that she looked like a child
whose favorite toy had been broken, and, also, because she was so
pretty, that he would have liked to kiss her hands in his devotion, and
as she seemed to be witty, and very amusing, and as, moreover, he had no
objection to such visits being prolonged, when papers had to be looked
over, while sitting close together, Maitre Garrulier appeared to be
considering, and, taking his chin in his hand, he said:

"However, I will think it over...there is sure to be some dark spot that
can be made out worse.... Write to me, and come and see me again..."

In the course of her visits, that black spot had increased so much, and
Madame de Baudémont had followed her lawyer's advice so punctually, and
had played on the various cords so skillfully, a few months later, that
after a lawsuit, which is still spoken of in the Courts of Justice, and
during the course of which, the President had to take off his
spectacles, and to use his pocket-handkerchief noisily, the divorce was
pronounced in favor of the Countess Marie Anne Nicole Bournet de
Baudémont, _née_ de Tanchart de Peothus.

The Count, who was nonplussed at such an adventure, which was turning
out so seriously, first of all, flew into a terrible rage, and nearly
rushed off to the lawyer's office, and threatened to cut off his knavish
ears for him, but when his access of fury was over, and thinking better
of it, he shrugged his shoulders and said:

"All the better for her, if it amuses her!"

Then he bought Baron Silberstein's yacht, and with some friends, got up
a cruise, to Ceylon and India.

Marie-Anne began by triumphing, and felt as happy as a schoolgirl going
home for the holidays, who feels the bridle on her neck, committed every
possible folly, and soon, tired, satiated, and disgusted, she began to
yawn, cried and found out that she had sacrificed her happiness, like a
millionaire who had gone mad, and who threw his banknotes and shares
into the river, and that she was nothing more than a disabled waif and
stray. Consequently, she now married again, as the solitude of her home
made her morose from morning till night; and then, besides, a woman
requires a mansion when she goes into society, to race meetings, or to
the theater.

And so, while she became a marchioness, and pronounced her second "Yes,"
before a very few friends, at the office of the mayor of the English
urban district, and malicious ones in the Faurbourg were making fun of
the whole affair, and affirming this and that, whether rightly or
wrongly, and compromising the present husband to the former one, even
declaring that he had partially been the cause of the former divorce,
Monsieur de Baudémont was wandering over the four quarters of the globe
trying to overcome his homesickness, and to deaden his longing for love,
which had taken possession of his heart and of his body, like a slow
poison.

He traveled through the most out of the way places, and the most lovely
countries, and spent months and months at sea, and plunged into every
kind of dissipation and debauchery. But neither the supple backs nor the
luxurious gestures of the _bayaderés_, nor the large, passive eyes of
the Creoles, nor flirtations with English _missives_ with hair the color
of new cider, nor nights of waking dreams, when he saw new
constellations in the sky, nor dangers during which a man thinks it is
all over with him, and mutters a few words of prayer in spite of
himself, when the waves are so high, and the sky so black, nothing was
able to make him forget that little Parisian woman who smelled so
delicious that she might have been taken for a bouquet of rare flowers;
who was so coaxing, so curious, so funny; who never had the same
caprice, the same smile, or the same look twice, and who, at bottom, was
worth more than many others, than the saints and the sinless.

He thought of her constantly, during long hours of sleeplessness. He
carried her portrait about with him in the pocket of his pea-jacket; a
charming portrait in which she was smiling, and showing her white teeth
between her half-open lips, and while her gentle eyes, with their
magnetic look, had a happy, frank expression, and in which, from the
mere reflection of her hair, one could see that she was fair among the
fair.

And he used to kiss that portrait of the woman who had been his wife as
if he wished to efface it, and would look at it for hours, and then
throw himself down on the netting, and sob like a child as he looked at
the infinite expanse before him, and seemed to see in their lost
happiness the joys of their perished affections, and the divine
remembrance of their love in the monotonous waste of green waters. And
he tried to accuse himself for all that had occurred, and not to be
angry with her, to think that his grievances were imaginary, and to
adore her in spite of everything and always.

And that he roamed about the world, tossed to and fro, suffering, and
hoping, he knew not what. He ventured into the greatest dangers, and
sought for death just as a man seeks for his mistress, and death passed
close to him without touching him, and was perhaps amused at his grief
and misery.

For he was as wretched as a stone-breaker, as one of those poor devils
who work and nearly break their backs over the hard flints the whole day
long, under the scorching sun or the cold rain, and Marie-Anne herself
was not happy, for she was pining for the past, and remembered their
former love.

At last, however, he returned to France, changed, tamed by exposure,
sun, and rain, and transformed as if by some witch's filter.

Nobody would have recognized the elegant and effeminate clubman in this
species of corsair, with broad shoulders, a skin the color of blister,
with very red lips, and who rolled a little in his walk; who seemed to
be stifled in his black dress-coat, but who still retained his
distinguished manners, the bearing of a nobleman of the last century,
who, when he was ruined, fitted out a privateer, and fell upon the
English wherever he met them, from St. Malo to Calcutta. And wherever he
showed himself his friends exclaimed:

"Why! Is that you? I should never have known you again!"

He was very nearly starting off again immediately. He even telegraphed
orders to Havre to get the steam-yacht ready for sea again directly,
when he heard that Marie-Anne had married again.

He saw her in the distance, at the _Théâtre Français_ one Tuesday, and
when he noticed how pretty, how fair, how desirable she was, and looking
so melancholy, with all the appearance of an unhappy soul that regrets
something, his determination grew weaker, and he delayed his departure
from week to week, and waited, without knowing why, until, at last, worn
out with the struggle, watching her wherever she went, more in love with
her than he had ever been before, he wrote her long, mad, ardent letters
in which his passion overflowed like a stream of lava.

He altered his handwriting, as he remembered her restless brain and her
many whims. He sent her the flowers which he knew she liked best, and
told her that she was his life, that he was dying of waiting for her, of
longing for her, for her, his idol.

At last, very much puzzled and surprised, guessing--who knows?--from the
instinctive beating of her heart, and her general emotion, that it must
be he this time, he whose soul she had tortured with such cold cruelty,
and knowing that she could make amends for the past and bring back their
former love, she replied to him, and granted him the meeting that he
asked for. She fell into his arms, and they both sobbed with joy and
ecstasy. Their kisses were those which lips only give when they have
lost each other and found each other again at last, when they meet and
exhaust themselves in each other's looks, thirsting for tenderness, love
and enjoyment.

       *       *       *       *       *

Last week Count de Baudémont carried off Marie-Anne quietly and coolly,
just like one resumes possession of one's house on returning from a
journey, and drives out the intruders. And when _Maitre_ Garrulier was
told of this unheard-of scandal, he rubbed his hands--his long, delicate
hands of a sensual prelate--and exclaimed:

"That is absolutely logical, and I should like to be in their place."




THE MAN WITH THE DOGS


His wife, even when talking to him, always called him Monsieur Bistaud,
but in all the country round, within a radius of ten leagues in France
and Belgium, he was known as _cet homme aux chiens_[5]. It was not a
very valuable reputation, however, and "That man with the dogs" became a
sort of pariah.

[Footnote 5: That man with the dogs.]

In Thierache they are not very fond of the custom-house officers, for
everybody, high or low, profits by smuggling; thanks to which many
articles, and especially coffee, gunpowder and tobacco are to be had
cheap. It may here be stated that on that wooded, broken country, where
the meadows are surrounded by brushwood, and the lanes are dark and
narrow, smuggling is chiefly carried on by means of sporting dogs, who
are broken in to become smuggling dogs. Scarcely an evening passes
without some of them being seen, loaded with contraband, trotting
silently along, pushing their noses through a hole in a hedge, with
furtive and uneasy looks, and sniffing the air to scent the custom-house
officers and their dogs. These dogs also are specially trained, and are
very ferocious, and easily rip up their unfortunate congeners, who
become the game instead of hunting for it.

Now, nobody was capable of imparting this unnatural education to them so
well as "the man with his dogs," whose business consisted in breaking in
dogs for the custom-house authorities, and everybody looked upon it as
a dirty business, a business which could only be performed by a man
without any proper feeling.

"He is a men's robber," the women said, "to take honest dogs into nurse,
and to make a lot of Judas's out of them."

While the boys shouted insulting verses behind his back, the men and the
women abused him, but no one ventured to do it to his face, for he was
not very patient, and was always accompanied by one of his huge dogs,
and that served to make him respected.

Certainly, without that bodyguard, he would have had a bad time of it,
especially at the hands of the smugglers, who had a deadly hatred for
him. By himself, and in spite of his quarrelsome looks, he did not
appear very formidable, for he was short and thin, his back was round,
his legs were bandy, and his arms were as long and as thin as spiders'
legs, and he could easily have been knocked down by a back-handed blow
or a kick. But then, he had those confounded dogs which interfered with
the bravest smugglers. How could they risk even a thrust when he had
those huge brutes, with their fierce and bloodshot eyes, and their
square heads, whose jaws were like a vise, with enormous white teeth,
that were as sharp as daggers, and whose huge molars crunched up
beef-bones to a pulp with them? They were wonderfully broken in, were
always by him, obeyed him by signs, and were taught, not only to worry
the smugglers' dogs, but also to fly at the throats of the smugglers
themselves.

The consequence was that both he and his dogs were left alone, and
people were satisfied in calling them names and sending them all to
Coventry. No peasant ever set foot in his cottage, although Bistaud's
wife kept a small shop and was a handsome woman, and the only persons
who went there were the custom-house officers. The others took their
revenge on them all by saying that the man with the dogs sold his wife
to the custom-house officers, like he did his dogs.

"He keeps her for them, as well as his dogs," they said jeeringly. "You
can see that he is a born cuckold with his yellow beard and eyebrows,
which stick up like a pair of horns."

His hair was certainly red, or rather yellow, his thick eyebrows were
turned up in two points on his temples, and he used to twirl them
mechanically as if they had been a pair of moustaches. And certainly,
with his hair like that, and with his long beard and shaggy eyebrows,
with his sallow face, blinking eyes, and dull looks, with his dogged
mouth, thin lips, and his miserable, deformed body, he was not a
pleasing object.

But he assuredly was not a complaisant cuckold, and those who have said
that of him had never seen him at home. On the contrary, he was always
jealous, and kept as sharp a lookout on his wife as he did on his dogs,
and if he had broken her in at all, it was to be as faithful to him as
they were.

She was a handsome, and what they call in the country, a fine body of a
woman; tall, well-built, with a full bust and broad breech, and she
certainly made more than one excise man squint at her, but it was no use
for them to come and sniff round her too closely, or else there would
have been blows. At least, that is what the custom-house officers said
when anybody joked with them and said to them: "That does not matter, no
doubt, you and she have hunted for your fleas together."

It was no use for them to defend Madame Bistaud's fierce virtue; nobody
believed them, and the only answer they got was: "You are hiding your
game, and are ashamed of going to seduce a woman who belongs to such a
wretched creature."

And, certainly, nobody would have believed that such a buxom woman, who
looked as if her crupper were as warm as her looks, and who assuredly
must have liked to be well attended to, could be satisfied with such a
puny husband; with such an ugly, weak, red-headed fellow, who smelled of
his own hair and of the mustiness of the carrion which he gave to his
hounds.

But they did not know that "the man with the dogs" had some years before
given her, once for all, a lesson in fidelity, and that for a mere
trifle, and that for a venial sin! He had surprised her for allowing
herself to be kissed by some gallant; that was all! He had not taken any
notice, but when the man was gone he brought two of his hounds into the
room, and said:

"If you do not want them to tear your inside out as they would a
rabbit's, go down on your knees so that I may thrash you!"

She obeyed in terror, and "the man with the dogs" had beaten her with a
whip until his arm dropped with fatigue. And she did not venture to
scream, although she was bleeding under the blows of the thong, which
tore her dress, and cut into the flesh; all she dared to do was to utter
low, hoarse groans; for while beating her, he kept on saying:

"Don't make a noise, by ----; don't make a noise, or I will let the dogs
fly at your stern."

From that time she had been faithful to Bistaud, though she had
naturally not told anyone the reason for it, nor for her hatred either,
not even Bistaud himself, who thought that she was subdued for all time,
and who always found her very submissive and respectful. But for six
years she had nourished her hatred in her heart, feeding it on silent
hopes and promises of revenge. And it was that flame of hope and that
longing for revenge which made her so coquettish with the custom-house
officers, for she hoped to find a possible avenger among her inflammable
admirers.

At last she came across the right man. He was a splendid sub-officer of
the customs, built like a Hercules, with fists like a butcher's, and who
had long leased four of his ferocious dogs from her husband.

As soon as they had grown accustomed to their new master, and especially
after they had tasted flesh of the smugglers' dogs, they had, by
degrees, become detached from their former master, who had reared them.
No doubt they still recognized him a little, and would not have sprung
at his throat as if he had been a perfect stranger, but still, they did
not hesitate between his voice and that of their new master, and they
obeyed the latter only.

Although the woman had often noticed this, she had not hitherto been
able to make much use of the circumstance. A custom-house officer, as a
rule, only keeps one dog, and this fellow always had half-a-dozen, at
least, in training, without reckoning a personal guard which he kept for
himself and which was the fiercest of all. Consequently, any duel
between some lover assisted by only one dog, and the dog-breaker
defended by his pack, was impossible.

But on that occasion, the chances were more equal. Just then he had only
five dogs in the kennel, and two of them were quite young, though
certainly old _Bourreau_[6] counted for several, but after all, they
could risk a battle against him and the other three, with the two
couples of the custom-house officer, and they must profit by the
occasion.

[Footnote 6: Executioner, hangman.]

And one fine evening, as the brigadier of the custom-house officers was
alone in the shop with Bistaud's wife and was squeezing her waist, she
said to him abruptly:

"Do you really want to have something to do with me, _Môssieu_[7]
Fernand?"

[Footnote 7: Vulgar for Monsieur.]

He kissed her on the lips as he replied: "Do I really want to? I would
give my stripes for it; so you see...."

"Very well," she replied, "do as I tell you, and upon my word, as an
honest woman, I will be your commodity to do what you like with."

And laying a stress on that word _commodity_, which in that part of the
country means mistress, she whispered hotly into his ear:

"A commodity who knows her business, I can tell you, for my beast of a
husband has trained me up in such a way that I am now absolutely
disgusted with him."

Fernand, who was much excited, promised her everything that she wished,
and feverishly, malignantly, she told him how shamefully her husband had
treated her a short time before, how her fair skin had been cut, told
him her hatred and thirst for revenge; and the brigadier acquiesced, and
that same evening he came to the cottage accompanied by his four hounds,
with their spiked collars on.

"What are you going to do with them?" "the man with the dogs" asked.

"I have come to see whether you did not rob me when you sold them to
me," the brigadier replied.

"What do you mean by 'robbed you'?"

"Well, robbed! I have been told that they could not tackle a dog like
your _Bourreau_, and that many smugglers have dogs who are as good as he
is."

"Impossible."

"Well, in case any of them should have one, I should like to see how the
dogs that you sold me could tackle them."

The woman laughed an evil laugh, and her husband grew suspicious, when
he saw that the brigadier replied to it by a wink. But his suspicions
came too late. The _breaker_ had no time to go to the kennel to let out
his pack, for _Bourreau_ had been seized by the custom-house officer's
four dogs. At the same time the woman locked the door, and already her
husband was lying motionless on the floor, while _Bourreau_ could not go
to his assistance, as he had enough to do to defend himself against the
furious attack of the other dogs, who were almost tearing him to pieces,
in spite of his strength and courage. Five minutes later two of the
attacking hounds were totally disabled with the bowels protruding, but
_Bourreau_ himself was dying, with his throat gaping.

Then the woman and the custom-house officer kissed each other before the
breaker whom they bound firmly, while the two dogs of the custom-house
officer, that were still on their legs, were panting for breath, and the
other three were wallowing in their own blood, and while the amorous
couple were carrying on all sorts of capers, who were still further
excited by the rage of the dog-breaker, who was forced to look at them,
and who shouted in his despair:

"You wretches! You shall pay for this!" And the woman's only reply was,
to say: "Cuckold! Cuckold! Cuckold!"

When she was tired of larking, her hatred was not yet satisfied, and she
said to the brigadier:

"Fernand, go to the kennels and shoot the five other brutes; otherwise
he will make them kill me to-morrow. Off you go, old fellow!"

The brigadier obeyed, and immediately five shots were heard in the
darkness. It did not take long, but that short time had been enough for
"the man with the dogs" to show what he could do. While he was tied, the
two dogs of the custom-house officer had gradually recognized him, and
came and fondled him, and as soon as he was alone with his wife, as she
was insulting him, he said, in his usual voice of command to the dogs:

"At her, Flanbard! At her, Garou!" And the two dogs sprang at the
wretched woman, and one seized her by the throat, while the other caught
her by the side.

When the brigadier came back, she was dying on the ground in a pool of
blood, and "the man with the dogs" said with a laugh: "There, you see,
that is the way I break in my dogs!"

The custom-house officer rushed out in horror, followed by his hounds
who licked his hands as they ran, and made them quite red.

The next morning "the man with the dogs" was found still bound, but
chuckling, in his hovel that was turned into a slaughter-house.

They were both arrested and tried, when "the man with the dogs" was
acquitted, and the brigadier sentenced to a term of imprisonment. The
matter gave much food for talk in the district, and is, indeed, still
talked about, for "the man with the dogs" returned there, and is more
celebrated than ever under his nickname, but his celebrity is not of a
bad kind, for he is now just as much respected and liked as he was
despised and hated formerly. He is still, as a matter of fact, "the man
with the dogs," as he is rightly called, for he has not his equal as a
dog-breaker for leagues around, but now he no longer breaks in mastiffs,
as he has given up teaching honest dogs to "act the part of Judas," as
he says, for those dirty custom-house officers, and now he only devotes
himself to dogs to be used for smuggling, and he is worth listening to
when he says:

"You may depend upon it, that I know how to punish such commodities as
she was, where they have sinned!"




THE CLOWN


The hawkers' cottage stood at the end of the Esplanade, on the little
promontory where the jetty is, where all the winds, all the rain, and
all the spray met. The hut, both walls and roof, was built of old
planks, more or less covered with tar, whose chinks were stopped with
oakum, and dry wreckage was heaped up against it. In the middle of the
room an iron pot stood on two bricks, and served as a stove, when they
had any coal, but as there was no chimney, it filled the room, which was
ventilated only by a low door, with smoke, and there the whole crew
lived, eighteen men and one woman. Some had undergone various terms of
imprisonment, and nobody knew what the others were, but though they were
all, more or less, suffering from some physical defect and were nearly
old men, they were still all strong enough for hauling. For the "Chamber
of Commerce" tolerated them there, and allowed them that hovel to live
in, on condition that they should be ready to haul, by day and by night.

For every vessel they hauled, each got a penny by day and two-pence by
night, but that was not certain, on account of the competition of
retired sailors, fishermen's wives, laborers who had nothing to do, but
who were all stronger than those half-starved wretches in the hut.

And yet they lived there, those eighteen men and one woman. Were they
happy? Certainly not. Hopeless? Not that, either; for they occasionally
got a little besides their scanty pay, and then they stole occasionally,
fish, lumps of coal, things without any value to those who lost them,
but of great value to the poor, beggarly thieves.

The eighteen kept the woman, and there was no jealousy on her account.
She had no special favorite among them.

She was a fat woman of about forty, chubby faced and puffy, and of whom
Daddy La Bretagne, who was one of the eighteen, used to say: "She does
us honor."

If she had had a favorite among them, Daddy La Bretagne would certainly
have had the greatest right to that privilege, for although he was one
of the most crippled among them, as he was partially paralyzed in his
legs, he showed himself skillful and strong-armed as any of them, and in
spite of his infirmities, he always managed to secure a good place in
the row of haulers. None of them knew as well as he did how to inspire
visitors with pity during the season, and to make them put their hands
into the pockets, and he was a past master at cadging, so that among
those empty stomachs and penniless rascals he had windfalls of victuals
and coppers more frequently than fell to his share. But he did not make
use of them in order to monopolize their common mistress.

"I am just," he used to say. "Let each of us have his spoonful in turn,
and no more, when we are all eating out of the same dish."

With the coal he picked up, he used to make a good fire for the whole
band under the iron pot, in which he cooked whatever he brought home
with him, without any complaining about it, for he used to say:

"It gives you a good fire in which to warm yourselves, for nothing, and
the smell of my stew into the bargain."

As for his money, he spent in drink with the trollop, and afterwards,
what was left of it, with the other eighteen.

"You see," he used to say, "I am just, and more than just. I give her up
to you, because it is your right."

The consequence was that they all liked Daddy La Bretagne, so that he
gloried in it, and said proudly:

"What a pity that we are living under the Republic! These fellows would
think nothing of making me king."

And one day, when he said this, his trollop replied: "The king is here,
old fellow!" And at the same time she presented a new comrade to them,
who was no less ragged or wretched looking than the eighteen, but quite
young by the size of him. He was a tall, thin fellow of about forty, and
without a white streak in his long hair. He was dressed only in a pair
of trousers and a shirt, which he wore outside them, like a blouse, and
the trollop said:

"Here, Daddy La Bretagne, you have two knitted vests on, so just give
him one."

"Why should I?" the hauler asked.

"Because I choose you to," the woman replied. "I have been living with
you set of old men for a long time, so now I want to have a young one;
there he is, so you must give him a vest, and keep him here, or I shall
throw you up. You may take it or leave it, as you like. Do you
understand me?"

The eighteen looked at each other open-mouthed, and good Daddy La
Bretagne scratched his head, and then said:

"What she asks is quite right, and we must give way," he replied.

Then they explained themselves, and came to an understanding. The poor
devil did not come like a conqueror, for he was a wretched clown who had
just been released from prison, where he had undergone three years' hard
labor for an attempted outrage on a girl, but, with one exception, the
best fellow in the world, so the people declared.

"And something nice for me," the trollop added, "for I can assure you
that I mean him to reward me for anything I may do for him."

From that time the household of eighteen persons consisted of nineteen,
and at first all went well. The clown was very humble, and tried not to
be burdensome to them. Fed, clothed and supplied with tobacco, he tried
not to be too exacting in the other matter, and if needful, he would
have hauled like the others, but the woman would not allow it.

"You shall not fatigue yourself, my little man," she said. "You must
reserve yourself entirely for me."

And he did as she wished.

And soon, the eighteen, who had never been jealous of each other, grew
jealous of the favored lover. Some tried to pick a quarrel with him. He
resisted. The best fellow in the world, no doubt, but he was not going
to be taken for a mussel shut up in its shell, for all that. Let them
call him as lazy as a priest if they liked; he did not mind that, but
when they put hairs into his coffee, armsful of rushes among his
wreckage, and filth into his soup, they had better look out!

"None of that, all the lot of you, or you will see what I can do," he
used to say.

They repeated the practical jokes, however, and he thrashed them. He did
not try to find out who the culprits were, but attacked the first one he
met, so much the worse for him. With a kick from his wooden clog (it was
his specialty) he smashed their noses into a pulp, and having thus
acquired the knowledge of his strength, and urged on by his trollop, he
soon became a tyrant. The eighteen felt that they were slaves, and their
former paradise where concord and perfect equality had reigned, became a
hell, and that state of things could not last.

"Ah!" Daddy La Bretagne growled, "if only I were twenty years younger I
would nearly kill him! I have my Breton's hot head still, but my
confounded legs are no good any longer."

And he boldly challenged the clown to a duel, in which the latter was to
have his legs tied, and then both of them were to sit on the ground and
hack at each other with knives.

"Such a duel would be perfectly fair!" he replied, kicking him in the
side with one of his clogs, and the woman burst out laughing, and said:

"At any rate, you cannot compete with him on equal terms as regards
myself, so do not worry yourself about it."

Daddy La Bretagne was lying in his corner and spitting blood, and none
of the rest spoke. What could the others do, when he, the blustering of
them all, had been served so? The jade had been right when she had
brought in the intruder, and said:

"The king is here, old fellow."

Only, she ought to have remembered that, after all, she alone kept her
subjects in check, and as Daddy La Bretagne said, by a right object.
With her to console them, they would no doubt have borne anything, but
she was foolish enough to cut down their food, and not to fill their
common dish as full as it used to be. She wanted to keep everything for
her lover, and that raised the exasperation of the eighteen to its
height, and so one night when she and the clown were asleep, among all
these fasting men, the eighteen threw themselves upon them. They wrapped
the despot's arms and legs up in tarpaulin, and in the presence of the
woman, who was firmly bound, they flogged him till he was black and
blue.

"Yes," old Bretagne said to me, himself, "yes, Monsieur, that was our
revenge. The king was guillotined in 1793, and so we guillotined our
king also."

And he concluded with a sneer, and said: "Ah! We wished to be just, and
as it was not his head that had made him our king, so, by Jove, we
settled him."




BABETTE


I was not very fond of going to inspect that asylum for old, infirm
men, officially, as I was obliged to go over it in company of the
superintendent, who was talkative, and a statistician. But then, the
grandson of the foundress accompanied us, who was evidently pleased at
that minute inspection, and he was a charming man, and the owner of a
large forest, where he had given me permission to shoot, and I was, of
course, obliged to pretend to be interested in his grandmother's
philanthropic work. So with a smile on my lips I endured the
superintendent's interminable discourse, punctuating it here and there,
as best I could, by a:

"Ah! really! ... Very strange, indeed! ... I should never have believed
it! ..."

I was absolutely ignorant of the matter to which I replied thus, for my
thoughts were lulled to repose by the constant humming of our loquacious
guide. I was only vaguely conscious that no doubt the persons and things
would have appeared worthy of attention to me if I had been there alone
as an idler, for in that case, I should certainly have asked the
superintendent:

"Who is this Babette, whose name appears so constantly in the complaints
of so many of the inmates?"

Quite a dozen men and women had spoken to us about her, now to complain
of her, now to praise her; and especially the women, as soon as they saw
the superintendent, cried out:

"M'sieur, Babette has again been ..."

"There! that will do, that will do!" he interrupted them, his gentle
voice suddenly becoming harsh.

At other times he would amicably question some old man with a happy
countenance, and say:

"Well, my friend! I suppose you are very happy here?"

Many replied with fervent expressions of gratitude, with which Babette's
name was frequently mingled, and when he heard them speak so, the
superintendent put on an ecstatic air; looking up to heaven with clasped
hands, he said, slowly shaking his head: "Ah! Babette is a very precious
woman, very precious!"

Yes, it would certainly interest one to know who that creature was, but
not under present circumstances, and so, rather than to undergo any more
of this, I made up my mind to remain in ignorance of who Babette was,
for I could pretty well guess what she would be like. I pictured her to
myself as a flower that had sprung up in a corner of these dull
courtyards, like a ray of sun shining through the sepulchral gloom of
these dismal passages.

I pictured her so clearly to myself that I did not even feel any wish to
know her, but yet she was dear to me, because of the happy expression
which they all put on when they spoke of her, and I was angry with the
old women who spoke against her. One thing certainly puzzled me, and
that was, that the superintendent was among those who went into
ecstasies over her, and this made me strongly disinclined to question
him about her, though I had no other reason for this feeling.

But all this passed through my mind in rather a confused manner, and
without my taking the trouble to fix or to formulate any ideas and
sensations, for I continued to dream, rather than to think effectively,
and it is very probable that, when my visit was over, I should not have
remembered much about it, not even with regard to Babette, if I had not
been suddenly awakened by the sight of her in the person, and been quite
upset by the difference that there was between my fancy and the reality.

We had just crossed a small back yard, and had gone into a very dark
passage, when a door suddenly opened at the other end of it, and an
unexpected apparition appeared through another door, and we could
indistinctly see that it was the figure of a woman. At the same moment,
the superintendent called out in a furious voice:

"Babette! Babette!"

He had mechanically quickened his pace, and almost ran, and we followed
him, and he quickly opened the door through which the apparition had
vanished, and which led on to a staircase, and he again called out, and
a burst of stifled laughter was the only reply. I looked over the
balusters, and saw a woman down below, who was looking at us fixedly.

She was an old woman; there could be no doubt of that, from her wrinkled
face and her few straggling gray locks which appeared under her cap. But
one did not think of that when one saw her eyes, which were wonderfully
youthful, for then, one saw nothing but them. They were profound eyes,
of a deep, almost violet blue; the eyes of a child.

Suddenly the superintendent called out to her: "You have been with _la
Friezê_ again!"

The old woman did not reply, but shook with laughter, as she had done
just before, and then she ran off, giving the superintendent a look,
which said as plainly as words could have done: "Do you think I care a
fig for you?"

Those insulting words were clearly written in her face, and at the same
time I noticed that the old woman's eyes had utterly changed, for during
that short moment of bravado the childish eyes had become the eyes of a
monkey, of some ferocious, obstinate baboon.

That time, in spite of any dislike to question him further, I could not
help saying to him: "That is Babette, I suppose?"

"Yes," he replied, growing rather red, as if he guessed that I
understood the old woman's insulting looks.

"Is she the woman who is so precious?" I added, with a touch of irony,
which made him grow altogether crimson.

"That is she," he said, walking on quickly, so as to escape my further
questions.

But I was egged on by curiosity, and I made a direct appeal to our
host's complaisance. "I should like to see this _Friezê_," I said. "Who
is _Friezê_?"

He turned round and said: "Oh! nothing, nothing, he is not at all
interesting. What is the good of seeing him? It is not worth while."

And he ran downstairs, two at a time. He who was usually so delicate,
and so very careful to explain everything, was now in a hurry to get
finished, and our visit was cut short.

The next day I had to leave that part of the country, without hearing
anything more about Babette, but I came back about four months later,
when the shooting season began. I had not forgotten her during that
time, for nobody could ever forget her eyes, and so I was very glad to
have as my traveling companion on my three hours' diligence journey from
the station to my friend's house, a man who talked to me about her all
the time.

He was a young magistrate whom I had already met, and who had much
interested me by his wit and his close manner of observing things, and
by his singularly refined casuistry, and, above all, by the contrast
between his professional severity, and his tolerant philosophy.

But he never appeared so attractive to me as he did on that day, when he
told me the history of that mysterious Babette.

He had inquired into it, and had applied all his faculties as an
examining magistrate to it, for, like me, his visit to the asylum had
roused his curiosity. This is what he had learned and what he told me.

When she was ten years old, Babette had been violated by her own father,
and at thirteen she had been sent to the house of correction for
vagabondage and debauchery. From the time she was twenty until she was
forty she had been a servant in the neighborhood, frequently changing
her situation, and being nearly everywhere her employer's mistress, and
she had ruined several families without getting any money herself, or
without gaining any definite position. A shopkeeper had committed
suicide on her account, and a respectable young fellow had turned thief
and incendiary, and had finished at the hulks.

She had been married twice, and had twice been left a widow, and for ten
years, until she was fifty, she had been the only commodity in the
district, for pleasure, to which five villages came to amuse themselves
on holidays.

"She was very pretty, I suppose?"

"No; she never was that. It seems she was short, thin, with no bust or
hips, at her best, I am told, and nobody can remember that she was
pretty, even when she was young."

"Then how can you explain ...?"

"How?" the magistrate exclaimed. "Well! what about the eyes? You could
not have looked at them?"

"Yes, yes, you are right," I replied. "Those eyes explain many things,
certainly. They are the eyes of an innocent child."

"Ah!" he exclaimed again, enthusiastically, "Cleopatra, Diana of
Poiters, Ninon de L'Enclos, all the queens of love who were adored when
they were growing old, must have had eyes like hers. A woman who has
such eyes can never grow old. But if Babette lives to be a hundred, she
will always be loved as she has been, and as she is."

"As she is! Bah! By whom, pray?"

"By all the old men in the asylum, by all those who have preserved a
fiber that can be touched, a corner of their heart that can be inflamed,
or the least spark of desire left."

"Do you think so?"

"I am sure of it. And the superintendent loves her more than any of them
do."

"Impossible!"

"I would stake my head on it."

"Well, after all, it is possible, and even probable; it is even certain.
I now remember ..."

And again I saw the insulting, ferocious, familiar look which she had
given the superintendent.

"And who is _la Friezê_?" I asked the magistrate "I suppose you know
that also?"

"He is a retired butcher, who had both his legs frozen in the war of
1870, and whom she is very fond of. No doubt he is a cripple, with two
wooden legs, but still a vigorous man enough, in spite of his
fifty-three years. The loins of a Hercules and the face of a satyr. The
superintendent is quite jealous of him!"

I thought the matter over again, and it seemed very probable to me.
"Does she love _la Friezê_?"

"Yes; he is the chosen lover."

When we arrived at the host's house a short time afterwards, we were
surprised to find everybody in a terrible state of excitement. A crime
had been committed in the asylum; the gendarmes were there and our host
was with them, so we instantly joined them. _La Friezê_ had murdered the
superintendent, and they gave us the details, which were horrible. The
former butcher had hidden behind a door, and catching hold of the other,
had rolled onto the ground with him and bitten him in the throat,
tearing out his carotid, from which the blood spurted into the
murderer's face.

I saw him, _la Friezê_. His fat face, which had been badly washed, was
still blood-stained; he had a low forehead, square jaws, pointed ears,
sticking out from his head, and flat nostrils, like the muzzle of some
wild animal; but above all, I saw Babette.

She was smiling, and at that moment, her eyes had not their monkey-like
and ferocious expression, but they were pleading and tender, with all of
their sweetest childlike candor.

"You know," my host said to me in a low voice, "that the poor woman has
fallen into senile imbecility, and that is the cause of her looks, which
are so strange, considering the terrible sight she has seen.

"Do you think so?" the magistrate said. "You must remember that she is
not yet sixty, and I do not think that it is a case of senile
imbecility, but that she is quite conscious of the crime that has been
committed."

"Then why should she smile?"

"Because she is pleased at what she has done."

"Oh! no; you are really too subtle!"

The magistrate suddenly turned to Babette, and, looking at her steadily,
he said:

"I suppose you know what has happened, and why this crime was
committed?"

She left off smiling, and her pretty, childlike eyes became her
abominable monkey's eyes again, and then the answer was, suddenly to
pull up her petticoats and to show us the lower part of her person. Yes,
the magistrate had been quite right. That old woman had been a
Cleopatra, a Diana, a Ninon de L'Enclos, and the rest of her body had
remained like a child's, even more than her eyes. We were thunderstruck
at the sight.

"Pigs! Pigs!" _la Friezê_ shouted to us. "You also wanted to have
something to do with her!"

And I saw that actually the magistrate's face was pale and contracted,
and that his hands and lips trembled like those of a man caught in the
act of doing wrong.




SYMPATHY


He was going up the _Rue des Martyrs_ in a melancholy frame of mind, and
in a melancholy frame of mind she also was going up the _Rue des
Martyrs_. He was already old, nearly sixty, with a bald head under his
seedy, tall hat, a gray beard, half buried in a high shirt collar, with
dull eyes, an unpleasant mouth and yellow teeth.

She was past forty, with thin hair over her pads, and with a false
plait; her linen was doubtful in color, and she had evidently bought her
unfashionable dress at a _reach-me-down shop_. He was thin, while she
was chubby. He had been handsome, proud, ardent, full of
self-confidence, certain of his future, and seeming to hold in his hands
all the trumps with which to win the game on the green table of Parisian
life, while she had been pretty, sought after, fast, and in a fair way
to have horses and carriages, and to win the first prize on the turf of
gallantry, among the favorites of fortune.

At times, in his dark moments, he remembered the time when he had come
to Paris from the country, with a volume of poetry and plays in his
portmanteau, feeling a supreme contempt for all the writers who were
then in vogue, and sure of supplanting them. She often, when she awoke
in the morning to another day's unhappiness, remembered that happy time
when she had been launched onto the world, when she already saw that she
was more sought after than Marie G. or Sophie N. or any other woman of
that class, who had been her companions in vice, and whose lovers she
had stolen from them.

He had had a splendid start. Not, indeed, as a poet and dramatist, as he
had hoped at first, but thanks to a series of scandalous stories which
had made a sensation on the boulevards, so that after an action for
damages and several duels, he had become _our witty and brilliant
colleague who, etc., etc._

She had had her moments of extraordinary good luck, though she certainly
did not eclipse Marie P. or Camille L., whom men compared to Zenobia or
Ninon de l'Enclos, but still enough to cause her to be talked about in
the newspapers, and to cause a resolution at certain _tables-d'hòtes_ at
Montmarte. But one fine day, the newspaper in which _our brilliant and
witty colleague who_ ... used to write, became defunct, having been
killed by a much more cynical rival, thanks to the much more venomous
pen of a much more brilliant and witty colleague who .... Then, the
insults of the latter having become pure and simple mud-pelting, his
style soon became worn out, to the disgust of the public, and the
celebrated _Mr. What's his name_ had great difficulty in getting onto
some obscure paper, where he was transformed into the obscure
penny-a-liner _Machin_.

Now, one evening the quasi-rival of Marie X. and Camille L. had fallen
ill, and consequently into pecuniary difficulties, and the prostitute
_No-matter-who_ was now on the lookout for a dinner, and would have been
only too happy to get it at some _table-d'hòte_ at Montmarte. Machin had
had a return of ambition with regard to his poetry and his dramas, but
then, his verses of former days had lost their freshness, and his
youthful dramas appeared to him to be childish. He would have to write
others, and, by Jove! he felt himself capably of doing it, for he had
plenty of ideas and plans in his head, and he could easily demolish many
successful writers if he chose to try! But then, the difficulty was, how
to set about it, and to find the necessary leisure and time for thought.
He had his daily bread to gain, and something besides: his coffee, his
game of cards and other little requirements; and the incessant writing
article upon article barely sufficed for that, and so days and years
went by, and Machin was Machin still.

She also longed for former years, and surely it could not be so very
hard to find a lover to start her on her career once more, for many of
her female friends, who were not nearly so nice as she was, had
unearthed one, so why should not she be equally fortunate? But there,
her youth had gone and she had lost all her chances; other women had
their fancy men, and she had to take them on, every day at reduced
prices, so that she was reduced from taking up with any man she met, and
so day after day and months and years passed, and the prostitute
_No-matter-who_ had remained the prostitute _No-matter-who_.

Often, in a fit of despondency, he used to say to himself, thinking of
some one who had succeeded in life: "But, after all, I am cleverer than
that fellow." And she always said to herself, when she got up to her
miserable, daily round, when she thought of such and such a woman, who
was now settled in life: "In what respect is that woman better than I
am?"

And Machin, who was nearly sixty, and whose head was bald under his
shabby tall hat, and whose gray beard was half-buried in a high shirt
collar, who had dull eyes, an unpleasant mouth and yellow teeth, was
mad with his fellow men, while the prostitute _No-matter-who_, with
thin hair over her pads, and with a false plait, with her linen of a
doubtful color, and with her unfashionable dress, which she had
evidently bought at a _reach-me-down_ shop, was enraged with society.

Ah! Those miserable, dark hours, and the wretched awakenings! And that
evening he was more than usually wretched, as he had just lost all his
pay for the next month, that miserable screw which he earned so hardly
by almost editing the newspaper, for three hundred francs a month, in a
brothel.

And that evening she was in a state of semi-stupidity, as she had had
too many glasses of beer which a charitable female friend had given her,
and was almost afraid to go back to her room, as her landlord had told
her in the morning that unless she paid the fortnight's back rent that
she owed at the rate of a franc a day, he would turn her out of doors
and keep her things.

And this was the reason why they were both going up the _Rue des
Martyrs_ in a melancholy frame of mind. There was scarcely a soul in the
muddy streets; it was getting dark, and beginning to rain, and the
drains smelled horribly.

He passed her, and in a mechanical voice she said: "Will you not come
home with me, you handsome dark man?" "I have no money," he replied. But
she ran after him, and catching hold of his arm, she said: "Only a
franc; that is having it for nothing." And he turned round, looked at
her, and seeing that she must have been pretty, and that she was still
stout (and he was fond of fat women), he said: "Where do you live? Near
here?" "In the _Rue Lepic_." "Why! So do I." "Then that is all right, eh?
Come along, old fellow."

He felt in his pockets and pulled out all the money he found there,
which amounted to thirteen sous, and said: "That is all I have, upon my
honor!" "All right," she said; "come along."

And they continued their melancholy walk along the _Rue des Martyrs_,
side by side now, but without speaking, and without guessing that their
two existences harmonized and corresponded with each other, and that by
huddling up together, they would be merely accomplishing the acme of
their twin destinies.




THE DEBT


"Pst! Pst! Come with me, you handsome, dark fellow. I am very nice, as
you will see. Do come up. At any rate you will be able to warm yourself,
for I have a capital fire at home."

But nothing enticed the foot-passengers, neither being called a
handsome, dark fellow, which she applied quite impartially to old or fat
men also, nor the promise of pleasure which was emphasized by a
caressing ogle and smile, nor even the promise of a good fire, which was
so attractive in the bitter December wind. And tall Fanny continued her
useless walk, and the night advanced and foot-passengers grew scarcer.
In another hour the streets would be absolutely deserted, and unless she
could manage to pick up some belated drunken man, she would be obliged
to return home alone.

And yet, tall Fanny was a beautiful woman! With her head like a
_Bacchante_, and her body like a goddess, in all the full splendor of
her twenty-three years, she deserved something better than this
miserable pavement, where she could not even pick up the five francs
which she wanted for the requirements of the next day. But there! In
this infernal Paris, in this swarming crowd of competitors who all
jostled each other, courtesans, like artists, did not attain to eminence
until their later years. In that they resembled precious stones, as the
most valuable of them are those that have been set the oftenest.

And that was why tall Fanny, who was later to become one of the richest
and most brilliant stars of Parisian gallantry, was walking about the
streets on this bitter December night, without a half-penny in her
pocket, in spite of her head like a Bacchante, and her body like a
goddess, and in all the full splendor of her twenty-three years.

However, it was too late now to hope to meet anybody; there was not a
single foot passenger about; the street was decidedly empty, dull and
lifeless. Nothing was to be heard, except the whistling of sudden gusts
of wind, and nothing was to be seen, except the flickering gas lights,
which looked like dying butterflies. Well! The only thing was to return
home alone.

But suddenly, tall Fanny saw a human form standing on the pavement at
the next crossing, and whoever it was, seemed to be hesitating and
uncertain which way to go. The figure, which was very small and slight,
was wrapped in a long cloak, which reached almost to the ground.

"Perhaps he is a hunchback," the girl said to herself. "They like tall
women!" And she walked quickly towards him, from habit, already saying:
"_Pst! Pst!_ Come home with me, you handsome, dark fellow!" What luck!
The man did not go away, but came towards Fanny, although somewhat
timidly, while she went to meet him, repeating her wheedling words, so
as to reassure him. She went all the quicker, as she saw that he was
staggering with the zig-zag walk of a drunken man, and she thought to
herself: "When once they sit down, there is no possibility of getting
these beggars up again, and they want to go to sleep just where they
are. I only hope I shall get to him before he tumbles down."

Luckily she reached him, just in time to catch him in her arms, but as
soon as she had done so, she almost let him fall, in her astonishment.
It was neither a drunken man nor a hunchback, but a child of twelve or
thirteen in an overcoat, who was crying, and who said in a weak voice:
"I beg your pardon, madame, I beg your pardon. If you only knew how
hungry and cold I am! I beg your pardon! Oh! I am so cold."

"Poor child!" she said, putting her arms around him and kissing him.
And she carried him off, with a full, but happy heart, and while he
continued to sob, she said to him mechanically: "Don't be frightened, my
little man. You will see how nice I can be! And then, you can warm
yourself; I have a capital fire." But the fire was out; the room,
however, was warm, and the child said, as soon as they got in: "Oh! How
comfortable it is here! It is a great deal better than in the streets, I
can tell you! And I have been living in the streets for six days." He
began to cry again, and added: "I beg your pardon, madame. I have eaten
nothing for two days."

Tall Fanny opened her cupboard, which had glass doors. The middle shelf
held all her linen, and on the upper one there was a box of Albert
biscuits, a drop of brandy at the bottom of a bottle, and a few small
lumps of sugar in a cup. With that, and some water out of the bottle,
she concocted a sort of broth, which he swallowed ravenously, and when
he had done, he wished to tell his story, which he did, yawning all the
time.

His grandfather, (the only one of his relations whom he had ever known,)
who had been painter and decorator at Soisson, had died about a month
before; but before his death he had said to him: "When I am gone,
little man, you will find a letter to my brother, who is in business in
Paris, among my papers. You must take it to him, and he will be certain
to take care of you. However, in any case you must go to Paris, for you
have an aptitude for painting, and only there can you hope to become an
artist."

When the old man was dead (he died in the hospital), the child started,
dressed in an old coat of his grandfather's and with thirty francs,
which was all that the old man had left behind him in his pocket. But
when he got to Paris, there was nobody of the name at the address
mentioned on the letter. The dead man's brother had left there six
months before, and nobody knew where he had gone to, and so the child
was alone, and for a few days he managed to exist on what he had over,
after paying for his journey. After he had spent his last franc, he had
wandered about the streets, as he had no money with which to pay for a
bed, buying his bread by the half-penny-worth, until for the last
forty-eight hours, he had been without anything, absolutely without
anything.

He told her all this while he was half asleep, amidst sobs and yawns, so
that the girl did not venture to ask him any more questions, in spite of
her curiosity, but, on the contrary, cut him short, and undressed him
while she listened, and only interrupted him to kiss him, and to say to
him: "There, there, my poor child! You shall tell me the rest to-morrow.
You cannot go on now, so go to bed and have a good sleep." And as soon
as he had finished, she put him to bed, where he immediately fell into a
profound sleep. Then she undressed herself quickly, got into bed by his
side, so she might keep him warm, and went to sleep, crying to herself,
without exactly knowing why.

The next day they breakfasted and dined together at a common eating
house, on money that she had borrowed, and when it was dark, she said to
the child: "Wait for me here; I will come for you at closing time." She
came back sooner, however about ten o'clock. She had twelve francs,
which she gave him, telling him that she had _earned them_, and she
continued, with a laugh: "I feel that I shall make some more. I am in
luck this evening, and you have brought it me. Do not be impatient, but
have some milk-posset while you are waiting for me."

She kissed him before she went, and the kind girl felt real maternal
happiness as she went out. An hour later, however, she was _run in_ by
the police for having been found in a prohibited place, and off she
went, game for _St. Lazare_[8].

[Footnote 8: Prison in Paris.]

And the child, who was turned out by the proprietor at closing time, and
then driven from the furnished lodgings the next morning, where they
told him that _Tall Fanny was in quod_, began his wretched vagabond life
in the streets again, with only the twelve francs to depend on.

       *       *       *       *       *

Fifteen years afterwards the newspapers announced one morning that the
famous Fanny Clairet, the celebrated _horizontal_, whose caprices had
caused a revolution in high life, that queen of frail beauties for whom
three men had committed suicide, and so many others had ruined
themselves, that incomparable living statue, who had attracted all Paris
to the theater where she impersonated Venus in her transparent skin
tights, made of woven air and knitted nothing had been shut up in a
lunatic asylum. She had been seized suddenly; it was an attack of general
paralysis, and as her debts were enormous, when her estate had been
liquidated, she would have to end her days at _La Salpêtrière_.

"No, certainly not!" François Guerland, the painter, said to himself,
when he read the notice of it in the papers. "No, the great Fanny shall
certainly not end like that." For it was certainly she; there could be
no doubt about it. For a long time after she had shown him that act of
charity, which he could never forget, the child had tried to see his
benefactress again. But Paris is a very mysterious place, and he himself
had had many adventures before he grew up to be a man, and, eventually,
almost somebody! But he only found her in the distance; he had
recognized her at the theater, on the stage, or as she was getting into
her carriage, which was fit for a princess. And how could he approach
her then? Could he remind her of the time when her price was five
francs? No, assuredly not; and so he had followed her, thanked her, and
blessed her, from a distance.

But now the time had come for him to pay his debt, and he paid it.
Although tolerably well known as a painter with a future in store for
him, he was not rich. But what did that matter? He mortgaged that future
which people prophesied for him, and gave himself over, bound hand and
foot, to a picture dealer. Then he had the poor woman taken to an
excellent asylum, where she could have not only every care, but every
necessary comfort and even luxury. Alas! however, general paralysis
never forgives. Sometimes it releases its prey, like the cruel cat
releases the mouse, for a brief moment, only to lay hold of it again
later, more fiercely than ever. Fanny had that period of abatement in
her symptoms, and one morning the physician was able to say to the young
man: "You are anxious to remove her? Very well! But you will soon have
to bring her back, for the cure is only apparent, and her present state
will only endure for a month, at most, and then, only if the patient is
kept free from every excitement and excess!"

"And without that precaution?" Guerland asked him. "Then," the doctor
replied; "the final crisis will be all the nearer; that is all. But
whether it would be nearer or more remote, it will not be the less
fatal." "You are sure of that?" "Absolutely sure."

François Guerland took tall Fanny out of the asylum, installed her in
splendid apartments, and went to live with her there. She had grown old,
bloated, with white hair, and sometimes wandered in her mind, and she
did not recognize in him the poor little lad on whom she had taken pity
in the days gone by, nor did he remind her of the circumstance. He
allowed her to believe that she was adored by a rich young man, who was
passionately devoted to her. He was young, ardent, and caressing. Never
had a mistress such a lover, and for three weeks, before she relapsed
into the horrors of madness, which were happily soon terminated by her
death, she intoxicated herself with the ecstasy of his kisses, and thus
bade farewell to conscient life in an apotheosis of love.

The other day, at dessert, after an artists' dinner, they were speaking
of François Guerland, whose last picture at the _Salon_ had been so
deservedly praised. "Ah! yes," one of them said, with a contemptuous
voice and look. "That handsome fellow Guerland!" And another,
accentuating the insinuation, added boldly: "Yes, that is exactly it!
That handsome, too handsome fellow Guerland, the man who allows himself
to be kept by women."




AN ARTIST


"Bah! Monsieur," the old mountebank said to me; "it is a matter of
exercise and habit, that is all! Of course, one requires to be a little
gifted that way, and not to be butter-fingered, but what is chiefly
necessary is patience and daily practice for long, long years."

His modesty surprised me all the more, because of all those performers
who are generally infatuated with their own skill, he was the most
wonderfully clever one that I had ever met. Certainly, I had frequently
seen him, and everybody had seen him in some circus or other, or even in
traveling shows, performing the trick that consists of putting a man or
a woman with extended arms against a wooden target, and in throwing
knives between their fingers and round their head, from a distance.
There is nothing very extraordinary in it, after all, when one knows
_the tricks of the trade_, and that the knives are not the least sharp,
and stick into the wood at some distance from the flesh. It is the
rapidity of the throws, the glitter of the blades, the curve which the
handles make towards their living aim, which give an air of danger to an
exhibition that has become common-place, and only requires very middling
skill.

But here there was no trick and no deception, and no dust thrown into
the eyes. It was done in good earnest and in all sincerity. The knives
were as sharp as razors, and the old mountebank planted them close to
the flesh, exactly in the angle between the fingers, and surrounded the
head with a perfect halo of knives, and the neck with a collar, from
which nobody could have extricated himself without cutting his carotid
artery, while to increase the difficulty, the old fellow went through
the performance without seeing, his whole face being covered with a
close mask of thick oil-cloth.

Naturally, like other great artists, he was not understood by the crowd,
who confounded him with vulgar tricksters, and his mask only appeared to
them a trick the more, and a very common trick into the bargain. "He
must think us very stupid," they said. "How could he possibly aim
without having his eyes open?" And they thought there must be
imperceptible holes in the oil-cloth, a sort of lattice work concealed
in the material. It was useless for him to allow the public to examine
the mask for themselves before the exhibition began. It was all very
well that they could not discover any trick, but they were only all the
more convinced that they were being tricked. Did not the people know
that they ought to be tricked?

I had recognized a great artist in the old mountebank, and I was quite
sure that he was altogether incapable of any trickery, and I told him
so, while expressing my admiration to him; and he had been touched, both
by my admiration, and above all by the justice I had done him. Thus we
became good friends, and he explained to me, very modestly, the real
trick which the crowd cannot understand, the eternal trick compromised
in these simple words: "To be gifted by nature, and to practice every
day for long, long years."

He had been especially struck by the certainty which expressed, that any
trickery must become impossible to him. "Yes," he said to me; "quite
impossible! Impossible to a degree which you cannot imagine. If I were
to tell you! But where would be the use?"

His face clouded over, and his eyes filled with tears, but I did not
venture to force myself into his confidence. My looks, however, were no
doubt not so discreet as my silence, and begged him to speak, and so he
responded to their mute appeal. "After all," he said: "why should I not
tell you about it? You will understand me." And he added, with a look of
sudden ferocity: "She understood it at any rate!" "Who?" I asked. "My
unfaithful wife," he replied. "Ah! Monsieur, what an abominable creature
she was, if you only knew! Yes, she understood it too well, too well,
and that is why I hate her so; even more on that account, than for
having deceived me. For that is a natural fault, is it not, and may be
pardoned? But the other thing was a crime, a horrible crime."

The woman who stood against the wooden target every night with her arms
stretched out and her fingers extended, and whom the old mountebank
fitted with gloves and with a halo formed of his knives which were as
sharp as razors, and which he planted close to her, was his wife. She
might have been a woman of forty, and must have been fairly pretty, but
with perverse prettiness, an impudent mouth, a mouth that was at the
same time sensual and bad, with the lower lip too thick for the thin,
dry upper lip.

I had several times noticed that every time he planted a knife in the
board, she uttered a laugh, so low as scarcely to be heard, but which
was very significant when one heard it, for it was a hard and very
mocking laugh, but I had always attributed that sort of reply to an
artifice which the occasion required. It was intended, I thought, to
accentuate the danger she incurred and the contempt that she felt for
it, thanks to the sureness of the thrower's hands, and so I was very
surprised when the mountebank said to me:

"Have you observed her laugh, I say? Her evil laugh which makes fun of
me, and her cowardly laugh, which defies me? Yes, cowardly, because she
knows nothing can happen to her, nothing, in spite of all she deserves,
in spite of all that I ought to do to her, in spite of all that I want
to do to her." "What do you want to do?" "Confound it! Cannot you guess?
I want ... to kill her," "To kill her, because she has ..." "Because she
has deceived me? No, no, not that, I tell you again. I have forgiven her
for that, a long time ago, and I am too much accustomed to it! But the
worst of it is, that the first time I forgave her, when I told her that
all the same, I might some day have my revenge by cutting her throat, if
I chose, without seeming to do it on purpose, as if it were an accident,
mere awkwardness." "Oh! So you said that to her?" "Of course I did, and
I meant it. I thought I might be able to do it, for you see I had the
perfect right to do so. It was so simple, so easy, so tempting! Just
think! A mistake of less than half an inch, and her skin would be cut at
the neck where the jugular vein is, and the jugular would be severed. My
knives cut very well! And when once the jugular is cut ... good-by. The
blood would spurt out, and one, two, three red jets, and all would be
over; she would be dead, and I should have had my revenge!"

"That is true, certainly, horribly true!" "And without any risk to me,
eh? An accident, that is all; bad luck, one of those mistakes which
happen every day in our business. What could they accuse me of? Whoever
would think of accusing me, even? Homicide through imprudence, that
would be all! They would even pity me, rather than accuse me. 'My wife!
My poor wife!' I should say, sobbing. 'My wife, who is so necessary to
me, who is half the bread-winner, who takes part in my performance!' You
must acknowledge that I should be pitied!"

"Certainly; there is not the least doubt about that." "And you must
allow that such a revenge would be a very nice revenge, the best
possible revenge, which I could have with assured impunity?" "Evidently
that is so." "Very well! But when I told her so, just as I have told
you, and better still; threatening her, as I was mad with rage, and
ready to do the deed that I had dreamt of, on the spot; what do you
think she said?" "That you were a good fellow, and would certainly not
have the atrocious courage to ..."

"Tut! tut! tut! I am not such a good fellow as you think. I am not
frightened of blood, and that I have proved already, though it would be
useless to tell you how and where. But I had no necessity to prove it to
her, for she knows that I am capable of a good many things; even of
crime; especially of a crime." "And she was not frightened?" "No. She
merely replied that I could not do what I said; you understand." "That I
could not do it!" "Why not?" "Ah! Monsieur, so you do not understand? Why
do you not? Have I not explained to you by what constant, long, daily
practice I have learnt to plant my knives without seeing what I am
doing?" "Yes, well, what then?" "Well! Cannot you understand what she
has understood with such terrible results, that now my hand would no
longer obey me, if I wished to make a mistake as I threw?" "Is it
possible?" "Nothing is truer, I am sorry to say. For I really have
wished to have my revenge, which I have dreamt of, and which I thought
so easy. Exasperated by that bad woman's insolence and confidence in her
own safety, I have several times made up my mind to kill her, and have
exerted all my energy and all my skill, to make my knives fly aside when
I threw them to make a border round her neck. I tried with all my might
to make them deviate half an inch, just enough to cut her throat. I
wanted to, and I have never succeeded, never. And always the horrible
laugh makes fun of me, always, always."

And with a deluge of tears, with something like a roar of unsatiated and
muzzled rage, he ground his teeth as he wound up: "She knows me, the
jade; she is in the secret of my work, of my patience, of my trick,
routine, whatever you may call it! She lives in my innermost being, and
sees into it more closely than you do, or than I do myself. She knows
what a faultless machine I have become, the machine of which she makes
fun, the machine which is too well wound up, the machine which cannot
get out of order, and she knows that I _cannot_ make a mistake."




MADEMOISELLE FIFI


The Major, Graf von Farlsberg, the Prussian commandant, was reading his
newspaper, lying back in a great armchair, with his booted feet on the
beautiful marble fire-place, where his spurs had made two holes, which
grew deeper every day, during the three months that he had been in the
château of Urville.

A cup of coffee was smoking on a small, inlaid table, which was stained
with liquors, burnt by cigars, notched by the pen-knife of the
victorious officer, who occasionally would stop while sharpening a
pencil, to jot down figures, or to make a drawing on it, just as it took
his fancy.

When he had read his letters and the German newspapers, which his
baggage-master had brought him, he got up, and after throwing three or
four enormous pieces of green wood on to the fire, for those gentlemen
were gradually cutting down the park in order to keep themselves warm,
he went to the window. The rain was descending in torrents, a regular
Normandy rain, which looked as if it were being poured out by some
furious hand, a slanting rain, which was as thick as a curtain, and
which formed a kind of wall with oblique stripes, and which deluged
everything, a regular rain, such as one frequently experiences in the
neighborhood of Rouen, which is the watering-pot of France.

For a long time the officer looked at the sodden turf, and at the
swollen Andelle beyond it, which was overflowing its banks; and he was
drumming a waltz from the Rhine on the window-panes, with his fingers,
when a noise made him turn round; it was his second in command, Captain
Baron von Kelweinstein.

The major was a giant, with broad shoulders, and a long, fair-like
beard, which hung like a cloth on his chest. His whole, solemn person
suggested the idea of a military peacock, a peacock who was carrying his
tail spread out on to his breast. He had cold, gentle, blue eyes, and
the scar from a sword-cut, which he had received in the war with
Austria; he was said to be an honorable man, as well as a brave officer.

The captain, a short, red-faced man, who was tightly girthed in at the
waist, had his red hair cropped quite close to his head, and in certain
lights he almost looked as if he had been rubbed over with phosphorus.
He had lost two front teeth one night, though he could not quite
remember how, and this made him speak so that he could not always be
understood, and he had a bald patch on the top of his head, which made
him look rather like a monk, with a fringe of curly, bright, golden hair
round the circle of bare skin.

The commandant shook hands with him, and drank his cup of coffee (the
sixth that morning), at a draught, while he listened to his
subordinate's report of what had occurred; and then they both went to
the window, and declared that it was a very unpleasant outlook. The
major, who was a quiet man, with a wife at home, could accommodate
himself to everything; but the captain, who was rather fast, who was in
the habit of frequenting low resorts, and who was much given to women,
was mad at having been shut up for three months in the compulsory
chastity of that wretched hole.

There was a knock at the door, and when the commandant said: "_Come
in_," one of their automatic soldiers appeared, and by his mere presence
announced that breakfast was ready. In the dining-room, they met three
other officers of lower rank: a lieutenant, Otto von Grossling, and two
sub-lieutenants, Fritz Scheunebarg, and Baron von Eyrick, a very short,
fair-haired man, who was proud and brutal towards men, harsh towards
prisoners, and as violent as a rifle.

Since he had been in France, his comrades had called him nothing but
Mademoiselle Fifi. They had given him that nickname on account of his
dandified style and small waist, which looked as if he wore stays, of
his pale face, on which his budding moustache scarcely showed, and on
account of the habit he had acquired of employing the French expression,
_fi, fi donc_, which he pronounced with a slight whistle, when he wished
to express his sovereign contempt for persons or things.

The dining-room of the château was a magnificent long room, whose fine
old mirrors, that were cracked by pistol bullets, and whose Flemish
tapestry, which was cut to ribbons, and hanging in rags in places, from
sword-cuts, told too well what Mademoiselle Fifi's occupation was during
his spare time.

There were three family portraits on the walls: a steel-clad knight, a
cardinal, and a judge, who were all smoking long porcelain pipes, which
had been inserted into holes in the canvas, while a lady in a long,
pointed waist proudly exhibited an enormous moustache, drawn with a
piece of charcoal. The officers ate their breakfast almost in silence in
that mutilated room, which looked dull in the rain, and melancholy under
its vanquished appearance, although its old, oak floor had become as
solid as the stone floor of a public house.

When they had finished eating, and were smoking and drinking they began,
as usual, to talk about the dull life they were leading. The bottles of
brandy and of liquors passed from hand to hand, and all sat back in
their chairs and took repeated sips from their glasses, scarcely
removing the long, bent stems, which terminated in china bowls, that
were painted in a manner to delight a Hottentot, from their mouths.

As soon as their glasses were empty, they filled them again, with a
gesture of resigned weariness, but Mademoiselle Fifi emptied his every
minute, and a soldier immediately gave him another. They were enveloped
in a thick cloud of strong tobacco smoke, and they seemed to be sunk in
a state of drowsy, stupid intoxication, in that dull state of
drunkenness of men who have nothing to do, when suddenly, the baron sat
up, and said: "By heavens! This cannot go on; we must think of something
to do." And on hearing this, lieutenant Otto and sub-lieutenant Fritz,
who pre-eminently possessed the grave, heavy German countenance, said:
"What, captain?"

He thought for a few moments, and then replied: "What? Well, we must get
up some entertainment, if the commandant will allow us." "What sort of
an entertainment, captain?" the major asked, taking his pipe out of his
mouth. "I will arrange all that, commandant," the Baron said. "I will
send _Le Devoir_ to Rouen, who will bring us some ladies. I know where
they can be found. We will have supper here, as all the materials are at
hand, and, at least, we shall have a jolly evening."

Graf von Farlsberg shrugged his shoulders with a smile: "You must
surely be mad, my friend."

But all the other officers got up, ran round their chief, and said: "Let
the captain have his own way, commandant; it is terribly dull here." And
the major ended by yielding. "Very well," he replied, and the baron
immediately sent for _Le Devoir_. He was an old non-commissioned
officer, who had never been seen to smile, but who carried out all the
orders of his superiors to the letter, no matter what they might be. He
stood there, with an impassive face, while he received the baron's
instructions, and then went out, and five minutes later a large wagon
belonging to the military train, covered with a miller's till, galloped
off as fast as four horses could take it, under the pouring rain, and
the officers all seemed to awaken from their lethargy, their looks
brightened, and they began to talk.

Although it was raining as hard as ever, the major declared that it was
not so dull, and Lieutenant von Grossling said with conviction, that the
sky was clearing up, while Mademoiselle Fifi did not seem to be able to
keep in his place. He got up, and sat down again, and his bright eyes
seemed to be looking for something to destroy. Suddenly, looking at the
lady with the moustache, the young fellow pulled out his revolver, and
said: "You shall not see it." And without leaving his seat he aimed, and
with two successive bullets cut out both the eyes of the portrait.

"Let us make a mine!" he then exclaimed, and the conversation was
suddenly interrupted, as if they had found some fresh and powerful
subject of interest. The mine was his invention, his method of
destruction, and his favorite amusement.

When he left the château, the lawful owner, Count Fernand d'Amoys
d'Uville, had not had time to carry away or to hide anything, except the
plate, which had been stowed away in a hole made in one of the walls, so
that, as he was very rich and had good taste, the large drawing-room,
which opened into the dining-room, had looked like the gallery in a
museum, before his precipitate flight.

Expensive oil-paintings, water colors, and drawings hung against the
walls, while on the tables, on the hanging shelves, and in elegant glass
cupboards, there were a thousand knick-knacks; small vases, statuettes,
groups in Dresden china, and grotesque Chinese figures, old ivory, and
Venetian glass, which filled the large room with their precious and
fantastical array.

Scarcely anything was left now; not that the things had been stolen, for
the major would not have allowed that, but Mademoiselle Fifi _would have
a mine_, and on that occasion all the officers thoroughly enjoyed
themselves for five minutes. The little marquis went into the
drawing-room to get what he wanted, and he brought back a small,
delicate china teapot, which he filled with gunpowder, and carefully
introduced a piece of German tinder into it, through the spout. Then he
lighted it, and took this infernal machine into the next room; but he
came back immediately, and shut the door. The Germans all stood
expectantly, their faces full of childish, smiling curiosity, and as
soon as the explosion had shaken the château, they all rushed in at
once.

Mademoiselle Fifi, who got in first, clapped his hands in delight at the
sight of a terra-cotta Venus, whose head had been blown off, and each
picked up pieces of porcelain, and wondered at the strange shape of the
fragments, while the major was looking with a paternal eye at the large
drawing-room, which had been wrecked in such a Neronic fashion, and
which was strewn with the fragments of works of art. He went out first,
and said, with a smile: "He managed that very well!"

But there was such a cloud of smoke in the dining-room, mingled with the
tobacco smoke, that they could not breathe, so the commandant opened the
window, and all the officers, who had gone into the room for a glass of
cognac, went up to it.

The moist air blew into the room, and brought a sort of moist dust with
it, which powdered their beards. They looked at the tall trees, which
were dripping with the rain, at the broad valley, which was covered with
mist, and at the church spire in the distance, which rose up like a gray
point in the beating rain.

The bells had not rung since their arrival. That was the only resistance
which the invaders had met with in the neighborhood. The parish priest
had not refused to take in and to feed the Prussian soldiers; he had
several times even drunk a bottle of beer or claret with the hostile
commandant, who often employed him as a benevolent intermediary; but it
was no use to ask him for a single stroke of the bells; he would sooner
have allowed himself to be shot. That was his way of protesting against
the invasion, a peaceful and silent protest, the only one, he said,
which was suitable to a priest, who was a man of mildness and not of
blood; and everyone, for twenty-five miles around, praised Abbé
Chantavoine's firmness and heroism, in venturing to proclaim the public
morning by the obstinate silence of his church bells.

The whole village grew enthusiastic over his resistance, and was ready
to back up their pastor and to risk anything, as they looked upon that
silent protest as the safeguard of the national honor. It seemed to the
peasants that thus they had deserved better of their country than
Belfort and Strassburg, that they had set an equally valuable example,
and that the name of their little village would become immortalized by
that; but with that exception, they refused their Prussian conquerors
nothing.

The commandant and his officers laughed among themselves at that
inoffensive courage, and as the people in the whole country round showed
themselves obliging and compliant towards them, they willingly tolerated
their silent patriotism. Only little Baron Wilhelm would have liked to
have forced them to ring the bells. He was very angry at his superior's
politic compliance with the priest's scruples, and every day he begged
the commandant to allow him to sound "ding-dong, ding-dong," just once,
only just once, just by way of a joke. And he asked it like a wheedling
woman, in the tender voice of some mistress who wishes to obtain
something, but the commandant would not yield, and to console _herself_,
Mademoiselle Fifi made _a mine_ in the château.

The five men stood there together for some minutes, drawing in the moist
air, and at last, Lieutenant Fritz said, with a laugh: "The ladies will
certainly not have fine weather for their drive." Then they separated,
each to his own duties, while the captain had plenty to do in seeing
about the dinner.

When they met again, as it was growing dark, they began to laugh at
seeing each other as dandified and smart as on the day of a grand
review. The commandant's hair did not look so gray as it was in the
morning, and the captain had shaved, and had only kept his moustache
on, which made him look as if he had a streak of fire under his nose.

In spite of the rain, they left the window open, and one of them went to
listen from time to time, and at a quarter past six the baron said he
heard a rumbling in the distance. They all rushed down, and soon the
wagon drove up at a gallop with its four horses, which were splashed up
to their backs, steaming and panting, and five women got out at the
bottom of the steps, five handsome girls whom a comrade of the captain,
to whom _Le Devoir_ had taken his card, had selected with care.

They had not required much pressing, as they were sure of being well
paid, for they had got to know the Prussians in the three months during
which they had had to do with them, and so they resigned themselves to
the men as they did the state of affairs. "It is a part of our business,
so it must be done," they said as they drove along; no doubt to allay
some slight, secret scruples of conscience.

They went into the dining-room immediately, which looked still more
dismal in its dilapidated state, when it was lighted up; while the
table, covered with choice dishes, the beautiful china and glass, and
the plate, which had been found in the hole in the wall where its owner
had hidden it, gave the look of a bandit's inn, where they were supping
after committing a robbery, to the place. The captain was radiant, and
took hold of the women as if he were familiar with them; appraising
them, kissing them, sniffing them, valuing them for what they were worth
as _ladies of pleasure_; and when the three young men wanted to
appropriate one each, he opposed them authoritatively, reserving to
himself the right to apportion them justly, according to their several
ranks, so as not to wound the hierarchy. Therefore, so as to avoid all
discussion, jarring, and suspicion of partiality, he placed them all in
a line according to height, and addressing the tallest, he said in a
voice of command:

"What is your name?" "Pamela," she replied, raising her voice. And then
he said: "Number one, called Pamela, is adjudged to the commandant."
Then, having kissed Blondina, the second, as a sign of proprietorship,
he proffered stout Amanda to Lieutenant Otto, Eva, _the Tomato_, to
Sub-Lieutenant Fritz, and Rachel, the shortest of them all, a very
young, dark girl, with eyes as black as ink, a Jewess, whose snub nose
confirmed the rule which allots hooked noses to all her race, to the
youngest officer, frail Count Wilhelm d'Eyrick.

They were all pretty and plump, without any distinctive features, and
all were very much alike in look and person, from their daily practice
of love, and their life in common in houses of public accommodation.

The three younger men wished to carry off their women immediately, under
the pretext of finding them brushes and soap; but the captain wisely
opposed this, for he said they were quite fit to sit down to dinner, and
that those who went up would wish for a change when they came down, and
so would disturb the other couples, and his experience in such matters
carried the day. There were only many kisses; expectant kisses.

Suddenly Rachel choked, and began to cough until the tears came into her
eyes, while smoke came through her nostrils. Under pretense of kissing
her, the count had blown a whiff of tobacco into her mouth. She did not
fly into a rage, and did not say a word, but she looked at her possessor
with latent hatred in her dark eyes.

They sat down to dinner. The commandant seemed delighted; he made Pamela
sit on his right, and Blondina on his left, and said, as he unfolded his
table napkin: "That was a delightful idea of yours, Captain."

Lieutenants Otto and Fritz, who were as polite as if they had been with
fashionable ladies, rather intimidated their neighbors, but Baron von
Kelweinstein gave the reins to all his vicious propensities, beamed,
made obscene remarks, and seemed on fire with his crown of red hair. He
paid them compliments in French from the other side of the Rhine, and
sputtered out gallant remarks, only fit for a low pot-house, from
between his two broken teeth.

They did not understand him, however, and their intelligence did not
seem to be awakened until he uttered nasty words and broad expressions,
which were mangled by his accent. Then all began to laugh at once, like
mad women, and fell against each other, repeating the words, which the
baron then began to say all wrong, in order that he might have the
pleasure of hearing them say dirty things. They gave him as much of that
stuff as he wanted, for they were drunk after the first bottle of wine,
and, becoming themselves once more, and opening the door to their usual
habits, they kissed the moustaches on the right and left of them,
pinched their arms, uttered furious cries, drank out of every glass, and
sang French couplets, and bits of German songs, which they had picked up
in their daily intercourse with the enemy.

Soon the men themselves, intoxicated by that female flesh which was
displayed to their sight and touch, grew very amorous, shouted and
broke the plates and dishes, while the soldiers behind them waited on
them stolidly. The commandant was the only one who put any restraint
upon himself.

Mademoiselle Fifi had taken Rachel onto his knees, and, getting excited,
at one moment kissed the little black curls on her neck, inhaling the
pleasant warmth of her body, and all the savor of her person, through
the slight space there was between her dress and her skin, and at
another he pinched her furiously through the material, and made her
scream, for he was seized by a species of ferocity, and tormented by his
desire, to hurt her. He often held her close to him, as if to make her
part of himself, and put his lips in a long kiss on the Jewess's rosy
mouth, until she lost her breath; and at last he bit her until a stream
of blood ran down her chin and onto her bodice.

For the second time, she looked him full in the face, and as she bathed
the wound, she said: "You will have to pay for that!" But he merely
laughed a hard laugh, and said: "I will pay."

At dessert, champagne was served, and the commandant rose, and in the
same voice in which he would have drunk to the health of the Empress
Augusta, he drank: "To our ladies!" And a series of toasts began, toasts
worthy of the lowest soldiers and of drunkards, mingled with obscene
jokes, which were made still more brutal by their ignorance of the
language. They got up, one after another, trying to say something witty,
forcing themselves to be funny, and the women, who were so drunk that
they almost fell off their chairs, with vacant looks and clammy tongues,
applauded madly each time.

The captain, who no doubt wished to impart an appearance of gallantry to
the orgy, raised his glass again, and said: "To our victories over
hearts!" And thereupon Lieutenant Otto, who was a species of bear from
the Black Forest, jumped up, inflamed and saturated with drink, and
suddenly seized by an excess of alcoholic patriotism, he cried: "To our
victories over France!"

Drunk as they were, the women were silent, and Rachel turned round with
a shudder, and said: "Look here, I know some Frenchmen, in whose
presence you would not dare to say that." But the little count, still
holding her on his knee, began to laugh, for the wine had made him very
merry, and said: "Ha! ha! ha! I have never met any of them, myself. As
soon as we show ourselves, they run away!" The girl, who was in a
terrible rage, shouted into his face: "You are lying, you dirty
scoundrel!"

For a moment, he looked at her steadily with his bright eyes upon her,
like he had looked at the portrait before he destroyed it with revolver
bullets, and then he began to laugh: "Ah! yes, talk about them, my dear!
Should we be here now, if they were brave?" And getting excited, he
exclaimed: "We are the masters! France belongs to us!" She jumped off
his knees with a bound, and threw herself into her chair, while he rose,
held out his glass over the table, and repeated: "France and the French,
the woods, the fields, and the houses of France belong to us!"

The others, who were quite drunk, and who were suddenly seized by
military enthusiasm, the enthusiasm of brutes, seized their glasses, and
shouting: "Long live Prussia!" they emptied them at a draught.

The girls did not protest, for they were reduced to silence, and were
afraid. Even Rachel did not say a word, as she had no reply to make, and
then, the little marquis put his champagne glass, which had just been
refilled, onto the head of the Jewess, and exclaimed: "All the women in
France belong to us, also!"

At that, she got up so quickly that the glass upset and poured
the amber-colored wine onto her black hair as if to baptize her,
and broke into a hundred fragments, as it fell onto the floor. With
trembling lips, she defied the looks of the officer who was still
laughing, and she stammered out, in a voice choked with rage:
"That ... that ... that ... is not true for you shall certainly not
have any French women."

He sat down again, so as to laugh at his ease, and trying ineffectually
to speak in the Parisian accent, he said: "That is good, very good!
Then, what did you come here for, my dear?" She was thunderstruck, and
made no reply for a moment, for in her agitation she did not understand
him at first; but as soon as she grasped his meaning, she said to him
indignantly and vehemently: "I! I! I am not a woman; I am only a
strumpet, and that is all that Prussians want."

Almost before she had finished, he slapped her full in the face; but as
he was raising his hand again, as if he would strike her, she, almost
mad with passion, took up a small dessert knife with a silver blade from
the table, and stabbed him in the neck, just above the breast bone.
Something that he was going to say was cut short in his throat, and he
sat there, with his mouth half open, and a terrible look in his eyes.

All the officers shouted in horror, and leaped up tumultuously; but
throwing her chair between Lieutenant Otto's legs, who fell down at
full length, she ran to the window, opened it before they could seize
her, and jumped out into the night and pouring rain.

In two minutes, Mademoiselle Fifi was dead, and Fritz and Otto drew
their swords and wanted to kill the women, who threw themselves at their
feet and clung to their knees. With some difficulty the major stopped
the slaughter, and had the four terrified girls locked up in a room
under the care of two soldiers, and then he organized the pursuit of the
fugitive, as carefully as if they were about to engage in a skirmish,
feeling quite sure that she would be caught.

The table, which had been cleared immediately, now served as a bed on
which to lay him out, and the four officers stood at the windows, rigid
and sobered, with the stern faces of soldiers on duty, and tried to
pierce through the darkness of the night, amid the steady torrent of
rain. Suddenly, a shot was heard, and then another, a long way off; and
for four hours they heard from time to time near or distant reports and
rallying cries, strange words uttered as a call, in guttural voices.

In the morning they all returned. Two soldiers had been killed, and
three others wounded by their comrades in the ardor of that chase, and
in the confusion of such a nocturnal pursuit, but they had not caught
Rachel.

Then the inhabitants of the district were terrorized, the houses were
turned topsy-turvy, the country was scoured and beaten up, over and over
again, but the Jewess did not seem to have left a single trace of her
passage behind her.

When the general was told of it, he gave orders to hush up the affair,
so as not to set a bad example to the army, but he severely censured
the commandant, who in turned punished his inferiors. The general had
said: "One does not go to war in order to amuse oneself, and to caress
prostitutes." And Graf von Farlsberg, in his exasperation, made up his
mind to have his revenge on the district, but as he required a pretext
for showing severity, he sent for the priest, and ordered him to have
the bell tolled at the funeral of Baron von Eyrick.

Contrary to all expectation, the priest showed himself humble and most
respectful, and when Mademoiselle Fifi's body left the Château d'Ville
on its way to the cemetery, carried by soldiers, preceded, surrounded,
and followed by soldiers, who marched with loaded rifles, for the first
time, the bell sounded its funereal knell in a lively manner, as if a
friendly hand were caressing it. At night it sounded again, and the next
day, and every day; it rang as much as any one could desire. Sometimes
even, it would start at night, and sound gently through the darkness,
seized by strange joy, awakened, one could not tell why. All the
peasants in the neighborhood declared that it was bewitched, and nobody,
except the priest and the sacristan would now go near the church tower,
and they went because a poor girl was living there in grief and
solitude, and secretly nourished by those two men.

She remained there until the German troops departed, and then one
evening the priest borrowed the baker's cart, and himself drove his
prisoner to Rouen. When they got there, he embraced her, and she quickly
went back on foot to the establishment from which she had come, where
the proprietress, who thought that she was dead, was very glad to see
her.

A short time afterwards, a patriot who had no prejudices, and who liked
her because of her bold deed, and who afterwards loved her for herself,
married her, and made a lady of her, who was quite as good as many
others.




THE STORY OF A FARM-GIRL


PART I

As the weather was very fine, the people on the farm had dined more
speedily than usual, and had returned to the fields.

The female servant, Rose, remained alone in the large kitchen, where the
fire on the hearth was dying out, under the large boiler of hot water.
From time to time she took some water out of it, and slowly washed her
plates and dishes, stopping occasionally to look at the two streaks of
light which the sun threw onto the long table through the window, and
which showed the defects in the glass.

Three venturesome hens were picking up the crumbs under the chairs,
while the smell of the poultry yard, and the warmth from the cow-stall
came in through the half-open door, and a cock was heard crowing in the
distance.

When she had finished her work, wiped down the table, dusted the
mantel-piece, and put the plates onto the high dresser, close to the
wooden clock, with its enormous _tic-tac_, she drew a long breath, as
she felt rather oppressed, without exactly knowing why. She looked at
the black clay walls, the rafters that were blackened with smoke, from
which spiders' webs were hanging, amid pickled herrings and strings of
onions, and then she sat down, rather overcome by the stale emanations
which the floor, onto which so many things had been continually spilt,
gave out. With this, there was mingled the pungent smell of the pans of
milk, which were set out to raise the cream in the adjoining dairy.

She wanted to sew, as usual, but she did not feel strong enough for it,
and so she went to get a mouthful of fresh air at the door, which seemed
to do her good.

The fowls were lying on the smoking dung-hill; some of them were
scratching with one claw in search of worms, while the cock stood up
proudly among them. Every moment he selected one of them, and walked
round her with a slight cluck of amorous invitation. The hen got up in a
careless way as she received his attentions, and only supported herself
on her legs and spread out her wings; then she shook her feathers to
shake out the dust, and stretched herself out on the dung-hill again,
while he crowed, in sign of triumph, and the cocks in all the
neighboring farmyards replied to him, as if they were uttering amorous
challenges from farm to farm.

The girl looked at them without thinking, and then she raised her eyes
and was almost dazzled at the sight of the apple-trees in blossom, which
looked almost like powdered heads. But just then, a colt, full of life
and friskiness, galloped past her. Twice he jumped over the ditches, and
then stopped suddenly, as if surprised at being alone.

She also felt inclined to run; she felt inclined to move and to stretch
her limbs, and to repose in the warm, breathless air. She took a few
undecided steps, and closed her eyes, for she was seized with a feeling
of animal comfort; and then she went to look for the eggs in the hen
loft. There were thirteen of them, which she took in and put into the
store-room; but the smell from the kitchen incommoded her again, and
she went out to sit on the grass for a time.

The farmyard, which was surrounded by trees, seemed to be asleep. The
tall grass, among which the tall yellow dandelions rose up like streaks
of yellow light, was of a vivid green, fresh spring green. The
apple-trees threw their shade all round them, and the thatched houses,
on which the blue and yellow iris flowers with their swordlike leaves
grew, smoked as if the moisture of the stables and barns were coming
through the straw.

The girl went to the shed where the carts and traps were kept. Close to
it, in a ditch, there was a large patch of violets, whose scent was
perceptible all round, while beyond it, the open country could be seen
where the corn was growing, with clumps of trees in the distance, and
groups of laborers here and there, who looked as small as dolls, and
white horses like toys, who were pulling a child's cart, driven by a man
as tall as one's finger.

She took up a bundle of straw, and threw it into the ditch and sat down
upon it; then, not feeling comfortable, she undid it, spread it out and
lay down upon it at full length, on her back, with both arms under her
head, and her legs stretched out.

Gradually her eyes closed, and she was falling into a state of
delightful languor. She was, in fact, almost asleep, when she felt two
hands on her bosom, and then she sprang up at a bound. It was Jacques,
one of the farm laborers, a tall fellow from Picardy, who had been
making love to her for a long time. He had been looking after the sheep,
and seeing her lying down in the shade, he had come stealthily, and
holding his breath, with glistening eyes, and bits of straw in his hair.

He tried to kiss her, but she gave him a smack in the face, for she was
as strong as he, and he was shrewd enough to beg her pardon; so they sat
down side by side and talked amicably. They spoke about the favorable
weather, of their master, who was a good fellow, then of their
neighbors, of all the people in the country round, of themselves, of
their village, of their youthful days, of their recollections, of their
relations, who had left them for a long time, and it might be for ever.
She grew sad as she thought of it, while he, with one fixed idea in his
head, rubbed against her with a kind of a shiver, overcome by desire.

"I have not seen my mother for a long time," she said. "It is very hard
to be separated like that." And she directed her looks into the
distance, towards the village in the North, which she had left.

Suddenly, however, he seized her by the neck and kissed her again; but
she struck him so violently in the face with her clenched fist, that his
nose began to bleed, and he got up and laid his head against the stem of
a tree. When she saw that, she was sorry, and going up to him, she said:
"Have I hurt you?" He, however, only laughed. "No, it was a mere
nothing;" only, she had hit him right on the middle of the nose. "What a
devil!" he said, and he looked at her with admiration, for she had
inspired him with a feeling of respect and of a very different kind of
admiration, which was the beginning of real love for that tall, strong
wench.

When the bleeding had stopped, he proposed a walk, as he was afraid of
his neighbor's heavy hand, if they remained side by side like that much
longer; but she took his arm of her own accord, in the avenue, as if
they had been out for an evening walk, and said: "It is not nice of you
to despise me like that, Jacques." He protested, however. No, he did not
despise her. He was in love with her, that was all. "So you really want
to marry me?" she asked.

He hesitated, and then looked at her aside, while she looked straight
ahead of her. She had fat, red cheeks, a full, protuberant bust under
her muslin dress, thick, red lips, and her neck, which was almost bare,
was covered with small beads of perspiration. He felt a fresh access of
desire, and putting his lips to her ear, he murmured: "Yes, of course I
do."

Then she threw her arms round his neck, and kissed for such a long time
that they both of them lost their breath. From that moment the eternal
story of love began between them. They plagued one another in corners;
they met in the moonlight under a haystack, and gave each other bruises
on the legs with their heavy nailed boots. By degrees, however, Jacques
seemed to grow tired of her; he avoided her; scarcely spoke to her, and
did not try any longer to meet her alone, which made her sad and
anxious; and soon she found that she was pregnant.

At first, she was in a state of consternation, but then she got angry,
and her rage increased every day, because she could not meet him, as he
avoided her most carefully. At last, one night when everyone in the
farmhouse was asleep, she went out noiselessly in her petticoat, with
bare feet, crossed the yard and opened the door of the stable, where
Jacques was lying in a large box of straw, over his horses. He pretended
to snore when he heard her coming, but she knelt down by his side and
shook him until he sat up.

"What do you want?" he then asked her. And she, with clenched teeth, and
trembling with anger, replied: "I want ... I want you to marry me, as
you promised." But he only laughed, and replied: "Oh! If a man were to
marry all the girls with whom he has made a slip, he would have more
than enough to do."

Then she seized him by the throat, threw him onto his back, so that he
could not disengage himself from her, and half strangling him, she
shouted into his face: "I am in the family way! Do you hear? I am in the
family way?"

He gasped for breath, as he was nearly choked, and so they remained,
both of them, motionless and without speaking, in the dark silence,
which was only broken by the noise that a horse made as he pulled the
hay out of the manger, and then slowly chewed it.

When Jacques found that she was the stronger, he stammered out: "Very
well, I will marry you, as that is the case." But she did not believe
his promises. "It must be at once," she said. "You must have the banns
put up." "At once," he replied. "Swear solemnly that you will." He
hesitated for a few moments, and then said: "I swear it, by heaven."

Then she released her grasp, and went away, without another word.

She had no chance of speaking to him for several days, and as the stable
was now always locked at night, she was afraid to make any noise, for
fear of creating a scandal. One morning, however, she saw another man
come in at dinner-time, and so she said: "Has Jacques left?" "Yes," the
man replied; "I have got his place."

This made her tremble so violently that she could not take the saucepan
off the fire; and later when they were all at work, she went up into her
room and cried, burying her head in her bolster, so that she might not
be heard. During the day, however, she tried to obtain some information
without exciting any suspicions, but she was so overwhelmed by the
thoughts of her misfortune, that she fancied that all the people whom
she asked, laughed maliciously. All she learned, however, was, that he
had left the neighborhood altogether.


PART II

Then a cloud of constant misery began for her. She worked mechanically,
without thinking of what she was doing, with one fixed idea in her head:
"Suppose people were to know."

This continual feeling made her so incapable of reasoning, that she did
not even try to think of any means of avoiding the disgrace that she
knew must ensue, which was irreparable, and drawing nearer every day,
and which was as sure as death itself. She got up every morning long
before the others, and persistently tried to look at her figure in a
piece of broken looking-glass at which she did her hair, as she was very
anxious to know whether anybody would notice a change in her, and during
the day she stopped working every few minutes to look at herself from
top to toe, to see whether the size of her stomach did not make her
apron look too short.

The months went on, and she scarcely spoke now, and when she was asked
a question, she did not appear to understand, but she had a frightened
look, with haggard eyes and trembling hands, which made her master say
to her occasionally: "My poor girl, how stupid you have grown lately."

In church, she hid behind a pillar, and no longer ventured to go to
confession, as she feared to face the priest, to whom she attributed
superhuman powers, which enabled him to read people's consciences; and
at meal times, the looks of her fellow servants almost made her faint
with mental agony, and she was always fancying that she had been found
out by the cowherd, a precocious and cunning little lad, whose bright
eyes seemed always to be watching her.

One morning the postman brought her a letter, and as she had never
received one in her life before, she was so upset by it that she was
obliged to sit down. Perhaps it was from him? But as she could not read,
she sat anxious and trembling, with that piece of paper covered with ink
in her hand; after a time, however, she put it into her pocket, as she
did not venture to confide her secret to anyone. She often stopped in
her work to look at those lines written at regular intervals, and which
terminated in a signature, imagining vaguely that she would suddenly
discover their meaning, until at last, as she felt half mad with
impatience and anxiety, she went to the schoolmaster, who told her to
sit down, and read to her, as follows:

    MY DEAR DAUGHTER: I write to tell you that I am very ill. Our
    neighbor, Monsieur Dentu, begs you to come, if you can. For your
    affectionate mother,

    CESAIRE DENTU,
    DEPUTY MAYOR.

She did not say a word, and went away, but as soon as she was alone,
her legs gave way, and she fell down by the roadside, and remained there
till night.

When she got back, she told the farmer her trouble, who allowed her to
go home for as long as she wanted, and promised to have her work done by
a char-woman, and to take her back when she returned.

Her mother died soon after she got there, and the next day Rose gave
birth to a seven months' child, a miserable little skeleton, thin enough
to make anybody shudder, and which seemed to be suffering continually,
to judge from the painful manner in which it moved its poor little hands
about, which were as thin as a crab's legs, but it lived, for all that.
She said that she was married, but that she could not saddle herself
with the child, so she left it with some neighbors, who promised to take
great care of it, and she went back to the farm.

But then, in her heart, which had been wounded so long, there arose
something like brightness, an unknown love for that frail little
creature which she had left behind her, but there was fresh suffering in
that very love, suffering which she felt every hour and every minute,
because she was parted from her child. What pained her most, however,
was a mad longing to kiss it, to press it in her arms, to feel the
warmth of its little body against her skin. She could not sleep at
night; she thought of it the whole day long, and in the evening, when
her work was done, she used to sit in front of the fire and look at it
intently, like people do whose thoughts are far away.

They began to talk about her, and to tease her about her lover. They
asked her whether he was tall, handsome and rich. When was the wedding
to be, and the christening? And often she ran away, to cry by herself,
for these questions seemed to hurt her, like the prick of a pin, and in
order to forget their jokes, she began to work still more energetically,
and still thinking of her child, she sought for the means of saving up
money for it, and determined to work so that her master would be obliged
to raise her wages.

Then, by degrees, she almost monopolized the work, and persuaded him to
get rid of one servant girl, who had become useless since she had taken
to working like two; she economized in the bread, oil and candles, in
the corn, which they gave to the fowls too extravagantly, and in the
fodder for the horses and cattle, which was rather wasted. She was as
miserly about her master's money, as if it had been her own, and by dint
of making good bargains, of getting high prices for all their produce,
and by baffling the peasants' tricks when they offered anything for
sale, he at last entrusted her with buying and selling everything, with
the direction of all the laborers, and with the quantity of provisions
necessary for the household, so that in a short time she became
indispensable to him. She kept such a strict eye on everything about
her, that under her direction the farm prospered wonderfully, and for
five miles round people talked of "Master Vallin's servant," and the
farmer himself said everywhere: "That girl is worth more than her weight
in gold."

But time passed by, and her wages remained the same. Her hard work was
accepted as something that was due from every good servant, and as a
mere token of her good-will; and she began to think rather bitterly,
that if the farmer could put fifty or a hundred crowns extra into the
bank every month, thanks to her, she was still only earning her two
hundred francs a year, neither more nor less, and so she made up her
mind to ask for an increase of wages. She went to see the schoolmaster
three times about it, but when she got there, she spoke about something
else. She felt a kind of modesty in asking for money, as if it was
something disgraceful; but at last, one day, when the farmer was having
breakfast by himself in the kitchen, she said to him, with some
embarrassment, that she wished to speak to him particularly. He raised
his head in surprise, with both his hands on the table, holding his
knife, with its point in the air, in one, and a piece of bread in the
other, and he looked fixedly at the girl, who felt uncomfortable under
his gaze, but asked for a week's holiday, so that she might get away, as
she was not very well. He acceded to her request immediately, and then
added, in some embarrassment, himself:

"When you come back, I shall have something to say to you, myself."


PART III

The child was nearly eight months old, and she did not know it again. It
had grown rosy and chubby all over like a little bundle of living fat.
She threw herself onto it as if it had been some prey, and kissed it so
violently that it began to scream with terror, and then she began to cry
herself, because it did not know her, and stretched out its arms to its
nurse, as soon as it saw her. But the next day, it began to get used to
her, and laughed when it saw her, and she took it into the fields and
ran about excitedly with it, and sat down under the shade of the trees,
and then, for the first time in her life, she opened her heart to
somebody, and told him her troubles, how hard her work was, her
anxieties and her hopes, and she quite tired the child with the violence
of her caresses.

She took the greatest pleasure in handling it, in washing and dressing
it, for it seemed to her that all this was the confirmation of her
maternity, and she would look at it, almost feeling surprised that it
was hers, and she used to say to herself in a low voice, as she danced
it in her arms: "It is my baby, it is my baby."

She cried all the way home as she returned to the farm, and had scarcely
got in, before her master called her into his room, and she went,
feeling astonished and nervous, without knowing why.

"Sit down there," he said. She sat down, and for some moments they
remained side by side, in some embarrassment, with their arms hanging at
their sides, as if they did not know what to do with them, and looking
each other in the face, after the manner of peasants.

The farmer, a stout, jovial, obstinate man of forty-five, who had lost
two wives, evidently felt embarrassed, which was very unusual with him,
but at last he made up his mind, and began to speak vaguely, hesitating
a little, and looking out of the window as he talked. "How is it, Rose,"
he said, "that you have never thought of settling in life?" She grew as
pale as death, and seeing that she gave him no answer, he went on: "You
are a good, steady, active and economical girl, and a wife like you
would make a man's fortune."

She did not move, but looked frightened; she did not even try to
comprehend his meaning, for her thoughts were in a whirl, as if at the
approach of some great danger; so after waiting for a few seconds, he
went on: "You see, a farm without a mistress can never succeed, even
with a servant like you are." Then he stopped, for he did not know what
else to say, and Rose looked at him with the air of a person who thinks
that he is face to face with a murderer, and ready to flee at the
slightest movement he may make; but after waiting for about five
minutes, he asked her: "Well, will it suit you?" "Will what suit me,
master?" And he said, quickly: "Why, to marry me, by Jove!"

She jumped up, but fell back onto her chair as if she had been struck,
and there she remained motionless, like a person who is overwhelmed by
some great misfortune, but at last the farmer grew impatient, and said:
"Come, what more do you want?" She looked at him almost in terror; then
suddenly the tears came into her eyes, and she said twice, in a choking
voice: "I cannot, I cannot!" "Why not?" he asked. "Come, don't be silly;
I will give you until to-morrow to think it over."

And he hurried out of the room, very glad to have got the matter, which
had troubled him a good deal, over; for he had no doubt that she would
the next morning accept a proposal which she could never have expected,
and which would be a capital bargain for him, as he thus bound a woman
to himself who would certainly bring him more than if she had the best
dowry in the district.

Neither could there be any scruples about an unequal match between them,
for in the country everyone is very nearly equal; the farmer works just
like his laborers do, who frequently become masters in their turn, and
the female servants constantly become the mistresses of the
establishments, without its making any change in their lives or habits.

Rose did not go to bed that night. She threw herself, dressed as she
was, onto her bed, and she had not even the strength to cry left in her,
she was so thoroughly dumbfounded. She remained quite inert, scarcely
knowing that she had a body, and without being at all able to collect
her thoughts, though at moments she remembered some of what had
happened, and then she was frightened at the idea of what might happen.
Her terror increased, and every time the great kitchen clock struck the
hour she broke into a perspiration from grief. She lost her head, and
had the nightmare; her candle went out, and then she began to imagine
that someone had thrown a spell over her, like country people so often
fancy, and she felt a mad inclination to run away, to escape and to flee
before her misfortune, like a ship scuds before the wind.

An owl hooted, and she shivered, sat up, put her hands to her face, into
her hair, and all over her body, and then she went downstairs, as if she
were walking in her sleep. When she got into the yard, she stooped down,
so as not to be seen by any prowling scamp, for the moon, which was
setting, shed a bright light over the fields. Instead of opening the
gate, she scrambled over the fence, and as soon as she was outside, she
started off. She went on straight before her, with a quick, elastic
trot, and from time to time, she unconsciously uttered a piercing cry.
Her long shadow accompanied her, and now and then some night bird flew
over her head, while the dogs in the farmyards barked, as they heard her
pass; one even jumped over the ditch and followed her and tried to bite
her, but she turned round at it, and gave such a terrible yell, that the
frightened animal ran back and cowered in silence in its kennel.

The stars grew dim, and the birds began to twitter; day was breaking.
The girl was worn out and panting, and when the sun rose in the purple
sky, she stopped, for her swollen feet refused to go any further; but
she saw a pond in the distance, a large pond whose stagnant water looked
like blood under the reflection of this new day, and she limped on with
short steps and with her hand on her heart, in order to dip both her
legs in it. She sat down on a tuft of grass, took off her heavy shoes,
which were full of dust, pulled off her stockings and plunged her legs
into the still water, from which bubbles were rising here and there.

A feeling of delicious coolness pervaded her from head to foot, and
suddenly, while she was looking fixedly at the deep pool, she was seized
with giddiness, and with a mad longing to throw herself into it. All her
sufferings would be over in there; over for ever. She no longer thought
of her child; she only wanted peace, complete rest, and to sleep for
ever, and she got up with raised arms and took two steps forward. She
was in the water up to her thighs, and she was just about to throw
herself in, when sharp, pricking pains in her ankles made her jump back,
and she uttered a cry of despair, for, from her knees to the tips of her
feet, long, black leeches were sucking in her life blood, and were
swelling, as they adhered to her flesh. She did not dare to touch them,
and screamed with horror, so that her cries of despair attracted a
peasant, who was driving along at some distance, to the spot. He pulled
off the leeches one by one, applied herbs to the wounds, and drove the
girl to her master's farm, in his gig.

She was in bed for a fortnight, and as she was sitting outside the door
on the first morning that she got up, the farmer suddenly came and
planted himself before her. "Well," he said, "I suppose the affair is
settled, isn't it?" She did not reply at first, and then, as he remained
standing and looking at her intently with his piercing eyes, she said
with difficulty: "No, master, I cannot." But he immediately flew into a
rage.

"You cannot, girl; you cannot? I should just like to know the reason
why?" She began to cry, and repeated: "I cannot." He looked at her and
then exclaimed, angrily: "Then, I suppose you have a lover?" "Perhaps
that is it," she replied, trembling with shame.

The man got as red as a poppy, and stammered out in a rage: "Ah! So you
confess it, you slut! And pray, who is the fellow? Some penniless,
half-starved rag-a-muffin, without a roof to his head, I suppose? Who is
it, I say?" And as she gave him no answer, he continued: "Ah! So you
will not tell me. Then I will tell you; it is Jean Bauda?" "No, not he,"
she exclaimed. "Then it is Pierre Martin?" "Oh, no, master."

And he angrily mentioned all the young fellows in the neighborhood,
while she denied that he had hit upon the right one, and every moment
wiped her eyes with the corner of her big blue apron. But he still tried
to find it out, with his brutish obstinacy, and, as it were, scratched
her heart to discover her secret, just like a terrier scratches at a
hole, to try and get at the animal which he scents in it. Suddenly,
however, the man shouted: "By George! It is Jacques, the man who was
here last year. They used to say that you were always talking together,
and that you thought about getting married."

Rose was choking, and she grew scarlet, while her tears suddenly
stopped, and dried up on her cheeks, like drops of water on hot iron,
and she exclaimed: "No, it is not he, it is not he!" "Is that really a
fact?" the cunning peasant, who partly guessed the truth, asked; and she
replied, hastily: "I will swear it; I will swear it to you...." She
tried to think of something by which to swear, as she did not venture to
invoke sacred things, but he interrupted her: "At any rate, he used to
follow you into every corner, and devoured you with his eyes at meal
times. Did you ever give him your promise, eh?"

This time she looked her master straight in the face. "No, never, never;
I will solemnly swear to you, that if he were to come to-day and ask me
to marry him, I would have nothing to do with him." She spoke with such
an air of sincerity that the farmer hesitated, and then he continued, as
if speaking to himself: "What, then? You have not had _a misfortune_, as
they call it, or it would have been known, and as it has no
consequences, no girl would refuse her master on that account. There
must be something at the bottom of it, however."

She could say nothing; she had not the strength to speak, and he asked
her again: "You will not?" "I cannot, master," she said, with a sigh,
and he turned on his heel.

She thought she had got rid of him altogether, and spent the rest of
the day almost tranquilly, but as worn out as if she had been turning
the threshing machine all day, instead of the old white horse, and she
went to bed as soon as she could, and fell asleep immediately. In the
middle of the night, however, two hands touching the bed, woke her. She
trembled with fear, but she immediately recognized the farmer's voice,
when he said to her: "Don't be frightened, Rose; I have come to speak to
you." She was surprised at first, but when he tried to take liberties
with her, she understood what he wanted, and began to tremble violently,
as she felt quite alone in the darkness, still heavy from sleep, and
quite unprotected, by the side of that man, who stood near her. She
certainly did not consent, but she resisted carelessly, herself
struggling against that instinct which is always strong in simple
natures, and very imperfectly protected, by the undecided will of inert
and feeble natures. She turned her head now to the wall, and now towards
the room, in order to avoid the attentions which the farmer tried to
press on her, and her body writhed a little under the coverlet, as she
was weakened by the fatigue of the struggle, while he became brutal,
intoxicated by desire.

They lived together as man and wife, and one morning he said to her: "I
have put up our banns, and we will get married next month."

She did not reply, for what could she say? She did not resist, for what
could she do?


PART IV

She married him. She felt as if she were in a pit with inaccessible
edges, from which she could never get out, and all kinds of misfortunes
remained hanging over her head, like huge rocks, which would fall on the
first occasion. Her husband gave her the impression of a man whom she
had stolen, and who would find it out some day or other. And then she
thought of her child, who was the cause of her misfortunes, but who was
also the cause of all her happiness on earth, and whom she went to see
twice a year, though she came back more unhappy each time. But she
gradually grew accustomed to her life, her fears were allayed, her heart
was at rest, and she lived with an easier mind, though still with some
vague fear floating in her mind, and so years went on, and the child was
six. She was almost happy now, when suddenly the farmer's temper grew
very bad.

For two or three years he seemed to have been nursing some secret
anxiety, to be trouble by some care, some mental disturbance, which was
gradually increasing. He remained at table a long time after dinner,
with his head in his hands, sad and devoured by sorrow. He always spoke
hastily, sometimes even brutally, and it even seemed as if he bore a
grudge against his wife, for at times he answered her roughly, almost
angrily.

One day, when a neighbor's boy came for some eggs, and she spoke very
crossly to him, as she was very busy, her husband suddenly came in, and
said to her in his unpleasant voice: "If that were your own child you
would not treat him so." She was hurt, and did not reply, and then she
went back into the house, with all her grief awakened afresh, and at
dinner, the farmer neither spoke to her, nor looked at her, and he
seemed to hate her, to despise her, to know something about the affair
at last. In consequence, she lost her head, and did not venture to
remain alone with him after the meal was over, but she left the room
and hastened to the church.

It was getting dusk; the narrow nave was in total darkness, but she
heard footsteps in the choir, for the sacristan was preparing the
tabernacle lamp for the night. That spot of trembling light, which was
lost in the darkness of the arches, looked to Rose like her last hope,
and with her eyes fixed on it, she fell on her knees. The chain rattled
as the little lamp swung up into the air, and almost immediately the
small bell rang out the _Angelus_ through the increasing mist. She went
up to him, as he was going out.

"Is Monsieur le Curé at home?" she asked. "Of course he is; this is his
dinner-time." She trembled as she rang the bell of the parsonage. The
priest was just sitting down to dinner, and he made her sit down also.
"Yes, yes, I know all about it; your husband has mentioned the matter to
me that brings you here." The poor woman nearly fainted, and the priest
continued: "What do you want, my child?" And he hastily swallowed
several spoonfuls of soup, some of which dropped onto his greasy
cassock. But Rose did not venture to say anything more, and she got up
to go, but the priest said: "Courage...."

And she went out, and returned to the farm, without knowing what she was
doing. The farmer was waiting for her, as the laborers had gone away
during her absence, and she fell heavily at his feet, and shedding a
flood of tears, she said to him: "What have you got against me?"

He began to shout and to swear: "What have I got against you? That I
have no children by ----! When a man takes a wife, he does not want to be
left alone with her until the end of his days. That is what I have
against you. When a cow has no calves, she is not worth anything, and
when a woman has no children, she is also not worth anything."

She began to cry, and said: "It is not my fault! It is not my fault!" He
grew rather more gentle when he heard that, and added: "I do not say
that it is, but it is very annoying, all the same."


PART V

From that day forward, she had only one thought; to have a child,
another child; she confided her wish to everybody, and in consequence of
this, a neighbor told her of an infallible method. This was, to make her
husband a glass of water with a pinch of ashes in it, every evening. The
farmer consented to try it, but without success; so they said to each
other: "Perhaps there are some secret ways?" And they tried to find out.
They were told of a shepherd who lived ten leagues off, and so Vallin
one day drove off to consult him. The shepherd gave him a loaf on which
he had made some marks; it was kneaded up with herbs, and both of them
were to eat a piece of it before and after their mutual caresses: but
they ate the whole loaf without obtaining any results from it.

Next, a schoolmaster unveiled mysteries, and processes of love which
were unknown in the country, but, infallible, so he declared; but none
of them had the desired effect. Then the priest advised them to make a
pilgrimage to the shrine at Fécamp. Rose went with the crowd and
prostrated herself in the abbey, and mingling her prayers with the
coarse wishes of the peasants around her, she prayed that she might be
fruitful a second time; but it was in vain, and then she thought that
she was being punished for her first fault, and she was seized by
terrible grief. She was wasting away with sorrow; her husband was also
aging prematurely, and was wearing himself out in useless hopes.

Then war broke out between them; he called her names and beat her. They
quarreled all day long, and when they were in bed together at night he
flung insults and obscenities at her, panting with rage, until one
night, not being able to think of any means of making her suffer more,
he ordered her to get up and go and stand out of doors in the rain,
until daylight. As she did not obey him, he seized her by the neck, and
began to strike her in the face with his fists, but she said nothing,
and did not move. In his exasperation he knelt on her stomach, and with
clenched teeth, and mad with rage, he began to beat her. Then in her
despair she rebelled, and flinging him against the wall with a furious
gesture, she sat up, and in an altered voice, she hissed: "I have had a
child, I have had one! I had it by Jacques; you know Jacques well. He
promised to marry me, but he left this neighborhood without keeping his
word."

The man was thunderstruck, and could hardly speak, but at last he
stammered out: "What are you saying? What are you saying?" Then she
began to sob, and amidst her tears she said: "That was the reason why I
did not want to marry you. I could never tell you, for you would have
left me without any bread for my child. You have never had any children,
so you cannot understand, you cannot understand!"

He said again, mechanically, with increasing surprise: "You have a
child? You have a child?" "You had me by force, as I suppose you know?
I did not want to marry you," she said, still sobbing.

Then he got up, lit the candle, and began to walk up and down, with his
arms behind him. She was cowering on the bed and crying, and suddenly he
stopped in front of her, and said: "Then it is my fault that you have no
children?" She gave him no answer, and he began to walk up and down
again, and then, stopping again, he continued: "How old is your child?"
"Just six," she whispered. "Why did you not tell me about it?" he asked.
"How could I?" she replied, with a sigh.

He remained standing, motionless. "Come, get up," he said. She got up,
with some difficulty, and then, when she was standing on the floor, he
suddenly began to laugh, with his hearty laugh of his good days, and
seeing how surprised she was, he added: "Very well, we will go and fetch
the child, as you and I can have none together."

She was so scared that, if she had the strength, she would assuredly
have run away, but the farmer rubbed his hands and said: "I wanted to
adopt one, and now we have found one. I asked the Curé about an orphan,
some time ago."

Then, still laughing, he kissed his weeping and agitated wife on both
cheeks, and shouted out, as if she could not hear him: "Come along,
mother, we will go and see whether there is any soup left; I should not
mind a plateful."

She put on her petticoat, and they went down stairs; and while she was
kneeling in front of the fire-place, and lighting the fire under the
saucepan, he continued to walk up and down the kitchen in long strides,
and said:

"Well, I am really glad at this: I am not saying it for form's sake, but
I am glad, I am really very glad."




MAMMA STIRLING


Tall, slim, looking almost naked under her transparent dress of gauze,
which fell in straight folds as far as the gold bracelets on her slender
wrists, with languor in her rich voice, and something undulating and
feline in the rhythmical swing of her wrist and hips. Tatia Caroly was
singing one of those sweet Creole songs which call up some far distant
fairy-like country, and unknown caresses, for which the lips remain
always thirsting.

Footit, the clown, was leaning against the piano with a blackened face,
and with his mouth that looked like a red gash from a saber cut, and his
wide open eyes, he expressed feelings of the most extravagant emotion,
while some niggers squatted on the ground, and accompanied the orchestra
by strumming on some yellow, empty gourds.

But what made the woman and the children in the pantomime of the "New
Circus" laugh most, was the incessant quarrel between an enormous Danish
hound and a poor old supernumerary, who was blackened like a negro
minstrel, and dressed like a Mulatto woman. The dog was always annoying
him, followed him, snapped at his legs, and at his old wig, with his
sharp teeth, and tore his coat and his silk pocket-handkerchief,
whenever he could get hold of it, to pieces. And the man used positively
to allow himself to be molested and bitten, played his part with dull
resignation, with mechanical unconsciousness of a man who has come down
in the world, and who gains his livelihood as best he can, and who has
already endured worse things than that.

And when half turning round to the two club men, with whom she had just
been dining at the _Café Anglais_, as she used her large fan of black
feathers, in a pretty, supple pose, with the light falling on to the
nape of her fair neck, Noele de Fréjus exclaimed: "Wherever did they
unearth that horrible, grotesque figure?"

Lord Shelley, who was a pillar of the circuses, and who knew the
performances, the length of time the acrobats had been performing, and
the private history of all of them, whether clowns or circus riders,
replied: "Do not you recognize him, my dear?" "That lump of soot?... Are
you having a joke with me?"

"He certainly has very much changed, poor fellow, and not to his
advantage...Nevertheless James Stirling was a model of manly beauty and
elegance, and he led such an extravagant life that all sorts of stories
were rife about him, and many people declared that he was some
high-class adventurer...At any rate he thought no more of danger than he
did of smoking a good cigar.

"Do you not remember him at the Hippodrome, when he stood on the bare
back of a horse, and drove five other tandem fashion at full gallop and
without making a mistake, but checking them, or urging them on with his
thin, muscular hands, just as he pleased. And he seemed to be riveted on
to the horse, and kept on it, as if he had been held on by invisible
hands."

"Yes, I remember him...James Stirling," she said. "The circus rider,
James Stirling, on whose account that tall girl Caro, who was also a
circus rider, gave that old stager Blanche Taupin a cut right and left
across the face with her riding-whip, because she had tried to get him
from her...But what can have happened to him, to have brought him down
to such a position?"

Horrible, hairy monkeys, grimacing under their red and blue masks, had
invaded the arena, and with their hair hanging down on to their bare
shoulders, looking very funny with their long tails, their gray skin
tights and their velvet breeches, these female dancers twisted, jumped,
hopped and drew their lascivious and voluptuous circle more closely
round _Chocolat_, who shook the red skirts of his coat, rolled his eyes,
and showed his large, white teeth in a foolish smile, as if he were the
prey of irresistible desire, and yet terribly afraid of what might
happen, and Lord Shelley taking some grapes out of a basket that Noele
de Fréjus offered him, said: "It is not a very cheerful story, but then
true stories rarely are. At the time when he was still unknown, and when
he used to have to tighten his belt more frequently than he got enough
to eat and drink, James Stirling followed the destinies of a circus
which traveled with its vans from fair to fair and from place to place,
and fell in love with a gipsy columbine, who also formed part of this
wandering, half starved company.

"She was not twenty, and astonished the others by her rash boldness, her
absolute contempt for danger and obstacles, and her strange and adroit
strength. She charmed them also by a magic philter which came from her
hair, which was darker that a starless night, from her large, black,
coaxing, velvety eyes, that were concealed by the fringe of such long
lashes that they curled upwards, from her scented skin, that was as
soft as rice paper, and every touch of which was a suggestive and
tempting caress, from her firm, full, smiling, childlike mouth, which
uttered nothing but laughter, jokes, and love songs, and gave promise of
kisses.

"She rode bare-backed horses, without bit or bridle, stretched herself
out on their backs, as if on a bed, and mingled her disheveled hair with
their manes, swaying her supple body to their most impetuous movements,
and at other times standing almost on their shoulders or on the crupper,
while she juggled with looking-glasses, brass balls, knives that flashed
as they twirled rapidly round in the smoky light of the paraffin lamps
that were fastened to the tent poles.

"Her name was _Sacha_, that pretty Slavonic name which has such a sweet
and strange sound, and she gave herself to him entirely, because he was
handsome, strong, and spoke to women very gently, like one talks to
quite little children, who are so easily frightened, and made to cry,
and it was on her account that in a quarrel in Holland he knocked down
an Italian wild beast tamer, by a blow between the two eyes.

"They adored each other so, that they never thought of their poverty,
but redoubled their caresses when they had nothing to eat, not even an
unripe apple stolen from an orchard, nor a lump of bread which they had
begged on the road, of some charitable soul. And they embraced each
other more ardently still, when they were obliged to stop for the night
in the open country, and shivered in the old, badly-closed vans, and had
to be very sparing with the wood, and could not illuminate the snow with
those large bivouac fires, whose smoke rises in such fantastic, spiral
curls, and whose flames look like a spot of blood, at a distance, seen
through the mist.

"It was one of those Bohemian quasi-matrimonial arrangements, which are
often more enduring than ours, and in which a man and a woman do not
part for a mere caprice, a dream, or a piece of folly.

"But by-and-bye she was no longer good for anything, and had to give up
appearing on the program, for she was in the family way. James Stirling
worked for both, and thought that he should die of grief when she was
brought to bed, and after three days of intense suffering, died with her
hand in his.

"And now, all alone, crushed by grief, so ill that at times he thought
his heart had stopped, the circus rider lived for the child which the
dead woman had left him as a legacy. He bought a goat, so that it might
have pure milk, and brought it up with such infinite, deep, womanly
tenderness, that the child called him 'Mamma,' and in the circus they
nick-named him: _Mamma Stirling_.

"The boy was like his mother, and one might have said that he had
brought James luck, for he had made his mark, was receiving a good
income, and appeared in every performance. Well-made and agile, and
profiting by the lessons which he received at the circus, little
Stirling was soon fit to appear on the posters, and the night when he
made his first appearance at Franconi's, old Tom Pears, the clown, who
understood such matters better than most, exclaimed: 'My boy, you will
make your way, if you don't break your neck first!' 'I will take care of
that, Monsieur Pears,' the lad replied, with a careless shrug of the
shoulder.

"He was extremely daring, and when he threw himself from one trapeze to
the other, in a bold flight through the air, one might almost have
fancied in the silvery electric light, that he was some fabulous bird
with folded wings, and he executed all his feats with unequalled,
natural grace, without seeming to make an effort, but he unbraced his
limbs of steel, and condensed all his strength in one supreme, mad leap.
His chest, under its pearl-gray tights, hardly rose, and there was not a
drop of perspiration on his forehead, among the light curls which framed
it, like a golden halo.

"He had an almost disdainful manner of smiling at the public, as if he
had been working like an artist, who loves his profession, and who is
amused at danger, rather than like an acrobat who is paid to amuse
people after dinner; and during his most difficult feats he often
uttered a shrill cry, like that of some wild beast which defies the
sportsman, as it falls on its prey. But that sportsman is always on the
alert, and he is the _Invisible_, which closes the brightest eyes, and
the most youthful lips for ever.

"And in spite of oneself, one was excited by it, and could have wished,
from a superstitious instinct, that he would not continually have that
defiant cry, which seemed to give him pleasure, on his lips. James
Stirling watched over him like the mother of an actress does, who knows
that she is in some corner, and fears dangerous connections, in which
the strongest are entangled and ruined, and they lived together in a
boarding-house near the _Arc de Triumph_.

"It was a very simple apartment, with immense posters of every color and
in every language pinned to the wall, on which the name of Stirling
appeared in large, striking letters; photographs with inscriptions, and
tinsel wreaths, though there were two of real laurel, that were covered
with dust, and were gradually falling to pieces.

"One night, the young fellow for the first time did not come home, and
only returned in time for rehearsal, tired, with blue rims under his
eyes, his lips cracked with feverish heat, and with pale cheeks, but
with such a look of happiness, and such a peculiar light in his eyes,
that _Mamma Stirling_ felt as if he had been stabbed, and had not the
strength to find fault with him; and emboldened, radiant, longing to
give vent to the mad joy which filled his whole being, to express his
sensations, and recount his happiness, like a lad talking to his elder
brother, he told James Stirling his love intrigue from beginning to end,
and how much in love he was with the light-haired girl who had clasped
him in her arms, and initiated him into the pleasures of the flesh.

"It had been coming for some time, he said. She went to every
performance, and always occupied the same box. She used to send him
letters by the boxopener, letters which smelt like bunches of violets,
and always smiled at him when he came into the ring to bow to the
public, amidst the applause and recalls, and it was that smile, those
red, half-open lips, which seemed to promise so many caresses and
delicious words, that had attracted him like some strange, fragrant
fruit. Sometimes she came with gentlemen in evening dress, and with
gardenias in their button-holes, who seemed to bore her terribly, if not
to disgust her. And he was happy, although he had never yet spoken to
her, that she had not that smile for them which she had for him, and
that she appeared dull and sad, like somebody who is homesick, or who
has got a great longing for something.

"On other evenings, she used to be quite alone, with black pearls in the
lobes of her small ears, that were like pink shells, and got up and left
her box as soon as he had finished his performance on the trapeze ...
while the evening before she carried him off almost forcibly in her
carriage, without even giving him time to get rid of his tights, and the
india-rubber armlets that he wore on his wrists. Oh! that return to the
cold, in the semi-obscurity, through which the trembling light of the
street lamps shone, that warm, exciting clasp of her arms round him,
which imprisoned him, and by degrees drew him close to that warm body,
whose slightest throb and shiver he felt, as if she had been clothed in
impalpable gauze, and whose odor mounted to his head like fumes of
whisky, an odor in which there was something of everything, of the
animal, of the woman, of spices, of flowers, and something that he did
not yet know.

"And they were despotic, imperious, divine kisses, when she put her lips
to his and kept them there, as if to make him dream of an eternity of
bliss, sucking in his breath, hurting his lips, intoxicating,
overwhelming him with delight, exhausting him, while she held his head
in both her hands, as if in a vice. And the carriage rolled on at a
quick trot, through the silence of the snow, and they did not even hear
the noise of the wheels, which buried themselves in that white carpet,
as if it had been cotton-wool. Suddenly, however, tired and exhausted
she leant against him with closed eyes and moist lips, and then they
talked at random, like people who are not quite themselves, and who have
uncorked too many bottles of champagne on a benefit night.

"She questioned him, and laughed at his theatrical slang, wrapped her
otter-skin rug round his legs, and murmured: 'Come close to me, darling;
at any rate, you are not cold, I hope?' When they reached her pretty
little house, with old tapestry and delicate colored plush hangings,
they found supper waiting for them, and she amused herself by attending
to him herself, with the manners of a saucy waitress... And then there
were kisses, constant, insatiable, maddening kisses, and the lad
exclaimed, with glistening eyes, at the thoughts of future meetings: 'If
you only knew how pretty she is! And then, it is nicer than anything
else in the world to obey her, to do whatever she wants, and to allow
oneself to be loved as she wishes!'

"_Mamma Stirling_ was very uneasy, but resigned himself to the
inevitable, and seeing how infatuated the boy was, he took care not to
be too sharp with him, or to keep too tight a hand upon the reins. The
woman who had debauched the lad was a fast woman, and nothing else, and
after all, the old stager preferred that to one of those excitable women
who are as dangerous for a man as the plague, whereas a girl of that
sort can be taken and left again, and one does not risk one's heart at
the same time as one does one's skin, for a man knows what they are
worth. He was mistaken, however. Nelly d'Argine, she is married to a
Yankee, now, and has gone to New York with him, was one of those vicious
women whom a man can only wish his worst enemy to have, and she had
merely taken a fancy to the young fellow because she was bored to
death, and because her senses were roused like the embers which break
out again, when a fire is nearly out.

"Unfortunately, he had taken the matter seriously, and was very jealous,
and as suspicious as a deer, and had never imagined that this love
affair could come to an end, and proud, with his hot gipsy blood, he
wished to be the only lover, the only master who paid, and who could not
be shown the door, like a troublesome and importunate parasite.

"Stirling had saved some money, by dint of a hard struggle, and had
invested it in the Funds against a rainy day, when he should be too old
to work, and to gain a livelihood, and when he saw how madly in love his
son was, and how obstinate in his lamentable folly, he gave him all his
savings and deprived himself of his stout and gin, so that the boy might
have money to give to his mistress, and might continue to be happy, and
not have any cares, and so between them, they kept Nelly.

"Stirling's debts accumulated, and he mortgaged his salary for years in
advance to the usurers who haunt circuses as if they were gambling
hells, who are on the watch for passions, poverty and disappointments,
who keep plenty of ready stamped bill paper in their pockets, as well as
money, which they haggle over, coin by coin. But in spite of all this,
the lad sang, made a show, and amused himself, and used to say to him,
as he kissed him on both cheeks: 'How kind you are, in spite of
everything!'

"In a month's time, as he was becoming too exacting, he followed her,
questioned her and worried her with perpetual scenes, Nelly found that
she had had enough of her gymnast; he was a toy which she had done with
and worn out, and which was now only in her way, and only worth throwing
into the gutter. She was satiated with him, and became once more the
tranquil woman whom nothing can move, and who baits her ground quite
calmly, in order to find a husband and to make a fresh start. And so she
turned the young fellow out of doors, as if he had been some beggar
soliciting alms. He did not complain, however, and did not say anything
to _Mamma Stirling_, but worked as he had done in the past, and mastered
himself with superhuman energy, so as to hide the grief that was gnawing
at his heart and killing him, and the disenchantment with everything
that was making him sick of life.

"Some time afterwards, when there was to be a special display for the
officers, seeing Nelly d'Argine there in a box surrounded by her usual
admirers, appearing indifferent to everything that was going on, and not
even apparently noticing that he was performing, and was being heartily
applauded, he threw his trapeze forward as far as he could, at the end
of his performance, and exerting all his strength, and certain that he
should fall beyond the protecting net, he flung himself furiously into
space.

"A cry of horror resounded from one end of the house to the other, when
he was picked up disfigured, and with nearly every bone in his body
broken. The unfortunate young fellow was no longer breathing, his chest
was crushed in, and blood-stained froth was issuing from his lips, and
Nelly d'Argine made haste to leave the house with her friends, saying in
a very vexed voice:

"'It is very disgusting to come in the hopes of being amused, and to
witness an accident!'

"And _Mamma Stirling_, who was ruined and in utter despair, and who
cared for nothing more in this world, after that took to drinking, used
to get constantly drunk, and rolled from public-house to public-house,
and bar to bar, and as the worst glass of vitrol still cost a penny, he
became reduced to undertaking the part which you have seen, to dabble in
the water, to blacken himself, and to allow himself to be bitten.

"Ah! What a wretched thing life is for those who are kind, and who have
too much heart!"




LILIE LALA


"When I saw her for the first time," Louis d'Arandel said, with the look
of a man who was dreaming and trying to recollect something, "I thought
of some slow and yet passionate music that I once heard, though I do not
remember who was the composer, where there was a fair-haired woman,
whose hair was so silky, so golden, and so vibrating, that her lover had
it cut off after her death, and had the strings of the magic bow of a
violin made out of it, which afterwards emitted such superhuman
complaints and love melodies that they made its hearers love until
death.

"In her eyes there lay the mystery of deep waters, and one was lost in
them, drowned in them like in fathomless depths, and at the corners of
her mouth there lurked that despotic and merciless smile of those women
who do not fear that they may be conquered, who rule over men like cruel
queens, whose hearts remain as virgin as those of the strictest
Carmelite nuns, amidst a flood of lewdness.

"I have seen her angelic head, the bands of her hair, that looked like
plates of gold, her tall, graceful figure, her white, slender, childish
hands, in stained glass windows in churches. She suggested pictures of
the Annunciation, where the Archangel Gabriel descends with ultra-marine
colored wings, and Mary is sitting at her spinning-wheel and spinning,
while uttering pious prayers, and looks like the tall sister of the
white lilies that are growing beside her and the roses.

"When she went through the acacia alley, she appeared on some First
Night in the stage box at one of the theaters, nearly always alone, and
apparently feeling life a great burden, and angry because she could not
change the eternal, dull round of human enjoyment, nobody would have
believed that she went in for a fast life, and that in the annals of
gallantry she was catalogued under the strange name of _Lilie Lala_, and
that no man could rub against her without being irretrievably caught,
and spending his last half-penny on her.

"But with all that, Lilie had the voice of a schoolgirl, of some little
innocent creature who still uses a skipping-rope and wears short
dresses, and had that clear, innocent laugh which reminds people of
wedding bells. Sometimes, for fun, I would kneel down before her, like
before the statue of a saint, and clasping my hands as if in prayer, I
used to say: '_Sancta Lilie, ora pro nobis!_'

"One evening, at Biarritz, when the sky had the dull glare of intense
heat and the sea was of a sinister, inky black, and was swelling and
rolling enormous phosphorescent waves onto the beach at _Port-Vieux_,
Lilie, who was listless and strange, and was making holes in the sand
with the heels of her boots, suddenly exclaimed in one of those longings
for confidence which women sometimes feel, and for which they are sorry
as soon as their story is done:

"'Ah! My dear fellow, I do not deserve to be canonized, and my life is
rather a subject for a drama than a chapter from the Gospels or the
Golden Legend. As long as I can remember anything, I can remember
seeing myself wrapped in lace, being carried by a woman, and
continually being made a fuss with, like children are who have been
waited for for a long time, and who are spoiled more than others.

"'Those kisses were so nice, that I still seem to feel their sweetness,
and I preserve the remembrance of them in a little place in my heart,
like one preserves some lucky talisman in a reliquary. I still seem to
remember an indistinct landscape lost in the mist, outlines of trees
which frightened me as they creaked and groaned in the wind, and ponds
on which swans were sailing. And when I look in the glass for a long
time, merely for the sake of seeing myself, it seems to me as if I
recognized the woman who formerly used to kiss me most frequently, and
speak to me in a more loving voice than anyone else did. But what
happened afterwards?

"'Was I carried off, or sold to some strolling circus owner by a
dishonest servant? I do not know; I have never been able to find out;
but I remember that my whole childhood was spent in a circus which
traveled from fair to fair, and from place to place, with files of vans,
processions of animals, and noisy music.

"'I was as tiny as an insect, and they taught me difficult tricks, to
dance on the tight-rope and to perform on the slack-rope.... I was
beaten as if I had been a bit of plaster, and I more frequently had a
piece of dry bread to gnaw, than a slice of meat. But I remember that
one day I slipped under one of the vans, and stole a basin of soup as my
share, which one of the clowns was carefully making for his three
learned dogs.

"'I had neither friends nor relations; I was employed on the dirtiest
jobs, like the lowest stable-help, and I was tattooed with bruises and
scars. Of the whole company, however, the one who beat me the most, who
was the least sparing of his thumps, and who continually made me suffer,
as if it gave him pleasure, was the manager and proprietor, a kind of
old, vicious brute, whom everybody feared like the plague, a miser who
was continually complaining of the receipts, who hid away the crown
pieces in his mattress, invested his money in the funds, and cut down
the salary of everybody, as far as he could.

"'His name was Rapha Ginestous. Any other child, but myself, would have
succumbed to such constant martyrdom, but I grew up, and the more I
grew, the prettier and more desirable I became, so that when I was
fifteen, men were already beginning to write love letters to me, and to
throw bouquets to me in the arena. I felt also that all the men in the
company were watching me, and were coveting me as their prey; that their
lustful looks rested on my pink tights, and followed the graceful
outlines of my body when I was posing on the rope that stretched from
one end of the circus to the other, or jumped through the paper hoops at
full gallop.

"'They were no longer the same, and spoke to me in a totally different
tone of voice.... They tried to come into my dressing-room when I was
changing my dress, and Rapha Ginestous seemed to have lost his head, and
his heart throbbed audibly when he came near me. Yes, he had the
audacity to propose bargains to me which covered my cheeks and forehead
with blushes, and which filled me with disgust, and as I felt a fierce
hatred for him, and detested him with all my soul and all my strength,
as I wished to make him suffer the tortures which he had inflicted upon
me, a hundred fold, I used him as the target at which I was constantly
aiming.

"'Instinctively, I employed every cunning perfidy, every artful
coquetry, every lie, every artifice which upsets the strongest and most
skeptical, and places them at our mercy, like submissive animals. He
loved me, he really loved me, that lascivious goat, who had never seen
anything in a woman except a soft palliasse, and an instrument of
convenience and of forgetfulness. He loved me like old men do love, with
frenzy, with degrading transports, and with the prostration of his will
and of his strength.... I held him like in a leash, and did whatever I
liked with him.

"'I was much more manageress than he was manager, and the poor wretch
wasted away in vain hopes and in useless transports; he had not even
touched the tips of my fingers, and was reduced to bestowing his
caresses on my columbine shoes, my tights, and my wigs. And I care not
_that_ for it, you understand! Not the slightest familiarity, and he
began to grow thin over it, fell ill, and almost became idiotic. And
while he implored me, and promised to marry me, with his eyes full of
tears, I shouted with laughter; I reminded him of how he had beaten,
abused, and humiliated me, and had often made me wish for death. And as
soon as he left me, he emptied bottles of gin and whisky, and got so
abominably drunk that he rolled under the table, in order to drown his
sorrow and forget his desire.

"'He covered me with jewels, and tried everything he could to tempt me
to become his wife, and in spite of my inexperience in life, he
consulted me with regard to everything he undertook, and one evening,
after I had stroked his face with my hand, I persuaded him without any
difficulty, to make his will, by which he left me all his savings, and
the circus and everything belonging to it.

"'It was in the middle of winter, near Moscow; it snowed continually,
and one almost burned oneself at the stoves in trying to keep warm.
Rapha Ginestous had had supper brought into the largest van, which was
his, after the performance, and for hours we ate and drank. I was very
nice towards him, and filled his glass every moment; I even sat on his
knee and kissed him. And all his love, and the fumes of the alcohol of
the wine mounted to his head, and gradually made him so helplessly
intoxicated, that he fell from his chair inert, and as if he had been
struck by lightning, without opening his eyes or saying a word.

"'The rest of the troupe were asleep, and the lights were out in all the
little windows, and not a sound was to be heard, while the snow
continued to fall in large flakes. So having put out the petroleum lamp,
I opened the door, and taking the drunkard by the feet, as if he had
been a bale of goods, I threw him out into that white shroud.

"'The next morning the stiff and convulsed body of Rapha Ginestous was
picked up, and as everybody knew his inveterate drinking habits, no one
thought of instituting an inquiry, or of accusing me of a crime, and
thus I was avenged, and had a yearly income of nearly fifteen thousand
francs. What, after all, is the good of being honest, and of pardoning
our enemies, as the Gospel bids us?'

"And now," Louis d'Arandal said in conclusion, "suppose we go and have a
cocktail or two at the Casino, for I do not think that I have ever
talked so much in my life before."




MADAME TELLIER'S ESTABLISHMENT


PART I

They used to go there every evening at about eleven o'clock, just like
they went to the _café_. Six or eight of them used to meet there; they
were always the same set, not fast men, but respectable tradesmen, and
young men, in government or some other employ, and they used to drink
their Chartreuse, and tease the girls, or else they would talk seriously
with _Madame_, whom everybody respected, and then they used to go home
at twelve o'clock. The younger men would sometimes stay the night.

It was a small, comfortable house, at the corner of a street behind
Saint Etienne's church, and from the windows one could see the docks,
full of ships which were being unloaded, and the old, gray chapel,
dedicated to the Virgin, on the hill.

_Madame_, who came of a respectable family of peasant proprietors in the
department of the Eure, had taken up that profession, just as she would
have become a milliner or dressmaker. The prejudice against
prostitution, which is so violent and deeply rooted in large towns, does
not exist in the country places in Normandy. The peasant says:

"It is a paying business," and he sends his daughter to keep a harem of
fast girls, just as he would send her to keep a girls' school.

She had inherited the house from an old uncle, to whom it had belonged.
_Monsieur_ and _Madame_, who had formerly been inn-keepers near Yvetot,
had immediately sold their house, as they thought that the business at
Fécamp was more profitable, and they arrived one fine morning to assume
the direction of the enterprise, which was declining on account of the
absence of the proprietors, who were good people enough in their way,
and who soon made themselves liked by their staff and their neighbors.

_Monsieur_ died of apoplexy two years later, for as his new profession
kept him in idleness and without any exercise, he had grown excessively
stout, and his health had suffered. Since she had been a widow, all the
frequenters of the establishment had wanted her; but people said that
personally she was quite virtuous, and even the girls in the house could
not discover anything against her. She was tall, stout and affable, and
her complexion, which had become pale in the dimness of her house, the
shutters of which were scarcely ever opened, shone as if it had been
varnished. She had a fringe of curly, false hair, which gave her a
juvenile look, that contrasted strongly with the ripeness of her figure.
She was always smiling and cheerful, and was fond of a joke, but there
was a shade of reserve about her, which her new occupation had not quite
made her lose. Coarse words always shocked her, and when any young
fellow who had been badly brought up, called her establishment by its
right name, she was angry and disgusted.

In a word, she had a refined mind, and although she treated her women as
friends, yet she very frequently used to say that "she and they were not
made of the same stuff."

Sometimes during the week, she would hire a carriage and take some of
her girls into the country, where they used to enjoy themselves on the
grass by the side of the little river. They were like a lot of girls let
out from a school, and used to run races, and play childish games. They
had a cold dinner on the grass, and drank cider, and went home at night
with a delicious feeling of fatigue, and in the carriage they kissed
_Madame_ as their kind mother, who was full of goodness and
complaisance.

The house had two entrances. At the corner there was a sort of low
_café_, which sailors and the lower orders frequented at night, and she
had two girls whose special duty it was to attend to that part of the
business. With the assistance of the waiter, whose name was Frederic,
and who was a short, light-haired, beardless fellow, as strong as a
horse, they set the half bottles of wine and the jugs of beer on the
shaky marble tables, and then, sitting astride on the customer's knees,
they urged them to drink.

The three other girls (there were only five of them), formed a kind of
aristocracy, and were reserved for the company on the first floor,
unless they were wanted downstairs, and there was nobody on the first
floor. The saloon of Jupiter, where the tradesmen used to meet, was
papered in blue, and embellished with a large drawing representing Leda
stretched out under the swan. That room was reached by a winding
staircase, which ended at a narrow door opening onto the street, and
above it, all night long a little lamp burned, behind wire bars, such as
one still sees in some towns, at the foot of some shrine of a saint.

The house, which was old and damp, rather smelled of mildew. At times
there was an odor of Eau de Cologne in the passages, or a half open door
downstairs admitted the noise of the common men sitting and drinking
downstairs, to the first floor, much to the disgust of the gentlemen who
were there. _Madame_, who was familiar with those of her customers with
whom she was on friendly terms, did not leave the saloon, and took much
interest in what was going on in the town, and they regularly told her
all the news. Her serious conversation was a change from the ceaseless
chatter of the three women; it was a rest from the obscene jokes of
those stout individuals who every evening indulged in the common-place
debauchery of drinking a glass of liquor in company with prostitutes.

The names of the girls on the first floor were Fernande, Raphaele, and
Rosa, the _Jade_. As the staff was limited, _Madame_ had endeavored that
each member of it should be a pattern, an epitome of the feminine type,
so that every customer might find as nearly as possible, the realization
of his ideal. Fernande represented the handsome blonde; she was very
tall, rather fat, and lazy; a country girl, who could not get rid of her
freckles, and whose short, light, almost colorless, tow-like hair, which
was like combed-out flax, barely covered her head.

Raphaele, who came from Marseilles, played the indispensable part of the
handsome Jewess, and was thin, with high cheek bones, which were covered
with rouge, and her black hair, which was always covered with pomatum,
curled onto her forehead. Her eyes would have been handsome, if the
right one had not had a speck in it. Her Roman nose came down over a
square jaw, where two false upper teeth contrasted strangely with the
bad color of the rest.

Rosa, _the Jade_, was a little roll of fat, nearly all stomach, with
very short legs, and from morning till night she sang songs, which were
alternately indecent or sentimental, in a harsh voice, told silly,
interminable tales, and only stopped talking in order to eat, and left
off eating in order to talk; she was never still, and was active as a
squirrel, in spite of her fat, and of her short legs; and her laugh,
which was a torrent of shrill cries, resounded here and there,
ceaselessly, in a bedroom, in the loft, in the _café_, everywhere, and
about nothing.

The two women on the ground floor, Louise, who was nick-named _la
Cocotte_, and Flora, whom they called _Balançiore_, because she limped a
little, the former always dressed as Liberty, with a tri-colored sash,
and the other as a Spanish woman, with a string of copper coins which
jingled at every step she took, in her carrotty hair, looked like cooks
dressed up for the carnival. They were like all other women of the lower
orders, neither uglier nor better looking than they usually are.

They looked just like servants at an inn, and they were generally called
the two pumps.

A jealous peace, which was, however, very rarely disturbed, reigned
among these five women, thanks to _Madame's_ conciliatory wisdom, and to
her constant good humor, and the establishment, which was the only one
of the kind in the little town, was very much frequented. _Madame_ had
succeeded in giving it such a respectable appearance, she was so amiable
and obliging to everybody, her good heart was so well-known, that she
was treated with a certain amount of consideration. The regular
customers spent money on her, and were delighted when she was especially
friendly towards them, and when they met during the day, they would say:
"Until this evening, you know where," just like men say: "At the
_café_, after dinner." In a word, Madame Tellier's house was somewhere
to go to, and they very rarely missed their daily meetings there.

One evening, towards the end of May, the first arrival, Monsieur Poulin,
who was a timber merchant, and had been mayor, found the door shut. The
little lantern behind the grating was not alight; there was not a sound
in the house; everything seemed dead. He knocked, gently at first, but
then more loudly, but nobody answered the door. Then he went slowly up
the street, and when he got to the market place, he met Monsieur Duvert,
the gun maker, who was going to the same place, so they went back
together, but did not meet with any better success. But suddenly they
heard a loud noise close to them, and on going round the house, they saw
a number of English and French sailors, who were hammering at the closed
shutters of the _café_ with their fists.

The two tradesmen immediately made their escape, for fear of being
compromised, but a low _pst_ stopped them; it was Monsieur Tournevau,
the fish curer, who had recognized them, and was trying to attract their
attention. They told him what had happened, and he was all the more
vexed at it, as he, a married man, and father of a family, only went
there on Saturdays, _securítatis causa_, as he said, alluding to a
measure of sanitary policy, which his friend Doctor Borde had advised
him to observe. That was his regular evening, and now he should be
deprived of it for the whole week.

The three men went as far as the quay together, and on the way they met
young Monsieur Philippe, the banker's son, who frequented the place
regularly, and Monsieur Pinipesse, the collector, and they all returned
to the _Rue aux Juifs_ together, to make a last attempt. But the
exasperated sailors were besieging the house, throwing stones at the
shutters, and shouting, and the five first floor customers went away as
quickly as possible, and walked aimlessly about the streets.

Presently they met Monsieur Dupuis, the insurance agent, and then
Monsieur Vasse, the Judge of the Tribunal of Commerce, and they took a
long walk, going to the pier first of all, where they sat down in a row
on the granite parapet, and watched the rising tide, and when the
promenaders had sat there for some time, Monsieur Tournevau said:

"This is not very amusing!"

"Decidedly not," Monsieur Pinipesse replied, and they started off to
walk again.

After going through the street on the top of the hill, they returned
over the wooden bridge which crosses the Retenue, passed close to the
railway, and came out again onto the market place, when suddenly a
quarrel arose between Monsieur Pinipesse, the collector, and Monsieur
Tournevau, about an edible fungus which one of them declared he had
found in the neighborhood.

As they were out of temper already from annoyance, they would very
probably have come to blows, if the others had not interfered. Monsieur
Pinipesse went off furious, and soon another altercation arose between
the ex-major, Monsieur Poulin, and Monsieur Dupuis, the insurance agent,
on the subject of the tax collector's salary, and the profits which he
might make. Insulting remarks were freely passing between them, when a
torrent of formidable cries were heard, and the body of sailors, who
were tired of waiting so long outside a closed house, came into the
square. They were walking arm-in-arm, two and two, and formed a long
procession, and were shouting furiously. The landsmen went and hid
themselves under a gateway, and the yelling crew disappeared in the
direction of the abbey. For a long time they still heard the noise,
which diminished like a storm in the distance, and then silence was
restored, and Monsieur Poulin and Monsieur Dupuis, who were enraged with
each other, went in different directions, without wishing each other
good-bye.

The other four set off again, and instinctively went in the direction of
Madame Tellier's establishment, which was still closed, silent,
impenetrable. A quiet, but obstinate, drunken man was knocking at the
door of the café, and then stopped and called Frederic, the waiter, in a
low voice, but finding that he got no answer, he sat down on the
doorstep, and waited the course of events.

The others were just going to retire, when the noisy band of sailors
reappeared at the end of the street. The French sailors were shouting
the _Marseillaise_, and the Englishmen, _Rule Britannia_. There was a
general lurching against the wall, and then the drunken brutes went on
their way towards the quay, where a fight broke out between the two
nations, in the course of which an Englishman had his arm broken, and a
Frenchman his nose split.

The drunken man, who had stopped outside the door, was crying by that
time, like drunken men and children cry, when they are vexed, and the
others went away. By degrees, calm was restored in the noisy town; here
and there, at moments, the distant sound of voices could be heard, and
then died away in the distance.

One man, only, was still wandering about, Monsieur Tournevau, the fish
curer, who was vexed at having to wait until the next Saturday, and he
hoped for something to turn up, he did not know what; but he was
exasperated at the police for thus allowing an establishment of such
public utility, which they had under their control, to be thus closed.

He went back to it, and examined the walls, and trying to find out the
reason, and on the shutter he saw a notice stuck up, so he struck a wax
vesta, and read the following in a large, uneven hand; "Closed on
account of the Confirmation."

Then he went away, as he saw it was useless to remain, and left the
drunken man lying on the pavement fast asleep, outside that inhospitable
door.

The next day, all the regular customers, one after the other, found some
reason for going through the street with a bundle of papers under their
arm, to keep them in countenance, and with a furtive glance they all
read that mysterious notice:

_Closed on account of the Confirmation._


PART II

Madame had a brother, who was a carpenter in their native place,
Virville, in the department of Eure. When _Madame_ had still kept the
inn at Yvetot, she had stood god-mother to that brother's daughter, who
had received the name of Constance, Constance Rivet; she herself being a
Rivet on her father's side. The carpenter, who knew that his sister was
in a good position, did not lose sight of her, although they did not
meet often, for they were both kept at home by their occupations, and
lived a long way from each other. But as the girl was twelve years old,
and going to be confirmed, he seized that opportunity for writing to
his sister, and asking her to come and be present at the ceremony. Their
old parents were dead, and as she could not well refuse, she accepted
the invitation. Her brother, whose name was Joseph, hoped that by dint
of showing his sister attentions, she might be induced to make her will
in the girl's favor, as she had no children of her own.

His sister's occupation did not trouble his scruples in the least, and,
besides, nobody knew anything about it at Virville. When they spoke of
her, they only said: "Madame Tellier is living at Fécamp," which might
mean that she was living on her own private income. It was quite twenty
leagues from Fécamp to Virville, and for a peasant, twenty leagues on
land are more than is crossing the ocean to an educated person. The
people at Virville had never been further than Rouen, and nothing
attracted the people from Fécamp to a village of five hundred houses, in
the middle of a plain, and situated in another department, and, at any
rate, nothing was known about her business.

But the Confirmation was coming on, and _Madame_ was in great
embarrassment. She had no under mistress, and did not at all care to
leave her house, even for a day, for all the rivalries between the girls
upstairs and those downstairs, would infallibly break out; no doubt
Frederic would get drunk, and when he was in that state he would knock
anybody down for a mere word. At last, however, she made up her mind to
take them all with her, with the exception of the man, to whom she gave
a holiday, until the next day but one.

When she asked her brother, he made no objection, but undertook to put
them all up for a night, and so on Saturday morning, the eight o'clock
express carried off _Madame_ and her companions in a second-class
carriage. As far as Beuzeille, they were alone, and chattered like
magpies, but at that station a couple got in. The man, an old peasant,
dressed in a blue blouse with a folding collar, wide sleeves, tight at
the wrist, and ornamented with white embroidery, wore an old high hat
with long nap, held an enormous green umbrella in one hand, and a large
basket in the other, from which the heads of three frightened ducks
protruded. The woman, who sat stiffly in her rustic finery, had a face
like a fowl, and with a nose that was as pointed as a bill. She sat down
opposite her husband and did not stir, as she was startled at finding
herself in such smart company.

There was certainly an array of striking colors in the carriage.
_Madame_ was dressed in blue silk from head to foot, and had on over her
dress a dazzling red shawl of imitation French cashmere. Fernande was
panting in a Scottish plaid dress, whose bodice, which her companions
had laced as tight as they could, had forced up her falling bosom into a
double dome, that was continually heaving up and down, and which seemed
liquid beneath the material. Raphaele, with a bonnet covered with
feathers, so that it looked like a nest full of birds, had on a lilac
dress with gold spots on it, and there was something Oriental about it
that suited her Jewish face. Rosa, _the Jade_, had on a pink petticoat
with large flounces, and looked like a very fat child, an obese dwarf;
while the two pumps looked as if they had cut their dresses out of old,
flowered curtains, dating from the Restoration.

As soon as they were no longer alone in the compartment, the ladies put
on staid looks, and began to talk of subjects which might give the
others a high opinion of them. But at Bolbec a gentleman with light
whiskers, with a gold chain, and wearing two or three rings, got in, and
put several parcels wrapped in oil cloth into the net over his head. He
looked inclined for a joke, and a good-natured fellow.

"Are you ladies changing your quarters?" he said, and that question
embarrassed them all considerably. _Madame_, however, quickly recovered
her composure, and said sharply, to avenge the honor of her corps:

"I think you might try and be polite!"

He excused himself, and said: "I beg your pardon, I ought to have said
your nunnery."

As _Madame_ could not think of a retort, or perhaps as she thought
herself justified sufficiently, she gave him a dignified bow, and
pinched in her lips.

Then the gentleman, who was sitting between Rose _the Jade_ and the old
peasant, began to wink knowingly at the ducks, whose heads were sticking
out of the basket, and when he felt that he had fixed the attention of
his public, he began to tickle them under their bills, and spoke funnily
to them, to make the company smile.

"We have left our little pond, quack! quack! to make the acquaintance of
the little spit, qu-ack! qu-ack!"

The unfortunate creatures turned their necks away, to avoid his
caresses, and made desperate efforts to get out of their wicker prison,
and then, suddenly, all at once, uttered the most lamentable quacks of
distress. The women exploded with laughter. They leaned forward and
pushed each other, so as to see better; they were very much interested
in the ducks, and the gentleman redoubled his airs, his wits, and his
teasing.

Rosa joined in, and leaning over her neighbor's legs, she kissed the
three animals on the head, and immediately all the girls wanted to kiss
them in turn, and the gentleman took them onto his knees, made them jump
up and down and pinched them. The two peasants, who were even in greater
consternation than their poultry, rolled their eyes as if they were
possessed, without venturing to move, and their old wrinkled faces had
not a smile nor a movement.

Then the gentleman, who was a commercial traveler, offered the ladies
braces by way of a joke, and taking up one of his packages, he opened
it. It was a trick, for the parcel contained garters. There were blue
silk, pink silk, red silk, violet silk, mauve silk garters, and the
buckles were made of two gilt metal Cupids, embracing each other. The
girls uttered exclamations of delight and looked at them with that
gravity which is natural to a woman when she is hankering after a
bargain. They consulted one another by their looks or in a whisper, and
replied in the same manner, and _Madame_ was longingly handling a pair
of orange garters that were broader and more imposing looking than the
rest; really fit for the mistress of such an establishment.

The gentleman waited, for he was nourishing an idea.

"Come, my kittens," he said, "you must try them on."

There was a torrent of exclamations, and they squeezed their petticoats
between their legs, as if they thought he was going to ravish them, but
he quietly waited his time, and said: "Well, if you will not, I shall
pack them up again."

And he added cunningly: "I offer any pair they like, to those who will
try them on."

But they would not, and sat up very straight, and looked dignified.

But the two pumps looked so distressed that he renewed the offer to
them, and Flora especially visibly hesitated, and he possessed her:
"Come, my dear, a little courage! Just look at that lilac pair; it will
suit your dress admirably ..."

That decided her, and pulling up her dress she showed a thick leg fit
for a milk-maid, in a badly-fitting, coarse stocking. The commercial
traveler stooped down and fastened the garter below the knee first of
all and then above it; and he tickled the girl gently, which made her
scream and jump. When he had done, he gave her the lilac pair, and
asked: "Who next?"

"I! I!" they all shouted at once, and he began on Rosa _the Jade_, who
uncovered a shapeless, round thing without any ankle, a regular "sausage
of a leg," as Raphaele used to say.

The commercial traveler complimented Fernande, and grew quite
enthusiastic over her powerful columns.

The thin tibias of the handsome Jewess met less success, and Louise
Cocote, by way of a joke, put her petticoats over his head, so that
_Madame_ was obliged to interfere to check such unseemly behavior.

Lastly, _Madame_ herself put out her leg, a handsome, muscular, Norman
leg, and in his surprise and pleasure, the commercial traveler gallantly
took off his hat to salute that master calf, like a true French
cavalier.

The two peasants, who were speechless from surprise, looked aside, out
of the corners of their eyes, and they looked so exactly like fowls that
the man with the light whiskers, when he sat up, said _co--co--ri--co_,
under their very noses, and that gave rise to another storm of
amusement.

The old people got out at Motteville, with their basket, their ducks,
and their umbrella, and they heard the woman say to her husband, as they
went away:

"They are bad women, who are off to that cursed place Paris."

The funny commercial traveler himself got out at Rouen, after behaving
so coarsely, that _Madame_ was obliged sharply to put him into his
right place, and she added, as a moral: "This will teach us not to talk
to the first comer."

At Oissel they changed trains, and at a little station further on,
Monsieur Joseph Rivet was waiting for them with a large cart and a
number of chairs in it, which was drawn by a white horse.

The carpenter politely kissed all the ladies, and then helped them into
his conveyance.

Three of them sat on three chairs at the back, Raphaele, _Madame_ and
her brother on the three chairs in front, and Rosa, who had no seat,
settled herself as comfortably as she could on tall Fernande's knees,
and then they set off.

But the horse's jerky trot shook the cart so terribly that the chairs
began to dance, and threw the travelers into the air, to the right and
to the left, as if they had been dancing puppets, which made them make
horrible grimaces and screams, which, however, were cut short by another
jolt of the cart.

They clung onto the sides of the vehicle, their bonnets fell onto their
backs, their noses on their shoulders, and the white horse went on
stretching out his head, and holding out his tail quite straight, a
little, hairless rat's tail, with which he whisked his buttocks from
time to time.

Joseph Rivet, with one leg on the shafts and the other bent under him,
held out the reins with his elbows very high, and he kept uttering a
kind of chuckling sound, which made the horse prick up its ears and go
faster.

The green country extended on either side of the road, and here and
there the colza in flower presented a waving expanse of yellow, from
which there arose a strong, wholesome, sweet and penetrating smell,
which the wind carried to some distance.

The cornflowers showed their little blue heads among the rye, and the
women wanted to pick them, but Monsieur Rivet refused to stop.

Then sometimes a whole field appeared to be covered with blood, so
thickly were the poppies growing, and the cart, which looked as if it
were filled with flowers of more brilliant hue, drove on through the
fields colored with wild flowers, and disappeared behind the trees of a
farm, only to reappear and to go on again through the yellow or green
standing crops, which were studded with red or blue.

One o'clock struck as they drove up to the carpenter's door. They were
tired out, and pale with hunger, as they had eaten nothing since they
left home, and Madame Rivet ran out, and made them alight, one after
another, and kissed them as soon as they were on the ground, and she
seemed as if she would never tire of kissing her sister-in-law, whom she
apparently wanted to monopolize. They had lunch in the workshop, which
had been cleared out for the next day's dinner.

A capital omelette, followed by boiled chitterlings, and washed down by
good, sharp cider, made them all feel comfortable.

Rivet had taken a glass so that he might hob-nob with them, and his wife
cooked, waited on them, brought in the dishes, took them out, and asked
all of them in a whisper whether they had everything they wanted. A
number of boards standing against the walls, and heaps of shavings that
had been swept into the corners, gave out a smell of planed wood, or
carpentering, that resinous odor which penetrates the lungs.

They wanted to see the little girl, but she had gone to church, and
would not be back until evening, so they all went out for a stroll in
the country.

It was a small village, through which the high road passed. Ten or a
dozen houses on either side of the single street, were inhabited by the
butcher, the grocer, the carpenter, the inn-keeper, the shoemaker and
the baker.

The church was at the end of the street, and was surrounded by a small
churchyard, and four enormous lime-trees, which stood just outside the
porch, shaded it completely. It was built of flint, in no particular
style, and had a slated steeple. When you got past it, you were in the
open country again, which was broken here and there by clumps of trees
which hid the homestead.

Rivet had given his arm to his sister, out of politeness, although he
was in his working clothes, and was walking with her majestically. His
wife, who was overwhelmed by Raphaele's gold-striped dress, was walking
between her and Fernande, and round-about Rosa was trotting behind with
Louise Cocote and Flora, the see-saw, who was limping along, quite
tired out.

The inhabitants came to their doors, the children left off playing, and
a window curtain would be raised, so as to show a muslin cap, while an
old woman with a crutch, and who was almost blind, crossed herself as if
it were a religious procession, and they all looked for a long time
after those handsome ladies from the town, who had come so far to be
present at the confirmation of Joseph Rivet's little girl, and the
carpenter rose very much in the public estimation.

As they passed the church, they heard some children singing; little
shrill voices were singing a hymn, but _Madame_ would not let them go
in, for fear of disturbing the little cherubs.

After a walk, during which Joseph Rivet enumerated the principal landed
proprietors, spoke about the yield of the land, and productiveness of
the cows and sheep, he took his herd of women home and installed them in
his house, and as it was very small, they had put them into the rooms,
two and two.

Just for once, Rivet would sleep in the workshop on the shavings; his
wife was going to share her bed with her sister-in-law, and Fernande and
Raphaele were to sleep together in the next room. Louise and Flora were
put into the kitchen, where they had a mattress on the floor, and Rosa
had a little dark cupboard at the top of the stairs to herself, close to
the loft, where the candidate for confirmation was to sleep.

When the girl came in, she was overwhelmed with kisses; all the women
wished to caress her, with that need of tender expansion, that habit of
professional wheedling, which had made them kiss the ducks in the
railway carriage.

They all of them took her onto their laps, stroked her soft, light
hair, and pressed her in their arms with vehement and spontaneous
outbursts of affection, and the child, who was very good and religious,
bore it all patiently.

As the day had been a fatiguing one for every body, they all went to bed
soon after dinner. The whole village was wrapped in that perfect
stillness of the country, which is almost like a religious silence, and
the girls, who were accustomed to the noisy evenings of their
establishment, felt rather impressed by the perfect repose of the
sleeping village, and they shivered, not with cold, but with those
little shivers of solitude which come over uneasy and troubled hearts.

As soon as they were in bed, two and two together, they clasped each
other in their arms, as if to protect themselves against this feeling of
the calm and profound slumber of the earth. But Rosa _the Jade_, who
was alone in her little dark cupboard, felt a vague and painful emotion
come over her.

She was tossing about in bed, unable to get to sleep, when she heard the
faint sobs of a crying child close to her head through the partition.
She was frightened, and called out, and was answered by a weak voice,
broken by sobs. It was the little girl, who was always used to sleeping
in her mother's room, and who was frightened in her small attic.

Rosa was delighted, got up softly so as not to awaken anyone, and went
and fetched the child. She took her into her warm bed, kissed her and
pressed her to her bosom, cossetted her, lavished exaggerated
manifestations of tenderness on her, and at last grew calmer herself and
went to sleep. And till morning, the candidate for confirmation slept
with her head on the prostitute's naked bosom.

At five o'clock, the little church bell ringing the _Angelus_, woke the
women up, who usually slept the whole morning long.

The peasants were up already, and the women went busily from house to
house, carefully bringing short, starched, muslin dresses in
band--boxes, or very long wax tapers, with a bow of silk fringed with
gold in the middle, and with dents in the wax for the fingers.

The sun was already high in the blue sky, which still had a rosy tint
towards the horizon, like a faint trace of dawn, remaining. Families of
fowls were walking about outside houses, and here and there a black
cock, with a glistening breast, raised his head, which was crowned by
his red comb, flapped his wings, and uttered his shrill crow, which the
other cocks repeated.

Vehicles of all sorts came from neighboring parishes, and discharged
tall, Norman women, in dark dresses, with neck--handkerchiefs crossed
over the bosom, which were fastened with silver brooches, a hundred
years old.

The men had put on their blouses over their new frock--coats, or over
their old dress--coats of green cloth, the two tails of which hung down
below their blouses. When the horses were in the stable, there was a
double line of rustic conveyances along the road; carts, cabriolets,
tilburies, char--a--bancs, traps of every shape and age, resting on
their shafts, or else with them in the air.

The carpenter's house was as busy as a beehive. The ladies, in
dressing--jackets and petticoats, with their hanging down, thin, short
hair, which looked as if it were faded and worn by use, were busy
dressing the child, who was standing motionless on a table, while
Madame Tellier was directing the movements of her battalion. They washed
her, did her hair, dressed her, and with the help of a number of pins,
they arranged the folds of her dress, and took in the waist, which was
too large.

Then, when she was ready, she was told to sit down and not to move, and
the women hurried off to get ready themselves.

The church bell began to ring again, and its tinkle was lost in the air,
like a feeble voice which is soon drowned in space. The candidates came
out of the houses, and went towards the parochial building which
contained the two--school and the mansion house--and which stood quite
at one end of the village, while the church was situated at the other.

The parents, in their very best clothes, followed their children, with
awkward looks, and those clumsy movements of the body, which is always
bent at work.

The little girls disappeared in a cloud of muslin, which looked like
whipped cream, while the lads, who looked like embryo waiters in a
_café_, and whose heads shone with pomatum, walked with their legs
apart, so as not to get any dust or dirt onto their black trousers.

It was something for the family to be proud of, when a large number of
relations, who had come from a distance, surrounded the child, and,
consequently, the carpenter's triumph was complete.

Madame Tellier's regiment, with its mistress at its head, followed
Constance; her father gave his arm to his sister, her mother walked by
the side of Raphaele, Fernande, with Rosa and the two pumps together,
and thus they walked majestically through the village, like a general's
staff in full uniform, while the effect on the village was startling.

At the school, the girls arranged themselves under the Sister of Mercy,
and the boys under the schoolmaster, and they started off, singing a
hymn as they went. The boys led the way, in two files, between the two
rows of vehicles, from which the horses had been taken out, and the
girls followed in the same order; and as all the people in the village
had given the town ladies the precedence out of politeness, they came
immediately behind the girls, and lengthened the double line of the
procession still more, three on the right and three on the left, while
their dresses were as striking as a bouquet in fireworks.

When they went into the church, the congregation grew quite excited.
They pressed against each other, they turned round, they jostled one
another in order to see, and some of the devout ones spoke almost aloud,
as they were so astonished at the sight of those ladies whose dresses
were more trimmed than the priest's chasuble.

The Mayor offered them his pew, the first one on the right, close to the
choir, and Madame Tellier sat there with her sister-in-law, Fernande and
Raphaele, Rosa _the Jade_, and the two pumps occupied the second seat,
in company with the carpenter.

The choir was full of kneeling children, the girls on one side, and the
boys on the other, and the long wax tapers which they held looked like
lances, pointing in all directions, and three men were standing in front
of the lectern, singing as loud as they could.

They prolonged the syllables of the sonorous Latin indefinitely,
holding onto _Amens_ with interminable _a--a's_, while the serpent of
the organ kept up its monotorious, long drawn out notes, which that
longthroated, copper instrument uttered.

A child's shrill voice took up the reply, and from time to time a priest
sitting in a stall and wearing a biretta, got up, muttered something,
and sat down again, while the three singers continued, with their eyes
fixed on the big book of plain song lying open before them on the
outstretched wings of an eagle, mounted on a pivot.

Then silence ensued, and so the service went on, and towards the end of
it, Rosa, with her head in both her hands, suddenly thought of her
mother and her village church on a similar occasion. She almost fancied
that that day had returned, when she was so small, and almost hidden in
her white dress, and she began to cry.

First of all, she wept silently, and the tears dropped slowly from her
eyes, but her emotion increased with her recollections, and she began to
sob. She took out her pocket-handkerchief, wiped her eyes, and held it
to her mouth, so as not to scream, but it was useless.

A sort of rattle escaped her throat, and she was answered by two other
profound, heart-breaking sobs; for her two neighbors, Louise and Flora,
who were kneeling near her, overcome by similar recollections, were
sobbing by her side, amidst a flood of tears, and as they are
contagious, _Madame_ soon in turn found that her eyes were wet, and on
turning to her sister-in-law, she saw that all the occupants of her seat
were also crying.

Soon, throughout the church, here and there, a wife, a mother, a sister,
seized by the strange sympathy of poignant emotion, and agitated by
those handsome ladies on their knees, who were shaken by their sobs,
was moistening her cambric pocket-handkerchief, and pressing her beating
heart with her left hand.

Just as the sparks from an engine will set fire to dry grass, so the
tears of Rosa and of her companions infected the whole congregation in a
moment. Men, women, old men, and lads in new blouses were soon all
sobbing, and something superhuman seemed to be hovering over their
heads; a spirit, the powerful breath of an invisible and all-powerful
being.

Suddenly a species of madness seemed to pervade the church, the noise of
a crowd in a state of frenzy, a tempest of sobs and stifled cries. It
passed through them like gusts of wind which bow the trees in a forest,
and the priest, paralyzed by emotion, stammered out incoherent prayers,
without finding words, prayers of the soul, when it soars towards
heaven.

The people behind him, gradually grew calmer. The cantors, in all the
dignity of their white surplices, went on in somewhat uncertain voices,
and the serpent itself seemed hoarse, as if the instrument had been
weeping; the priest, however, raised his hand, as a sign for them to be
still, and went and stood on the chancel steps, when everybody was
silent, immediately.

After a few remarks on what had just taken place, which he attributed to
a miracle, he continued, turning to the seats where the carpenter's
guests were sitting:

"I especially thank you, my dear sisters, who have come from such a
distance, and whose presence among us, whose evident faith and ardent
piety have set such a salutary example to all. You have edified my
parish; your emotion has warmed all hearts; without you, this great day
would not, perhaps, have had this really divine character. It is
sufficient, at times, that there should be one chosen to keep in the
flock, to make the whole flock blessed."

His voice failed him again, from emotion, and he said no more, but
concluded the service.

Then they all left the church as quickly as possible, and the children
themselves were restless, as they were tired with such a prolonged
tension of the mind. Besides that, they were hungry, and by degrees they
all left the churchyard, to see about dinner.

There was a crowd outside, a noisy crowd, a babel of loud voices, where
the shrill Norman accent was discernible. The villagers formed two
ranks, and when the children appeared, each family seized its own.

The whole houseful of women caught hold of Constance, surrounded her and
kissed her, and Rosa was especially demonstrative. At last she took hold
of one hand, while Madame Tellier held the other, and Raphaele and
Fernande held up her long muslin petticoat, so that it might not drag in
the dust; Louise and Flora brought up the rear with Madame Rivet, and
the child, who was very silent and thoughtful, set off home, in the
midst of this guard of honor.

The dinner was served in the workshop, on long boards supported by
trestles, and through the open door they could see all the enjoyment
that was going on. Everywhere they were feasting, and through every
window were to be seen tables surrounded by people in their Sunday best,
and a cheerful noise was heard in every house, while the men were
sitting in their shirt-sleeves, drinking cider, glass after glass.

In the carpenter's house, their gaiety maintained somewhat of an air of
reserve, which was the consequence of the emotion of the girls in the
morning, and Rivet was the only one who was in a good cue, and he was
drinking to excess. Madame Tellier was looking at the clock every
moment, for, in order not to lose two days following, they ought to take
the 3:55 train, which would bring them to Fécamp by dark.

The carpenter tried very hard to distract her attention, so as to keep
his guests until the next day, but he did not succeed, for she never
joked when there was business to be done, and as soon as they had had
their coffee she ordered her girls to make haste and get ready, and
then, turning to her brother, she said:

"You must have the horse put in immediately," and she herself went to
finish her last preparations.

When she came down again, her sister-in-law was waiting to speak to her
about the child, and a long conversation took place, in which, however,
nothing was settled. The carpenter's wife finished, and pretended to be
very much moved, and Madame Tellier, who was holding the girl on her
knees, would not pledge herself to anything definite, but merely gave
vague promises ... she would not forget her, there was plenty of time,
and then, they should meet again.

But the conveyance did not come to the door, and the women did not come
downstairs. Upstairs, they even heard loud laughter, falls, little
screams, and much clapping of hands, and so, while the carpenter's wife
went to the stable to see whether the cart was ready, Madame went
upstairs.

Rivet, who was very drunk, and half undressed, was vainly trying to
violate Rosa, who was half choking with laughter. The two pumps were
holding him by the arms and trying to calm him, as they were shocked at
such a scene after that morning's ceremony; but Raphaele and Fernande
were urging him on, writhing and holding their sides with laughter, and
they uttered shrill cries at every useless attempt that the drunken
fellow made.

The man was furious, his face was red, he was all unbuttoned, and he was
trying to shake off the two women who were clinging to him, while he was
pulling Rosa's petticoat with all his might.

But _Madame_, who was very indignant, went up to her brother, seized him
by the shoulders, and threw him out of the room with such violence that
he fell against a wall in the passage, and a minute afterwards they
heard him pumping water onto his head in the yard, and when he came back
with the cart, he was already quite appeased.

They started off in the same way as they had come the day before, and
the little white horse started off with his quick, dancing trot. Under
the hot sun, their fun, which had been checked during dinner, broke out
again. The girls now were amused at the jolts which the wagon gave,
pushed their neighbors' chairs, and burst out laughing every moment, for
they were in the vein for it, after Rivet's vain attempt.

There was a haze over the country, the roads were glaring, and dazzled
their eyes, and the wheels raised up two trails of dust, which followed
the cart for a long time along the high road, and presently Fernande,
who was fond of music, asked Rosa to sing something, and she boldly
struck up the _Gros Curé de Meudon_, but _Madame_ made her stop
immediately, as she thought it a song which was very unsuitable for such
a day, and she added:

"Sing us something of Béranger's." And so, after a moment's hesitation,
she began Béranger's song, _The Grandmother_, in her worn-out voice, and
all the girls, and even _Madame_ herself, joined in the chorus:

    "How I regret
      My dimpled arms,
    My well-made legs,
      And my vanished charms."

"That is first rate," Rivet declared, carried away by the rhythm, and
they shouted the refrain to every verse, while Rivet beat time on the
shafts with his foot, and on the horse's back with the reins, who, as if
he himself were carried away by the rhythm, broke into a wild gallop,
and threw all the women in a heap, one on the top of the other, onto the
bottom of the conveyance.

They got up, laughing as if they were mad, and the song went on, shouted
at the top of their voices, beneath the burning sky, among the ripening
grain, to the rapid gallop of the little horse, who set off every time
the refrain was sung, and galloped a hundred yards, to their great
delight, while occasionally a stone breaker by the roadside sat up and
looked at the wild and shouting female load through his wire spectacles.

When they got out at the station, the carpenter said:

"I am sorry you are going; we might have had some fun together." But
_Madame_ replied very sensibly: "Everything has its right time, and we
cannot always be enjoying ourselves." And then he had a sudden
inspiration:

"Look here, I will come and see you at Fécamp next month." And he gave a
knowing look, with a bright and roguish eye.

"Come," _Madame_ said, "you must be sensible; you may come if you like,
but you are not to be up to any of your tricks."

He did not reply, and as they heard the whistle of the train, he
immediately began to kiss them all. When it came to Rosa's turn, he
tried to get to her mouth, which she, however, smiling with her lips
closed, turned away from him each time by a rapid movement of her head
to one side. He held her in his arms, but he could not attain his
object, as his large whip, which he was holding in his hand and waving
behind the girl's back in desperation, interfered with his efforts.

"Passengers for Rouen, take your seats, please!" a guard cried, and they
got in. There was a slight whistle, followed by a loud whistle, from the
engine, which noisily puffed out its first jet of steam, while the
wheels began to turn a little, with a visible effort, and Rivet left the
station and went to the gate by the side of the line to get another look
at Rosa, and as the carriage full of human merchandise passed him, he
began to crack his whip and to jump, while he sang at the top of his
voice:

    "How I regret
      My dimpled arms,
    My well-made legs,
      And my vanished charms."

And then he watched a white pocket-handkerchief, which somebody was
waving, as it disappeared in the distance.


PART III

They slept the peaceful sleep of a quiet conscience, until they got to
Rouen, and when they returned to the house, refreshed and rested,
_Madame_ could not help saying:

"It was all very well, but I was already longing to get home."

They hurried over their supper, and then, when they had put on their
usual light evening costume, waited for their usual customers, and the
little colored lamp outside the door told the passers-by that the flock
had returned to the fold, and in a moment the news spread, nobody knew
how or by whom.

Monsieur Philippe, the banker's son, even carried his forgetfulness so
far, as to send a special messenger to Monsieur Tournevau, who was in
the boson of his family.

The fish-curer used every Sunday to have several cousins to dinner, and
they were having coffee, when a man came in with a letter in his hand.
Monsieur Tournevau was much excited, he opened the envelope and grew
pale; it only contained these words in pencil:

_"The cargo of cod has been found; the ship has come into port; good
business for you. Come immediately."_

He felt in his pockets, gave the messenger two-pence, and suddenly
blushing to his ears, he said: "I must go out." He handed his wife the
laconic and mysterious note, rang the bell, and when the servant came
in, he asked her to bring him his hat and overcoat immediately. As soon
as he was in the street, he began to run, and the way seemed to him to
be twice as long as usual, in consequence of his impatience.

Madame Tellier's establishment had put on quite a holiday look. On the
ground floor, a number of sailors were making a deafening noise, and
Louise and Flora drank with one and the other, so as to merit their name
of the two Pumps more than ever. They were being called for everywhere
at once; already they were not quite adequate to their business, and the
night bid fair to be a very jolly one for them.

The upstairs room was full by nine o'clock. Monsieur Vasse, the Judge of
the Tribunal of Commerce, _Madame's_ usual, but Platonic wooer, was
talking to her in a corner, in a low voice, and they were both smiling,
as if they were about to come to an understanding.

Monsieur Poulin, the ex-mayor, was holding Rosa on his knees; and she,
with her nose close to his, was running her hands through the old
gentleman's white whiskers.

Tall Fernande, who was lying on the sofa, had both her feet on Monsieur
Pinipesse, the tax-collector's stomach, and her back on young Monsieur
Philippe's waistcoat; her right arm was round his neck, while she held a
cigarette in her left.

Raphaele appeared to be discussing matters with Monsieur Dupuis, the
insurance agent, and she finished by saying: "Yes, my dear, I will."

Just then, the door opened suddenly, and Monsieur Tournevau came in, who
was greeted with enthusiastic cries of: "Long live Tournevau!" And
Raphaele, who was still twirling round, went and threw herself into his
arms. He seized her in a vigorous embrace, and without saying a word,
lifting her up as if she had been a feather, he went through the room,
opened the door at the other end and disappeared.

Rosa was chatting to the ex-mayor, kissing him every moment, and
pulling both his whiskers at the same time in order to keep his head
straight.

Fernande and _Madame_ remained with the four men, and Monsieur Philippe
exclaimed: "I will pay for some champagne; get three bottles, Madame
Tellier." And Fernande gave him a hug, and whispered to him: "Play us
a waltz, will you?" So he rose and sat down at the old piano in the
corner, and managed to get a hoarse waltz out of the entrails of the
instrument.

The tall girl put her arms round the tax-collector, _Madame_ asked
Monsieur Vasse to take her in his arms, and the two couples turned
round, kissing as they danced. Monsieur Vasse, who had formerly danced
in good society, waltzed with such elegance, that _Madame_ was quite
captivated.

Frederic brought the champagne; the first cork popped, and Monsieur
Philippe played the introduction to a quadrille, through which the four
dancers walked in society fashion, decorously, with propriety,
deportment, bows and curtsies, and then they began to drink.

Monsieur Philippe next struck up a lively polka, and Monsieur Tournevau
started off with the handsome Jewess, whom he held up in the air,
without letting her feet touch the ground. Monsieur Pinipesse and
Monsieur Vasse had started off with renewed vigor, and from time to time
one or other couple would stop to toss off a long glass of sparkling
wine, and that dance was threatening to become never-ending, when Rosa
opened the door.

"I want to dance," she exclaimed. And she caught hold of Monsieur
Dupuis, who was sitting idle on the couch, and the dance began again.

But the bottles were empty. "I will pay for one," Monsieur said. "So
will I," Monsieur Vasse declared. "And I will do the same," Monsieur
Dupuis remarked.

They all began to clap their hands, and it soon became a regular ball,
and from time to time, Louise and Flora ran upstairs quickly, had a few
turns, while their customers downstairs grew impatient, and then they
returned regretfully to the _café_. At midnight they were still dancing.

_Madame_ shut her eyes to what was going on and she had long private
talks in corners with Monsieur Vasse, as if to settle the last details
of something that had already been settled.

At last, at one o'clock, the two married men, Monsieur Tournevau and
Monsieur Pinipesse declared that they were going home, and wanted to
pay. Nothing was charged for except the champagne, and that only cost
six francs a bottle, instead of ten, which was the usual price, and when
they expressed their surprise at such generosity, _Madame_, who was
beaming, said to them:

"We don't have a holiday every day."




THE BANDMASTER'S SISTER


"What a joke!" the bandmaster said, twirling his moustache with the
foolish smile of a good-looking man, who dangles after women's
petticoats, in order that he may get on all the quicker.

His comrades' equivocal allusions puzzled him, though they flattered him
like applause, and he stealthily looked in the large mirrors at the new
lyres embroidered in gold on the collar of his tunic. They fascinated
him by their glitter, and half intoxicated by the doubtful champagne
that he had drunk during dinner, and by the glasses of chartreuse and of
Bavarian beer which he had imbibed afterwards, and excited by the songs,
he was indulging in his usual dreams of success.

He saw himself on the platform of a public garden, standing before his
musicians in a flood of light, and he fancied already that he could hear
the whispers of women, and feel the caress of their look upon him.

He would be invited even into the drawing-rooms of the _Faubourg Saint
Germain_, which was so difficult of access. With his handsome, pale
face, and his wonderful manner of playing Chopin's music, he would
penetrate every where, and perhaps some romantic heiress would fall in
love with him, and consent to forget that he was only a poor musician,
the son of small shopkeepers, who were still in trade at Bayeux.

Lieutenant Varache, who was stirring the punch, shrugged his shoulders,
and continued in a bantering voice:

"Yes, Monsieur Parisel, they are sure to ask you whether you have just
joined the regiment, or whether you have a mistress ..."

"What do I know?"

"But they say that you have, and that her eyes grow so bright when she
speaks to you, that a man would forfeit three months' pay for a glance
of them, by Jove!"

Another traced her likeness in a few words, and described her as if she
had been some knick-knack for sale at an auction. Her hair came low on
her forehead like a golden net, her skin was dazzlingly white, while her
bright eyes threw out glances that were like those flashes of summer
lightning which dart across the sky on a calm night in June.

Her delicate figure, and she did not look very strong, recalled a plant
that has grown too rapidly. She was a droll creature, on the whole, who
at times looked as if she had made a mistake in the door, who buried
herself in the shade, hid herself, and did not surrender either her
heart or her body, and only left the impression of a statue on the bed
in which she slept, who appeared delighted with the ignoble business she
carried on, and who allured men, and surpassed the common streetwalkers
in shamelessness.

Parisel, however, was not listening to them any longer.

He was terribly vexed at meeting with such a common-place adventure at
the first start, and to come across that girl on his road, who would
make him loose, and soil him with unclean love. She would lower him, and
bring him down to the level of rollicking troopers, who are welcome
guests in houses of bad character.

"Well," one of them said suddenly, "suppose we go and finish the night
at that establishment; it will be far jollier, and the chief will not be
obliged to cudgel his brains to remember the name of the girl he loves!"

       *       *       *       *       *

The officers pushed open the door of the saloon, where a servant was
lighting the chandelier, and Marchessy called out in a loud voice, and
amidst bursts of laughter:

"Here, Lucie! We have brought your sweetheart to you!"

She came in first, slowly, and wrapped in a transparent muslin
dressing-gown, and stopped, as if the beating of her heart were choking
her. The bandmaster did not move or say a word; he resembled a duellist,
who sees his adversary advancing towards him and taking aim at him, and
who is waiting for death.

Great drops of perspiration rolled down his face, and all the blood had
left it, while the woman looked at him, and did not appear to recognize
him, although her eyes wore a look of triumphant pleasure, and when he
started back, and turned his head away, she said to him, in a mocking
voice:

"What, my dear, are you not going to kiss me, after a whole year? ... I
must have altered very much, very much indeed ... Do not my mouth, and
this mark by the side of my ear, bring something to your mind?"

And Varache, who had just lit a cigar, muttered: "Are you going to act
a play until to-morrow?"

Then Lucie threw herself on to a sofa, and with her chin in her hands,
and in the posture of a chimera on the look out for the pleasures she
wishes, continued gravely:

"We lived at the end of a quiet street behind the cathedral, a street in
which pots of carnations stood on the window ledges, through which the
seminarists went twice a day, as if it had been a procession, and where
I was bored to death. Our parents' shop was cold and dark; my mother
thought of nothing but of going to all the services, and of attending
the _novenas_, while my father bent over the counter. There was nobody
to pet me, to advise me, or to teach me what life really was, and
besides that, I had the instinctive feeling that they cared for nobody
in this world but my brother.

"The first kiss that touched my lips nearly sent me mad, and I had not
the force to resist or to say _no_. I did not even ask the man who
seduced me to marry me, to promise me what men do promise girls. We met
in a booth at the fair, and I used to go to meet him every evening in a
meadow bordered by poplar trees. He had a situation as clerk or
collector, I believe, and when he was sent to another town, I was
already three months in the family way. My people soon found it out, and
forced me to acknowledge everything, and they locked me up like a
prisoner who wished to escape from jail.

"My brother was home for his holidays--do you remember now, Monsieur
Parisel? He had just been appointed second head clerk, was reckoning on
still further speedy advancement, and was bursting with pride. He was
harder and more inexorable than the two old people towards me, poor
forsaken girl as I was, although they had never left their home. He
spoke about his future, which would be compromised, of the disgrace
which would fall on all the family, went into a rage, arid pitied
neither my tears nor my prayers, and treated me with the cruelty of a
hangman.

"And they sent me a long way off, like a servant who has committed a
theft, and condemned me to be confined at a farm in a village, where the
peasants treated me harshly. The child died, but the mother lived
through everything.

"One does not have good luck very frequently, confound it, and the only
thing that I could do was to return evil, to strike at the coward whom I
hated, to dishonor and to lower his name, to stick to the fellow who
strutted about in his uniform, and who had won the game, from garrison
to garrison, as if I had been vermin. That is why I, of my own accord,
came to this house, where one belongs to everybody, and have become
almost more vicious than any of the other girls, and why I have told you
this unentertaining story.

"I say, you fellows, who will pay ten francs for the bandmaster's
sister? Upon my honor, you will not regret your money!"

His comrades got Parisel out of the house. He resisted for a week, but
then sold everything he had, borrowed the money to pay Lucie's debts,
and tried in vain to free himself from that weight, and to get her
expelled from the town, but she always returned. She was as implacable
towards him as a gerfalcon that is devouring its prey, and as the
adventure had got wind, and was even talked about at the soldiers' mess,
and as the scandal increased every day, the colonel forced the
bandmaster to resign.

When Lucie heard the news, she looked vexed, and, said spitefully:

"I had hoped that he would have blown his brains out!"




FALSE ALARM


"I have a perfect horror of pianos," Frémecourt said, "of those hateful
boxes that fill up a drawing-room, and which have not even the soft
sound and the queer shape of the mahogany or veneered spinets, to which
our grandmothers sighed out exquisite, long-forgotten ballads, and
allowed their fingers to run over the keys, while around them there
floated a delicate odor of powder and muslin, and some little _Abbé_ or
other turned over the leaves, and was continually making mistakes, as he
was looking at the patches close to the lips on the white skin of the
player instead of at the music.

"I wish there were a tax upon them, or that some evening, during a riot,
the people would make huge bonfires of them, which would illuminate the
whole town. They simply exasperate me, and affect my nerves, and make me
think of the tortures those poor girls must suffer, who are condemned
not to stir for hours, but to keep on constantly strumming away at the
chromatic scales and monotonous arpeggios, and to have no other object
in life except to win a prize at the _Conservatoire_.

"Their incoherent music suggests to me the sufferings of those who are
ill, abandoned, wounded, as it proceeds from every floor of every house,
and irritates you, nearly drives you mad, and makes you break out into
ironical fits of laughter.

"And yet when that madcap Lâlie Spring honored me with her love, as I
never can refuse anything to a woman who smells of fresh scent, and who
has a large store of promises in her looks, and who puts out her red,
smiling lips immediately, as if she were going to offer you handsel
money, I bought a piano, so that she might strum upon it to her heart's
content. I got it, however, on the hire-purchase system, and paid so
much a month, like _grisettes_[9] do for their furniture.

[Footnote 9: Work-girl, a name applied to those whose virtue is not too
rigorous.--TRANSLATOR.]

"At that time, I had the apartments I had so long dreamed of: warm,
elegant, light, well-arranged, with two entrances, and an incomparable
porter's wife; she had been canteen-keeper in a Zouave regiment, and
knew everything and understood everything at a wink.

"It was the kind of apartment from which a woman has not the courage to
escape, so as to avoid temptation, but becomes weak, and rolls herself
up on the soft, eider down cushions like a cat, and so is appeased, and
in spite of herself, thinks of sin at the sight of the low, wide couch,
which is so suitable for caresses, of the heavy curtains, which quite
deaden the sound of voices and of laughter, and of the flowers that
scent the air, and whose smell lingers on the folds of the hangings.

"They were rooms in which a woman forgets time, where she begins by
accepting a cup of tea and nibbling a sweet cake, and abandons her
fingers timidly and with regret to other fingers which tremble, and are
hot, and so by degrees she loses her head and succumbs.

"I do not know whether the piano brought us ill luck, but Lâlie had not
even time to learn four songs before she disappeared like the wind, just
as she had come, _flick-flack_, good-night, good-bye; perhaps from
spite, because she had found letters from other women on my table,
perhaps to renew her advertisement, as she was not one of those to hang
onto one man and become a fixture.

"I had not been in love with her, certainly, but yet it always has some
effect on a man; it breaks a spring when a woman leaves you, and you
think that you must start again, risk it, and go in for forbidden sport
in which one is exposed to knocks, common sport that one has been
through a hundred times before, and which provides you with nothing to
show for it.

"Nothing is more unpleasant than to lend your apartments to a friend, to
have to say to yourself that someone is going to disturb the mysterious
intimacy which really exists between the actual owner and his furniture,
the soul of those past kisses which floats in the air; that the room
whose tints you connect with some recollection, some dream, some sweet
vision, and whose colors you have tried to make harmonize with certain
fair-haired, pink-skinned girls, is going to become a common-place
lodging, like the rooms in an ordinary lodging house, which are suitable
to hidden crime and to evanescent love affairs.

"However, poor Stanis had begged me so urgently to do him that service;
he was so very much in love with Madame de Fréjus, and among the
characters in the play there was a brute of a husband who was terribly
jealous and suspicious; one of those Othellos who have always a flea in
their ear, and come back unexpectedly from shooting or the club, who
pick up pieces of torn paper, listen at doors, smell out meetings with
the nose of a detective, and seem to have been sent into the world only
to be cuckolds, but who know better than most how to lay a snare, and to
play a nasty trick--that when I went to Venice, I consented to let him
have my room.

"I will leave you to guess whether they made up for lost time, although,
after all, it is no business of yours. My journey, however, which was
only to have lasted a few weeks--just long enough to benefit by the
change of air, to rid my brain of the image of my last mistress, and
perhaps to find another among that strange mixture of society which one
meets there, a medley of American, Slav, Viennese and Italian women, who
instill a little artificial life into that old city, which is asleep
amidst the melancholy silence of the lagoons--was prolonged, and Stanis
was as much at home in my rooms as he was in his own.

"Madame Piquignolles, the retired canteen-keeper, took great interest in
this adventure, watched over their little love affair, and, as she used
to say, she was on guard as soon as they arrived one after the other,
the marchioness covered with a thick veil, and slipping in as quickly as
possible, always uneasy, and afraid that Monsieur de Fréjus might be
following her, and Stanis with the assured and satisfied look of an
amorous husband, who is going to meet his little wife after having been
away from home for a few days.

"Well, one day during one of those calm moments when his beloved one,
fresh from her bath, and impregnated with the coolness of the water, was
pressing close to her lover, reclining in his arms, and smiling at him
with half closed eyes, at one of those moments when people do not speak,
but continue their dream, the sentinel, without even asking leave,
suddenly burst into the room, for worthy Madame Piquignolles was in a
terrible fright.

"A few minutes before, a well-dressed gentleman, followed by two others
of seedy appearance, but who looked very strong, and fit to knock
anybody down, had questioned her in a rough manner, and cross-questioned
her, and tried to turn her inside out, as she said, asking her whether
Monsieur de Fréjus lived on the first floor, without giving her any
explanation, and when she declared that there was nobody occupying the
apartments then, as her lodger was not in France, Monsieur de
Fréjus--for it could certainly be nobody but he--had burst out into an
evil laugh, and said: 'Very well; I shall go and fetch the Police
Commissary of the district, and he will make you let us in!'

"And as quickly as possible, while she was telling her story, now in a
low, and then in a shrill voice, the woman picked up the marchioness'
dress, cloak, lace-edged drawers, silk petticoat, and little varnished
shoes, pulled her out of bed, without giving her time to let her know
what she was doing, or to moan, or to have a fit of hysterics, and
carried her off, as if she had been a doll, with all her pretty toggery,
to a large, empty cupboard in the dining room, that was concealed by
Flemish tapestry. 'You are a man... Try to get out of the mess,' she
said to Stanis as she shut the door; 'I will be answerable for Madame.'
And the enormous woman, who was out of breath by hurrying upstairs as
she had done, and whose kind, large red face was dripping with
perspiration, while her ample bosom shook beneath her loose jacket, took
Madame de Fréjus onto her knees as if she had been a baby, whose nurse
was trying to quiet her.

"She felt the poor little culprit's heart beating as if it were going to
burst, while shivers ran over her skin, which was so soft and delicate
that the porter's wife was afraid that she would hurt it with her coarse
hands. She was struck with wonder at the cambric chemise, which a gust
of wind would have carried off as if it had been a pigeon's feather, and
by the delicate odor of that scarce flower which filled the narrow
cupboard, and which rose up in the darkness from that supple body, that
was impregnated with the warmth of the bed.

"She would have liked to be there, in that profaned room, and to tell
them in a loud voice--with her hands upon her lips like at the time when
she used to serve brandy to her comrades at _Daddy l'Arb's_--that they
had no common sense, that they were none of them good for much, neither
the Police Commissary, the husband nor the subordinates, to come and
torment a pretty young thing, who was having a little bit of fun, like
that. It was a nice job, to get over the wall in that way, to be absent
from the second call of names, especially when they were all of the same
sort, and were glad of five francs an hour! She had certainly done quite
right to get out sometimes and to have a sweetheart, and she was a
charming little thing, and that she would say, if she were called before
the Court as a witness!

"And she took Madame de Fréjus in her arms to quiet her, and repeated
the same thing a dozen times, whispered pretty things to her, and
interrupted her occasionally to listen whether they were not searching
all the nooks and corners of the apartment. 'Come, come,' she said, 4
do not distress yourself. Be calm, my dear...It hurts me to hear you cry
like that.... There will be no mischief done, I will vouch for it.'

"The marchioness, who was nearly fainting, and who was prostrate with
terror, could only sob out: 'Good heavens! Good heavens!'

"She scarcely seemed to be conscious of anything; her head seemed
vacant, her ears buzzed, and she felt benumbed, like one does when one
goes to sleep in the snow.

"Oh! Only to forget everything, as her love dream was over, to go out
quickly, like those little rose-colored tapers at Nice, on Shrove
Tuesday evening.

"Oh! Not to awake any more, as the to-morrow would come in, black and
sad, because a whole array of barristers, ushers, solicitors and judges
would be against her, and disturb her usual quietude, would torment her,
cover her with mud, as her delicious, amorous adventure--her
first--which had been so carefully enveloped in mystery, and had been
kept so secret behind closed shutters and thick veils, would become an
everyday episode of adultery, which would get wind, and be discussed
from door to door; the lilac had faded, and she was obliged to bid
farewell to happiness, as if to an old friend who was going far, very
far away, never to return!

"Suddenly, however, she started and sat up, with her neck stretched out
and her eyes fixed, while the excanteen-keeper, who was trembling with
emotion, put her hands to her left ear, which was her best, like a
speaking trumpet, and tried to hear the cries which succeeded each other
from room to room, amidst a noise of opening and shutting of doors.

"'Ah! upon my word, I am not blind....It is Monsieur de Tavernay who is
applying again, and making all that noise....Don't you hear, _Mame
Piquignolles, Mame Piquignolles!_ Saved, saved!' And she dashed out of
the cupboard like an unwieldy mass, with her cap all on one side, an
anxious look and heavy legs.

"Tavernay was still quite pale, and in a panting voice he cried out to
them: 'Nothing serious, only that fool Frémecourt, who lent me the
rooms, has forgotten to pay for his piano for the last five months, a
hundred francs a month....You understand ...they came to claim it, and
as we did not reply ...why, they fetched the Police Commissary, and so,
in the name of the law....

"'A nice fright to give one!' Madame Piquignolles said, throwing herself
onto a chair. 'Confound the nasty piano!'

"It may be useless to add, that the marchioness has quite renounced
_trifles_, as our forefathers used to say, and would deserve a prize for
virtue, if the Academy would only show itself rather more gallant
towards pretty women, who take crossroads in order to become virtuous.

"Emotions like that cure people of running risks of that kind!"




WIFE AND MISTRESS


It was not only her long, silky curls, which covered her small,
fairy-like head, like a golden halo, nor her beautiful complexion, nor
her mouth, which was like some delicate shell, nor was it her supreme
innocence, which was shown by her sudden blushes, and by her somewhat
awkward movements, nor was it her ingenious questions which had assailed
and conquered George d'Harderme's heart. He had a peculiar temper, and
any appearance of a yoke frightened him and put him to flight
immediately, and his unstable heart was ready to yield to any
temptation, and he was incapable of any lasting attachment, while a
succession of women had left no more traces on it than on the seashore,
which is constantly being swept by the waves.

It was not the dream of a life of affection, of peace, the want of
loving and of being loved, which a fast man so often feels between
thirty and forty. His insurmountable lassitude of that circle of
pleasure in which he has turned, like a horse in a circus, the voids in
his existence which the marriage of his bachelor friends cause, and
which in his selfishness he looks upon as desertion, and whom he,
nevertheless, envies, which had at last induced him to listen to the
prayers and advice of his old mother, and to marry Mademoiselle Suzanne
de Gouvres; but the vision that he had had when he saw her playing with
quite little children, covering them with kisses, and looking at them
with ecstacy in her limpid eyes, and in hearing her talk of the
pleasures and the anguish that they must feel who are mothers in the
fullest sense of the word-the vision of a happy home where a man feels
that he is living again in others of that house, which is full of
laughter and of song, and seems as if it were full of birds.

As a matter of fact, he loved children, like some men love animals, and
he was interested in them, as in some delightful spectacle, and they
attracted him.

He was very gentle, kind and thoughtful with them, invented games for
them, took them on his knees, was never tired of listening to their
chatter, or of watching the development of their instincts, of their
intellect, and of their little, delicate souls.

He used to go and sit in the Parc Monceau, and in the squares, to watch
them playing and romping and prattling round him, and one day, as a
joke, somebody, a jealous mistress, or some friends in joke, had sent
him a splendid wet nurse's cap, with long, pink ribbons.

At first, he was under the influence of the charm that springs from the
beginning of an intimacy, from the first kisses, and devoted himself
altogether to that amorous education which revealed a new life to him,
as it were, and enchanted him.

He thought of nothing except of increasing the ardent love that his wife
bestowed on him, and lived in a state of perpetual adoration. Suzanne's
feelings, the metamorphosis of that virginal heart, which was beginning
to glow with love, and which vibrated, her passion, her modesty, her
sensations, were all delicious surprises to him.

He felt that feverish pleasure of a traveler who has discovered some
marvelous Eden, and loses his head over it, and, at times, with a long
affectionate and proud look at her, which grew even warmer on looking
into Suzanne's limpid, blue eyes, he would put his arms round her waist,
and pressing her to him so strongly that it hurt the young woman, he
exclaimed:

"Oh! I am quite sure that nowhere on earth are there two people who love
each other as we do, and who are as happy as you and I are, my darling!"

Months of uninterrupted possession and enchantment succeeded each other
without George altering, and without any lassitude mingling with the
ardor of their love, or the fire of their affection dying out.

Then, however, suddenly he ceased to be happy, and, in spite of all his
efforts to hide his invincible lowness of spirits, he became another
man, restless, being irritated at nothing, morose, and bored at
everything and everywhere; whimsical, and never knowing what he wanted.

But there was certainly something that was now poisoning that affection
which had formerly been his delight, which was coming more and more
between him and his wife every day, and which was giving him a distaste
for home.

By degrees, that vague suffering assumed a definite shape in his heart,
got implanted and fixed there, like a nail. He had not attained his
object, and he felt the weight of chains, understood that he could never
get used to such an existence, that he could not love a woman who seemed
incapable of becoming a mother, who lowered herself to the part of a
lawful mistress, and who was not faithful to him.

Alas! To awake from such a dream, to say to himself that he was reduced
to envying the good fortune of others, that he should never cover a
little, curly, smiling head with kisses, where some striking likeness,
some undecided gleams of growing intellect fill a man with joy, but that
he would be obliged to take the remainder of his journey in solitude,
heart-broken, with nothing but old age around him; that no branch would
again spring from the family tree, and that on his death-bed he should
not have that last consolation of pressing his dear ones, for whom he
struggled and made so many sacrifices, in his failing arms, and who were
sobbing with grief, but that soon he should be the prey of indifferent
and greedy heirs, who were discounting his approaching death like some
valuable security!

George had not told Suzanne the feelings which were tormenting him, and
took care that she should not see his state of unhappiness, and he did
not worry her with trying questions, that only end in some violent and
distressing scene.

But she was too much of a woman, and she loved her husband too much, not
to guess what was making him so gloomy, and was imperiling their love.

And every month there came a fresh disappointment, and hope was again
deferred. She, however, persisted in believing that their wish would be
granted, and grew ill with this painful waiting, and refused to believe
that she should never be a mother.

She would have looked upon it as a humiliation either to consult a
medical man, or to make a pilgrimage to some shrine, like so many women
did, in their despair, and her proud, loyal and loving nature at last
rebelled against that hostility, which showed itself in the angry
outbursts, the painful silence, and the haughty coldness of the man who
could, however, have done anything he liked with her, by a little
kindness.

With death in her soul, she had a presentiment of the way of the cross,
which is an end of love, of all the bitterness, which sooner or later
would end in terrible quarrels, and in words which would put an
impassable barrier between them.

At last, one evening, when George d'Hardermes had lost his temper, had
wounded her by equivocal words and bad jokes, Suzanne, who was very
pale, and who was clutching the arms of her easy chair convulsively,
interrupted him with the accents of farewell in her melancholy face:

"As you do not love me any more, why not tell me so, at once, instead of
wounding me like this by small, traitorous blows, and, above all, why
continue to live together?...You want your liberty, and I will give it
to you; you have your fortune, and I have mine. Let us separate without
a scandal and without a lawsuit, so that, at least, a little friendship
may survive our love...I shall leave Paris and go and live in the
country with my mother.... God is my witness, however, that I still love
you, my poor George, as much as ever, and that I shall remain your wife,
whether I am with you, or separated from you!"

George hesitated for a few moments before replying, with an uneasy, sad
look on his face, and then said, turning away his head:

"Yes, perhaps it will be best for both of us!"

They voluntarily broke their marriage contract, as she had heroically
volunteered to do. She kept her resolution, exiled herself, buried
herself in obscurity, accepted the trial with calm fortitude, and was as
resigned as only faithful and devoted souls can be.

They wrote to each other, and she deluded herself, pursued the chimera
that George would return to her, would call her back to his side, would
escape from his former associates, would understand of what deep love he
had voluntarily deprived himself, and would love her again as he had
formerly loved her; and she resisted all the entreaties and the advice
of her friends, to cut such a false position short, and to institute a
suit for divorce against her husband, as the issue would be certain.

He, at the end of a few months of solitude, of evanescent love affairs,
when to beguile his loneliness, a man passes from the arms of one woman
to those of another, had set up a new home, and had tied himself to a
woman whom he had accidentally met at a party of friends, and who had
managed to please him and to amuse him.

His deserted wife was naturally not left in ignorance of the fact, and,
stifling her jealousy and her grief, she put on a smile, and thought
that it would be the same with this one as it had been with all his
other ephemeral mistresses, whom her husband had successively got rid
of.

Was not that, after all, the best thing to bring about the issue which
she longed and hoped for? Would not that doubtful passion, that close
intimacy certainly make Monsieur d'Hardermes compare the woman he
possessed with the woman he had formerly had, and cause him to invoke
that lost paradise and that heart full of forgiveness, of love and of
goodness, which had not forgotten him, but which would respond to his
first appeal?

And that confidence of hers in a happier future, which neither all the
proofs of that connection, in which Monsieur d'Hardermes was becoming
more and more involved, and which her friends so kindly furnished her
with, nor the disdainful silence with which he treated all her gentle,
indulgent letters could shake, had something touching, angelic in it,
and reminded those who knew her well, of certain passages in the _Lives
of the Saints_.

At length, however, the sympathy of those who had so often tried to save
the young woman, to cure her, and to open her eyes, became exhausted,
and, left to herself, Suzanne proudly continued her dream, and absorbed
herself in it.

Two interminable years had passed since she had lived with Monsieur
d'Hardermes, and since he had put that hateful mistress in her place.
She had lost all trace of them, knew nothing about him, and, in spite of
everything, did not despair of seeing him again, and regaining her hold
over him, who could tell when, or by what miracle, but surely before
those eyes which he had so loved were tired of shedding tears, and her
fair hair, which he had so often covered with kisses, had grown white.

And the arrival of the postman every morning and evening, made her start
and shiver with nervousness.

One day, however, when she was going to Paris, Madame d'Hardermes found
herself alone in the ladies' carriage, into which she had got in a
hurry, with a peasant woman in her Sunday best, who had a child with
pretty pink cheeks and rosy lips, and which was like the dimpled cherubs
that one sees in pictures of the Assumption of the Virgin Mary, on her
lap.

The nurse said affectionate words to the child in a coaxing voice,
wrapped it up in the folds of her large cloak, sometimes gave it a
noisy, hearty kiss, and it beat the air with little hands, and crowed
and laughed with those pretty, attractive babyish movements, that
Suzanne could not help exclaiming: "Oh! the pretty little thing!" and
taking it into her arms.

At first the child was surprised at the strange face, and for a moment,
seemed as if it were going to cry; but it became reassured immediately,
smiled at the stranger who looked at it so kindly, inhaled the delicate
scent of the iris in the bodice of her dress, with dilated nostrils, and
cuddled up against her.

The two women began to talk, and, without knowing why, Madame
d'Hardermes questioned the nurse, asked her where she came from, and
where she was taking the little thing to.

The other, rather flattered that Suzanne admired the child and took an
interest in it, replied, somewhat vaingloriously, that she lived at
_Bois-le-Roy_, and that her husband was a wagoner.

The child had been entrusted to their care by some people in Paris, who
appeared very happy, and extremely well off. And the nurse added in a
drawling voice:

"Perhaps, Madame, you know my master and mistress, Monsieur and Madame
d'Hardermes?"

Suzanne started with surprise and grief, and grew as pale as if all her
blood were streaming from some wound, and thinking that she had not
heard correctly, with a fixed look and trembling lips, she said,
slowly, as if every word hurt her throat:

"You said, Monsieur and Madame d'Hardermes?"

"Yes; do you know them?"

"I, yes...formerly...but it is a long time ago."

She could scarcely speak, and was as pale as death; she hardly knew what
she was saying, with her eyes on this pretty child, which George must be
so fond of.

She saw him, as if in a window which had suddenly been lifted up, where
everything had been dark before, with their arms round each other, and
radiant with happiness, with that fair head, that divine dawn, the
living, smiling proof of their love, between them.

They would never leave each other; they were already almost as good as
married, and were robbing her of the name which she had defended and
guarded as a sacred deposit.

She would never succeed in breaking such bonds. It was a shipwreck where
nothing could survive, and where the waves did not even drift some
shapeless waif and stray ashore.

And great tears rolled down her cheeks, one by one, and wet her veil.

The train stopped at the station, and the nurse scarcely liked to ask
Suzanne for the child, who was holding it against her heaving bosom, and
kissing it as if she intended to smother it, and she said:

"I suppose the baby reminds you of one you have lost, my poor, dear
lady, but the loss can be repaired at your age, surely; a second is as
good as a first, and if one does not do oneself justice..."

Madame d'Hardermes gave her back the child, and hurried out straight
ahead of her, like a hunted animal, and threw herself into the first cab
that she saw...

She sued for a divorce, and obtained it.




MAD[10]

[Footnote 10: This manuscript was found among the papers of Viscount
Jacques de X---- who committed suicide a few years ago, in his room in
an hotel at Piombières.--R.M.]


PART I

For days and days, nights and nights, I had dreamt of that first kiss,
which was to consecrate our engagement, and I knew not on what spot I
should put my lips, that were madly thirsting for her beauty and her
youth. Not on her forehead, that was accustomed to family caresses, nor
on her light hair, which mercenary hands had dressed, nor on her eyes,
whose turned up lashes looked like little wings, because that would have
made me think of the farewell caress which closes the eyelids of some
dead woman whom one has adored, nor her lovely mouth, which I will not,
which I must not possess until that divine moment when Elaine will at
last belong to me altogether and for always, but on that delicious
little dimple which comes in one of her cheeks when she is happy, when
she smiles, and which excited me as much as her voice did with
languorous softness, on that evening when our flirtation began, at the
Souverette's.

Our parents had gone away, and were walking slowly under the chestnut
trees in the garden, and had left us alone together for a few minutes. I
went up to her and took both her hands into mine, which were trembling,
and gently drawing her close to me, I whispered:

"How happy I am, Elaine, and how I love you!" and I kissed her almost
timidly, on the dimple. She trembled, as if from the pain of a burn,
blushed deeply and with an affectionate look, she said: "I love you
also, Jacques, and I am very happy!"

That embarrassment, that sudden emotion which revealed the perfect
spotlessness of a pure mind, the instinctive recoil of virginity, that
childlike innocence, that blush of modesty, delighted me above
everything as a presage of happiness. It seemed to me as if I were
unworthy of her; I was almost ashamed of bringing her, and of putting
into her small, saint-like hands the remains of a damaged heart, that
had been polluted by debauchery, that miserable thing which had served
as a toy for unworthy mistresses, which was intoxicated with lies, and
felt as if it would die of bitterness and disgust....


PART II

How quickly she has become accustomed to me, how suddenly she has turned
into a woman and become metamorphosed; already she no longer is at all
like the artless girl, the sensitive child, to whom I did not know what
to say, and whose sudden questions disconcerted me!

She is coquettish, and there is seduction in her attitudes, in her
gestures, in her laugh and in her touch. One might think that she was
trying her power over me, and that she guesses that I no longer have any
will of my own. She does with me whatever she likes, and I am quite
incapable of resisting the beautiful charm that emanates from her, and I
feel carried away by her caressing hands, and so happy that I am at
times frightened at the excess of my own felicity.

My life now passes amidst the most delicious of punishments, those
afternoons and evenings that we spend together, those unconstrained
moments when, sitting on the sofa together, she rests her head on my
shoulder, holds my hands and half shuts her beautiful eyes while we
settle what our future life shall be, when I _cover_ her with kisses and
inhale the odor of all those little hairs that are as fine as silk and
are like a halo round her imperial brow, excite me, unsettle me, kill
me, and yet I feel inclined to shed tears, when the time comes for us to
part, and I really only exist when I am with Elaine.

I can scarcely sleep; I see her rise up in the darkness, delicate, fair
and pink, so supple, so elegant with her small waist and tiny hands and
feet, her graceful head and that look of mockery and of coaxing which
lies in her smile, that brightness of dawn which illuminates her looks,
that when I think that she is going to become my wife, I feel inclined
to sing, and to shout out my amorous folly into the silence of the
night.

Elaine also seems to be at the end of her strength, has grown languid
and nervous; she would like to wipe out the fortnight that we still have
to wait, and so little does she hide her longing, that one of her
uncles, Colonel d'Orthez, said after dinner the other evening: "By Jove,
my children, one would take you for two soldiers who are looking forward
to their furlough!"


PART III

I do not know what I felt, or whence those fears came which so suddenly
assailed me, and took possession of my whole being like a flight of
poisoned arrows. The nearer the day approached that I am so ardently
longing for, on which Elaine would take my name and belong to me, the
more anxious, nervous and tormented by the uncertainty of the morrow, I
feel.

I love, and I am passionately loved, and few couples start on the
unknown journey of a totally new life and enter into matrimony with such
hopes, and the same assurance of happiness, as we two.

I have such faith in the girl I am going to marry, and have made her
such vows of love, that I should certainly kill myself without a
moment's hesitation if anything were to happen to separate us, to force
us to a correct but irremediable rupture, or if Elaine were seized by
some illness which carried her off quickly; and yet I hesitate, I am
afraid, for I know that many others have made shipwreck, lost their love
on the way, disenchanted their wives and have themselves been
disenchanted in those first essays of possession, during that first
night of tenderness and of intimacy.

What does Elaine expect in her vague innocence, which has been lessened
by the half confidences of married friends, by semi-avowals, by all the
kisses of this sort of apprenticeship which is a court of love; what
does she possess, what does she hope for? Will her refined, delicate,
vibrating nature bend to the painful submission of the initial embrace;
will she not rebel against that ardent attack that wounds and pains? Oh!
to have to say to oneself that it must come to that, to lower the most
ideal of affections, to think that one is risking one's whole future
happiness at such a hazardous game, that the merest trifle might make a
woman completely ridiculous or hopeful, and make an idolized woman laugh
or cry!

I do not know a more desirable, prettier or more attractive being in the
whole world than Elaine; I am worn out by feverish love, I thirst for
her lips and I wish every particle of her being to belong to me; I love
her ardently, but I would willingly give half that I possess to have got
through this ordeal, to be a week older, _and still happy_!...


PART IV

My mother-in-law took me aside yesterday, while they were dancing, and
with tears in her eyes, she said in a tremulous voice:

"You are going to possess the most precious object that we possess here,
and what we love best.... I beg you to always spare the slightest
unhappiness, and to be kind and gentle towards her.... I count on your
uprightness and affection to guide her and protect her in this dangerous
life in Paris."... And then, giving way to her feelings more and more,
she added: "I do not think that you suppose that I have tried to
instruct her in her new duties or to disturb her charming innocence,
which has been my work; when two persons worship each other like you two
do, a girl learns what she is ignorant of, so quickly and so well!"

I very nearly burst out laughing in her face, for such a theatrical
phrase appeared to me both ridiculous and doubtful. So that respectable
woman had always been a passive, pliable, inert object, who never had
one moment of vibration, of tender emotion in her husband's arms, and I
understood why, as I wasted at the clubs, he escaped from her as soon as
possible and made other connections which cost him dear, but in which he
found at least some appearance of love.

Oh! to call that supreme bliss of possession, which makes human beings
divine and which transports them far from everything, that despotic pain
of virginity, which guesses, which waits, which longs for those
mysterious, unknown, brief sufferings that contain the germs of future
pleasure, the only happiness of which one never tires, a duty!

And that piece of advice, at the last moment, which was as common-place
and natural, and which I ought to have expected, enervated me, and, in
spite of myself, plunged me into a state of perplexity, from which I
could not extricate myself. I remembered those absurd stories which we
hear among friends, after a good dinner. What would be that last trial
of our love for her and for me, and could that love which then was my
whole life, come out of the ordeal lessened or increased tenfold? And
when I looked at the couch on which Elaine, my adored Elaine, was
sitting, with her head half-hidden behind the feathers of her fan, she
whispered in a rather vexed voice:

"How cross you look, my dear Jacques? Is the fact of your getting
married the cause of it? And you have such a mocking look on your face.
If the thought of it terrifies you too much, there is still time to say
no!"

And delighted, bewitched by her caressing looks, I said in a low voice,
almost into her small ear:

"I adore you; and these last moments that still separate us from each
other, seem centuries to me, my dear Elaine!"


PART V

There were tiresome ceremonies yesterday, and to-day, which I went
through almost mechanically.

First, there is the yes before the mayor at the civil ceremony,[11] like
some everyday response in church, which one is in a hurry to get over,
and which has almost the suggestion of an imperious law, to which one is
bound to submit, and of a state of bondage, which will, perhaps, be very
irksome, since the whole of existence is made up of chances.

[Footnote 11: Civil marriages are obligatory in France, though usually
followed by the religious rite.--TRANSLATOR.]

And then the service in church, with the decorated altar, the voices of
the choir, the solemn music of the organ, the unctuous address of the
old priest who marks his periods, who seemed quite proud of having
prepared Elaine for confirmation, and then the procession to the vestry,
the shaking hands, and the greetings of people whom you scarcely see,
and whom you do, or do not recognize.

Under the long tulle veil, which almost covered her, with the symbolical
orange flowers on her bright, light hair, in her white dress, with her
downcast eyes and her graceful figure, Elaine looked to me like a
_Psyche_, whose innocent heart was vowed to love. I felt how vain and
artificial all this form was, how little this show counted before this
_Kiss_, the triumphant, revealing, maddening Kiss, which rivets the
flesh of the wife to the lips and all the flesh of the husband, which
turns the Immaculate youth of the virgin into a woman, and consecrates
it to tender caresses, to dreams and to future ecstacies, through the
sufferings of a rape.


PART VI

Elaine loves me, as much as I adore her.

She left her parental abode, as if she was going to some festivity,
without turning round toward all that she had left behind her in the way
of affection and recollection, and without even a farewell tear, which
the first kiss effaces, on her long turned-up lashes.

She looked like a bird which had escaped from its cage, and does not
know where to settle, which beats its wings in the intoxication of the
light, and which warbles incessantly. She repeated the same words, as if
she had been rather intoxicated, and her laugh sounded like the cooing
of a pigeon, and looking into my eyes, with her eyes full of languor,
and her arms round my neck like a bracelet, and with her burning cheek
against mine, she suddenly exclaimed:

"I say, my darling, would you not give ten years of your life to have
already got to the end of the journey?"

And that passionate question so disconcerted me, that I did not know
what to reply, and my brain reeled, as if I had been at the edge of a
precipice. Did she already know what her mother had not told her? Had
she already learned what she ought to have been ignorant of? And had
that heart, which I used to compare to _the Vessel of Election_, of
which the litanies of Our Lady speak, already been damaged?

Oh! white veils, that hide the blushes, the half-closed eyes and the
trembling lips of some _Psyche_, oh! little hands which you raised in
an attitude of prayer toward the lighted and decorated altar, oh!
innocent and charming questions, which delighted me to the depths of my
being, and which seemed to me to be an absolute promise of happiness,
were you nothing but a lie, and a wonderfully well acted piece of
trickery?

But was I not wrong, and an idiot, to allow such thoughts to take
possession of me, and to poison my deep, absorbing love, which was now
my only law and my only object, by odious and foolish suggestions? What
an abject and miserable nature I must have, for such a simple,
affectionate, natural question to disturb me so, when I ought
immediately to have replied to Elaine's question, with all my heart that
belonged to hear:

"Yes, ten or twenty years, because you are my happiness, my desire, my
love!"


PART VII

I did not choose to wait until she woke up, I sprang from the bed, where
Elaine was still sleeping, with her disheveled hair lying on the
lace-edged pillows. Her complexion was almost transparent, her lips were
half open, as if she were dreaming, and she seemed so overcome with
sleep, that I felt much emotion when I looked at her.

I drank four glasses of mild champagne, one after the other, as quickly
as I could, but it did not quench my thirst. I was feverish and would
have given anything in the world for something to interest me suddenly
and have absorbed me and lifted me out of that slough in which my heart
and my brain were being engulfed, as if in a quicksand. I did not
venture to avow to myself what was making me so dejected, what was
torturing me and driving me mad with grief, or to scrutinize the muddy
bottom of my present thoughts sincerely and courageously, to question
myself and to pull myself together.

It would have been so odious, so infamous, to harbor such suspicions
unjustly, to accuse that adorable creature who was not yet twenty, whom
I loved, and _who seemed to love me_, without having certain proofs,
that I felt that I was blushing at the idea that I had any doubt of her
innocence. Ah! Why did I marry?

I had a sufficient income to enable me to live as I liked, to pay
beautiful women who pleased me, whom I chanced to meet, and who amused
me, and who sometimes gave me unexpected proofs of affection, but I had
never allowed myself to be caught altogether, and in order to keep my
heart warm, I had some romantic and sentimental friendships with women
in society, some of those delightful flirtations which have an
appearance of love, which fill up the idleness of a useless life with a
number of unexpected sensations, with small duties and vague subtle
pleasures!

And was I now going to be like one of those ships which an unskillful
turn of the helm runs ashore as it is leaving the harbor? What terrible
trials were awaiting me, what sorrows and what struggles?

A chaffing friend said to me one night in joke at the club, when I had
just broken one of those banks, which form an epoch in a player's life:

"If I were in your place, Jacques, I should distrust such runs of luck
as that, for one always has to pay for them sooner or later!"

Sooner or later!

I half opened the bedroom door gently. Elaine was in one of those heavy
sleeps that follow intoxication. Who could tell whether, when she opened
her eyes and called me, surprised at not finding herself in my arms, her
whole being would not become languid, and suddenly sink into a state of
prostration? I wanted to reason with myself, and bring myself face to
face with those cursed suggestions, as one does with a skittish horse
before some object that frightens it, and to evoke the recollection of
every hour, every minute of that first night of love, and to extract the
secret from her....

Elaine's looks and radiant smile were overflowing with happiness, and
she had the air of a conqueror who is proud of his triumph, for she was
now a _woman_ already, and we had _at least been alone_ in this
modernized country house, which had been redecorated and smartened up to
serve as the frame for our affection! She hardly seemed to know what she
was saying or doing, and ran from room to room in her light morning
dress of mauve crape, without exactly knowing where to sit, and almost
dazzled by the light of the lamps that had large shades in the shape of
rose leaves over them.

There was no embarrassment, no hesitation, no shamefaced looks, no
recoiling from the arms that were stretched out to her, or from the lips
that begged; none of those delightful little pieces of awkwardness which
show a virgin soul free from all perversion, in her manner of sitting on
my knees, or putting her bare arms round my neck, and of offering me the
back of her neck and her lips to kiss, but she laughed nervously, and
her supple form trembled when I kissed her passionately on various
places, and she said things to me that were suitable for being whispered
on the pillows, while a strange languor overshadowed her eyes, and
dilated her nostrils.

And suddenly with a mocking gesture, which seemed to bid defiance to the
supper that was laid on a small table, cold meat of various kinds,
plates of fruit and of cakes, the ice pail, from which the neck of a
bottle of champagne protruded, she said merrily:

"I am not at all hungry, dear; let us have supper later! what do you
say?"

She half turned round to the large bed, which seemed to be quite ready
for us, and which looked white in the shadow of the recess in which it
stood, with its two white, untouched, almost solemn pillows. She was not
smiling any more; there was a bluish gleam in her eyes, like that of
burning alcohol, and I lost my head. Elaine did not try to escape, and
did not utter a complaint.

Oh! that night of torture and delight, that night which ought never to
have ended!

I determined that I would be as patient as a policeman who is trying to
discover the traces of a crime, that I would investigate the past of
this girl, about which I knew nothing, as I should be sure to discover
some proof, some important reminiscence, some servant who had been her
accomplice.

And yet I adored her, my pretty, my divine Elaine, and I would consent
no matter to what if only she were what I dreamt her, what I wished her
to be, if only this nightmare would go and no longer rise up between her
and me.

When she woke up, she spoke to me in her coaxing voice.... Oh! her
kisses, again her kisses, always her kisses, in spite of everything!

Oh! to have believed blindly, to have believed on my knees that she was
not lying, that she was not making a mockery of my tenderness, and that
she had never belonged, and never would belong, to any one but me!


PART VIII

I wished that I could have transformed myself into one of those crafty,
unctuous priests, to whom women confess their most secret faults, to
whom they entrust their souls and frequently ask for advice, and that
Elaine would have come and knelt at the grating of the confessional,
where I should press her closely with questions, and gradually extract
sincere confidences from her.

As soon as I am by the side of a young or old woman now, I try to give
our conversation a ticklish turn; I forget all reserve and I try to make
her talk of those jokes which nettle, those words of double meaning
which excite, and to lead her up to the only subject that interests and
holds me, to find out what she feels in her body as well as in her
heart, on that night, when for the first time, she has to undergo the
nuptial ordeal. Some do not appear to understand me, blush, leave me as
if I were some unpleasant, ill-mannered person, and had offended them;
as if I had tried to force open the precious casket in which they keep
their sweetest recollections.

Others, on the other hand, understand me only too well, scent something
equivocal and ridiculous, though they do not exactly know what, make me
go on, and finally get out of the difficulty by some subtle piece of
impertinence, and a burst of chaffing laughter.

Two or three at most, and they were those pretty little upstarts who
talk at random, and brag about their vice, and whom one could soon not
leave a leg to stand upon, were one to take the trouble, have related
their impressions to me with ironical complaisance, and I found nothing
in what they told me that reassured me, nor could I discover anything
serious, true or moving in it.

That supreme initiation amused them as much as if it had been a scene
from a comedy; the small amount of affection that they felt for the man
with whom their existence had been associated grew less and evaporated
altogether--and they remembered nothing about it except its ridiculous
and hateful side, and described it as a sort of pantomime in which they
played a bad part. But these did not love and were not adored like
Elaine was. They married either from interest, or that they might not
remain old maids, that they might have more liberty and escape from
troublesome guardianship.

Foolish dolls, without either heart or head, they had neither that
almost diseased nervosity, nor that requirement for affection, nor that
instinct of love which I discovered in my wife's nature, and which
attracted me, at the same time that it terrified me.

Besides, who could convince me of my errors? Who could dissipate that
darkness in which I was lost? What miracle could restore _all_ my belief
in her again?


PART IX

Elaine felt that I was hiding something from her, that I was unhappy,
that, as it were, some threatening obstacle had risen up between her and
me, that some insupportable suspicion was oppressing me, torturing me
and keeping me from her arms, was poisoning and disturbing that
affection in which I had hoped to find fresh youth, absolute happiness,
my dream of dreams.

She never spoke to me about it, however, but seemed to recoil from a
definite explanation, which might make shipwreck of her love. She
surrounded me with endearing attentions, and appeared to be trying to
make my life so pleasant to me, that nothing in the world could draw me
from it! And she would certainly cure me, if this madness of mine, were
not, alas! like those wounds which are constantly reopening, and which
no balm can heal.

But, at times, I lived again, I imagined that her caresses had exorcised
me, that I was saved, that doubt was no longer gnawing at my heart, that
I was going to adore her again, like I used to adore her. I used to
throw myself at her knees and put my lips on her little hands which she
abandoned to me, I looked at her lovely, limpid eyes as if they had been
a piece of a blue sky that appeared amidst black storm clouds, and I
whispered, with something like a sob in my throat:

"You love me, do you not, with all your heart; you love me as much as I
love you; tell me so again, my dear love; tell me that, and nothing but
that!"

And she used to reply eagerly, with a smile of joy on her lips:

"Do you not know it? Do you not see every moment that I love you, that
you have taken entire possession of me, and that I only live for you and
by you?"

And her kisses gave me new life, and intoxicated me, like when one
returns from a long journey and had been in peril and is despaired of
ever seeing some beloved object again, and one meets with a sort of
frenzied embrace, and forgets everything in that divine feeling that one
is going to die of happiness....


PART X

But these were only ephemeral clear spots in our sky, and the cries
which accompanied them only grew more bitter and terrible. I knew that
Elaine was growing more and more uneasy at the apparent strangeness of
my character, that she suffered from it and that it affected her nerves,
that the existence to which I was condemning her in spite of myself,
that all this immoderate love of mine, followed by fits of inexplicable
coldness and of low spirits, disconcerted her, so that she was no longer
the same, and kept away from me. She could not hide her grief, and was
continually worrying me with questions of affectionate pity. She
repeated the same things over and over again, with hateful persistence.
She had vexed me, without knowing it! Was I already tired of my married
life, and did I regret my lost liberty? Had I any private troubles which
I had not told her of; heavy debts which I did not know how to pay; was
it family matters or some former connection with a woman that I had
broken off suddenly, and that now threatened to create a scandal? Was I
being worried by anonymous letters? What was it, in a word; what was it?

My denials only exasperated her, so that she sulked in silence, while
her brain worked and her heart grew hard towards me; but could I, as a
matter of fact, tell her of my suspicions which were filling my life
with gloom and annihilating me? Would it not be odious and vile to
accuse her of such a fall, without any proofs or any clue, and would she
ever forget such an insult?

I almost envied those unfortunate wretches who had the right to be
jealous, who had to fight against a woman's coquettes and light
behavior, and who had to defend their honor that was threatened by some
poacher on the preserves of love. They had a target to aim at; they knew
their enemies and knew what they were doing, while I was wounding in a
land of terrible mirages, was struggling in the midst of vague
suppositions, and was causing my own troubles and was enraged with her
past, which was, I felt sure, as white and pure as any bridal veil.

Ah! It would be better to blow my brains out, I thought to myself, than
to prolong such a situation! I had had enough of it. I scarcely lived,
and I wished to know all that Elaine had done before we became engaged.
I wanted to know whether I was the first or the second, and I determined
to know it, even if I had to sacrifice years of my life in inquiry, and
to lower myself to compromising words and acts, and to every species of
artifice and to spend everything that I possessed!

She might believe whatever she liked, for after all, I should only laugh
at it. We might have been so happy, and there were so many who envied
me, and who would gladly have consented to take my place!


PART XI

I no longer knew where I was going, but was like a train going at full
speed through a dense fog, and which in vain disturbs the perfect
silence of the sleeping country with its puffing and shrill whistles;
when the driver cannot distinguish the changing lights of the discs, nor
the signals, and when soon some terrible crash will send the train off
the rails, and the carriages will become a heap of ruins.

I was afraid of going mad, and at times I asked myself whether any of my
family had shown any signs of mental aberration, and had been locked up
in a lunatic asylum, and whether the life of constant fast pleasures, of
turning night into day and of frequent violent emotions, that I had led
for years, had not at last affected my brain. If I had believed in
anything, and in the science of the occult, which haunts so many
restless brains, I should have imagined that some enemy was bewitching
me and laying invisible snares for me, that he was suggesting those
actions which were quite unworthy of the frank, upright and well-bred
man that I was, and was trying to destroy the happiness of which she and
I had dreamt.

For a whole week I devoted myself to that hateful business of playing
the spy, and to those inquiries which were killing me. I had succeeded
in discovering the lady's maid who had been in Elaine's service before
we were married, and whom she loved as if she had been her foster
sister, who used to accompany her whenever she went out, when she went
to visit the poor and when she went for a walk, who used to wake her
every morning, do her hair and dress her. She was young and rather
pretty, and one saw that Paris had improved her and given her a polish,
and that she knew her difficult business from end to end.

I had found out, however, that her virtue was only apparent, especially
since she had changed employers; that she was fond of going to the
public balls, and that she divided her favors between a man who came
from her part of the country, and who was a sergeant in a dragoon
regiment, and a footman, and that she spent all her money on horse races
and on dress. I felt sure that I should be able to make her talk and get
the truth out of her, either by money or cunning, and so I asked her to
meet me early one morning in a quiet square.

She listened to me first of all in astonishment, without replying yes or
no, as if she did not understand what I was aiming at, or with what
object I was asking her all these questions about her former mistress;
but when I offered her a few hundred francs to loosen her tongue, as I
was impatient to get the matter over and pretended to know that she had
managed interviews for Elaine with her lovers, that they were known and
being followed, that she was in the habit of frequenting quiet
bachelors' quarters, from which she returned late, the sly little wench
frowned angrily, shrugged her shoulders and exclaimed:

"What pigs some men are to have such ideas, and cause such an excellent
person as Mademoiselle Elaine any unhappiness. Look here, you disgust me
with your banknotes and your dirty stories, and I don't choose to say
what you ought to wear on your head!"

She turned her back on me and hurried off, and her insolence, that
indignant reply which she had given me, rejoiced me to the depths of my
heart, like soothing balm that lulls the pain.

I should have liked to have called her back, and told her that it was
all a joke, that I was devotedly in love with my wife, that I was always
on the watch to hear her praised, but she was already out of sight, and
I felt that I was ridiculous and mean, that I had lowered myself by what
I had done, and I swore that I would profit by such a humiliating
lesson, and for the future show myself to Elaine as the trusting and
ardent husband that she deserved, and I thought myself cured, altogether
cured....

And yet, I was again the prey to the same bad thoughts, to the same
doubts, and persuaded that that girl had lied to me just like all other
women lie when they are on the defensive, that she made fun of me, that
perhaps _some one_ had foreseen this scene and had told her what to say
and made sure of her silence, just as her complicity had been gained.
Thus I shall always knock up against some barrier, and struggle in this
wretched darkness, and this mire from which I cannot extricate myself!


PART XII

Nobody knew anything. Neither the Superior of the Convent where she had
been brought up until she was sixteen, nor the servants who had waited
on her, nor the governesses who had finished her education, could
remember that Elaine had been difficult to check or teach, or that she
had had any other ideas than those of her age. She had certainly shown
no precocious coquetry and disquieting instincts; she had had no
equivocal cousinly relationships, when if the bridle is left on their
neck at all, and one of them has learned at school what love is, the two
big children yield to the fatal law of sex, and begin the inevitable
eclogue of Daphne and Chole over again.

However, Oh! I felt it too much for it to be nothing but a chimera and a
mirage, it was no _virgin_ who threw her arms round my neck so lovingly,
and who returned my first kisses so _deliciously_, who was attracted by
my society, who gave no signs of surprise and uttered no complaint, who
appeared to forget everything when in my society. No, no, a thousand
times no, that could not have been a pure woman.

I ought to have cast off that intoxication which was bewitching me, and
to have rushed out of the room where such a lie was being consummated; I
ought to have profited by her moments of amiable weakness, while she was
incapable of collecting her thoughts, when she would with tears have
confessed an old fault, for which the unhappy girl had not, perhaps,
been altogether responsible. Perhaps by my entreaties, or even perhaps
by violence, in terror at my furious looks, when my features would have
been distorted by rage, and my hands clenched in spite of myself in a
gesture of menace and of murder, I might have forced her to open her
heart, to show me its defilement, and to tell me this sad love episode.

How do I know whether her disconsolateness might not have moved me to
pity, whether I should not have wept with her at the heavy cross that we
both of us had to bear, whether I should not have forgiven her and
opened my arms wide, so that she might have thrown herself into them
like into a peaceful refuge?

Would not any man, or vicious collegian on the lookout for innocent
girls, have perceived her nervousness, her vice? Would he not have
hypnotized her, as it were, by amorous touches, by skillful caresses and
reduced her to the absolute passiveness of an animal, who had been taken
unawares, without any care for the morrow, or what the consequences of
such a fault might be?

Or was I completely her dupe and the dupe of a villain? Had she loved,
and did she still love the man who had first possessed her, who had been
her first lover? Who could tell me, or come to my aid? Who could give me
the proofs, the real, undeniable proofs, either that I was an infamous
wretch to suspect Elaine, whom I ought to have worshiped with my eyes
shut, or that she was guilty, that she had lied, and that I had the
right to cast her out of my life and to treat her like a worthless
woman!


PART XIII

If I had married when I was quite young, before I had wallowed in the
mire of Paris, from which one can never afterwards free oneself, for
heart and body both retain indelible marks of it, if I had not been the
plaything of a score of mistresses, who disgusted me with belief in any
woman, if I had not been weaned from supreme illusions, and surfeited
with everything to the marrow, should I have these abominable ideas?

I waited almost until I was beginning to decline in life, before I took
the right path and sought refuge in port; before going to what is pure
and virtuous, and before listening to the continual advice of those who
love me, I passed too suddenly from those lies, from those ephemeral
enjoyments, from that satiety which depraves us, from vice in which one
tries to acquire renewed strength and vigor, and to discover some new
and unknown sensation, to the pure sentimentalities of an engagement, to
the unspeakable delights of a life that was common to two, to that kind
of amorous first communion which ought to constitute married life.

If, instead of getting involved in an engagement and forming any
resolution so quickly, as I had been afraid that somebody else would be
beforehand with me and to rob me of Elaine's heart, or of relapsing into
my former habits, if instead of lacking moral strength and character
enough, in case I might have had to wait, if I had backed out without
entering into any engagement and without having bound my life to that of
the adorable girl whom chance had thrown in my way, it would surely have
been far better if I had waited, prepared myself, questioned myself, and
accustomed myself to that metamorphosis; if I had purified myself and
forgotten the past, like in those retreats which precede the solemn
ceremony, when pious souls pronounce their indissoluble vows?

The reaction had been too sudden and violent for such a convalescent as
I was. I worked myself up, and pictured to myself something so white, so
virginal, so paradisical, such complete ignorance, such unconquerable
modesty and such delicious awkwardness, that Elaine's gayety, her
unconstraint, her fearlessness, and her passionate kisses bewildered me,
roused my suspicions and filled me with anguish.

And yet I know how all, or nearly all, girls are educated in these days,
and that the ignorant, simple ones only exist on the stage, and I know
also that they hear and learn too many things both at home and in
society, not to have the intuition of the results of love.

Elaine loves me with all her heart, for she has told me so time after
time, and she repeats it to me more ardently than ever when I take her
into my arms and appear happy. She must have seen that her beauty had,
in a manner, converted me; that in order to possess her I had renounced
many seductions and a long life of enjoyment; and, perhaps, she would no
longer please me if she was _too much of the little girl_, and that she
would appear ridiculous to me if she showed her fears by any entreaty,
and gesture, or any sigh.

As the people in the South say, she would have acted the brave woman,
and boasted, so that no complaint might betray her, and have imparted
the wild tenderness of a jealous heart to her kisses, and have attempted
a struggle, which would certainly have been useless, against those
recollections of mine, with which she thought I must be filled, in spite
of myself.

I accused myself, so that I might no longer accuse her. I studied my
malady; I knew quite well that I was wrong, and I wished to be wrong, I
measured the stupidity and the disgrace of such suspicions, and,
nevertheless, in spite of everything, they assailed me again, watched me
traitorously and I was carried away and devoured by them.

Ah! Was there in the whole world, even among the most wretched beggars
that were dying of starvation, whom nature squeezes in a vice, as it
were, or among the victims of love, anybody who could say that he was
more wretched than I?


PART XIV

This morning Count de Saulnac, who was lunching here, told us a terrible
story of a rape, for which a man is to be tried in a few days.

A charming girl of eighteen grew languid, and became so pale and morose,
her cheeks were so wax-like, her eyes so sunken and she had altogether
such a look of anemia, that her parents grew uneasy and took her to a
doctor who lived near them. He examined her carefully, said vaguely what
was the matter with her, spoke of an illness that required assiduous
care and attention, and advised the worthy couple to bring the poor girl
to him every day for a month.

As they were not well off enough to keep a servant, and each had their
work to attend to, the husband as an employee in a public office and his
wife as cashier in a milliner's shop, and did not dream of any evil, and
were further reassured by the charitable, unctuous and austere looks of
the doctor, they allowed their daughter to go and consult him by
herself.

The old man made much of her, tried to make her get over her shyness,
adroitly made her tell him all about her usual life, took a long time in
sounding her chest, helped her to dress and undress, in a very paternal
way, gave her a potion and was so thoughtful and caressing, that the
poor girl blushed and felt quite uncomfortable at it all. He soon saw
that he should obtain nothing from her innocence, but that she would
resist his slightest attempts at improper familiarity, and as he was
extremely taken with the delicate and amusing girl, and with her
charming person, the wretch sent her to sleep with a few magnetic
passes, and outraged her.

She awoke without being conscious of what had happened, and only felt
rather more listless than usual, like she used to do when there was
thunder in the air. From that time, the doctor put longer intervals
between her visits, and soon, after having prescribed insignificant
remedies for her, he told her that she was quite cured, and that there
was no occasion for her to come and see him any more. Two months passed,
and the girl, who at first had seemed much better and more lively,
relapsed into a state of prostration which had so alarmed them, dragged
herself about more than she walked, and seemed to be succumbing under
some heavy burden.

As they had not paid the old doctor's bill, and as they were afraid that
he would ask them for it if they went to see him again, her father took
the girl to Beaujon, and they thought that he should have gone mad with
despair and shame when one of the house-surgeons, without mincing his
words, told them in a chaffing manner, that she was in the family way.

_In the family way!_ What did he mean by that? And by whom?

They were small, thoroughly respectable and upright shopkeepers, and
this made them cruel. They tormented the poor girl, to make her
acknowledge her fault and tell them the name of her seducer. It was of
no use for her to bemoan herself, to throw herself at their feet, to
tear her hair in desperation, and to swear that no man in the world had
ever touched her lips; in vain, did she exclaim indignantly that it was
impossible that such a dreadful thing could be; that the man had made a
mistake or was joking with them. In vain, did she try to calm them, and
to soften them by her entreaties; they turned away their heads, and had
only one reply to make:

"His name, his name!"

When she saw that her figure was altering, she was at length undeceived,
and became like an imprisoned animal, did not speak and cowered
motionless in the darkest corners, and did not even rebel at the blows,
which marked her pale, passive face. She carefully thought over every
minute in the past few months, and did her utmost to fill up the voids
in her memory, and at last she guessed who the guilty person was.

Then, in despair, she scribbled on a scrap of paper:

"I swear to you, my dear parents, that I have nothing to reproach myself
with. The old doctor treated me so strangely, that I often felt inclined
to run out of the consulting room. One day he put me to sleep, and
perhaps it was he who...."

And not having the courage to finish the lamentable sentence, she went
and drowned herself, and the parents had the doctor, who had forgotten
all about that old story, arrested, and in his examination he confessed
the crime....

With an evil look on her face, such as I have never seen before, and
with vibrating nostrils, Elaine exclaimed in a hard voice:

"To think that such a monster was not sent to the guillotine!"

_Can she also have suffered the same thing?_


PART XV

But unless Elaine was a monster of wickedness, unless she had no heart
and knew how to lie and to deceive as well as a girl whose only pleasure
consists in making all those who are captivated by her beauty, play the
laughable part of dupes, unless that mask of youth concealed a most
polluted soul, if there had been any unhappy episode in her life, if she
had endured the horrors of violation, and gone through all the horrors
of desolation, fear and shame, would not something visible, something
disgusting, attacks of low spirits, and of gloom, and disgust with
everything have remained, which would have shown the progress of some
mysterious malady, the gradual weakening of the brain and the
enlargement of an incurable wound?

She would have cried occasionally, would have been lost in thought and
become confused when spoken to, she would scarcely have taken any
interest in anything that happened, either at home or elsewhere. Kisses
would have become torture to her, and would have only excited a fever of
revolt in her inanimate being.

I fancy that I can see such a victim of inexorable Destiny, as if she
were a consumptive woman whose days are numbered, and who knows it. She
smiles feebly when any one tries to get her out of her torpor, to amuse
her and to instill a little hope into her soul. She does not speak, but
remains sitting silently at a window for whole days together, and one
might think that her large, dreamy eyes are looking at strange sights in
the depths of the sky, and see a long, attractive road there. But
Elaine, on the contrary, thought of nothing but of amusing herself, of
enjoying life and of laughing, and added all the tricks of a girl who
has just left school, to her seductive grace of a young woman. She
carried men away with her; she was most seductive, and loving seemed to
be her creation. She thought of nothing but of little coquettish acts
that made her more adorable, and of tender innuendos that triumph over
everything, that bring men to their knees and tempt them.

It was thus that I formerly dreamt of the woman who was to be my wife,
and this was the manner in which I looked on life in common; and now
this perpetual joy irritates me like a challenge, like some piece of
insolent boasting, and those lips that seek mine, and which offer
themselves so alluringly and coaxingly to me, make me sad and torture
me, as if they breathed nothing but a Lie.

Ah! If she had been the lover of another man before marriage, if she had
belonged to some one else besides me, it could only have been from love,
without altogether knowing what she wanted or what she was doing! And,
now, because she had acquired a name by marriage, because she had
accidentally extricated herself from that false step and thought she had
won the game, now that she fancied that I had not perceived anything,
that I adored her and possessed her absolutely!

How wretched I was! Should I never be able to escape from that night
which was growing darker and darker, which was imprisoning me, driving
me mad and raising an increasing and impenetrable barrier between Elaine
and me. Would not she, in the end, be the stronger, she whom I loved so
dearly, would not she envelope me in so much love, that at last I should
again find the happiness that I had lost, as if it were a calm, sunlit
haven, and thus forget this horrible nightmare when I fell on my knees
before her beauty, with a contrite heart and pricked by remorse, and
happy to give myself to her for ever, altogether and more passionately
than at the divine period of our betrothal.


PART XVI

Even the sight of our bedroom became painful to me. I was frightened of
it; I was uncomfortable there, and felt a kind of repulsion in going
there. It seemed to me as if Elaine were repeating a part that someone
else had taught her, and I almost hoped that in a moment of
forgetfulness she would allow her secret to escape her, and pronounce
some name that was not mine, and I used to keep awake, with my ears on
the alert, in the hope that she might betray herself in her sleep and
murmur some revealing word, as she recalled the past, and my temples
throbbed and my whole body trembled with excitement.

But when this was over and I saw her sleeping peacefully as a little
girl who was tired with playing, with parted lips and disheveled hair,
and measured the full extent of the stupidity of my hatred and the
sacrilegious madness of my jealousy, my heart softened and I fell into
such a state of profound and absolute distress that I thought I should
have died of it, and large drops of cold perspiration ran down my cheeks
and tears fell from my eyes, and I got up, so that my sobs might not
disturb her rest and wake her.

As this could not continue, however, I told her one day that I felt so
exhausted and ill that I should prefer to sleep in my own room. She
appeared to believe me and merely said:

"As you please, my dear!" but her blue eyes suddenly assumed such an
anxious, such a grieved look, that I turned my head aside, so as not to
see them....


PART XVII

I was again in the old house, _and without her_, in the old house where
Elaine used to spend all her holidays, in the room whose shutters had
not been opened since our departure, seven months ago.

Why did I go there, where the calm of the country, the silence of the
solitude and my recollections, irritated me and recalled my trouble,
where I suffered even more than I did in Paris, and where I thought of
Elaine every moment I seemed to see her and to hear her, in a species of
hallucination.

What did her letters that I had taken out of her writing table, which
she had used as a girl, what did her ball cards which were stuck round
her looking glass, in which she used to admire herself formerly, what
did her dresses, her dressing gowns, and the dusty furniture whose
repose my trembling hands violated, tell me? Nothing, and always
nothing.

At table, I used to speak with the worthy couple who had never left the
mansion and who appeared to look upon themselves as its second masters,
with the apparent good nature of a man who was in love with his wife and
who wished only to speak about her, who took an interest in the smallest
detail of her childhood and youth, with all the jovial familiarity which
encourages peasants to talk, and when a few glasses of white wine had
loosened their tongues they would talk about her, whom they loved as if
she had been their child, and at other times I used to question the
farmers, when they came to settle their accounts.

Had Elaine the bridle on her neck like so many girls had; did she like
the country, were the peasants fond of her, and did she show any
preference for one or the other? Were many people invited for the
shooting, and did she visit much with the other ladies in the
neighborhood?

And they drank with their elbows resting on the table in front of me,
uttered her praises in a voice as monotonous as a spinning wheel, lost
themselves in endless, senseless chatter which made me yawn in spite of
myself, and told me her girlish tricks which certainly did not disclose
what was haunting me, the traces of that first love, that perilous
flirtation, that foolish escapade in which Elaine might have been
seduced.

Old and young men and women, spoke of her with something like devotion,
and all said how kind and charitable she was, and as merry as a bird on
a bright day; they said she pitied their wretchedness and their
troubles, and was still the young girl in spite of her long dresses, and
fearing nothing, while even the animals loved her.

She was almost always alone, and was never troubled with any companions;
she seemed to shun the house, hide herself in the park when the bell
announced some unexpected visits, and when one of her aunts, Madame de
Pleissac, said to her one day:

"Do you think that you will ever find a husband with your stand-offish
manners?"

She replied with a burst of laughter:

"Oh! Very well, then, Auntie, I shall do without one!"

She had never given a hand to spiteful chatter or to slander, and had
not flirted with the best looking young man in the neighborhood, any
more than she had with the officers who stayed at the _château_ during
the maneuver, or the neighbors, who came to see her parents. And some of
them even old men, whom years of work had bent like vine-stalks and had
tanned like the leather bottles which are used by caravans in the East,
used to say with tears in their dim eyes:

"Ah! When you married our young lady, we all said that there would not
be a happier man in the whole world than you!"

Ought I to have believed them? Were they not simple, frank souls, who
were ignorant of wiles and of lies, who had no interest in deceiving me,
who had lived near Elaine while she was growing up and becoming a woman,
and who had been familiar with her?

Could I be the only one who doubted Elaine, the only one who accused her
and suspected her, I who loved her so madly, I, whose only hope, only
desire, only happiness she was? May heaven guide me on this bad road on
which I have lost my way, where I am calling for help and where my
misery is increasing every day, and grant me the infinite pleasure of
being able to enjoy her caresses without any ill feeling, and to be able
to love her, as she loves me. And if I must expiate my old faults, and
this infamous doubt which I am ashamed of not being immediately able to
cast from me, if I must pay for my unmerited happiness with usury, I
hope that I may be given to death as a prey, only provided that I might
belong to her, idolize her, believe in her kisses, believe in her beauty
and in her love, for one hour, for even a few moments!


PART XVIII

To-day I suddenly remembered a funny evening which I spent when I was a
bachelor, at Madame d'Ecoussens, where all of us, some with secret and
insurmountable agony, and others with absolute indifference, went into
one of the small rooms where a female professor of palmistry, who was
then in vogue, and whose name I have forgotten, had installed herself.

When it came to my turn to sit opposite to her, as if I had been going
to make my confession, she took my hands into her long, slender fingers,
felt them, squeezed them and triturated them, as if they had been a lump
of wax, which she was about to model into shape.

Severely dressed in black, with a pensive face, thin lips and almost
copper-colored eyes and neither young nor old, this woman had something
commanding, imperious, disturbing about her, and I must confess that my
heart beat more violently than usual while she looked at the lines in my
left hand through a strong magnifying glass, where the mysterious
characters of some satanic conjuring look appear, and form a capital M.

She was interesting, occasionally discovered fragments of my past and
gave mysterious hints, as if her looks were following the strange roads
of Destiny in those unequal, confused curves. She told me in brief words
that I should have and had had some opportunities, that I was wasting my
physical, more than my moral strength in all kinds of love affairs that
did not last long, and that the day when I really loved, or when, to
use her expression, I was fairly caught, would be to me the prelude of
intense sufferings, a real way of the Cross and of an illness of which I
should never be cured. Then, as she examined my line of life, that which
surrounds the thick part of the thumb, the lady in black suddenly grew
gloomy, frowned and appeared to hesitate to go on to the end and
continue my horoscope, and said very quickly:

"Your line of life is magnificent, monsieur; you will live to be sixty
at least, but take care not to spend it too freely or to use it
immoderately; beware of strong emotions and of any passional crisis, for
I remark a gap there in the full vigor of your age, and that gap, that
incurable malady which I mentioned to you, in the line of your
heart...."

I mastered myself, in order not to smile, and took my leave of her, but
everything that she foretold has been realized, and I dare not look at
that sinister gap which she saw in my line of life, _for that gap can
only mean madness_!

Madness, my poor, dear adored Elaine!


PART XIX

I became as bad and spiteful as if the spirit of hatred had possession
of me, and envied those whose life was too happy, and who had no cares
to trouble them. I could not conceal my pleasure when one of those
domestic dramas occurred, in which hearts bleed and are broken, in which
odious treachery and bitter sufferings are brought to light.

Divorce proceedings with their miserable episodes, with the wranglings
of the lawyers and all the unhappiness that they revealed and which
exposed the vanity of dreams, the tricks of women, the lowness of some
minds, the foul animal that sits and slumbers in most hearts, attracted
me like a delightful play, a piece which rivets one from the first to
the last act. I listened greedily to passionate letters, those mad
prayers whose secrets some lawyer violates and which he reads aloud in a
mocking tone, and which he gives pell-mell to the bench and to the
public, who have come to be amused or excited and to stare at the
victims of love.

I followed those romances of adultery which were unfolded chapter by
chapter, in their brutal reality, of things that had actually occurred,
and for the first time I forgot my own unhappiness in them. Sometimes
the husband and wife were there, as if they wished to defy each other,
to meet in some last encounter, and pale and feverish they watched each
other, devoured each other with their eyes, hiding their grief and their
misery. Sometimes again, the lover or the mistress were there and tore
their gloves in their rage, wishing to rush at the bar to defend their
love, to bring forward accusations in their turn, and would tell the
advocate that he was lying, and would threaten him and revile him with
all their indignant nature. Friends, however, would restrain them, would
whisper something to them in a low voice, press their hands like after a
funeral, and try to appease them.

It seemed to me, as if I were looking at a heap of ruins, or breathing
in the odor of an ambulance, in which dying men were groaning, and that
those unhappy people were assuaging my trouble somewhat, and taking
their share of it.

I used to read the advertisements in the Agony Columns in the
newspapers, where the same exalted phrases used to recur, where I read
the same despairing _adieux_, earnest requests for a meeting, echoes of
past affection, and vain vows; and all this relieved me, vaguely
appeased me, and made me think less about myself, that hateful,
incurable _I_ which I longed to destroy!


PART XX

As the heat was very oppressive, and there was not a breath of wind,
after dinner she wanted to go for a drive in the _Bois de Boulogne_ and
we drove in the victoria towards the bridge at Suresne.

It was getting late, and the dark drives looked like deserted
labyrinths, and cool retreats where one would have liked to have stopped
late, where the very rustle of the leaves seems to whisper amorous
temptations, and there was seduction in the softness of the air and in
the infinite music of the silence.

Occasionally, lights were to be seen among the trees, and the crescent
of the new moon shone like a half-opened gold bracelet in the serene
sky, and the green sward, the copses and the small lakes, which gave an
uncertain reflection of the surrounding objects, came into sight
suddenly, out of the shade, and the intoxicating smell of the hay and of
the flower beds rose from the earth as if from a sachet.

We did not speak, but the jolts of the carriage occasionally brought us
quite close together, and as if I were being attracted by some
irresistible force, I turned to Elaine and saw that her eyes were
filled with tears, and that she was very pale, and my whole body
trembled when I looked at her. Suddenly, as if she could not bear this
state of affairs any longer, she threw her arms round my neck, and with
her lips almost touching mine, she said:

"Why do you not love me any longer? Why do you make me so unhappy? What
have I done to you, Jacques?"

She was at my mercy, she was undergoing the influence of the charm of
one of those moonlight nights which unbrace women's nerves, make them
languid, and leave them without a will and without strength, and I
thought that she was going to tell me everything and to confess
everything to me, and I had to master myself, not to kiss her on her
sweet coaxing lips, but I only replied coldly:

"Do you not know, Elaine?... Did you not think that sooner or later I
should discover everything that you have been trying to hide from me?"

She sat up in terror, and repeated as if she were in a profound stupor:

"What have I been trying to hide from you?"

I had said too much, and was bound to go on to the end and to finish,
even though I repented of it ever afterwards, and amidst the noise of
the carriage I said in a hoarse voice:

"Is it not your fault if I have become estranged from you, shall not I
be the only one to be unhappy, I who loved you so dearly, who believed
in you, and whom you have deceived, and condemned to take another man's
mistress?"

Elaine closed my mouth with my fingers, and panting, with dilated eyes
and with such a pale face that I thought she was going to faint, she
said hoarsely:

"Be quiet, be quiet, you are frightening me,... frightening me as if you
were a madman...."

Those words froze me, and I shivered as if some phantoms were appearing
among the trees and showing me the place that had been marked out for me
by Destiny, and I felt inclined to jump from the carriage and to run to
the river, which was calling to me yonder in a maternal voice, and
inviting me to an eternal sleep, eternal repose, but Elaine called out
to the coachman:

"We will go home, Firmin; drive as fast as you can!"

We did not exchange another word, and during the whole drive Elaine
sobbed convulsively, though she tried to hide the sound with her pocket
handkerchief, and I understood that it was all finished _and that I had
killed our love_....


PART XXI

Yes, all was finished and stupidly finished, without the decisive
explanation, in which I should find strength to escape from a hateful
yoke, and to repudiate the woman who had allured me with false caresses,
and who no longer ought to bear my name.

It was either that, or else, who knows, the happiness, the peace, the
love which was not troubled by any evil afterthoughts, that absolute
love that I dreamt of between Elaine and myself when I asked for her
hand, and which I was still continually dreaming of with the despair of
a condemned soul far from Paradise, and from which I was suffering, and
which would kill me.

She prevented me from speaking; with her trembling hand she checked
that flow of frenzied words which were about to come from my pained
heart, those terrible accusations which an imperious, resistless force
incited me to utter, and those terrified words which escaped from her
pale lips, froze me again, and penetrated to my marrow as if they had
been some piercing wind.

In spite of it all, I was in full possession of my reason, I was not in
a passion, and I could not have looked like a fool.

What could she have seen unusual in my eyes that frightened her, what
inflections were there in my voice for such an idea suddenly to arise in
her brain? Suppose she had not make a mistake, suppose I no longer knew
what I was saying nor what I was doing, and really had that terrible
malady that she had mentioned, and which I cannot repeat!

It seems to me now as if I could see myself in a mirror of anguish,
altogether changed, as if my head were a complete void at times and
became something sonorous, and then was struck violent, prolonged blows
from a heavy clapper, as if it had been a bell, which fills it with
tumultuous deafening vibrations, from a kind of loud tocsin and from
monotonous peals, that were succeeded by the silence of the grave.

And the voice of recollection, a voice which tells me Elaine's
mysterious history, which speaks to me only of her, which recalls that
initial night, that strange night of happiness and of grief, when I
doubted her fidelity, when I doubted her heart as well as I did herself,
passes slowly through this silence all at once, like the voice of
distant music.

Alas! Suppose she had not made a mistake!


PART XXII

I must be an object of hatred to her, and I left home without writing
her a line, without trying to see her, without wishing her good-bye. She
may pity me or she may hate me, but she certainly does not love me any
longer, and I have myself buried that love, for which I would formerly
have given my whole life. As she is young and pretty, however, Elaine
will soon console herself for these passing troubles with some soul that
is the shadow of her own, and will replace me, if she has not done that
already, and will seek happiness in adultery.

What are she and her lover plotting? What will they try to do to prevent
me from interfering with them? What snares will they set for me so that
I may go and end my miserable life in some dungeon, from which there is
no release?

But that is impossible; it can never be; Elaine belongs to me altogether
and forever; she is my property, my chattel, my happiness. I adore her,
I want her all to myself, _even though she be guilty_, and I will never
leave her again for a moment, I will still stick to her petticoats, I
will roll at her feet, and ask her pardon, for I thirst for her kisses
and her love.

To-night in a few hours, I shall be with her, I shall go into _our_ room
and lie in _our_ bed, and I will cover the cheeks of my fair-haired
darling with such kisses, that she will no longer think me mad, and if
she cries out, if she defends herself and spurns me, I shall kill her; I
have made up my mind to that.

I know that I shall strike her with the Arab knife that is on one of the
console-tables, in our room among other knick-knacks. I see the spot
where I shall plunge in the sharp blade, into the nape of her neck,
which is covered with little soft pale golden curls, that are the same
color as the hair of her head. It attracted me so at one time, during
the chaste period of our engagement, that I used to wish to bite it, as
if it had been some fruit. I shall do it some day in the country, when
she is bathed in a ray of sunlight, which makes her look dazzling in her
pink muslin dress, some day on a towing-path, when the nightingales are
singing, and the dragonflies, with their reflections of blue and silver
are flying about.

There, there, I shall skillfully plunge it in up to the hilt, like those
who know how to kill....


PART XXIII

And after I had killed her, what then?

As the judges would not be able to explain such an extraordinary crime
to themselves, they would of course say that I was mad, medical men
would examine me and would immediately agree that I ought at once to be
kept under supervision, taken care of and placed in a lunatic asylum.

And for years, perhaps, because I was strong, and because such a
vigorous animal would survive the calamity intact, although my intellect
might give way, I should remain a prey to these chimeras, carry that
fixed idea of her lies, her impurity and her shame about with me, that
would be my one recollection, and I should suffer unceasingly.

I am writing all this perfectly coolly and in full possession of my
reason; I have perfect prescience of what my resolve entails, and of
this blind rush towards death. I feel that my very minutes are numbered,
and that I no longer have anything in my skull, in which some fire,
though I do not quite know what it is, is burning, except a few
particles of what used to be my brain.

Just as a short time ago, I should certainly have murdered Elaine, if
she had been with me, when invisible hands seemed to be pushing me
towards her, inaudible voices ordered me to commit that murder, it is
surely most probable that I shall have another crisis, and will there be
any awakening from that?

Ah! It will be a thousand times better, since Destiny has left me a
half-open door, to escape from life before it is too late, before the
free, sane, strong man that I am at present, becomes the most pitiable,
the most destructive, the most dangerous of human wrecks!

May all these notes of my misery fall into Elaine's hands some day, may
she read them to the end, pity and absolve me, and for a long time mourn
for me!

_(Here ends Jacques' Journal.)_




AN UNFORTUNATE LIKENESS


During one of those sudden changes of the electric light, which at one
time throws rays of exquisite pale pink, at another a liquid gold, as if
it had been filtered through the light hair of a woman, and at another,
rays of a bluish hue with strange tints, such as the sky assumes at
twilight, in which the women with their bare shoulders looked like
living flowers--it was on the night of the first of January at
Montonirail's, the refined painter of great undulating _poses_ figures,
of brilliant dresses, of Parisian prettiness--that tall Pescarelle, whom
some called _Pussy_, though I do not know why, suddenly said in a low
voice:

"Well, people were not altogether mistaken, in fact, were only half
wrong when they coupled my name with that of pretty Lucy Plonelle. She
had captivated my heart, just as a bird-catcher on a frosty morning
catches an imprudent wren on a limed twig, and she might have done
whatever she liked with me.

"I was under the charm of her enigmatical and mocking smile, where her
teeth had a cruel look between her red lips, and glistened as if they
were ready to bite and to heighten the pleasure of the most delightful,
the most voluptuous kiss, by pain.

"I loved everything in her, her feline suppleness, her slow looks, which
seemed to glide from her half-closed lids, full of promises and
temptation, her somewhat extreme elegance, and her hands, her long,
delicate, white hands, with blue veins, like the bloodless hands of a
female saint in a stained glass window, and her slender fingers, on
which only the large drops of blood of a ruby glittered.

"I would have given her all my remaining youth and vigor to have laid my
burning hands onto the nape of her cool round neck, and to feel that
bright, silky, golden mane enveloping me and caressing my skin. I was
never tired of hearing her disdainful, petulant voice, those vibrations
which sounded as if they proceeded from clear glass, and that music,
which at times, became hoarse, harsh and fierce, like the loud, sonorous
calls of the Valkyries.

"Oh! Good heavens! to be her lover, to be her chattel, to belong to her,
to devote one's whole existence to her, to spend one's last half-penny
and to go under in misery, only to have the glory, the happiness of
possessing the splendid beauty, the sweetness of her kisses, the pink,
and the white of her demon-like soul all to myself, were it only for a
few months!

"It makes you laugh, I know, to think that I should have been caught
like that, I who give such good, prudent advice to my friends, who fear
love as I do those quicksands and shoals which appear at low tide and in
which one is swallowed up and disappears!

"But who can answer for himself, who can defend himself against such a
danger, against the magnetic attraction that comes from such a woman?
Nevertheless, I got cured, and perfectly cured, and that, quite
accidentally, and this is how the enchantment, which was apparently so
infrangible, was broken.

"On the first night of a play, I was sitting in the stalls close to
Lucy, whose mother had accompanied her, as usual, and they occupied the
front of a box, side by side. From some insurmountable attraction, I
never ceased looking at the woman whom I loved with all the force of my
being. I feasted my eyes on her beauty, I saw nobody except her in the
theater, and did not listen to the piece that was being performed on the
stage.

"Suddenly, however, I felt as if I had received a blow from a dagger in
my heart, and I had an insane hallucination. Lucy had moved and her
pretty head was in profile, in the same attitude and with the same lines
as her mother. I do not know what shadow, or what play of light had
hardened and altered the color of her delicate features and destroyed
their ideal prettiness, but the more I looked at them both, the one who
was young, and the one who was old, the greater that distressing
resemblance became.

"I saw Lucy growing older and older, striving against those accumulating
years which bring wrinkles in the face, produce a double chin and crow's
feet, and spoil the mouth. _They almost looked like twins._

"I suffered so that I almost thought I should have gone mad, and, in
spite of myself, instead of shaking off this feeling and make my escape
out of the theater, far away into the noise and life on the boulevards,
I persisted in looking at the other, at the old one, in scanning her
over, in judging her, in dissecting her with my eyes; I got excited over
her flabby cheeks, over those ridiculous dimples, that were half-filled
up, over that treble chin, that hair which must have been dyed, those
eyes which had no more brightness in them, and that nose which was a
caricature of Lucy's beautiful, attractive little nose.

"I had the prescience of the future. I loved her, and I should love her
more and more every day, that little sorceress who had so despotically
and so quickly conquered me. I should not allow any participation or any
intrigue from the day she gave herself to me, and when once we had been
so intimately connected, who could tell whether, just as I was defending
myself against it most, the legitimate termination--marriage--might not
come?

"Why not give one's name to a woman whom one loves, and of whom one is
sure? The reason was, that I should be tied to a disfigured, ugly
creature with whom I should not venture to be seen in public, as my
friends would leer at her with laughter in their eyes, and with pity in
their hearts for the man who was accompanying those remains."

       *       *       *       *       *

"And so, as soon as the curtain had fallen, without saying good-day or
good-evening, I had myself driven to the _Moulin Rouge_, and there I
picked up the first woman I came across, and remained in her company
until late next day."

"Well," Florise d'Anglet exclaimed, "I shall never take Mamma to the
theater with me again, for men are really getting too mad!"




THE NEW SENSATION


That little Madame d'Ormonde certainly had the devil in her, but above
all, a fantastic, baffling brain, through which the most unheard of
caprices passed, in which ideas danced and jostled each other, like
those pieces of different colored glass in a kaleidoscope, which form
such strange figures when they have been shaken, in which _Parisine_ was
fermenting to such an extent--you know, _Parisine_, the analysis of
which Roqueplan lately gave--that the most learned members of _The
Institute_ would have wasted his science and his wisdom if he had tried
to follow her slips and her subterfuges.

That was, very likely, the reason why she attracted, retained and
infatuated even those who had paid their debt to implacable love, who
thought that they were strong and free from those passions under the
influence of which men lose their heads, and that they were beyond the
reach of woman's perfidious snares. Or, perhaps, it was her small, soft,
delicate, white hands, which always smelled of some subtle, delicious
perfume, and whose small fingers men kissed almost with devotion, almost
with absolute pleasure. Or, was it her silky, golden hair, her large,
blue eyes, full of enigmas, of curiosity, of desire, her changeable
mouth, which was quite small and infantine at one moment, when she was
pouting, and smiling and as open as a rose that is unfolding in the sun,
when she opened it in a laugh, and showed her pearly teeth, so that it
became a target for kisses? Who will ever be able to explain that kind
of magic and sorcery which some _Chosen Women_ exercise over all men,
that despotic authority, against which nobody would think of rebelling?

Among the numerous men who had entreated her, who were anxiously waiting
for that wonderful moment when her heart would beat, when his mocking
companion would grow tired and abandon herself to the pleasure of loving
and of being loved, would become intoxicated with the honey of caresses,
and would no longer refuse her lips to kisses, like some restive animal
that fears the yoke, none had so made up his mind to win the game, and
to pursue this deceptive siege, as much as Xavier de Fontrailles. He
marched straight for his object with a patient energy and a strength of
will which no checks could weaken, and with the ardent fervor of a
believer who has started on a long pilgrimage, and who supports all the
suffering of the long journey with the fixed and consoling idea that one
day he will be able to throw himself on his knees at the shrine where he
wishes to worship, and to listen to the divine words which will be a
Paradise to him.

He gave way to Madame d'Ormonde's slightest whims, and did all he could
never to bore her, never to hurt her feelings, but really to become a
friend whom she could not do without, and of whom, in the end, a woman
grows more jealous than she does of her husband, and to whom she
confesses everything, her daily worries and her dreams of the future.

She would very likely have suffered and wept, and have felt a great void
in her existence if they had separated for ever, if he had disappeared,
and she would not have hesitated to defend him, even at the risk of
compromising herself, and of passing as his mistress, if any one had
attacked him in her presence, and sometimes she used to say with a
sudden laughing sadness in her voice:

"If I were really capable of loving for five minutes consecutively, I
should love you."

And when they were walking in the _Bois de Boulogne_, while the Victoria
was waiting near Armenonville, during their afternoon talks when, as he
used to say, they were hanging over the abyss until they both grew
giddy, and spoke of love madly and ceaselessly--returning to the subject
constantly, and impregnating themselves with it--Madame d'Ormonde would
occasionally produce one of her favorite theories. Yes, she certainly
understood possession of the beloved object, that touch of madness which
seizes you from head to foot, which makes your blood hot, and which
makes you forget everything else in a man's embraces, in that supreme
pleasure which overwhelms you, and which rivets two beings together for
ever, by the heart and by the brain. But only at some unexpected moment,
in a strange place, with a touch of something novel about it, which one
would remember all one's life, something amusing and almost maddening,
which one had been in search of for a long time, and which imparted a
flavor of curry, as it were, into the common-place flavor of immorality.

And Xavier de Fontrailles did all he could to discover such a place, but
failed successively in a bachelor's lodgings with silk tapestry, like a
boudoir of the seventeenth century, in a villa hidden like a nest among
trees and rose bushes, with a Japanese house furnished in an
extraordinary fashion and very expensively, with latticed windows from
which one could see the sea, in an old melancholy palace, from which one
could see the Grand Canal, in rooms, in hotels, in queer quarters, in
private rooms, in restaurants, and in small country houses in the
recesses of woods.

Madame d'Ormonde went on her way without turning her head, but Xavier,
alas! became more and more amorous, as amorous as an overgrown schoolboy
who has never hitherto had any conversation with a woman, and who is
amorous enough to pick up the flowers that fall from her bodice, and to
be lost and unhappy as soon as he does not see her, or hear her soft,
cooing voice, and see her smile....

One evening, however, he had gone with her to the fair at Saint Cloud,
and went into three shows, deafened by the noise of the organs, the
whistling of the machinery of the round-abouts, and the hubbub of the
crowd that came and went among the booths that were illuminated by
paraffin lamps. As they were passing in front of a somnambulist's van,
Monsieur de Fontrailles stopped and said to Madame d'Ormonde:

"Would you like to have our fortune told?"

It was a very fine specimen of its kind, and had, no doubt, been far and
wide. Placards and portraits, bordered by advertisements, hung above the
shaky steps, and the small windows with their closed shutters, were
almost hidden by boxes of sweet basil and mignonette, while an old, bald
parrot, with her feathers all ruffled, was asleep just outside.

The fortune teller was sitting on a chair, quietly knitting a stocking,
and on their approach she got up, went up to Madame d'Ormonde and said
in an unctuous voice:

"I reveal the present, the past and the future, and even the name of the
future husband or wife, and of deceased relations, as well as my
client's present and future circumstances. I have performed before
crowned heads. The Emperor of Brazil came to me, with the illustrious
poet, Victor Hugo.... My charge is five francs for telling your fortune
from the cards or by your hand, and twenty francs for the whole lot....
Would you like the lot, Madame?"

Madame d'Ormonde gave vent to a burst of sonorous laughter, like a
street girl, who is amusing herself, but they went in and Monsieur de
Fontrailles opened the glass door which was covered by a heavy red
curtain. When they got in, the young woman uttered an exclamation of
surprise. The interior of the van was full of roses, arranged in the
most charming manner as if for a lovers' meeting. On a table covered
with a damask cloth, and which was surrounded by piles of cushions, a
supper was waiting for chance comers, and at the other end, concealed by
heavy hangings, one could see a large, wide bed, one of those beds which
give rise to sinister suggestions!

Xavier had shut the door again, and Madame d'Ormonde looked at him in a
strange manner, with rather flushed cheeks, palpitating nostrils, and a
look in her eyes, such as he had never seen in them before, and in a
very low voice, while his heart beat violently, and he whispered into
her ear:

"Well, does the decoration please you this time?"

She replied by holding up her lips to him, and then filled two glasses
with extra dry champagne, which was as pale as the skin of a fair woman,
and said almost as if she had already been rather drunk:

"I am decidedly worth a big stake!"

It was in this fashion that Madame d'Ormonde, for the first and last
time, deceived her husband; and it was at the fair at Saint Cloud, in a
somnambulist's van.