THE ENTIRE ORIGINAL MAUPASSANT SHORT STORIES


by Guy de Maupassant




Translated by ALBERT M. C. McMASTER, B.A. A. E. HENDERSON, B.A. MME.
QUESADA and Others




CONTENTS IN EACH VOLUME


VOLUME I.

BOULE DE SUIF

TWO FRIENDS

THE LANCER'S WIFE

THE PRISONERS

TWO LITTLE SOLDIERS

FATHER MILON

A COUP D'ETAT

LIEUTENANT LARE'S MARRIAGE

THE HORRIBLE

MADAME PARISSE

MADEMOISELLE FIFI

A DUEL

ORIGINAL SHORT STORIES, Vol. 2.



VOLUME II.

THE COLONEL'S IDEAS

MOTHER SAUVAGE

EPIPHANY

THE MUSTACHE

MADAME BAPTISTE

THE QUESTION OF LATIN

A MEETING

THE BLIND MAN

INDISCRETION

A FAMILY AFFAIR

BESIDE SCHOPENHAUER'S CORPSE

ORIGINAL SHORT STORIES, Vol. 3.



VOLUME III.

MISS HARRIET

LITTLE LOUISE ROQUE

THE DONKEY

MOIRON

THE DISPENSER OF HOLY WATER

A PARRICIDE

BERTHA

THE PATRON

THE DOOR

A SALE

THE IMPOLITE SEX

A WEDDING GIFT

THE RELIC



VOLUME IV.

THE MORIBUND

THE GAMEKEEPER

THE STORY OF A FARM GIRL

THE WRECK

THEODULE SABOT'S CONFESSION

THE WRONG HOUSE

THE DIAMOND NECKLACE

THE MARQUIS DE FUMEROL

THE TRIP OF LE HORLA

FAREWELL!

THE WOLF

THE INN



VOLUME V.

MONSIEUR PARENT

QUEEN HORTENSE

TIMBUCTOO

TOMBSTONES

MADEMOISELLE PEARL

THE THIEF

CLAIR DE LUNE

WAITER, A “BOCK”

AFTER

FORGIVENESS

IN THE SPRING

A QUEER NIGHT IN PARIS



VOLUME VI.

THAT COSTLY RIDE

USELESS BEAUTY

THE FATHER

MY UNCLE SOSTHENES

THE BARONESS

MOTHER AND SON

THE HAND

A TRESS OF HAIR

ON THE RIVER

THE CRIPPLE

A STROLL

ALEXANDRE

THE LOG

JULIE ROMAIN

THE RONDOLI SISTERS



VOLUME VII.

THE FALSE GEMS

FASCINATION

YVETTE SAMORIS

A VENDETTA

MY TWENTY-FIVE DAYS

“THE TERROR”

LEGEND OF MONT ST. MICHEL

A NEW YEAR'S GIFT

FRIEND PATIENCE

ABANDONED

THE MAISON TELLIER

DENIS

MY WIFE

THE UNKNOWN

THE APPARITION



VOLUME VIII.

CLOCHETTE

THE KISS

THE LEGION OF HONOR

THE TEST

FOUND ON A DROWNED MAN

THE ORPHAN

THE BEGGAR

THE RABBIT

HIS AVENGER

MY UNCLE JULES

THE MODEL

A VAGABOND

THE FISHING HOLE

THE SPASM

IN THE WOOD

MARTINE

ALL OVER

THE PARROT

THE PIECE OF STRING



VOLUME IX.

TOINE

MADAME HUSSON'S “ROSIER”

THE ADOPTED SON

COWARD

OLD MONGILET

MOONLIGHT

THE FIRST SNOWFALL

SUNDAYS OF A BOURGEOIS

A RECOLLECTION

OUR LETTERS

THE LOVE OF LONG AGO

FRIEND JOSEPH

THE EFFEMINATES

OLD AMABLE



VOLUME X.

THE CHRISTENING

THE FARMER'S WIFE

THE DEVIL

THE SNIPE

THE WILL

WALTER SCHNAFFS' ADVENTURE

AT SEA

MINUET

THE SON

THAT PIG OF A MORIN

SAINT ANTHONY

LASTING LOVE

PIERROT

A NORMANDY JOKE

FATHER MATTHEW



VOLUME XI.

THE UMBRELLA

BELHOMME'S BEAST

DISCOVERY

THE ACCURSED BREAD

THE DOWRY

THE DIARY OF A MADMAN

THE MASK

THE PENGUINS' ROCK

A FAMILY

SUICIDES

AN ARTIFICE

DREAMS

SIMON'S PAPA



VOLUME XII.

THE CHILD

A COUNTRY EXCURSION

ROSE

ROSALIE PRUDENT

REGRET

A SISTER'S CONFESSION

COCO

DEAD WOMAN'S SECRET

A HUMBLE DRAMA

MADEMOISELLE COCOTTE

THE CORSICAN BANDIT

THE GRAVE



VOLUME XIII.

OLD JUDAS

THE LITTLE CASK

BOITELLE

A WIDOW

THE ENGLISHMAN OF ETRETAT

MAGNETISM

A FATHER'S CONFESSION

A MOTHER OF MONSTERS

AN UNCOMFORTABLE BED

A PORTRAIT

THE DRUNKARD

THE WARDROBE

THE MOUNTAIN POOL

A CREMATION

MISTI

MADAME HERMET

THE MAGIC COUCH



ABANDONED

THE ACCURSED BREAD

AFTER

ALEXANDRE

OLD AMABLE

THE APPARITION

AN ARTIFICE

HIS AVENGER [ B ]

THE BARONESS

THE BEGGAR

BELHOMME'S BEAST

BERTHA

BESIDE SCHOPENHAUER'S CORPSE

THE BLIND MAN

BOITELLE

BOULE DE SUIF [ C ]

THE CHILD

THE CHRISTENING

CLAIR DE LUNE

CLOCHETTE

COCO

THE CORSICAN BANDIT

THAT COSTLY RIDE

A COUNTRY EXCURSION

A COUP D'ETAT

COWARD

A CREMATION

THE CRIPPLE [ D ]

DEAD WOMAN'S SECRET

DENIS

THE DEVIL

THE DIAMOND NECKLACE

THE DIARY OF A MADMAN

DISCOVERY

THE DISPENSER OF HOLY WATER

THE DONKEY

THE DOOR

THE DOWRY

DREAMS

THE DRUNKARD

A DUEL [ E ]

THE EFFEMINATES

THE ENGLISHMAN OF ETRETAT

EPIPHANY [ F ]

THE FALSE GEMS

A FAMILY

A FAMILY AFFAIR

FAREWELL!

THE STORY OF A FARM GIRL

THE FARMER'S WIFE

FASCINATION

THE FATHER

FATHER MATTHEW

FATHER MILON

A FATHER'S CONFESSION

THE FISHING HOLE

FORGIVENESS

FOUND ON A DROWNED MAN

FRIEND PATIENCE

TWO FRIENDS [ G ]

THE GAMEKEEPER

THE GRAVE [ H ]

THE HAND

THE HORRIBLE

A HUMBLE DRAMA [ I ]

THE IMPOLITE SEX

INDISCRETION

THE INN

IN THE SPRING [ J ]

FRIEND JOSEPH

OLD JUDAS

JULIE ROMAIN [ K ]

THE KISS [ L ]

THE LANCER'S WIFE

LASTING LOVE

THE LEGION OF HONOR

OUR LETTERS

LIEUTENANT LARE'S MARRIAGE

THE LITTLE CASK

TWO LITTLE SOLDIERS

THE LOG

LITTLE LOUISE ROQUE

THE LOVE OF LONG AGO [ M ]

MADAME BAPTISTE

MADAME HERMET

MADAME HUSSON'S “ROSIER”

MADAME PARISSE

MADEMOISELLE COCOTTE

MADEMOISELLE FIFI

MADEMOISELLE PEARL

THE MAGIC COUCH

MAGNETISM

THE MAISON TELLIER

THE MARQUIS DE FUMEROL

MARTINE

THE MASK

A MEETING

MINUET

MISS HARRIET

MISTI

THE MODEL

MOIRON

OLD MONGILET

MONSIEUR PARENT

LEGEND OF MONT ST. MICHEL

MOONLIGHT

THE MORIBUND

MOTHER AND SON

A MOTHER OF MONSTERS

MOTHER SAUVAGE

THE MOUNTAIN POOL

MY WIFE [ N ]

A NEW YEAR'S GIFT

A NORMANDY JOKE [ O ]

THE ORPHAN

ALL OVER [ P ]

A PARRICIDE

THE PARROT

THE PATRON

THE PENGUINS' ROCK

THE PIECE OF STRING

PIERROT

THAT PIG OF A MORIN

A PORTRAIT

THE PRISONERS [ Q ]

QUEEN HORTENSE

A QUEER NIGHT IN PARIS

THE QUESTION OF LATIN [ R ]

THE RABBIT

A RECOLLECTION

REGRET

THE RELIC

ON THE RIVER

THE RONDOLI SISTERS

ROSALIE PRUDENT

ROSE [ S ]

SAINT ANTHONY

A SALE

AT SEA

SIMON'S PAPA

A SISTER'S CONFESSION

THE SNIPE

THE FIRST SNOWFALL

THE SON

THE SPASM

A STROLL

SUICIDES

SUNDAYS OF A BOURGEOIS [ T ]

“THE TERROR”

THE TEST

THE ADOPTED SON

THE COLONEL'S IDEAS

THE MUSTACHE

THEODULE SABOT'S CONFESSION

THE THIEF

TIMBUCTOO

TOINE

TOMBSTONES

A TRESS OF HAIR

THE TRIP OF LE HORLA

MY TWENTY-FIVE DAYS [ U ]

THE UMBRELLA

MY UNCLE JULES

MY UNCLE SOSTHENES

AN UNCOMFORTABLE BED

THE UNKNOWN

USELESS BEAUTY [ V ]

A VAGABOND

A VENDETTA [ W ]

WAITER, A “BOCK”

WALTER SCHNAFFS' ADVENTURE

THE WARDROBE

A WEDDING GIFT

A WIDOW

THE WILL

THE WOLF

IN THE WOOD

THE WRECK

THE WRONG HOUSE [ Y ]

YVETTE SAMORIS





GUY DE MAUPASSANT


ORIGINAL SHORT STORIES






VOLUME I.





GUY DE MAUPASSANT

A STUDY BY POL. NEVEUX

“I entered literary life as a meteor, and I shall leave it like a
thunderbolt.” These words of Maupassant to Jose Maria de Heredia on the
occasion of a memorable meeting are, in spite of their morbid solemnity,
not an inexact summing up of the brief career during which, for ten
years, the writer, by turns undaunted and sorrowful, with the fertility
of a master hand produced poetry, novels, romances and travels, only to
sink prematurely into the abyss of madness and death. . . . .

In the month of April, 1880, an article appeared in the “Le Gaulois”
announcing the publication of the Soirees de Medan. It was signed by a
name as yet unknown: Guy de Maupassant. After a juvenile diatribe
against romanticism and a passionate attack on languorous literature,
the writer extolled the study of real life, and announced the
publication of the new work. It was picturesque and charming. In the
quiet of evening, on an island, in the Seine, beneath poplars instead of
the Neapolitan cypresses dear to the friends of Boccaccio, amid the
continuous murmur of the valley, and no longer to the sound of the
Pyrennean streams that murmured a faint accompaniment to the tales of
Marguerite's cavaliers, the master and his disciples took turns in
narrating some striking or pathetic episode of the war. And the issue,
in collaboration, of these tales in one volume, in which the master
jostled elbows with his pupils, took on the appearance of a manifesto,
the tone of a challenge, or the utterance of a creed.

In fact, however, the beginnings had been much more simple, and they had
confined themselves, beneath the trees of Medan, to deciding on a
general title for the work. Zola had contributed the manuscript of the
“Attaque du Moulin,” and it was at Maupassant's house that the five
young men gave in their contributions. Each one read his story,
Maupassant being the last. When he had finished Boule de Suif, with a
spontaneous impulse, with an emotion they never forgot, filled with
enthusiasm at this revelation, they all rose and, without superfluous
words, acclaimed him as a master.

He undertook to write the article for the Gaulois and, in cooperation
with his friends, he worded it in the terms with which we are familiar,
amplifying and embellishing it, yielding to an inborn taste for
mystification which his youth rendered excusable. The essential point,
he said, is to “unmoor” criticism.

It was unmoored. The following day Wolff wrote a polemical dissertation
in the Figaro and carried away his colleagues. The volume was a
brilliant success, thanks to Boule de Suif. Despite the novelty, the
honesty of effort, on the part of all, no mention was made of the other
stories. Relegated to the second rank, they passed without notice. From
his first battle, Maupassant was master of the field in literature.

At once the entire press took him up and said what was appropriate
regarding the budding celebrity. Biographers and reporters sought
information concerning his life. As it was very simple and perfectly
straightforward, they resorted to invention. And thus it is that at the
present day Maupassant appears to us like one of those ancient heroes
whose origin and death are veiled in mystery.

I will not dwell on Guy de Maupassant's younger days. His relatives, his
old friends, he himself, here and there in his works, have furnished us
in their letters enough valuable revelations and touching remembrances
of the years preceding his literary debut. His worthy biographer, H.
Edouard Maynial, after collecting intelligently all the writings,
condensing and comparing them, has been able to give us some definite
information regarding that early period.

I will simply recall that he was born on the 5th of August, 1850, near
Dieppe, in the castle of Miromesnil which he describes in Une Vie. . . .

Maupassant, like Flaubert, was a Norman, through his mother, and through
his place of birth he belonged to that strange and adventurous race,
whose heroic and long voyages on tramp trading ships he liked to recall.
And just as the author of “Education sentimentale” seems to have
inherited in the paternal line the shrewd realism of Champagne, so de
Maupassant appears to have inherited from his Lorraine ancestors their
indestructible discipline and cold lucidity.

His childhood was passed at Etretat, his beautiful childhood; it was
there that his instincts were awakened in the unfoldment of his
prehistoric soul. Years went by in an ecstasy of physical happiness. The
delight of running at full speed through fields of gorse, the charm of
voyages of discovery in hollows and ravines, games beneath the dark
hedges, a passion for going to sea with the fishermen and, on nights
when there was no moon, for dreaming on their boats of imaginary
voyages.

Mme. de Maupassant, who had guided her son's early reading, and had
gazed with him at the sublime spectacle of nature, put, off as long as
possible the hour of separation. One day, however, she had to take the
child to the little seminary at Yvetot. Later, he became a student at
the college at Rouen, and became a literary correspondent of Louis
Bouilhet. It was at the latter's house on those Sundays in winter when
the Norman rain drowned the sound of the bells and dashed against the
window panes that the school boy learned to write poetry.

Vacation took the rhetorician back to the north of Normandy. Now it was
shooting at Saint Julien l'Hospitalier, across fields, bogs, and through
the woods. From that time on he sealed his pact with the earth, and
those “deep and delicate roots” which attached him to his native soil
began to grow. It was of Normandy, broad, fresh and virile, that he
would presently demand his inspiration, fervent and eager as a boy's
love; it was in her that he would take refuge when, weary of life, he
would implore a truce, or when he simply wished to work and revive his
energies in old-time joys. It was at this time that was born in him that
voluptuous love of the sea, which in later days could alone withdraw him
from the world, calm him, console him.

In 1870 he lived in the country, then he came to Paris to live; for, the
family fortunes having dwindled, he had to look for a position. For
several years he was a clerk in the Ministry of Marine, where he turned
over musty papers, in the uninteresting company of the clerks of the
admiralty.

Then he went into the department of Public Instruction, where
bureaucratic servility is less intolerable. The daily duties are
certainly scarcely more onerous and he had as chiefs, or colleagues,
Xavier Charmes and Leon Dierx, Henry Roujon and Rene Billotte, but his
office looked out on a beautiful melancholy garden with immense plane
trees around which black circles of crows gathered in winter.

Maupassant made two divisions of his spare hours, one for boating, and
the other for literature. Every evening in spring, every free day, he
ran down to the river whose mysterious current veiled in fog or
sparkling in the sun called to him and bewitched him. In the islands in
the Seine between Chatou and Port-Marly, on the banks of Sartrouville
and Triel he was long noted among the population of boatmen, who have
now vanished, for his unwearying biceps, his cynical gaiety of good-
fellowship, his unfailing practical jokes, his broad witticisms.
Sometimes he would row with frantic speed, free and joyous, through the
glowing sunlight on the stream; sometimes, he would wander along the
coast, questioning the sailors, chatting with the ravageurs, or junk
gatherers, or stretched at full length amid the irises and tansy he
would lie for hours watching the frail insects that play on the surface
of the stream, water spiders, or white butterflies, dragon flies,
chasing each other amid the willow leaves, or frogs asleep on the lily-
pads.

The rest of his life was taken up by his work. Without ever becoming
despondent, silent and persistent, he accumulated manuscripts, poetry,
criticisms, plays, romances and novels. Every week he docilely submitted
his work to the great Flaubert, the childhood friend of his mother and
his uncle Alfred Le Poittevin. The master had consented to assist the
young man, to reveal to him the secrets that make chefs-d'oeuvre
immortal. It was he who compelled him to make copious research and to
use direct observation and who inculcated in him a horror of vulgarity
and a contempt for facility.

Maupassant himself tells us of those severe initiations in the Rue
Murillo, or in the tent at Croisset; he has recalled the implacable
didactics of his old master, his tender brutality, the paternal advice
of his generous and candid heart. For seven years Flaubert slashed,
pulverized, the awkward attempts of his pupil whose success remained
uncertain.

Suddenly, in a flight of spontaneous perfection, he wrote Boule de Suif.
His master's joy was great and overwhelming. He died two months later.

Until the end Maupassant remained illuminated by the reflection of the
good, vanished giant, by that touching reflection that comes from the
dead to those souls they have so profoundly stirred. The worship of
Flaubert was a religion from which nothing could distract him, neither
work, nor glory, nor slow moving waves, nor balmy nights.

At the end of his short life, while his mind was still clear: he wrote
to a friend: “I am always thinking of my poor Flaubert, and I say to
myself that I should like to die if I were sure that anyone would think
of me in the same manner.”

During these long years of his novitiate Maupassant had entered the
social literary circles. He would remain silent, preoccupied; and if
anyone, astonished at his silence, asked him about his plans he answered
simply: “I am learning my trade.” However, under the pseudonym of Guy de
Valmont, he had sent some articles to the newspapers, and, later, with
the approval and by the advice of Flaubert, he published, in the
“Republique des Lettres,” poems signed by his name.

These poems, overflowing with sensuality, where the hymn to the Earth
describes the transports of physical possession, where the impatience of
love expresses itself in loud melancholy appeals like the calls of
animals in the spring nights, are valuable chiefly inasmuch as they
reveal the creature of instinct, the fawn escaped from his native
forests, that Maupassant was in his early youth. But they add nothing to
his glory. They are the “rhymes of a prose writer” as Jules Lemaitre
said. To mould the expression of his thought according to the strictest
laws, and to “narrow it down” to some extent, such was his aim.
Following the example of one of his comrades of Medan, being readily
carried away by precision of style and the rhythm of sentences, by the
imperious rule of the ballad, of the pantoum or the chant royal,
Maupassant also desired to write in metrical lines. However, he never
liked this collection that he often regretted having published. His
encounters with prosody had left him with that monotonous weariness that
the horseman and the fencer feel after a period in the riding school, or
a bout with the foils.

Such, in very broad lines, is the story of Maupassant's literary
apprenticeship.

The day following the publication of “Boule de Suif,” his reputation
began to grow rapidly. The quality of his story was unrivalled, but at
the same time it must be acknowledged that there were some who, for the
sake of discussion, desired to place a young reputation in opposition to
the triumphant brutality of Zola.

From this time on, Maupassant, at the solicitation of the entire press,
set to work and wrote story after story. His talent, free from all
influences, his individuality, are not disputed for a moment. With a
quick step, steady and alert, he advanced to fame, a fame of which he
himself was not aware, but which was so universal, that no contemporary
author during his life ever experienced the same. The “meteor” sent out
its light and its rays were prolonged without limit, in article after
article, volume on volume.

He was now rich and famous . . . . He is esteemed all the more as they
believe him to be rich and happy. But they do not know that this young
fellow with the sunburnt face, thick neck and salient muscles whom they
invariably compare to a young bull at liberty, and whose love affairs
they whisper, is ill, very ill. At the very moment that success came to
him, the malady that never afterwards left him came also, and, seated
motionless at his side, gazed at him with its threatening countenance.
He suffered from terrible headaches, followed by nights of insomnia. He
had nervous attacks, which he soothed with narcotics and anesthetics,
which he used freely. His sight, which had troubled him at intervals,
became affected, and a celebrated oculist spoke of abnormality, asymetry
of the pupils. The famous young man trembled in secret and was haunted
by all kinds of terrors.

The reader is charmed at the saneness of this revived art and yet, here
and there, he is surprised to discover, amid descriptions of nature that
are full of humanity, disquieting flights towards the supernatural,
distressing conjurations, veiled at first, of the most commonplace, the
most vertiginous shuddering fits of fear, as old as the world and as
eternal as the unknown. But, instead of being alarmed, he thinks that
the author must be gifted with infallible intuition to follow out thus
the taints in his characters, even through their most dangerous mazes.
The reader does not know that these hallucinations which he describes so
minutely were experienced by Maupassant himself; he does not know that
the fear is in himself, the anguish of fear “which is not caused by the
presence of danger, or of inevitable death, but by certain abnormal
conditions, by certain mysterious influences in presence of vague
dangers,” the “fear of fear, the dread of that horrible sensation of
incomprehensible terror.”

How can one explain these physical sufferings and this morbid distress
that were known for some time to his intimates alone? Alas! the
explanation is only too simple. All his life, consciously or
unconsciously, Maupassant fought this malady, hidden as yet, which was
latent in him.

As his malady began to take a more definite form, he turned his steps
towards the south, only visiting Paris to see his physicians and
publishers. In the old port of Antibes beyond the causeway of Cannes,
his yacht, Bel Ami, which he cherished as a brother, lay at anchor and
awaited him. He took it to the white cities of the Genoese Gulf, towards
the palm trees of Hyeres, or the red bay trees of Antheor.

After several tragic weeks in which, from instinct, he made a desperate
fight, on the 1st of January, 1892, he felt he was hopelessly
vanquished, and in a moment of supreme clearness of intellect, like
Gerard de Nerval, he attempted suicide. Less fortunate than the author
of Sylvia, he was unsuccessful. But his mind, henceforth “indifferent to
all unhappiness,” had entered into eternal darkness.

He was taken back to Paris and placed in Dr. Meuriot's sanatorium,
where, after eighteen months of mechanical existence, the “meteor”
quietly passed away.





BOULE DE SUIF

For several days in succession fragments of a defeated army had passed
through the town. They were mere disorganized bands, not disciplined
forces. The men wore long, dirty beards and tattered uniforms; they
advanced in listless fashion, without a flag, without a leader. All
seemed exhausted, worn out, incapable of thought or resolve, marching
onward merely by force of habit, and dropping to the ground with fatigue
the moment they halted. One saw, in particular, many enlisted men,
peaceful citizens, men who lived quietly on their income, bending
beneath the weight of their rifles; and little active volunteers, easily
frightened but full of enthusiasm, as eager to attack as they were ready
to take to flight; and amid these, a sprinkling of red-breeched
soldiers, the pitiful remnant of a division cut down in a great battle;
somber artillerymen, side by side with nondescript foot-soldiers; and,
here and there, the gleaming helmet of a heavy-footed dragoon who had
difficulty in keeping up with the quicker pace of the soldiers of the
line. Legions of irregulars with high-sounding names “Avengers of
Defeat,” “Citizens of the Tomb,” “Brethren in Death”—passed in their
turn, looking like banditti. Their leaders, former drapers or grain
merchants, or tallow or soap chandlers—warriors by force of
circumstances, officers by reason of their mustachios or their
money—covered with weapons, flannel and gold lace, spoke in an
impressive manner, discussed plans of campaign, and behaved as though
they alone bore the fortunes of dying France on their braggart
shoulders; though, in truth, they frequently were afraid of their own
men—scoundrels often brave beyond measure, but pillagers and debauchees.

Rumor had it that the Prussians were about to enter Rouen.

The members of the National Guard, who for the past two months had been
reconnoitering with the utmost caution in the neighboring woods,
occasionally shooting their own sentinels, and making ready for fight
whenever a rabbit rustled in the undergrowth, had now returned to their
homes. Their arms, their uniforms, all the death-dealing paraphernalia
with which they had terrified all the milestones along the highroad for
eight miles round, had suddenly and marvellously disappeared.

The last of the French soldiers had just crossed the Seine on their way
to Pont-Audemer, through Saint-Sever and Bourg-Achard, and in their rear
the vanquished general, powerless to do aught with the forlorn remnants
of his army, himself dismayed at the final overthrow of a nation
accustomed to victory and disastrously beaten despite its legendary
bravery, walked between two orderlies.

Then a profound calm, a shuddering, silent dread, settled on the city.
Many a round-paunched citizen, emasculated by years devoted to business,
anxiously awaited the conquerors, trembling lest his roasting-jacks or
kitchen knives should be looked upon as weapons.

Life seemed to have stopped short; the shops were shut, the streets
deserted. Now and then an inhabitant, awed by the silence, glided
swiftly by in the shadow of the walls. The anguish of suspense made men
even desire the arrival of the enemy.

In the afternoon of the day following the departure of the French
troops, a number of uhlans, coming no one knew whence, passed rapidly
through the town. A little later on, a black mass descended St.
Catherine's Hill, while two other invading bodies appeared respectively
on the Darnetal and the Boisguillaume roads. The advance guards of the
three corps arrived at precisely the same moment at the Square of the
Hotel de Ville, and the German army poured through all the adjacent
streets, its battalions making the pavement ring with their firm,
measured tread.

Orders shouted in an unknown, guttural tongue rose to the windows of the
seemingly dead, deserted houses; while behind the fast-closed shutters
eager eyes peered forth at the victors-masters now of the city, its
fortunes, and its lives, by “right of war.” The inhabitants, in their
darkened rooms, were possessed by that terror which follows in the wake
of cataclysms, of deadly upheavals of the earth, against which all human
skill and strength are vain. For the same thing happens whenever the
established order of things is upset, when security no longer exists,
when all those rights usually protected by the law of man or of Nature
are at the mercy of unreasoning, savage force. The earthquake crushing a
whole nation under falling roofs; the flood let loose, and engulfing in
its swirling depths the corpses of drowned peasants, along with dead
oxen and beams torn from shattered houses; or the army, covered with
glory, murdering those who defend themselves, making prisoners of the
rest, pillaging in the name of the Sword, and giving thanks to God to
the thunder of cannon—all these are appalling scourges, which destroy
all belief in eternal justice, all that confidence we have been taught
to feel in the protection of Heaven and the reason of man.

Small detachments of soldiers knocked at each door, and then disappeared
within the houses; for the vanquished saw they would have to be civil to
their conquerors.

At the end of a short time, once the first terror had subsided, calm was
again restored. In many houses the Prussian officer ate at the same
table with the family. He was often well-bred, and, out of politeness,
expressed sympathy with France and repugnance at being compelled to take
part in the war. This sentiment was received with gratitude; besides,
his protection might be needful some day or other. By the exercise of
tact the number of men quartered in one's house might be reduced; and
why should one provoke the hostility of a person on whom one's whole
welfare depended? Such conduct would savor less of bravery than of fool-
hardiness. And foolhardiness is no longer a failing of the citizens of
Rouen as it was in the days when their city earned renown by its heroic
defenses. Last of all-final argument based on the national
politeness—the folk of Rouen said to one another that it was only right
to be civil in one's own house, provided there was no public exhibition
of familiarity with the foreigner. Out of doors, therefore, citizen and
soldier did not know each other; but in the house both chatted freely,
and each evening the German remained a little longer warming himself at
the hospitable hearth.

Even the town itself resumed by degrees its ordinary aspect. The French
seldom walked abroad, but the streets swarmed with Prussian soldiers.
Moreover, the officers of the Blue Hussars, who arrogantly dragged their
instruments of death along the pavements, seemed to hold the simple
townsmen in but little more contempt than did the French cavalry
officers who had drunk at the same cafes the year before.

But there was something in the air, a something strange and subtle, an
intolerable foreign atmosphere like a penetrating odor—the odor of
invasion. It permeated dwellings and places of public resort, changed
the taste of food, made one imagine one's self in far-distant lands,
amid dangerous, barbaric tribes.

The conquerors exacted money, much money. The inhabitants paid what was
asked; they were rich. But, the wealthier a Norman tradesman becomes,
the more he suffers at having to part with anything that belongs to him,
at having to see any portion of his substance pass into the hands of
another.

Nevertheless, within six or seven miles of the town, along the course of
the river as it flows onward to Croisset, Dieppedalle and Biessart,
boat-men and fishermen often hauled to the surface of the water the body
of a German, bloated in his uniform, killed by a blow from knife or
club, his head crushed by a stone, or perchance pushed from some bridge
into the stream below. The mud of the river-bed swallowed up these
obscure acts of vengeance—savage, yet legitimate; these unrecorded deeds
of bravery; these silent attacks fraught with greater danger than
battles fought in broad day, and surrounded, moreover, with no halo of
romance. For hatred of the foreigner ever arms a few intrepid souls,
ready to die for an idea.

At last, as the invaders, though subjecting the town to the strictest
discipline, had not committed any of the deeds of horror with which they
had been credited while on their triumphal march, the people grew
bolder, and the necessities of business again animated the breasts of
the local merchants. Some of these had important commercial interests at
Havre —occupied at present by the French army—and wished to attempt to
reach that port by overland route to Dieppe, taking the boat from there.

Through the influence of the German officers whose acquaintance they had
made, they obtained a permit to leave town from the general in command.

A large four-horse coach having, therefore, been engaged for the
journey, and ten passengers having given in their names to the
proprietor, they decided to start on a certain Tuesday morning before
daybreak, to avoid attracting a crowd.

The ground had been frozen hard for some time-past, and about three
o'clock on Monday afternoon—large black clouds from the north shed their
burden of snow uninterruptedly all through that evening and night.

At half-past four in the morning the travellers met in the courtyard of
the Hotel de Normandie, where they were to take their seats in the
coach.

They were still half asleep, and shivering with cold under their wraps.
They could see one another but indistinctly in the darkness, and the
mountain of heavy winter wraps in which each was swathed made them look
like a gathering of obese priests in their long cassocks. But two men
recognized each other, a third accosted them, and the three began to
talk. “I am bringing my wife,” said one. “So am I.” “And I, too.” The
first speaker added: “We shall not return to Rouen, and if the Prussians
approach Havre we will cross to England.” All three, it turned out, had
made the same plans, being of similar disposition and temperament.

Still the horses were not harnessed. A small lantern carried by a
stable-boy emerged now and then from one dark doorway to disappear
immediately in another. The stamping of horses' hoofs, deadened by the
dung and straw of the stable, was heard from time to time, and from
inside the building issued a man's voice, talking to the animals and
swearing at them. A faint tinkle of bells showed that the harness was
being got ready; this tinkle soon developed into a continuous jingling,
louder or softer according to the movements of the horse, sometimes
stopping altogether, then breaking out in a sudden peal accompanied by a
pawing of the ground by an iron-shod hoof.

The door suddenly closed. All noise ceased.

The frozen townsmen were silent; they remained motionless, stiff with
cold.

A thick curtain of glistening white flakes fell ceaselessly to the
ground; it obliterated all outlines, enveloped all objects in an icy
mantle of foam; nothing was to be heard throughout the length and
breadth of the silent, winter-bound city save the vague, nameless rustle
of falling snow—a sensation rather than a sound—the gentle mingling of
light atoms which seemed to fill all space, to cover the whole world.

The man reappeared with his lantern, leading by a rope a melancholy-
looking horse, evidently being led out against his inclination. The
hostler placed him beside the pole, fastened the traces, and spent some
time in walking round him to make sure that the harness was all right;
for he could use only one hand, the other being engaged in holding the
lantern. As he was about to fetch the second horse he noticed the
motionless group of travellers, already white with snow, and said to
them: “Why don't you get inside the coach? You'd be under shelter, at
least.”

This did not seem to have occurred to them, and they at once took his
advice. The three men seated their wives at the far end of the coach,
then got in themselves; lastly the other vague, snow-shrouded forms
clambered to the remaining places without a word.

The floor was covered with straw, into which the feet sank. The ladies
at the far end, having brought with them little copper foot-warmers
heated by means of a kind of chemical fuel, proceeded to light these,
and spent some time in expatiating in low tones on their advantages,
saying over and over again things which they had all known for a long
time.

At last, six horses instead of four having been harnessed to the
diligence, on account of the heavy roads, a voice outside asked: “Is
every one there?” To which a voice from the interior replied: “Yes,” and
they set out.

The vehicle moved slowly, slowly, at a snail's pace; the wheels sank
into the snow; the entire body of the coach creaked and groaned; the
horses slipped, puffed, steamed, and the coachman's long whip cracked
incessantly, flying hither and thither, coiling up, then flinging out
its length like a slender serpent, as it lashed some rounded flank,
which instantly grew tense as it strained in further effort.

But the day grew apace. Those light flakes which one traveller, a native
of Rouen, had compared to a rain of cotton fell no longer. A murky light
filtered through dark, heavy clouds, which made the country more
dazzlingly white by contrast, a whiteness broken sometimes by a row of
tall trees spangled with hoarfrost, or by a cottage roof hooded in snow.

Within the coach the passengers eyed one another curiously in the dim
light of dawn.

Right at the back, in the best seats of all, Monsieur and Madame
Loiseau, wholesale wine merchants of the Rue Grand-Pont, slumbered
opposite each other. Formerly clerk to a merchant who had failed in
business, Loiseau had bought his master's interest, and made a fortune
for himself. He sold very bad wine at a very low price to the retail-
dealers in the country, and had the reputation, among his friends and
acquaintances, of being a shrewd rascal a true Norman, full of quips and
wiles. So well established was his character as a cheat that, in the
mouths of the citizens of Rouen, the very name of Loiseau became a
byword for sharp practice.

Above and beyond this, Loiseau was noted for his practical jokes of
every description—his tricks, good or ill-natured; and no one could
mention his name without adding at once: “He's an extraordinary
man—Loiseau.” He was undersized and potbellied, had a florid face with
grayish whiskers.

His wife-tall, strong, determined, with a loud voice and decided manner
—represented the spirit of order and arithmetic in the business house
which Loiseau enlivened by his jovial activity.

Beside them, dignified in bearing, belonging to a superior caste, sat
Monsieur Carre-Lamadon, a man of considerable importance, a king in the
cotton trade, proprietor of three spinning-mills, officer of the Legion
of Honor, and member of the General Council. During the whole time the
Empire was in the ascendancy he remained the chief of the well-disposed
Opposition, merely in order to command a higher value for his devotion
when he should rally to the cause which he meanwhile opposed with
“courteous weapons,” to use his own expression.

Madame Carre-Lamadon, much younger than her husband, was the consolation
of all the officers of good family quartered at Rouen. Pretty, slender,
graceful, she sat opposite her husband, curled up in her furs, and
gazing mournfully at the sorry interior of the coach.

Her neighbors, the Comte and Comtesse Hubert de Breville, bore one of
the noblest and most ancient names in Normandy. The count, a nobleman
advanced in years and of aristocratic bearing, strove to enhance by
every artifice of the toilet, his natural resemblance to King Henry IV,
who, according to a legend of which the family were inordinately proud,
had been the favored lover of a De Breville lady, and father of her
child —the frail one's husband having, in recognition of this fact, been
made a count and governor of a province.

A colleague of Monsieur Carre-Lamadon in the General Council, Count
Hubert represented the Orleanist party in his department. The story of
his marriage with the daughter of a small shipowner at Nantes had always
remained more or less of a mystery. But as the countess had an air of
unmistakable breeding, entertained faultlessly, and was even supposed to
have been loved by a son of Louis-Philippe, the nobility vied with one
another in doing her honor, and her drawing-room remained the most
select in the whole countryside—the only one which retained the old
spirit of gallantry, and to which access was not easy.

The fortune of the Brevilles, all in real estate, amounted, it was said,
to five hundred thousand francs a year.

These six people occupied the farther end of the coach, and represented
Society—with an income—the strong, established society of good people
with religion and principle.

It happened by chance that all the women were seated on the same side;
and the countess had, moreover, as neighbors two nuns, who spent the
time in fingering their long rosaries and murmuring paternosters and
aves. One of them was old, and so deeply pitted with smallpox that she
looked for all the world as if she had received a charge of shot full in
the face. The other, of sickly appearance, had a pretty but wasted
countenance, and a narrow, consumptive chest, sapped by that devouring
faith which is the making of martyrs and visionaries.

A man and woman, sitting opposite the two nuns, attracted all eyes.

The man—a well-known character—was Cornudet, the democrat, the terror of
all respectable people. For the past twenty years his big red beard had
been on terms of intimate acquaintance with the tankards of all the
republican cafes. With the help of his comrades and brethren he had
dissipated a respectable fortune left him by his father, an old-
established confectioner, and he now impatiently awaited the Republic,
that he might at last be rewarded with the post he had earned by his
revolutionary orgies. On the fourth of September—possibly as the result
of a practical joke—he was led to believe that he had been appointed
prefect; but when he attempted to take up the duties of the position the
clerks in charge of the office refused to recognize his authority, and
he was compelled in consequence to retire. A good sort of fellow in
other respects, inoffensive and obliging, he had thrown himself
zealously into the work of making an organized defence of the town. He
had had pits dug in the level country, young forest trees felled, and
traps set on all the roads; then at the approach of the enemy,
thoroughly satisfied with his preparations, he had hastily returned to
the town. He thought he might now do more good at Havre, where new
intrenchments would soon be necessary.

The woman, who belonged to the courtesan class, was celebrated for an
embonpoint unusual for her age, which had earned for her the sobriquet
of “Boule de Suif” (Tallow Ball). Short and round, fat as a pig, with
puffy fingers constricted at the joints, looking like rows of short
sausages; with a shiny, tightly-stretched skin and an enormous bust
filling out the bodice of her dress, she was yet attractive and much
sought after, owing to her fresh and pleasing appearance. Her face was
like a crimson apple, a peony-bud just bursting into bloom; she had two
magnificent dark eyes, fringed with thick, heavy lashes, which cast a
shadow into their depths; her mouth was small, ripe, kissable, and was
furnished with the tiniest of white teeth.

As soon as she was recognized the respectable matrons of the party began
to whisper among themselves, and the words “hussy” and “public scandal”
were uttered so loudly that Boule de Suif raised her head. She forthwith
cast such a challenging, bold look at her neighbors that a sudden
silence fell on the company, and all lowered their eyes, with the
exception of Loiseau, who watched her with evident interest.

But conversation was soon resumed among the three ladies, whom the
presence of this girl had suddenly drawn together in the bonds of
friendship—one might almost say in those of intimacy. They decided that
they ought to combine, as it were, in their dignity as wives in face of
this shameless hussy; for legitimized love always despises its easygoing
brother.

The three men, also, brought together by a certain conservative instinct
awakened by the presence of Cornudet, spoke of money matters in a tone
expressive of contempt for the poor. Count Hubert related the losses he
had sustained at the hands of the Prussians, spoke of the cattle which
had been stolen from him, the crops which had been ruined, with the easy
manner of a nobleman who was also a tenfold millionaire, and whom such
reverses would scarcely inconvenience for a single year. Monsieur Carre-
Lamadon, a man of wide experience in the cotton industry, had taken care
to send six hundred thousand francs to England as provision against the
rainy day he was always anticipating. As for Loiseau, he had managed to
sell to the French commissariat department all the wines he had in
stock, so that the state now owed him a considerable sum, which he hoped
to receive at Havre.

And all three eyed one another in friendly, well-disposed fashion.
Although of varying social status, they were united in the brotherhood
of money—in that vast freemasonry made up of those who possess, who can
jingle gold wherever they choose to put their hands into their breeches'
pockets.

The coach went along so slowly that at ten o'clock in the morning it had
not covered twelve miles. Three times the men of the party got out and
climbed the hills on foot. The passengers were becoming uneasy, for they
had counted on lunching at Totes, and it seemed now as if they would
hardly arrive there before nightfall. Every one was eagerly looking out
for an inn by the roadside, when, suddenly, the coach foundered in a
snowdrift, and it took two hours to extricate it.

As appetites increased, their spirits fell; no inn, no wine shop could
be discovered, the approach of the Prussians and the transit of the
starving French troops having frightened away all business.

The men sought food in the farmhouses beside the road, but could not
find so much as a crust of bread; for the suspicious peasant invariably
hid his stores for fear of being pillaged by the soldiers, who, being
entirely without food, would take violent possession of everything they
found.

About one o'clock Loiseau announced that he positively had a big hollow
in his stomach. They had all been suffering in the same way for some
time, and the increasing gnawings of hunger had put an end to all
conversation.

Now and then some one yawned, another followed his example, and each in
turn, according to his character, breeding and social position, yawned
either quietly or noisily, placing his hand before the gaping void
whence issued breath condensed into vapor.

Several times Boule de Suif stooped, as if searching for something under
her petticoats. She would hesitate a moment, look at her neighbors, and
then quietly sit upright again. All faces were pale and drawn. Loiseau
declared he would give a thousand francs for a knuckle of ham. His wife
made an involuntary and quickly checked gesture of protest. It always
hurt her to hear of money being squandered, and she could not even
understand jokes on such a subject.

“As a matter of fact, I don't feel well,” said the count. “Why did I not
think of bringing provisions?” Each one reproached himself in similar
fashion.

Cornudet, however, had a bottle of rum, which he offered to his
neighbors. They all coldly refused except Loiseau, who took a sip, and
returned the bottle with thanks, saying: “That's good stuff; it warms
one up, and cheats the appetite.” The alcohol put him in good humor, and
he proposed they should do as the sailors did in the song: eat the
fattest of the passengers. This indirect allusion to Boule de Suif
shocked the respectable members of the party. No one replied; only
Cornudet smiled. The two good sisters had ceased to mumble their rosary,
and, with hands enfolded in their wide sleeves, sat motionless, their
eyes steadfastly cast down, doubtless offering up as a sacrifice to
Heaven the suffering it had sent them.

At last, at three o'clock, as they were in the midst of an apparently
limitless plain, with not a single village in sight, Boule de Suif
stooped quickly, and drew from underneath the seat a large basket
covered with a white napkin.

From this she extracted first of all a small earthenware plate and a
silver drinking cup, then an enormous dish containing two whole chickens
cut into joints and imbedded in jelly. The basket was seen to contain
other good things: pies, fruit, dainties of all sorts-provisions, in
fine, for a three days' journey, rendering their owner independent of
wayside inns. The necks of four bottles protruded from among the food.
She took a chicken wing, and began to eat it daintily, together with one
of those rolls called in Normandy “Regence.”

All looks were directed toward her. An odor of food filled the air,
causing nostrils to dilate, mouths to water, and jaws to contract
painfully. The scorn of the ladies for this disreputable female grew
positively ferocious; they would have liked to kill her, or throw, her
and her drinking cup, her basket, and her provisions, out of the coach
into the snow of the road below.

But Loiseau's gaze was fixed greedily on the dish of chicken. He said:

“Well, well, this lady had more forethought than the rest of us. Some
people think of everything.”

She looked up at him.

“Would you like some, sir? It is hard to go on fasting all day.”

He bowed.

“Upon my soul, I can't refuse; I cannot hold out another minute. All is
fair in war time, is it not, madame?” And, casting a glance on those
around, he added:

“At times like this it is very pleasant to meet with obliging people.”

He spread a newspaper over his knees to avoid soiling his trousers, and,
with a pocketknife he always carried, helped himself to a chicken leg
coated with jelly, which he thereupon proceeded to devour.

Then Boule le Suif, in low, humble tones, invited the nuns to partake of
her repast. They both accepted the offer unhesitatingly, and after a few
stammered words of thanks began to eat quickly, without raising their
eyes. Neither did Cornudet refuse his neighbor's offer, and, in
combination with the nuns, a sort of table was formed by opening out the
newspaper over the four pairs of knees.

Mouths kept opening and shutting, ferociously masticating and devouring
the food. Loiseau, in his corner, was hard at work, and in low tones
urged his wife to follow his example. She held out for a long time, but
overstrained Nature gave way at last. Her husband, assuming his politest
manner, asked their “charming companion” if he might be allowed to offer
Madame Loiseau a small helping.

“Why, certainly, sir,” she replied, with an amiable smile, holding out
the dish.

When the first bottle of claret was opened some embarrassment was caused
by the fact that there was only one drinking cup, but this was passed
from one to another, after being wiped. Cornudet alone, doubtless in a
spirit of gallantry, raised to his own lips that part of the rim which
was still moist from those of his fair neighbor.

Then, surrounded by people who were eating, and well-nigh suffocated by
the odor of food, the Comte and Comtesse de Breville and Monsieur and
Madame Carre-Lamadon endured that hateful form of torture which has
perpetuated the name of Tantalus. All at once the manufacturer's young
wife heaved a sigh which made every one turn and look at her; she was
white as the snow without; her eyes closed, her head fell forward; she
had fainted. Her husband, beside himself, implored the help of his
neighbors. No one seemed to know what to do until the elder of the two
nuns, raising the patient's head, placed Boule de Suif's drinking cup to
her lips, and made her swallow a few drops of wine. The pretty invalid
moved, opened her eyes, smiled, and declared in a feeble voice that she
was all right again. But, to prevent a recurrence of the catastrophe,
the nun made her drink a cupful of claret, adding: “It's just hunger
—that's what is wrong with you.”

Then Boule de Suif, blushing and embarrassed, stammered, looking at the
four passengers who were still fasting:

“'Mon Dieu', if I might offer these ladies and gentlemen——”

She stopped short, fearing a snub. But Loiseau continued:

“Hang it all, in such a case as this we are all brothers and sisters and
ought to assist each other. Come, come, ladies, don't stand on ceremony,
for goodness' sake! Do we even know whether we shall find a house in
which to pass the night? At our present rate of going we sha'n't be at
Totes till midday to-morrow.”

They hesitated, no one daring to be the first to accept. But the count
settled the question. He turned toward the abashed girl, and in his most
distinguished manner said:

“We accept gratefully, madame.”

As usual, it was only the first step that cost. This Rubicon once
crossed, they set to work with a will. The basket was emptied. It still
contained a pate de foie gras, a lark pie, a piece of smoked tongue,
Crassane pears, Pont-Leveque gingerbread, fancy cakes, and a cup full of
pickled gherkins and onions—Boule de Suif, like all women, being very
fond of indigestible things.

They could not eat this girl's provisions without speaking to her. So
they began to talk, stiffly at first; then, as she seemed by no means
forward, with greater freedom. Mesdames de Breville and Carre-Lamadon,
who were accomplished women of the world, were gracious and tactful. The
countess especially displayed that amiable condescension characteristic
of great ladies whom no contact with baser mortals can sully, and was
absolutely charming. But the sturdy Madame Loiseau, who had the soul of
a gendarme, continued morose, speaking little and eating much.

Conversation naturally turned on the war. Terrible stories were told
about the Prussians, deeds of bravery were recounted of the French; and
all these people who were fleeing themselves were ready to pay homage to
the courage of their compatriots. Personal experiences soon followed,
and Boule le Suif related with genuine emotion, and with that warmth of
language not uncommon in women of her class and temperament, how it came
about that she had left Rouen.

“I thought at first that I should be able to stay,” she said. “My house
was well stocked with provisions, and it seemed better to put up with
feeding a few soldiers than to banish myself goodness knows where. But
when I saw these Prussians it was too much for me! My blood boiled with
rage; I wept the whole day for very shame. Oh, if only I had been a man!
I looked at them from my window—the fat swine, with their pointed
helmets!—and my maid held my hands to keep me from throwing my furniture
down on them. Then some of them were quartered on me; I flew at the
throat of the first one who entered. They are just as easy to strangle
as other men! And I'd have been the death of that one if I hadn't been
dragged away from him by my hair. I had to hide after that. And as soon
as I could get an opportunity I left the place, and here I am.”

She was warmly congratulated. She rose in the estimation of her
companions, who had not been so brave; and Cornudet listened to her with
the approving and benevolent smile of an apostle, the smile a priest
might wear in listening to a devotee praising God; for long-bearded
democrats of his type have a monopoly of patriotism, just as priests
have a monopoly of religion. He held forth in turn, with dogmatic self-
assurance, in the style of the proclamations daily pasted on the walls
of the town, winding up with a specimen of stump oratory in which he
reviled “that besotted fool of a Louis-Napoleon.”

But Boule de Suif was indignant, for she was an ardent Bonapartist. She
turned as red as a cherry, and stammered in her wrath: “I'd just like to
have seen you in his place—you and your sort! There would have been a
nice mix-up. Oh, yes! It was you who betrayed that man. It would be
impossible to live in France if we were governed by such rascals as
you!”

Cornudet, unmoved by this tirade, still smiled a superior, contemptuous
smile; and one felt that high words were impending, when the count
interposed, and, not without difficulty, succeeded in calming the
exasperated woman, saying that all sincere opinions ought to be
respected. But the countess and the manufacturer's wife, imbued with the
unreasoning hatred of the upper classes for the Republic, and instinct,
moreover, with the affection felt by all women for the pomp and
circumstance of despotic government, were drawn, in spite of themselves,
toward this dignified young woman, whose opinions coincided so closely
with their own.

The basket was empty. The ten people had finished its contents without
difficulty amid general regret that it did not hold more. Conversation
went on a little longer, though it flagged somewhat after the passengers
had finished eating.

Night fell, the darkness grew deeper and deeper, and the cold made Boule
de Suif shiver, in spite of her plumpness. So Madame de Breville offered
her her foot-warmer, the fuel of which had been several times renewed
since the morning, and she accepted the offer at once, for her feet were
icy cold. Mesdames Carre-Lamadon and Loiseau gave theirs to the nuns.

The driver lighted his lanterns. They cast a bright gleam on a cloud of
vapor which hovered over the sweating flanks of the horses, and on the
roadside snow, which seemed to unroll as they went along in the changing
light of the lamps.

All was now indistinguishable in the coach; but suddenly a movement
occurred in the corner occupied by Boule de Suif and Cornudet; and
Loiseau, peering into the gloom, fancied he saw the big, bearded
democrat move hastily to one side, as if he had received a well-
directed, though noiseless, blow in the dark.

Tiny lights glimmered ahead. It was Totes. The coach had been on the
road eleven hours, which, with the three hours allotted the horses in
four periods for feeding and breathing, made fourteen. It entered the
town, and stopped before the Hotel du Commerce.

The coach door opened; a well-known noise made all the travellers start;
it was the clanging of a scabbard, on the pavement; then a voice called
out something in German.

Although the coach had come to a standstill, no one got out; it looked
as if they were afraid of being murdered the moment they left their
seats. Thereupon the driver appeared, holding in his hand one of his
lanterns, which cast a sudden glow on the interior of the coach,
lighting up the double row of startled faces, mouths agape, and eyes
wide open in surprise and terror.

Beside the driver stood in the full light a German officer, a tall young
man, fair and slender, tightly encased in his uniform like a woman in
her corset, his flat shiny cap, tilted to one side of his head, making
him look like an English hotel runner. His exaggerated mustache, long
and straight and tapering to a point at either end in a single blond
hair that could hardly be seen, seemed to weigh down the corners of his
mouth and give a droop to his lips.

In Alsatian French he requested the travellers to alight, saying
stiffly:

“Kindly get down, ladies and gentlemen.”

The two nuns were the first to obey, manifesting the docility of holy
women accustomed to submission on every occasion. Next appeared the
count and countess, followed by the manufacturer and his wife, after
whom came Loiseau, pushing his larger and better half before him.

“Good-day, sir,” he said to the officer as he put his foot to the
ground, acting on an impulse born of prudence rather than of politeness.
The other, insolent like all in authority, merely stared without
replying.

Boule de Suif and Cornudet, though near the door, were the last to
alight, grave and dignified before the enemy. The stout girl tried to
control herself and appear calm; the democrat stroked his long russet
beard with a somewhat trembling hand. Both strove to maintain their
dignity, knowing well that at such a time each individual is always
looked upon as more or less typical of his nation; and, also, resenting
the complaisant attitude of their companions, Boule de Suif tried to
wear a bolder front than her neighbors, the virtuous women, while he,
feeling that it was incumbent on him to set a good example, kept up the
attitude of resistance which he had first assumed when he undertook to
mine the high roads round Rouen.

They entered the spacious kitchen of the inn, and the German, having
demanded the passports signed by the general in command, in which were
mentioned the name, description and profession of each traveller,
inspected them all minutely, comparing their appearance with the written
particulars.

Then he said brusquely: “All right,” and turned on his heel.

They breathed freely, All were still hungry; so supper was ordered. Half
an hour was required for its preparation, and while two servants were
apparently engaged in getting it ready the travellers went to look at
their rooms. These all opened off a long corridor, at the end of which
was a glazed door with a number on it.

They were just about to take their seats at table when the innkeeper
appeared in person. He was a former horse dealer—a large, asthmatic
individual, always wheezing, coughing, and clearing his throat.
Follenvie was his patronymic.

He called:

“Mademoiselle Elisabeth Rousset?”

Boule de Suif started, and turned round.

“That is my name.”

“Mademoiselle, the Prussian officer wishes to speak to you immediately.”

“To me?”

“Yes; if you are Mademoiselle Elisabeth Rousset.”

She hesitated, reflected a moment, and then declared roundly:

“That may be; but I'm not going.”

They moved restlessly around her; every one wondered and speculated as
to the cause of this order. The count approached:

“You are wrong, madame, for your refusal may bring trouble not only on
yourself but also on all your companions. It never pays to resist those
in authority. Your compliance with this request cannot possibly be
fraught with any danger; it has probably been made because some
formality or other was forgotten.”

All added their voices to that of the count; Boule de Suif was begged,
urged, lectured, and at last convinced; every one was afraid of the
complications which might result from headstrong action on her part. She
said finally:

“I am doing it for your sakes, remember that!”

The countess took her hand.

“And we are grateful to you.”

She left the room. All waited for her return before commencing the meal.
Each was distressed that he or she had not been sent for rather than
this impulsive, quick-tempered girl, and each mentally rehearsed
platitudes in case of being summoned also.

But at the end of ten minutes she reappeared breathing hard, crimson
with indignation.

“Oh! the scoundrel! the scoundrel!” she stammered.

All were anxious to know what had happened; but she declined to
enlighten them, and when the count pressed the point, she silenced him
with much dignity, saying:

“No; the matter has nothing to do with you, and I cannot speak of it.”

Then they took their places round a high soup tureen, from which issued
an odor of cabbage. In spite of this coincidence, the supper was
cheerful. The cider was good; the Loiseaus and the nuns drank it from
motives of economy. The others ordered wine; Cornudet demanded beer. He
had his own fashion of uncorking the bottle and making the beer foam,
gazing at it as he inclined his glass and then raised it to a position
between the lamp and his eye that he might judge of its color. When he
drank, his great beard, which matched the color of his favorite
beverage, seemed to tremble with affection; his eyes positively squinted
in the endeavor not to lose sight of the beloved glass, and he looked
for all the world as if he were fulfilling the only function for which
he was born. He seemed to have established in his mind an affinity
between the two great passions of his life—pale ale and revolution—and
assuredly he could not taste the one without dreaming of the other.

Monsieur and Madame Follenvie dined at the end of the table. The man,
wheezing like a broken-down locomotive, was too short-winded to talk
when he was eating. But the wife was not silent a moment; she told how
the Prussians had impressed her on their arrival, what they did, what
they said; execrating them in the first place because they cost her
money, and in the second because she had two sons in the army. She
addressed herself principally to the countess, flattered at the
opportunity of talking to a lady of quality.

Then she lowered her voice, and began to broach delicate subjects. Her
husband interrupted her from time to time, saying:

“You would do well to hold your tongue, Madame Follenvie.”

But she took no notice of him, and went on:

“Yes, madame, these Germans do nothing but eat potatoes and pork, and
then pork and potatoes. And don't imagine for a moment that they are
clean! No, indeed! And if only you saw them drilling for hours, indeed
for days, together; they all collect in a field, then they do nothing
but march backward and forward, and wheel this way and that. If only
they would cultivate the land, or remain at home and work on their high
roads! Really, madame, these soldiers are of no earthly use! Poor people
have to feed and keep them, only in order that they may learn how to
kill! True, I am only an old woman with no education, but when I see
them wearing themselves out marching about from morning till night, I
say to myself: When there are people who make discoveries that are of
use to people, why should others take so much trouble to do harm?
Really, now, isn't it a terrible thing to kill people, whether they are
Prussians, or English, or Poles, or French? If we revenge ourselves on
any one who injures us we do wrong, and are punished for it; but when
our sons are shot down like partridges, that is all right, and
decorations are given to the man who kills the most. No, indeed, I shall
never be able to understand it.”

Cornudet raised his voice:

“War is a barbarous proceeding when we attack a peaceful neighbor, but
it is a sacred duty when undertaken in defence of one's country.”

The old woman looked down:

“Yes; it's another matter when one acts in self-defence; but would it
not be better to kill all the kings, seeing that they make war just to
amuse themselves?”

Cornudet's eyes kindled.

“Bravo, citizens!” he said.

Monsieur Carre-Lamadon was reflecting profoundly. Although an ardent
admirer of great generals, the peasant woman's sturdy common sense made
him reflect on the wealth which might accrue to a country by the
employment of so many idle hands now maintained at a great expense, of
so much unproductive force, if they were employed in those great
industrial enterprises which it will take centuries to complete.

But Loiseau, leaving his seat, went over to the innkeeper and began
chatting in a low voice. The big man chuckled, coughed, sputtered; his
enormous carcass shook with merriment at the pleasantries of the other;
and he ended by buying six casks of claret from Loiseau to be delivered
in spring, after the departure of the Prussians.

The moment supper was over every one went to bed, worn out with fatigue.

But Loiseau, who had been making his observations on the sly, sent his
wife to bed, and amused himself by placing first his ear, and then his
eye, to the bedroom keyhole, in order to discover what he called “the
mysteries of the corridor.”

At the end of about an hour he heard a rustling, peeped out quickly, and
caught sight of Boule de Suif, looking more rotund than ever in a
dressing-gown of blue cashmere trimmed with white lace. She held a
candle in her hand, and directed her steps to the numbered door at the
end of the corridor. But one of the side doors was partly opened, and
when, at the end of a few minutes, she returned, Cornudet, in his shirt-
sleeves, followed her. They spoke in low tones, then stopped short.
Boule de Suif seemed to be stoutly denying him admission to her room.
Unfortunately, Loiseau could not at first hear what they said; but
toward the end of the conversation they raised their voices, and he
caught a few words. Cornudet was loudly insistent.

“How silly you are! What does it matter to you?” he said.

She seemed indignant, and replied:

“No, my good man, there are times when one does not do that sort of
thing; besides, in this place it would be shameful.”

Apparently he did not understand, and asked the reason. Then she lost
her temper and her caution, and, raising her voice still higher, said:

“Why? Can't you understand why? When there are Prussians in the house!
Perhaps even in the very next room!”

He was silent. The patriotic shame of this wanton, who would not suffer
herself to be caressed in the neighborhood of the enemy, must have
roused his dormant dignity, for after bestowing on her a simple kiss he
crept softly back to his room. Loiseau, much edified, capered round the
bedroom before taking his place beside his slumbering spouse.

Then silence reigned throughout the house. But soon there arose from
some remote part—it might easily have been either cellar or attic—a
stertorous, monotonous, regular snoring, a dull, prolonged rumbling,
varied by tremors like those of a boiler under pressure of steam.
Monsieur Follenvie had gone to sleep.

As they had decided on starting at eight o'clock the next morning, every
one was in the kitchen at that hour; but the coach, its roof covered
with snow, stood by itself in the middle of the yard, without either
horses or driver. They sought the latter in the stables, coach-houses
and barns —but in vain. So the men of the party resolved to scour the
country for him, and sallied forth. They found themselves in the square,
with the church at the farther side, and to right and left low-roofed
houses where there were some Prussian soldiers. The first soldier they
saw was peeling potatoes. The second, farther on, was washing out a
barber's shop. Another, bearded to the eyes, was fondling a crying
infant, and dandling it on his knees to quiet it; and the stout peasant
women, whose men-folk were for the most part at the war, were, by means
of signs, telling their obedient conquerors what work they were to do:
chop wood, prepare soup, grind coffee; one of them even was doing the
washing for his hostess, an infirm old grandmother.

The count, astonished at what he saw, questioned the beadle who was
coming out of the presbytery. The old man answered:

“Oh, those men are not at all a bad sort; they are not Prussians, I am
told; they come from somewhere farther off, I don't exactly know where.
And they have all left wives and children behind them; they are not fond
of war either, you may be sure! I am sure they are mourning for the men
where they come from, just as we do here; and the war causes them just
as much unhappiness as it does us. As a matter of fact, things are not
so very bad here just now, because the soldiers do no harm, and work
just as if they were in their own homes. You see, sir, poor folk always
help one another; it is the great ones of this world who make war.”

Cornudet indignant at the friendly understanding established between
conquerors and conquered, withdrew, preferring to shut himself up in the
inn.

“They are repeopling the country,” jested Loiseau.

“They are undoing the harm they have done,” said Monsieur Carre-Lamadon
gravely.

But they could not find the coach driver. At last he was discovered in
the village cafe, fraternizing cordially with the officer's orderly.

“Were you not told to harness the horses at eight o'clock?” demanded the
count.

“Oh, yes; but I've had different orders since.”

“What orders?”

“Not to harness at all.”

“Who gave you such orders?”

“Why, the Prussian officer.”

“But why?”

“I don't know. Go and ask him. I am forbidden to harness the horses, so
I don't harness them—that's all.”

“Did he tell you so himself?”

“No, sir; the innkeeper gave me the order from him.”

“When?”

“Last evening, just as I was going to bed.”

The three men returned in a very uneasy frame of mind.

They asked for Monsieur Follenvie, but the servant replied that on
account of his asthma he never got up before ten o'clock. They were
strictly forbidden to rouse him earlier, except in case of fire.

They wished to see the officer, but that also was impossible, although
he lodged in the inn. Monsieur Follenvie alone was authorized to
interview him on civil matters. So they waited. The women returned to
their rooms, and occupied themselves with trivial matters.

Cornudet settled down beside the tall kitchen fireplace, before a
blazing fire. He had a small table and a jug of beer placed beside him,
and he smoked his pipe—a pipe which enjoyed among democrats a
consideration almost equal to his own, as though it had served its
country in serving Cornudet. It was a fine meerschaum, admirably colored
to a black the shade of its owner's teeth, but sweet-smelling,
gracefully curved, at home in its master's hand, and completing his
physiognomy. And Cornudet sat motionless, his eyes fixed now on the
dancing flames, now on the froth which crowned his beer; and after each
draught he passed his long, thin fingers with an air of satisfaction
through his long, greasy hair, as he sucked the foam from his mustache.

Loiseau, under pretence of stretching his legs, went out to see if he
could sell wine to the country dealers. The count and the manufacturer
began to talk politics. They forecast the future of France. One believed
in the Orleans dynasty, the other in an unknown savior—a hero who should
rise up in the last extremity: a Du Guesclin, perhaps a Joan of Arc? or
another Napoleon the First? Ah! if only the Prince Imperial were not so
young! Cornudet, listening to them, smiled like a man who holds the keys
of destiny in his hands. His pipe perfumed the whole kitchen.

As the clock struck ten, Monsieur Follenvie appeared. He was immediately
surrounded and questioned, but could only repeat, three or four times in
succession, and without variation, the words:

“The officer said to me, just like this: 'Monsieur Follenvie, you will
forbid them to harness up the coach for those travellers to-morrow. They
are not to start without an order from me. You hear? That is
sufficient.'”

Then they asked to see the officer. The count sent him his card, on
which Monsieur Carre-Lamadon also inscribed his name and titles. The
Prussian sent word that the two men would be admitted to see him after
his luncheon—that is to say, about one o'clock.

The ladies reappeared, and they all ate a little, in spite of their
anxiety. Boule de Suif appeared ill and very much worried.

They were finishing their coffee when the orderly came to fetch the
gentlemen.

Loiseau joined the other two; but when they tried to get Cornudet to
accompany them, by way of adding greater solemnity to the occasion, he
declared proudly that he would never have anything to do with the
Germans, and, resuming his seat in the chimney corner, he called for
another jug of beer.

The three men went upstairs, and were ushered into the best room in the
inn, where the officer received them lolling at his ease in an armchair,
his feet on the mantelpiece, smoking a long porcelain pipe, and
enveloped in a gorgeous dressing-gown, doubtless stolen from the
deserted dwelling of some citizen destitute of taste in dress. He
neither rose, greeted them, nor even glanced in their direction. He
afforded a fine example of that insolence of bearing which seems natural
to the victorious soldier.

After the lapse of a few moments he said in his halting French:

“What do you want?”

“We wish to start on our journey,” said the count.

“No.”

“May I ask the reason of your refusal?”

“Because I don't choose.”

“I would respectfully call your attention, monsieur, to the fact that
your general in command gave us a permit to proceed to Dieppe; and I do
not think we have done anything to deserve this harshness at your
hands.”

“I don't choose—that's all. You may go.”

They bowed, and retired.

The afternoon was wretched. They could not understand the caprice of
this German, and the strangest ideas came into their heads. They all
congregated in the kitchen, and talked the subject to death, imagining
all kinds of unlikely things. Perhaps they were to be kept as hostages
—but for what reason? or to be extradited as prisoners of war? or
possibly they were to be held for ransom? They were panic-stricken at
this last supposition. The richest among them were the most alarmed,
seeing themselves forced to empty bags of gold into the insolent
soldier's hands in order to buy back their lives. They racked their
brains for plausible lies whereby they might conceal the fact that they
were rich, and pass themselves off as poor—very poor. Loiseau took off
his watch chain, and put it in his pocket. The approach of night
increased their apprehension. The lamp was lighted, and as it wanted yet
two hours to dinner Madame Loiseau proposed a game of trente et un. It
would distract their thoughts. The rest agreed, and Cornudet himself
joined the party, first putting out his pipe for politeness' sake.

The count shuffled the cards—dealt—and Boule de Suif had thirty-one to
start with; soon the interest of the game assuaged the anxiety of the
players. But Cornudet noticed that Loiseau and his wife were in league
to cheat.

They were about to sit down to dinner when Monsieur Follenvie appeared,
and in his grating voice announced:

“The Prussian officer sends to ask Mademoiselle Elisabeth Rousset if she
has changed her mind yet.”

Boule de Suif stood still, pale as death. Then, suddenly turning crimson
with anger, she gasped out:

“Kindly tell that scoundrel, that cur, that carrion of a Prussian, that
I will never consent—you understand?—never, never, never!”

The fat innkeeper left the room. Then Boule de Suif was surrounded,
questioned, entreated on all sides to reveal the mystery of her visit to
the officer. She refused at first; but her wrath soon got the better of
her.

“What does he want? He wants to make me his mistress!” she cried.

No one was shocked at the word, so great was the general indignation.
Cornudet broke his jug as he banged it down on the table. A loud outcry
arose against this base soldier. All were furious. They drew together in
common resistance against the foe, as if some part of the sacrifice
exacted of Boule de Suif had been demanded of each. The count declared,
with supreme disgust, that those people behaved like ancient barbarians.
The women, above all, manifested a lively and tender sympathy for Boule
de Suif. The nuns, who appeared only at meals, cast down their eyes, and
said nothing.

They dined, however, as soon as the first indignant outburst had
subsided; but they spoke little and thought much.

The ladies went to bed early; and the men, having lighted their pipes,
proposed a game of ecarte, in which Monsieur Follenvie was invited to
join, the travellers hoping to question him skillfully as to the best
means of vanquishing the officer's obduracy. But he thought of nothing
but his cards, would listen to nothing, reply to nothing, and repeated,
time after time: “Attend to the game, gentlemen! attend to the game!” So
absorbed was his attention that he even forgot to expectorate. The
consequence was that his chest gave forth rumbling sounds like those of
an organ. His wheezing lungs struck every note of the asthmatic scale,
from deep, hollow tones to a shrill, hoarse piping resembling that of a
young cock trying to crow.

He refused to go to bed when his wife, overcome with sleep, came to
fetch him. So she went off alone, for she was an early bird, always up
with the sun; while he was addicted to late hours, ever ready to spend
the night with friends. He merely said: “Put my egg-nogg by the fire,”
and went on with the game. When the other men saw that nothing was to be
got out of him they declared it was time to retire, and each sought his
bed.

They rose fairly early the next morning, with a vague hope of being
allowed to start, a greater desire than ever to do so, and a terror at
having to spend another day in this wretched little inn.

Alas! the horses remained in the stable, the driver was invisible. They
spent their time, for want of something better to do, in wandering round
the coach.

Luncheon was a gloomy affair; and there was a general coolness toward
Boule de Suif, for night, which brings counsel, had somewhat modified
the judgment of her companions. In the cold light of the morning they
almost bore a grudge against the girl for not having secretly sought out
the Prussian, that the rest of the party might receive a joyful surprise
when they awoke. What more simple?

Besides, who would have been the wiser? She might have saved appearances
by telling the officer that she had taken pity on their distress. Such a
step would be of so little consequence to her.

But no one as yet confessed to such thoughts.

In the afternoon, seeing that they were all bored to death, the count
proposed a walk in the neighborhood of the village. Each one wrapped
himself up well, and the little party set out, leaving behind only
Cornudet, who preferred to sit over the fire, and the two nuns, who were
in the habit of spending their day in the church or at the presbytery.

The cold, which grew more intense each day, almost froze the noses and
ears of the pedestrians, their feet began to pain them so that each step
was a penance, and when they reached the open country it looked so
mournful and depressing in its limitless mantle of white that they all
hastily retraced their steps, with bodies benumbed and hearts heavy.

The four women walked in front, and the three men followed a little in
their rear.

Loiseau, who saw perfectly well how matters stood, asked suddenly “if
that trollop were going to keep them waiting much longer in this
Godforsaken spot.” The count, always courteous, replied that they could
not exact so painful a sacrifice from any woman, and that the first move
must come from herself. Monsieur Carre-Lamadon remarked that if the
French, as they talked of doing, made a counter attack by way of Dieppe,
their encounter with the enemy must inevitably take place at Totes. This
reflection made the other two anxious.

“Supposing we escape on foot?” said Loiseau.

The count shrugged his shoulders.

“How can you think of such a thing, in this snow? And with our wives?
Besides, we should be pursued at once, overtaken in ten minutes, and
brought back as prisoners at the mercy of the soldiery.”

This was true enough; they were silent.

The ladies talked of dress, but a certain constraint seemed to prevail
among them.

Suddenly, at the end of the street, the officer appeared. His tall,
wasp-like, uniformed figure was outlined against the snow which bounded
the horizon, and he walked, knees apart, with that motion peculiar to
soldiers, who are always anxious not to soil their carefully polished
boots.

He bowed as he passed the ladies, then glanced scornfully at the men,
who had sufficient dignity not to raise their hats, though Loiseau made
a movement to do so.

Boule de Suif flushed crimson to the ears, and the three married women
felt unutterably humiliated at being met thus by the soldier in company
with the girl whom he had treated with such scant ceremony.

Then they began to talk about him, his figure, and his face. Madame
Carre-Lamadon, who had known many officers and judged them as a
connoisseur, thought him not at all bad-looking; she even regretted that
he was not a Frenchman, because in that case he would have made a very
handsome hussar, with whom all the women would assuredly have fallen in
love.

When they were once more within doors they did not know what to do with
themselves. Sharp words even were exchanged apropos of the merest
trifles. The silent dinner was quickly over, and each one went to bed
early in the hope of sleeping, and thus killing time.

They came down next morning with tired faces and irritable tempers; the
women scarcely spoke to Boule de Suif.

A church bell summoned the faithful to a baptism. Boule de Suif had a
child being brought up by peasants at Yvetot. She did not see him once a
year, and never thought of him; but the idea of the child who was about
to be baptized induced a sudden wave of tenderness for her own, and she
insisted on being present at the ceremony.

As soon as she had gone out, the rest of the company looked at one
another and then drew their chairs together; for they realized that they
must decide on some course of action. Loiseau had an inspiration: he
proposed that they should ask the officer to detain Boule de Suif only,
and to let the rest depart on their way.

Monsieur Follenvie was intrusted with this commission, but he returned
to them almost immediately. The German, who knew human nature, had shown
him the door. He intended to keep all the travellers until his condition
had been complied with.

Whereupon Madame Loiseau's vulgar temperament broke bounds.

“We're not going to die of old age here!” she cried. “Since it's that
vixen's trade to behave so with men I don't see that she has any right
to refuse one more than another. I may as well tell you she took any
lovers she could get at Rouen—even coachmen! Yes, indeed, madame—the
coachman at the prefecture! I know it for a fact, for he buys his wine
of us. And now that it is a question of getting us out of a difficulty
she puts on virtuous airs, the drab! For my part, I think this officer
has behaved very well. Why, there were three others of us, any one of
whom he would undoubtedly have preferred. But no, he contents himself
with the girl who is common property. He respects married women. Just
think. He is master here. He had only to say: 'I wish it!' and he might
have taken us by force, with the help of his soldiers.”

The two other women shuddered; the eyes of pretty Madame Carre-Lamadon
glistened, and she grew pale, as if the officer were indeed in the act
of laying violent hands on her.

The men, who had been discussing the subject among themselves, drew
near. Loiseau, in a state of furious resentment, was for delivering up
“that miserable woman,” bound hand and foot, into the enemy's power. But
the count, descended from three generations of ambassadors, and endowed,
moreover, with the lineaments of a diplomat, was in favor of more
tactful measures.

“We must persuade her,” he said.

Then they laid their plans.

The women drew together; they lowered their voices, and the discussion
became general, each giving his or her opinion. But the conversation was
not in the least coarse. The ladies, in particular, were adepts at
delicate phrases and charming subtleties of expression to describe the
most improper things. A stranger would have understood none of their
allusions, so guarded was the language they employed. But, seeing that
the thin veneer of modesty with which every woman of the world is
furnished goes but a very little way below the surface, they began
rather to enjoy this unedifying episode, and at bottom were hugely
delighted —feeling themselves in their element, furthering the schemes
of lawless love with the gusto of a gourmand cook who prepares supper
for another.

Their gaiety returned of itself, so amusing at last did the whole
business seem to them. The count uttered several rather risky
witticisms, but so tactfully were they said that his audience could not
help smiling. Loiseau in turn made some considerably broader jokes, but
no one took offence; and the thought expressed with such brutal
directness by his wife was uppermost in the minds of all: “Since it's
the girl's trade, why should she refuse this man more than another?”
Dainty Madame Carre-Lamadon seemed to think even that in Boule de Suif's
place she would be less inclined to refuse him than another.

The blockade was as carefully arranged as if they were investing a
fortress. Each agreed on the role which he or she was to play, the
arguments to be used, the maneuvers to be executed. They decided on the
plan of campaign, the stratagems they were to employ, and the surprise
attacks which were to reduce this human citadel and force it to receive
the enemy within its walls.

But Cornudet remained apart from the rest, taking no share in the plot.

So absorbed was the attention of all that Boule de Suif's entrance was
almost unnoticed. But the count whispered a gentle “Hush!” which made
the others look up. She was there. They suddenly stopped talking, and a
vague embarrassment prevented them for a few moments from addressing
her. But the countess, more practiced than the others in the wiles of
the drawing-room, asked her:

“Was the baptism interesting?”

The girl, still under the stress of emotion, told what she had seen and
heard, described the faces, the attitudes of those present, and even the
appearance of the church. She concluded with the words:

“It does one good to pray sometimes.”

Until lunch time the ladies contented themselves with being pleasant to
her, so as to increase her confidence and make her amenable to their
advice.

As soon as they took their seats at table the attack began. First they
opened a vague conversation on the subject of self-sacrifice. Ancient
examples were quoted: Judith and Holofernes; then, irrationally enough,
Lucrece and Sextus; Cleopatra and the hostile generals whom she reduced
to abject slavery by a surrender of her charms. Next was recounted an
extraordinary story, born of the imagination of these ignorant
millionaires, which told how the matrons of Rome seduced Hannibal, his
lieutenants, and all his mercenaries at Capua. They held up to
admiration all those women who from time to time have arrested the
victorious progress of conquerors, made of their bodies a field of
battle, a means of ruling, a weapon; who have vanquished by their heroic
caresses hideous or detested beings, and sacrificed their chastity to
vengeance and devotion.

All was said with due restraint and regard for propriety, the effect
heightened now and then by an outburst of forced enthusiasm calculated
to excite emulation.

A listener would have thought at last that the one role of woman on
earth was a perpetual sacrifice of her person, a continual abandonment
of herself to the caprices of a hostile soldiery.

The two nuns seemed to hear nothing, and to be lost in thought. Boule de
Suif also was silent.

During the whole afternoon she was left to her reflections. But instead
of calling her “madame” as they had done hitherto, her companions
addressed her simply as “mademoiselle,” without exactly knowing why, but
as if desirous of making her descend a step in the esteem she had won,
and forcing her to realize her degraded position.

Just as soup was served, Monsieur Follenvie reappeared, repeating his
phrase of the evening before:

“The Prussian officer sends to ask if Mademoiselle Elisabeth Rousset has
changed her mind.”

Boule de Suif answered briefly:

“No, monsieur.”

But at dinner the coalition weakened. Loiseau made three unfortunate
remarks. Each was cudgeling his brains for further examples of self-
sacrifice, and could find none, when the countess, possibly without
ulterior motive, and moved simply by a vague desire to do homage to
religion, began to question the elder of the two nuns on the most
striking facts in the lives of the saints. Now, it fell out that many of
these had committed acts which would be crimes in our eyes, but the
Church readily pardons such deeds when they are accomplished for the
glory of God or the good of mankind. This was a powerful argument, and
the countess made the most of it. Then, whether by reason of a tacit
understanding, a thinly veiled act of complaisance such as those who
wear the ecclesiastical habit excel in, or whether merely as the result
of sheer stupidity—a stupidity admirably adapted to further their
designs—the old nun rendered formidable aid to the conspirator. They had
thought her timid; she proved herself bold, talkative, bigoted. She was
not troubled by the ins and outs of casuistry; her doctrines were as
iron bars; her faith knew no doubt; her conscience no scruples. She
looked on Abraham's sacrifice as natural enough, for she herself would
not have hesitated to kill both father and mother if she had received a
divine order to that effect; and nothing, in her opinion, could
displease our Lord, provided the motive were praiseworthy. The countess,
putting to good use the consecrated authority of her unexpected ally,
led her on to make a lengthy and edifying paraphrase of that axiom
enunciated by a certain school of moralists: “The end justifies the
means.”

“Then, sister,” she asked, “you think God accepts all methods, and
pardons the act when the motive is pure?”

“Undoubtedly, madame. An action reprehensible in itself often derives
merit from the thought which inspires it.”

And in this wise they talked on, fathoming the wishes of God, predicting
His judgments, describing Him as interested in matters which assuredly
concern Him but little.

All was said with the utmost care and discretion, but every word uttered
by the holy woman in her nun's garb weakened the indignant resistance of
the courtesan. Then the conversation drifted somewhat, and the nun began
to talk of the convents of her order, of her Superior, of herself, and
of her fragile little neighbor, Sister St. Nicephore. They had been sent
for from Havre to nurse the hundreds of soldiers who were in hospitals,
stricken with smallpox. She described these wretched invalids and their
malady. And, while they themselves were detained on their way by the
caprices of the Prussian officer, scores of Frenchmen might be dying,
whom they would otherwise have saved! For the nursing of soldiers was
the old nun's specialty; she had been in the Crimea, in Italy, in
Austria; and as she told the story of her campaigns she revealed herself
as one of those holy sisters of the fife and drum who seem designed by
nature to follow camps, to snatch the wounded from amid the strife of
battle, and to quell with a word, more effectually than any general, the
rough and insubordinate troopers—a masterful woman, her seamed and
pitted face itself an image of the devastations of war.

No one spoke when she had finished for fear of spoiling the excellent
effect of her words.

As soon as the meal was over the travellers retired to their rooms,
whence they emerged the following day at a late hour of the morning.

Luncheon passed off quietly. The seed sown the preceding evening was
being given time to germinate and bring forth fruit.

In the afternoon the countess proposed a walk; then the count, as had
been arranged beforehand, took Boule de Suif's arm, and walked with her
at some distance behind the rest.

He began talking to her in that familiar, paternal, slightly
contemptuous tone which men of his class adopt in speaking to women like
her, calling her “my dear child,” and talking down to her from the
height of his exalted social position and stainless reputation. He came
straight to the point.

“So you prefer to leave us here, exposed like yourself to all the
violence which would follow on a repulse of the Prussian troops, rather
than consent to surrender yourself, as you have done so many times in
your life?”

The girl did not reply.

He tried kindness, argument, sentiment. He still bore himself as count,
even while adopting, when desirable, an attitude of gallantry, and
making pretty—nay, even tender—speeches. He exalted the service she
would render them, spoke of their gratitude; then, suddenly, using the
familiar “thou”:

“And you know, my dear, he could boast then of having made a conquest of
a pretty girl such as he won't often find in his own country.”

Boule de Suif did not answer, and joined the rest of the party.

As soon as they returned she went to her room, and was seen no more. The
general anxiety was at its height. What would she do? If she still
resisted, how awkward for them all!

The dinner hour struck; they waited for her in vain. At last Monsieur
Follenvie entered, announcing that Mademoiselle Rousset was not well,
and that they might sit down to table. They all pricked up their ears.
The count drew near the innkeeper, and whispered:

“Is it all right?”

“Yes.”

Out of regard for propriety he said nothing to his companions, but
merely nodded slightly toward them. A great sigh of relief went up from
all breasts; every face was lighted up with joy.

“By Gad!” shouted Loiseau, “I'll stand champagne all round if there's
any to be found in this place.” And great was Madame Loiseau's dismay
when the proprietor came back with four bottles in his hands. They had
all suddenly become talkative and merry; a lively joy filled all hearts.
The count seemed to perceive for the first time that Madame Carre-
Lamadon was charming; the manufacturer paid compliments to the countess.
The conversation was animated, sprightly, witty, and, although many of
the jokes were in the worst possible taste, all the company were amused
by them, and none offended—indignation being dependent, like other
emotions, on surroundings. And the mental atmosphere had gradually
become filled with gross imaginings and unclean thoughts.

At dessert even the women indulged in discreetly worded allusions. Their
glances were full of meaning; they had drunk much. The count, who even
in his moments of relaxation preserved a dignified demeanor, hit on a
much-appreciated comparison of the condition of things with the
termination of a winter spent in the icy solitude of the North Pole and
the joy of shipwrecked mariners who at last perceive a southward track
opening out before their eyes.

Loiseau, fairly in his element, rose to his feet, holding aloft a glass
of champagne.

“I drink to our deliverance!” he shouted.

All stood up, and greeted the toast with acclamation. Even the two good
sisters yielded to the solicitations of the ladies, and consented to
moisten their lips with the foaming wine, which they had never before
tasted. They declared it was like effervescent lemonade, but with a
pleasanter flavor.

“It is a pity,” said Loiseau, “that we have no piano; we might have had
a quadrille.”

Cornudet had not spoken a word or made a movement; he seemed plunged in
serious thought, and now and then tugged furiously at his great beard,
as if trying to add still further to its length. At last, toward
midnight, when they were about to separate, Loiseau, whose gait was far
from steady, suddenly slapped him on the back, saying thickly:

“You're not jolly to-night; why are you so silent, old man?”

Cornudet threw back his head, cast one swift and scornful glance over
the assemblage, and answered:

“I tell you all, you have done an infamous thing!”

He rose, reached the door, and repeating: “Infamous!” disappeared.

A chill fell on all. Loiseau himself looked foolish and disconcerted for
a moment, but soon recovered his aplomb, and, writhing with laughter,
exclaimed:

“Really, you are all too green for anything!”

Pressed for an explanation, he related the “mysteries of the corridor,”
whereat his listeners were hugely amused. The ladies could hardly
contain their delight. The count and Monsieur Carre-Lamadon laughed till
they cried. They could scarcely believe their ears.

“What! you are sure? He wanted——”

“I tell you I saw it with my own eyes.”

“And she refused?”

“Because the Prussian was in the next room!”

“Surely you are mistaken?”

“I swear I'm telling you the truth.”

The count was choking with laughter. The manufacturer held his sides.
Loiseau continued:

“So you may well imagine he doesn't think this evening's business at all
amusing.”

And all three began to laugh again, choking, coughing, almost ill with
merriment.

Then they separated. But Madame Loiseau, who was nothing if not
spiteful, remarked to her husband as they were on the way to bed that
“that stuck-up little minx of a Carre-Lamadon had laughed on the wrong
side of her mouth all the evening.”

“You know,” she said, “when women run after uniforms it's all the same
to them whether the men who wear them are French or Prussian. It's
perfectly sickening!”

The next morning the snow showed dazzling white tinder a clear winter
sun. The coach, ready at last, waited before the door; while a flock of
white pigeons, with pink eyes spotted in the centres with black, puffed
out their white feathers and walked sedately between the legs of the six
horses, picking at the steaming manure.

The driver, wrapped in his sheepskin coat, was smoking a pipe on the
box, and all the passengers, radiant with delight at their approaching
departure, were putting up provisions for the remainder of the journey.

They were waiting only for Boule de Suif. At last she appeared.

She seemed rather shamefaced and embarrassed, and advanced with timid
step toward her companions, who with one accord turned aside as if they
had not seen her. The count, with much dignity, took his wife by the
arm, and removed her from the unclean contact.

The girl stood still, stupefied with astonishment; then, plucking up
courage, accosted the manufacturer's wife with a humble “Good-morning,
madame,” to which the other replied merely with a slight and insolent
nod, accompanied by a look of outraged virtue. Every one suddenly
appeared extremely busy, and kept as far from Boule de Suif as if her
skirts had been infected with some deadly disease. Then they hurried to
the coach, followed by the despised courtesan, who, arriving last of
all, silently took the place she had occupied during the first part of
the journey.

The rest seemed neither to see nor to know her—all save Madame Loiseau,
who, glancing contemptuously in her direction, remarked, half aloud, to
her husband:

“What a mercy I am not sitting beside that creature!”

The lumbering vehicle started on its way, and the journey began afresh.

At first no one spoke. Boule de Suif dared not even raise her eyes. She
felt at once indignant with her neighbors, and humiliated at having
yielded to the Prussian into whose arms they had so hypocritically cast
her.

But the countess, turning toward Madame Carre-Lamadon, soon broke the
painful silence:

“I think you know Madame d'Etrelles?”

“Yes; she is a friend of mine.”

“Such a charming woman!”

“Delightful! Exceptionally talented, and an artist to the finger tips.
She sings marvellously and draws to perfection.”

The manufacturer was chatting with the count, and amid the clatter of
the window-panes a word of their conversation was now and then
distinguishable: “Shares—maturity—premium—time-limit.”

Loiseau, who had abstracted from the inn the timeworn pack of cards,
thick with the grease of five years' contact with half-wiped-off tables,
started a game of bezique with his wife.

The good sisters, taking up simultaneously the long rosaries hanging
from their waists, made the sign of the cross, and began to mutter in
unison interminable prayers, their lips moving ever more and more
swiftly, as if they sought which should outdistance the other in the
race of orisons; from time to time they kissed a medal, and crossed
themselves anew, then resumed their rapid and unintelligible murmur.

Cornudet sat still, lost in thought.

Ah the end of three hours Loiseau gathered up the cards, and remarked
that he was hungry.

His wife thereupon produced a parcel tied with string, from which she
extracted a piece of cold veal. This she cut into neat, thin slices, and
both began to eat.

“We may as well do the same,” said the countess. The rest agreed, and
she unpacked the provisions which had been prepared for herself, the
count, and the Carre-Lamadons. In one of those oval dishes, the lids of
which are decorated with an earthenware hare, by way of showing that a
game pie lies within, was a succulent delicacy consisting of the brown
flesh of the game larded with streaks of bacon and flavored with other
meats chopped fine. A solid wedge of Gruyere cheese, which had been
wrapped in a newspaper, bore the imprint: “Items of News,” on its rich,
oily surface.

The two good sisters brought to light a hunk of sausage smelling
strongly of garlic; and Cornudet, plunging both hands at once into the
capacious pockets of his loose overcoat, produced from one four hard-
boiled eggs and from the other a crust of bread. He removed the shells,
threw them into the straw beneath his feet, and began to devour the
eggs, letting morsels of the bright yellow yolk fall in his mighty
beard, where they looked like stars.

Boule de Suif, in the haste and confusion of her departure, had not
thought of anything, and, stifling with rage, she watched all these
people placidly eating. At first, ill-suppressed wrath shook her whole
person, and she opened her lips to shriek the truth at them, to
overwhelm them with a volley of insults; but she could not utter a word,
so choked was she with indignation.

No one looked at her, no one thought of her. She felt herself swallowed
up in the scorn of these virtuous creatures, who had first sacrificed,
then rejected her as a thing useless and unclean. Then she remembered
her big basket full of the good things they had so greedily devoured:
the two chickens coated in jelly, the pies, the pears, the four bottles
of claret; and her fury broke forth like a cord that is overstrained,
and she was on the verge of tears. She made terrible efforts at self-
control, drew herself up, swallowed the sobs which choked her; but the
tears rose nevertheless, shone at the brink of her eyelids, and soon two
heavy drops coursed slowly down her cheeks. Others followed more
quickly, like water filtering from a rock, and fell, one after another,
on her rounded bosom. She sat upright, with a fixed expression, her face
pale and rigid, hoping desperately that no one saw her give way.

But the countess noticed that she was weeping, and with a sign drew her
husband's attention to the fact. He shrugged his shoulders, as if to
say: “Well, what of it? It's not my fault.” Madame Loiseau chuckled
triumphantly, and murmured:

“She's weeping for shame.”

The two nuns had betaken themselves once more to their prayers, first
wrapping the remainder of their sausage in paper:

Then Cornudet, who was digesting his eggs, stretched his long legs under
the opposite seat, threw himself back, folded his arms, smiled like a
man who had just thought of a good joke, and began to whistle the
Marseillaise.

The faces of his neighbors clouded; the popular air evidently did not
find favor with them; they grew nervous and irritable, and seemed ready
to howl as a dog does at the sound of a barrel-organ. Cornudet saw the
discomfort he was creating, and whistled the louder; sometimes he even
hummed the words:

Amour sacre de la patrie, Conduis, soutiens, nos bras vengeurs, Liberte,
liberte cherie, Combats avec tes defenseurs!

The coach progressed more swiftly, the snow being harder now; and all
the way to Dieppe, during the long, dreary hours of the journey, first
in the gathering dusk, then in the thick darkness, raising his voice
above the rumbling of the vehicle, Cornudet continued with fierce
obstinacy his vengeful and monotonous whistling, forcing his weary and
exasperated-hearers to follow the song from end to end, to recall every
word of every line, as each was repeated over and over again with
untiring persistency.

And Boule de Suif still wept, and sometimes a sob she could not restrain
was heard in the darkness between two verses of the song.





TWO FRIENDS

Besieged Paris was in the throes of famine. Even the sparrows on the
roofs and the rats in the sewers were growing scarce. People were eating
anything they could get.

As Monsieur Morissot, watchmaker by profession and idler for the nonce,
was strolling along the boulevard one bright January morning, his hands
in his trousers pockets and stomach empty, he suddenly came face to face
with an acquaintance—Monsieur Sauvage, a fishing chum.

Before the war broke out Morissot had been in the habit, every Sunday
morning, of setting forth with a bamboo rod in his hand and a tin box on
his back. He took the Argenteuil train, got out at Colombes, and walked
thence to the Ile Marante. The moment he arrived at this place of his
dreams he began fishing, and fished till nightfall.

Every Sunday he met in this very spot Monsieur Sauvage, a stout, jolly,
little man, a draper in the Rue Notre Dame de Lorette, and also an
ardent fisherman. They often spent half the day side by side, rod in
hand and feet dangling over the water, and a warm friendship had sprung
up between the two.

Some days they did not speak; at other times they chatted; but they
understood each other perfectly without the aid of words, having similar
tastes and feelings.

In the spring, about ten o'clock in the morning, when the early sun
caused a light mist to float on the water and gently warmed the backs of
the two enthusiastic anglers, Morissot would occasionally remark to his
neighbor:

“My, but it's pleasant here.”

To which the other would reply:

“I can't imagine anything better!”

And these few words sufficed to make them understand and appreciate each
other.

In the autumn, toward the close of day, when the setting sun shed a
blood-red glow over the western sky, and the reflection of the crimson
clouds tinged the whole river with red, brought a glow to the faces of
the two friends, and gilded the trees, whose leaves were already turning
at the first chill touch of winter, Monsieur Sauvage would sometimes
smile at Morissot, and say:

“What a glorious spectacle!”

And Morissot would answer, without taking his eyes from his float:

“This is much better than the boulevard, isn't it?”

As soon as they recognized each other they shook hands cordially,
affected at the thought of meeting under such changed circumstances.

Monsieur Sauvage, with a sigh, murmured:

“These are sad times!”

Morissot shook his head mournfully.

“And such weather! This is the first fine day of the year.”

The sky was, in fact, of a bright, cloudless blue.

They walked along, side by side, reflective and sad.

“And to think of the fishing!” said Morissot. “What good times we used
to have!”

“When shall we be able to fish again?” asked Monsieur Sauvage.

They entered a small cafe and took an absinthe together, then resumed
their walk along the pavement.

Morissot stopped suddenly.

“Shall we have another absinthe?” he said.

“If you like,” agreed Monsieur Sauvage.

And they entered another wine shop.

They were quite unsteady when they came out, owing to the effect of the
alcohol on their empty stomachs. It was a fine, mild day, and a gentle
breeze fanned their faces.

The fresh air completed the effect of the alcohol on Monsieur Sauvage.
He stopped suddenly, saying:

“Suppose we go there?”

“Where?”

“Fishing.”

“But where?”

“Why, to the old place. The French outposts are close to Colombes. I
know Colonel Dumoulin, and we shall easily get leave to pass.”

Morissot trembled with desire.

“Very well. I agree.”

And they separated, to fetch their rods and lines.

An hour later they were walking side by side on the-highroad. Presently
they reached the villa occupied by the colonel. He smiled at their
request, and granted it. They resumed their walk, furnished with a
password.

Soon they left the outposts behind them, made their way through deserted
Colombes, and found themselves on the outskirts of the small vineyards
which border the Seine. It was about eleven o'clock.

Before them lay the village of Argenteuil, apparently lifeless. The
heights of Orgement and Sannois dominated the landscape. The great
plain, extending as far as Nanterre, was empty, quite empty-a waste of
dun-colored soil and bare cherry trees.

Monsieur Sauvage, pointing to the heights, murmured:

“The Prussians are up yonder!”

And the sight of the deserted country filled the two friends with vague
misgivings.

The Prussians! They had never seen them as yet, but they had felt their
presence in the neighborhood of Paris for months past—ruining France,
pillaging, massacring, starving them. And a kind of superstitious terror
mingled with the hatred they already felt toward this unknown,
victorious nation.

“Suppose we were to meet any of them?” said Morissot.

“We'd offer them some fish,” replied Monsieur Sauvage, with that
Parisian light-heartedness which nothing can wholly quench.

Still, they hesitated to show themselves in the open country, overawed
by the utter silence which reigned around them.

At last Monsieur Sauvage said boldly:

“Come, we'll make a start; only let us be careful!”

And they made their way through one of the vineyards, bent double,
creeping along beneath the cover afforded by the vines, with eye and ear
alert.

A strip of bare ground remained to be crossed before they could gain the
river bank. They ran across this, and, as soon as they were at the
water's edge, concealed themselves among the dry reeds.

Morissot placed his ear to the ground, to ascertain, if possible,
whether footsteps were coming their way. He heard nothing. They seemed
to be utterly alone.

Their confidence was restored, and they began to fish.

Before them the deserted Ile Marante hid them from the farther shore.
The little restaurant was closed, and looked as if it had been deserted
for years.

Monsieur Sauvage caught the first gudgeon, Monsieur Morissot the second,
and almost every moment one or other raised his line with a little,
glittering, silvery fish wriggling at the end; they were having
excellent sport.

They slipped their catch gently into a close-meshed bag lying at their
feet; they were filled with joy—the joy of once more indulging in a
pastime of which they had long been deprived.

The sun poured its rays on their backs; they no longer heard anything or
thought of anything. They ignored the rest of the world; they were
fishing.

But suddenly a rumbling sound, which seemed to come from the bowels of
the earth, shook the ground beneath them: the cannon were resuming their
thunder.

Morissot turned his head and could see toward the left, beyond the banks
of the river, the formidable outline of Mont-Valerien, from whose summit
arose a white puff of smoke.

The next instant a second puff followed the first, and in a few moments
a fresh detonation made the earth tremble.

Others followed, and minute by minute the mountain gave forth its deadly
breath and a white puff of smoke, which rose slowly into the peaceful
heaven and floated above the summit of the cliff.

Monsieur Sauvage shrugged his shoulders.

“They are at it again!” he said.

Morissot, who was anxiously watching his float bobbing up and down, was
suddenly seized with the angry impatience of a peaceful man toward the
madmen who were firing thus, and remarked indignantly:

“What fools they are to kill one another like that!”

“They're worse than animals,” replied Monsieur Sauvage.

And Morissot, who had just caught a bleak, declared:

“And to think that it will be just the same so long as there are
governments!”

“The Republic would not have declared war,” interposed Monsieur Sauvage.

Morissot interrupted him:

“Under a king we have foreign wars; under a republic we have civil war.”

And the two began placidly discussing political problems with the sound
common sense of peaceful, matter-of-fact citizens—agreeing on one point:
that they would never be free. And Mont-Valerien thundered ceaselessly,
demolishing the houses of the French with its cannon balls, grinding
lives of men to powder, destroying many a dream, many a cherished hope,
many a prospective happiness; ruthlessly causing endless woe and
suffering in the hearts of wives, of daughters, of mothers, in other
lands.

“Such is life!” declared Monsieur Sauvage.

“Say, rather, such is death!” replied Morissot, laughing.

But they suddenly trembled with alarm at the sound of footsteps behind
them, and, turning round, they perceived close at hand four tall,
bearded men, dressed after the manner of livery servants and wearing
flat caps on their heads. They were covering the two anglers with their
rifles.

The rods slipped from their owners' grasp and floated away down the
river.

In the space of a few seconds they were seized, bound, thrown into a
boat, and taken across to the Ile Marante.

And behind the house they had thought deserted were about a score of
German soldiers.

A shaggy-looking giant, who was bestriding a chair and smoking a long
clay pipe, addressed them in excellent French with the words:

“Well, gentlemen, have you had good luck with your fishing?”

Then a soldier deposited at the officer's feet the bag full of fish,
which he had taken care to bring away. The Prussian smiled.

“Not bad, I see. But we have something else to talk about. Listen to me,
and don't be alarmed:

“You must know that, in my eyes, you are two spies sent to reconnoitre
me and my movements. Naturally, I capture you and I shoot you. You
pretended to be fishing, the better to disguise your real errand. You
have fallen into my hands, and must take the consequences. Such is war.

“But as you came here through the outposts you must have a password for
your return. Tell me that password and I will let you go.”

The two friends, pale as death, stood silently side by side, a slight
fluttering of the hands alone betraying their emotion.

“No one will ever know,” continued the officer. “You will return
peacefully to your homes, and the secret will disappear with you. If you
refuse, it means death-instant death. Choose!”

They stood motionless, and did not open their lips.

The Prussian, perfectly calm, went on, with hand outstretched toward the
river:

“Just think that in five minutes you will be at the bottom of that
water. In five minutes! You have relations, I presume?”

Mont-Valerien still thundered.

The two fishermen remained silent. The German turned and gave an order
in his own language. Then he moved his chair a little way off, that he
might not be so near the prisoners, and a dozen men stepped forward,
rifle in hand, and took up a position, twenty paces off.

“I give you one minute,” said the officer; “not a second longer.”

Then he rose quickly, went over to the two Frenchmen, took Morissot by
the arm, led him a short distance off, and said in a low voice:

“Quick! the password! Your friend will know nothing. I will pretend to
relent.”

Morissot answered not a word.

Then the Prussian took Monsieur Sauvage aside in like manner, and made
him the same proposal.

Monsieur Sauvage made no reply.

Again they stood side by side.

The officer issued his orders; the soldiers raised their rifles.

Then by chance Morissot's eyes fell on the bag full of gudgeon lying in
the grass a few feet from him.

A ray of sunlight made the still quivering fish glisten like silver. And
Morissot's heart sank. Despite his efforts at self-control his eyes
filled with tears.

“Good-by, Monsieur Sauvage,” he faltered.

“Good-by, Monsieur Morissot,” replied Sauvage.

They shook hands, trembling from head to foot with a dread beyond their
mastery.

The officer cried:

“Fire!”

The twelve shots were as one.

Monsieur Sauvage fell forward instantaneously. Morissot, being the
taller, swayed slightly and fell across his friend with face turned
skyward and blood oozing from a rent in the breast of his coat.

The German issued fresh orders.

His men dispersed, and presently returned with ropes and large stones,
which they attached to the feet of the two friends; then they carried
them to the river bank.

Mont-Valerien, its summit now enshrouded in smoke, still continued to
thunder.

Two soldiers took Morissot by the head and the feet; two others did the
same with Sauvage. The bodies, swung lustily by strong hands, were cast
to a distance, and, describing a curve, fell feet foremost into the
stream.

The water splashed high, foamed, eddied, then grew calm; tiny waves
lapped the shore.

A few streaks of blood flecked the surface of the river.

The officer, calm throughout, remarked, with grim humor:

“It's the fishes' turn now!”

Then he retraced his way to the house.

Suddenly he caught sight of the net full of gudgeons, lying forgotten in
the grass. He picked it up, examined it, smiled, and called:

“Wilhelm!”

A white-aproned soldier responded to the summons, and the Prussian,
tossing him the catch of the two murdered men, said:

“Have these fish fried for me at once, while they are still alive;
they'll make a tasty dish.”

Then he resumed his pipe.





THE LANCER'S WIFE

I

It was after Bourbaki's defeat in the east of France. The army, broken
up, decimated, and worn out, had been obliged to retreat into
Switzerland after that terrible campaign, and it was only its short
duration that saved a hundred and fifty thousand men from certain death.
Hunger, the terrible cold, forced marches in the snow without boots,
over bad mountain roads, had caused us 'francs-tireurs', especially, the
greatest suffering, for we were without tents, and almost without food,
always in the van when we were marching toward Belfort, and in the rear
when returning by the Jura. Of our little band that had numbered twelve
hundred men on the first of January, there remained only twenty-two
pale, thin, ragged wretches, when we at length succeeded in reaching
Swiss territory.

There we were safe, and could rest. Everybody knows what sympathy was
shown to the unfortunate French army, and how well it was cared for. We
all gained fresh life, and those who had been rich and happy before the
war declared that they had never experienced a greater feeling of
comfort than they did then. Just think. We actually had something to eat
every day, and could sleep every night.

Meanwhile, the war continued in the east of France, which had been
excluded from the armistice. Besancon still kept the enemy in check, and
the latter had their revenge by ravaging Franche Comte. Sometimes we
heard that they had approached quite close to the frontier, and we saw
Swiss troops, who were to form a line of observation between us and
them, set out on their march.

That pained us in the end, and, as we regained health and strength, the
longing to fight took possession of us. It was disgraceful and
irritating to know that within two or three leagues of us the Germans
were victorious and insolent, to feel that we were protected by our
captivity, and to feel that on that account we were powerless against
them.

One day our captain took five or six of us aside, and spoke to us about
it, long and furiously. He was a fine fellow, that captain. He had been
a sublieutenant in the Zouaves, was tall and thin and as hard as steel,
and during the whole campaign he had cut out their work for the Germans.
He fretted in inactivity, and could not accustom himself to the idea of
being a prisoner and of doing nothing.

“Confound it!” he said to us, “does it not pain you to know that there
is a number of uhlans within two hours of us? Does it not almost drive
you mad to know that those beggarly wretches are walking about as
masters in our mountains, when six determined men might kill a whole
spitful any day? I cannot endure it any longer, and I must go there.”

“But how can you manage it, captain?”

“How? It is not very difficult! Just as if we had not done a thing or
two within the last six months, and got out of woods that were guarded
by very different men from the Swiss. The day that you wish to cross
over into France, I will undertake to get you there.”

“That may be; but what shall we do in France without any arms?”

“Without arms? We will get them over yonder, by Jove!”

“You are forgetting the treaty,” another soldier said; “we shall run the
risk of doing the Swiss an injury, if Manteuffel learns that they have
allowed prisoners to return to France.”

“Come,” said the captain, “those are all bad reasons. I mean to go and
kill some Prussians; that is all I care about. If you do not wish to do
as I do, well and good; only say so at once. I can quite well go by
myself; I do not require anybody's company.”

Naturally we all protested, and, as it was quite impossible to make the
captain alter his mind, we felt obliged to promise to go with him. We
liked him too much to leave him in the lurch, as he never failed us in
any extremity; and so the expedition was decided on.

II

The captain had a plan of his own, that he had been cogitating over for
some time. A man in that part of the country whom he knew was going to
lend him a cart and six suits of peasants' clothes. We could hide under
some straw at the bottom of the wagon, which would be loaded with
Gruyere cheese, which he was supposed to be going to sell in France. The
captain told the sentinels that he was taking two friends with him to
protect his goods, in case any one should try to rob him, which did not
seem an extraordinary precaution. A Swiss officer seemed to look at the
wagon in a knowing manner, but that was in order to impress his
soldiers. In a word, neither officers nor men could make it out.

“Get up,” the captain said to the horses, as he cracked his whip, while
our three men quietly smoked their pipes. I was half suffocated in my
box, which only admitted the air through those holes in front, and at
the same time I was nearly frozen, for it was terribly cold.

“Get up,” the captain said again, and the wagon loaded with Gruyere
cheese entered France.

The Prussian lines were very badly guarded, as the enemy trusted to the
watchfulness of the Swiss. The sergeant spoke North German, while our
captain spoke the bad German of the Four Cantons, and so they could not
understand each other. The sergeant, however, pretended to be very
intelligent; and, in order to make us believe that he understood us,
they allowed us to continue our journey; and, after travelling for seven
hours, being continually stopped in the same manner, we arrived at a
small village of the Jura in ruins, at nightfall.

What were we going to do? Our only arms were the captain's whip, our
uniforms our peasants' blouses, and our food the Gruyere cheese. Our
sole wealth consisted in our ammunition, packages of cartridges which we
had stowed away inside some of the large cheeses. We had about a
thousand of them, just two hundred each, but we needed rifles, and they
must be chassepots. Luckily, however, the captain was a bold man of an
inventive mind, and this was the plan that he hit upon:

While three of us remained hidden in a cellar in the abandoned village,
he continued his journey as far as Besancon with the empty wagon and one
man. The town was invested, but one can always make one's way into a
town among the hills by crossing the tableland till within about ten
miles of the walls, and then following paths and ravines on foot. They
left their wagon at Omans, among the Germans, and escaped out of it at
night on foot; so as to gain the heights which border the River Doubs;
the next day they entered Besancon, where there were plenty of
chassepots. There were nearly forty thousand of them left in the
arsenal, and General Roland, a brave marine, laughed at the captain's
daring project, but let him have six rifles and wished him “good luck.”
There he had also found his wife, who had been through all the war with
us before the campaign in the East, and who had been only prevented by
illness from continuing with Bourbaki's army. She had recovered,
however, in spite of the cold, which was growing more and more intense,
and in spite of the numberless privations that awaited her, she
persisted in accompanying her husband. He was obliged to give way to
her, and they all three, the captain, his wife, and our comrade, started
on their expedition.

Going was nothing in comparison to returning. They were obliged to
travel by night, so as to avoid meeting anybody, as the possession of
six rifles would have made them liable to suspicion. But, in spite of
everything, a week after leaving us, the captain and his two men were
back with us again. The campaign was about to begin.

III

The first night of his arrival he began it himself, and, under pretext
of examining the surrounding country, he went along the high road.

I must tell you that the little village which served as our fortress was
a small collection of poor, badly built houses, which had been deserted
long before. It lay on a steep slope, which terminated in a wooded
plain. The country people sell the wood; they send it down the slopes,
which are called coulees, locally, and which lead down to the plain, and
there they stack it into piles, which they sell thrice a year to the
wood merchants. The spot where this market is held in indicated by two
small houses by the side of the highroad, which serve for public houses.
The captain had gone down there by way of one of these coulees.

He had been gone about half an hour, and we were on the lookout at the
top of the ravine, when we heard a shot. The captain had ordered us not
to stir, and only to come to him when we heard him blow his trumpet. It
was made of a goat's horn, and could be heard a league off; but it gave
no sound, and, in spite of our cruel anxiety, we were obliged to wait in
silence, with our rifles by our side.

It is nothing to go down these coulees; one just lets one's self slide
down; but it is more difficult to get up again; one has to scramble up
by catching hold of the hanging branches of the trees, and sometimes on
all fours, by sheer strength. A whole mortal hour passed, and he did not
come; nothing moved in the brushwood. The captain's wife began to grow
impatient. What could he be doing? Why did he not call us? Did the shot
that we had heard proceed from an enemy, and had he killed or wounded
our leader, her husband? They did not know what to think, but I myself
fancied either that he was dead or that his enterprise was successful;
and I was merely anxious and curious to know what he had done.

Suddenly we heard the sound of his trumpet, and we were much surprised
that instead of coming from below, as we had expected, it came from the
village behind us. What did that mean? It was a mystery to us, but the
same idea struck us all, that he had been killed, and that the Prussians
were blowing the trumpet to draw us into an ambush. We therefore
returned to the cottage, keeping a careful lookout with our fingers on
the trigger, and hiding under the branches; but his wife, in spite of
our entreaties, rushed on, leaping like a tigress. She thought that she
had to avenge her husband, and had fixed the bayonet to her rifle, and
we lost sight of her at the moment that we heard the trumpet again; and,
a few moments later, we heard her calling out to us:

“Come on! come on! He is alive! It is he!”

We hastened on, and saw the captain smoking his pipe at the entrance of
the village, but strangely enough, he was on horseback.

“Ah! ah!” he said to us, “you see that there is something to be done
here. Here I am on horseback already; I knocked over an uhlan yonder,
and took his horse; I suppose they were guarding the wood, but it was by
drinking and swilling in clover. One of them, the sentry at the door,
had not time to see me before I gave him a sugarplum in his stomach, and
then, before the others could come out, I jumped on the horse and was
off like a shot. Eight or ten of them followed me, I think; but I took
the crossroads through the woods. I have got scratched and torn a bit,
but here I am, and now, my good fellows, attention, and take care! Those
brigands will not rest until they have caught us, and we must receive
them with rifle bullets. Come along; let us take up our posts!”

We set out. One of us took up his position a good way from the village
on the crossroads; I was posted at the entrance of the main street,
where the road from the level country enters the village, while the two
others, the captain and his wife, were in the middle of the village,
near the church, whose tower served for an observatory and citadel.

We had not been in our places long before we heard a shot, followed by
another, and then two, then three. The first was evidently a chassepot
—one recognized it by the sharp report, which sounds like the crack of a
whip—while the other three came from the lancers' carbines.

The captain was furious. He had given orders to the outpost to let the
enemy pass and merely to follow them at a distance if they marched
toward the village, and to join me when they had gone well between the
houses. Then they were to appear suddenly, take the patrol between two
fires, and not allow a single man to escape; for, posted as we were, the
six of us could have hemmed in ten Prussians, if needful.

“That confounded Piedelot has roused them,” the captain said, “and they
will not venture to come on blindfolded any longer. And then I am quite
sure that he has managed to get a shot into himself somewhere or other,
for we hear nothing of him. It serves him right; why did he not obey
orders?” And then, after a moment, he grumbled in his beard: “After all
I am sorry for the poor fellow; he is so brave, and shoots so well!”

The captain was right in his conjectures. We waited until evening,
without seeing the uhlans; they had retreated after the first attack;
but unfortunately we had not seen Piedelot, either. Was he dead or a
prisoner? When night came, the captain proposed that we should go out
and look for him, and so the three of us started. At the crossroads we
found a broken rifle and some blood, while the ground was trampled down;
but we did not find either a wounded man or a dead body, although we
searched every thicket, and at midnight we returned without having
discovered anything of our unfortunate comrade.

“It is very strange,” the captain growled. “They must have killed him
and thrown him into the bushes somewhere; they cannot possibly have
taken him prisoner, as he would have called out for help. I cannot
understand it at all.” Just as he said that, bright flames shot up in
the direction of the inn on the high road, which illuminated the sky.

“Scoundrels! cowards!” he shouted. “I will bet that they have set fire
to the two houses on the marketplace, in order to have their revenge,
and then they will scuttle off without saying a word. They will be
satisfied with having killed a man and set fire to two houses. All
right. It shall not pass over like that. We must go for them; they will
not like to leave their illuminations in order to fight.”

“It would be a great stroke of luck if we could set Piedelot free at the
same time,” some one said.

The five of us set off, full of rage and hope. In twenty minutes we had
got to the bottom of the coulee, and had not yet seen any one when we
were within a hundred yards of the inn. The fire was behind the house,
and all we saw of it was the reflection above the roof. However, we were
walking rather slowly, as we were afraid of an ambush, when suddenly we
heard Piedelot's well-known voice. It had a strange sound, however; for
it was at the same time—dull and vibrating, stifled and clear, as if he
were calling out as loud as he could with a bit of rag stuffed into his
mouth. He seemed to be hoarse and gasping, and the unlucky fellow kept
exclaiming: “Help! Help!”

We sent all thoughts of prudence to the devil, and in two bounds we were
at the back of the inn, where a terrible sight met our eyes.

IV

Piedelot was being burned alive. He was writhing in the midst of a heap
of fagots, tied to a stake, and the flames were licking him with their
burning tongues. When he saw us, his tongue seemed to stick in his
throat; he drooped his head, and seemed as if he were going to die. It
was only the affair of a moment to upset the burning pile, to scatter
the embers, and to cut the ropes that fastened him.

Poor fellow! In what a terrible state we found him. The evening before
he had had his left arm broken, and it seemed as if he had been badly
beaten since then, for his whole body was covered with wounds, bruises
and blood. The flames had also begun their work on him, and he had two
large burns, one on his loins and the other on his right thigh, and his
beard and hair were scorched. Poor Piedelot!

No one knows the terrible rage we felt at this sight! We would have
rushed headlong at a hundred thousand Prussians; our thirst for
vengeance was intense. But the cowards had run away, leaving their crime
behind them. Where could we find them now? Meanwhile, however, the
captain's wife was looking after Piedelot, and dressing his wounds as
best she could, while the captain himself shook hands with him
excitedly, and in a few minutes he came to himself.

“Good-morning, captain; good-morning, all of you,” he said. “Ah! the
scoundrels, the wretches! Why, twenty of them came to surprise us.”

“Twenty, do you say?”

“Yes; there was a whole band of them, and that is why I disobeyed
orders, captain, and fired on them, for they would have killed you all,
and I preferred to stop them. That frightened them, and they did not
venture to go farther than the crossroads. They were such cowards. Four
of them shot at me at twenty yards, as if I had been a target, and then
they slashed me with their swords. My arm was broken, so that I could
only use my bayonet with one hand.”

“But why did you not call for help?”

“I took good care not to do that, for you would all have come; and you
would neither have been able to defend me nor yourselves, being only
five against twenty.”

“You know that we should not have allowed you to have been taken, poor
old fellow.”

“I preferred to die by myself, don't you see! I did not want to bring
you here, for it would have been a mere ambush.”

“Well, we will not talk about it any more. Do you feel rather easier?”

“No, I am suffocating. I know that I cannot live much longer. The
brutes! They tied me to a tree, and beat me till I was half dead, and
then they shook my broken arm; but I did not make a sound. I would
rather have bitten my tongue out than have called out before them. Now I
can tell what I am suffering and shed tears; it does one good. Thank
you, my kind friends.”

“Poor Piedelot! But we will avenge you, you may be sure!”

“Yes, yes; I want you to do that. There is, in particular, a woman among
them who passes as the wife of the lancer whom the captain killed
yesterday. She is dressed like a lancer, and she tortured me the most
yesterday, and suggested burning me; and it was she who set fire to the
wood. Oh! the wretch, the brute! Ah! how I am suffering! My loins, my
arms!” and he fell back gasping and exhausted, writhing in his terrible
agony, while the captain's wife wiped the perspiration from his
forehead, and we all shed tears of grief and rage, as if we had been
children. I will not describe the end to you; he died half an hour
later, previously telling us in what direction the enemy had gone. When
he was dead we gave ourselves time to bury him, and then we set out in
pursuit of them, with our hearts full of fury and hatred.

“We will throw ourselves on the whole Prussian army, if it be
necessary,” the captain said; “but we will avenge Piedelot. We must
catch those scoundrels. Let us swear to die, rather than not to find
them; and if I am killed first, these are my orders: All the prisoners
that you take are to be shot immediately, and as for the lancer's wife,
she is to be tortured before she is put to death.”

“She must not be shot, because she is a woman,” the captain's wife said.
“If you survive, I am sure that you would not shoot a woman. Torturing
her will be quite sufficient; but if you are killed in this pursuit, I
want one thing, and that is to fight with her; I will kill her with my
own hands, and the others can do what they like with her if she kills
me.”

“We will outrage her! We will burn her! We will tear her to pieces!
Piedelot shall be avenged!

“An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth!”

V

The next morning we unexpectedly fell on an outpost of uhlans four
leagues away. Surprised by our sudden attack, they were not able to
mount their horses, nor even to defend themselves; and in a few moments
we had five prisoner, corresponding to our own number. The captain
questioned them, and from their answers we felt certain that they were
the same whom we had encountered the previous day. Then a very curious
operation took place. One of us was told off to ascertain their sex, and
nothing can describe our joy when we discovered what we were seeking
among them, the female executioner who had tortured our friend.

The four others were shot on the spot, with their backs to us and close
to the muzzles of our rifles; and then we turned our attention to the
woman. What were we going to do with her? I must acknowledge that we
were all of us in favor of shooting her. Hatred, and the wish to avenge
Piedelot, had extinguished all pity in us, and we had forgotten that we
were going to shoot a woman, but a woman reminded us of it, the
captain's wife; at her entreaties, therefore, we determined to keep her
a prisoner.

The captain's poor wife was to be severely punished for this act of
clemency.

The next day we heard that the armistice had been extended to the
eastern part of France, and we had to put an end to our little campaign.
Two of us, who belonged to the neighborhood, returned home, so there
were only four of us, all told: the captain, his wife, and two men. We
belonged to Besancon, which was still being besieged in spite of the
armistice.

“Let us stop here,” said the captain. “I cannot believe that the war is
going to end like this. The devil take it! Surely there are men still
left in France; and now is the time to prove what they are made of. The
spring is coming on, and the armistice is only a trap laid for the
Prussians. During the time that it lasts, a new army will be raised, and
some fine morning we shall fall upon them again. We shall be ready, and
we have a hostage—let us remain here.”

We fixed our quarters there. It was terribly cold, and we did not go out
much, and somebody had always to keep the female prisoner in sight.

She was sullen, and never said anything, or else spoke of her husband,
whom the captain had killed. She looked at him continually with fierce
eyes, and we felt that she was tortured by a wild longing for revenge.
That seemed to us to be the most suitable punishment for the terrible
torments that she had made Piedelot suffer, for impotent vengeance is
such intense pain!

Alas! we who knew how to avenge our comrade ought to have thought that
this woman would know how to avenge her husband, and have been on our
guard. It is true that one of us kept watch every night, and that at
first we tied her by a long rope to the great oak bench that was
fastened to the wall. But, by and by, as she had never tried to escape,
in spite of her hatred for us, we relaxed our extreme prudence, and
allowed her to sleep somewhere else except on the bench, and without
being tied. What had we to fear? She was at the end of the room, a man
was on guard at the door, and between her and the sentinel the captain's
wife and two other men used to lie. She was alone and unarmed against
four, so there could be no danger.

One night when we were asleep, and the captain was on guard, the
lancer's wife was lying more quietly in her corner than usual, and she
had even smiled for the first time since she had been our prisoner
during the evening. Suddenly, however, in the middle of the night, we
were all awakened by a terrible cry. We got up, groping about, and at
once stumbled over a furious couple who were rolling about and fighting
on the ground. It was the captain and the lancer's wife. We threw
ourselves on them, and separated them in a moment. She was shouting and
laughing, and he seemed to have the death rattle. All this took place in
the dark. Two of us held her, and when a light was struck a terrible
sight met our eyes. The captain was lying on the floor in a pool of
blood, with an enormous gash in his throat, and his sword bayonet, that
had been taken from his rifle, was sticking in the red, gaping wound. A
few minutes afterward he died, without having been able to utter a word.

His wife did not shed a tear. Her eyes were dry, her throat was
contracted, and she looked at the lancer's wife steadfastly, and with a
calm ferocity that inspired fear.

“This woman belongs to me,” she said to us suddenly. “You swore to me
not a week ago to let me kill her as I chose, if she killed my husband;
and you must keep your oath. You must fasten her securely to the
fireplace, upright against the back of it, and then you can go where you
like, but far from here. I will take my revenge on her myself. Leave the
captain's body, and we three, he, she and I, will remain here.”

We obeyed, and went away. She promised to write to us to Geneva, as we
were returning thither.

VI

Two days later I received the following letter, dated the day after we
had left, that had been written at an inn on the high road:

“MY FRIEND: I am writing to you, according to my promise. For the moment
I am at the inn, where I have just handed my prisoner over to a Prussian
officer.

“I must tell you, my friend, that this poor woman has left two children
in Germany. She had followed her husband, whom she adored, as she did
not wish him to be exposed to the risks of war by himself, and as her
children were with their grandparents. I have learned all this since
yesterday, and it has turned my ideas of vengeance into more humane
feelings. At the very moment when I felt pleasure in insulting this
woman, and in threatening her with the most fearful torments, in
recalling Piedelot, who had been burned alive, and in threatening her
with a similar death, she looked at me coldly, and said:

“'What have you got to reproach me with, Frenchwoman? You think that you
will do right in avenging your husband's death, is not that so?'

“'Yes,' I replied.

“'Very well, then; in killing him, I did what you are going to do in
burning me. I avenged my husband, for your husband killed him.'

“'Well,' I replied, 'as you approve of this vengeance, prepare to endure
it.'

“'I do not fear it.'

“And in fact she did not seem to have lost courage. Her face was calm,
and she looked at me without trembling, while I brought wood and dried
leaves together, and feverishly threw on to them the powder from some
cartridges, which was to make her funeral pile the more cruel.

“I hesitated in my thoughts of persecution for a moment. But the captain
was there, pale and covered with blood, and he seemed to be looking at
me with his large, glassy eyes, and I applied myself to my work again
after kissing his pale lips. Suddenly, however, on raising my head, I
saw that she was crying, and I felt rather surprised.

“'So you are frightened?' I said to her.

“'No, but when I saw you kiss your husband, I thought of mine, of all
whom I love.'

“She continued to sob, but stopping suddenly, she said to me in broken
words and in a low voice:

“'Have you any children?'

“A shiver rare over me, for I guessed that this poor woman had some. She
asked me to look in a pocketbook which was in her bosom, and in it I saw
two photographs of quite young children, a boy and a girl, with those
kind, gentle, chubby faces that German children have. In it there were
also two locks of light hair and a letter in a large, childish hand, and
beginning with German words which meant:

“'My dear little mother.

“'I could not restrain my tears, my dear friend, and so I untied her,
and without venturing to look at the face of my poor dead husband, who
was not to be avenged, I went with her as far as the inn. She is free; I
have just left her, and she kissed me with tears. I am going upstairs to
my husband; come as soon as possible, my dear friend, to look for our
two bodies.'”

I set off with all speed, and when I arrived there was a Prussian patrol
at the cottage; and when I asked what it all meant, I was told that
there was a captain of francs-tireurs and his wife inside, both dead. I
gave their names; they saw that I knew them, and I begged to be allowed
to arrange their funeral.

“Somebody has already undertaken it,” was the reply. “Go in if you wish
to, as you know them. You can settle about their funeral with their
friend.”

I went in. The captain and his wife were lying side by side on a bed,
and were covered by a sheet. I raised it, and saw that the woman had
inflicted a similar wound in her throat to that from which her husband
had died.

At the side of the bed there sat, watching and weeping, the woman who
had been mentioned to me as their best friend. It was the lancer's wife.





THE PRISONERS

There was not a sound in the forest save the indistinct, fluttering
sound of the snow falling on the trees. It had been snowing since noon;
a little fine snow, that covered the branches as with frozen moss, and
spread a silvery covering over the dead leaves in the ditches, and
covered the roads with a white, yielding carpet, and made still more
intense the boundless silence of this ocean of trees.

Before the door of the forester's dwelling a young woman, her arms bare
to the elbow, was chopping wood with a hatchet on a block of stone. She
was tall, slender, strong-a true girl of the woods, daughter and wife of
a forester.

A voice called from within the house:

“We are alone to-night, Berthine; you must come in. It is getting dark,
and there may be Prussians or wolves about.”

“I've just finished, mother,” replied the young woman, splitting as she
spoke an immense log of wood with strong, deft blows, which expanded her
chest each time she raised her arms to strike. “Here I am; there's no
need to be afraid; it's quite light still.”

Then she gathered up her sticks and logs, piled them in the chimney
corner, went back to close the great oaken shutters, and finally came
in, drawing behind her the heavy bolts of the door.

Her mother, a wrinkled old woman whom age had rendered timid, was
spinning by the fireside.

“I am uneasy,” she said, “when your father's not here. Two women are not
much good.”

“Oh,” said the younger woman, “I'd cheerfully kill a wolf or a Prussian
if it came to that.”

And she glanced at a heavy revolver hanging above the hearth.

Her husband had been called upon to serve in the army at the beginning
of the Prussian invasion, and the two women had remained alone with the
old father, a keeper named Nicolas Pichon, sometimes called Long-legs,
who refused obstinately to leave his home and take refuge in the town.

This town was Rethel, an ancient stronghold built on a rock. Its
inhabitants were patriotic, and had made up their minds to resist the
invaders, to fortify their native place, and, if need be, to stand a
siege as in the good old days. Twice already, under Henri IV and under
Louis XIV, the people of Rethel had distinguished themselves by their
heroic defence of their town. They would do as much now, by gad! or else
be slaughtered within their own walls.

They had, therefore, bought cannon and rifles, organized a militia, and
formed themselves into battalions and companies, and now spent their
time drilling all day long in the square. All-bakers, grocers, butchers,
lawyers, carpenters, booksellers, chemists-took their turn at military
training at regular hours of the day, under the auspices of Monsieur
Lavigne, a former noncommissioned officer in the dragoons, now a draper,
having married the daughter and inherited the business of Monsieur
Ravaudan, Senior.

He had taken the rank of commanding officer in Rethel, and, seeing that
all the young men had gone off to the war, he had enlisted all the
others who were in favor of resisting an attack. Fat men now invariably
walked the streets at a rapid pace, to reduce their weight and improve
their breathing, and weak men carried weights to strengthen their
muscles.

And they awaited the Prussians. But the Prussians did not appear. They
were not far off, however, for twice already their scouts had penetrated
as far as the forest dwelling of Nicolas Pichon, called Long-legs.

The old keeper, who could run like a fox, had come and warned the town.
The guns had been got ready, but the enemy had not shown themselves.

Long-legs' dwelling served as an outpost in the Aveline forest. Twice a
week the old man went to the town for provisions and brought the
citizens news of the outlying district.

On this particular day he had gone to announce the fact that a small
detachment of German infantry had halted at his house the day before,
about two o'clock in the afternoon, and had left again almost
immediately. The noncommissioned officer in charge spoke French.

When the old man set out like this he took with him his dogs—two
powerful animals with the jaws of lions-as a safeguard against the
wolves, which were beginning to get fierce, and he left directions with
the two women to barricade themselves securely within their dwelling as
soon as night fell.

The younger feared nothing, but her mother was always apprehensive, and
repeated continually:

“We'll come to grief one of these days. You see if we don't!”

This evening she was, if possible, more nervous than ever.

“Do you know what time your father will be back?” she asked.

“Oh, not before eleven, for certain. When he dines with the commandant
he's always late.”

And Berthine was hanging her pot over the fire to warm the soup when she
suddenly stood still, listening attentively to a sound that had reached
her through the chimney.

“There are people walking in the wood,” she said; “seven or eight men at
least.”

The terrified old woman stopped her spinning wheel, and gasped:

“Oh, my God! And your father not here!”

She had scarcely finished speaking when a succession of violent blows
shook the door.

As the woman made no reply, a loud, guttural voice shouted:

“Open the door!”

After a brief silence the same voice repeated:

“Open the door or I'll break it down!”

Berthine took the heavy revolver from its hook, slipped it into the
pocket of her skirt, and, putting her ear to the door, asked:

“Who are you?” demanded the young woman. “What do you want?”.

“The detachment that came here the other day,” replied the voice.

“My men and I have lost our way in the forest since morning. Open the
door or I'll break it down!”

The forester's daughter had no choice; she shot back the heavy bolts,
threw open the ponderous shutter, and perceived in the wan light of the
snow six men, six Prussian soldiers, the same who had visited the house
the day before.

“What are you doing here at this time of night?” she asked dauntlessly.

“I lost my bearings,” replied the officer; “lost them completely. Then I
recognized this house. I've eaten nothing since morning, nor my men
either.”

“But I'm quite alone with my mother this evening,” said Berthine.

“Never mind,” replied the soldier, who seemed a decent sort of fellow.
“We won't do you any harm, but you must give us something to eat. We are
nearly dead with hunger and fatigue.”

Then the girl moved aside.

“Come in;” she said.

Then entered, covered with snow, their helmets sprinkled with a creamy-
looking froth, which gave them the appearance of meringues. They seemed
utterly worn out.

The young woman pointed to the wooden benches on either side of the
large table.

“Sit down,” she said, “and I'll make you some soup. You certainly look
tired out, and no mistake.”

Then she bolted the door afresh.

She put more water in the pot, added butter and potatoes; then, taking
down a piece of bacon from a hook in the chimney earner, cut it in two
and slipped half of it into the pot.

The six men watched her movements with hungry eyes. They had placed
their rifles and helmets in a corner and waited for supper, as well
behaved as children on a school bench.

The old mother had resumed her spinning, casting from time to time a
furtive and uneasy glance at the soldiers. Nothing was to be heard save
the humming of the wheel, the crackling of the fire, and the singing of
the water in the pot.

But suddenly a strange noise—a sound like the harsh breathing of some
wild animal sniffing under the door-startled the occupants of the room.

The German officer sprang toward the rifles. Berthine stopped him with a
gesture, and said, smilingly:

“It's only the wolves. They are like you—prowling hungry through the
forest.”

The incredulous man wanted to see with his own eyes, and as soon as the
door was opened he perceived two large grayish animals disappearing with
long, swinging trot into the darkness.

He returned to his seat, muttering:

“I wouldn't have believed it!”

And he waited quietly till supper was ready.

The men devoured their meal voraciously, with mouths stretched to their
ears that they might swallow the more. Their round eyes opened at the
same time as their jaws, and as the soup coursed down their throats it
made a noise like the gurgling of water in a rainpipe.

The two women watched in silence the movements of the big red beards.
The potatoes seemed to be engulfed in these moving fleeces.

But, as they were thirsty, the forester's daughter went down to the
cellar to draw them some cider. She was gone some time. The cellar was
small, with an arched ceiling, and had served, so people said, both as
prison and as hiding-place during the Revolution. It was approached by
means of a narrow, winding staircase, closed by a trap-door at the
farther end of the kitchen.

When Berthine returned she was smiling mysteriously to herself. She gave
the Germans her jug of cider.

Then she and her mother supped apart, at the other end of the kitchen.

The soldiers had finished eating, and were all six falling asleep as
they sat round the table. Every now and then a forehead fell with a thud
on the board, and the man, awakened suddenly, sat upright again.

Berthine said to the officer:

“Go and lie down, all of you, round the fire. There's lots of room for
six. I'm going up to my room with my mother.”

And the two women went upstairs. They could be heard locking the door
and walking about overhead for a time; then they were silent.

The Prussians lay down on the floor, with their feet to the fire and
their heads resting on their rolled-up cloaks. Soon all six snored
loudly and uninterruptedly in six different keys.

They had been sleeping for some time when a shot rang out so loudly that
it seemed directed against the very walls of the house. The soldiers
rose hastily. Two-then three-more shots were fired.

The door opened hastily, and Berthine appeared, barefooted and only half
dressed, with her candle in her hand and a scared look on her face.

“There are the French,” she stammered; “at least two hundred of them. If
they find you here they'll burn the house down. For God's sake, hurry
down into the cellar, and don't make a sound, whatever you do. If you
make any noise we are lost.”

“We'll go, we'll go,” replied the terrified officer. “Which is the way?”

The young woman hurriedly raised the small, square trap-door, and the
six men disappeared one after another down the narrow, winding
staircase, feeling their way as they went.

But as soon as the spike of the last helmet was out of sight Berthine
lowered the heavy oaken lid—thick as a wall, hard as steel, furnished
with the hinges and bolts of a prison cell—shot the two heavy bolts, and
began to laugh long and silently, possessed with a mad longing to dance
above the heads of her prisoners.

They made no sound, inclosed in the cellar as in a strong-box, obtaining
air only from a small, iron-barred vent-hole.

Berthine lighted her fire again, hung the pot over it, and prepared more
soup, saying to herself:

“Father will be tired to-night.”

Then she sat and waited. The heavy pendulum of the clock swung to and
fro with a monotonous tick.

Every now and then the young woman cast an impatient glance at the dial-
a glance which seemed to say:

“I wish he'd be quick!”

But soon there was a sound of voices beneath her feet. Low, confused
words reached her through the masonry which roofed the cellar. The
Prussians were beginning to suspect the trick she had played them, and
presently the officer came up the narrow staircase, and knocked at the
trap-door.

“Open the door!” he cried.

“What do you want?” she said, rising from her seat and approaching the
cellarway.

“Open the door!”

“I won't do any such thing!”

“Open it or I'll break it down!” shouted the man angrily.

She laughed.

“Hammer away, my good man! Hammer away!”

He struck with the butt-end of his gun at the closed oaken door. But it
would have resisted a battering-ram.

The forester's daughter heard him go down the stairs again. Then the
soldiers came one after another and tried their strength against the
trapdoor. But, finding their efforts useless, they all returned to the
cellar and began to talk among themselves.

The young woman heard them for a short time, then she rose, opened the
door of the house; looked out into the night, and listened.

A sound of distant barking reached her ear. She whistled just as a
huntsman would, and almost immediately two great dogs emerged from the
darkness, and bounded to her side. She held them tight, and shouted at
the top of her voice:

“Hullo, father!”

A far-off voice replied:

“Hullo, Berthine!”

She waited a few seconds, then repeated:

“Hullo, father!”

The voice, nearer now, replied:

“Hullo, Berthine!”

“Don't go in front of the vent-hole!” shouted his daughter. “There are
Prussians in the cellar!”

Suddenly the man's tall figure could be seen to the left, standing
between two tree trunks.

“Prussians in the cellar?” he asked anxiously. “What are they doing?”

The young woman laughed.

“They are the same as were here yesterday. They lost their way, and I've
given them free lodgings in the cellar.”

She told the story of how she had alarmed them by firing the revolver,
and had shut them up in the cellar.

The man, still serious, asked:

“But what am I to do with them at this time of night?”

“Go and fetch Monsieur Lavigne with his men,” she replied. “He'll take
them prisoners. He'll be delighted.”

Her father smiled.

“So he will-delighted.”

“Here's some soup for you,” said his daughter. “Eat it quick, and then
be off.”

The old keeper sat down at the table, and began to eat his soup, having
first filled two plates and put them on the floor for the dogs.

The Prussians, hearing voices, were silent.

Long-legs set off a quarter of an hour later, and Berthine, with her
head between her hands, waited.

The prisoners began to make themselves heard again. They shouted,
called, and beat furiously with the butts of their muskets against the
rigid trap-door of the cellar.

Then they fired shots through the vent-hole, hoping, no doubt, to be
heard by any German detachment which chanced to be passing that way.

The forester's daughter did not stir, but the noise irritated and
unnerved her. Blind anger rose in her heart against the prisoners; she
would have been only too glad to kill them all, and so silence them.

Then, as her impatience grew, she watched the clock, counting the
minutes as they passed.

Her father had been gone an hour and a half. He must have reached the
town by now. She conjured up a vision of him telling the story to
Monsieur Lavigne, who grew pale with emotion, and rang for his servant
to bring him his arms and uniform. She fancied she could bear the drum
as it sounded the call to arms. Frightened faces appeared at the
windows. The citizen-soldiers emerged from their houses half dressed,
out of breath, buckling on their belts, and hurrying to the commandant's
house.

Then the troop of soldiers, with Long-legs at its head, set forth
through the night and the snow toward the forest.

She looked at the clock. “They may be here in an hour.”

A nervous impatience possessed her. The minutes seemed interminable.
Would the time never come?

At last the clock marked the moment she had fixed on for their arrival.
And she opened the door to listen for their approach. She perceived a
shadowy form creeping toward the house. She was afraid, and cried out.
But it was her father.

“They have sent me,” he said, “to see if there is any change in the
state of affairs.”

“No-none.”

Then he gave a shrill whistle. Soon a dark mass loomed up under the
trees; the advance guard, composed of ten men.

“Don't go in front of the vent-hole!” repeated Long-legs at intervals.

And the first arrivals pointed out the much-dreaded vent-hole to those
who came after.

At last the main body of the troop arrived, in all two hundred men, each
carrying two hundred cartridges.

Monsieur Lavigne, in a state of intense excitement, posted them in such
a fashion as to surround the whole house, save for a large space left
vacant in front of the little hole on a level with the ground, through
which the cellar derived its supply of air.

Monsieur Lavigne struck the trap-door a blow with his foot, and called:

“I wish to speak to the Prussian officer!”

The German did not reply.

“The Prussian officer!” again shouted the commandant.

Still no response. For the space of twenty minutes Monsieur Lavigne
called on this silent officer to surrender with bag and baggage,
promising him that all lives should be spared, and that he and his men
should be accorded military honors. But he could extort no sign, either
of consent or of defiance. The situation became a puzzling one.

The citizen-soldiers kicked their heels in the snow, slapping their arms
across their chest, as cabdrivers do, to warm themselves, and gazing at
the vent-hole with a growing and childish desire to pass in front of it.

At last one of them took the risk-a man named Potdevin, who was fleet of
limb. He ran like a deer across the zone of danger. The experiment
succeeded. The prisoners gave no sign of life.

A voice cried:

“There's no one there!”

And another soldier crossed the open space before the dangerous vent-
hole. Then this hazardous sport developed into a game. Every minute a
man ran swiftly from one side to the other, like a boy playing baseball,
kicking up the snow behind him as he ran. They had lighted big fires of
dead wood at which to warm themselves, and the figures of the runners
were illumined by the flames as they passed rapidly from the camp on the
right to that on the left.

Some one shouted:

“It's your turn now, Maloison.”

Maloison was a fat baker, whose corpulent person served to point many a
joke among his comrades.

He hesitated. They chaffed him. Then, nerving himself to the effort, he
set off at a little, waddling gait, which shook his fat paunch and made
the whole detachment laugh till they cried.

“Bravo, bravo, Maloison!” they shouted for his encouragement.

He had accomplished about two-thirds of his journey when a long, crimson
flame shot forth from the vent-hole. A loud report followed, and the fat
baker fell face forward to the ground, uttering a frightful scream. No
one went to his assistance. Then he was seen to drag himself, groaning,
on all-fours through the snow until he was beyond danger, when he
fainted.

He was shot in the upper part of the thigh.

After the first surprise and fright were over they laughed at him again.
But Monsieur Lavigne appeared on the threshold of the forester's
dwelling. He had formed his plan of attack. He called in a loud voice “I
want Planchut, the plumber, and his workmen.”

Three men approached.

“Take the eavestroughs from the roof.”

In a quarter of an hour they brought the commandant thirty yards of
pipes.

Next, with infinite precaution, he had a small round hole drilled in the
trap-door; then, making a conduit with the troughs from the pump to this
opening, he said, with an air of extreme satisfaction:

“Now we'll give these German gentlemen something to drink.”

A shout of frenzied admiration, mingled with uproarious laughter, burst
from his followers. And the commandant organized relays of men, who were
to relieve one another every five minutes. Then he commanded:

“Pump!!!”

And, the pump handle having been set in motion, a stream of water
trickled throughout the length of the piping, and flowed from step to
step down the cellar stairs with a gentle, gurgling sound.

They waited.

An hour passed, then two, then three. The commandant, in a state of
feverish agitation, walked up and down the kitchen, putting his ear to
the ground every now and then to discover, if possible, what the enemy
were doing and whether they would soon capitulate.

The enemy was astir now. They could be heard moving the casks about,
talking, splashing through the water.

Then, about eight o'clock in the morning, a voice came from the vent-
hole “I want to speak to the French officer.”

Lavigne replied from the window, taking care not to put his head out too
far:

“Do you surrender?”

“I surrender.”

“Then put your rifles outside.”

A rifle immediately protruded from the hole, and fell into the snow,
then another and another, until all were disposed of. And the voice
which had spoken before said:

“I have no more. Be quick! I am drowned.”

“Stop pumping!” ordered the commandant.

And the pump handle hung motionless.

Then, having filled the kitchen with armed and waiting soldiers, he
slowly raised the oaken trapdoor.

Four heads appeared, soaking wet, four fair heads with long, sandy hair,
and one after another the six Germans emerged—scared, shivering and
dripping from head to foot.

They were seized and bound. Then, as the French feared a surprise, they
set off at once in two convoys, one in charge of the prisoners, and the
other conducting Maloison on a mattress borne on poles.

They made a triumphal entry into Rethel.

Monsieur Lavigne was decorated as a reward for having captured a
Prussian advance guard, and the fat baker received the military medal
for wounds received at the hands of the enemy.





TWO LITTLE SOLDIERS

Every Sunday, as soon as they were free, the little soldiers would go
for a walk. They turned to the right on leaving the barracks, crossed
Courbevoie with rapid strides, as though on a forced march; then, as the
houses grew scarcer, they slowed down and followed the dusty road which
leads to Bezons.

They were small and thin, lost in their ill-fitting capes, too large and
too long, whose sleeves covered their hands; their ample red trousers
fell in folds around their ankles. Under the high, stiff shako one could
just barely perceive two thin, hollow-cheeked Breton faces, with their
calm, naive blue eyes. They never spoke during their journey, going
straight before them, the same idea in each one's mind taking the place
of conversation. For at the entrance of the little forest of Champioux
they had found a spot which reminded them of home, and they did not feel
happy anywhere else.

At the crossing of the Colombes and Chatou roads, when they arrived
under the trees, they would take off their heavy, oppressive headgear
and wipe their foreheads.

They always stopped for a while on the bridge at Bezons, and looked at
the Seine. They stood there several minutes, bending over the railing,
watching the white sails, which perhaps reminded them of their home, and
of the fishing smacks leaving for the open.

As soon as they had crossed the Seine, they would purchase provisions at
the delicatessen, the baker's, and the wine merchant's. A piece of
bologna, four cents' worth of bread, and a quart of wine, made up the
luncheon which they carried away, wrapped up in their handkerchiefs. But
as soon as they were out of the village their gait would slacken and
they would begin to talk.

Before them was a plain with a few clumps of trees, which led to the
woods, a little forest which seemed to remind them of that other forest
at Kermarivan. The wheat and oat fields bordered on the narrow path, and
Jean Kerderen said each time to Luc Le Ganidec:

“It's just like home, just like Plounivon.”

“Yes, it's just like home.”

And they went on, side by side, their minds full of dim memories of
home. They saw the fields, the hedges, the forests, and beaches.

Each time they stopped near a large stone on the edge of the private
estate, because it reminded them of the dolmen of Locneuven.

As soon as they reached the first clump of trees, Luc Le Ganidec would
cut off a small stick, and, whittling it slowly, would walk on, thinking
of the folks at home.

Jean Kerderen carried the provisions.

From time to time Luc would mention a name, or allude to some boyish
prank which would give them food for plenty of thought. And the home
country, so dear and so distant, would little by little gain possession
of their minds, sending them back through space, to the well-known forms
and noises, to the familiar scenery, with the fragrance of its green
fields and sea air. They no longer noticed the smells of the city. And
in their dreams they saw their friends leaving, perhaps forever, for the
dangerous fishing grounds.

They were walking slowly, Luc Le Ganidec and Jean Kerderen, contented
and sad, haunted by a sweet sorrow, the slow and penetrating sorrow of a
captive animal which remembers the days of its freedom.

And when Luc had finished whittling his stick, they came to a little
nook, where every Sunday they took their meal. They found the two
bricks, which they had hidden in a hedge, and they made a little fire of
dry branches and roasted their sausages on the ends of their knives.

When their last crumb of bread had been eaten and the last drop of wine
had been drunk, they stretched themselves out on the grass side by side,
without speaking, their half-closed eyes looking away in the distance,
their hands clasped as in prayer, their red-trousered legs mingling with
the bright colors of the wild flowers.

Towards noon they glanced, from time to time, towards the village of
Bezons, for the dairy maid would soon be coming. Every Sunday she would
pass in front of them on the way to milk her cow, the only cow in the
neighborhood which was sent out to pasture.

Soon they would see the girl, coming through the fields, and it pleased
them to watch the sparkling sunbeams reflected from her shining pail.
They never spoke of her. They were just glad to see her, without
understanding why.

She was a tall, strapping girl, freckled and tanned by the open air—a
girl typical of the Parisian suburbs.

Once, on noticing that they were always sitting in the same place, she
said to them:

“Do you always come here?”

Luc Le Ganidec, more daring than his friend, stammered:

“Yes, we come here for our rest.”

That was all. But the following Sunday, on seeing them, she smiled with
the kindly smile of a woman who understood their shyness, and she asked:

“What are you doing here? Are you watching the grass grow?”

Luc, cheered up, smiled: “P'raps.”

She continued: “It's not growing fast, is it?”

He answered, still laughing: “Not exactly.”

She went on. But when she came back with her pail full of milk, she
stopped before them and said:

“Want some? It will remind you of home.”

She had, perhaps instinctively, guessed and touched the right spot.

Both were moved. Then not without difficulty, she poured some milk into
the bottle in which they had brought their wine. Luc started to drink,
carefully watching lest he should take more than his share. Then he
passed the bottle to Jean. She stood before them, her hands on her hips,
her pail at her feet, enjoying the pleasure that she was giving them.
Then she went on, saying: “Well, bye-bye until next Sunday!”

For a long time they watched her tall form as it receded in the
distance, blending with the background, and finally disappeared.

The following week as they left the barracks, Jean said to Luc:

“Don't you think we ought to buy her something good?”

They were sorely perplexed by the problem of choosing something to bring
to the dairy maid. Luc was in favor of bringing her some chitterlings;
but Jean, who had a sweet tooth, thought that candy would be the best
thing. He won, and so they went to a grocery to buy two sous' worth, of
red and white candies.

This time they ate more quickly than usual, excited by anticipation.

Jean was the first one to notice her. “There she is,” he said; and Luc
answered: “Yes, there she is.”

She smiled when she saw them, and cried:

“Well, how are you to-day?”

They both answered together:

“All right! How's everything with you?”

Then she started to talk of simple things which might interest them; of
the weather, of the crops, of her masters.

They didn't dare to offer their candies, which were slowly melting in
Jean's pocket. Finally Luc, growing bolder, murmured:

“We have brought you something.”

She asked: “Let's see it.”

Then Jean, blushing to the tips of his ears, reached in his pocket, and
drawing out the little paper bag, handed it to her.

She began to eat the little sweet dainties. The two soldiers sat in
front of her, moved and delighted.

At last she went to do her milking, and when she came back she again
gave them some milk.

They thought of her all through the week and often spoke of her: The
following Sunday she sat beside them for a longer time.

The three of them sat there, side by side, their eyes looking far away
in the distance, their hands clasped over their knees, and they told
each other little incidents and little details of the villages where
they were born, while the cow, waiting to be milked, stretched her heavy
head toward the girl and mooed.

Soon the girl consented to eat with them and to take a sip of wine.
Often she brought them plums pocket for plums were now ripe. Her
presence enlivened the little Breton soldiers, who chattered away like
two birds.

One Tuesday something unusual happened to Luc Le Ganidec; he asked for
leave and did not return until ten o'clock at night.

Jean, worried and racked his brain to account for his friend's having
obtained leave.

The following Friday, Luc borrowed ten sons from one of his friends, and
once more asked and obtained leave for several hours.

When he started out with Jean on Sunday he seemed queer, disturbed,
changed. Kerderen did not understand; he vaguely suspected something,
but he could not guess what it might be.

They went straight to the usual place, and lunched slowly. Neither was
hungry.

Soon the girl appeared. They watched her approach as they always did.
When she was near, Luc arose and went towards her. She placed her pail
on the ground and kissed him. She kissed him passionately, throwing her
arms around his neck, without paying attention to Jean, without even
noticing that he was there.

Poor Jean was dazed, so dazed that he could not understand. His mind was
upset and his heart broken, without his even realizing why.

Then the girl sat down beside Luc, and they started to chat.

Jean was not looking at them. He understood now why his friend had gone
out twice during the week. He felt the pain and the sting which
treachery and deceit leave in their wake.

Luc and the girl went together to attend to the cow.

Jean followed them with his eyes. He saw them disappear side by side,
the red trousers of his friend making a scarlet spot against the white
road. It was Luc who sank the stake to which the cow was tethered. The
girl stooped down to milk the cow, while he absent-mindedly stroked the
animal's glossy neck. Then they left the pail in the grass and
disappeared in the woods.

Jean could no longer see anything but the wall of leaves through which
they had passed. He was unmanned so that he did not have strength to
stand. He stayed there, motionless, bewildered and grieving-simple,
passionate grief. He wanted to weep, to run away, to hide somewhere,
never to see anyone again.

Then he saw them coming back again. They were walking slowly, hand in
hand, as village lovers do. Luc was carrying the pail.

After kissing him again, the girl went on, nodding carelessly to Jean.
She did not offer him any milk that day.

The two little soldiers sat side by side, motionless as always, silent
and quiet, their calm faces in no way betraying the trouble in their
hearts. The sun shone down on them. From time to time they could hear
the plaintive lowing of the cow. At the usual time they arose to return.

Luc was whittling a stick. Jean carried the empty bottle. He left it at
the wine merchant's in Bezons. Then they stopped on the bridge, as they
did every Sunday, and watched the water flowing by.

Jean leaned over the railing, farther and farther, as though he had seen
something in the stream which hypnotized him. Luc said to him:

“What's the matter? Do you want a drink?”

He had hardly said the last word when Jean's head carried away the rest
of his body, and the little blue and red soldier fell like a shot and
disappeared in the water.

Luc, paralyzed with horror, tried vainly to shout for help. In the
distance he saw something move; then his friend's head bobbed up out of
the water only to disappear again.

Farther down he again noticed a hand, just one hand, which appeared and
again went out of sight. That was all.

The boatmen who had rushed to the scene found the body that day.

Luc ran back to the barracks, crazed, and with eyes and voice full of
tears, he related the accident: “He leaned—he—he was leaning —so far
over—that his head carried him away—and—he—fell —he fell——”

Emotion choked him so that he could say no more. If he had only known.





FATHER MILON

For a month the hot sun has been parching the fields. Nature is
expanding beneath its rays; the fields are green as far as the eye can
see. The big azure dome of the sky is unclouded. The farms of Normandy,
scattered over the plains and surrounded by a belt of tall beeches,
look, from a distance, like little woods. On closer view, after lowering
the worm-eaten wooden bars, you imagine yourself in an immense garden,
for all the ancient apple-trees, as gnarled as the peasants themselves,
are in bloom. The sweet scent of their blossoms mingles with the heavy
smell of the earth and the penetrating odor of the stables. It is noon.
The family is eating under the shade of a pear tree planted in front of
the door; father, mother, the four children, and the help—two women and
three men are all there. All are silent. The soup is eaten and then a
dish of potatoes fried with bacon is brought on.

From time to time one of the women gets up and takes a pitcher down to
the cellar to fetch more cider.

The man, a big fellow about forty years old, is watching a grape vine,
still bare, which is winding and twisting like a snake along the side of
the house.

At last he says: “Father's vine is budding early this year. Perhaps we
may get something from it.”

The woman then turns round and looks, without saying a word.

This vine is planted on the spot where their father had been shot.

It was during the war of 1870. The Prussians were occupying the whole
country. General Faidherbe, with the Northern Division of the army, was
opposing them.

The Prussians had established their headquarters at this farm. The old
farmer to whom it belonged, Father Pierre Milon, had received and
quartered them to the best of his ability.

For a month the German vanguard had been in this village. The French
remained motionless, ten leagues away; and yet, every night, some of the
Uhlans disappeared.

Of all the isolated scouts, of all those who were sent to the outposts,
in groups of not more than three, not one ever returned.

They were picked up the next morning in a field or in a ditch. Even
their horses were found along the roads with their throats cut.

These murders seemed to be done by the same men, who could never be
found.

The country was terrorized. Farmers were shot on suspicion, women were
imprisoned; children were frightened in order to try and obtain
information. Nothing could be ascertained.

But, one morning, Father Milon was found stretched out in the barn, with
a sword gash across his face.

Two Uhlans were found dead about a mile and a half from the farm. One of
them was still holding his bloody sword in his hand. He had fought,
tried to defend himself. A court-martial was immediately held in the
open air, in front of the farm. The old man was brought before it.

He was sixty-eight years old, small, thin, bent, with two big hands
resembling the claws of a crab. His colorless hair was sparse and thin,
like the down of a young duck, allowing patches of his scalp to be seen.
The brown and wrinkled skin of his neck showed big veins which
disappeared behind his jaws and came out again at the temples. He had
the reputation of being miserly and hard to deal with.

They stood him up between four soldiers, in front of the kitchen table,
which had been dragged outside. Five officers and the colonel seated
themselves opposite him.

The colonel spoke in French:

“Father Milon, since we have been here we have only had praise for you.
You have always been obliging and even attentive to us. But to-day a
terrible accusation is hanging over you, and you must clear the matter
up. How did you receive that wound on your face?”

The peasant answered nothing.

The colonel continued:

“Your silence accuses you, Father Milon. But I want you to answer me! Do
you understand? Do you know who killed the two Uhlans who were found
this morning near Calvaire?”

The old man answered clearly

“I did.”

The colonel, surprised, was silent for a minute, looking straight at the
prisoner. Father Milon stood impassive, with the stupid look of the
peasant, his eyes lowered as though he were talking to the priest. Just
one thing betrayed an uneasy mind; he was continually swallowing his
saliva, with a visible effort, as though his throat were terribly
contracted.

The man's family, his son Jean, his daughter-in-law and his two
grandchildren were standing a few feet behind him, bewildered and
affrighted.

The colonel went on:

“Do you also know who killed all the scouts who have been found dead,
for a month, throughout the country, every morning?”

The old man answered with the same stupid look:

“I did.”

“You killed them all?”

“Uh huh! I did.”

“You alone? All alone?”

“Uh huh!”

“Tell me how you did it.”

This time the man seemed moved; the necessity for talking any length of
time annoyed him visibly. He stammered:

“I dunno! I simply did it.”

The colonel continued:

“I warn you that you will have to tell me everything. You might as well
make up your mind right away. How did you begin?”

The man cast a troubled look toward his family, standing close behind
him. He hesitated a minute longer, and then suddenly made up his mind to
obey the order.

“I was coming home one night at about ten o'clock, the night after you
got here. You and your soldiers had taken more than fifty ecus worth of
forage from me, as well as a cow and two sheep. I said to myself: 'As
much as they take from you; just so much will you make them pay back.'
And then I had other things on my mind which I will tell you. Just then
I noticed one of your soldiers who was smoking his pipe by the ditch
behind the barn. I went and got my scythe and crept up slowly behind
him, so that he couldn't hear me. And I cut his head off with one single
blow, just as I would a blade of grass, before he could say 'Booh!' If
you should look at the bottom of the pond, you will find him tied up in
a potato-sack, with a stone fastened to it.

“I got an idea. I took all his clothes, from his boots to his cap, and
hid them away in the little wood behind the yard.”

The old man stopped. The officers remained speechless, looking at each
other. The questioning began again, and this is what they learned.

Once this murder committed, the man had lived with this one thought:
“Kill the Prussians!” He hated them with the blind, fierce hate of the
greedy yet patriotic peasant. He had his idea, as he said. He waited
several days.

He was allowed to go and come as he pleased, because he had shown
himself so humble, submissive and obliging to the invaders. Each night
he saw the outposts leave. One night he followed them, having heard the
name of the village to which the men were going, and having learned the
few words of German which he needed for his plan through associating
with the soldiers.

He left through the back yard, slipped into the woods, found the dead
man's clothes and put them on. Then he began to crawl through the
fields, following along the hedges in order to keep out of sight,
listening to the slightest noises, as wary as a poacher.

As soon as he thought the time ripe, he approached the road and hid
behind a bush. He waited for a while. Finally, toward midnight, he heard
the sound of a galloping horse. The man put his ear to the ground in
order to make sure that only one horseman was approaching, then he got
ready.

An Uhlan came galloping along, carrying dispatches. As he went, he was
all eyes and ears. When he was only a few feet away, Father Milon
dragged himself across the road, moaning: “Hilfe! Hilfe!” ( Help! Help!)
The horseman stopped, and recognizing a German, he thought he was
wounded and dismounted, coming nearer without any suspicion, and just as
he was leaning over the unknown man, he received, in the pit of his
stomach, a heavy thrust from the long curved blade of the sabre. He
dropped without suffering pain, quivering only in the final throes. Then
the farmer, radiant with the silent joy of an old peasant, got up again,
and, for his own pleasure, cut the dead man's throat. He then dragged
the body to the ditch and threw it in.

The horse quietly awaited its master. Father Milon mounted him and
started galloping across the plains.

About an hour later he noticed two more Uhlans who were returning home,
side by side. He rode straight for them, once more crying “Hilfe!
Hilfe!”

The Prussians, recognizing the uniform, let him approach without
distrust. The old man passed between them like a cannon-ball, felling
them both, one with his sabre and the other with a revolver.

Then he killed the horses, German horses! After that he quickly returned
to the woods and hid one of the horses. He left his uniform there and
again put on his old clothes; then going back into bed, he slept until
morning.

For four days he did not go out, waiting for the inquest to be
terminated; but on the fifth day he went out again and killed two more
soldiers by the same stratagem. From that time on he did not stop. Each
night he wandered about in search of adventure, killing Prussians,
sometimes here and sometimes there, galloping through deserted fields,
in the moonlight, a lost Uhlan, a hunter of men. Then, his task
accomplished, leaving behind him the bodies lying along the roads, the
old farmer would return and hide his horse and uniform.

He went, toward noon, to carry oats and water quietly to his mount, and
he fed it well as he required from it a great amount of work.

But one of those whom he had attacked the night before, in defending
himself slashed the old peasant across the face with his sabre.

However, he had killed them both. He had come back and hidden the horse
and put on his ordinary clothes again; but as he reached home he began
to feel faint, and had dragged himself as far as the stable, being
unable to reach the house.

They had found him there, bleeding, on the straw.

When he had finished his tale, he suddenly lifted up his head and looked
proudly at the Prussian officers.

The colonel, who was gnawing at his mustache, asked:

“You have nothing else to say?”

“Nothing more; I have finished my task; I killed sixteen, not one more
or less.”

“Do you know that you are going to die?”

“I haven't asked for mercy.”

“Have you been a soldier?”

“Yes, I served my time. And then, you had killed my father, who was a
soldier of the first Emperor. And last month you killed my youngest son,
Francois, near Evreux. I owed you one for that; I paid. We are quits.”

The officers were looking at each other.

The old man continued:

“Eight for my father, eight for the boy—we are quits. I did not seek any
quarrel with you. I don't know you. I don't even know where you come
from. And here you are, ordering me about in my home as though it were
your own. I took my revenge upon the others. I'm not sorry.”

And, straightening up his bent back, the old man folded his arms in the
attitude of a modest hero.

The Prussians talked in a low tone for a long time. One of them, a
captain, who had also lost his son the previous month, was defending the
poor wretch. Then the colonel arose and, approaching Father Milon, said
in a low voice:

“Listen, old man, there is perhaps a way of saving your life, it is to—”

But the man was not listening, and, his eyes fixed on the hated officer,
while the wind played with the downy hair on his head, he distorted his
slashed face, giving it a truly terrible expression, and, swelling out
his chest, he spat, as hard as he could, right in the Prussian's face.

The colonel, furious, raised his hand, and for the second time the man
spat in his face.

All the officers had jumped up and were shrieking orders at the same
time.

In less than a minute the old man, still impassive, was pushed up
against the wall and shot, looking smilingly the while toward Jean, his
eldest son, his daughter-in-law and his two grandchildren, who witnessed
this scene in dumb terror.





A COUP D'ETAT

Paris had just heard of the disaster at Sedan. A republic had been
declared. All France was wavering on the brink of this madness which
lasted until after the Commune. From one end of the country to the other
everybody was playing soldier.

Cap-makers became colonels, fulfilling the duties of generals; revolvers
and swords were displayed around big, peaceful stomachs wrapped in
flaming red belts; little tradesmen became warriors commanding
battalions of brawling volunteers, and swearing like pirates in order to
give themselves some prestige.

The sole fact of handling firearms crazed these people, who up to that
time had only handled scales, and made them, without any reason,
dangerous to all. Innocent people were shot to prove that they knew how
to kill; in forests which had never seen a Prussian, stray dogs, grazing
cows and browsing horses were killed.

Each one thought himself called upon to play a great part in military
affairs. The cafes of the smallest villages, full of uniformed
tradesmen, looked like barracks or hospitals.

The town of Canneville was still in ignorance of the maddening news from
the army and the capital; nevertheless, great excitement had prevailed
for the last month, the opposing parties finding themselves face to
face.

The mayor, Viscount de Varnetot, a thin, little old man, a conservative,
who had recently, from ambition, gone over to the Empire, had seen a
determined opponent arise in Dr. Massarel, a big, full-blooded man,
leader of the Republican party of the neighborhood, a high official in
the local masonic lodge, president of the Agricultural Society and of
the firemen's banquet and the organizer of the rural militia which was
to save the country.

In two weeks, he had managed to gather together sixty-three volunteers,
fathers of families, prudent farmers and town merchants, and every
morning he would drill them in the square in front of the town-hall.

When, perchance, the mayor would come to the municipal building,
Commander Massarel, girt with pistols, would pass proudly in front of
his troop, his sword in his hand, and make all of them cry: “Long live
the Fatherland!” And it had been noticed that this cry excited the
little viscount, who probably saw in it a menace, a threat, as well as
the odious memory of the great Revolution.

On the morning of the fifth of September, the doctor, in full uniform,
his revolver on the table, was giving a consultation to an old couple, a
farmer who had been suffering from varicose veins for the last seven
years and had waited until his wife had them also, before he would
consult the doctor, when the postman brought in the paper.

M. Massarel opened it, grew pale, suddenly rose, and lifting his hands
to heaven in a gesture of exaltation, began to shout at the top of his
voice before the two frightened country folks:

“Long live the Republic! long live the Republic! long live the
Republic!”

Then he fell back in his chair, weak from emotion.

And as the peasant resumed: “It started with the ants, which began to
run up and down my legs—-” Dr. Massarel exclaimed:

“Shut up! I haven't got time to bother with your nonsense. The Republic
has been proclaimed, the emperor has been taken prisoner, France is
saved! Long live the Republic!”

Running to the door, he howled:

“Celeste, quick, Celeste!”

The servant, affrighted, hastened in; he was trying to talk so rapidly,
that he could only stammer:

“My boots, my sword, my cartridge-box and the Spanish dagger which is on
my night-table! Hasten!”

As the persistent peasant, taking advantage of a moment's silence,
continued, “I seemed to get big lumps which hurt me when I walk,” the
physician, exasperated, roared:

“Shut up and get out! If you had washed your feet it would not have
happened!”

Then, grabbing him by the collar, he yelled at him:

“Can't you understand that we are a republic, you brass-plated idiot!”

But professional sentiment soon calmed him, and he pushed the bewildered
couple out, saying:

“Come back to-morrow, come back to-morrow, my friends. I haven't any
time to-day.”

As he equipped himself from head to foot, he gave a series of important
orders to his servant:

“Run over to Lieutenant Picart and to Second Lieutenant Pommel, and tell
them that I am expecting them here immediately. Also send me Torchebeuf
with his drum. Quick! quick!”

When Celeste had gone out, he sat down and thought over the situation
and the difficulties which he would have to surmount.

The three men arrived together in their working clothes. The commandant,
who expected to see them in uniform, felt a little shocked.

“Don't you people know anything? The emperor has been taken prisoner,
the Republic has been proclaimed. We must act. My position is delicate,
I might even say dangerous.”

He reflected for a few moments before his bewildered subordinates, then
he continued:

“We must act and not hesitate; minutes count as hours in times like
these. All depends on the promptness of our decision. You, Picart, go to
the cure and order him to ring the alarm-bell, in order to get together
the people, to whom I am going to announce the news. You, Torchebeuf
beat the tattoo throughout the whole neighborhood as far as the hamlets
of Gerisaie and Salmare, in order to assemble the militia in the public
square. You, Pommel, get your uniform on quickly, just the coat and cap.
We are going to the town-hall to demand Monsieur de Varnetot to
surrender his powers to me. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Now carry out those orders quickly. I will go over to your house with
you, Pommel, since we shall act together.”

Five minutes later, the commandant and his subordinates, armed to the
teeth, appeared on the square, just as the little Viscount de Varnetot,
his legs encased in gaiters as for a hunting party, his gun on his
shoulder, was coming down the other street at double-quick time,
followed by his three green-coated guards, their swords at their sides
and their guns swung over their shoulders.

While the doctor stopped, bewildered, the four men entered the town-hall
and closed the door behind them.

“They have outstripped us,” muttered the physician, “we must now wait
for reenforcements. There is nothing to do for the present.”

Lieutenant Picart now appeared on the scene.

“The priest refuses to obey,” he said. “He has even locked himself in
the church with the sexton and beadle.”

On the other side of the square, opposite the white, tightly closed
town-hall, stood the church, silent and dark, with its massive oak door
studded with iron.

But just as the perplexed inhabitants were sticking their heads out of
the windows or coming out on their doorsteps, the drum suddenly began to
be heard, and Torchebeuf appeared, furiously beating the tattoo. He
crossed the square running, and disappeared along the road leading to
the fields.

The commandant drew his sword, and advanced alone to half way between
the two buildings behind which the enemy had intrenched itself, and,
waving his sword over his head, he roared with all his might:

“Long live the Republic! Death to traitors!”

Then he returned to his officers.

The butcher, the baker and the druggist, much disturbed, were anxiously
pulling down their shades and closing their shops. The grocer alone kept
open.

However, the militia were arriving by degrees, each man in a different
uniform, but all wearing a black cap with gold braid, the cap being the
principal part of the outfit. They were armed with old rusty guns, the
old guns which had hung for thirty years on the kitchen wall; and they
looked a good deal like an army of tramps.

When he had about thirty men about him, the commandant, in a few words,
outlined the situation to them. Then, turning to his staff: “Let us
act,” he said.

The villagers were gathering together and talking the matter over.

The doctor quickly decided on a plan of campaign.

“Lieutenant Picart, you will advance under the windows of this town-hall
and summon Monsieur de Varnetot, in the name of the Republic, to hand
the keys over to me.”

But the lieutenant, a master mason, refused:

“You're smart, you are. I don't care to get killed, thank you. Those
people in there shoot straight, don't you forget it. Do your errands
yourself.”

The commandant grew very red.

“I command you to go in the name of discipline!”

The lieutenant rebelled:

“I'm not going to have my beauty spoiled without knowing why.”

All the notables, gathered in a group near by, began to laugh. One of
them cried:

“You are right, Picart, this isn't the right time.”

The doctor then muttered:

“Cowards!”

And, leaving his sword and his revolver in the hands of a soldier, he
advanced slowly, his eye fastened on the windows, expecting any minute
to see a gun trained on him.

When he was within a few feet of the building, the doors at both ends,
leading into the two schools, opened and a flood of children ran out,
boys from one side, girls from the ether, and began to play around the
doctor, in the big empty square, screeching and screaming, and making so
much noise that he could not make himself heard.

As soon as the last child was out of the building, the two doors closed
again.

Most of the youngsters finally dispersed, and the commandant called in a
loud voice:

“Monsieur de Varnetot!”

A window on the first floor opened and M. de Varnetot appeared.

The commandant continued:

“Monsieur, you know that great events have just taken place which have
changed the entire aspect of the government. The one which you
represented no longer exists. The one which I represent is taking
control. Under these painful, but decisive circumstances, I come, in the
name of the new Republic, to ask you to turn over to me the office which
you held under the former government.”

M. de Varnetot answered:

“Doctor, I am the mayor of Canneville, duly appointed, and I shall
remain mayor of Canneville until I have been dismissed by a decree from
my superiors. As mayor, I am in my place in the townhall, and here I
stay. Anyhow, just try to get me out.”

He closed the window.

The commandant returned to his troop. But before giving any information,
eyeing Lieutenant Picart from head to foot, he exclaimed:

“You're a great one, you are! You're a fine specimen of manhood! You're
a disgrace to the army! I degrade you.”

“I don't give a——!”

He turned away and mingled with a group of townspeople.

Then the doctor hesitated. What could he do? Attack? But would his men
obey orders? And then, did he have the right to do so?

An idea struck him. He ran to the telegraph office, opposite the town-
hall, and sent off three telegrams:

To the new republican government in Paris.

To the new prefect of the Seine-Inferieure, at Rouen.

To the new republican sub-prefect at Dieppe.

He explained the situation, pointed out the danger which the town would
run if it should remain in the hands of the royalist mayor; offered his
faithful services, asked for orders and signed, putting all his titles
after his name.

Then he returned to his battalion, and, drawing ten francs from his
pocket, he cried: “Here, my friends, go eat and drink; only leave me a
detachment of ten men to guard against anybody's leaving the town-hall.”

But ex-Lieutenant Picart, who had been talking with the watchmaker,
heard him; he began to laugh, and exclaimed: “By Jove, if they come out,
it'll give you a chance to get in. Otherwise I can see you standing out
there for the rest of your life!”

The doctor did not reply, and he went to luncheon.

In the afternoon, he disposed his men about the town as though they were
in immediate danger of an ambush.

Several times he passed in front of the town-hall and of the church
without noticing anything suspicious; the two buildings looked as though
empty.

The butcher, the baker and the druggist once more opened up their
stores.

Everybody was talking about the affair. If the emperor were a prisoner,
there must have been some kind of treason. They did not know exactly
which of the republics had returned to power.

Night fell.

Toward nine o'clock, the doctor, alone, noiselessly approached the
entrance of the public building, persuaded that the enemy must have gone
to bed; and, as he was preparing to batter down the door with a pick-
axe, the deep voice of a sentry suddenly called:

“Who goes there?”

And M. Massarel retreated as fast as his legs could carry him.

Day broke without any change in the situation.

Armed militia occupied the square. All the citizens had gathered around
this troop awaiting developments. Even neighboring villagers had come to
look on.

Then the doctor, seeing that his reputation was at stake, resolved to
put an end to the matter in one way or another; and he was about to take
some measures, undoubtedly energetic ones, when the door of the
telegraph station opened and the little servant of the postmistress
appeared, holding in her hands two papers.

First she went to the commandant and gave him one of the despatches;
then she crossed the empty square, confused at seeing the eyes of
everyone on her, and lowering her head and running along with little
quick steps, she went and knocked softly at the door of the barricaded
house, as though ignorant of the fact that those behind it were armed.

The door opened wide enough to let a man's hand reach out and receive
the message; and the young girl returned blushing, ready to cry at being
thus stared at by the whole countryside.

In a clear voice, the doctor cried:

“Silence, if you please.”

When the populace had quieted down, he continued proudly:

“Here is the communication which I have received from the government.”

And lifting the telegram he read:

Former mayor dismissed. Inform him immediately, More orders following.
For the sub-prefect: SAPIN, Councillor.

He was-triumphant; his heart was throbbing with joy and his hands were
trembling; but Picart, his former subordinate, cried to him from a
neighboring group:

“That's all right; but supposing the others don't come out, what good is
the telegram going to do you?”

M. Massarel grew pale. He had not thought of that; if the others did not
come out, he would now have to take some decisive step. It was not only
his right, but his duty.

He looked anxiously at the town-hall, hoping to see the door open and
his adversary give in.

The door remained closed. What could he do? The crowd was growing and
closing around the militia. They were laughing.

One thought especially tortured the doctor. If he attacked, he would
have to march at the head of his men; and as, with him dead, all strife
would cease, it was at him and him only that M. de Varnetot and his
three guards would aim. And they were good shots, very good shots, as
Picart had just said. But an idea struck him and, turning to Pommel, he
ordered:

“Run quickly to the druggist and ask him to lend me a towel and a
stick.”

The lieutenant hastened.

He would make a flag of truce, a white flag, at the sight of which the
royalist heart of the mayor would perhaps rejoice.

Pommel returned with the cloth and a broom-stick. With some twine they
completed the flag, and M. Massarel, grasping it in both hands and
holding it in front of him, again advanced in the direction of the town-
hall. When he was opposite the door, he once more called: “Monsieur de
Varnetot!” The door suddenly opened and M. de Varnetot and his three
guards appeared on the threshold.

Instinctively the doctor stepped back; then he bowed courteously to his
enemy, and, choking with emotion, he announced: “I have come, monsieur,
to make you acquainted with the orders which I have received.”

The nobleman, without returning the bow, answered: “I resign, monsieur,
but understand that it is neither through fear of, nor obedience to, the
odious government which has usurped the power.” And, emphasizing every
word, he declared: “I do not wish to appear, for a single day, to serve
the Republic. That's all.”

Massarel, stunned, answered nothing; and M. de Varnetot, walking
quickly, disappeared around the corner of the square, still followed by
his escort.

The doctor, puffed up with pride, returned to the crowd. As soon as he
was near enough to make himself heard, he cried: “Hurrah! hurrah!
Victory crowns the Republic everywhere.”

There was no outburst of joy.

The doctor continued: “We are free, you are free, independent! Be
proud!”

The motionless villagers were looking at him without any signs of
triumph shining in their eyes.

He looked at them, indignant at their indifference, thinking of what he
could say or do in order to make an impression to electrify this calm
peasantry, to fulfill his mission as a leader.

He had an inspiration and, turning to Pommel, he ordered: “Lieutenant,
go get me the bust of the ex-emperor which is in the meeting room of the
municipal council, and bring it here with a chair.”

The man presently reappeared, carrying on his right shoulder the plaster
Bonaparte, and holding in his left hand a cane-seated chair.

M. Massarel went towards him, took the chair, placed the white bust on
it, then stepping back a few steps, he addressed it in a loud voice:

“Tyrant, tyrant, you have fallen down in the mud. The dying fatherland
was in its death throes under your oppression. Vengeful Destiny has
struck you. Defeat and shame have pursued you; you fall conquered, a
prisoner of the Prussians; and from the ruins of your crumbling empire,
the young and glorious Republic arises, lifting from the ground your
broken sword——”

He waited for applause. Not a sound greeted his listening ear. The
peasants, nonplussed, kept silent; and the white, placid, well-groomed
statue seemed to look at M. Massarel with its plaster smile,
ineffaceable and sarcastic.

Thus they stood, face to face, Napoleon on his chair, the physician
standing three feet away. Anger seized the commandant. What could he do
to move this crowd and definitely to win over public opinion?

He happened to carry his hand to his stomach, and he felt, under his red
belt, the butt of his revolver.

Not another inspiration, not another word cane to his mind. Then, he
drew his weapon, stepped back a few steps and shot the former monarch.

The bullet made a little black hole: like a spot, in his forehead. No
sensation was created. M. Massarel shot a second time and made a second
hole, then a third time, then, without stopping, he shot off the three
remaining shots. Napoleon's forehead was blown away in a white powder,
but his eyes, nose and pointed mustache remained intact.

Then in exasperation, the doctor kicked the chair over, and placing one
foot on what remained of the bust in the position of a conqueror, he
turned to the amazed public and yelled: “Thus may all traitors die!”

As no enthusiasm was, as yet, visible, the spectators appearing to be
dumb with astonishment, the commandant cried to the militia: “You may go
home now.” And he himself walked rapidly, almost ran, towards his house.

As soon as he appeared, the servant told him that some patients had been
waiting in his office for over three hours. He hastened in. They were
the same two peasants as a few days before, who had returned at
daybreak, obstinate and patient.

The old man immediately began his explanation:

“It began with ants, which seemed to be crawling up and down my legs——”





LIEUTENANT LARE'S MARRIAGE

Since the beginning of the campaign Lieutenant Lare had taken two cannon
from the Prussians. His general had said: “Thank you, lieutenant,” and
had given him the cross of honor.

As he was as cautious as he was brave, wary, inventive, wily and
resourceful, he was entrusted with a hundred soldiers and he organized a
company of scouts who saved the army on several occasions during a
retreat.

But the invading army entered by every frontier like a surging sea.
Great waves of men arrived one after the other, scattering all around
them a scum of freebooters. General Carrel's brigade, separated from its
division, retreated continually, fighting each day, but remaining almost
intact, thanks to the vigilance and agility of Lieutenant Lare, who
seemed to be everywhere at the same moment, baffling all the enemy's
cunning, frustrating their plans, misleading their Uhlans and killing
their vanguards.

One morning the general sent for him.

“Lieutenant,” said he, “here is a dispatch from General de Lacere, who
will be destroyed if we do not go to his aid by sunrise to-morrow. He is
at Blainville, eight leagues from here. You will start at nightfall with
three hundred men, whom you will echelon along the road. I will follow
you two hours later. Study the road carefully; I fear we may meet a
division of the enemy.”

It had been freezing hard for a week. At two o'clock it began to snow,
and by night the ground was covered and heavy white swirls concealed
objects hard by.

At six o'clock the detachment set out.

Two men walked alone as scouts about three yards ahead. Then came a
platoon of ten men commanded by the lieutenant himself. The rest
followed them in two long columns. To the right and left of the little
band, at a distance of about three hundred feet on either side, some
soldiers marched in pairs.

The snow, which was still falling, covered them with a white powder in
the darkness, and as it did not melt on their uniforms, they were hardly
distinguishable in the night amid the dead whiteness of the landscape.

From time to time they halted. One heard nothing but that indescribable,
nameless flutter of falling snow—a sensation rather than a sound, a
vague, ominous murmur. A command was given in a low tone and when the
troop resumed its march it left in its wake a sort of white phantom
standing in the snow. It gradually grew fainter and finally disappeared.
It was the echelons who were to lead the army.

The scouts slackened their pace. Something was ahead of them.

“Turn to the right,” said the lieutenant; “it is the Ronfi wood; the
chateau is more to the left.”

Presently the command “Halt” was passed along. The detachment stopped
and waited for the lieutenant, who, accompanied by only ten men, had
undertaken a reconnoitering expedition to the chateau.

They advanced, creeping under the trees. Suddenly they all remained
motionless. Around them was a dead silence. Then, quite near them, a
little clear, musical young voice was heard amid the stillness of the
wood.

“Father, we shall get lost in the snow. We shall never reach
Blainville.”

A deeper voice replied:

“Never fear, little daughter; I know the country as well as I know my
pocket.”

The lieutenant said a few words and four men moved away silently, like
shadows.

All at once a woman's shrill cry was heard through the darkness. Two
prisoners were brought back, an old man and a young girl. The lieutenant
questioned them, still in a low tone:

“Your name?”

“Pierre Bernard.”

“Your profession?”

“Butler to Comte de Ronfi.”

“Is this your daughter?”

'Yes!'

“What does she do?”

“She is laundress at the chateau.”

“Where are you going?”

“We are making our escape.”

“Why?”

“Twelve Uhlans passed by this evening. They shot three keepers and
hanged the gardener. I was alarmed on account of the little one.”

“Whither are you bound?”

“To Blainville.”

“Why?”

“Because there is a French army there.”

“Do you know the way?”

“Perfectly.”

“Well then, follow us.”

They rejoined the column and resumed their march across country. The old
man walked in silence beside the lieutenant, his daughter walking at his
side. All at once she stopped.

“Father,” she said, “I am so tired I cannot go any farther.”

And she sat down. She was shaking with cold and seemed about to lose
consciousness. Her father wanted to carry her, but he was too old and
too weak.

“Lieutenant,” said he, sobbing, “we shall only impede your march. France
before all. Leave us here.”

The officer had given a command. Some men had started off. They came
back with branches they had cut, and in a minute a litter was ready. The
whole detachment had joined them by this time.

“Here is a woman dying of cold,” said the lieutenant. “Who will give his
cape to cover her?”

Two hundred capes were taken off. The young girl was wrapped up in these
warm soldiers' capes, gently laid in the litter, and then four' hardy
shoulders lifted her up, and like an Eastern queen borne by her slaves
she was placed in the center of the detachment of soldiers, who resumed
their march with more energy, more courage, more cheerfulness, animated
by the presence of a woman, that sovereign inspiration that has stirred
the old French blood to so many deeds of valor.

At the end of an hour they halted again and every one lay down in the
snow. Over yonder on the level country a big, dark shadow was moving. It
looked like some weird monster stretching itself out like a serpent,
then suddenly coiling itself into a mass, darting forth again, then
back, and then forward again without ceasing. Some whispered orders were
passed around among the soldiers, and an occasional little, dry,
metallic click was heard. The moving object suddenly came nearer, and
twelve Uhlans were seen approaching at a gallop, one behind the other,
having lost their way in the darkness. A brilliant flash suddenly
revealed to them two hundred men lying on the ground before them. A
rapid fire was heard, which died away in the snowy silence, and all the
twelve fell to the ground, their horses with them.

After a long rest the march was resumed. The old man whom they had
captured acted as guide.

Presently a voice far off in the distance cried out: “Who goes there?”

Another voice nearer by gave the countersign.

They made another halt; some conferences took place. It had stopped
snowing. A cold wind was driving the clouds, and innumerable stars were
sparkling in the sky behind them, gradually paling in the rosy light of
dawn.

A staff officer came forward to receive the detachment. But when he
asked who was being carried in the litter, the form stirred; two little
hands moved aside the big blue army capes and, rosy as the dawn, with
two eyes that were brighter than the stars that had just faded from
sight, and a smile as radiant as the morn, a dainty face appeared.

“It is I, monsieur.”

The soldiers, wild with delight, clapped their hands and bore the young
girl in triumph into the midst of the camp, that was just getting to
arms. Presently General Carrel arrived on the scene. At nine o'clock the
Prussians made an attack. They beat a retreat at noon.

That evening, as Lieutenant Lare, overcome by fatigue, was sleeping on a
bundle of straw, he was sent for by the general. He found the commanding
officer in his tent, chatting with the old man whom they had come across
during the night. As soon as he entered the tent the general took his
hand, and addressing the stranger, said:

“My dear comte, this is the young man of whom you were telling me just
now; he is one of my best officers.”

He smiled, lowered his tone, and added:

“The best.”

Then, turning to the astonished lieutenant, he presented “Comte de
Ronfi-Quedissac.”

The old man took both his hands, saying:

“My dear lieutenant, you have saved my daughter's life. I have only one
way of thanking you. You may come in a few months to tell me—if you like
her.”

One year later, on the very same day, Captain Lare and Miss Louise-
Hortense-Genevieve de Ronfi-Quedissac were married in the church of St.
Thomas Aquinas.

She brought a dowry of six thousand francs, and was said to be the
prettiest bride that had been seen that year.





THE HORRIBLE

The shadows of a balmy night were slowly falling. The women remained in
the drawing-room of the villa. The men, seated, or astride of garden
chairs, were smoking outside the door of the house, around a table laden
with cups and liqueur glasses.

Their lighted cigars shone like eyes in the darkness, which was
gradually becoming more dense. They had been talking about a frightful
accident which had occurred the night before—two men and three women
drowned in the river before the eyes of the guests.

General de G——remarked:

“Yes, these things are affecting, but they are not horrible.

“Horrible, that well-known word, means much more than terrible. A
frightful accident like this affects, upsets, terrifies; it does not
horrify. In order that we should experience horror, something more is
needed than emotion, something more than the spectacle of a dreadful
death; there must be a shuddering sense of mystery, or a sensation of
abnormal terror, more than natural. A man who dies, even under the most
tragic circumstances, does not excite horror; a field of battle is not
horrible; blood is not horrible; the vilest crimes are rarely horrible.

“Here are two personal examples which have shown me what is the meaning
of horror.

“It was during the war of 1870. We were retreating toward Pont-Audemer,
after having passed through Rouen. The army, consisting of about twenty
thousand men, twenty thousand routed men, disbanded, demoralized,
exhausted, were going to disband at Havre.

“The earth was covered with snow. The night was falling. They had not
eaten anything since the day before. They were fleeing rapidly, the
Prussians not being far off.

“All the Norman country, sombre, dotted with the shadows of the trees
surrounding the farms, stretched out beneath a black, heavy, threatening
sky.

“Nothing else could be heard in the wan twilight but the confused sound,
undefined though rapid, of a marching throng, an endless tramping,
mingled with the vague clink of tin bowls or swords. The men, bent,
round-shouldered, dirty, in many cases even in rags, dragged themselves
along, hurried through the snow, with a long, broken-backed stride.

“The skin of their hands froze to the butt ends of their muskets, for it
was freezing hard that night. I frequently saw a little soldier take off
his shoes in order to walk barefoot, as his shoes hurt his weary feet;
and at every step he left a track of blood. Then, after some time, he
would sit down in a field for a few minutes' rest, and he never got up
again. Every man who sat down was a dead man.

“Should we have left behind us those poor, exhausted soldiers, who
fondly counted on being able to start afresh as soon as they had
somewhat refreshed their stiffened legs? But scarcely had they ceased to
move, and to make their almost frozen blood circulate in their veins,
than an unconquerable torpor congealed them, nailed them to the ground,
closed their eyes, and paralyzed in one second this overworked human
mechanism. And they gradually sank down, their foreheads on their knees,
without, however, falling over, for their loins and their limbs became
as hard and immovable as wood, impossible to bend or to stand upright.

“And the rest of us, more robust, kept straggling on, chilled to the
marrow, advancing by a kind of inertia through the night, through the
snow, through that cold and deadly country, crushed by pain, by defeat,
by despair, above all overcome by the abominable sensation of
abandonment, of the end, of death, of nothingness.

“I saw two gendarmes holding by the arm a curious-looking little man,
old, beardless, of truly surprising aspect.

“They were looking for an officer, believing that they had caught a spy.
The word 'spy' at once spread through the midst of the stragglers, and
they gathered in a group round the prisoner. A voice exclaimed: 'He must
be shot!' And all these soldiers who were falling from utter
prostration, only holding themselves on their feet by leaning on their
guns, felt all of a sudden that thrill of furious and bestial anger
which urges on a mob to massacre.

“I wanted to speak. I was at that time in command of a battalion; but
they no longer recognized the authority of their commanding officers;
they would even have shot me.

“One of the gendarmes said: 'He has been following us for the three last
days. He has been asking information from every one about the
artillery.'”

I took it on myself to question this person.

“What are you doing? What do you want? Why are you accompanying the
army?”

“He stammered out some words in some unintelligible dialect. He was,
indeed, a strange being, with narrow shoulders, a sly look, and such an
agitated air in my presence that I really no longer doubted that he was
a spy. He seemed very aged and feeble. He kept looking at me from under
his eyes with a humble, stupid, crafty air.

“The men all round us exclaimed.

“'To the wall! To the wall!'

“I said to the gendarmes:

“'Will you be responsible for the prisoner?'

“I had not ceased speaking when a terrible shove threw me on my back,
and in a second I saw the man seized by the furious soldiers, thrown
down, struck, dragged along the side of the road, and flung against a
tree. He fell in the snow, nearly dead already.

“And immediately they shot him. The soldiers fired at him, reloaded
their guns, fired again with the desperate energy of brutes. They fought
with each other to have a shot at him, filed off in front of the corpse,
and kept on firing at him, as people at a funeral keep sprinkling holy
water in front of a coffin.

“But suddenly a cry arose of 'The Prussians! the Prussians!'

“And all along the horizon I heard the great noise of this panic-
stricken army in full flight.

“A panic, the result of these shots fired at this vagabond, had filled
his very executioners with terror; and, without realizing that they were
themselves the originators of the scare, they fled and disappeared in
the darkness.

“I remained alone with the corpse, except for the two gendarmes whose
duty compelled them to stay with me.

“They lifted up the riddled mass of bruised and bleeding flesh.

“'He must be searched,' I said. And I handed them a box of taper matches
which I had in my pocket. One of the soldiers had another box. I was
standing between the two.

“The gendarme who was examining the body announced:

“'Clothed in a blue blouse, a white shirt, trousers, and a pair of
shoes.'

“The first match went out; we lighted a second. The man continued, as he
turned out his pockets:

“'A horn-handled pocketknife, check handkerchief, a snuffbox, a bit of
pack thread, a piece of bread.'

“The second match went out; we lighted a third. The gendarme, after
having felt the corpse for a long time, said:

“'That is all.'

“I said:

“'Strip him. We shall perhaps find something next his skin.”

“And in order that the two soldiers might help each other in this task,
I stood between them to hold the lighted match. By the rapid and
speedily extinguished flame of the match, I saw them take off the
garments one by one, and expose to view that bleeding bundle of flesh,
still warm, though lifeless.

“And suddenly one of them exclaimed:

“'Good God, general, it is a woman!'

“I cannot describe to you the strange and poignant sensation of pain
that moved my heart. I could not believe it, and I knelt down in the
snow before this shapeless pulp of flesh to see for myself: it was a
woman.

“The two gendarmes, speechless and stunned, waited for me to give my
opinion on the matter. But I did not know what to think, what theory to
adopt.

“Then the brigadier slowly drawled out:

“'Perhaps she came to look for a son of hers in the artillery, whom she
had not heard from.'

“And the other chimed in:

“'Perhaps, indeed, that is so.'

“And I, who had seen some very terrible things in my time, began to cry.
And I felt, in the presence of this corpse, on that icy cold night, in
the midst of that gloomy plain; at the sight of this mystery, at the
sight of this murdered stranger, the meaning of that word 'horror.'

“I had the same sensation last year, while interrogating one of the
survivors of the Flatters Mission, an Algerian sharpshooter.

“You know the details of that atrocious drama. It is possible, however,
that you are unacquainted with one of them.

“The colonel travelled through the desert into the Soudan, and passed
through the immense territory of the Touaregs, who, in that great ocean
of sand which stretches from the Atlantic to Egypt and from the Soudan
to Algeria, are a kind of pirates, resembling those who ravaged the seas
in former days.

“The guides who accompanied the column belonged to the tribe of the
Chambaa, of Ouargla.

“Now, one day we encamped in the middle of the desert, and the Arabs
declared that, as the spring was still some distance away, they would go
with all their camels to look for water.

“One man alone warned the colonel that he had been betrayed. Flatters
did not believe this, and accompanied the convoy with the engineers, the
doctors, and nearly all his officers.

“They were massacred round the spring, and all the camels were captured.

“The captain of the Arab Intelligence Department at Ouargla, who had
remained in the camp, took command of the survivors, spahis and
sharpshooters, and they began to retreat, leaving behind them the
baggage and provisions, for want of camels to carry them.

“Then they started on their journey through this solitude without shade
and boundless, beneath the devouring sun, which burned them from morning
till night.

“One tribe came to tender its submission and brought dates as a tribute.
The dates were poisoned. Nearly all the Frenchmen died, and, among them,
the last officer.

“There now only remained a few spahis with their quartermaster,
Pobeguin, and some native sharpshooters of the Chambaa tribe. They had
still two camels left. They disappeared one night, along with two,
Arabs.

“Then the survivors understood that they would be obliged to eat each
other, and as soon as they discovered the flight of the two men with the
two camels, those who remained separated, and proceeded to march, one by
one, through the soft sand, under the glare of a scorching sun, at a
distance of more than a gunshot from each other.

“So they went on all day, and when they reached a spring each of them
came to drink at it in turn, as soon as each solitary marcher had moved
forward the number of yards arranged upon. And thus they continued
marching the whole day, raising everywhere they passed, in that level,
burnt up expanse, those little columns of dust which, from a distance,
indicate those who are trudging through the desert.

“But one morning one of the travellers suddenly turned round and
approached the man behind him. And they all stopped to look.

“The man toward whom the famished soldier drew near did not flee, but
lay flat on the ground, and took aim at the one who was coming toward
him. When he believed he was within gunshot, he fired. The other was not
hit, and he continued then to advance, and levelling his gun, in turn,
he killed his comrade.

“Then from all directions the others rushed to seek their share. And he
who had killed the fallen man, cutting the corpse into pieces,
distributed it.

“And they once more placed themselves at fixed distances, these
irreconcilable allies, preparing for the next murder which would bring
them together.

“For two days they lived on this human flesh which they divided between
them. Then, becoming famished again, he who had killed the first man
began killing afresh. And again, like a butcher, he cut up the corpse
and offered it to his comrades, keeping only his own portion of it.

“And so this retreat of cannibals continued.

“The last Frenchman, Pobeguin, was massacred at the side of a well, the
very night before the supplies arrived.

“Do you understand now what I mean by the horrible?”

This was the story told us a few nights ago by General de G——.





MADAME PARISSE

I was sitting on the pier of the small port of Obernon, near the village
of Salis, looking at Antibes, bathed in the setting sun. I had never
before seen anything so wonderful and so beautiful.

The small town, enclosed by its massive ramparts, built by Monsieur de
Vauban, extended into the open sea, in the middle of the immense Gulf of
Nice. The great waves, coming in from the ocean, broke at its feet,
surrounding it with a wreath of foam; and beyond the ramparts the houses
climbed up the hill, one after the other, as far as the two towers,
which rose up into the sky, like the peaks of an ancient helmet. And
these two towers were outlined against the milky whiteness of the Alps,
that enormous distant wall of snow which enclosed the entire horizon.

Between the white foam at the foot of the walls and the white snow on
the sky-line the little city, dazzling against the bluish background of
the nearest mountain ranges, presented to the rays of the setting sun a
pyramid of red-roofed houses, whose facades were also white, but so
different one from another that they seemed to be of all tints.

And the sky above the Alps was itself of a blue that was almost white,
as if the snow had tinted it; some silvery clouds were floating just
over the pale summits, and on the other side of the gulf Nice, lying
close to the water, stretched like a white thread between the sea and
the mountain. Two great sails, driven by a strong breeze, seemed to skim
over the waves. I looked upon all this, astounded.

This view was one of those sweet, rare, delightful things that seem to
permeate you and are unforgettable, like the memory of a great
happiness. One sees, thinks, suffers, is moved and loves with the eyes.
He who can feel with the eye experiences the same keen, exquisite and
deep pleasure in looking at men and things as the man with the delicate
and sensitive ear, whose soul music overwhelms.

I turned to my companion, M. Martini, a pureblooded Southerner.

“This is certainly one of the rarest sights which it has been vouchsafed
to me to admire.

“I have seen Mont Saint-Michel, that monstrous granite jewel, rise out
of the sand at sunrise.

“I have seen, in the Sahara, Lake Raianechergui, fifty kilometers long,
shining under a moon as brilliant as our sun and breathing up toward it
a white cloud, like a mist of milk.

“I have seen, in the Lipari Islands, the weird sulphur crater of the
Volcanello, a giant flower which smokes and burns, an enormous yellow
flower, opening out in the midst of the sea, whose stem is a volcano.

“But I have seen nothing more wonderful than Antibes, standing against
the Alps in the setting sun.

“And I know not how it is that memories of antiquity haunt me; verses of
Homer come into my mind; this is a city of the ancient East, a city of
the odyssey; this is Troy, although Troy was very far from the sea.”

M. Martini drew the Sarty guide-book out of his pocket and read: “This
city was originally a colony founded by the Phocians of Marseilles,
about 340 B.C. They gave it the Greek name of Antipolis, meaning
counter-city, city opposite another, because it is in fact opposite to
Nice, another colony from Marseilles.

“After the Gauls were conquered, the Romans turned Antibes into a
municipal city, its inhabitants receiving the rights of Roman
citizenship.

“We know by an epigram of Martial that at this time——”

I interrupted him:

“I don't care what she was. I tell you that I see down there a city of
the Odyssey. The coast of Asia and the coast of Europe resemble each
other in their shores, and there is no city on the other coast of the
Mediterranean which awakens in me the memories of the heroic age as this
one does.”

A footstep caused me to turn my head; a woman, a large, dark woman, was
walking along the road which skirts the sea in going to the cape.

“That is Madame Parisse, you know,” muttered Monsieur Martini, dwelling
on the final syllable.

No, I did not know, but that name, mentioned carelessly, that name of
the Trojan shepherd, confirmed me in my dream.

However, I asked: “Who is this Madame Parisse?”

He seemed astonished that I did not know the story.

I assured him that I did not know it, and I looked after the woman, who
passed by without seeing us, dreaming, walking with steady and slow
step, as doubtless the ladies of old walked.

She was perhaps thirty-five years old and still very beautiful, though a
trifle stout.

And Monsieur Martini told me the following story:

Mademoiselle Combelombe was married, one year before the war of 1870, to
Monsieur Parisse, a government official. She was then a handsome young
girl, as slender and lively as she has now become stout and sad.

Unwillingly she had accepted Monsieur Parisse, one of those little fat
men with short legs, who trip along, with trousers that are always too
large.

After the war Antibes was garrisoned by a single battalion commanded by
Monsieur Jean de Carmelin, a young officer decorated during the war, and
who had just received his four stripes.

As he found life exceedingly tedious in this fortress this stuffy mole-
hole enclosed by its enormous double walls, he often strolled out to the
cape, a kind of park or pine wood shaken by all the winds from the sea.

There he met Madame Parisse, who also came out in the summer evenings to
get the fresh air under the trees. How did they come to love each other?
Who knows? They met, they looked at each other, and when out of sight
they doubtless thought of each other. The image of the young woman with
the brown eyes, the black hair, the pale skin, this fresh, handsome
Southerner, who displayed her teeth in smiling, floated before the eyes
of the officer as he continued his promenade, chewing his cigar instead
of smoking it; and the image of the commanding officer, in his close-
fitting coat, covered with gold lace, and his red trousers, and a little
blond mustache, would pass before the eyes of Madame Parisse, when her
husband, half shaven and ill-clad, short-legged and big-bellied, came
home to supper in the evening.

As they met so often, they perhaps smiled at the next meeting; then,
seeing each other again and again, they felt as if they knew each other.
He certainly bowed to her. And she, surprised, bowed in return, but
very, very slightly, just enough not to appear impolite. But after two
weeks she returned his salutation from a distance, even before they were
side by side.

He spoke to her. Of what? Doubtless of the setting sun. They admired it
together, looking for it in each other's eyes more often than on the
horizon. And every evening for two weeks this was the commonplace and
persistent pretext for a few minutes' chat.

Then they ventured to take a few steps together, talking of anything
that came into their minds, but their eyes were already saying to each
other a thousand more intimate things, those secret, charming things
that are reflected in the gentle emotion of the glance, and that cause
the heart to beat, for they are a better revelation of the soul than the
spoken ward.

And then he would take her hand, murmuring those words which the woman
divines, without seeming to hear them.

And it was agreed between them that they would love each other without
evidencing it by anything sensual or brutal.

She would have remained indefinitely at this stage of intimacy, but he
wanted more. And every day he urged her more hotly to give in to his
ardent desire.

She resisted, would not hear of it, seemed determined not to give way.

But one evening she said to him casually: “My husband has just gone to
Marseilles. He will be away four days.”

Jean de Carmelin threw himself at her feet, imploring her to open her
door to him that very night at eleven o'clock. But she would not listen
to him, and went home, appearing to be annoyed.

The commandant was in a bad humor all the evening, and the next morning
at dawn he went out on the ramparts in a rage, going from one exercise
field to the other, dealing out punishment to the officers and men as
one might fling stones into a crowd,

On going in to breakfast he found an envelope under his napkin with
these four words: “To-night at ten.” And he gave one hundred sous
without any reason to the waiter.

The day seemed endless to him. He passed part of it in curling his hair
and perfuming himself.

As he was sitting down to the dinner-table another envelope was handed
to him, and in it he found the following telegram:

“My Love: Business completed. I return this evening on the nine o'clock
train. PARISSE.”


The commandant let loose such a vehement oath that the waiter dropped
the soup-tureen on the floor.

What should he do? He certainly wanted her, that very, evening at
whatever cost; and he would have her. He would resort to any means, even
to arresting and imprisoning the husband. Then a mad thought struck him.
Calling for paper, he wrote the following note:

MADAME: He will not come back this evening, I swear it to you,—and I
shall be, you know where, at ten o'clock. Fear nothing. I will answer
for everything, on my honor as an officer. JEAN DE CARMELIN.

And having sent off this letter, he quietly ate his dinner.

Toward eight o'clock he sent for Captain Gribois, the second in command,
and said, rolling between his fingers the crumpled telegram of Monsieur
Parisse:

“Captain, I have just received a telegram of a very singular nature,
which it is impossible for me to communicate to you. You will
immediately have all the gates of the city closed and guarded, so that
no one, mind me, no one, will either enter or leave before six in the
morning. You will also have men patrol the streets, who will compel the
inhabitants to retire to their houses at nine o'clock. Any one found
outside beyond that time will be conducted to his home 'manu militari'.
If your men meet me this night they will at once go out of my way,
appearing not to know me. You understand me?”

“Yes, commandant.”

“I hold you responsible for the execution of my orders, my dear
captain.”

“Yes, commandant.”

“Would you like to have a glass of chartreuse?”

“With great pleasure, commandant.”

They clinked glasses drank down the brown liquor and Captain Gribois
left the room.

The train from Marseilles arrived at the station at nine o'clock sharp,
left two passengers on the platform and went on toward Nice.

One of them, tall and thin, was Monsieur Saribe, the oil merchant, and
the other, short and fat, was Monsieur Parisse.

Together they set out, with their valises, to reach the city, one
kilometer distant.

But on arriving at the gate of the port the guards crossed their
bayonets, commanding them to retire.

Frightened, surprised, cowed with astonishment, they retired to
deliberate; then, after having taken counsel one with the other, they
came back cautiously to parley, giving their names.

But the soldiers evidently had strict orders, for they threatened to
shoot; and the two scared travellers ran off, throwing away their
valises, which impeded their flight.

Making the tour of the ramparts, they presented themselves at the gate
on the route to Cannes. This likewise was closed and guarded by a
menacing sentinel. Messrs. Saribe and Parisse, like the prudent men they
were, desisted from their efforts and went back to the station for
shelter, since it was not safe to be near the fortifications after
sundown.

The station agent, surprised and sleepy, permitted them to stay till
morning in the waiting-room.

And they sat there side by side, in the dark, on the green velvet sofa,
too scared to think of sleeping.

It was a long and weary night for them.

At half-past six in the morning they were informed that the gates were
open and that people could now enter Antibes.

They set out for the city, but failed to find their abandoned valises on
the road.

When they passed through the gates of the city, still somewhat anxious,
the Commandant de Carmelin, with sly glance and mustache curled up, came
himself to look at them and question them.

Then he bowed to them politely, excusing himself for having caused them
a bad night. But he had to carry out orders.

The people of Antibes were scared to death. Some spoke of a surprise
planned by the Italians, others of the landing of the prince imperial
and others again believed that there was an Orleanist conspiracy. The
truth was suspected only later, when it became known that the battalion
of the commandant had been sent away, to a distance and that Monsieur de
Carmelin had been severely punished.

Monsieur Martini had finished his story. Madame Parisse returned, her
promenade being ended. She passed gravely near me, with her eyes fixed
on the Alps, whose summits now gleamed rosy in the last rays of the
setting sun.

I longed to speak to her, this poor, sad woman, who would ever be
thinking of that night of love, now long past, and of the bold man who
for the sake of a kiss from her had dared to put a city into a state of
siege and to compromise his whole future.

And to-day he had probably forgotten her, if he did not relate this
audacious, comical and tender farce to his comrades over their cups.

Had she seen him again? Did she still love him? And I thought: Here is
an instance of modern love, grotesque and yet heroic. The Homer who
should sing of this new Helen and the adventure of her Menelaus must be
gifted with the soul of a Paul de Kock. And yet the hero of this
deserted woman was brave, daring, handsome, strong as Achilles and more
cunning than Ulysses.





MADEMOISELLE FIFI

Major Graf Von Farlsberg, the Prussian commandant, was reading his
newspaper as he lay back in a great easy-chair, with his booted feet on
the beautiful marble mantelpiece where his spurs had made two holes,
which had grown deeper every day during the three months that he had
been in the chateau of Uville.

A cup of coffee was smoking on a small inlaid table, which was stained
with liqueur, burned by cigars, notched by the penknife 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
orderly had brought him, he got up, and after throwing three or four
enormous pieces of green wood on the fire, for these 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 person, a slanting rain, opaque as a curtain, which formed a
kind of wall with diagonal stripes, and which deluged everything, a 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; he was drumming a
waltz with his fingers on the window-panes, when a noise made him turn
round. It was his second in command, Captain Baron van Kelweinstein.

The major was a giant, with broad shoulders and a long, fan-like beard,
which hung down like a curtain to his chest. His whole solemn person
suggested the idea of a military peacock, a peacock who was carrying his
tail spread out on his breast. He had cold, gentle blue eyes, and a scar
from a swordcut, 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, was tightly belted in at the waist,
his red hair was 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 sometimes made him speak unintelligibly, and he had a bald
patch on top of his head surrounded by a fringe of curly, bright golden
hair, which made him look like a monk.

The commandant shook hands with him and drank his cup of coffee (the
sixth that morning), 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 led a fast life, who was in the habit of frequenting low
resorts, and enjoying women's society, was angry at having to be shut up
for three months in that wretched hole.

There was a knock at the door, and when the commandant said, “Come in,”
one of the orderlies 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 Scheuneberg and Baron von Eyrick, a very short, fair-haired man,
who was proud and brutal toward men, harsh toward prisoners and as
explosive as gunpowder.

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 corsets; of
his pale face, on which his budding mustache 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 chateau 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 a pair of enormous mustaches, drawn with
charcoal. The officers ate their breakfast almost in silence in that
mutilated room, which looked dull in the rain and melancholy in its
dilapidated condition, although its old oak floor had become as solid as
the stone floor of an inn.

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

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 cloud of strong tobacco smoke, and seemed to be sunk in a state of
drowsy, stupid intoxication, that condition of stupid intoxication of
men who have nothing to do, when suddenly the baron sat up and said:
“Heavens! This cannot go on; we must think of something to do.” And on
hearing this, Lieutenant Otto and Sub-lieutenant Fritz, who preeminently
possessed the serious, heavy German countenance, said: “What, captain?”

He thought for a few moments and then replied: “What? Why, 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, and he will bring back 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 had risen and surrounded their chief, saying:
“Let the captain have his 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 military
wagon, covered with tarpaulin, galloped off as fast as four horses could
draw it in the pouring rain. 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 dark, and Lieutenant von Grossling said with conviction that the
sky was clearing up, while Mademoiselle Fifi did not seem to be able to
keep still. 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 mustaches, 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 chateau, the lawful owner, Comte 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. As
he was very rich and had good taste, the large drawing-room, which
opened into the dining-room, looked like a 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 ornaments: small vases, statuettes,
groups of Dresden china and grotesque Chinese figures, old ivory and
Venetian glass, which filled the large room with their costly and
fantastic 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 every
now and then have a mine, and on those occasions 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 punk through the spout. This he lighted
and took his infernal machine into the next room, but he came back
immediately and shut the door. The Germans all stood expectant, their
faces full of childish, smiling curiosity, and as soon as the explosion
had shaken the chateau, 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 after the fashion of a Nero, and
was strewn with the fragments of works of art. He went out first and
said with a smile: “That was a great success this time.”

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 returned for a last glass of
cognac, went up to it.

The moist air blew into the room, bringing with it a sort of powdery
spray, which sprinkled their beards. They looked at the tall trees which
were dripping with 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 every one, for twenty-five miles round, praised Abbe
Chantavoine's firmness and heroism in venturing to proclaim the public
mourning by the obstinate silence of his church bells.

The whole village, enthusiastic at his resistance, was ready to back up
their pastor and to risk anything, for they looked upon that silent
protest as the safeguard of the national honor. It seemed to the
peasants that thus they 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 this
inoffensive courage, and as the people in the whole country round showed
themselves obliging and compliant toward them, they willingly tolerated
their silent patriotism. Little Baron Wilhelm alone 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 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 in the coaxing, tender
voice of some loved woman who is bent on obtaining her wish, but the
commandant would not yield, and to console himself, Mademoiselle Fifi
made a mine in the Chateau d'Uville.

The five men stood there together for five minutes, breathing 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 duty, while the captain had plenty to do in
arranging for the dinner.

When they met again toward evening they began to laugh at seeing each
other as spick and span 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, leaving only his mustache, 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 presently
the wagon drove up at a gallop with its four horses steaming and
blowing, and splashed with mud to their girths. Five women dismounted,
five handsome girls whom a comrade of the captain, to whom Le Devoir had
presented his card, had selected with care.

They had not required much pressing, as 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 to the state of
affairs.

They went at once into the dining-room, which looked still more dismal
in its dilapidated condition 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 it the appearance of a bandits' inn, where they were
supping after committing a robbery in the place. The captain was
radiant, and put his arm round the women as if he were familiar with
them; 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
offend the higher powers. Therefore, to avoid all discussion, jarring,
and suspicion of partiality, he placed them all in a row 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 proved
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 had a similarity of complexion and figure.

The three young men wished to carry off their prizes immediately, under
the pretext that they might wish to freshen their toilets; but the
captain wisely opposed this, for he said they were quite fit to sit down
to dinner, 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 pretence 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 tormentor
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 guests, but Baron von
Kelweinstein beamed, made obscene remarks and seemed on fire with his
crown of red hair. He paid the women compliments in French of the Rhine,
and sputtered out gallant remarks, only fit for a low pothouse, from
between his two broken teeth.

They did not understand him, however, and their intelligence did not
seem to be awakened until he uttered foul words and broad expressions,
which were mangled by his accent. Then they all began to laugh at once
like crazy 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 resuming their usual habits and manners, they kissed the officers to
right and left of them, pinched their arms, uttered wild 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 became very unrestrained, shouted and broke the
plates and dishes, while the soldiers behind them waited on them
stolidly. The commandant was the only one who kept any restraint upon
himself.

Mademoiselle Fifi had taken Rachel on his knee, and, getting excited, at
one moment he kissed the little black curls on her neck and at another
he pinched her furiously 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 and pressed a long kiss on the Jewess' rosy mouth
until she lost her breath, and at last he bit her until a stream of
blood ran down her chin and on to 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 the other, 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 access of alcoholic patriotism, he cried: “To our
victories over France!”

Drunk as they were, the women were silent, but Rachel turned round,
trembling, and said: “See here, I know some Frenchmen in whose presence
you would not dare 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, as
he had looked at the portrait before he destroyed it with bullets from
his revolver, 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 made one
spring from his knee and threw herself into her chair, while he arose,
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.
Then the little marquis put his champagne glass, which had just been
refilled, on 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, spilling the amber-
colored wine on her black hair as if to baptize her, and broke into a
hundred fragments, as it fell to the floor. Her lips trembling, she
defied the looks of the officer, who was still laughing, and stammered
out in a voice choked with rage:

“That—that—that—is not true—for you shall not have the women of France!”

He sat down again so as to laugh at his ease; and, trying to speak with
the Parisian accent, he said: “She is good, very good! Then why did you
come here, 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 to strike her, she seized a small
dessert knife with a silver blade from the table and, almost mad with
rage, stabbed him right in the hollow of his neck. 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 the legs of Lieutenant Otto, 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 the 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 he 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 out the lieutenant, 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 of challenge, uttered 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 that 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 turn punished his inferiors. The general had said:
“One does not go to war in order to amuse one's self and to caress
prostitutes.” 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 Chateau d'Uville
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 funeral knell in a lively manner, as if a
friendly hand were caressing it. At night it rang 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 with a 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 provided for secretly 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 afterward a patriot who had no prejudices, and who liked
her because of her bold deed, and who afterward loved her for herself,
married her and made her a lady quite as good as many others.





A DUEL

The war was over. The Germans occupied France. The whole country was
pulsating like a conquered wrestler beneath the knee of his victorious
opponent.

The first trains from Paris, distracted, starving, despairing Paris,
were making their way to the new frontiers, slowly passing through the
country districts and the villages. The passengers gazed through the
windows at the ravaged fields and burned hamlets. Prussian soldiers, in
their black helmets with brass spikes, were smoking their pipes astride
their chairs in front of the houses which were still left standing.
Others were working or talking just as if they were members of the
families. As you passed through the different towns you saw entire
regiments drilling in the squares, and, in spite of the rumble of the
carriage-wheels, you could every moment hear the hoarse words of
command.

M. Dubuis, who during the entire siege had served as one of the National
Guard in Paris, was going to join his wife and daughter, whom he had
prudently sent away to Switzerland before the invasion.

Famine and hardship had not diminished his big paunch so characteristic
of the rich, peace-loving merchant. He had gone through the terrible
events of the past year with sorrowful resignation and bitter complaints
at the savagery of men. Now that he was journeying to the frontier at
the close of the war, he saw the Prussians for the first time, although
he had done his duty on the ramparts and mounted guard on many a cold
night.

He stared with mingled fear and anger at those bearded armed men,
installed all over French soil as if they were at home, and he felt in
his soul a kind of fever of impotent patriotism, at the same time also
the great need of that new instinct of prudence which since then has,
never left us. In the same railway carriage were two Englishmen, who had
come to the country as sightseers and were gazing about them with looks
of quiet curiosity. They were both also stout, and kept chatting in
their own language, sometimes referring to their guidebook, and reading
aloud the names of the places indicated.

Suddenly the train stopped at a little village station, and a Prussian
officer jumped up with a great clatter of his sabre on the double
footboard of the railway carriage. He was tall, wore a tight-fitting
uniform, and had whiskers up to his eyes. His red hair seemed to be on
fire, and his long mustache, of a paler hue, stuck out on both sides of
his face, which it seemed to cut in two.

The Englishmen at once began staring at him, with smiles of newly
awakened interest, while M. Dubuis made a show of reading a newspaper.
He sat concealed in his corner like a thief in presence of a gendarme.

The train started again. The Englishmen went on chatting and looking out
for the exact scene of different battles; and all of a sudden, as one of
them stretched out his arm toward the horizon as he pointed out a
village, the Prussian officer remarked in French, extending his long
legs and lolling backward:

“I killed a dozen Frenchmen in that village and took more than a hundred
prisoners.”

The Englishmen, quite interested, immediately asked:

“Ha! and what is the name of this village?”

The Prussian replied:

“Pharsbourg.” He added: “We caught those French scoundrels by the ears.”

And he glanced toward M. Dubuis, laughing conceitedly into his mustache.

The train rolled on, still passing through hamlets occupied by the
victorious army. German soldiers could be seen along the roads, on the
edges of fields, standing in front of gates or chatting outside cafes.
They covered the soil like African locusts.

The officer said, with a wave of his hand:

“If I had been in command, I'd have taken Paris, burned everything,
killed everybody. No more France!”

The Englishman, through politeness, replied simply:

“Ah! yes.”

He went on:

“In twenty years all Europe, all of it, will belong to us. Prussia is
more than a match for all of them.”

The Englishmen, getting uneasy, no longer replied. Their faces, which
had become impassive, seemed made of wax behind their long whiskers.
Then the Prussian officer began to laugh. And still, lolling back, he
began to sneer. He sneered at the downfall of France, insulted the
prostrate enemy; he sneered at Austria, which had been recently
conquered; he sneered at the valiant but fruitless defence of the
departments; he sneered at the Garde Mobile and at the useless
artillery. He announced that Bismarck was going to build a city of iron
with the captured cannon. And suddenly he placed his boots against the
thigh of M. Dubuis, who turned away his eyes, reddening to the roots of
his hair.

The Englishmen seemed to have become indifferent to all that was going
on, as if they were suddenly shut up in their own island, far from the
din of the world.

The officer took out his pipe, and looking fixedly at the Frenchman,
said:

“You haven't any tobacco—have you?”

M. Dubuis replied:

“No, monsieur.”

The German resumed:

“You might go and buy some for me when the train stops.”

And he began laughing afresh as he added:

“I'll give you the price of a drink.”

The train whistled, and slackened its pace. They passed a station that
had been burned down; and then they stopped altogether.

The German opened the carriage door, and, catching M. Dubuis by the arm,
said:

“Go and do what I told you—quick, quick!”

A Prussian detachment occupied the station. Other soldiers were standing
behind wooden gratings, looking on. The engine was getting up steam
before starting off again. Then M. Dubuis hurriedly jumped on the
platform, and, in spite of the warnings of the station master, dashed
into the adjoining compartment.

He was alone! He tore open his waistcoat, his heart was beating so
rapidly, and, gasping for breath, he wiped the perspiration from his
forehead.

The train drew up at another station. And suddenly the officer appeared
at the carriage door and jumped in, followed close behind by the two
Englishmen, who were impelled by curiosity. The German sat facing the
Frenchman, and, laughing still, said:

“You did not want to do what I asked you?”

M. Dubuis replied:

“No, monsieur.”

The train had just left the station.

The officer said:

“I'll cut off your mustache to fill my pipe with.”

And he put out his hand toward the Frenchman's face.

The Englishmen stared at them, retaining their previous impassive
manner.

The German had already pulled out a few hairs, and was still tugging at
the mustache, when M. Dubuis, with a back stroke of his hand, flung
aside the officer's arm, and, seizing him by the collar, threw him down
on the seat. Then, excited to a pitch of fury, his temples swollen and
his eyes glaring, he kept throttling the officer with one hand, while
with the other clenched he began to strike him violent blows in the
face. The Prussian struggled, tried to draw his sword, to clinch with
his adversary, who was on top of him. But M. Dubuis crushed him with his
enormous weight and kept punching him without taking breath or knowing
where his blows fell. Blood flowed down the face of the German, who,
choking and with a rattling in his throat, spat out his broken teeth and
vainly strove to shake off this infuriated man who was killing him.

The Englishmen had got on their feet and came closer in order to see
better. They remained standing, full of mirth and curiosity, ready to
bet for, or against, either combatant.

Suddenly M. Dubuis, exhausted by his violent efforts, rose and resumed
his seat without uttering a word.

The Prussian did not attack him, for the savage assault had terrified
and astonished the officer as well as causing him suffering. When he was
able to breathe freely, he said:

“Unless you give me satisfaction with pistols I will kill you.”

M. Dubuis replied:

“Whenever you like. I'm quite ready.”

The German said:

“Here is the town of Strasbourg. I'll get two officers to be my seconds,
and there will be time before the train leaves the station.”

M. Dubuis, who was puffing as hard as the engine, said to the
Englishmen:

“Will you be my seconds?” They both answered together:

“Oh, yes!”

And the train stopped.

In a minute the Prussian had found two comrades, who brought pistols,
and they made their way toward the ramparts.

The Englishmen were continually looking at their watches, shuffling
their feet and hurrying on with the preparations, uneasy lest they
should be too late for the train.

M. Dubuis had never fired a pistol in his life.

They made him stand twenty paces away from his enemy. He was asked:

“Are you ready?”

While he was answering, “Yes, monsieur,” he noticed that one of the
Englishmen had opened his umbrella in order to keep off the rays of the
sun.

A voice gave the signal:

“Fire!”

M. Dubuis fired at random without delay, and he was amazed to see the
Prussian opposite him stagger, lift up his arms and fall forward, dead.
He had killed the officer.

One of the Englishmen exclaimed: “Ah!” He was quivering with delight,
with satisfied curiosity and joyous impatience. The other, who still
kept his watch in his hand, seized M. Dubuis' arm and hurried him in
double-quick time toward the station, his fellow-countryman marking time
as he ran beside them, with closed fists, his elbows at his sides, “One,
two; one, two!”

And all three, running abreast rapidly, made their way to the station
like three grotesque figures in a comic newspaper.

The train was on the point of starting. They sprang into their carriage.
Then the Englishmen, taking off their travelling caps, waved them three
times over their heads, exclaiming:

“Hip! hip! hip! hurrah!”

And gravely, one after the other, they extended their right hands to M.
Dubuis and then went back and sat down in their own corner.





ORIGINAL SHORT STORIES, Vol. 2.

GUY DE MAUPASSANT ORIGINAL SHORT STORIES Translated by ALBERT M. C.
McMASTER, B.A. A. E. HENDERSON, B.A. MME. QUESADA and Others





VOLUME II.





THE COLONEL'S IDEAS

“Upon my word,” said Colonel Laporte, “although I am old and gouty, my
legs as stiff as two pieces of wood, yet if a pretty woman were to tell
me to go through the eye of a needle, I believe I should take a jump at
it, like a clown through a hoop. I shall die like that; it is in the
blood. I am an old beau, one of the old school, and the sight of a
woman, a pretty woman, stirs me to the tips of my toes. There!

“We are all very much alike in France in this respect; we still remain
knights, knights of love and fortune, since God has been abolished whose
bodyguard we really were. But nobody can ever get woman out of our
hearts; there she is, and there she will remain, and we love her, and
shall continue to love her, and go on committing all kinds of follies on
her account as long as there is a France on the map of Europe; and even
if France were to be wiped off the map, there would always be Frenchmen
left.

“When I am in the presence of a woman, of a pretty woman, I feel capable
of anything. By Jove! when I feel her looks penetrating me, her
confounded looks which set your blood on fire, I should like to do I
don't know what; to fight a duel, to have a row, to smash the furniture,
in order to show that I am the strongest, the bravest, the most daring
and the most devoted of men.

“But I am not the only one, certainly not; the whole French army is like
me, I swear to you. From the common soldier to the general, we all start
out, from the van to the rear guard, when there is a woman in the case,
a pretty woman. Do you remember what Joan of Arc made us do formerly?
Come. I will make a bet that if a pretty woman had taken command of the
army on the eve of Sedan, when Marshal MacMahon was wounded, we should
have broken through the Prussian lines, by Jove! and had a drink out of
their guns.

“It was not a Trochu, but a Sainte-Genevieve, who was needed in Paris;
and I remember a little anecdote of the war which proves that we are
capable of everything in presence of a woman.

“I was a captain, a simple captain, at the time, and I was in command of
a detachment of scouts, who were retreating through a district which
swarmed with Prussians. We were surrounded, pursued, tired out and half
dead with fatigue and hunger, but we were bound to reach Bar-sur-Tain
before the morrow, otherwise we should be shot, cut down, massacred. I
do not know how we managed to escape so far. However, we had ten leagues
to go during the night, ten leagues through the night, ten leagues
through the snow, and with empty stomachs, and I thought to myself:

“'It is all over; my poor devils of fellows will never be able to do
it.'

“We had eaten nothing since the day before, and the whole day long we
remained hidden in a barn, huddled close together, so as not to feel the
cold so much, unable to speak or even move, and sleeping by fits and
starts, as one does when worn out with fatigue.

“It was dark by five o'clock, that wan darkness of the snow, and I shook
my men. Some of them would not get up; they were almost incapable of
moving or of standing upright; their joints were stiff from cold and
hunger.

“Before us there was a large expanse of flat, bare country; the snow was
still falling like a curtain, in large, white flakes, which concealed
everything under a thick, frozen coverlet, a coverlet of frozen wool One
might have thought that it was the end of the world.

“'Come, my lads, let us start.'

“They looked at the thick white flakes that were coming down, and they
seemed to think: 'We have had enough of this; we may just as well die
here!' Then I took out my revolver and said:

“'I will shoot the first man who flinches.' And so they set off, but
very slowly, like men whose legs were of very little use to them, and I
sent four of them three hundred yards ahead to scout, and the others
followed pell-mell, walking at random and without any order. I put the
strongest in the rear, with orders to quicken the pace of the sluggards
with the points of their bayonets in the back.

“The snow seemed as if it were going to bury us alive; it powdered our
kepis and cloaks without melting, and made phantoms of us, a kind of
spectres of dead, weary soldiers. I said to myself: 'We shall never get
out of this except by a miracle.'

“Sometimes we had to stop for a few minutes, on account of those who
could not follow us, and then we heard nothing except the falling snow,
that vague, almost undiscernible sound made by the falling flakes. Some
of the men shook themselves, others did not move, and so I gave the
order to set off again. They shouldered their rifles, and with weary
feet we resumed our march, when suddenly the scouts fell back. Something
had alarmed them; they had heard voices in front of them. I sent forward
six men and a sergeant and waited.

“All at once a shrill cry, a woman's cry, pierced through the heavy
silence of the snow, and in a few minutes they brought back two
prisoners, an old man and a girl, whom I questioned in a low voice. They
were escaping from the Prussians, who had occupied their house during
the evening and had got drunk. The father was alarmed on his daughter's
account, and, without even telling their servants, they had made their
escape in the darkness. I saw immediately that they belonged to the
better class. I invited them to accompany us, and we started off again,
the old man who knew the road acting as our guide.

“It had ceased snowing, the stars appeared and the cold became intense.
The girl, who was leaning on her father's arm, walked unsteadily as
though in pain, and several times she murmured:

“'I have no feeling at all in my feet'; and I suffered more than she did
to see that poor little woman dragging herself like that through the
snow. But suddenly she stopped and said:

“'Father, I am so tired that I cannot go any further.'

“The old man wanted to carry her, but he could not even lift her up, and
she sank to the ground with a deep sigh. We all gathered round her, and,
as for me, I stamped my foot in perplexity, not knowing what to do, and
being unwilling to abandon that man and girl like that, when suddenly
one of the soldiers, a Parisian whom they had nicknamed Pratique, said:

“'Come, comrades, we must carry the young lady, otherwise we shall not
show ourselves Frenchmen, confound it!'

“I really believe that I swore with pleasure. 'That is very good of you,
my children,' I said; 'and I will take my share of the burden.'

“We could indistinctly see, through the darkness, the trees of a little
wood on the left. Several of the men went into it, and soon came back
with a bundle of branches made into a litter.

“'Who will lend his cape? It is for a pretty girl, comrades,' Pratique
said, and ten cloaks were thrown to him. In a moment the girl was lying,
warm and comfortable, among them, and was raised upon six shoulders. I
placed myself at their head, on the right, well pleased with my
position.

“We started off much more briskly, as if we had had a drink of wine, and
I even heard some jokes. A woman is quite enough to electrify Frenchmen,
you see. The soldiers, who had become cheerful and warm, had almost
reformed their ranks, and an old 'franc-tireur' who was following the
litter, waiting for his turn to replace the first of his comrades who
might give out, said to one of his neighbors, loud enough for me to
hear: “'I am not a young man now, but by—-, there is nothing like the
women to put courage into you!'

“We went on, almost without stopping, until three o'clock in the
morning, when suddenly our scouts fell back once more, and soon the
whole detachment showed nothing but a vague shadow on the ground, as the
men lay on the snow. I gave my orders in a low voice, and heard the
harsh, metallic sound of the cocking, of rifles. For there, in the
middle of the plain, some strange object was moving about. It looked
like some enormous animal running about, now stretching out like a
serpent, now coiling itself into a ball, darting to the right, then to
the left, then stopping, and presently starting off again. But presently
that wandering shape came nearer, and I saw a dozen lancers at full
gallop, one behind the other. They had lost their way and were trying to
find it.

“They were so near by that time that I could hear the loud breathing of
their horses, the clinking of their swords and the creaking of their
saddles, and cried: 'Fire!'

“Fifty rifle shots broke the stillness of the night, then there were
four or five reports, and at last one single shot was heard, and when
the smoke had cleared away, we saw that the twelve men and nine horses
had fallen. Three of the animals were galloping away at a furious pace,
and one of them was dragging the dead body of its rider, which rebounded
violently from the ground; his foot had caught in the stirrup.

“One of the soldiers behind me gave a terrible laugh and said: 'There
will be some widows there!'

“Perhaps he was married. A third added: 'It did not take long!'

“A head emerged from the litter.

“'What is the matter?' she asked; 'are you fighting?'

“'It is nothing, mademoiselle,' I replied; 'we have got rid of a dozen
Prussians!'

“'Poor fellows!' she said. But as she was cold, she quickly disappeared
beneath the cloaks again, and we started off once more. We marched on
for a long time, and at last the sky began to grow lighter. The snow
became quite clear, luminous and glistening, and a rosy tint appeared in
the east. Suddenly a voice in the distance cried:

“'Who goes there?'

“The whole detachment halted, and I advanced to give the countersign. We
had reached the French lines, and, as my men defiled before the outpost,
a commandant on horseback, whom I had informed of what had taken place,
asked in a sonorous voice, as he saw the litter pass him: 'What have you
in there?'

“And immediately a small head covered with light hair appeared,
dishevelled and smiling, and replied:

“'It is I, monsieur.'

“At this the men raised a hearty laugh, and we felt quite light-hearted,
while Pratique, who was walking by the side of the litter, waved his
kepi and shouted:

“'Vive la France!' And I felt really affected. I do not know why, except
that I thought it a pretty and gallant thing to say.

“It seemed to me as if we had just saved the whole of France and had
done something that other men could not have done, something simple and
really patriotic. I shall never forget that little face, you may be
sure; and if I had to give my opinion about abolishing drums, trumpets
and bugles, I should propose to replace them in every regiment by a
pretty girl, and that would be even better than playing the
'Marseillaise: By Jove! it would put some spirit into a trooper to have
a Madonna like that, a live Madonna, by the colonel's side.”

He was silent for a few moments and then continued, with an air of
conviction, and nodding his head:

“All the same, we are very fond of women, we Frenchmen!”





MOTHER SAUVAGE

Fifteen years had passed since I was at Virelogne. I returned there in
the autumn to shoot with my friend Serval, who had at last rebuilt his
chateau, which the Prussians had destroyed.

I loved that district. It is one of those delightful spots which have a
sensuous charm for the eyes. You love it with a physical love. We, whom
the country enchants, keep tender memories of certain springs, certain
woods, certain pools, certain hills seen very often which have stirred
us like joyful events. Sometimes our thoughts turn back to a corner in a
forest, or the end of a bank, or an orchard filled with flowers, seen
but a single time on some bright day, yet remaining in our hearts like
the image of certain women met in the street on a spring morning in
their light, gauzy dresses, leaving in soul and body an unsatisfied
desire which is not to be forgotten, a feeling that you have just passed
by happiness.

At Virelogne I loved the whole countryside, dotted with little woods and
crossed by brooks which sparkled in the sun and looked like veins
carrying blood to the earth. You fished in them for crawfish, trout and
eels. Divine happiness! You could bathe in places and you often found
snipe among the high grass which grew along the borders of these small
water courses.

I was stepping along light as a goat, watching my two dogs running ahead
of me, Serval, a hundred metres to my right, was beating a field of
lucerne. I turned round by the thicket which forms the boundary of the
wood of Sandres and I saw a cottage in ruins.

Suddenly I remembered it as I had seen it the last time, in 1869, neat,
covered with vines, with chickens before the door. What is sadder than a
dead house, with its skeleton standing bare and sinister?

I also recalled that inside its doors, after a very tiring day, the good
woman had given me a glass of wine to drink and that Serval had told me
the history of its people. The father, an old poacher, had been killed
by the gendarmes. The son, whom I had once seen, was a tall, dry fellow
who also passed for a fierce slayer of game. People called them “Les
Sauvage.”

Was that a name or a nickname?

I called to Serval. He came up with his long strides like a crane.

I asked him:

“What's become of those people?”

This was his story:

When war was declared the son Sauvage, who was then thirty-three years
old, enlisted, leaving his mother alone in the house. People did not
pity the old woman very much because she had money; they knew it.

She remained entirely alone in that isolated dwelling, so far from the
village, on the edge of the wood. She was not afraid, however, being of
the same strain as the men folk—a hardy old woman, tall and thin, who
seldom laughed and with whom one never jested. The women of the fields
laugh but little in any case, that is men's business. But they
themselves have sad and narrowed hearts, leading a melancholy, gloomy
life. The peasants imbibe a little noisy merriment at the tavern, but
their helpmates always have grave, stern countenances. The muscles of
their faces have never learned the motions of laughter.

Mother Sauvage continued her ordinary existence in her cottage, which
was soon covered by the snows. She came to the village once a week to
get bread and a little meat. Then she returned to her house. As there
was talk of wolves, she went out with a gun upon her shoulder—her son's
gun, rusty and with the butt worn by the rubbing of the hand—and she was
a strange sight, the tall “Sauvage,” a little bent, going with slow
strides over the snow, the muzzle of the piece extending beyond the
black headdress, which confined her head and imprisoned her white hair,
which no one had ever seen.

One day a Prussian force arrived. It was billeted upon the inhabitants,
according to the property and resources of each. Four were allotted to
the old woman, who was known to be rich.

They were four great fellows with fair complexion, blond beards and blue
eyes, who had not grown thin in spite of the fatigue which they had
endured already and who also, though in a conquered country, had
remained kind and gentle. Alone with this aged woman, they showed
themselves full of consideration, sparing her, as much as they could,
all expense and fatigue. They could be seen, all four of them, making
their toilet at the well in their shirt-sleeves in the gray dawn,
splashing with great swishes of water their pink-white northern skin,
while La Mere Sauvage went and came, preparing their soup. They would be
seen cleaning the kitchen, rubbing the tiles, splitting wood, peeling
potatoes, doing up all the housework like four good sons around their
mother.

But the old woman thought always of her own son, so tall and thin, with
his hooked nose and his brown eyes and his heavy mustache which made a
roll of black hair upon his lip. She asked every day of each of the
soldiers who were installed beside her hearth: “Do you know where the
French marching regiment, No. 23, was sent? My boy is in it.”

They invariably answered, “No, we don't know, don't know a thing at
all.” And, understanding her pain and her uneasiness—they who had
mothers, too, there at home—they rendered her a thousand little
services. She loved them well, moreover, her four enemies, since the
peasantry have no patriotic hatred; that belongs to the upper class
alone. The humble, those who pay the most because they are poor and
because every new burden crushes them down; those who are killed in
masses, who make the true cannon's prey because they are so many; those,
in fine, who suffer most cruelly the atrocious miseries of war because
they are the feeblest and offer least resistance—they hardly understand
at all those bellicose ardors, that excitable sense of honor or those
pretended political combinations which in six months exhaust two
nations, the conqueror with the conquered.

They said in the district, in speaking of the Germans of La Mere
Sauvage:

“There are four who have found a soft place.”

Now, one morning, when the old woman was alone in the house, she
observed, far off on the plain, a man coming toward her dwelling. Soon
she recognized him; it was the postman to distribute the letters. He
gave her a folded paper and she drew out of her case the spectacles
which she used for sewing. Then she read:

MADAME SAUVAGE: This letter is to tell you sad news. Your boy Victor was
killed yesterday by a shell which almost cut him in two. I was near by,
as we stood next each other in the company, and he told me about you and
asked me to let you know on the same day if anything happened to him.

I took his watch, which was in his pocket, to bring it back to you when
the war is done. CESAIRE RIVOT,

Soldier of the 2d class, March. Reg. No. 23.

The letter was dated three weeks back.

She did not cry at all. She remained motionless, so overcome and
stupefied that she did not even suffer as yet. She thought: “There's
Victor killed now.” Then little by little the tears came to her eyes and
the sorrow filled her heart. Her thoughts came, one by one, dreadful,
torturing. She would never kiss him again, her child, her big boy, never
again! The gendarmes had killed the father, the Prussians had killed the
son. He had been cut in two by a cannon-ball. She seemed to see the
thing, the horrible thing: the head falling, the eyes open, while he
chewed the corner of his big mustache as he always did in moments of
anger.

What had they done with his body afterward? If they had only let her
have her boy back as they had brought back her husband—with the bullet
in the middle of the forehead!

But she heard a noise of voices. It was the Prussians returning from the
village. She hid her letter very quickly in her pocket, and she received
them quietly, with her ordinary face, having had time to wipe her eyes.

They were laughing, all four, delighted, for they brought with them a
fine rabbit—stolen, doubtless—and they made signs to the old woman that
there was to be something good to east.

She set herself to work at once to prepare breakfast, but when it came
to killing the rabbit, her heart failed her. And yet it was not the
first. One of the soldiers struck it down with a blow of his fist behind
the ears.

The beast once dead, she skinned the red body, but the sight of the
blood which she was touching, and which covered her hands, and which she
felt cooling and coagulating, made her tremble from head to foot, and
she kept seeing her big boy cut in two, bloody, like this still
palpitating animal.

She sat down at table with the Prussians, but she could not eat, not
even a mouthful. They devoured the rabbit without bothering themselves
about her. She looked at them sideways, without speaking, her face so
impassive that they perceived nothing.

All of a sudden she said: “I don't even know your names, and here's a
whole month that we've been together.” They understood, not without
difficulty, what she wanted, and told their names.

That was not sufficient; she had them written for her on a paper, with
the addresses of their families, and, resting her spectacles on her
great nose, she contemplated that strange handwriting, then folded the
sheet and put it in her pocket, on top of the letter which told her of
the death of her son.

When the meal was ended she said to the men:

“I am going to work for you.”

And she began to carry up hay into the loft where they slept.

They were astonished at her taking all this trouble; she explained to
them that thus they would not be so cold; and they helped her. They
heaped the stacks of hay as high as the straw roof, and in that manner
they made a sort of great chamber with four walls of fodder, warm and
perfumed, where they should sleep splendidly.

At dinner one of them was worried to see that La Mere Sauvage still ate
nothing. She told him that she had pains in her stomach. Then she
kindled a good fire to warm herself, and the four Germans ascended to
their lodging-place by the ladder which served them every night for this
purpose.

As soon as they closed the trapdoor the old woman removed the ladder,
then opened the outside door noiselessly and went back to look for more
bundles of straw, with which she filled her kitchen. She went barefoot
in the snow, so softly that no sound was heard. From time to time she
listened to the sonorous and unequal snoring of the four soldiers who
were fast asleep.

When she judged her preparations to be sufficient, she threw one of the
bundles into the fireplace, and when it was alight she scattered it over
all the others. Then she went outside again and looked.

In a few seconds the whole interior of the cottage was illumined with a
brilliant light and became a frightful brasier, a gigantic fiery
furnace, whose glare streamed out of the narrow window and threw a
glittering beam upon the snow.

Then a great cry issued from the top of the house; it was a clamor of
men shouting heartrending calls of anguish and of terror. Finally the
trapdoor having given way, a whirlwind of fire shot up into the loft,
pierced the straw roof, rose to the sky like the immense flame of a
torch, and all the cottage flared.

Nothing more was heard therein but the crackling of the fire, the
cracking of the walls, the falling of the rafters. Suddenly the roof
fell in and the burning carcass of the dwelling hurled a great plume of
sparks into the air, amid a cloud of smoke.

The country, all white, lit up by the fire, shone like a cloth of silver
tinted with red.

A bell, far off, began to toll.

The old “Sauvage” stood before her ruined dwelling, armed with her gun,
her son's gun, for fear one of those men might escape.

When she saw that it was ended, she threw her weapon into the brasier. A
loud report followed.

People were coming, the peasants, the Prussians.

They found the woman seated on the trunk of a tree, calm and satisfied.

A German officer, but speaking French like a son of France, demanded:

“Where are your soldiers?”

She reached her bony arm toward the red heap of fire which was almost
out and answered with a strong voice:

“There!”

They crowded round her. The Prussian asked:

“How did it take fire?”

“It was I who set it on fire.”

They did not believe her, they thought that the sudden disaster had made
her crazy. While all pressed round and listened, she told the story from
beginning to end, from the arrival of the letter to the last shriek of
the men who were burned with her house, and never omitted a detail.

When she had finished, she drew two pieces of paper from her pocket,
and, in order to distinguish them by the last gleams of the fire, she
again adjusted her spectacles. Then she said, showing one:

“That, that is the death of Victor.” Showing the other, she added,
indicating the red ruins with a bend of the head: “Here are their names,
so that you can write home.” She quietly held a sheet of paper out to
the officer, who held her by the shoulders, and she continued:

“You must write how it happened, and you must say to their mothers that
it was I who did that, Victoire Simon, la Sauvage! Do not forget.”

The officer shouted some orders in German. They seized her, they threw
her against the walls of her house, still hot. Then twelve men drew
quickly up before her, at twenty paces. She did not move. She had
understood; she waited.

An order rang out, followed instantly by a long report. A belated shot
went off by itself, after the others.

The old woman did not fall. She sank as though they had cut off her
legs.

The Prussian officer approached. She was almost cut in two, and in her
withered hand she held her letter bathed with blood.

My friend Serval added:

“It was by way of reprisal that the Germans destroyed the chateau of the
district, which belonged to me.”

I thought of the mothers of those four fine fellows burned in that house
and of the horrible heroism of that other mother shot against the wall.

And I picked up a little stone, still blackened by the flames.





EPIPHANY

I should say I did remember that Epiphany supper during the war!
exclaimed Count de Garens, an army captain.

I was quartermaster of cavalry at the time, and for a fortnight had been
scouting in front of the German advance guard. The evening before we had
cut down a few Uhlans and had lost three men, one of whom was that poor
little Raudeville. You remember Joseph de Raudeville, of course.

Well, on that day my commanding officer ordered me to take six troopers
and to go and occupy the village of Porterin, where there had been five
skirmishes in three weeks, and to hold it all night. There were not
twenty houses left standing, not a dozen houses in that wasps' nest. So
I took ten troopers and set out about four o'clock, and at five o'clock,
while it was still pitch dark, we reached the first houses of Porterin.
I halted and ordered Marchas—you know Pierre de Marchas, who afterward
married little Martel-Auvelin, the daughter of the Marquis de Martel-
Auvelin—to go alone into the village, and to report to me what he saw.

I had selected nothing but volunteers, all men of good family. It is
pleasant when on duty not to be forced to be on intimate terms with
unpleasant fellows. This Marchas was as smart as possible, cunning as a
fox and supple as a serpent. He could scent the Prussians as a dog can
scent a hare, could discover food where we should have died of hunger
without him, and obtained information from everybody, and information
which was always reliable, with incredible cleverness.

In ten minutes he returned. “All right,” he said; “there have been no
Prussians here for three days. It is a sinister place, is this village.
I have been talking to a Sister of Mercy, who is caring for four or five
wounded men in an abandoned convent.”

I ordered them to ride on, and we entered the principal street. On the
right and left we could vaguely see roofless walls, which were hardly
visible in the profound darkness. Here and there a light was burning in
a room; some family had remained to keep its house standing as well as
they were able; a family of brave or of poor people. The rain began to
fall, a fine, icy cold rain, which froze as it fell on our cloaks. The
horses stumbled against stones, against beams, against furniture.
Marchas guided us, going before us on foot, and leading his horse by the
bridle.

“Where are you taking us to?” I asked him. And he replied: “I have a
place for us to lodge in, and a rare good one.” And we presently stopped
before a small house, evidently belonging to some proprietor of the
middle class. It stood on the street, was quite inclosed, and had a
garden in the rear.

Marchas forced open the lock by means of a big stone which he picked up
near the garden gate; then he mounted the steps, smashed in the front
door with his feet and shoulders, lit a bit of wax candle, which he was
never without, and went before us into the comfortable apartments of
some rich private individual, guiding us with admirable assurance, as if
he lived in this house which he now saw for the first time.

Two troopers remained outside to take care of our horses, and Marchas
said to stout Ponderel, who followed him: “The stables must be on the
left; I saw that as we came in; go and put the animals up there, for we
do not need them”; and then, turning to me, he said: “Give your orders,
confound it all!”

This fellow always astonished me, and I replied with a laugh: “I will
post my sentinels at the country approaches and will return to you
here.”

“How many men are you going to take?”

“Five. The others will relieve them at five o'clock in the evening.”

“Very well. Leave me four to look after provisions, to do the cooking
and to set the table. I will go and find out where the wine is hidden.”

I went off, to reconnoitre the deserted streets until they ended in the
open country, so as to post my sentries there.

Half an hour later I was back, and found Marchas lounging in a great
easy-chair, the covering of which he had taken off, from love of luxury,
as he said. He was warming his feet at the fire and smoking an excellent
cigar, whose perfume filled the room. He was alone, his elbows resting
on the arms of the chair, his head sunk between his shoulders, his
cheeks flushed, his eyes bright, and looking delighted.

I heard the noise of plates and dishes in the next room, and Marchas
said * to me, smiling in a contented manner: “This is famous; I found
the champagne under the flight of steps outside, the brandy—fifty
bottles of the very finest in the kitchen garden under a pear tree,
which did not seem to me to be quite straight when I looked at it by the
light of my lantern. As for solids, we have two fowls, a goose, a duck,
and three pigeons. They are being cooked at this moment. It is a
delightful district.”

I sat down opposite him, and the fire in the grate was burning my nose
and cheeks. “Where did you find this wood?” I asked. “Splendid wood,” he
replied. “The owner's carriage. It is the paint which is causing all
this flame, an essence of punch and varnish. A capital house!”

I laughed, for I saw the creature was funny, and he went on: “Fancy this
being the Epiphany! I have had a bean put into the goose dressing; but
there is no queen; it is really very annoying!” And I repeated like an
echo: “It is annoying, but what do you want me to do in the matter?” “To
find some, of course.” “Some women. Women?—you must be mad?” “I managed
to find the brandy under the pear tree, and the champagne under the
steps; and yet there was nothing to guide me, while as for you, a
petticoat is a sure bait. Go and look, old fellow.”

He looked so grave, so convinced, that I could not tell whether he was
joking or not, and so I replied: “Look here, Marchas, are you having a
joke with me?” “I never joke on duty.” “But where the devil do you
expect me to find any women?” “Where you like; there must be two or
three remaining in the neighborhood, so ferret them out and bring them
here.”

I got up, for it was too hot in front of the fire, and Marchas went off:

“Do you want an idea?” “Yes.” “Go and see the priest.” “The priest? What
for?” “Ask him to supper, and beg him to bring a woman with him.” “The
priest! A woman! Ha! ha! ha!”

But Marchas continued with extraordinary gravity: “I am not laughing; go
and find the priest and tell him how we are situated, and, as he must be
horribly dull, he will come. But tell him that we want one woman at
least, a lady, of course, since we, are all men of the world. He is sure
to know his female parishioners on the tips of his fingers, and if there
is one to suit us, and you manage it well, he will suggest her to you.”

“Come, come, Marchas, what are you thinking of?” “My dear Garens, you
can do this quite well. It will even be very funny. We are well bred, by
Jove! and we will put on our most distinguished manners and our grandest
style. Tell the abbe who we are, make him laugh, soften his heart, coax
him and persuade him!” “No, it is impossible.”

He drew his chair close to mine, and as he knew my special weakness, the
scamp continued: “Just think what a swaggering thing it will be to do
and how amusing to tell about; the whole army will talk about it, and it
will give you a famous reputation.”

I hesitated, for the adventure rather tempted me, and he persisted:
“Come, my little Garens. You are the head of this detachment, and you
alone can go and call on the head of the church in this neighborhood. I
beg of you to go, and I promise you that after the war I will relate the
whole affair in verse in the Revue de Deux Mondes. You owe this much to
your men, for you have made them march enough during the last month.”

I got up at last and asked: “Where is the priest's house?” “Take the
second turning at the end of the street, you will see an avenue, and at
the end of the avenue you will find the church. The parsonage is beside
it.” As I went out, he called out: “Tell him the bill of fare, to make
him hungry!”

I discovered the ecclesiastic's little house without any difficulty; it
was by the side of a large, ugly brick church. I knocked at the door
with my fist, as there was neither bell nor knocker, and a loud voice
from inside asked: “Who is there?” To which I replied: “A quartermaster
of hussars.”

I heard the noise of bolts and of a key being turned, and found myself
face to face with a tall priest with a large stomach, the chest of a
prizefighter, formidable hands projecting from turned-up sleeves, a red
face, and the look of a kind man. I gave him a military salute and said:
“Good-day, Monsieur le Cure.”

He had feared a surprise, some marauders' ambush, and he smiled as he
replied: “Good-day, my friend; come in.” I followed him into a small
room with a red tiled floor, in which a small fire was burning, very
different to Marchas' furnace, and he gave me a chair and said: “What
can I do for you?” “Monsieur, allow me first of all to introduce
myself”; and I gave him my card, which he took and read half aloud: “Le
Comte de Garens.”

I continued: “There are eleven of us here, Monsieur l'Abbe, five on
picket duty, and six installed at the house of an unknown inhabitant.
The names of the six are: Garens, myself; Pierre de Marchas, Ludovic de
Ponderel, Baron d'Streillis, Karl Massouligny, the painter's son, and
Joseph Herbon, a young musician. I have come to ask you, in their name
and my own, to do us the honor of supping with us. It is an Epiphany
supper, Monsieur le Cure, and we should like to make it a little
cheerful.”

The priest smiled and murmured: “It seems to me to be hardly a suitable
occasion for amusing one's self.” And I replied: “We are fighting during
the day, monsieur. Fourteen of our comrades have been killed in a month,
and three fell as late as yesterday. It is war time. We stake our life
at every moment; have we not, therefore, the right to amuse ourselves
freely? We are Frenchmen, we like to laugh, and we can laugh everywhere.
Our fathers laughed on the scaffold! This evening we should like to
cheer ourselves up a little, like gentlemen, and not like soldiers; you
understand me, I hope. Are we wrong?”

He replied quickly: “You are quite right, my friend, and I accept your
invitation with great pleasure.” Then he called out: “Hermance!”

An old bent, wrinkled, horrible peasant woman appeared and said: “What
do you want?” “I shall not dine at home, my daughter.” “Where are you
going to dine then?” “With some gentlemen, the hussars.”

I felt inclined to say: “Bring your servant with you,” just to see
Marchas' face, but I did not venture, and continued: “Do you know any
one among your parishioners, male or female, whom I could invite as
well?” He hesitated, reflected, and then said: “No, I do not know
anybody!”

I persisted: “Nobody! Come, monsieur, think; it would be very nice to
have some ladies, I mean to say, some married couples! I know nothing
about your parishioners. The baker and his wife, the grocer,
the—the—the—watchmaker—the—shoemaker—the—the druggist with Mrs.
Druggist. We have a good spread and plenty of wine, and we should be
enchanted to leave pleasant recollections of ourselves with the people
here.”

The priest thought again for a long time, and then said resolutely: “No,
there is nobody.” I began to laugh. “By Jove, Monsieur le Cure, it is
very annoying not to have an Epiphany queen, for we have the bean. Come,
think. Is there not a married mayor, or a married deputy mayor, or a
married municipal councillor or a schoolmaster?” “No, all the ladies
have gone away.” “What, is there not in the whole place some good
tradesman's wife with her good tradesman, to whom we might give this
pleasure, for it would be a pleasure to them, a great pleasure under
present circumstances?”

But, suddenly, the cure began to laugh, and laughed so violently that he
fairly shook, and presently exclaimed: “Ha! ha! ha! I have got what you
want, yes. I have got what you want! Ha! ha! ha! We will laugh and enjoy
ourselves, my children; we will have some fun. How pleased the ladies
will be, I say, how delighted they will be! Ha! ha! Where are you
staying?”

I described the house, and he understood where it was. “Very good,” he
said. “It belongs to Monsieur Bertin-Lavaille. I will be there in half
an hour, with four ladies! Ha! ha! ha! four ladies!”

He went out with me, still laughing, and left me, repeating: “That is
capital; in half an hour at Bertin-Lavaille's house.”

I returned quickly, very much astonished and very much puzzled. “Covers
for how many?” Marchas asked, as soon as he saw me. “Eleven. There are
six of us hussars, besides the priest and four ladies.” He was
thunderstruck, and I was triumphant. He repeated: “Four ladies! Did you
say, four ladies?” “I said four women.” “Real women?” “Real women.”
“Well, accept my compliments!” “I will, for I deserve them.”

He got out of his armchair, opened the door, and I saw a beautiful white
tablecloth on a long table, round which three hussars in blue aprons
were setting out the plates and glasses. “There are some women coming!”
Marchas cried. And the three men began to dance and to cheer with all
their might.

Everything was ready, and we were waiting. We waited for nearly an hour,
while a delicious smell of roast poultry pervaded the whole house. At
last, however, a knock against the shutters made us all jump up at the
same moment. Stout Ponderel ran to open the door, and in less than a
minute a little Sister of Mercy appeared in the doorway. She was thin,
wrinkled and timid, and successively greeted the four bewildered hussars
who saw her enter. Behind her, the noise of sticks sounded on the tiled
floor in the vestibule, and as soon as she had come into the drawing-
room, I saw three old heads in white caps, following each other one by
one, who came in, swaying with different movements, one inclining to the
right, while the other inclined to the left. And three worthy women
appeared, limping, dragging their legs behind them, crippled by illness
and deformed through old age, three infirm old women, past service, the
only three pensioners who were able to walk in the home presided over by
Sister Saint-Benedict.

She had turned round to her invalids, full of anxiety for them, and
then, seeing my quartermaster's stripes, she said to me: “I am much
obliged to you for thinking of these poor women. They have very little
pleasure in life, and you are at the same time giving them a great treat
and doing them a great honor.”

I saw the priest, who had remained in the dark hallway, and was laughing
heartily, and I began to laugh in my turn, especially when I saw
Marchas' face. Then, motioning the nun to the seats, I said:

“Sit down, sister; we are very proud and very happy that you have
accepted our unpretentious invitation.”

She took three chairs which stood against the wall, set them before the
fire, led her three old women to them, settled them on them, took their
sticks and shawls, which she put into a corner, and then, pointing to
the first, a thin woman with an enormous stomach, who was evidently
suffering from the dropsy, she said: “This is Mother Paumelle; whose
husband was killed by falling from a roof, and whose son died in Africa;
she is sixty years old.” Then she pointed to another, a tall woman,
whose head trembled unceasingly: “This is Mother Jean-Jean, who is
sixty-seven. She is nearly blind, for her face was terribly singed in a
fire, and her right leg was half burned off.”

Then she pointed to the third, a sort of dwarf, with protruding, round,
stupid eyes, which she rolled incessantly in all directions, “This is La
Putois, an idiot. She is only forty-four.”

I bowed to the three women as if I were being presented to some royal
highnesses, and turning to the priest, I said: “You are an excellent
man, Monsieur l'Abbe, to whom all of us here owe a debt of gratitude.”

Everybody was laughing, in fact, except Marchas, who seemed furious, and
just then Karl Massouligny cried: “Sister Saint-Benedict, supper is on
the table!”

I made her go first with the priest, then I helped up Mother Paumelle,
whose arm I took and dragged her into the next room, which was no easy
task, for she seemed heavier than a lump of iron.

Stout Ponderel gave his arm to Mother Jean-Jean, who bemoaned her
crutch, and little Joseph Herbon took the idiot, La Putois, to the
dining-room, which was filled with the odor of the viands.

As soon as we were opposite our plates, the sister clapped her hands
three times, and, with the precision of soldiers presenting arms, the
women made a rapid sign of the cross, and then the priest slowly
repeated the Benedictus in Latin. Then we sat down, and the two fowls
appeared, brought in by Marchas, who chose to wait at table, rather than
to sit down as a guest to this ridiculous repast.

But I cried: “Bring the champagne at once!” and a cork flew out with the
noise of a pistol, and in spite of the resistance of the priest and of
the kind sister, the three hussars, sitting by the side of the three
invalids, emptied their three full glasses down their throats by force.

Massouligny, who possessed the faculty of making himself at home, and of
being on good terms with every one, wherever he was, made love to Mother
Paumelle in the drollest manner. The dropsical woman, who had retained
her cheerfulness in spite of her misfortunes, answered him banteringly
in a high falsetto voice which appeared as if it were put on, and she
laughed so heartily at her neighbor's jokes that it was quite alarming.
Little Herbon had seriously undertaken the task of making the idiot
drunk, and Baron d'Streillis, whose wits were not always particularly
sharp, was questioning old Jean-Jean about the life, the habits, and the
rules of the hospital.

The nun said to Massouligny in consternation:

“Oh! oh! you will make her ill; pray do not make her laugh like that,
monsieur. Oh! monsieur—” Then she got up and rushed at Herbon to take
from him a full glass which he was hastily emptying down La Putois'
throat, while the priest shook with laughter, and said to the sister:
“Never mind; just this once, it will not hurt them. Do leave them
alone.”

After the two fowls they ate the duck, which was flanked by the three
pigeons and the blackbird, and then the goose appeared, smoking, golden-
brown, and diffusing a warm odor of hot, browned roast meat. La
Paumelle, who was getting lively, clapped her hands; La Jean-Jean left
off answering the baron's numerous questions, and La Putois uttered
grunts of pleasure, half cries and half sighs, as little children do
when one shows them candy. “Allow me to take charge of this animal,” the
cure said. “I understand these sort of operations better than most
people.” “Certainly, Monsieur l'Abbe,” and the sister said: “How would
it be to open the window a little? They are too warm, and I am afraid
they will be ill.”

I turned to Marchas: “Open the window for a minute.” He did so; the cold
outer air as it came in made the candles flare, and the steam from the
goose, which the cure was scientifically carving, with a table napkin
round his neck, whirl about. We watched him doing it, without speaking
now, for we were interested in his attractive handiwork, and seized with
renewed appetite at the sight of that enormous golden-brown bird, whose
limbs fell one after another into the brown gravy at the bottom of the
dish. At that moment, in the midst of that greedy silence which kept us
all attentive, the distant report of a shot came in at the open window.

I started to my feet so quickly that my chair fell down behind me, and I
shouted: “To saddle, all of you! You, Marchas, take two men and go and
see what it is. I shall expect you back here in five minutes.” And while
the three riders went off at full gallop through the night, I got into
the saddle with my three remaining hussars, in front of the steps of the
villa, while the cure, the sister and the three old women showed their
frightened faces at the window.

We heard nothing more, except the barking of a dog in the distance. The
rain had ceased, and it was cold, very cold, and soon I heard the gallop
of a horse, of a single horse, coming back. It was Marchas, and I called
out to him: “Well?” “It is nothing; Francois has wounded an old peasant
who refused to answer his challenge: 'Who goes there?' and who continued
to advance in spite of the order to keep off; but they are bringing him
here, and we shall see what is the matter.”

I gave orders for the horses to be put back in the stable, and I sent my
two soldiers to meet the others, and returned to the house. Then the
cure, Marchas, and I took a mattress into the room to lay the wounded
man on; the sister tore up a table napkin in order to make lint, while
the three frightened women remained huddled up in a corner.

Soon I heard the rattle of sabres on the road, and I took a candle to
show a light to the men who were returning; and they soon appeared,
carrying that inert, soft, long, sinister object which a human body
becomes when life no longer sustains it.

They put the wounded man on the mattress that had been prepared for him,
and I saw at the first glance that he was dying. He had the death rattle
and was spitting up blood, which ran out of the corners of his mouth at
every gasp. The man was covered with blood! His cheeks, his beard, his
hair, his neck and his clothes seemed to have been soaked, to have been
dipped in a red tub; and that blood stuck to him, and had become a dull
color which was horrible to look at.

The wounded man, wrapped up in a large shepherd's cloak, occasionally
opened his dull, vacant eyes, which seemed stupid with astonishment,
like those of animals wounded by a sportsman, which fall at his feet,
more than half dead already, stupefied with terror and surprise.

The cure exclaimed: “Ah, it is old Placide, the shepherd from Les
Moulins. He is deaf, poor man, and heard nothing. Ah! Oh, God! they have
killed the unhappy man!” The sister had opened his blouse and shirt, and
was looking at a little blue hole in his chest, which was not bleeding
any more. “There is nothing to be done,” she said.

The shepherd was gasping terribly and bringing up blood with every last
breath, and in his throat, to the very depth of his lungs, they could
hear an ominous and continued gurgling. The cure, standing in front of
him, raised his right hand, made the sign of the cross, and in a slow
and solemn voice pronounced the Latin words which purify men's souls,
but before they were finished, the old man's body trembled violently, as
if something had given way inside him, and he ceased to breathe. He was
dead.

When I turned round, I saw a sight which was even more horrible than the
death struggle of this unfortunate man; the three old women were
standing up huddled close together, hideous, and grimacing with fear and
horror. I went up to them, and they began to utter shrill screams, while
La Jean-Jean, whose burned leg could no longer support her, fell to the
ground at full length.

Sister Saint-Benedict left the dead man, ran up to her infirm old women,
and without a word or a look for me, wrapped their shawls round them,
gave them their crutches, pushed them to the door, made them go out, and
disappeared with them into the dark night.

I saw that I could not even let a hussar accompany them, for the mere
rattle of a sword would have sent them mad with fear.

The cure was still looking at the dead man; but at last he turned round
to me and said:

“Oh! What a horrible thing!”





THE MUSTACHE

CHATEAU DE SOLLES, July 30, 1883.

My Dear Lucy:

I have no news. We live in the drawing-room, looking out at the rain. We
cannot go out in this frightful weather, so we have theatricals. How
stupid they are, my dear, these drawing entertainments in the repertory
of real life! All is forced, coarse, heavy. The jokes are like cannon
balls, smashing everything in their passage. No wit, nothing natural, no
sprightliness, no elegance. These literary men, in truth, know nothing
of society. They are perfectly ignorant of how people think and talk in
our set. I do not mind if they despise our customs, our
conventionalities, but I do not forgive them for not knowing them. When
they want to be humorous they make puns that would do for a barrack;
when they try to be jolly, they give us jokes that they must have picked
up on the outer boulevard in those beer houses artists are supposed to
frequent, where one has heard the same students' jokes for fifty years.

So we have taken to Theatricals. As we are only two women, my husband
takes the part of a soubrette, and, in order to do that, he has shaved
off his mustache. You cannot imagine, my dear Lucy, how it changes him!
I no longer recognize him-by day or at night. If he did not let it grow
again I think I should no longer love him; he looks so horrid like this.

In fact, a man without a mustache is no longer a man. I do not care much
for a beard; it almost always makes a man look untidy. But a mustache,
oh, a mustache is indispensable to a manly face. No, you would never
believe how these little hair bristles on the upper lip are a relief to
the eye and good in other ways. I have thought over the matter a great
deal but hardly dare to write my thoughts. Words look so different on
paper and the subject is so difficult, so delicate, so dangerous that it
requires infinite skill to tackle it.

Well, when my husband appeared, shaven, I understood at once that I
never could fall in love with a strolling actor nor a preacher, even if
it were Father Didon, the most charming of all! Later when I was alone
with him (my husband) it was worse still. Oh, my dear Lucy, never let
yourself be kissed by a man without a mustache; their kisses have no
flavor, none whatever! They no longer have the charm, the mellowness and
the snap —yes, the snap—of a real kiss. The mustache is the spice.

Imagine placing to your lips a piece of dry—or moist—parchment. That is
the kiss of the man without a mustache. It is not worth while.

Whence comes this charm of the mustache, will you tell me? Do I know
myself? It tickles your face, you feel it approaching your mouth and it
sends a little shiver through you down to the tips of your toes.

And on your neck! Have you ever felt a mustache on your neck? It
intoxicates you, makes you feel creepy, goes to the tips of your
fingers. You wriggle, shake your shoulders, toss back your head. You
wish to get away and at the same time to remain there; it is delightful,
but irritating. But how good it is!

A lip without a mustache is like a body without clothing; and one must
wear clothes, very few, if you like, but still some clothing.

I recall a sentence (uttered by a politician) which has been running in
my mind for three months. My husband, who keeps up with the newspapers,
read me one evening a very singular speech by our Minister of
Agriculture, who was called M. Meline. He may have been superseded by
this time. I do not know.

I was paying no attention, but the name Meline struck me. It recalled, I
do not exactly know why, the 'Scenes de la vie de boheme'. I thought it
was about some grisette. That shows how scraps of the speech entered my
mind. This M. Meline was making this statement to the people of Amiens,
I believe, and I have ever since been trying to understand what he
meant: “There is no patriotism without agriculture!” Well, I have just
discovered his meaning, and I affirm in my turn that there is no love
without a mustache. When you say it that way it sounds comical, does it
not?

There is no love without a mustache!

“There is no patriotism without agriculture,” said M. Meline, and he was
right, that minister; I now understand why.

From a very different point of view the mustache is essential. It gives
character to the face. It makes a man look gentle, tender, violent, a
monster, a rake, enterprising! The hairy man, who does not shave off his
whiskers, never has a refined look, for his features are concealed; and
the shape of the jaw and the chin betrays a great deal to those who
understand.

The man with a mustache retains his own peculiar expression and his
refinement at the same time.

And how many different varieties of mustaches there are! Sometimes they
are twisted, curled, coquettish. Those seem to be chiefly devoted to
women.

Sometimes they are pointed, sharp as needles, and threatening. That kind
prefers wine, horses and war.

Sometimes they are enormous, overhanging, frightful. These big ones
generally conceal a fine disposition, a kindliness that borders on
weakness and a gentleness that savors of timidity.

But what I adore above all in the mustache is that it is French,
altogether French. It came from our ancestors, the Gauls, and has
remained the insignia of our national character.

It is boastful, gallant and brave. It sips wine gracefully and knows how
to laugh with refinement, while the broad-bearded jaws are clumsy in
everything they do.

I recall something that made me weep all my tears and also—I see it
now—made me love a mustache on a man's face.

It was during the war, when I was living with my father. I was a young
girl then. One day there was a skirmish near the chateau. I had heard
the firing of the cannon and of the artillery all the morning, and that
evening a German colonel came and took up his abode in our house. He
left the following day.

My father was informed that there were a number of dead bodies in the
fields. He had them brought to our place so that they might be buried
together. They were laid all along the great avenue of pines as fast as
they brought them in, on both sides of the avenue, and as they began to
smell unpleasant, their bodies were covered with earth until the deep
trench could be dug. Thus one saw only their heads which seemed to
protrude from the clayey earth and were almost as yellow, with their
closed eyes.

I wanted to see them. But when I saw those two rows of frightful faces,
I thought I should faint. However, I began to look at them, one by one,
trying to guess what kind of men these had been.

The uniforms were concealed beneath the earth, and yet immediately, yes,
immediately, my dear, I recognized the Frenchmen by their mustache!

Some of them had shaved on the very day of the battle, as though they
wished to be elegant up to the last; others seemed to have a week's
growth, but all wore the French mustache, very plain, the proud mustache
that seems to say: “Do not take me for my bearded friend, little one; I
am a brother.”

And I cried, oh, I cried a great deal more than I should if I had not
recognized them, the poor dead fellows.

It was wrong of me to tell you this. Now I am sad and cannot chatter any
longer. Well, good-by, dear Lucy. I send you a hearty kiss. Long live
the mustache! JEANNE.





MADAME BAPTISTE

The first thing I did was to look at the clock as I entered the waiting-
room of the station at Loubain, and I found that I had to wait two hours
and ten minutes for the Paris express.

I had walked twenty miles and felt suddenly tired. Not seeing anything
on the station walls to amuse me, I went outside and stood there racking
my brains to think of something to do. The street was a kind of
boulevard, planted with acacias, and on either side a row of houses of
varying shape and different styles of architecture, houses such as one
only sees in a small town, and ascended a slight hill, at the extreme
end of which there were some trees, as though it ended in a park.

From time to time a cat crossed the street and jumped over the gutters
carefully. A cur sniffed at every tree and hunted for scraps from the
kitchens, but I did not see a single human being, and I felt listless
and disheartened. What could I do with myself? I was already thinking of
the inevitable and interminable visit to the small cafe at the railway
station, where I should have to sit over a glass of undrinkable beer and
the illegible newspaper, when I saw a funeral procession coming out of a
side street into the one in which I was, and the sight of the hearse was
a relief to me. It would, at any rate, give me something to do for ten
minutes.

Suddenly, however, my curiosity was aroused. The hearse was followed by
eight gentlemen, one of whom was weeping, while the others were chatting
together, but there was no priest, and I thought to myself:

“This is a non-religious funeral,” and then I reflected that a town like
Loubain must contain at least a hundred freethinkers, who would have
made a point of making a manifestation. What could it be, then? The
rapid pace of the procession clearly proved that the body was to be
buried without ceremony, and, consequently, without the intervention of
the Church.

My idle curiosity framed the most complicated surmises, and as the
hearse passed me, a strange idea struck me, which was to follow it, with
the eight gentlemen. That would take up my time for an hour, at least,
and I accordingly walked with the others, with a sad look on my face,
and, on seeing this, the two last turned round in surprise, and then
spoke to each other in a low voice.

No doubt they were asking each other whether I belonged to the town, and
then they consulted the two in front of them, who stared at me in turn.
This close scrutiny annoyed me, and to put an end to it I went up to
them, and, after bowing, I said:

“I beg your pardon, gentlemen, for interrupting your conversation, but,
seeing a civil funeral, I have followed it, although I did not know the
deceased gentleman whom you are accompanying.”

“It was a woman,” one of them said.

I was much surprised at hearing this, and asked:

“But it is a civil funeral, is it not?”

The other gentleman, who evidently wished to tell me all about it, then
said: “Yes and no. The clergy have refused to allow us the use of the
church.”

On hearing this I uttered a prolonged “A-h!” of astonishment. I could
not understand it at all, but my obliging neighbor continued:

“It is rather a long story. This young woman committed suicide, and that
is the reason why she cannot be buried with any religious ceremony. The
gentleman who is walking first, and who is crying, is her husband.”

I replied with some hesitation:

“You surprise and interest me very much, monsieur. Shall I be indiscreet
if I ask you to tell me the facts of the case? If I am troubling you,
forget that I have said anything about the matter.”

The gentleman took my arm familiarly.

“Not at all, not at all. Let us linger a little behind the others, and I
will tell it you, although it is a very sad story. We have plenty of
time before getting to the cemetery, the trees of which you see up
yonder, for it is a stiff pull up this hill.”

And he began:

“This young woman, Madame Paul Hamot, was the daughter of a wealthy
merchant in the neighborhood, Monsieur Fontanelle. When she was a mere
child of eleven, she had a shocking adventure; a footman attacked her
and she nearly died. A terrible criminal case was the result, and the
man was sentenced to penal servitude for life.

“The little girl grew up, stigmatized by disgrace, isolated, without any
companions; and grown-up people would scarcely kiss her, for they
thought that they would soil their lips if they touched her forehead,
and she became a sort of monster, a phenomenon to all the town. People
said to each other in a whisper: 'You know, little Fontanelle,' and
everybody turned away in the streets when she passed. Her parents could
not even get a nurse to take her out for a walk, as the other servants
held aloof from her, as if contact with her would poison everybody who
came near her.

“It was pitiable to see the poor child go and play every afternoon. She
remained quite by herself, standing by her maid and looking at the other
children amusing themselves. Sometimes, yielding to an irresistible
desire to mix with the other children, she advanced timidly, with
nervous gestures, and mingled with a group, with furtive steps, as if
conscious of her own disgrace. And immediately the mothers, aunts and
nurses would come running from every seat and take the children
entrusted to their care by the hand and drag them brutally away.

“Little Fontanelle remained isolated, wretched, without understanding
what it meant, and then she began to cry, nearly heartbroken with grief,
and then she used to run and hide her head in her nurse's lap, sobbing.

“As she grew up, it was worse still. They kept the girls from her, as if
she were stricken with the plague. Remember that she had nothing to
learn, nothing; that she no longer had the right to the symbolical
wreath of orange-flowers; that almost before she could read she had
penetrated that redoubtable mystery which mothers scarcely allow their
daughters to guess at, trembling as they enlighten them on the night of
their marriage.

“When she went through the streets, always accompanied by her governess,
as if, her parents feared some fresh, terrible adventure, with her eyes
cast down under the load of that mysterious disgrace which she felt was
always weighing upon her, the other girls, who were not nearly so
innocent as people thought, whispered and giggled as they looked at her
knowingly, and immediately turned their heads absently, if she happened
to look at them. People scarcely greeted her; only a few men bowed to
her, and the mothers pretended not to see her, while some young
blackguards called her Madame Baptiste, after the name of the footman
who had attacked her.

“Nobody knew the secret torture of her mind, for she hardly ever spoke,
and never laughed, and her parents themselves appeared uncomfortable in
her presence, as if they bore her a constant grudge for some irreparable
fault.

“An honest man would not willingly give his hand to a liberated convict,
would he, even if that convict were his own son? And Monsieur and Madame
Fontanelle looked on their daughter as they would have done on a son who
had just been released from the hulks. She was pretty and pale, tall,
slender, distinguished-looking, and she would have pleased me very much,
monsieur, but for that unfortunate affair.

“Well, when a new sub-prefect was appointed here, eighteen months ago,
he brought his private secretary with him. He was a queer sort of
fellow, who had lived in the Latin Quarter, it appears. He saw
Mademoiselle Fontanelle and fell in love with her, and when told of what
occurred, he merely said:

“'Bah! That is just a guarantee for the future, and I would rather it
should have happened before I married her than afterward. I shall live
tranquilly with that woman.'

“He paid his addresses to her, asked for her hand and married her, and
then, not being deficient in assurance, he paid wedding calls, as if
nothing had happened. Some people returned them, others did not; but, at
last, the affair began to be forgotten, and she took her proper place in
society.

“She adored her husband as if he had been a god; for, you must remember,
he had restored her to honor and to social life, had braved public
opinion, faced insults, and, in a word, performed such a courageous act
as few men would undertake, and she felt the most exalted and tender
love for him.

“When she became enceinte, and it was known, the most particular people
and the greatest sticklers opened their doors to her, as if she had been
definitely purified by maternity.

“It is strange, but so it is, and thus everything was going on as well
as possible until the other day, which was the feast of the patron saint
of our town. The prefect, surrounded by his staff and the authorities,
presided at the musical competition, and when he had finished his speech
the distribution of medals began, which Paul Hamot, his private
secretary, handed to those who were entitled to them.

“As you know, there are always jealousies and rivalries, which make
people forget all propriety. All the ladies of the town were there on
the platform, and, in his turn, the bandmaster from the village of
Mourmillon came up. This band was only to receive a second-class medal,
for one cannot give first-class medals to everybody, can one? But when
the private secretary handed him his badge, the man threw it in his face
and exclaimed:

“'You may keep your medal for Baptiste. You owe him a first-class one,
also, just as you do me.'

“There were a number of people there who began to laugh. The common herd
are neither charitable nor refined, and every eye was turned toward that
poor lady. Have you ever seen a woman going mad, monsieur? Well, we were
present at the sight! She got up and fell back on her chair three times
in succession, as if she wished to make her escape, but saw that she
could not make her way through the crowd, and then another voice in the
crowd exclaimed:

“'Oh! Oh! Madame Baptiste!'

“And a great uproar, partly of laughter and partly of indignation,
arose. The word was repeated over and over again; people stood on tiptoe
to see the unhappy woman's face; husbands lifted their wives up in their
arms, so that they might see her, and people asked:

“'Which is she? The one in blue?'

“The boys crowed like cocks, and laughter was heard all over the place.

“She did not move now on her state chair, but sat just as if she had
been put there for the crowd to look at. She could not move, nor conceal
herself, nor hide her face. Her eyelids blinked quickly, as if a vivid
light were shining on them, and she breathed heavily, like a horse that
is going up a steep hill, so that it almost broke one's heart to see
her. Meanwhile, however, Monsieur Hamot had seized the ruffian by the
throat, and they were rolling on the ground together, amid a scene of
indescribable confusion, and the ceremony was interrupted.

“An hour later, as the Hamots were returning home, the young woman, who
had not uttered a word since the insult, but who was trembling as if all
her nerves had been set in motion by springs, suddenly sprang over the
parapet of the bridge and threw herself into the river before her
husband could prevent her. The water is very deep under the arches, and
it was two hours before her body was recovered. Of course, she was
dead.”

The narrator stopped and then added:

“It was, perhaps, the best thing she could do under the circumstances.
There are some things which cannot be wiped out, and now you understand
why the clergy refused to have her taken into church. Ah! If it had been
a religious funeral the whole town would have been present, but you can
understand that her suicide added to the other affair and made families
abstain from attending her funeral; and then, it is not an easy matter
here to attend a funeral which is performed without religious rites.”

We passed through the cemetery gates and I waited, much moved by what I
had heard, until the coffin had been lowered into the grave, before I
went up to the poor fellow who was sobbing violently, to press his hand
warmly. He looked at me in surprise through his tears and then said:

“Thank you, monsieur.” And I was not sorry that I had followed the
funeral.





THE QUESTION OF LATIN

This subject of Latin that has been dinned into our ears for some time
past recalls to my mind a story—a story of my youth.

I was finishing my studies with a teacher, in a big central town, at the
Institution Robineau, celebrated through the entire province for the
special attention paid there to the study of Latin.

For the past ten years, the Robineau Institute beat the imperial lycee
of the town at every competitive examination, and all the colleges of
the subprefecture, and these constant successes were due, they said, to
an usher, a simple usher, M. Piquedent, or rather Pere Piquedent.

He was one of those middle-aged men quite gray, whose real age it is
impossible to tell, and whose history we can guess at first glance.
Having entered as an usher at twenty into the first institution that
presented itself so that he could proceed to take first his degree of
Master of Arts and afterward the degree of Doctor of Laws, he found
himself so enmeshed in this routine that he remained an usher all his
life. But his love for Latin did not leave him and harassed him like an
unhealthy passion. He continued to read the poets, the prose writers,
the historians, to interpret them and penetrate their meaning, to
comment on them with a perseverance bordering on madness.

One day, the idea came into his head to oblige all the students in his
class to answer him in Latin only; and he persisted in this resolution
until at last they were capable of sustaining an entire conversation
with him just as they would in their mother tongue. He listened to them,
as a leader of an orchestra listens to his musicians rehearsing, and
striking his desk every moment with his ruler, he exclaimed:

“Monsieur Lefrere, Monsieur Lefrere, you are committing a solecism! You
forget the rule.

“Monsieur Plantel, your way of expressing yourself is altogether French
and in no way Latin. You must understand the genius of a language. Look
here, listen to me.”

Now, it came to pass that the pupils of the Institution Robineau carried
off, at the end of the year, all the prizes for composition,
translation, and Latin conversation.

Next year, the principal, a little man, as cunning as an ape, whom he
resembled in his grinning and grotesque appearance, had had printed on
his programmes, on his advertisements, and painted on the door of his
institution:

“Latin Studies a Specialty. Five first prizes carried off in the five
classes of the lycee.

“Two honor prizes at the general examinations in competition with all
the lycees and colleges of France.”

For ten years the Institution Robineau triumphed in the same fashion.
Now my father, allured by these successes, sent me as a day pupil to
Robineau's—or, as we called it, Robinetto or Robinettino's—and made me
take special private lessons from Pere Piquedent at the rate of five
francs per hour, out of which the usher got two francs and the principal
three francs. I was then eighteen, and was in the philosophy class.

These private lessons were given in a little room looking out on the
street. It so happened that Pere Piquedent, instead of talking Latin to
me, as he did when teaching publicly in the institution, kept telling me
his troubles in French. Without relations, without friends, the poor man
conceived an attachment to me, and poured out his misery to me.

He had never for the last ten or fifteen years chatted confidentially
with any one.

“I am like an oak in a desert,” he said—“'sicut quercus in solitudine'.”

The other ushers disgusted him. He knew nobody in the town, since he had
no time to devote to making acquaintances.

“Not even the nights, my friend, and that is the hardest thing on me.
The dream of my life is to have a room with my own furniture, my own
books, little things that belong to myself and which others may not
touch. And I have nothing of my own, nothing except my trousers and my
frock-coat, nothing, not even my mattress and my pillow! I have not four
walls to shut myself up in, except when I come to give a lesson in this
room. Do you see what this means—a man forced to spend his life without
ever having the right, without ever finding the time, to shut himself up
all alone, no matter where, to think, to reflect, to work, to dream? Ah!
my dear boy, a key, the key of a door which one can lock—this is
happiness, mark you, the only happiness!

“Here, all day long, teaching all those restless rogues, and during the
night the dormitory with the same restless rogues snoring. And I have to
sleep in the bed at the end of two rows of beds occupied by these
youngsters whom I must look after. I can never be alone, never! If I go
out I find the streets full of people, and, when I am tired of walking,
I go into some cafe crowded with smokers and billiard players. I tell
you what, it is the life of a galley slave.”

I said:

“Why did you not take up some other line, Monsieur Piquedent?”

He exclaimed:

“What, my little friend? I am not a shoemaker, or a joiner, or a hatter,
or a baker, or a hairdresser. I only know Latin, and I have no diploma
which would enable me to sell my knowledge at a high price. If I were a
doctor I would sell for a hundred francs what I now sell for a hundred
sous; and I would supply it probably of an inferior quality, for my
title would be enough to sustain my reputation.”

Sometimes he would say to me:

“I have no rest in life except in the hours spent with you. Don't be
afraid! you'll lose nothing by that. I'll make it up to you in the
class-room by making you speak twice as much Latin as the others.”

One day, I grew bolder, and offered him a cigarette. He stared at me in
astonishment at first, then he gave a glance toward the door.

“If any one were to come in, my dear boy?”

“Well, let us smoke at the window,” said I.

And we went and leaned our elbows on the windowsill looking on the
street, holding concealed in our hands the little rolls of tobacco. Just
opposite to us was a laundry. Four women in loose white waists were
passing hot, heavy irons over the linen spread out before them, from
which a warm steam arose.

Suddenly, another, a fifth, carrying on her arm a large basket which
made her stoop, came out to take the customers their shirts, their
handkerchiefs, and their sheets. She stopped on the threshold as if she
were already fatigued; then, she raised her eyes, smiled as she saw us
smoking, flung at us, with her left hand, which was free, the sly kiss
characteristic of a free-and-easy working-woman, and went away at a slow
place, dragging her feet as she went.

She was a woman of about twenty, small, rather thin, pale, rather
pretty, with a roguish air and laughing eyes beneath her ill-combed fair
hair.

Pere Piquedent, affected, began murmuring:

“What an occupation for a woman! Really a trade only fit for a horse.”

And he spoke with emotion about the misery of the people. He had a heart
which swelled with lofty democratic sentiment, and he referred to the
fatiguing pursuits of the working class with phrases borrowed from Jean-
Jacques Rousseau, and with sobs in his throat.

Next day, as we were leaning our elbows on the same window sill, the
same woman perceived us and cried out to us:

“Good-day, scholars!” in a comical sort of tone, while she made a
contemptuous gesture with her hands.

I flung her a cigarette, which she immediately began to smoke. And the
four other ironers rushed out to the door with outstretched hands to get
cigarettes also.

And each day a friendly intercourse was established between the working-
women of the pavement and the idlers of the boarding school.

Pere Piquedent was really a comical sight. He trembled at being noticed,
for he might lose his position; and he made timid and ridiculous
gestures, quite a theatrical display of love signals, to which the women
responded with a regular fusillade of kisses.

A perfidious idea came into my mind. One day, on entering our room, I
said to the old usher in a low tone:

“You would not believe it, Monsieur Piquedent, I met the little
washerwoman! You know the one I mean, the woman who had the basket, and
I spoke to her!”

He asked, rather worried at my manner:

“What did she say to you?”

“She said to me—why, she said she thought you were very nice. The fact
of the matter is, I believe, I believe, that she is a little in love
with you.” I saw that he was growing pale.

“She is laughing at me, of course. These things don't happen at my age,”
he replied.

I said gravely:

“How is that? You are all right.”

As I felt that my trick had produced its effect on him, I did not press
the matter.

But every day I pretended that I had met the little laundress and that I
had spoken to her about him, so that in the end he believed me, and sent
her ardent and earnest kisses.

Now it happened that one morning, on my way to the boarding school, I
really came across her. I accosted her without hesitation, as if I had
known her for the last ten years.

“Good-day, mademoiselle. Are you quite well?”

“Very well, monsieur, thank you.”

“Will you have a cigarette?”

“Oh! not in the street.”

“You can smoke it at home.”

“In that case, I will.”

“Let me tell you, mademoiselle, there's something you don't know.”

“What is that, monsieur?”

“The old gentleman—my old professor, I mean—”

“Pere Piquedent?”

“Yes, Pere Piquedent. So you know his name?”

“Faith, I do! What of that?”

“Well, he is in love with you!”

She burst out laughing wildly, and exclaimed:

“You are only fooling.”

“Oh! no, I am not fooling! He keeps talking of you all through the
lesson. I bet that he'll marry you!”

She ceased laughing. The idea of marriage makes every girl serious. Then
she repeated, with an incredulous air:

“This is humbug!”

“I swear to you, it's true.”

She picked up her basket which she had laid down at her feet.

“Well, we'll see,” she said. And she went away.

Presently when I had reached the boarding school, I took Pere Piquedent
aside, and said:

“You must write to her; she is infatuated with you.”

And he wrote a long letter, tenderly affectionate, full of phrases and
circumlocutions, metaphors and similes, philosophy and academic
gallantry; and I took on myself the responsibility of delivering it to
the young woman.

She read it with gravity, with emotion; then she murmured:

“How well he writes! It is easy to see he has got education! Does he
really mean to marry me?”

I replied intrepidly: “Faith, he has lost his head about you!”

“Then he must invite me to dinner on Sunday at the Ile des Fleurs.”

I promised that she should be invited.

Pere Piquedent was much touched by everything I told him about her.

I added:

“She loves you, Monsieur Piquedent, and I believe her to be a decent
girl. It is not right to lead her on and then abandon her.”

He replied in a firm tone:

“I hope I, too, am a decent man, my friend.”

I confess I had at the time no plan. I was playing a practical joke a
schoolboy joke, nothing more. I had been aware of the simplicity of the
old usher, his innocence and his weakness. I amused myself without
asking myself how it would turn out. I was eighteen, and I had been for
a long time looked upon at the lycee as a sly practical joker.

So it was agreed that Pere Piquedent and I should set out in a hack for
the ferry of Queue de Vache, that we should there pick up Angele, and
that I should take them into my boat, for in those days I was fond of
boating. I would then bring them to the Ile des Fleurs, where the three
of us would dine. I had inflicted myself on them, the better to enjoy my
triumph, and the usher, consenting to my arrangement, proved clearly
that he was losing his head by thus risking the loss of his position.

When we arrived at the ferry, where my boat had been moored since
morning, I saw in the grass, or rather above the tall weeds of the bank,
an enormous red parasol, resembling a monstrous wild poppy. Beneath the
parasol was the little laundress in her Sunday clothes. I was surprised.
She was really pretty, though pale; and graceful, though with a rather
suburban grace.

Pere Piquedent raised his hat and bowed. She put out her hand toward
him, and they stared at one another without uttering a word. Then they
stepped into my boat, and I took the oars. They were seated side by side
near the stern.

The usher was the first to speak.

“This is nice weather for a row in a boat.”

She murmured:

“Oh! yes.”

She dipped her hand into the water, skimming the surface, making a thin,
transparent film like a sheet of glass, which made a soft plashing along
the side of the boat.

When they were in the restaurant, she took it on herself to speak, and
ordered dinner, fried fish, a chicken, and salad; then she led us on
toward the isle, which she knew perfectly.

After this, she was gay, romping, and even rather tantalizing.

Until dessert, no question of love arose. I had treated them to
champagne, and Pere Piquedent was tipsy. Herself slightly the worse, she
called out to him:

“Monsieur Piquenez.”

He said abruptly:

“Mademoiselle, Monsieur Raoul has communicated my sentiments to you.”

She became as serious as a judge.

“Yes, monsieur.”

“What is your reply?”

“We never reply to these questions!”

He puffed with emotion, and went on:

“Well, will the day ever come that you will like me?”

She smiled.

“You big stupid! You are very nice.”

“In short, mademoiselle, do you think that, later on, we might—”

She hesitated a second; then in a trembling voice she said:

“Do you mean to marry me when you say that? For on no other condition,
you know.”

“Yes, mademoiselle!”

“Well, that's all right, Monsieur Piquedent!”

It was thus that these two silly creatures promised marriage to each
other through the trick of a young scamp. But I did not believe that it
was serious, nor, indeed, did they, perhaps.

“You know, I have nothing, not four sous,” she said.

He stammered, for he was as drunk as Silenus:

“I have saved five thousand francs.”

She exclaimed triumphantly:

“Then we can set up in business?”

He became restless.

“In what business?”

“What do I know? We shall see. With five thousand francs we could do
many things. You don't want me to go and live in your boarding school,
do you?”

He had not looked forward so far as this, and he stammered in great
perplexity:

“What business could we set up in? That would not do, for all I know is
Latin!”

She reflected in her turn, passing in review all her business ambitions.

“You could not be a doctor?”

“No, I have no diploma.”

“Or a chemist?”

“No more than the other.”

She uttered a cry of joy. She had discovered it.

“Then we'll buy a grocer's shop! Oh! what luck! we'll buy a grocer's
shop. Not on a big scale, of course; with five thousand francs one does
not go far.”

He was shocked at the suggestion.

“No, I can't be a grocer. I am—I am—too well known: I only know Latin,
that is all I know.”

But she poured a glass of champagne down his throat. He drank it and was
silent.

We got back into the boat. The night was dark, very dark. I saw clearly,
however, that he had caught her by the waist, and that they were hugging
each other again and again.

It was a frightful catastrophe. Our escapade was discovered, with the
result that Pere Piquedent was dismissed. And my father, in a fit of
anger, sent me to finish my course of philosophy at Ribaudet's school.

Six months later I took my degree of Bachelor of Arts. Then I went to
study law in Paris, and did not return to my native town till two years
later.

At the corner of the Rue de Serpent a shop caught my eye. Over the door
were the words: “Colonial Products—Piquedent”; then underneath, so as to
enlighten the most ignorant: “Grocery.”

I exclaimed:

“'Quantum mutatus ab illo!'”

Piquedent raised his head, left his female customer, and rushed toward
me with outstretched hands.

“Ah! my young friend, my young friend, here you are! What luck! what
luck!”

A beautiful woman, very plump, abruptly left the cashier's desk and
flung herself on my breast. I had some difficulty in recognizing her,
she had grown so stout.

I asked:

“So then you're doing well?”

Piquedent had gone back to weigh the groceries.

“Oh! very well, very well, very well. I have made three thousand francs
clear this year!”

“And what about Latin, Monsieur Piquedent?”

“Oh, good heavens! Latin, Latin, Latin—you see it does not keep the pot
boiling!”





A MEETING

It was nothing but an accident, an accident pure and simple. On that
particular evening the princess' rooms were open, and as they appeared
dark after the brilliantly lighted parlors, Baron d'Etraille, who was
tired of standing, inadvertently wandered into an empty bedroom.

He looked round for a chair in which to have a doze, as he was sure his
wife would not leave before daylight. As soon as he became accustomed to
the light of the room he distinguished the big bed with its azure-and-
gold hangings, in the middle of the great room, looking like a
catafalque in which love was buried, for the princess was no longer
young. Behind it, a large bright surface looked like a lake seen at a
distance. It was a large mirror, discreetly covered with dark drapery,
that was very rarely let down, and seemed to look at the bed, which was
its accomplice. One might almost fancy that it had reminiscences, and
that one might see in it charming female forms and the gentle movement
of loving arms.

The baron stood still for a moment, smiling, almost experiencing an
emotion on the threshold of this chamber dedicated to love. But suddenly
something appeared in the looking-glass, as if the phantoms which he had
evoked had risen up before him. A man and a woman who had been sitting
on a low couch concealed in the shadow had arisen, and the polished
surface, reflecting their figures, showed that they were kissing each
other before separating.

Baron d'Etraille recognized his wife and the Marquis de Cervigne. He
turned and went away like a man who is fully master of himself, and
waited till it was day before taking away the baroness; but he had no
longer any thoughts of sleeping.

As soon as they were alone he said:

“Madame, I saw you just now in Princesse de Raynes' room; I need say no
more, and I am not fond either of reproaches, acts of violence, or of
ridicule. As I wish to avoid all such things, we shall separate without
any scandal. Our lawyers will settle your position according to my
orders. You will be free to live as you please when you are no longer
under my roof; but, as you will continue to bear my name, I must warn
you that should any scandal arise I shall show myself inflexible.”

She tried to speak, but he stopped her, bowed, and left the room.

He was more astonished and sad than unhappy. He had loved her dearly
during the first period of their married life; but his ardor had cooled,
and now he often amused himself elsewhere, either in a theatre or in
society, though he always preserved a certain liking for the baroness.

She was very young, hardly four-and-twenty, small, slight—too slight—and
very fair. She was a true Parisian doll: clever, spoiled, elegant,
coquettish, witty, with more charm than real beauty. He used to say
familiarly to his brother, when speaking of her:

“My wife is charming, attractive, but—there is nothing to lay hold of.
She is like a glass of champagne that is all froth; when you get to the
wine it is very good, but there is too little of it, unfortunately.”

He walked up and down the room in great agitation, thinking of a
thousand things. At one moment he was furious, and felt inclined to give
the marquis a good thrashing, or to slap his face publicly, in the club.
But he decided that would not do, it would not be good form; he would be
laughed at, and not his rival, and this thought wounded his vanity. So
he went to bed, but could not sleep. Paris knew in a few days that the
Baron and Baroness d'Etraille had agreed to an amicable separation on
account of incompatibility of temper. No one suspected anything, no one
laughed, and no one was astonished.

The baron, however, to avoid meeting his wife, travelled for a year,
then spent the summer at the seaside, and the autumn in shooting,
returning to Paris for the winter. He did not meet the baroness once.

He did not even know what people said about her. In any case, she took
care to respect appearances, and that was all he asked for.

He became dreadfully bored, travelled again, restored his old castle of
Villebosc, which took him two years; then for over a year he entertained
friends there, till at last, tired of all these so-called pleasures, he
returned to his mansion in the Rue de Lille, just six years after the
separation.

He was now forty-five, with a good crop of gray hair, rather stout, and
with that melancholy look characteristic of those who have been
handsome, sought after, and liked, but who are deteriorating, daily.

A month after his return to Paris, he took cold on coming out of his
club, and had such a bad cough that his medical man ordered him to Nice
for the rest of the winter.

He reached the station only a few minutes before the departure of the
train on Monday evening, and had barely time to get into a carriage,
with only one other occupant, who was sitting in a corner so wrapped in
furs and cloaks that he could not even make out whether it was a man or
a woman, as nothing of the figure could be seen. When he perceived that
he could not find out, he put on his travelling cap, rolled himself up
in his rugs, and stretched out comfortably to sleep.

He did not wake until the day was breaking, and looked at once at his
fellow-traveller, who had not stirred all night, and seemed still to be
sound asleep.

M. d'Etraille made use of the opportunity to brush his hair and his
beard, and to try to freshen himself up a little generally, for a
night's travel does not improve one's appearance when one has attained a
certain age.

A great poet has said:

“When we are young, our mornings are triumphant!”

Then we wake up with a cool skin, a bright eye, and glossy hair.

As one grows older one wakes up in a very different condition. Dull
eyes, red, swollen cheeks, dry lips, hair and beard disarranged, impart
an old, fatigued, worn-out look to the face.

The baron opened his travelling case, and improved his looks as much as
possible.

The engine whistled, the train stopped, and his neighbor moved. No doubt
he was awake. They started off again, and then a slanting ray of
sunlight shone into the carriage and on the sleeper, who moved again,
shook himself, and then his face could be seen.

It was a young, fair, pretty, plump woman, and the baron looked at her
in amazement. He did not know what to think. He could really have sworn
that it was his wife, but wonderfully changed for the better: stouter
—why she had grown as stout as he was, only it suited her much better
than it did him.

She looked at him calmly, did not seem to recognize him, and then slowly
laid aside her wraps. She had that quiet assurance of a woman who is
sure of herself, who feels that on awaking she is in her full beauty and
freshness.

The baron was really bewildered. Was it his wife, or else as like her as
any sister could be? Not having seen her for six years, he might be
mistaken.

She yawned, and this gesture betrayed her. She turned and looked at him
again, calmly, indifferently, as if she scarcely saw him, and then
looked out of the window again.

He was upset and dreadfully perplexed, and kept looking at her sideways.

Yes; it was surely his wife. How could he possibly have doubted it?
There could certainly not be two noses like that, and a thousand
recollections flashed through his mind. He felt the old feeling of the
intoxication of love stealing over him, and he called to mind the sweet
odor of her skin, her smile when she put her arms on to his shoulders,
the soft intonations of her voice, all her graceful, coaxing ways.

But how she had changed and improved! It was she and yet not she. She
seemed riper, more developed, more of a woman, more seductive, more
desirable, adorably desirable.

And this strange, unknown woman, whom he had accidentally met in a
railway carriage, belonged to him; he had only to say to her:

“I insist upon it.”

He had formerly slept in her arms, existed only in her love, and now he
had found her again certainly, but so changed that he scarcely knew her.
It was another, and yet it was she herself. It was some one who had been
born and had formed and grown since he had left her. It was she, indeed;
she whom he had loved, but who was now altered, with a more assured
smile and greater self-possession. There were two women in one, mingling
a great part of what was new and unknown with many sweet recollections
of the past. There was something singular, disturbing, exciting about it
—a kind of mystery of love in which there floated a delicious confusion.
It was his wife in a new body and in new flesh which lips had never
pressed.

And he thought that in a few years nearly every thing changes in us;
only the outline can be recognized, and sometimes even that disappears.

The blood, the hair, the skin, all changes and is renewed, and when
people have not seen each other for a long time, when they meet they
find each other totally different beings, although they are the same and
bear the same name.

And the heart also can change. Ideas may be modified and renewed, so
that in forty years of life we may, by gradual and constant
transformations, become four or five totally new and different beings.

He dwelt on this thought till it troubled him; it had first taken
possession of him when he surprised her in the princess' room. He was
not the least angry; it was not the same woman that he was looking at
—that thin, excitable little doll of those days.

What was he to do? How should he address her? and what could he say to
her? Had she recognized him?

The train stopped again. He got up, bowed, and said: “Bertha, do you
want anything I could bring you?”

She looked at him from head to foot, and answered, without showing the
slightest surprise, or confusion, or anger, but with the most perfect
indifference:

“I do not want anything—-thank you.”

He got out and walked up and down the platform a little in order to
recover himself, and, as it were, to recover his senses after a fall.
What should he do now? If he got into another carriage it would look as
if he were running away. Should he be polite or importunate? That would
look as if he were asking for forgiveness. Should he speak as if he were
her master? He would look like a fool, and, besides, he really had no
right to do so.

He got in again and took his place.

During his absence she had hastily arranged her dress and hair, and was
now lying stretched out on the seat, radiant, and without showing any
emotion.

He turned to her, and said: “My dear Bertha, since this singular chance
has brought up together after a separation of six years—a quite friendly
separation—are we to continue to look upon each other as irreconcilable
enemies? We are shut up together, tete-a-tete, which is so much the
better or so much the worse. I am not going to get into another
carriage, so don't you think it is preferable to talk as friends till
the end of our journey?”

She answered, quite calmly again:

“Just as you please.”

Then he suddenly stopped, really not knowing what to say; but as he had
plenty of assurance, he sat down on the middle seat, and said:

“Well, I see I must pay my court to you; so much the better. It is,
however, really a pleasure, for you are charming. You cannot imagine how
you have improved in the last six years. I do not know any woman who
could give me that delightful sensation which I experienced just now
when you emerged from your wraps. I really could not have thought such a
change possible.”

Without moving her head or looking at him, she said: “I cannot say the
same with regard to you; you have certainly deteriorated a great deal.”

He got red and confused, and then, with a smile of resignation, he said:

“You are rather hard.”

“Why?” was her reply. “I am only stating facts. I don't suppose you
intend to offer me your love? It must, therefore, be a matter of perfect
indifference to you what I think about you. But I see it is a painful
subject, so let us talk of something else. What have you been doing
since I last saw you?”

He felt rather out of countenance, and stammered:

“I? I have travelled, done some shooting, and grown old, as you see. And
you?”

She said, quite calmly: “I have taken care of appearances, as you
ordered me.”

He was very nearly saying something brutal, but he checked himself; and
kissed his wife's hand:

“And I thank you,” he said.

She was surprised. He was indeed diplomatic, and always master of
himself.

He went on: “As you have acceded to my first request, shall we now talk
without any bitterness?”

She made a little movement of surprise.

“Bitterness? I don't feel any; you are a complete stranger to me; I am
only trying to keep up a difficult conversation.”

He was still looking at her, fascinated in spite of her harshness, and
he felt seized with a brutal Beside, the desire of the master.

Perceiving that she had hurt his feelings, she said:

“How old are you now? I thought you were younger than you look.”

“I am forty-five”; and then he added: “I forgot to ask after Princesse
de Raynes. Are you still intimate with her?”

She looked at him as if she hated him:

“Yes, I certainly am. She is very well, thank you.”

They remained sitting side by side, agitated and irritated. Suddenly he
said:

“My dear Bertha, I have changed my mind. You are my wife, and I expect
you to come with me to-day. You have, I think, improved both morally and
physically, and I am going to take you back again. I am your husband,
and it is my right to do so.”

She was stupefied, and looked at him, trying to divine his thoughts; but
his face was resolute and impenetrable.

“I am very sorry,” she said, “but I have made other engagements.”

“So much the worse for you,” was his reply. “The law gives me the power,
and I mean to use it.”

They were nearing Marseilles, and the train whistled and slackened
speed. The baroness rose, carefully rolled up her wraps, and then,
turning to her husband, said:

“My dear Raymond, do not make a bad use of this tete-a tete which I had
carefully prepared. I wished to take precautions, according to your
advice, so that I might have nothing to fear from you or from other
people, whatever might happen. You are going to Nice, are you not?”

“I shall go wherever you go.”

“Not at all; just listen to me, and I am sure that you will leave me in
peace. In a few moments, when we get to the station, you will see the
Princesse de Raynes and Comtesse Henriot waiting for me with their
husbands. I wished them to see as, and to know that we had spent the
night together in the railway carriage. Don't be alarmed; they will tell
it everywhere as a most surprising fact.

“I told you just now that I had most carefully followed your advice and
saved appearances. Anything else does not matter, does it? Well, in
order to do so, I wished to be seen with you. You told me carefully to
avoid any scandal, and I am avoiding it, for, I am afraid—I am afraid—”

She waited till the train had quite stopped, and as her friends ran up
to open the carriage door, she said:

“I am afraid”—hesitating—“that there is another reason—je suis
enceinte.”

The princess stretched out her arms to embrace her,—and the baroness
said, painting to the baron, who was dumb with astonishment, and was
trying to get at the truth:

“You do not recognize Raymond? He has certainly changed a good deal, and
he agreed to come with me so that I might not travel alone. We take
little trips like this occasionally, like good friends who cannot live
together. We are going to separate here; he has had enough of me
already.”

She put out her hand, which he took mechanically, and then she jumped
out on to the platform among her friends, who were waiting for her.

The baron hastily shut the carriage door, for he was too much disturbed
to say a word or come to any determination. He heard his wife's voice
and their merry laughter as they went away.

He never saw her again, nor did he ever discover whether she had told
him a lie or was speaking the truth.





THE BLIND MAN

How is it that the sunlight gives us such joy? Why does this radiance
when it falls on the earth fill us with the joy of living? The whole sky
is blue, the fields are green, the houses all white, and our enchanted
eyes drink in those bright colors which bring delight to our souls. And
then there springs up in our hearts a desire to dance, to run, to sing,
a happy lightness of thought, a sort of enlarged tenderness; we feel a
longing to embrace the sun.

The blind, as they sit in the doorways, impassive in their eternal
darkness, remain as calm as ever in the midst of this fresh gaiety, and,
not understanding what is taking place around them, they continually
check their dogs as they attempt to play.

When, at the close of the day, they are returning home on the arm of a
young brother or a little sister, if the child says: “It was a very fine
day!” the other answers: “I could notice that it was fine. Loulou
wouldn't keep quiet.”

I knew one of these men whose life was one of the most cruel martyrdoms
that could possibly be conceived.

He was a peasant, the son of a Norman farmer. As long as his father and
mother lived, he was more or less taken care of; he suffered little save
from his horrible infirmity; but as soon as the old people were gone, an
atrocious life of misery commenced for him. Dependent on a sister of
his, everybody in the farmhouse treated him as a beggar who is eating
the bread of strangers. At every meal the very food he swallowed was
made a subject of reproach against him; he was called a drone, a clown,
and although his brother-in-law had taken possession of his portion of
the inheritance, he was helped grudgingly to soup, getting just enough
to save him from starving.

His face was very pale and his two big white eyes looked like wafers. He
remained unmoved at all the insults hurled at him, so reserved that one
could not tell whether he felt them.

Moreover, he had never known any tenderness, his mother having always
treated him unkindly and caring very little for him; for in country
places useless persons are considered a nuisance, and the peasants would
be glad to kill the infirm of their species, as poultry do.

As soon as he finished his soup he went and sat outside the door in
summer and in winter beside the fireside, and did not stir again all the
evening. He made no gesture, no movement; only his eyelids, quivering
from some nervous affection, fell down sometimes over his white,
sightless orbs. Had he any intellect, any thinking faculty, any
consciousness of his own existence? Nobody cared to inquire.

For some years things went on in this fashion. But his incapacity for
work as well as his impassiveness eventually exasperated his relatives,
and he became a laughingstock, a sort of butt for merriment, a prey to
the inborn ferocity, to the savage gaiety of the brutes who surrounded
him.

It is easy to imagine all the cruel practical jokes inspired by his
blindness. And, in order to have some fun in return for feeding him,
they now converted his meals into hours of pleasure for the neighbors
and of punishment for the helpless creature himself.

The peasants from the nearest houses came to this entertainment; it was
talked about from door to door, and every day the kitchen of the
farmhouse was full of people. Sometimes they placed before his plate,
when he was beginning to eat his soup, some cat or dog. The animal
instinctively perceived the man's infirmity, and, softly approaching,
commenced eating noiselessly, lapping up the soup daintily; and, when
they lapped the food rather noisily, rousing the poor fellow's
attention, they would prudently scamper away to avoid the blow of the
spoon directed at random by the blind man!

Then the spectators ranged along the wall would burst out laughing,
nudge each other and stamp their feet on the floor. And he, without ever
uttering a word, would continue eating with his right hand, while
stretching out his left to protect his plate.

Another time they made him chew corks, bits of wood, leaves or even
filth, which he was unable to distinguish.

After this they got tired even of these practical jokes, and the
brother-in-law, angry at having to support him always, struck him,
cuffed him incessantly, laughing at his futile efforts to ward off or
return the blows. Then came a new pleasure—the pleasure of smacking his
face. And the plough-men, the servant girls and even every passing
vagabond were every moment giving him cuffs, which caused his eyelashes
to twitch spasmodically. He did not know where to hide himself and
remained with his arms always held out to guard against people coming
too close to him.

At last he was forced to beg.

He was placed somewhere on the high-road on market-days, and as soon as
he heard the sound of footsteps or the rolling of a vehicle, he reached
out his hat, stammering:

“Charity, if you please!”

But the peasant is not lavish, and for whole weeks he did not bring back
a sou.

Then he became the victim of furious, pitiless hatred. And this is how
he died.

One winter the ground was covered with snow, and it was freezing hard.
His brother-in-law led him one morning a great distance along the high
road in order that he might solicit alms. The blind man was left there
all day; and when night came on, the brother-in-law told the people of
his house that he could find no trace of the mendicant. Then he added:

“Pooh! best not bother about him! He was cold and got someone to take
him away. Never fear! he's not lost. He'll turn up soon enough tomorrow
to eat the soup.”

Next day he did not come back.

After long hours of waiting, stiffened with the cold, feeling that he
was dying, the blind man began to walk. Being unable to find his way
along the road, owing to its thick coating of ice, he went on at random,
falling into ditches, getting up again, without uttering a sound, his
sole object being to find some house where he could take shelter.

But, by degrees, the descending snow made a numbness steal over him, and
his feeble limbs being incapable of carrying him farther, he sat down in
the middle of an open field. He did not get up again.

The white flakes which fell continuously buried him, so that his body,
quite stiff and stark, disappeared under the incessant accumulation of
their rapidly thickening mass, and nothing was left to indicate the
place where he lay.

His relatives made a pretence of inquiring about him and searching for
him for about a week. They even made a show of weeping.

The winter was severe, and the thaw did not set in quickly. Now, one
Sunday, on their way to mass, the farmers noticed a great flight of
crows, who were whirling incessantly above the open field, and then
descending like a shower of black rain at the same spot, ever going and
coming.

The following week these gloomy birds were still there. There was a
crowd of them up in the air, as if they had gathered from all corners of
the horizon, and they swooped down with a great cawing into the shining
snow, which they covered like black patches, and in which they kept
pecking obstinately. A young fellow went to see what they were doing and
discovered the body of the blind man, already half devoured, mangled.
His wan eyes had disappeared, pecked out by the long, voracious beaks.

And I can never feel the glad radiance of sunlit days without sadly
remembering and pondering over the fate of the beggar who was such an
outcast in life that his horrible death was a relief to all who had
known him.





INDISCRETION

They had loved each other before marriage with a pure and lofty love.
They had first met on the sea-shore. He had thought this young girl
charming, as she passed by with her light-colored parasol and her dainty
dress amid the marine landscape against the horizon. He had loved her,
blond and slender, in these surroundings of blue ocean and spacious sky.
He could not distinguish the tenderness which this budding woman awoke
in him from the vague and powerful emotion which the fresh salt air and
the grand scenery of surf and sunshine and waves aroused in his soul.

She, on the other hand, had loved him because he courted her, because he
was young, rich, kind, and attentive. She had loved him because it is
natural for young girls to love men who whisper sweet nothings to them.

So, for three months, they had lived side by side, and hand in hand. The
greeting which they exchanged in the morning before the bath, in the
freshness of the morning, or in the evening on the sand, under the
stars, in the warmth of a calm night, whispered low, very low, already
had the flavor of kisses, though their lips had never met.

Each dreamed of the other at night, each thought of the other on
awaking, * and, without yet having voiced their sentiments, each longing
for the other, body and soul.

After marriage their love descended to earth. It was at first a
tireless, sensuous passion, then exalted tenderness composed of tangible
poetry, more refined caresses, and new and foolish inventions. Every
glance and gesture was an expression of passion.

But, little by little, without even noticing it, they began to get tired
of each other. Love was still strong, but they had nothing more to
reveal to each other, nothing more to learn from each other, no new tale
of endearment, no unexpected outburst, no new way of expressing the
well-known, oft-repeated verb.

They tried, however, to rekindle the dwindling flame of the first love.
Every day they tried some new trick or desperate attempt to bring back
to their hearts the uncooled ardor of their first days of married life.
They tried moonlight walks under the trees, in the sweet warmth of the
summer evenings: the poetry of mist-covered beaches; the excitement of
public festivals.

One morning Henriette said to Paul:

“Will you take me to a cafe for dinner?”

“Certainly, dearie.”

“To some well-known cafe?”

“Of course!”

He looked at her with a questioning glance, seeing that she was thinking
of something which she did not wish to tell.

She went on:

“You know, one of those cafes—oh, how can I explain myself?—a sporty
cafe!”

He smiled: “Of course, I understand—you mean in one of the cafes which
are commonly called bohemian.”

“Yes, that's it. But take me to one of the big places, one where you are
known, one where you have already supped—no—dined—well, you know—I—I—oh!
I will never dare say it!”

“Go ahead, dearie. Little secrets should no longer exist between us.”

“No, I dare not.”

“Go on; don't be prudish. Tell me.”

“Well, I—I—I want to be taken for your sweetheart—there! and I want the
boys, who do not know that you are married, to take me for such; and you
too—I want you to think that I am your sweetheart for one hour, in that
place which must hold so many memories for you. There! And I will play
that I am your sweetheart. It's awful, I know—I am abominably ashamed, I
am as red as a peony. Don't look at me!”

He laughed, greatly amused, and answered:

“All right, we will go to-night to a very swell place where I am well
known.”

Toward seven o'clock they went up the stairs of one of the big cafes on
the Boulevard, he, smiling, with the look of a conqueror, she, timid,
veiled, delighted. They were immediately shown to one of the luxurious
private dining-rooms, furnished with four large arm-chairs and a red
plush couch. The head waiter entered and brought them the menu. Paul
handed it to his wife.

“What do you want to eat?”

“I don't care; order whatever is good.”

After handing his coat to the waiter, he ordered dinner and champagne.
The waiter looked at the young woman and smiled. He took the order and
murmured:

“Will Monsieur Paul have his champagne sweet or dry?”

“Dry, very dry.”

Henriette was pleased to hear that this man knew her husband's name.
They sat on the couch, side by side, and began to eat.

Ten candles lighted the room and were reflected in the mirrors all
around them, which seemed to increase the brilliancy a thousand-fold.
Henriette drank glass after glass in order to keep up her courage,
although she felt dizzy after the first few glasses. Paul, excited by
the memories which returned to him, kept kissing his wife's hands. His
eyes were sparkling.

She was feeling strangely excited in this new place, restless, pleased,
a little guilty, but full of life. Two waiters, serious, silent,
accustomed to seeing and forgetting everything, to entering the room
only when it was necessary and to leaving it when they felt they were
intruding, were silently flitting hither and thither.

Toward the middle of the dinner, Henriette was well under the influence
of champagne. She was prattling along fearlessly, her cheeks flushed,
her eyes glistening.

“Come, Paul; tell me everything.”

“What, sweetheart?”

“I don't dare tell you.”

“Go on!”

“Have you loved many women before me?”

He hesitated, a little perplexed, not knowing whether he should hide his
adventures or boast of them.

She continued:

“Oh! please tell me. How many have you loved?”

“A few.”

“How many?”

“I don't know. How do you expect me to know such things?”

“Haven't you counted them?”

“Of course not.”

“Then you must have loved a good many!”

“Perhaps.”

“About how many? Just tell me about how many.”

“But I don't know, dearest. Some years a good many, and some years only
a few.”

“How many a year, did you say?”

“Sometimes twenty or thirty, sometimes only four or five.”

“Oh! that makes more than a hundred in all!”

“Yes, just about.”

“Oh! I think that is dreadful!”

“Why dreadful?”

“Because it's dreadful when you think of it—all those women—and
always—always the same thing. Oh! it's dreadful, just the same—more than
a hundred women!”

He was surprised that she should think that dreadful, and answered, with
the air of superiority which men take with women when they wish to make
them understand that they have said something foolish:

“That's funny! If it is dreadful to have a hundred women, it's dreadful
to have one.”

“Oh, no, not at all!”

“Why not?”

“Because with one woman you have a real bond of love which attaches you
to her, while with a hundred women it's not the same at all. There is no
real love. I don't understand how a man can associate with such women.”

“But they are all right.”

“No, they can't be!”

“Yes, they are!”

“Oh, stop; you disgust me!”

“But then, why did you ask me how many sweethearts I had had?”

“Because——”

“That's no reason!”

“What were they-actresses, little shop-girls, or society women?”

“A few of each.”

“It must have been rather monotonous toward the last.”

“Oh, no; it's amusing to change.”

She remained thoughtful, staring at her champagne glass. It was full
—she drank it in one gulp; then putting it back on the table, she threw
her arms around her husband's neck and murmured in his ear:

“Oh! how I love you, sweetheart! how I love you!”

He threw his arms around her in a passionate embrace. A waiter, who was
just entering, backed out, closing the door discreetly. In about five
minutes the head waiter came back, solemn and dignified, bringing the
fruit for dessert. She was once more holding between her fingers a full
glass, and gazing into the amber liquid as though seeking unknown
things. She murmured in a dreamy voice:

“Yes, it must be fun!”





A FAMILY AFFAIR

The small engine attached to the Neuilly steam-tram whistled as it
passed the Porte Maillot to warn all obstacles to get out of its way and
puffed like a person out of breath as it sent out its steam, its pistons
moving rapidly with a noise as of iron legs running. The train was going
along the broad avenue that ends at the Seine. The sultry heat at the
close of a July day lay over the whole city, and from the road, although
there was not a breath of wind stirring, there arose a white, chalky,
suffocating, warm dust, which adhered to the moist skin, filled the eyes
and got into the lungs. People stood in the doorways of their houses to
try and get a breath of air.

The windows of the steam-tram were open and the curtains fluttered in
the wind. There were very few passengers inside, because on warm days
people preferred the outside or the platforms. They consisted of stout
women in peculiar costumes, of those shopkeepers' wives from the
suburbs, who made up for the distinguished looks which they did not
possess by ill-assumed dignity; of men tired from office-work, with
yellow faces, stooped shoulders, and with one shoulder higher than the
other, in consequence of, their long hours of writing at a desk. Their
uneasy and melancholy faces also spoke of domestic troubles, of constant
want of money, disappointed hopes, for they all belonged to the army of
poor, threadbare devils who vegetate economically in cheap, plastered
houses with a tiny piece of neglected garden on the outskirts of Paris,
in the midst of those fields where night soil is deposited.

A short, corpulent man, with a puffy face, dressed all in black and
wearing a decoration in his buttonhole, was talking to a tall, thin man,
dressed in a dirty, white linen suit, the coat all unbuttoned, with a
white Panama hat on his head. The former spoke so slowly and
hesitatingly that it occasionally almost seemed as if he stammered; he
was Monsieur Caravan, chief clerk in the Admiralty. The other, who had
formerly been surgeon on board a merchant ship, had set up in practice
in Courbevoie, where he applied the vague remnants of medical knowledge
which he had retained after an adventurous life, to the wretched
population of that district. His name was Chenet, and strange rumors
were current as to his morality.

Monsieur Caravan had always led the normal life of a man in a Government
office. For the last thirty years he had invariably gone the same way to
his office every morning, and had met the same men going to business at
the same time, and nearly on the same spot, and he returned home every
evening by the same road, and again met the same faces which he had seen
growing old. Every morning, after buying his penny paper at the corner
of the Faubourg Saint Honore, he bought two rolls, and then went to his
office, like a culprit who is giving himself up to justice, and got to
his desk as quickly as possible, always feeling uneasy; as though he
were expecting a rebuke for some neglect of duty of which he might have
been guilty.

Nothing had ever occurred to change the monotonous order of his
existence, for no event affected him except the work of his office,
perquisites, gratuities, and promotion. He never spoke of anything but
of his duties, either at the office, or at home—he had married the
portionless daughter of one of his colleagues. His mind, which was in a
state of atrophy from his depressing daily work, had no other thoughts,
hopes or dreams than such as related to the office, and there was a
constant source of bitterness that spoilt every pleasure that he might
have had, and that was the employment of so many naval officials,
tinsmiths, as they were called because of their silver-lace as first-
class clerks; and every evening at dinner he discussed the matter hotly
with his wife, who shared his angry feelings, and proved to their own
satisfaction that it was in every way unjust to give places in Paris to
men who ought properly to have been employed in the navy.

He was old now, and had scarcely noticed how his life was passing, for
school had merely been exchanged for the office without any intermediate
transition, and the ushers, at whom he had formerly trembled, were
replaced by his chiefs, of whom he was terribly afraid. When he had to
go into the rooms of these official despots, it made him tremble from
head to foot, and that constant fear had given him a very awkward manner
in their presence, a humble demeanor, and a kind of nervous stammering.

He knew nothing more about Paris than a blind man might know who was led
to the same spot by his dog every day; and if he read the account of any
uncommon events or scandals in his penny paper, they appeared to him
like fantastic tales, which some pressman had made up out of his own
head, in order to amuse the inferior employees. He did not read the
political news, which his paper frequently altered as the cause which
subsidized it might require, for he was not fond of innovations, and
when he went through the Avenue of the Champs-Elysees every evening, he
looked at the surging crowd of pedestrians, and at the stream of
carriages, as a traveller might who has lost his way in a strange
country.

As he had completed his thirty years of obligatory service that year, on
the first of January, he had had the cross of the Legion of Honor
bestowed upon him, which, in the semi-military public offices, is a
recompense for the miserable slavery—the official phrase is, loyal
services—of unfortunate convicts who are riveted to their desk. That
unexpected dignity gave him a high and new idea of his own capacities,
and altogether changed him. He immediately left off wearing light
trousers and fancy waistcoats, and wore black trousers and long coats,
on which his ribbon, which was very broad, showed off better. He got
shaved every morning, manicured his nails more carefully, changed his
linen every two days, from a legitimate sense of what was proper, and
out of respect for the national Order, of which he formed a part, and
from that day he was another Caravan, scrupulously clean, majestic and
condescending.

At home, he said, “my cross,” at every moment, and he had become so
proud of it, that he could not bear to see men wearing any other ribbon
in their button-holes. He became especially angry on seeing strange
orders: “Which nobody ought to be allowed to wear in France,” and he
bore Chenet a particular grudge, as he met him on a tram-car every
evening, wearing a decoration of one kind or another, white, blue,
orange, or green.

The conversation of the two men, from the Arc de Triomphe to Neuilly,
was always the same, and on that day they discussed, first of all,
various local abuses which disgusted them both, and the Mayor of Neuilly
received his full share of their censure. Then, as invariably happens in
the company of medical men, Caravan began to enlarge on the chapter of
illness, as in that manner, he hoped to obtain a little gratuitous
advice, if he was careful not to show his hand. His mother had been
causing him no little anxiety for some time; she had frequent and
prolonged fainting fits, and, although she was ninety, she would not
take care of herself.

Caravan grew quite tender-hearted when he mentioned her great age, and
more than once asked Doctor Chenet, emphasizing the word doctor—although
he was not fully qualified, being only an Offcier de Sante—whether he
had often met anyone as old as that. And he rubbed his hands with
pleasure; not, perhaps, that he cared very much about seeing the good
woman last forever here on earth, but because the long duration of his
mother's life was, as it were an earnest of old age for himself, and he
continued:

“In my family, we last long, and I am sure that, unless I meet with an
accident, I shall not die until I am very old.”

The doctor looked at him with pity, and glanced for a moment at his
neighbor's red face, his short, thick neck, his “corporation,” as Chenet
called it to himself, his two fat, flabby legs, and the apoplectic
rotundity of the old official; and raising the white Panama hat from his
head, he said with a snigger:

“I am not so sure of that, old fellow; your mother is as tough as nails,
and I should say that your life is not a very good one.”

This rather upset Caravan, who did not speak again until the tram put
them down at their destination, where the two friends got out, and
Chenet asked his friend to have a glass of vermouth at the Cafe du
Globe, opposite, which both of them were in the habit of frequenting.
The proprietor, who was a friend of theirs, held out to them two
fingers, which they shook across the bottles of the counter; and then
they joined three of their friends, who were playing dominoes, and who
had been there since midday. They exchanged cordial greetings, with the
usual question: “Anything new?” And then the three players continued
their game, and held out their hands without looking up, when the others
wished them “Good-night,” and then they both went home to dinner.

Caravan lived in a small two-story house in Courbevaie, near where the
roads meet; the ground floor was occupied by a hair-dresser. Two bed
rooms, a dining-room and a kitchen, formed the whole of their
apartments, and Madame Caravan spent nearly her whole time in cleaning
them up, while her daughter, Marie-Louise, who was twelve, and her son,
Phillip-Auguste, were running about with all the little, dirty,
mischievous brats of the neighborhood, and playing in the gutter.

Caravan had installed his mother, whose avarice was notorious in the
neighborhood, and who was terribly thin, in the room above them. She was
always cross, and she never passed a day without quarreling and flying
into furious tempers. She would apostrophize the neighbors, who were
standing at their own doors, the coster-mongers, the street-sweepers,
and the street-boys, in the most violent language; and the latter, to
have their revenge, used to follow her at a distance when she went out,
and call out rude things after her.

A little servant from Normandy, who was incredibly giddy and
thoughtless, performed the household work, and slept on the second floor
in the same room as the old woman, for fear of anything happening to her
in the night.

When Caravan got in, his wife, who suffered from a chronic passion for
cleaning, was polishing up the mahogany chairs that were scattered about
the room with a piece of flannel. She always wore cotton gloves, and
adorned her head with a cap ornamented with many colored ribbons, which
was always tilted over one ear; and whenever anyone caught her
polishing, sweeping, or washing, she used to say:

“I am not rich; everything is very simple in my house, but cleanliness
is my luxury, and that is worth quite as much as any other.”

As she was gifted with sound, obstinate, practical common sense, she led
her husband in everything. Every evening during dinner, and afterwards
when they were in their room, they talked over the business of the
office for a long time, and although she was twenty years younger than
he was, he confided everything to her as if she took the lead, and
followed her advice in every matter.

She had never been pretty, and now she had grown ugly; in addition to
that, she was short and thin, while her careless and tasteless way of
dressing herself concealed her few small feminine attractions, which
might have been brought out if she had possessed any taste in dress. Her
skirts were always awry, and she frequently scratched herself, no matter
on what part of her person, totally indifferent as to who might see her,
and so persistently, that anyone who saw her might think that she was
suffering from something like the itch. The only adornments that she
allowed herself were silk ribbons, which she had in great profusion, and
of various colors mixed together, in the pretentious caps which she wore
at home.

As soon as she saw her husband she rose and said, as she kissed his
whiskers:

“Did you remember Potin, my dear?”

He fell into a chair, in consternation, for that was the fourth time on
which he had forgotten a commission that he had promised to do for her.

“It is a fatality,” he said; “it is no good for me to think of it all
day long, for I am sure to forget it in the evening.”

But as he seemed really so very sorry, she merely said, quietly:

“You will think of it to-morrow, I dare say. Anything new at the
office?”

“Yes, a great piece of news; another tinsmith has been appointed second
chief clerk.” She became very serious, and said:

“So he succeeds Ramon; this was the very post that I wanted you to have.
And what about Ramon?”

“He retires on his pension.”

She became furious, her cap slid down on her shoulder, and she
continued:

“There is nothing more to be done in that shop now. And what is the name
of the new commissioner?”

“Bonassot.”

She took up the Naval Year Book, which she always kept close at hand,
and looked him up.

“'Bonassot-Toulon. Born in 1851. Student Commissioner in 1871. Sub-
Commissioner in 1875.' Has he been to sea?” she continued. At that
question Caravan's looks cleared up, and he laughed until his sides
shook.

“As much as Balin—as much as Baffin, his chief.” And he added an old
office joke, and laughed more than ever:

“It would not even do to send them by water to inspect the Point-du-
Jour, for they would be sick on the penny steamboats on the Seine.”

But she remained as serious as if she had not heard him, and then she
said in a low voice, as she scratched her chin:

“If we only had a Deputy to fall back upon. When the Chamber hears
everything that is going on at the Admiralty, the Minister will be
turned out——”

She was interrupted by a terrible noise on the stairs. Marie-Louise and
Philippe-Auguste, who had just come in from the gutter, were slapping
each other all the way upstairs. Their mother rushed at them furiously,
and taking each of them by an arm she dragged them into the room,
shaking them vigorously; but as soon as they saw their father, they
rushed up to him, and he kissed them affectionately, and taking one of
them on each knee, began to talk to them.

Philippe-Auguste was an ugly, ill-kempt little brat, dirty from head to
foot, with the face of an idiot, and Marie-Louise was already like her
mother—spoke like her, repeated her words, and even imitated her
movements. She also asked him whether there was anything fresh at the
office, and he replied merrily:

“Your friend, Ramon, who comes and dines here every Sunday, is going to
leave us, little one. There is a new second head-clerk.”

She looked at her father, and with a precocious child's pity, she said:

“Another man has been put over your head again.”

He stopped laughing, and did not reply, and in order to create a
diversion, he said, addressing his wife, who was cleaning the windows:

“How is mamma, upstairs?”

Madame Caravan left off rubbing, turned round pulled her cap up, as it
had fallen quite on to her back, and said with trembling lips:

“Ah! yes; let us talk about your mother, for she has made a pretty
scene. Just imagine: a short time ago Madame Lebaudin, the hairdresser's
wife, came upstairs to borrow a packet of starch of me, and, as I was
not at home, your mother chased her out as though she were a beggar; but
I gave it to the old woman. She pretended not to hear, as she always
does when one tells her unpleasant truths, but she is no more deaf than
I am, as you know. It is all a sham, and the proof of it is, that she
went up to her own room immediately, without saying a word.”

Caravan, embarrassed, did not utter a word, and at that moment the
little servant came in to announce dinner. In order to let his mother
know, he took a broom-handle, which always stood in a corner, and rapped
loudly on the ceiling three times, and then they went into the dining-
room. Madame Caravan, junior, helped the soup, and waited for the old
woman, but she did not come, and as the soup was getting cold, they
began to eat slowly, and when their plates were empty, they waited
again, and Madame Caravan, who was furious, attacked her husband:

“She does it on purpose, you know that as well as I do. But you always
uphold her.”

Not knowing which side to take, he sent Marie-Louise to fetch her
grandmother, and he sat motionless, with his eyes cast down, while his
wife tapped her glass angrily with her knife. In about a minute, the
door flew open suddenly, and the child came in again, out of breath and
very pale, and said hurriedly:

“Grandmamma has fallen on the floor.”

Caravan jumped up, threw his table-napkin down, and rushed upstairs,
while his wife, who thought it was some trick of her mother-in-law's,
followed more slowly, shrugging her shoulders, as if to express her
doubt. When they got upstairs, however, they found the old woman lying
at full length in the middle of the room; and when they turned her over,
they saw that she was insensible and motionless, while her skin looked
more wrinkled and yellow than usual, her eyes were closed, her teeth
clenched, and her thin body was stiff.

Caravan knelt down by her, and began to moan.

“My poor mother! my poor mother!” he said. But the other Madame Caravan
said:

“Bah! She has only fainted again, that is all, and she has done it to
prevent us from dining comfortably, you may be sure of that.”

They put her on the bed, undressed her completely, and Caravan, his
wife, and the servant began to rub her; but, in spite of their efforts,
she did not recover consciousness, so they sent Rosalie, the servant, to
fetch Doctor Chenet. He lived a long way off, on the quay, going towards
Suresnes, and so it was a considerable time before he arrived. He came
at last, however, and, after having looked at the old woman, felt her
pulse, and listened for a heart beat, he said: “It is all over.”

Caravan threw himself on the body, sobbing violently; he kissed his
mother's rigid face, and wept so that great tears fell on the dead
woman's face like drops of water, and, naturally, Madame Caravan,
junior, showed a decorous amount of grief, and uttered feeble moans as
she stood behind her husband, while she rubbed her eyes vigorously.

But, suddenly, Caravan raised himself up, with his thin hair in
disorder, and, looking very ugly in his grief, said:

“But—are you sure, doctor? Are you quite sure?”

The doctor stooped over the body, and, handling it with professional
dexterity, as a shopkeeper might do, when showing off his goods, he
said:

“See, my dear friend, look at her eye.”

He raised the eyelid, and the old woman's eye appeared altogether
unaltered, unless, perhaps, the pupil was rather larger, and Caravan
felt a severe shock at the sight. Then Monsieur Chenet took her thin
arm, forced the fingers open, and said, angrily, as if he had been
contradicted:

“Just look at her hand; I never make a mistake, you may be quite sure of
that.”

Caravan fell on the bed, and almost bellowed, while his wife, still
whimpering, did what was necessary.

She brought the night-table, on which she spread a towel and placed four
wax candles on it, which she lighted; then she took a sprig of box,
which was hanging over the chimney glass, and put it between the four
candles, in a plate, which she filled with clean water, as she had no
holy water. But, after a moment's rapid reflection, she threw a pinch of
salt into the water, no doubt thinking she was performing some sort of
act of consecration by doing that, and when she had finished, she
remained standing motionless, and the doctor, who had been helping her,
whispered to her:

“We must take Caravan away.”

She nodded assent, and, going up to her husband, who was still on his
knees, sobbing, she raised him up by one arm, while Chenet took him by
the other.

They put him into a chair, and his wife kissed his forehead, and then
began to lecture him. Chenet enforced her words and preached firmness,
courage, and resignation—the very things which are always wanting in
such overwhelming misfortunes—and then both of them took him by the arms
again and led him out.

He was crying like a great child, with convulsive sobs; his arms hanging
down, and his legs weak, and he went downstairs without knowing what he
was doing, and moving his feet mechanically. They put him into the chair
which he always occupied at dinner, in front of his empty soup plate.
And there he sat, without moving, his eyes fixed on his glass, and so
stupefied with grief, that he could not even think.

In a corner, Madame Caravan was talking with the doctor and asking what
the necessary formalities were, as she wanted to obtain practical
information. At last, Monsieur Chenet, who appeared to be waiting for
something, took up his hat and prepared to go, saying that he had not
dined yet; whereupon she exclaimed:

“What! you have not dined? Why, stay here, doctor; don't go. You shall
have whatever we have, for, of course, you understand that we do not
fare sumptuously.” He made excuses and refused, but she persisted, and
said: “You really must stay; at times like this, people like to have
friends near them, and, besides that, perhaps you will be able to
persuade my husband to take some nourishment; he must keep up his
strength.”

The doctor bowed, and, putting down his hat, he said:

“In that case, I will accept your invitation, madame.”

She gave Rosalie, who seemed to have lost her head, some orders, and
then sat down, “to pretend to eat,” as she said, “to keep the doctor
company.”

The soup was brought in again, and Monsieur Chenet took two helpings.
Then there came a dish of tripe, which exhaled a smell of onions, and
which Madame Caravan made up her mind to taste.

“It is excellent,” the doctor said, at which she smiled, and, turning to
her husband, she said:

“Do take a little, my poor Alfred, only just to put something in your
stomach. Remember that you have got to pass the night watching by her!”

He held out his plate, docilely, just as he would have gone to bed, if
he had been told to, obeying her in everything, without resistance and
without reflection, and he ate; the doctor helped himself three times,
while Madame Caravan, from time to time, fished out a large piece at the
end of her fork, and swallowed it with a sort of studied indifference.

When a salad bowl full of macaroni was brought in, the doctor said:

“By Jove! That is what I am very fond of.” And this time, Madame Caravan
helped everybody. She even filled the saucers that were being scraped by
the children, who, being left to themselves, had been drinking wine
without any water, and were now kicking each other under the table.

Chenet remembered that Rossini, the composer, had been very fond of that
Italian dish, and suddenly he exclaimed:

“Why! that rhymes, and one could begin some lines like this:

The Maestro Rossini Was fond of macaroni.”


Nobody listened to him, however. Madame Caravan, who had suddenly grown
thoughtful, was thinking of all the probable consequences of the event,
while her husband made bread pellets, which he put on the table-cloth,
and looked at with a fixed, idiotic stare. As he was devoured by thirst,
he was continually raising his glass full of wine to his lips, and the
consequence was that his mind, which had been upset by the shock and
grief, seemed to become vague, and his ideas danced about as digestion
commenced.

The doctor, who, meanwhile, had been drinking away steadily, was getting
visibly drunk, and Madame Caravan herself felt the reaction which
follows all nervous shocks, and was agitated and excited, and, although
she had drunk nothing but water, her head felt rather confused.

Presently, Chenet began to relate stories of death that appeared comical
to him. For in that suburb of Paris, that is full of people from the
provinces, one finds that indifference towards death which all peasants
show, were it even their own father or mother; that want of respect,
that unconscious brutality which is so common in the country, and so
rare in Paris, and he said:

“Why, I was sent for last week to the Rue du Puteaux, and when I went, I
found the patient dead and the whole family calmly sitting beside the
bed finishing a bottle of aniseed cordial, which had been bought the
night before to satisfy the dying man's fancy.”

But Madame Caravan was not listening; she was continually thinking of
the inheritance, and Caravan was incapable of understanding anything
further.

Coffee was presently served, and it had been made very strong to give
them courage. As every cup was well flavored with cognac, it made all
their faces red, and confused their ideas still more. To make matters
still worse, Chenet suddenly seized the brandy bottle and poured out “a
drop for each of them just to wash their mouths out with,” as he termed
it, and then, without speaking any more, overcome in spite of
themselves, by that feeling of animal comfort which alcohol affords
after dinner, they slowly sipped the sweet cognac, which formed a
yellowish syrup at the bottom of their cups.

The children had fallen asleep, and Rosalie carried them off to bed.
Caravan, mechanically obeying that wish to forget oneself which
possesses all unhappy persons, helped himself to brandy again several
times, and his dull eyes grew bright. At last the doctor rose to go, and
seizing his friend's arm, he said:

“Come with me; a little fresh air will do you good. When one is in
trouble, one must not remain in one spot.”

The other obeyed mechanically, put on his hat, took his stick, and went
out, and both of them walked arm-in-arm towards the Seine, in the
starlight night.

The air was warm and sweet, for all the gardens in the neighborhood were
full of flowers at this season of the year, and their fragrance, which
is scarcely perceptible during the day, seemed to awaken at the approach
of night, and mingled with the light breezes which blew upon them in the
darkness.

The broad avenue with its two rows of gas lamps, that extended as far as
the Arc de Triomphe, was deserted and silent, but there was the distant
roar of Paris, which seemed to have a reddish vapor hanging over it. It
was a kind of continual rumbling, which was at times answered by the
whistle of a train in the distance, travelling at full speed to the
ocean, through the provinces.

The fresh air on the faces of the two men rather overcame them at first,
made the doctor lose his equilibrium a little, and increased Caravan's
giddiness, from which he had suffered since dinner. He walked as if he
were in a dream; his thoughts were paralyzed, although he felt no great
grief, for he was in a state of mental torpor that prevented him from
suffering, and he even felt a sense of relief which was increased by the
mildness of the night.

When they reached the bridge, they turned to the right, and got the
fresh breeze from the river, which rolled along, calm and melancholy,
bordered by tall poplar trees, while the stars looked as if they were
floating on the water and were moving with the current. A slight white
mist that floated over the opposite banks, filled their lungs with a
sensation of cold, and Caravan stopped suddenly, for he was struck by
that smell from the water which brought back old memories to his mind.
For, in his mind, he suddenly saw his mother again, in Picardy, as he
had seen her years before, kneeling in front of their door, and washing
the heaps of linen at her side in the stream that ran through their
garden. He almost fancied that he could hear the sound of the wooden
paddle with which she beat the linen in the calm silence of the country,
and her voice, as she called out to him: “Alfred, bring me some soap.”
And he smelled that odor of running water, of the mist rising from the
wet ground, that marshy smell, which he should never forget, and which
came back to him on this very evening on which his mother had died.

He stopped, seized with a feeling of despair. A sudden flash seemed to
reveal to him the extent of his calamity, and that breath from the river
plunged him into an abyss of hopeless grief. His life seemed cut in
half, his youth disappeared, swallowed up by that death. All the former
days were over and done with, all the recollections of his youth had
been swept away; for the future, there would be nobody to talk to him of
what had happened in days gone by, of the people he had known of old, of
his own part of the country, and of his past life; that was a part of
his existence which existed no longer, and the rest might as well end
now.

And then he saw “the mother” as she was when young, wearing well-worn
dresses, which he remembered for such a long time that they seemed
inseparable from her; he recollected her movements, the different tones
of her voice, her habits, her predilections, her fits of anger, the
wrinkles on her face, the movements of her thin fingers, and all her
well-known attitudes, which she would never have again, and clutching
hold of the doctor, he began to moan and weep. His thin legs began to
tremble, his whole stout body was shaken by his sobs, all he could say
was:

“My mother, my poor mother, my poor mother!”

But his companion, who was still drunk, and who intended to finish the
evening in certain places of bad repute that he frequented secretly,
made him sit down on the grass by the riverside, and left him almost
immediately, under the pretext that he had to see a patient.

Caravan went on crying for some time, and when he had got to the end of
his tears, when his grief had, so to say, run out, he again felt relief,
repose and sudden tranquillity.

The moon had risen, and bathed the horizon in its soft light.

The tall poplar trees had a silvery sheen on them, and the mist on the
plain looked like drifting snow; the river, in which the stars were
reflected, and which had a sheen as of mother-of-pearl, was gently
rippled by the wind. The air was soft and sweet, and Caravan inhaled it
almost greedily, and thought that he could perceive a feeling of
freshness, of calm and of superhuman consolation pervading him.

He actually resisted that feeling of comfort and relief, and kept on
saying to himself: “My poor mother, my poor mother!” and tried to make
himself cry, from a kind of conscientious feeling; but he could not
succeed in doing so any longer, and those sad thoughts, which had made
him sob so bitterly a shore time before, had almost passed away. In a
few moments, he rose to go home, and returned slowly, under the
influence of that serene night, and with a heart soothed in spite of
himself.

When he reached the bridge, he saw that the last tramcar was ready to
start, and behind it were the brightly lighted windows of the Cafe du
Globe. He felt a longing to tell somebody of his loss, to excite pity,
to make himself interesting. He put on a woeful face, pushed open the
door, and went up to the counter, where the landlord still was. He had
counted on creating a sensation, and had hoped that everybody would get
up and come to him with outstretched hands, and say: “Why, what is the
matter with you?” But nobody noticed his disconsolate face, so he rested
his two elbows on the counter, and, burying his face in his hands, he
murmured: “Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu!”

The landlord looked at him and said: “Are you ill, Monsieur Caravan?”

“No, my friend,” he replied, “but my mother has just died.”

“Ah!” the other exclaimed, and as a customer at the other end of the
establishment asked for a glass of Bavarian beer, he went to attend to
him, leaving Caravan dumfounded at his want of sympathy.

The three domino players were sitting at the same table which they had
occupied before dinner, totally absorbed in their game, and Caravan went
up to them, in search of pity, but as none of them appeared to notice
him he made up his mind to speak.

“A great misfortune has happened to me since I was here,” he said.

All three slightly raised their heads at the same instant, but keeping
their eyes fixed on the pieces which they held in their hands.

“What do you say?”

“My mother has just died”; whereupon one of them said:

“Oh! the devil,” with that false air of sorrow which indifferent people
assume. Another, who could not find anything to say, emitted a sort of
sympathetic whistle, shaking his head at the same time, and the third
turned to the game again, as if he were saying to himself: “Is that
all!”

Caravan had expected some of these expressions that are said to “come
from the heart,” and when he saw how his news was received, he left the
table, indignant at their calmness at their friend's sorrow, although
this sorrow had stupefied him so that he scarcely felt it any longer.
When he got home his wife was waiting for him in her nightgown, and
sitting in a low chair by the open window, still thinking of the
inheritance.

“Undress yourself,” she said; “we can go on talking.”

He raised his head, and looking at the ceiling, said:

“But—there is nobody upstairs.”

“I beg your pardon, Rosalie is with her, and you can go and take her
place at three o'clock in the morning, when you have had some sleep.”

He only partially undressed, however, so as to be ready for anything
that might happen, and after tying a silk handkerchief round his head,
he lay down to rest, and for some time neither of them spoke. Madame
Caravan was thinking.

Her nightcap was adorned with a red bow, and was pushed rather to one
side, as was the way with all the caps she wore, and presently she
turned towards him and said:

“Do you know whether your mother made a will?”

He hesitated for a moment, and then replied:

“I—I do not think so. No, I am sure that she did not.”

His wife looked at him, and she said, in a low, angry tone:

“I call that infamous; here we have been wearing ourselves out for ten
years in looking after her, and have boarded and lodged her! Your sister
would not have done so much for her, nor I either, if I had known how I
was to be rewarded! Yes, it is a disgrace to her memory! I dare say that
you will tell me that she paid us, but one cannot pay one's children in
ready money for what they do; that obligation is recognized after death;
at any rate, that is how honorable people act. So I have had all my
worry and trouble for nothing! Oh, that is nice! that is very nice!”

Poor Caravan, who was almost distracted, kept on repeating:

“My dear, my dear, please, please be quiet.”

She grew calmer by degrees, and, resuming her usual voice and manner,
she continued:

“We must let your sister know to-morrow.”

He started, and said:

“Of course we must; I had forgotten all about it; I will send her a
telegram the first thing in the morning.”

“No,” she replied, like a woman who had foreseen everything; “no, do not
send it before ten or eleven o'clock, so that we may have time to turn
round before she comes. It does not take more than two hours to get here
from Charenton, and we can say that you lost your head from grief. If we
let her know in the course of the day, that will be soon enough, and
will give us time to look round.”

Caravan put his hand to his forehead, and, in the came timid voice in
which he always spoke of his chief, the very thought of whom made him
tremble, he said:

“I must let them know at the office.”

“Why?” she replied. “On occasions like this, it is always excusable to
forget. Take my advice, and don't let him know; your chief will not be
able to say anything to you, and you will put him in a nice fix.

“Oh! yes, that I shall, and he will be in a terrible rage, too, when he
notices my absence. Yes, you are right; it is a capital idea, and when I
tell him that my mother is dead, he will be obliged to hold his tongue.”

And he rubbed his hands in delight at the joke, when he thought of his
chief's face; while upstairs lay the body of the dead old woman, with
the servant asleep beside it.

But Madame Caravan grew thoughtful, as if she were preoccupied by
something which she did not care to mention, and at last she said:

“Your mother had given you her clock, had she not—the girl playing at
cup and ball?”

He thought for a moment, and then replied:

“Yes, yes; she said to me (but it was a long time ago, when she first
came here): 'I shall leave the clock to you, if you look after me
well.'”

Madame Caravan was reassured, and regained her serenity, and said:

“Well, then, you must go and fetch it out of her room, for if we get
your sister here, she will prevent us from taking it.”

He hesitated.

“Do you think so?”

That made her angry.

“I certainly think so; once it is in our possession, she will know
nothing at all about where it came from; it belongs to us. It is just
the same with the chest of drawers with the marble top, that is in her
room; she gave it me one day when she was in a good temper. We will
bring it down at the same time.”

Caravan, however, seemed incredulous, and said:

“But, my dear, it is a great responsibility!”

She turned on him furiously.

“Oh! Indeed! Will you never change? You would let your children die of
hunger, rather than make a move. Does not that chest of drawers belong
to us, as she gave it to me? And if your sister is not satisfied, let
her tell me so, me! I don't care a straw for your sister. Come, get up,
and we will bring down what your mother gave us, immediately.”

Trembling and vanquished, he got out of bed and began to put on his
trousers, but she stopped him:

“It is not worth while to dress yourself; your underwear is quite
enough. I mean to go as I am.”

They both left the room in their night clothes, went upstairs quite
noiselessly, opened the door and went into the room, where the four
lighted tapers and the plate with the sprig of box alone seemed to be
watching the old woman in her rigid repose, for Rosalie, who was lying
back in the easy chair with her legs stretched out, her hands folded in
her lap, and her head on one side, was also quite motionless, and was
snoring with her mouth wide open.

Caravan took the clock, which was one of those grotesque objects that
were produced so plentifully under the Empire. A girl in gilt bronze was
holding a cup and ball, and the ball formed the pendulum.

“Give that to me,” his wife said, “and take the marble slab off the
chest of drawers.”

He put the marble slab on his shoulder with considerable effort, and
they left the room. Caravan had to stoop in the doorway, and trembled as
he went downstairs, while his wife walked backwards, so as to light him,
and held the candlestick in one hand, carrying the clock under the other
arm.

When they were in their own room, she heaved a sigh.

“We have got over the worst part of the job,” she said; “so now let us
go and fetch the other things.”

But the bureau drawers were full of the old woman's wearing apparel,
which they must manage to hide somewhere, and Madame Caravan soon
thought of a plan.

“Go and get that wooden packing case in the vestibule; it is hardly
worth anything, and we may just as well put it here.”

And when he had brought it upstairs they began to fill it. One by one
they took out all the collars, cuffs, chemises, caps, all the well-worn
things that had belonged to the poor woman lying there behind them, and
arranged them methodically in the wooden box in such a manner as to
deceive Madame Braux, the deceased woman's other child, who would be
coming the next day.

When they had finished, they first of all carried the bureau drawers
downstairs, and the remaining portion afterwards, each of them holding
an end, and it was some time before they could make up their minds where
it would stand best; but at last they decided upon their own room,
opposite the bed, between the two windows, and as soon as it was in its
place Madame Caravan filled it with her own things. The clock was placed
on the chimney-piece in the dining-room, and they looked to see what the
effect was, and were both delighted with it and agreed that nothing
could be better. Then they retired, she blew out the candle, and soon
everybody in the house was asleep.

It was broad daylight when. Caravan opened his eyes again. His mind was
rather confused when he woke up, and he did not clearly remember what
had happened for a few minutes; when he did, he felt a weight at his
heart, and jumped out of bed, almost ready to cry again.

He hastened to the room overhead, where Rosalie was still sleeping in
the same position as the night before, not having awakened once. He sent
her to do her work, put fresh tapers in the place of those that had
burnt out, and then he looked at his mother, revolving in his brain
those apparently profound thoughts, those religious and philosophical
commonplaces which trouble people of mediocre intelligence in the
presence of death.

But, as his wife was calling him, he went downstairs. She had written
out a list of what had to be done during the morning, and he was
horrified when he saw the memorandum:

1. Report the death at the mayor's office. 2. See the doctor who had
attended her. 3. Order the coffin. 4. Give notice at the church. 5. Go
to the undertaker. 6. Order the notices of her death at the printer's.
7. Go to the lawyer. 8. Telegraph the news to all the family.

Besides all this, there were a number of small commissions; so he took
his hat and went out. As the news had spread abroad, Madame Caravan's
female friends and neighbors soon began to come in and begged to be
allowed to see the body. There had been a scene between husband and wife
at the hairdresser's on the ground floor about the matter, while a
customer was being shaved. The wife, who was knitting steadily, said:
“Well, there is one less, and as great a miser as one ever meets with. I
certainly did not care for her; but, nevertheless, I must go and have a
look at her.”

The husband, while lathering his patient's chin, said: “That is another
queer fancy! Nobody but a woman would think of such a thing. It is not
enough for them to worry you during life, but they cannot even leave you
at peace when you are dead:” But his wife, without being in the least
disconcerted, replied: “The feeling is stronger than I am, and I must
go. It has been on me since the morning. If I were not to see her, I
should think about it all my life; but when I have had a good look at
her, I shall be satisfied.”

The knight of the razor shrugged his shoulders and remarked in a low
voice to the gentleman whose cheek he was scraping: “I just ask you,
what sort of ideas do you think these confounded females have? I should
not amuse myself by going to see a corpse!” But his wife had heard him
and replied very quietly: “But it is so, it is so.” And then, putting
her knitting on the counter, she went upstairs to the first floor, where
she met two other neighbors, who had just come, and who were discussing
the event with Madame Caravan, who was giving them the details, and they
all went together to the death chamber. The four women went in softly,
and, one after the other, sprinkled the bed clothes with the salt water,
knelt down, made the sign of the cross while they mumbled a prayer. Then
they rose from their knees and looked for some time at the corpse with
round, wide-open eyes and mouths partly open, while the daughter-in-law
of the dead woman, with her handkerchief to her face, pretended to be
sobbing piteously.

When she turned about to walk away whom should she perceive standing
close to the door but Marie-Louise and Philippe-Auguste, who were
curiously taking stock of all that was going on. Then, forgetting her
pretended grief, she threw herself upon them with uplifted hands, crying
out in a furious voice, “Will you get out of this, you horrid brats!”

Ten minutes later, going upstairs again with another contingent of
neighbors, she prayed, wept profusely, performed all her duties, and
found once more her two children, who had followed her upstairs. She
again boxed their ears soundly, but the next time she paid no heed to
them, and at each fresh arrival of visitors the two urchins always
followed in the wake, kneeling down in a corner and imitating slavishly
everything they saw their mother do.

When the afternoon came the crowds of inquisitive people began to
diminish, and soon there were no more visitors. Madame Caravan,
returning to her own apartments, began to make the necessary
preparations for the funeral ceremony, and the deceased was left alone.

The window of the room was open. A torrid heat entered, along with
clouds of dust; the flames of the four candles were flickering beside
the immobile corpse, and upon the cloth which covered the face, the
closed eyes, the two stretched-out hands, small flies alighted, came,
went and careered up and down incessantly, being the only companions of
the old woman for the time being.

Marie-Louise and Philippe-Auguste, however, had now left the house and
were running up and down the street. They were soon surrounded by their
playmates, by little girls especially, who were older and who were much
more interested in all the mysteries of life, asking questions as if
they were grown people.

“Then your grandmother is dead?” “Yes, she died yesterday evening.”
“What does a dead person look like?”

Then Marie began to explain, telling all about the candles, the sprig of
box and the face of the corpse. It was not long before great curiosity
was aroused in the minds of all the children, and they asked to be
allowed to go upstairs to look at the departed.

Marie-Louise at once organized a first expedition, consisting of five
girls and two boys—the biggest and the most courageous. She made them
take off their shoes so that they might not be discovered. The troupe
filed into the house and mounted the stairs as stealthily as an army of
mice.

Once in the chamber, the little girl, imitating her mother, regulated
the ceremony. She solemnly walked in advance of her comrades, went down
on her knees, made the sign of the cross, moved her lips as in prayer,
rose, sprinkled the bed, and while the children, all crowded together,
were approaching—frightened and curious and eager to look at the face
and hands of the deceased—she began suddenly to simulate sobbing and to
bury her eyes in her little handkerchief. Then, becoming instantly
consoled, on thinking of the other children who were downstairs waiting
at the door, she ran downstairs followed by the rest, returning in a
minute with another group, then a third; for all the little ragamuffins
of the countryside, even to the little beggars in rags, had congregated
in order to participate in this new pleasure; and each time she repeated
her mother's grimaces with absolute perfection.

At length, however, she became tired. Some game or other drew the
children away from the house, and the old grandmother was left alone,
forgotten suddenly by everybody.

The room was growing dark, and upon the dry and rigid features of the
corpse the fitful flames of the candles cast patches of light.

Towards 8 o'clock Caravan ascended to the chamber of death, closed the
windows and renewed the candles. He was now quite composed on entering
the room, accustomed already to regard the corpse as though it had been
there for months. He even went the length of declaring that, as yet,
there were no signs of decomposition, making this remark just at the
moment when he and his wife were about to sit down at table. “Pshaw!”
she responded, “she is now stark and stiff; she will keep for a year.”

The soup was eaten in silence. The children, who had been left to
themselves all day, now worn out by fatigue, were sleeping soundly on
their chairs, and nobody ventured to break the silence.

Suddenly the flame of the lamp went down. Madame Caravan immediately
turned up the wick, a hollow sound ensued, and the light went out. They
had forgotten to buy oil. To send for it now to the grocer's would keep
back the dinner, and they began to look for candles, but none were to be
found except the tapers which had been placed upon the table upstairs in
the death chamber.

Madame Caravan, always prompt in her decisions, quickly despatched
Marie-Louise to fetch two, and her return was awaited in total darkness.

The footsteps of the girl who had ascended the stairs were distinctly
heard. There was silence for a few seconds and then the child descended
precipitately. She threw open the door and in a choking voice murmured:
“Oh! papa, grandmamma is dressing herself!”

Caravan bounded to his feet with such precipitance that his chair fell
over against the wall. He stammered out: “You say? . . . . What are you
saying?”

But Marie-Louise, gasping with emotion, repeated: “Grand—grand
—grandmamma is putting on her clothes, she is coming downstairs.”

Caravan rushed boldly up the staircase, followed by his wife,
dumfounded; but he came to a standstill before the door of the second
floor, overcome with terror, not daring to enter. What was he going to
see? Madame Caravan, more courageous, turned the handle of the door and
stepped forward into the room.

The old woman was standing up. In awakening from her lethargic sleep,
before even regaining full consciousness, in turning upon her side and
raising herself on her elbow, she had extinguished three of the candles
which burned near the bed. Then, gaining strength, she got off the bed
and began to look for her clothes. The absence of her chest of drawers
had at first worried her, but, after a little, she had succeeded in
finding her things at the bottom of the wooden box, and was now quietly
dressing. She emptied the plateful of water, replaced the sprig of box
behind the looking-glass, and arranged the chairs in their places, and
was ready to go downstairs when there appeared before her her son and
daughter-in-law.

Caravan rushed forward, seized her by the hands, embraced her with tears
in his eyes, while his wife, who was behind him, repeated in a
hypocritical tone of voice: “Oh, what a blessing! oh, what a blessing!”

But the old woman, without being at all moved, without even appearing to
understand, rigid as a statue, and with glazed eyes, simply asked: “Will
dinner soon be ready?”

He stammered out, not knowing what he said:

“Oh, yes, mother, we have been waiting for you.”

And with an alacrity unusual in him, he took her arm, while Madame
Caravan, the younger, seized the candle and lighted them downstairs,
walking backwards in front of them, step by step, just as she had done
the previous night for her husband, who was carrying the marble.

On reaching the first floor, she almost ran against people who were
ascending the stairs. It was the Charenton family, Madame Braux,
followed by her husband.

The wife, tall and stout, with a prominent stomach, opened wide her
terrified eyes and was ready to make her escape. The husband, a
socialist shoemaker, a little hairy man, the perfect image of a monkey,
murmured quite unconcerned: “Well, what next? Is she resurrected?”

As soon as Madame Caravan recognized them, she made frantic gestures to
them; then, speaking aloud, she said: “Why, here you are! What a
pleasant surprise!”

But Madame Braux, dumfounded, understood nothing. She responded in a low
voice: “It was your telegram that brought us; we thought that all was
over.”

Her husband, who was behind her, pinched her to make her keep silent. He
added with a sly laugh, which his thick beard concealed: “It was very
kind of you to invite us here. We set out post haste,” which remark
showed the hostility which had for a long time reigned between the
households. Then, just as the old woman reached the last steps, he
pushed forward quickly and rubbed his hairy face against her cheeks,
shouting in her ear, on account of her deafness: “How well you look,
mother; sturdy as usual, hey!”

Madame Braux, in her stupefaction at seeing the old woman alive, whom
they all believed to be dead, dared not even embrace her; and her
enormous bulk blocked up the passageway and hindered the others from
advancing. The old woman, uneasy and suspicious, but without speaking,
looked at everyone around her; and her little gray eyes, piercing and
hard, fixed themselves now on one and now on the other, and they were so
full of meaning that the children became frightened.

Caravan, to explain matters, said: “She has been somewhat ill, but she
is better now; quite well, indeed, are you not, mother?”

Then the good woman, continuing to walk, replied in a husky voice, as
though it came from a distance: “It was syncope. I heard you all the
while.”

An embarrassing silence followed. They entered the dining-room, and in a
few minutes all sat down to an improvised dinner.

Only M. Braux had retained his self-possession. His gorilla features
grinned wickedly, while he let fall some words of double meaning which
painfully disconcerted everyone.

But the door bell kept ringing every second, and Rosalie, distracted,
came to call Caravan, who rushed out, throwing down his napkin. His
brother-in-law even asked him whether it was not one of his reception
days, to which he stammered out in answer: “No, only a few packages;
nothing more.”

A parcel was brought in, which he began to open carelessly, and the
mourning announcements with black borders appeared unexpectedly.
Reddening up to the very eyes, he closed the package hurriedly and
pushed it under his waistcoat.

His mother had not seen it! She was looking intently at her clock which
stood on the mantelpiece, and the embarrassment increased in midst of a
dead silence. Turning her wrinkled face towards her daughter, the old
woman, in whose eyes gleamed malice, said: “On Monday you must take me
away from here, so that I can see your little girl. I want so much to
see her.” Madame Braux, her features all beaming, exclaimed: “Yes,
mother, that I will,” while Madame Caravan, the younger, who had turned
pale, was ready to faint with annoyance. The two men, however, gradually
drifted into conversation and soon became embroiled in a political
discussion. Braux maintained the most revolutionary and communistic
doctrines, his eyes glowing, and gesticulating and throwing about his
arms. “Property, sir,” he said, “is a robbery perpetrated on the working
classes; the land is the common property of every man; hereditary rights
are an infamy and a disgrace.” But here he suddenly stopped, looking as
if he had just said something foolish, then added in softer tones: “But
this is not the proper moment to discuss such things.”

The door was opened and Dr. Chenet appeared. For a moment he seemed
bewildered, but regaining his usual smirking expression of countenance,
he jauntily approached the old woman and said: “Aha! mamma; you are
better to-day. Oh! I never had any doubt but you would come round again;
in fact, I said to myself as I was mounting the staircase, 'I have an
idea that I shall find the old lady on her feet once more';” and as he
patted her gently on the back: “Ah! she is as solid as the Pont-Neuf,
she will bury us all; see if she does not.”

He sat down, accepted the coffee that was offered him, and soon began to
join in the conversation of the two men, backing up Braux, for he
himself had been mixed up in the Commune.

The old woman, now feeling herself fatigued, wished to retire. Caravan
rushed forward. She looked him steadily in the eye and said: “You, you
must carry my clock and chest of drawers upstairs again without a
moment's delay.” “Yes, mamma,” he replied, gasping; “yes, I will do so.”
The old woman then took the arm of her daughter and withdrew from the
room. The two Caravans remained astounded, silent, plunged in the
deepest despair, while Braux rubbed his hands and sipped his coffee
gleefully.

Suddenly Madame Caravan, consumed with rage, rushed at him, exclaiming:
“You are a thief, a footpad, a cur! I would spit in your face! I—I
—would——” She could find nothing further to say, suffocating as she was
with rage, while he went on sipping his coffee with a smile.

His wife returning just then, Madame Caravan attacked her sister-in-law,
and the two women—the one with her enormous bulk, the other epileptic
and spare, with changed voices and trembling hands flew at one another
with words of abuse.

Chenet and Braux now interposed, and the latter, taking his better half
by the shoulders, pushed her out of the door before him, shouting: “Go
on, you slut; you talk too much”; and the two were heard in the street
quarrelling until they disappeared from sight.

M. Chenet also took his departure, leaving the Caravans alone, face to
face. The husband fell back on his chair, and with the cold sweat
standing out in beads on his temples, murmured: “What shall I say to my
chief to-morrow?”





BESIDE SCHOPENHAUER'S CORPSE

He was slowly dying, as consumptives die. I saw him each day, about two
o'clock, sitting beneath the hotel windows on a bench in the promenade,
looking out on the calm sea. He remained for some time without moving,
in the heat of the sun, gazing mournfully at the Mediterranean. Every
now and then, he cast a glance at the lofty mountains with beclouded
summits that shut in Mentone; then, with a very slow movement, he would
cross his long legs, so thin that they seemed like two bones, around
which fluttered the cloth of his trousers, and he would open a book,
always the same book. And then he did not stir any more, but read on,
read on with his eye and his mind; all his wasting body seemed to read,
all his soul plunged, lost, disappeared, in this book, up to the hour
when the cool air made him cough a little. Then, he got up and reentered
the hotel.

He was a tall German, with fair beard, who breakfasted and dined in his
own room, and spoke to nobody.

A vague, curiosity attracted me to him. One day, I sat down by his side,
having taken up a book, too, to keep up appearances, a volume of
Musset's poems.

And I began to look through “Rolla.”

Suddenly, my neighbor said to me, in good French:

“Do you know German, monsieur?”

“Not at all, monsieur.”

“I am sorry for that. Since chance has thrown us side by side, I could
have lent you, I could have shown you, an inestimable thing—this book
which I hold in my hand.”

“What is it, pray?”

“It is a copy of my master, Schopenhauer, annotated with his own hand.
All the margins, as you may see, are covered with his handwriting.”

I took the book from him reverently, and I gazed at these forms
incomprehensible to me, but which revealed the immortal thoughts of the
greatest shatterer of dreams who had ever dwelt on earth.

And Musset's verses arose in my memory:

“Hast thou found out, Voltaire, that it is bliss to die, And does thy
hideous smile over thy bleached bones fly?”


And involuntarily I compared the childish sarcasm, the religious sarcasm
of Voltaire with the irresistible irony of the German philosopher whose
influence is henceforth ineffaceable.

Let us protest and let us be angry, let us be indignant, or let us be
enthusiastic, Schopenhauer has marked humanity with the seal of his
disdain and of his disenchantment.

A disabused pleasure-seeker, he overthrew beliefs, hopes, poetic ideals
and chimeras, destroyed the aspirations, ravaged the confidence of
souls, killed love, dragged down the chivalrous worship of women,
crushed the illusions of hearts, and accomplished the most gigantic task
ever attempted by scepticism. He spared nothing with his mocking spirit,
and exhausted everything. And even to-day those who execrate him seem to
carry in their own souls particles of his thought.

“So, then, you were intimately acquainted with Schopenhauer?” I said to
the German.

He smiled sadly.

“Up to the time of his death, monsieur.”

And he spoke to me about the philosopher and told me about the almost
supernatural impression which this strange being made on all who came
near him.

He gave me an account of the interview of the old iconoclast with a
French politician, a doctrinaire Republican, who wanted to get a glimpse
of this man, and found him in a noisy tavern, seated in the midst of his
disciples, dry, wrinkled, laughing with an unforgettable laugh,
attacking and tearing to pieces ideas and beliefs with a single word, as
a dog tears with one bite of his teeth the tissues with which he plays.

He repeated for me the comment of this Frenchman as he went away,
astonished and terrified: “I thought I had spent an hour with the
devil.”

Then he added:

“He had, indeed, monsieur, a frightful smile, which terrified us even
after his death. I can tell you an anecdote about it that is not
generally known, if it would interest you.”

And he began, in a languid voice, interrupted by frequent fits of
coughing.

“Schopenhauer had just died, and it was arranged that we should watch,
in turn, two by two, till morning.

“He was lying in a large apartment, very simple, vast and gloomy. Two
wax candles were burning on the stand by the bedside.

“It was midnight when I went on watch, together with one of our
comrades. The two friends whom we replaced had left the apartment, and
we came and sat down at the foot of the bed.

“The face was not changed. It was laughing. That pucker which we knew so
well lingered still around the corners of the lips, and it seemed to us
that he was about to open his eyes, to move and to speak. His thought,
or rather his thoughts, enveloped us. We felt ourselves more than ever
in the atmosphere of his genius, absorbed, possessed by him. His
domination seemed to be even more sovereign now that he was dead. A
feeling of mystery was blended with the power of this incomparable
spirit.

“The bodies of these men disappear, but they themselves remain; and in
the night which follows the cessation of their heart's pulsation I
assure you, monsieur, they are terrifying.

“And in hushed tones we talked about him, recalling to mind certain
sayings, certain formulas of his, those startling maxims which are like
jets of flame flung, in a few words, into the darkness of the Unknown
Life.

“'It seems to me that he is going to speak,' said my comrade. And we
stared with uneasiness bordering on fear at the motionless face, with
its eternal laugh. Gradually, we began to feel ill at ease, oppressed,
on the point of fainting. I faltered:

“'I don't know what is the matter with me, but, I assure you I am not
well.'

“And at that moment we noticed that there was an unpleasant odor from
the corpse.

“Then, my comrade suggested that we should go into the adjoining room,
and leave the door open; and I assented to his proposal.

“I took one of the wax candles which burned on the stand, and I left the
second behind. Then we went and sat down at the other end of the
adjoining apartment, in such a position that we could see the bed and
the corpse, clearly revealed by the light.

“But he still held possession of us. One would have said that his
immaterial essence, liberated, free, all-powerful and dominating, was
flitting around us. And sometimes, too, the dreadful odor of the
decomposed body came toward us and penetrated us, sickening and
indefinable.

“Suddenly a shiver passed through our bones: a sound, a slight sound,
came from the death-chamber. Immediately we fixed our glances on him,
and we saw, yes, monsieur, we saw distinctly, both of us, something
white pass across the bed, fall on the carpet, and vanish under an
armchair.

“We were on our feet before we had time to think of anything, distracted
by stupefying terror, ready to run away. Then we stared at each other.
We were horribly pale. Our hearts throbbed fiercely enough to have
raised the clothing on our chests. I was the first to speak:

“'Did you see?'

“'Yes, I saw.'

“'Can it be that he is not dead?'

“'Why, when the body is putrefying?'

“'What are we to do?'

“My companion said in a hesitating tone:

“'We must go and look.'

“I took our wax candle and entered first, glancing into all the dark
corners in the large apartment. Nothing was moving now, and I approached
the bed. But I stood transfixed with stupor and fright:

“Schopenhauer was no longer laughing! He was grinning in a horrible
fashion, with his lips pressed together and deep hollows in his cheeks.
I stammered out:

“'He is not dead!'

“But the terrible odor ascended to my nose and stifled me. And I no
longer moved, but kept staring fixedly at him, terrified as if in the
presence of an apparition.

“Then my companion, having seized the other wax candle, bent forward.
Next, he touched my arm without uttering a word. I followed his glance,
and saw on the ground, under the armchair by the side of the bed,
standing out white on the dark carpet, and open as if to bite,
Schopenhauer's set of artificial teeth.

“The work of decomposition, loosening the jaws, had made it jump out of
the mouth.

“I was really frightened that day, monsieur.”

And as the sun was sinking toward the glittering sea, the consumptive
German rose from his seat, gave me a parting bow, and retired into the
hotel.





ORIGINAL SHORT STORIES, Vol. 3.

GUY DE MAUPASSANT ORIGINAL SHORT STORIES Translated by ALBERT M. C.
McMASTER, B.A. A. E. HENDERSON, B.A. MME. QUESADA and Others





VOLUME III.





MISS HARRIET

There were seven of us on a drag, four women and three men; one of the
latter sat on the box seat beside the coachman. We were ascending, at a
snail's pace, the winding road up the steep cliff along the coast.

Setting out from Etretat at break of day in order to visit the ruins of
Tancarville, we were still half asleep, benumbed by the fresh air of the
morning. The women especially, who were little accustomed to these early
excursions, half opened and closed their eyes every moment, nodding
their heads or yawning, quite insensible to the beauties of the dawn.

It was autumn. On both sides of the road stretched the bare fields,
yellowed by the stubble of wheat and oats which covered the soil like a
beard that had been badly shaved. The moist earth seemed to steam. Larks
were singing high up in the air, while other birds piped in the bushes.

The sun rose at length in front of us, bright red on the plane of the
horizon, and in proportion as it ascended, growing clearer from minute
to minute, the country seemed to awake, to smile, to shake itself like a
young girl leaving her bed in her white robe of vapor. The Comte
d'Etraille, who was seated on the box, cried:

“Look! look! a hare!” and he extended his arm toward the left, pointing
to a patch of clover. The animal scurried along, almost hidden by the
clover, only its large ears showing. Then it swerved across a furrow,
stopped, started off again at full speed, changed its course, stopped
anew, uneasy, spying out every danger, uncertain what route to take,
when suddenly it began to run with great bounds, disappearing finally in
a large patch of beet-root. All the men had waked up to watch the course
of the animal.

Rene Lamanoir exclaimed:

“We are not at all gallant this morning,” and; regarding his neighbor,
the little Baroness de Serennes, who struggled against sleep, he said to
her in a low tone: “You are thinking of your husband, baroness. Reassure
yourself; he will not return before Saturday, so you have still four
days.”

She answered with a sleepy smile:

“How stupid you are!” Then, shaking off her torpor, she added: “Now, let
somebody say something to make us laugh. You, Monsieur Chenal, who have
the reputation of having had more love affairs than the Duc de
Richelieu, tell us a love story in which you have played a part;
anything you like.”

Leon Chenal, an old painter, who had once been very handsome, very
strong, very proud of his physique and very popular with women, took his
long white beard in his hand and smiled. Then, after a few moments'
reflection, he suddenly became serious.

“Ladies, it will not be an amusing tale, for I am going to relate to you
the saddest love affair of my life, and I sincerely hope that none of my
friends may ever pass through a similar experience.

“I was twenty-five years of age and was pillaging along the coast of
Normandy. I call 'pillaging' wandering about, with a knapsack on one's
back, from inn to inn, under the pretext of making studies and sketching
landscapes. I knew nothing more enjoyable than that happy-go-lucky
wandering life, in which one is perfectly free, without shackles of any
kind, without care, without preoccupation, without thinking even of the
morrow. One goes in any direction one pleases, without any guide save
his fancy, without any counsellor save his eyes. One stops because a
running brook attracts one, because the smell of potatoes frying tickles
one's olfactories on passing an inn. Sometimes it is the perfume of
clematis which decides one in his choice or the roguish glance of the
servant at an inn. Do not despise me for my affection for these rustics.
These girls have a soul as well as senses, not to mention firm cheeks
and fresh lips; while their hearty and willing kisses have the flavor of
wild fruit. Love is always love, come whence it may. A heart that beats
at your approach, an eye that weeps when you go away are things so rare,
so sweet, so precious that they must never be despised.

“I have had rendezvous in ditches full of primroses, behind the cow
stable and in barns among the straw, still warm from the heat of the
day. I have recollections of coarse gray cloth covering supple peasant
skin and regrets for simple, frank kisses, more delicate in their
unaffected sincerity than the subtle favors of charming and
distinguished women.

“But what one loves most amid all these varied adventures is the
country, the woods, the rising of the sun, the twilight, the moonlight.
These are, for the painter, honeymoon trips with Nature. One is alone
with her in that long and quiet association. You go to sleep in the
fields, amid marguerites and poppies, and when you open your eyes in the
full glare of the sunlight you descry in the distance the little village
with its pointed clock tower which sounds the hour of noon.

“You sit down by the side of a spring which gushes out at the foot of an
oak, amid a growth of tall, slender weeds, glistening with life. You go
down on your knees, bend forward and drink that cold, pellucid water
which wets your mustache and nose; you drink it with a physical
pleasure, as though you kissed the spring, lip to lip. Sometimes, when
you find a deep hole along the course of these tiny brooks, you plunge
in quite naked, and you feel on your skin, from head to foot, as it
were, an icy and delicious caress, the light and gentle quivering of the
stream.

“You are gay on the hills, melancholy on the edge of ponds, inspired
when the sun is setting in an ocean of blood-red clouds and casts red
reflections or the river. And at night, under the moon, which passes
across the vault of heaven, you think of a thousand strange things which
would never have occurred to your mind under the brilliant light of day.

“So, in wandering through the same country where we, are this year, I
came to the little village of Benouville, on the cliff between Yport and
Etretat. I came from Fecamp, following the coast, a high coast as
straight as a wall, with its projecting chalk cliffs descending
perpendicularly into the sea. I had walked since early morning on the
short grass, smooth and yielding as a carpet, that grows on the edge of
the cliff. And, singing lustily, I walked with long strides, looking
sometimes at the slow circling flight of a gull with its white curved
wings outlined on the blue sky, sometimes at the brown sails of a
fishing bark on the green sea. In short, I had passed a happy day, a day
of liberty and of freedom from care.

“A little farmhouse where travellers were lodged was pointed out to me,
a kind of inn, kept by a peasant woman, which stood in the centre of a
Norman courtyard surrounded by a double row of beeches.

“Leaving the coast, I reached the hamlet, which was hemmed in by great
trees, and I presented myself at the house of Mother Lecacheur.

“She was an old, wrinkled and stern peasant woman, who seemed always to
receive customers under protest, with a kind of defiance.

“It was the month of May. The spreading apple trees covered the court
with a shower of blossoms which rained unceasingly both upon people and
upon the grass.

“I said: 'Well, Madame Lecacheur, have you a room for me?'

“Astonished to find that I knew her name, she answered:

“'That depends; everything is let, but all the same I can find out.”

“In five minutes we had come to an agreement, and I deposited my bag
upon the earthen floor of a rustic room, furnished with a bed, two
chairs, a table and a washbowl. The room looked into the large, smoky
kitchen, where the lodgers took their meals with the people of the farm
and the landlady, who was a widow.

“I washed my hands, after which I went out. The old woman was making a
chicken fricassee for dinner in the large fireplace in which hung the
iron pot, black with smoke.

“'You have travellers, then, at the present time?' said I to her.

“She answered in an offended tone of voice:

“'I have a lady, an English lady, who has reached years of maturity. She
occupies the other room.'

“I obtained, by means of an extra five sous a day, the privilege of
dining alone out in the yard when the weather was fine.

“My place was set outside the door, and I was beginning to gnaw the lean
limbs of the Normandy chicken, to drink the clear cider and to munch the
hunk of white bread, which was four days old but excellent.

“Suddenly the wooden gate which gave on the highway was opened, and a
strange lady directed her steps toward the house. She was very thin,
very tall, so tightly enveloped in a red Scotch plaid shawl that one
might have supposed she had no arms, if one had not seen a long hand
appear just above the hips, holding a white tourist umbrella. Her face
was like that of a mummy, surrounded with curls of gray hair, which
tossed about at every step she took and made me think, I know not why,
of a pickled herring in curl papers. Lowering her eyes, she passed
quickly in front of me and entered the house.

“That singular apparition cheered me. She undoubtedly was my neighbor,
the English lady of mature age of whom our hostess had spoken.

“I did not see her again that day. The next day, when I had settled
myself to commence painting at the end of that beautiful valley which
you know and which extends as far as Etretat, I perceived, on lifting my
eyes suddenly, something singular standing on the crest of the cliff,
one might have said a pole decked out with flags. It was she. On seeing
me, she suddenly disappeared. I reentered the house at midday for lunch
and took my seat at the general table, so as to make the acquaintance of
this odd character. But she did not respond to my polite advances, was
insensible even to my little attentions. I poured out water for her
persistently, I passed her the dishes with great eagerness. A slight,
almost imperceptible, movement of the head and an English word, murmured
so low that I did not understand it, were her only acknowledgments.

“I ceased occupying myself with her, although she had disturbed my
thoughts.

“At the end of three days I knew as much about her as did Madame
Lecacheur herself.

“She was called Miss Harriet. Seeking out a secluded village in which to
pass the summer, she had been attracted to Benouville some six months
before and did not seem disposed to leave it. She never spoke at table,
ate rapidly, reading all the while a small book of the Protestant
propaganda. She gave a copy of it to everybody. The cure himself had
received no less than four copies, conveyed by an urchin to whom she had
paid two sous commission. She said sometimes to our hostess abruptly,
without preparing her in the least for the declaration:

“'I love the Saviour more than all. I admire him in all creation; I
adore him in all nature; I carry him always in my heart.'

“And she would immediately present the old woman with one of her tracts
which were destined to convert the universe.

“In, the village she was not liked. In fact, the schoolmaster having
pronounced her an atheist, a kind of stigma attached to her. The cure,
who had been consulted by Madame Lecacheur, responded:

“'She is a heretic, but God does not wish the death of the sinner, and I
believe her to be a person of pure morals.'

“These words, 'atheist,' 'heretic,' words which no one can precisely
define, threw doubts into some minds. It was asserted, however, that
this English woman was rich and that she had passed her life in
travelling through every country in the world because her family had
cast her off. Why had her family cast her off? Because of her impiety,
of course!

“She was, in fact, one of those people of exalted principles; one of
those opinionated puritans, of which England produces so many; one of
those good and insupportable old maids who haunt the tables d'hote of
every hotel in Europe, who spoil Italy, poison Switzerland, render the
charming cities of the Mediterranean uninhabitable, carry everywhere
their fantastic manias their manners of petrified vestals, their
indescribable toilets and a certain odor of india-rubber which makes one
believe that at night they are slipped into a rubber casing.

“Whenever I caught sight of one of these individuals in a hotel I fled
like the birds who see a scarecrow in a field.

“This woman, however, appeared so very singular that she did not
displease me.

“Madame Lecacheur, hostile by instinct to everything that was not
rustic, felt in her narrow soul a kind of hatred for the ecstatic
declarations of the old maid. She had found a phrase by which to
describe her, a term of contempt that rose to her lips, called forth by
I know not what confused and mysterious mental ratiocination. She said:
'That woman is a demoniac.' This epithet, applied to that austere and
sentimental creature, seemed to me irresistibly droll. I myself never
called her anything now but 'the demoniac,' experiencing a singular
pleasure in pronouncing aloud this word on perceiving her.

“One day I asked Mother Lecacheur: 'Well, what is our demoniac about to-
day?'

“To which my rustic friend replied with a shocked air:

“'What do you think, sir? She picked up a toad which had had its paw
crushed and carried it to her room and has put it in her washbasin and
bandaged it as if it were a man. If that is not profanation I should
like to know what is!'

“On another occasion, when walking along the shore she bought a large
fish which had just been caught, simply to throw it back into the sea
again. The sailor from whom she had bought it, although she paid him
handsomely, now began to swear, more exasperated, indeed, than if she
had put her hand into his pocket and taken his money. For more than a
month he could not speak of the circumstance without becoming furious
and denouncing it as an outrage. Oh, yes! She was indeed a demoniac,
this Miss Harriet, and Mother Lecacheur must have had an inspiration in
thus christening her.

“The stable boy, who was called Sapeur, because he had served in Africa
in his youth, entertained other opinions. He said with a roguish air:
'She is an old hag who has seen life.'

“If the poor woman had but known!

“The little kind-hearted Celeste did not wait upon her willingly, but I
was never able to understand why. Probably her only reason was that she
was a stranger, of another race; of a different tongue and of another
religion. She was, in fact, a demoniac!

“She passed her time wandering about the country, adoring and seeking
God in nature. I found her one evening on her knees in a cluster of
bushes. Having discovered something red through the leaves, I brushed
aside the branches, and Miss Harriet at once rose to her feet, confused
at having been found thus, fixing on me terrified eyes like those of an
owl surprised in open day.

“Sometimes, when I was working among the rocks, I would suddenly descry
her on the edge of the cliff like a lighthouse signal. She would be
gazing in rapture at the vast sea glittering in the sunlight and the
boundless sky with its golden tints. Sometimes I would distinguish her
at the end of the valley, walking quickly with her elastic English step,
and I would go toward her, attracted by I know not what, simply to see
her illuminated visage, her dried-up, ineffable features, which seemed
to glow with inward and profound happiness.

“I would often encounter her also in the corner of a field, sitting on
the grass under the shadow of an apple tree, with her little religious
booklet lying open on her knee while she gazed out at the distance.

“I could not tear myself away from that quiet country neighborhood, to
which I was attached by a thousand links of love for its wide and
peaceful landscape. I was happy in this sequestered farm, far removed
from everything, but in touch with the earth, the good, beautiful, green
earth. And—must I avow it?—there was, besides, a little curiosity which
retained me at the residence of Mother Lecacheur. I wished to become
acquainted a little with this strange Miss Harriet and to know what
transpires in the solitary souls of those wandering old English women.

“We became acquainted in a rather singular manner. I had just finished a
study which appeared to me to be worth something, and so it was, as it
sold for ten thousand francs fifteen years later. It was as simple,
however, as two and two make four and was not according to academic
rules. The whole right side of my canvas represented a rock, an enormous
rock, covered with sea-wrack, brown, yellow and red, across which the
sun poured like a stream of oil. The light fell upon the rock as though
it were aflame without the sun, which was at my back, being visible.
That was all. A first bewildering study of blazing, gorgeous light.

“On the left was the sea, not the blue sea, the slate-colored sea, but a
sea of jade, greenish, milky and solid beneath the deep-colored sky.

“I was so pleased with my work that I danced from sheer delight as I
carried it back to the inn. I would have liked the whole world to see it
at once. I can remember that I showed it to a cow that was browsing by
the wayside, exclaiming as I did so: 'Look at that, my old beauty; you
will not often see its like again.'

“When I had reached the house I immediately called out to Mother
Lecacheur, shouting with all my might:

“'Hullo, there! Mrs. Landlady, come here and look at this.'

“The rustic approached and looked at my work with her stupid eyes which
distinguished nothing and could not even tell whether the picture
represented an ox or a house.

“Miss Harriet just then came home, and she passed behind me just as I
was holding out my canvas at arm's length, exhibiting it to our
landlady. The demoniac could not help but see it, for I took care to
exhibit the thing in such a way that it could not escape her notice. She
stopped abruptly and stood motionless, astonished. It was her rock which
was depicted, the one which she climbed to dream away her time
undisturbed.

“She uttered a British 'Aoh,' which was at once so accentuated and so
flattering that I turned round to her, smiling, and said:

“'This is my latest study, mademoiselle.'

“She murmured rapturously, comically and tenderly:

“'Oh! monsieur, you understand nature as a living thing.'

“I colored and was more touched by that compliment than if it had come
from a queen. I was captured, conquered, vanquished. I could have
embraced her, upon my honor.

“I took my seat at table beside her as usual. For the first time she
spoke, thinking aloud:

“'Oh! I do love nature.'

“I passed her some bread, some water, some wine. She now accepted these
with a little smile of a mummy. I then began to talk about the scenery.

“After the meal we rose from the table together and walked leisurely
across the courtyard; then, attracted doubtless by the fiery glow which
the setting sun cast over the surface of the sea, I opened the gate
which led to the cliff, and we walked along side by side, as contented
as two persons might be who have just learned to understand and
penetrate each other's motives and feelings.

“It was one of those warm, soft evenings which impart a sense of ease to
flesh and spirit alike. All is enjoyment, everything charms. The balmy
air, laden with the perfume of grasses and the smell of seaweed, soothes
the olfactory sense with its wild fragrance, soothes the palate with its
sea savor, soothes the mind with its pervading sweetness.

“We were now walking along the edge of the cliff, high above the
boundless sea which rolled its little waves below us at a distance of a
hundred metres. And we drank in with open mouth and expanded chest that
fresh breeze, briny from kissing the waves, that came from the ocean and
passed across our faces.

“Wrapped in her plaid shawl, with a look of inspiration as she faced the
breeze, the English woman gazed fixedly at the great sun ball as it
descended toward the horizon. Far off in the distance a three-master in
full sail was outlined on the blood-red sky and a steamship, somewhat
nearer, passed along, leaving behind it a trail of smoke on the horizon.
The red sun globe sank slowly lower and lower and presently touched the
water just behind the motionless vessel, which, in its dazzling
effulgence, looked as though framed in a flame of fire. We saw it
plunge, grow smaller and disappear, swallowed up by the ocean.

“Miss Harriet gazed in rapture at the last gleams of the dying day. She
seemed longing to embrace the sky, the sea, the whole landscape.

“She murmured: 'Aoh! I love—I love' I saw a tear in her eye. She
continued: 'I wish I were a little bird, so that I could mount up into
the firmament.'

“She remained standing as I had often before seen her, perched on the
cliff, her face as red as her shawl. I should have liked to have
sketched her in my album. It would have been a caricature of ecstasy.

“I turned away so as not to laugh.

“I then spoke to her of painting as I would have done to a fellow
artist, using the technical terms common among the devotees of the
profession. She listened attentively, eagerly seeking to divine the
meaning of the terms, so as to understand my thoughts. From time to time
she would exclaim:

“'Oh! I understand, I understand. It is very interesting.'

“We returned home.

“The next day, on seeing me, she approached me, cordially holding out
her hand; and we at once became firm friends.

“She was a good creature who had a kind of soul on springs, which became
enthusiastic at a bound. She lacked equilibrium like all women who are
spinsters at the age of fifty. She seemed to be preserved in a pickle of
innocence, but her heart still retained something very youthful and
inflammable. She loved both nature and animals with a fervor, a love
like old wine fermented through age, with a sensuous love that she had
never bestowed on men.

“One thing is certain, that the sight of a bitch nursing her puppies, a
mare roaming in a meadow with a foal at its side, a bird's nest full of
young ones, screaming, with their open mouths and their enormous heads,
affected her perceptibly.

“Poor, solitary, sad, wandering beings! I love you ever since I became
acquainted with Miss Harriet.

“I soon discovered that she had something she would like to tell me, but
dare not, and I was amused at her timidity. When I started out in the
morning with my knapsack on my back, she would accompany me in silence
as far as the end of the village, evidently struggling to find words
with which to begin a conversation. Then she would leave me abruptly and
walk away quickly with her springy step.

“One day, however, she plucked up courage:

“I would like to see how you paint pictures. Are you willing? I have
been very curious.'

“And she blushed as if she had said something very audacious.

“I conducted her to the bottom of the Petit-Val, where I had begun a
large picture.

“She remained standing behind me, following all my gestures with
concentrated attention. Then, suddenly, fearing perhaps that she was
disturbing me, she said: 'Thank you,' and walked away.

“But she soon became more friendly, and accompanied me every day, her
countenance exhibiting visible pleasure. She carried her camp stool
under her arm, not permitting me to carry it. She would remain there for
hours, silent and motionless, following with her eyes the point of my
brush, in its every movement. When I obtained unexpectedly just the
effect I wanted by a dash of color put on with the palette knife, she
involuntarily uttered a little 'Ah!' of astonishment, of joy, of
admiration. She had the most tender respect for my canvases, an almost
religious respect for that human reproduction of a part of nature's work
divine. My studies appeared to her a kind of religious pictures, and
sometimes she spoke to me of God, with the idea of converting me.

“Oh, he was a queer, good-natured being, this God of hers! He was a sort
of village philosopher without any great resources and without great
power, for she always figured him to herself as inconsolable over
injustices committed under his eyes, as though he were powerless to
prevent them.

“She was, however, on excellent terms with him, affecting even to be the
confidante of his secrets and of his troubles. She would say:

“'God wills' or 'God does not will,' just like a sergeant announcing to
a recruit: 'The colonel has commanded.'

“At the bottom of her heart she deplored my ignorance of the intentions
of the Eternal, which she endeavored to impart to me.

“Almost every day I found in my pockets, in my hat when I lifted it from
the ground, in my paintbox, in my polished shoes, standing in front of
my door in the morning, those little pious tracts which she no doubt,
received directly from Paradise.

“I treated her as one would an old friend, with unaffected cordiality.
But I soon perceived that she had changed somewhat in her manner,
though, for a while, I paid little attention to it.

“When I was painting, whether in my valley or in some country lane, I
would see her suddenly appear with her rapid, springy walk. She would
then sit down abruptly, out of breath, as though she had been running or
were overcome by some profound emotion. Her face would be red, that
English red which is denied to the people of all other countries; then,
without any reason, she would turn ashy pale and seem about to faint
away. Gradually, however, her natural color would return and she would
begin to speak.

“Then, without warning, she would break off in the middle of a sentence,
spring up from her seat and walk away so rapidly and so strangely that I
was at my wits' ends to discover whether I had done or said anything to
displease or wound her.

“I finally came to the conclusion that those were her normal manners,
somewhat modified no doubt in my honor during the first days of our
acquaintance.

“When she returned to the farm, after walking for hours on the windy
coast, her long curls often hung straight down, as if their springs had
been broken. This had hitherto seldom given her any concern, and she
would come to dinner without embarrassment all dishevelled by her
sister, the breeze.

“But now she would go to her room and arrange the untidy locks, and when
I would say, with familiar gallantry, which, however, always offended
her:

“'You are as beautiful as a star to-day, Miss Harriet,' a blush would
immediately rise to her cheeks, the blush of a young girl, of a girl of
fifteen.

“Then she would suddenly become quite reserved and cease coming to watch
me paint. I thought, 'This is only a fit of temper; it will blow over.'
But it did not always blow over, and when I spoke to her she would
answer me either with affected indifference or with sullen annoyance.

“She became by turns rude, impatient and nervous. I never saw her now
except at meals, and we spoke but little. I concluded at length that I
must have offended her in some way, and, accordingly, I said to her one
evening:

“'Miss Harriet, why is it that you do not act toward me as formerly?
What have I done to displease you? You are causing me much pain!'

“She replied in a most comical tone of anger:

“'I am just the same with you as formerly. It is not true, not true,'
and she ran upstairs and shut herself up in her room.

“Occasionally she would look at me in a peculiar manner. I have often
said to myself since then that those who are condemned to death must
look thus when they are informed that their last day has come. In her
eye there lurked a species of insanity, an insanity at once mystical and
violent; and even more, a fever, an aggravated longing, impatient and
impotent, for the unattained and unattainable.

“Nay, it seemed to me there was also going on within her a struggle in
which her heart wrestled with an unknown force that she sought to
master, and even, perhaps, something else. But what do I know? What do I
know?

“It was indeed a singular revelation.

“For some time I had commenced to work, as soon as daylight appeared, on
a picture the subject of which was as follows:

“A deep ravine, enclosed, surmounted by two thickets of trees and vines,
extended into the distance and was lost, submerged in that milky vapor,
in that cloud like cotton down that sometimes floats over valleys at
daybreak. And at the extreme end of that heavy, transparent fog one saw,
or, rather, surmised, that a couple of human beings were approaching, a
human couple, a youth and a maiden, their arms interlaced, embracing
each other, their heads inclined toward each other, their lips meeting.

“A first ray of the sun, glistening through the branches, pierced that
fog of the dawn, illuminated it with a rosy reflection just behind the
rustic lovers, framing their vague shadows in a silvery background. It
was well done; yes, indeed, well done.

“I was working on the declivity which led to the Valley of Etretat. On
this particular morning I had, by chance, the sort of floating vapor
which I needed. Suddenly something rose up in front of me like a
phantom; it was Miss Harriet. On seeing me she was about to flee. But I
called after her, saying: 'Come here, come here, mademoiselle. I have a
nice little picture for you.'

“She came forward, though with seeming reluctance. I handed her my
sketch. She said nothing, but stood for a long time, motionless, looking
at it, and suddenly she burst into tears. She wept spasmodically, like
men who have striven hard to restrain their tears, but who can do so no
longer and abandon themselves to grief, though still resisting. I sprang
to my feet, moved at the sight of a sorrow I did not comprehend, and I
took her by the hand with an impulse of brusque affection, a true French
impulse which acts before it reflects.

“She let her hands rest in mine for a few seconds, and I felt them
quiver as if all her nerves were being wrenched. Then she withdrew her
hands abruptly, or, rather, snatched them away.

“I recognized that tremor, for I had felt it, and I could not be
deceived. Ah! the love tremor of a woman, whether she be fifteen or
fifty years of age, whether she be of the people or of society, goes so
straight to my heart that I never have any hesitation in understanding
it!

“Her whole frail being had trembled, vibrated, been overcome. I knew it.
She walked away before I had time to say a word, leaving me as surprised
as if I had witnessed a miracle and as troubled as if I had committed a
crime.

“I did not go in to breakfast. I went to take a turn on the edge of the
cliff, feeling that I would just as lief weep as laugh, looking on the
adventure as both comic and deplorable and my position as ridiculous,
believing her unhappy enough to go insane.

“I asked myself what I ought to do. It seemed best for me to leave the
place, and I immediately resolved to do so.

“Somewhat sad and perplexed, I wandered about until dinner time and
entered the farmhouse just when the soup had been served up.

“I sat down at the table as usual. Miss Harriet was there, eating away
solemnly, without speaking to any one, without even lifting her eyes.
Her manner and expression were, however, the same as usual.

“I waited patiently till the meal had been finished, when, turning
toward the landlady, I said: 'Well, Madame Lecacheur, it will not be
long now before I shall have to take my leave of you.'

“The good woman, at once surprised and troubled, replied in her drawling
voice: 'My dear sir, what is it you say? You are going to leave us after
I have become so accustomed to you?'

“I glanced at Miss Harriet out of the corner of my eye. Her countenance
did not change in the least. But Celeste, the little servant, looked up
at me. She was a fat girl, of about eighteen years of age, rosy, fresh,
as strong as a horse, and possessing the rare attribute of cleanliness.
I had kissed her at odd times in out-of-the-way corners, after the
manner of travellers—nothing more.

“The dinner being at length over, I went to smoke my pipe under the
apple trees, walking up and down from one end of the enclosure to the
other. All the reflections which I had made during the day, the strange
discovery of the morning, that passionate and grotesque attachment for
me, the recollections which that revelation had suddenly called up,
recollections at once charming and perplexing, perhaps also that look
which the servant had cast on me at the announcement of my departure—all
these things, mixed up and combined, put me now in a reckless humor,
gave me a tickling sensation of kisses on the lips and in my veins a
something which urged me on to commit some folly.

“Night was coming on, casting its dark shadows under the trees, when I
descried Celeste, who had gone to fasten up the poultry yard at the
other end of the enclosure. I darted toward her, running so noiselessly
that she heard nothing, and as she got up from closing the small
trapdoor by which the chickens got in and out, I clasped her in my arms
and rained on her coarse, fat face a shower of kisses. She struggled,
laughing all the time, as she was accustomed to do in such
circumstances. Why did I suddenly loose my grip of her? Why did I at
once experience a shock? What was it that I heard behind me?

“It was Miss Harriet, who had come upon us, who had seen us and who
stood in front of us motionless as a spectre. Then she disappeared in
the darkness.

“I was ashamed, embarrassed, more desperate at having been thus
surprised by her than if she had caught me committing some criminal act.

“I slept badly that night. I was completely unnerved and haunted by sad
thoughts. I seemed to hear loud weeping, but in this I was no doubt
deceived. Moreover, I thought several times that I heard some one
walking up and down in the house and opening the hall door.

“Toward morning I was overcome by fatigue and fell asleep. I got up late
and did not go downstairs until the late breakfast, being still in a
bewildered state, not knowing what kind of expression to put on.

“No one had seen Miss Harriet. We waited for her at table, but she did
not appear. At length Mother Lecacheur went to her room. The English
woman had gone out. She must have set out at break of day, as she was
wont to do, in order to see the sun rise.

“Nobody seemed surprised at this, and we began to eat in silence.

“The weather was hot, very hot, one of those broiling, heavy days when
not a leaf stirs. The table had been placed out of doors, under an apple
tree, and from time to time Sapeur had gone to the cellar to draw a jug
of cider, everybody was so thirsty. Celeste brought the dishes from the
kitchen, a ragout of mutton with potatoes, a cold rabbit and a salad.
Afterward she placed before us a dish of strawberries, the first of the
season.

“As I wished to wash and freshen these, I begged the servant to go and
draw me a pitcher of cold water.

“In about five minutes she returned, declaring that the well was dry.
She had lowered the pitcher to the full extent of the cord and had
touched the bottom, but on drawing the pitcher up again it was empty.
Mother Lecacheur, anxious to examine the thing for herself, went and
looked down the hole. She returned, announcing that one could see
clearly something in the well, something altogether unusual. But this no
doubt was bundles of straw, which a neighbor had thrown in out of spite.

“I wished to look down the well also, hoping I might be able to clear up
the mystery, and I perched myself close to the brink. I perceived
indistinctly a white object. What could it be? I then conceived the idea
of lowering a lantern at the end of a cord. When I did so the yellow
flame danced on the layers of stone and gradually became clearer. All
four of us were leaning over the opening, Sapeur and Celeste having now
joined us. The lantern rested on a black-and-white indistinct mass,
singular, incomprehensible. Sapeur exclaimed:

“'It is a horse. I see the hoofs. It must have got out of the meadow
during the night and fallen in headlong.'

“But suddenly a cold shiver froze me to the marrow. I first recognized a
foot, then a leg sticking up; the whole body and the other leg were
completely under water.

“I stammered out in a loud voice, trembling so violently that the
lantern danced hither and thither over the slipper:

“'It is a woman! Who-who-can it be? It is Miss Harriet!'

“Sapeur alone did not manifest horror. He had witnessed many such scenes
in Africa.

“Mother Lecacheur and Celeste began to utter piercing screams and ran
away.

“But it was necessary to recover the corpse of the dead woman. I
attached the young man securely by the waist to the end of the pulley
rope and lowered him very slowly, watching him disappear in the
darkness. In one hand he held the lantern and a rope in the other. Soon
I recognized his voice, which seemed to come from the centre of the
earth, saying:

“'Stop!'

“I then saw him fish something out of the water. It was the other leg.
He then bound the two feet together and shouted anew:

“'Haul up!'

“I began to wind up, but I felt my arms crack, my muscles twitch, and I
was in terror lest I should let the man fall to the bottom. When his
head appeared at the brink I asked:

“'Well?' as if I expected he had a message from the drowned woman.

“We both got on the stone slab at the edge of the well and from opposite
sides we began to haul up the body.

“Mother Lecacheur and Celeste watched us from a distance, concealed from
view behind the wall of the house. When they saw issuing from the hole
the black slippers and white stockings of the drowned person they
disappeared.

“Sapeur seized the ankles, and we drew up the body of the poor woman.
The head was shocking to look at, being bruised and lacerated, and the
long gray hair, out of curl forevermore, hanging down tangled and
disordered.

“'In the name of all that is holy! how lean she is,' exclaimed Sapeur in
a contemptuous tone.

“We carried her into the room, and as the women did not put in an
appearance I, with the assistance of the stable lad, dressed the corpse
for burial.

“I washed her disfigured face. Under the touch of my finger an eye was
slightly opened and regarded me with that pale, cold look, that terrible
look of a corpse which seems to come from the beyond. I braided as well
as I could her dishevelled hair and with my clumsy hands arranged on her
head a novel and singular coiffure. Then I took off her dripping wet
garments, baring, not without a feeling of shame, as though I had been
guilty of some profanation, her shoulders and her chest and her long
arms, as slim as the twigs of a tree.

“I next went to fetch some flowers, poppies, bluets, marguerites and
fresh, sweet-smelling grass with which to strew her funeral couch.

“I then had to go through the usual formalities, as I was alone to
attend to everything. A letter found in her pocket, written at the last
moment, requested that her body be buried in the village in which she
had passed the last days of her life. A sad suspicion weighed on my
heart. Was it not on my account that she wished to be laid to rest in
this place?

“Toward evening all the female gossips of the locality came to view the
remains of the defunct, but I would not allow a single person to enter.
I wanted to be alone, and I watched beside her all night.

“I looked at the corpse by the flickering light of the candles, at this
unhappy woman, unknown to us all, who had died in such a lamentable
manner and so far away from home. Had she left no friends, no relations
behind her? What had her infancy been? What had been her life? Whence
had she come thither alone, a wanderer, lost like a dog driven from
home? What secrets of sufferings and of despair were sealed up in that
unprepossessing body, in that poor body whose outward appearance had
driven from her all affection, all love?

“How many unhappy beings there are! I felt that there weighed upon that
human creature the eternal injustice of implacable nature! It was all
over with her, without her ever having experienced, perhaps, that which
sustains the greatest outcasts to wit, the hope of being loved once!
Otherwise why should she thus have concealed herself, fled from the face
of others? Why did she love everything so tenderly and so passionately,
everything living that was not a man?

“I recognized the fact that she believed in a God, and that she hoped to
receive compensation from the latter for all the miseries she had
endured. She would now disintegrate and become, in turn, a plant. She
would blossom in the sun, the cattle would browse on her leaves, the
birds would bear away the seeds, and through these changes she would
become again human flesh. But that which is called the soul had been
extinguished at the bottom of the dark well. She suffered no longer. She
had given her life for that of others yet to come.

“Hours passed away in this silent and sinister communion with the dead.
A pale light at length announced the dawn of a new day; then a red ray
streamed in on the bed, making a bar of light across the coverlet and
across her hands. This was the hour she had so much loved. The awakened
birds began to sing in the trees.

“I opened the window to its fullest extent and drew back the curtains
that the whole heavens might look in upon us, and, bending over the icy
corpse, I took in my hands the mutilated head and slowly, without terror
or disgust, I imprinted a kiss, a long kiss, upon those lips which had
never before been kissed.”

Leon Chenal remained silent. The women wept. We heard on the box seat
the Count d'Atraille blowing his nose from time to time. The coachman
alone had gone to sleep. The horses, who no longer felt the sting of the
whip, had slackened their pace and moved along slowly. The drag, hardly
advancing at all, seemed suddenly torpid, as if it had been freighted
with sorrow.

[Miss Harriet appeared in Le Gaulois, July 9, 1883, under the title of
Miss Hastings. The story was later revised, enlarged; and partly
reconstructed. This is what De Maupassant wrote to Editor Havard March
15, 1884, in an unedited letter, in regard to the title of the story
that was to give its name to the volume:

“I do not believe that Hastings is a bad name, inasmuch as it is known
all over the world, and recalls the greatest facts in English history.
Besides, Hastings is as much a name as Duval is with us.

“The name Cherbuliez selected, Miss Revel, is no more like an English
name than like a Turkish name. But here is another name as English as
Hastings, and more euphonious; it is Miss Harriet. I will ask you
therefore to substitute Harriet for Hastings.”

It was in regard to this very tittle that De Maupassant had a
disagreement with Audran and Boucheron director of the Bouffes Parisiens
in October, 1890. They had given this title to an operetta about to be
played at the Bouffes. It ended however, by their ceding to De
Maupassant, and the title of the operetta was changed to Miss Helyett.]





LITTLE LOUISE ROQUE

The former soldier, Mederic Rompel, familiarly called Mederic by the
country folks, left the post office of Roily-le-Tors at the usual hour.
After passing through the village with his long stride, he cut across
the meadows of Villaume and reached the bank of the Brindille, following
the path along the water's edge to the village of Carvelin, where he
commenced to deliver his letters. He walked quickly, following the
course of the narrow river, which frothed, murmured and boiled in its
grassy bed beneath an arch of willows.

Mederic went on without stopping, with only this thought in his mind:
“My first letter is for the Poivron family, then I have one for Monsieur
Renardet; so I must cross the wood.”

His blue blouse, fastened round his waist by a black leather belt, moved
in a quick, regular fashion above the green hedge of willow trees, and
his stout stick of holly kept time with his steady tread.

He crossed the Brindille on a bridge consisting of a tree trunk, with a
handrail of rope, fastened at either end to a stake driven into the
ground.

The wood, which belonged to Monsieur Renardet, the mayor of Carvelin and
the largest landowner in the district, consisted of huge old trees,
straight as pillars and extending for about half a league along the left
bank of the stream which served as a boundary to this immense dome of
foliage. Alongside the water large shrubs had grown up in the sunlight,
but under the trees one found nothing but moss, thick, soft and
yielding, from which arose, in the still air, an odor of dampness and of
dead wood.

Mederic slackened his pace, took off his black cap adorned with red lace
and wiped his forehead, for it was by this time hot in the meadows,
though it was not yet eight o'clock in the morning.

He had just recovered from the effects of the heat and resumed his quick
pace when he noticed at the foot of a tree a knife, a child's small
knife. When he picked it up he discovered a thimble and also a
needlecase not far away.

Having taken up these objects, he thought: “I'll entrust them to the
mayor,” and he resumed his journey, but now he kept his eyes open,
expecting to find something else.

All of a sudden he stopped short, as if he had struck against a wooden
barrier. Ten paces in front of him lay stretched on her back on the moss
a little girl, perfectly nude, her face covered with a handkerchief. She
was about twelve years old.

Meredic advanced on tiptoe, as if he apprehended some danger, and he
glanced toward the spot uneasily.

What was this? No doubt she was asleep. Then he reflected that a person
does not go to sleep naked at half-past seven in the morning under the
cool trees. So, then, she must be dead, and he must be face to face with
a crime. At this thought a cold shiver ran through his frame, although
he was an old soldier. And then a murder was such a rare thing in the
country, and, above all, the murder of a child, that he could not
believe his eyes. But she had no wound-nothing save a spot of blood on
her leg. How, then, had she been killed?

He stopped close to her and gazed at her, while he leaned on his stick.
Certainly he must know her, for he knew all the inhabitants of the
district; but, not being able to get a look at her face, he could not
guess her name. He stooped forward in order to take off the handkerchief
which covered her face, then paused, with outstretched hand, restrained
by an idea that occurred to him.

Had he the right to disarrange anything in the condition of the corpse
before the official investigation? He pictured justice to himself as a
kind of general whom nothing escapes and who attaches as much importance
to a lost button as to the stab of a knife in the stomach. Perhaps under
this handkerchief evidence could be found to sustain a charge of murder;
in fact, if such proof were there it might lose its value if touched by
an awkward hand.

Then he raised himself with the intention of hastening toward the
mayor's residence, but again another thought held him back. If the
little girl were still alive, by any chance, he could not leave her
lying there in this way. He sank on his knees very gently, a little
distance from her, through precaution, and extended his hand toward her
foot. It was icy cold, with the terrible coldness of death which leaves
us no longer in doubt. The letter carrier, as he touched her, felt his
heart in his mouth, as he said himself afterward, and his mouth parched.
Rising up abruptly, he rushed off under the trees toward Monsieur
Renardet's house.

He walked on faster than ever, with his stick under his arm, his hands
clenched and his head thrust forward, while his leathern bag, filled
with letters and newspapers, kept flapping at his side.

The mayor's residence was at the end of the wood which served as a park,
and one side of it was washed by the Brindille.

It was a big square house of gray stone, very old, and had stood many a
siege in former days, and at the end of it was a huge tower, twenty
metres high, rising out of the water.

From the top of this fortress one could formerly see all the surrounding
country. It was called the Fox's tower, without any one knowing exactly
why; and from this appellation, no doubt, had come the name Renardet,
borne by the owners of this fief, which had remained in the same family,
it was said, for more than two hundred years. For the Renardets formed
part of the upper middle class, all but noble, to be met with so often
in the province before the Revolution.

The postman dashed into the kitchen, where the servants were taking
breakfast, and exclaimed:

“Is the mayor up? I want to speak to him at once.”

Mederic was recognized as a man of standing and authority, and they
understood that something serious had happened.

As soon as word was brought to Monsieur Renardet, he ordered the postman
to be sent up to him. Pale and out of breath, with his cap in his hand,
Mederic found the mayor seated at a long table covered with scattered
papers.

He was a large, tall man, heavy and red-faced, strong as an ox, and was
greatly liked in the district, although of an excessively violent
disposition. Almost forty years old and a widower for the past six
months, he lived on his estate like a country gentleman. His choleric
temperament had often brought him into trouble from which the
magistrates of Roily-le-Tors, like indulgent and prudent friends, had
extricated him. Had he not one day thrown the conductor of the diligence
from the top of his seat because he came near running over his
retriever, Micmac? Had he not broken the ribs of a gamekeeper who abused
him for having, gun in hand, passed through a neighbor's property? Had
he not even caught by the collar the sub-prefect, who stopped over in
the village during an administrative circuit, called by Monsieur
Renardet an electioneering circuit, for he was opposed to the
government, in accordance with family traditions.

The mayor asked:

“What's the matter now, Mederic?”

“I found a little girl dead in your wood.”

Renardet rose to his feet, his face the color of brick.

“What do you say—a little girl?”

“Yes, m'sieu, a little girl, quite naked, on her back, with blood on
her, dead—quite dead!”

The mayor gave vent to an oath:

“By God, I'd make a bet it is little Louise Roque! I have just learned
that she did not go home to her mother last night. Where did you find
her?”

The postman described the spot, gave full details and offered to conduct
the mayor to the place.

But Renardet became brusque:

“No, I don't need you. Send the watchman, the mayor's secretary and the
doctor to me at once, and resume your rounds. Quick, quick, go and tell
them to meet me in the wood.”

The letter carrier, a man used to discipline, obeyed and withdrew, angry
and grieved at not being able to be present at the investigation.

The mayor, in his turn, prepared to go out, took his big soft hat and
paused for a few seconds on the threshold of his abode. In front of him
stretched a wide sward, in which were three large beds of flowers in
full bloom, one facing the house and the others at either side of it.
Farther on the outlying trees of the wood rose skyward, while at the
left, beyond the Brindille, which at that spot widened into a pond,
could be seen long meadows, an entirely green flat sweep of country,
intersected by trenches and hedges of pollard willows.

To the right, behind the stables, the outhouses and all the buildings
connected with the property, might be seen the village, which was
wealthy, being mainly inhabited by cattle breeders.

Renardet slowly descended the steps in front of his house, and, turning
to the left, gained the water's edge, which he followed at a slow pace,
his hand behind his back. He walked on, with bent head, and from time to
time glanced round in search of the persons he had sent for.

When he stood beneath the trees he stopped, took off his hat and wiped
his forehead as Mederic had done, for the burning sun was darting its
fiery rays on the earth. Then the mayor resumed his journey, stopped
once more and retraced his steps. Suddenly, stooping down, he steeped
his handkerchief in the stream that glided along at his feet and spread
it over his head, under his hat. Drops of water flowed down his temples
over his ears, which were always purple, over his strong red neck, and
made their way, one after the other, under his white shirt collar.

As nobody had appeared, he began tapping with his foot, then he called
out:

“Hello! Hello!”

A voice at his right answered:

“Hello! Hello!”

And the doctor appeared under the trees. He was a thin little man, an
ex-military surgeon, who passed in the neighborhood for a very skillful
practitioner. He limped, having been wounded while in the service, and
had to use a stick to assist him in walking.

Next came the watchman and the mayor's secretary, who, having been sent
for at the same time, arrived together. They looked scared, and hurried
forward, out of breath, walking and running alternately to hasten their
progress, and moving their arms up and down so vigorously that they
seemed to do more work with them than with their legs.

Renardet said to the doctor:

“You know what the trouble is about?”

“Yes, a child found dead in the wood by Mederic.”

“That's quite correct. Come on!”

They walked along, side by side, followed by the two men.

Their steps made no sound on the moss. Their eyes were gazing ahead in
front of them.

Suddenly the doctor, extending his arm, said:

“See, there she is!”

Far ahead of them under the trees they saw something white on which the
sun gleamed down through the branches. As they approached they gradually
distinguished a human form lying there, its head toward the river, the
face covered and the arms extended as though on a crucifix.

“I am fearfully warm,” said the mayor, and stooping down, he again
soaked his handkerchief in the water and placed it round his forehead.

The doctor hastened his steps, interested by the discovery. As soon as
they were near the corpse, he bent down to examine it without touching
it. He had put on his pince-nez, as one does in examining some curious
object, and turned round very quietly.

He said, without rising:

“Violated and murdered, as we shall prove presently. This little girl,
moreover, is almost a woman—look at her throat.”

The doctor lightly drew away the handkerchief which covered her face,
which looked black, frightful, the tongue protruding, the eyes
bloodshot. He went on:

“By heavens! She was strangled the moment the deed was done.”

He felt her neck.

“Strangled with the hands without leaving any special trace, neither the
mark of the nails nor the imprint of the fingers. Quite right. It is
little Louise Roque, sure enough!”

He carefully replaced the handkerchief.

“There's nothing for me to do. She's been dead for the last hour at
least. We must give notice of the matter to the authorities.”

Renardet, standing up, with his hands behind his back, kept staring with
a stony look at the little body exposed to view on the grass. He
murmured:

“What a wretch! We must find the clothes.”

The doctor felt the hands, the arms, the legs. He said:

“She had been bathing no doubt. They ought to be at the water's edge.”

The mayor thereupon gave directions:

“Do you, Principe” (this was his secretary), “go and find those clothes
for me along the stream. You, Maxime” (this was the watchman), “hurry on
toward Rouy-le-Tors and bring with you the magistrate with the
gendarmes. They must be here within an hour. You understand?”

The two men started at once, and Renardet said to the doctor:

“What miscreant could have done such a deed in this part of the
country?”

The doctor murmured:

“Who knows? Any one is capable of that. Every one in particular and
nobody in general. No matter, it must be some prowler, some workman out
of employment. Since we have become a Republic we meet only this kind of
person along the roads.”

Both of them were Bonapartists.

The mayor went on:

“Yes, it can only be a stranger, a passer-by, a vagabond without hearth
or home.”

The doctor added, with the shadow of a smile on his face:

“And without a wife. Having neither a good supper nor a good bed, he
became reckless. You can't tell how many men there may be in the world
capable of a crime at a given moment. Did you know that this little girl
had disappeared?”

And with the end of his stick he touched one after the other the
stiffened fingers of the corpse, resting on them as on the keys of a
piano.

“Yes, the mother came last night to look for me about nine o'clock, the
child not having come home at seven to supper. We looked for her along
the roads up to midnight, but we did not think of the wood. However, we
needed daylight to carry out a thorough search.”

“Will you have a cigar?” said the doctor.

“Thanks, I don't care to smoke. This thing affects me so.”

They remained standing beside the corpse of the young girl, so pale on
the dark moss. A big blue fly was walking over the body with his lively,
jerky movements. The two men kept watching this wandering speck.

The doctor said:

“How pretty it is, a fly on the skin! The ladies of the last century had
good reason to paste them on their faces. Why has this fashion gone
out?”

The mayor seemed not to hear, plunged as he was in deep thought.

But, all of a sudden, he turned round, surprised by a shrill noise. A
woman in a cap and blue apron was running toward them under the trees.
It was the mother, La Roque. As soon as she saw Renardet she began to
shriek:

“My little girl! Where's my little girl?” so distractedly that she did
not glance down at the ground. Suddenly she saw the corpse, stopped
short, clasped her hands and raised both her arms while she uttered a
sharp, heartrending cry—the cry of a wounded animal. Then she rushed
toward the body, fell on her knees and snatched away the handkerchief
that covered the face. When she saw that frightful countenance, black
and distorted, she rose to her feet with a shudder, then sinking to the
ground, face downward, she pressed her face against the ground and
uttered frightful, continuous screams on the thick moss.

Her tall, thin frame, with its close-clinging dress, was palpitating,
shaken with spasms. One could see her bony ankles and her dried-up
calves covered with coarse blue stockings shaking horribly. She was
digging the soil with her crooked fingers, as though she were trying to
make a hole in which to hide herself.

The doctor, much affected, said in a low tone:

“Poor old woman!”

Renardet felt a strange sensation. Then he gave vent to a sort of loud
sneeze, and, drawing his handkerchief from his pocket, he began to weep
internally, coughing, sobbing and blowing his nose noisily.

He stammered:

“Damn—damn—damned pig to do this! I would like to see him guillotined.”

Principe reappeared with his hands empty. He murmured:

“I have found nothing, M'sieu le Maire, nothing at all anywhere.”

The mayor, alarmed, replied in a thick voice, drowned in tears:

“What is that you could not find?”

“The little girl's clothes.”

“Well—well—look again, and find them—or you 'll have to answer to me.”

The man, knowing that the mayor would not brook opposition, set forth
again with hesitating steps, casting a timid side glance at the corpse.

Distant voices were heard under the trees, a confused sound, the noise
of an approaching crowd, for Mederic had, in the course of his rounds,
carried the news from door to door. The people of the neighborhood,
dazed at first, had gossiped about it in the street, from one threshold
to another. Then they gathered together. They talked over, discussed and
commented on the event for some minutes and had now come to see for
themselves.

They arrived in groups, a little faltering and uneasy through fear of
the first impression of such a scene on their minds. When they saw the
body they stopped, not daring to advance, and speaking low. Then they
grew bolder, went on a few steps, stopped again, advanced once more, and
presently formed around the dead girl, her mother, the doctor and
Renardet a close circle, restless and noisy, which crowded forward at
the sudden impact of newcomers. And now they touched the corpse. Some of
them even bent down to feel it with their fingers. The doctor kept them
back. But the mayor, waking abruptly out of his torpor, flew into a
rage, and seizing Dr. Labarbe's stick, flung himself on his townspeople,
stammering:

“Clear out—clear out—you pack of brutes—clear out!”

And in a second the crowd of sightseers had fallen back two hundred
paces.

Mother La Roque had risen to a sitting posture and now remained weeping,
with her hands clasped over her face.

The crowd was discussing the affair, and young lads' eager eyes
curiously scrutinized this nude young form. Renardet perceived this,
and, abruptly taking off his coat, he flung it over the little girl, who
was entirely hidden from view beneath the large garment.

The secretary drew near quietly. The wood was filled with people, and a
continuous hum of voices rose up under the tangled foliage of the tall
trees.

The mayor, in his shirt sleeves, remained standing, with his stick in
his hands, in a fighting attitude. He seemed exasperated by this
curiosity on the part of the people and kept repeating:

“If one of you come nearer I'll break his head just as I would a dog's.”

The peasants were greatly afraid of him. They held back. Dr. Labarbe,
who was smoking, sat down beside La Roque and spoke to her in order to
distract her attention. The old woman at once removed her hands from her
face and replied with a flood of tearful words, emptying her grief in
copious talk. She told the whole story of her life, her marriage, the
death of her man, a cattle drover, who had been gored to death, the
infancy of her daughter, her wretched existence as a widow without
resources and with a child to support. She had only this one, her little
Louise, and the child had been killed—killed in this wood. Then she felt
anxious to see her again, and, dragging herself on her knees toward the
corpse, she raised up one corner of the garment that covered her; then
she let it fall again and began wailing once more. The crowd remained
silent, eagerly watching all the mother's gestures.

But suddenly there was a great commotion at the cry of “The gendarmes!
the gendarmes!”

Two gendarmes appeared in the distance, advancing at a rapid trot,
escorting their captain and a little gentleman with red whiskers, who
was bobbing up and down like a monkey on a big white mare.

The watchman had just found Monsieur Putoin, the magistrate, at the
moment when he was mounting his horse to take his daily ride, for he
posed as a good horseman, to the great amusement of the officers.

He dismounted, along with the captain, and pressed the hands of the
mayor and the doctor, casting a ferret-like glance on the linen coat
beneath which lay the corpse.

When he was made acquainted with all the facts, he first gave orders to
disperse the crowd, whom the gendarmes drove out of the wood, but who
soon reappeared in the meadow and formed a hedge, a big hedge of excited
and moving heads, on the other side of the stream.

The doctor, in his turn, gave explanations, which Renardet noted down in
his memorandum book. All the evidence was given, taken down and
commented on without leading to any discovery. Maxime, too, came back
without having found any trace of the clothes.

This disappearance surprised everybody; no one could explain it except
on the theory of theft, and as her rags were not worth twenty sous, even
this theory was inadmissible.

The magistrate, the mayor, the captain and the doctor set to work
searching in pairs, putting aside the smallest branch along the water.

Renardet said to the judge:

“How does it happen that this wretch has concealed or carried away the
clothes, and has thus left the body exposed, in sight of every one?”

The other, crafty and sagacious, answered:

“Ha! ha! Perhaps a dodge? This crime has been committed either by a
brute or by a sly scoundrel. In any case, we'll easily succeed in
finding him.”

The noise of wheels made them turn their heads round. It was the deputy
magistrate, the doctor and the registrar of the court who had arrived in
their turn. They resumed their search, all chatting in an animated
fashion.

Renardet said suddenly:

“Do you know that you are to take luncheon with me?”

Every one smilingly accepted the invitation, and the magistrate,
thinking that the case of little Louise Roque had occupied enough
attention for one day, turned toward the mayor.

“I can have the body brought to your house, can I not? You have a room
in which you can keep it for me till this evening?”

The other became confused and stammered:

“Yes—no—no. To tell the truth, I prefer that it should not come into my
house on account of—on account of my servants, who are already talking
about ghosts in—in my tower, in the Fox's tower. You know—I could no
longer keep a single one. No—I prefer not to have it in my house.”

The magistrate began to smile.

“Good! I will have it taken at once to Roily for the legal examination.”
And, turning to his deputy, he said:

“I can make use of your trap, can I not?”

“Yes, certainly.”

They all came back to the place where the corpse lay. Mother La Roque,
now seated beside her daughter, was holding her hand and was staring
right before her with a wandering, listless eye.

The two doctors endeavored to lead her away, so that she might not
witness the dead girl's removal, but she understood at once what they
wanted to do, and, flinging herself on the body, she threw both arms
round it. Lying on top of the corpse, she exclaimed:

“You shall not have it—it's mine—it's mine now. They have killed her for
me, and I want to keep her—you shall not have her——”

All the men, affected and not knowing how to act, remained standing
around her. Renardet fell on his knees and said to her:

“Listen, La Roque, it is necessary, in order to find out who killed her.
Without this, we could not find out. We must make a search for the man
in order to punish him. When we have found him we'll give her up to you.
I promise you this.”

This explanation bewildered the woman, and a feeling of hatred
manifested itself in her distracted glance.

“So then they'll arrest him?”

“Yes, I promise you that.”

She rose up, deciding to let them do as they liked, but when the captain
remarked:

“It is surprising that her clothes were not found,” a new idea, which
she had not previously thought of, abruptly entered her mind, and she
asked:

“Where are her clothes? They're mine. I want them. Where have they been
put?”

They explained to her that they had not been found. Then she demanded
them persistently, crying and moaning.

“They're mine—I want them. Where are they? I want them!”

The more they tried to calm her the more she sobbed and persisted in her
demands. She no longer wanted the body, she insisted on having the
clothes, as much perhaps through the unconscious cupidity of a wretched
being to whom a piece of silver represents a fortune as through maternal
tenderness.

And when the little body, rolled up in blankets which had been brought
out from Renardet's house, had disappeared in the vehicle, the old woman
standing under the trees, sustained by the mayor and the captain,
exclaimed:

“I have nothing, nothing, nothing in the world, not even her little cap
—her little cap.”

The cure, a young priest, had just arrived. He took it on himself to
accompany the mother, and they went away together toward the village.
The mother's grief was modified by the sugary words of the clergyman,
who promised her a thousand compensations. But she kept repeating: “If I
had only her little cap.” This idea now dominated every other.

Renardet called from the distance:

“You will lunch with us, Monsieur l'Abbe—in an hour's time.”

The priest turned his head round and replied:

“With pleasure, Monsieur le Maire. I'll be with you at twelve.”

And they all directed their steps toward the house, whose gray front,
with the large tower built on the edge of the Brindille, could be seen
through the branches.

The meal lasted a long time. They talked about the crime. Everybody was
of the same opinion. It had been committed by some tramp passing there
by mere chance while the little girl was bathing.

Then the magistrates returned to Rouy, announcing that they would return
next day at an early hour. The doctor and the cure went to their
respective homes, while Renardet, after a long walk through the meadows,
returned to the wood, where he remained walking till nightfall with slow
steps, his hands behind his back.

He went to bed early and was still asleep next morning when the
magistrate entered his room. He was rubbing his hands together with a
self-satisfied air.

“Ha! ha! You are still sleeping! Well, my dear fellow, we have news this
morning.”

The mayor sat up in his bed.

“What, pray?”

“Oh! Something strange. You remember well how the mother clamored
yesterday for some memento of her daughter, especially her little cap?
Well, on opening her door this morning she found on the threshold her
child's two little wooden shoes. This proves that the crime was
perpetrated by some one from the district, some one who felt pity for
her. Besides, the postman, Mederic, brought me the thimble, the knife
and the needle case of the dead girl. So, then, the man in carrying off
the clothes to hide them must have let fall the articles which were in
the pocket. As for me, I attach special importance to the wooden shoes,
as they indicate a certain moral culture and a faculty for tenderness on
the part of the assassin. We will, therefore, if you have no objection,
go over together the principal inhabitants of your district.”

The mayor got up. He rang for his shaving water and said:

“With pleasure, but it will take some time, and we may begin at once.”

M. Putoin sat astride a chair.

Renardet covered his chin with a white lather while he looked at himself
in the glass. Then he sharpened his razor on the strop and continued:

“The principal inhabitant of Carvelin bears the name of Joseph Renardet,
mayor, a rich landowner, a rough man who beats guards and coachmen—”

The examining magistrate burst out laughing.

“That's enough. Let us pass on to the next.”

“The second in importance is Pelledent, his deputy, a cattle breeder, an
equally rich landowner, a crafty peasant, very sly, very close-fisted on
every question of money, but incapable in my opinion of having
perpetrated such a crime.”

“Continue,” said M. Putoin.

Renardet, while proceeding with his toilet, reviewed the characters of
all the inhabitants of Carvelin. After two hours' discussion their
suspicions were fixed on three individuals who had hitherto borne a
shady reputation—a poacher named Cavalle, a fisherman named Paquet, who
caught trout and crabs, and a cattle drover named Clovis. II

The search for the perpetrator of the crime lasted all summer, but he
was not discovered. Those who were suspected and arrested easily proved
their innocence, and the authorities were compelled to abandon the
attempt to capture the criminal.

But this murder seemed to have moved the entire country in a singular
manner. There remained in every one's mind a disquietude, a vague fear,
a sensation of mysterious terror, springing not merely from the
impossibility of discovering any trace of the assassin, but also and
above all from that strange finding of the wooden shoes in front of La
Roque's door the day after the crime. The certainty that the murderer
had assisted at the investigation, that he was still, doubtless, living
in the village, possessed all minds and seemed to brood over the
neighborhood like a constant menace.

The wood had also become a dreaded spot, a place to be avoided and
supposed to be haunted.

Formerly the inhabitants went there to spend every Sunday afternoon.
They used to sit down on the moss at the feet of the huge tall trees or
walk along the water's edge watching the trout gliding among the weeds.
The boy's used to play bowls, hide-and-seek and other games where the
ground had been cleared and levelled, and the girls, in rows of four or
five, would trip along, holding one another by the arms and screaming
songs with their shrill voices. Now nobody ventured there for fear of
finding some corpse lying on the ground.

Autumn arrived, the leaves began to fall from the tall trees, whirling
round and round to the ground, and the sky could be seen through the
bare branches. Sometimes, when a gust of wind swept over the tree tops,
the slow, continuous rain suddenly grew heavier and became a rough storm
that covered the moss with a thick yellow carpet that made a kind of
creaking sound beneath one's feet.

And the sound of the falling leaves seemed like a wail and the leaves
themselves like tears shed by these great, sorrowful trees, that wept in
the silence of the bare and empty wood, this dreaded and deserted wood
where wandered lonely the soul, the little soul of little Louise Roque.

The Brindille, swollen by the storms, rushed on more quickly, yellow and
angry, between its dry banks, bordered by two thin, bare, willow hedges.

And here was Renardet suddenly resuming his walks under the trees. Every
day, at sunset, he came out of his house, descended the front steps
slowly and entered the wood in a dreamy fashion, with his hands in his
pockets, and paced over the damp soft moss, while a legion of rooks from
all the neighboring haunts came thither to rest in the tall trees and
then flew off like a black cloud uttering loud, discordant cries.

Night came on, and Renardet was still strolling slowly under the trees;
then, when the darkness prevented him from walking any longer, he would
go back to the house and sink into his armchair in front of the glowing
hearth, stretching his damp feet toward the fire.

One morning an important bit of news was circulated through the
district; the mayor was having his wood cut down.

Twenty woodcutters were already at work. They had commenced at the
corner nearest to the house and worked rapidly in the master's presence.

And each day the wood grew thinner, losing its trees, which fell down
one by one, as an army loses its soldiers.

Renardet no longer walked up, and down. He remained from morning till
night, contemplating, motionless, with his hands behind his back, the
slow destruction of his wood. When a tree fell he placed his foot on it
as if it were a corpse. Then he raised his eyes to the next with a kind
of secret, calm impatience, as if he expected, hoped for something at
the end of this slaughter.

Meanwhile they were approaching the place where little Louise Roque had
been found. They came to it one evening in the twilight.

As it was dark, the sky being overcast, the woodcutters wanted to stop
their work, putting off till next day the fall of an enormous beech
tree, but the mayor objected to this and insisted that they should at
once lop and cut down this giant, which had sheltered the crime.

When the lopper had laid it bare and the woodcutters had sapped its
base, five men commenced hauling at the rope attached to the top.

The tree resisted; its powerful trunk, although notched to the centre,
was as rigid as iron. The workmen, all together, with a sort of
simultaneous motion, strained at the rope, bending backward and uttering
a cry which timed and regulated their efforts.

Two woodcutters standing close to the giant remained with axes in their
grip, like two executioners ready to strike once more, and Renardet,
motionless, with his hand on the trunk, awaited the fall with an uneasy,
nervous feeling.

One of the men said to him:

“You are too near, Monsieur le Maire. When it falls it may hurt you.”

He did not reply and did not move away. He seemed ready to catch the
beech tree in his open arms and to cast it on the ground like a
wrestler.

All at once, at the base of the tall column of wood there was a rent
which seemed to run to the top, like a painful shock; it bent slightly,
ready to fall, but still resisting. The men, in a state of excitement,
stiffened their arms, renewed their efforts with greater vigor, and,
just as the tree came crashing down, Renardet suddenly made a forward
step, then stopped, his shoulders raised to receive the irresistible
shock, the mortal shock which would crush him to the earth.

But the beech tree, having deviated a little, only rubbed against his
loins, throwing him on his face, five metres away.

The workmen dashed forward to lift him up. He had already arisen to his
knees, stupefied, with bewildered eyes and passing his hand across his
forehead, as if he were awaking from an attack of madness.

When he had got to his feet once more the men, astonished, questioned
him, not being able to understand what he had done. He replied in
faltering tones that he had been dazed for a moment, or, rather, he had
been thinking of his childhood days; that he thought he would have time
to run under the tree, just as street boys rush in front of vehicles
driving rapidly past; that he had played at danger; that for the past
eight days he felt this desire growing stronger within him, asking
himself each time a tree began to fall whether he could pass beneath it
without being touched. It was a piece of stupidity, he confessed, but
every one has these moments of insanity and these temptations to boyish
folly.

He made this explanation in a slow tone, searching for his words, and
speaking in a colorless tone.

Then he went off, saying:

“Till to-morrow, my friends-till to-morrow.”

As soon as he got back to his room he sat down at his table which his
lamp lighted up brightly, and, burying his head in his hands, he began
to cry.

He remained thus for a long time, then wiped his eyes, raised his head
and looked at the clock. It was not yet six o'clock.

He thought:

“I have time before dinner.”

And he went to the door and locked it. He then came back, and, sitting
down at his table, pulled out the middle drawer. Taking from it a
revolver, he laid it down on his papers in full view. The barrel of the
firearm glittered, giving out gleams of light.

Renardet gazed at it for some time with the uneasy glance of a drunken
man. Then he rose and began to pace up and down the room.

He walked from one end of the apartment to the other, stopping from time
to time, only to pace up and down again a moment afterward. Suddenly he
opened the door of his dressing-room, steeped a towel in the water
pitcher and moistened his forehead, as he had done on the morning of the
crime.

Then he, began walking up and down again. Each time he passed the table
the gleaming revolver attracted his glance, tempted his hand, but he
kept watching the clock and reflected:

“I have still time.”

It struck half-past six. Then he took up the revolver, opened his mouth
wide with a frightful grimace and stuck the barrel into it as if he
wanted to swallow it. He remained in this position for some seconds
without moving, his finger on the trigger. Then, suddenly seized with a
shudder of horror, he dropped the pistol on the carpet.

He fell back on his armchair, sobbing:

“I cannot. I dare not! My God! my God! How can I have the courage to
kill myself?'”

There was a knock at the door. He rose up, bewildered. A servant said:

“Monsieur's dinner is ready.”

He replied:

“All right. I'm coming down.”

Then he picked up the revolver, locked it up again in the drawer and
looked at himself in the mirror over the mantelpiece to see whether his
face did not look too much troubled. It was as red as usual, a little
redder perhaps. That was all. He went down and seated himself at table.

He ate slowly, like a man who wants to prolong the meal, who does not
want to be alone.

Then he smoked several pipes in the hall while the table was being
cleared. After that he went back to his room.

As soon as he had locked himself in he looked, under the bed, opened all
the closets, explored every corner, rummaged through all the furniture.
Then he lighted the candles on the mantelpiece, and, turning round
several times, ran his eye all over the apartment with an anguish of
terror that distorted his face, for he knew well that he would see her,
as he did every night—little Louise Roque, the little girl he had
attacked and afterward strangled.

Every night the odious vision came back again. First he seemed to hear a
kind of roaring sound, such as is made by a threshing machine or the
distant passage of a train over a bridge. Then he commenced to gasp, to
suffocate, and he had to unbutton his collar and his belt. He moved
about to make his blood circulate, he tried to read, he attempted to
sing. It was in vain. His thoughts, in spite of himself, went back to
the day of the murder and made him begin it all over again in all its
most secret details, with all the violent emotions he had experienced
from the first minute to the last.

He had felt on rising that morning, the morning of the horrible day, a
little dizziness and headache, which he attributed to the heat, so that
he remained in his room until breakfast time.

After the meal he had taken a siesta, then, toward the close of the
afternoon, he had gone out to breathe the fresh, soothing breeze under
the trees in the wood.

But, as soon as he was outside, the heavy, scorching air of the plain
oppressed him still more. The sun, still high in the heavens, poured
down on the parched soil waves of burning light. Not a breath of wind
stirred the leaves. Every beast and bird, even the grasshoppers, were
silent. Renardet reached the tall trees and began to walk over the moss
where the Brindille produced a slight freshness of the air beneath the
immense roof of branches. But he felt ill at ease. It seemed to him that
an unknown, invisible hand was strangling him, and he scarcely thought
of anything, having usually few ideas in his head. For the last three
months only one thought haunted him, the thought of marrying again. He
suffered from living alone, suffered from it morally and physically.
Accustomed for ten years past to feeling a woman near him, habituated to
her presence every moment, he had need, an imperious and perplexing need
of such association. Since Madame Renardet's death he had suffered
continually without knowing why, he had suffered at not feeling her
dress brushing past him, and, above all, from no longer being able to
calm and rest himself in her arms. He had been scarcely six months a
widower and he was already looking about in the district for some young
girl or some widow he might marry when his period of mourning was at an
end.

He had a chaste soul, but it was lodged in a powerful, herculean body,
and carnal imaginings began to disturb his sleep and his vigils. He
drove them away; they came back again; and he murmured from time to
time, smiling at himself:

“Here I am, like St. Anthony.”

Having this special morning had several of these visions, the desire
suddenly came into his breast to bathe in the Brindille in order to
refresh himself and cool his blood.

He knew of a large deep pool, a little farther down, where the people of
the neighborhood came sometimes to take a dip in summer. He went there.

Thick willow trees hid this clear body of water where the current rested
and went to sleep for a while before starting on its way again.
Renardet, as he appeared, thought he heard a light sound, a faint
plashing which was not that of the stream on the banks. He softly put
aside the leaves and looked. A little girl, quite naked in the
transparent water, was beating the water with both hands, dancing about
in it and dipping herself with pretty movements. She was not a child nor
was she yet a woman. She was plump and developed, while preserving an
air of youthful precocity, as of one who had grown rapidly. He no longer
moved, overcome with surprise, with desire, holding his breath with a
strange, poignant emotion. He remained there, his heart beating as if
one of his sensuous dreams had just been realized, as if an impure fairy
had conjured up before him this young creature, this little rustic
Venus, rising from the eddies of the stream as the real Venus rose from
the waves of the sea.

Suddenly the little girl came out of the water, and, without seeing him,
came over to where he stood, looking for her clothes in order to dress
herself. As she approached gingerly, on account of the sharp-pointed
stones, he felt himself pushed toward her by an irresistible force, by a
bestial transport of passion, which stirred his flesh, bewildered his
mind and made him tremble from head to foot.

She remained standing some seconds behind the willow tree which
concealed him from view. Then, losing his reason entirely, he pushed
aside the branches, rushed on her and seized her in his arms. She fell,
too terrified to offer any resistance, too terror-stricken to cry out.
He seemed possessed, not understanding what he was doing.

He woke from his crime as one wakes from a nightmare. The child burst
out weeping.

“Hold your tongue! Hold your tongue!” he said. “I'll give you money.”

But she did not hear him and went on sobbing.

“Come now, hold your tongue! Do hold your tongue! Keep quiet!” he
continued.

She kept shrieking as she tried to free herself. He suddenly realized
that he was ruined, and he caught her by the neck to stop her mouth from
uttering these heartrending, dreadful screams. As she continued to
struggle with the desperate strength of a being who is seeking to fly
from death, he pressed his enormous hands on the little throat swollen
with screaming, and in a few seconds he had strangled her, so furiously
did he grip her. He had not intended to kill her, but only to make her
keep quiet.

Then he stood up, overwhelmed with horror.

She lay before him, her face bleeding and blackned. He was about to rush
away when there sprang up in his agitated soul the mysterious and
undefined instinct that guides all beings in the hour of danger.

He was going to throw the body into the water, but another impulse drove
him toward the clothes, which he made into a small package. Then, as he
had a piece of twine in his pocket, he tied it up and hid it in a deep
portion of the stream, beneath the trunk of a tree that overhung the
Brindille.

Then he went off at a rapid pace, reached the meadows, took a wide turn
in order to show himself to some peasants who dwelt some distance away
at the opposite side of the district, and came back to dine at the usual
hour, telling his servants all that was supposed to have happened during
his walk.

He slept, however, that night; he slept with a heavy, brutish sleep like
the sleep of certain persons condemned to death. He did not open his
eyes until the first glimmer of dawn, and he waited till his usual hour
for riding, so as to excite no suspicion.

Then he had to be present at the inquiry as to the cause of death. He
did so like a somnambulist, in a kind of vision which showed him men and
things as in a dream, in a cloud of intoxication, with that sense of
unreality which perplexes the mind at the time of the greatest
catastrophes.

But the agonized cry of Mother Roque pierced his heart. At that moment
he had felt inclined to cast himself at the old woman's feet and to
exclaim:

“I am the guilty one!”

But he had restrained himself. He went back, however, during the night
to fish up the dead girl's wooden shoes, in order to place them on her
mother's threshold.

As long as the inquiry lasted, as long as it was necessary to lead
justice astray he was calm, master of himself, crafty and smiling. He
discussed quietly with the magistrates all the suppositions that passed
through their minds, combated their opinions and demolished their
arguments. He even took a keen and mournful pleasure in disturbing their
investigations, in embroiling their ideas, in showing the innocence of
those whom they suspected.

But as soon as the inquiry was abandoned he became gradually nervous,
more excitable than he had been before, although he mastered his
irritability. Sudden noises made him start with fear; he shuddered at
the slightest thing and trembled sometimes from head to foot when a fly
alighted on his forehead. Then he was seized with an imperious desire
for motion, which impelled him to take long walks and to remain up whole
nights pacing up and down his room.

It was not that he was goaded by remorse. His brutal nature did not lend
itself to any shade of sentiment or of moral terror. A man of energy and
even of violence, born to make war, to ravage conquered countries and to
massacre the vanquished, full of the savage instincts of the hunter and
the fighter, he scarcely took count of human life. Though he respected
the Church outwardly, from policy, he believed neither in God nor the
devil, expecting neither chastisement nor recompense for his acts in
another life. His sole belief was a vague philosophy drawn from all the
ideas of the encyclopedists of the last century, and he regarded
religion as a moral sanction of the law, the one and the other having
been invented by men to regulate social relations. To kill any one in a
duel, or in war, or in a quarrel, or by accident, or for the sake of
revenge, or even through bravado would have seemed to him an amusing and
clever thing and would not have left more impression on his mind than a
shot fired at a hare; but he had experienced a profound emotion at the
murder of this child. He had, in the first place, perpetrated it in the
heat of an irresistible gust of passion, in a sort of tempest of the
senses that had overpowered his reason. And he had cherished in his
heart, in his flesh, on his lips, even to the very tips of his murderous
fingers a kind of bestial love, as well as a feeling of terrified
horror, toward this little girl surprised by him and basely killed.
Every moment his thoughts returned to that horrible scene, and, though
he endeavored to drive this picture from his mind, though he put it
aside with terror, with disgust, he felt it surging through his soul,
moving about in him, waiting incessantly for the moment to reappear.

Then, as evening approached, he was afraid of the shadow falling around
him. He did not yet know why the darkness seemed frightful to him, but
he instinctively feared it, he felt that it was peopled with terrors.
The bright daylight did not lend itself to fears. Things and beings were
visible then, and only natural things and beings could exhibit
themselves in the light of day. But the night, the impenetrable night,
thicker than walls and empty; the infinite night, so black, so vast, in
which one might brush against frightful things; the night, when one
feels that a mysterious terror is wandering, prowling about, appeared to
him to conceal an unknown threatening danger, close beside him.

What was it?

He knew ere long. As he sat in his armchair, rather late one evening
when he could not sleep, he thought he saw the curtain of his window
move. He waited, uneasily, with beating heart. The drapery did not stir;
then, all of a sudden, it moved once more. He did not venture to rise;
he no longer ventured to breathe, and yet he was brave. He had often
fought, and he would have liked to catch thieves in his house.

Was it true that this curtain did move? he asked himself, fearing that
his eyes had deceived him. It was, moreover, such a slight thing, a
gentle flutter of drapery, a kind of trembling in its folds, less than
an undulation caused by the wind.

Renardet sat still, with staring eyes and outstretched neck. He sprang
to his feet abruptly, ashamed of his fear, took four steps, seized the
drapery with both hands and pulled it wide apart. At first he saw
nothing but darkened glass, resembling plates of glittering ink. The
night, the vast, impenetrable night, stretched beyond as far as the
invisible horizon. He remained standing in front of this illimitable
shadow, and suddenly he perceived a light, a moving light, which seemed
some distance away.

Then he put his face close to the window pane, thinking that a person
looking for crabs might be poaching in the Brindille, for it was past
midnight, and this light rose up at the edge of the stream, under the
trees. As he was not yet able to see clearly, Renardet placed his hands
over his eyes, and suddenly this light became an illumination, and he
beheld little Louise Roque naked and bleeding on the moss. He recoiled,
frozen with horror, knocked over his chair and fell over on his back. He
remained there some minutes in anguish of mind; then he sat up and began
to reflect. He had had a hallucination—that was all, a hallucination due
to the fact that a night marauder was walking with a lantern in his hand
near the water's edge. What was there astonishing, besides, in the
circumstance that the recollection of his crime should sometimes bring
before him the vision of the dead girl?

He rose from the ground, swallowed a glass of wine and sat down again.
He was thinking:

“What am I to do if this occurs again?”

And it would occur; he felt it; he was sure of it. Already his glance
was drawn toward the window; it called him; it attracted him. In order
to avoid looking at it, he turned his chair round. Then he took a book
and tried to read, but it seemed to him that he presently heard
something stirring behind him, and he swung round his armchair on one
foot.

The curtain was moving again; unquestionably, it moved this time. He
could no longer have any doubt about it.

He rushed forward and grasped it so violently that he pulled it down
with its pole. Then he eagerly glued his face to the glass. He saw
nothing. All was black outside, and he breathed with the joy of a man
whose life has just been saved.

Then he went back to his chair and sat down again, but almost
immediately he felt a longing to look out once more through the window.
Since the curtain had fallen down, the window made a sort of gap,
fascinating and terrible, on the dark landscape. In order not to yield
to this dangerous temptation, he undressed, blew out the light and
closed his eyes.

Lying on his back motionless, his skin warm and moist, he awaited sleep.
Suddenly a great gleam of light flashed across his eyelids. He opened
them, believing that his dwelling was on fire. All was black as before,
and he leaned on his elbow to try to distinguish the window which had
still for him an unconquerable attraction. By dint of, straining his
eyes he could perceive some stars, and he rose, groped his way across
the room, discovered the panes with his outstretched hands, and placed
his forehead close to them. There below, under the trees, lay the body
of the little girl gleaming like phosphorus, lighting up the surrounding
darkness.

Renardet uttered a cry and rushed toward his bed, where he lay till
morning, his head hidden under the pillow.

From that moment his life became intolerable. He passed his days in
apprehension of each succeeding night, and each night the vision came
back again. As soon as he had locked himself up in his room he strove to
resist it, but in vain. An irresistible force lifted him up and pushed
him against the window, as if to call the phantom, and he saw it at
once, lying first in the spot where the crime was committed in the
position in which it had been found.

Then the dead girl rose up and came toward him with little steps just as
the child had done when she came out of the river. She advanced quietly,
passing straight across the grass and over the bed of withered flowers.
Then she rose up in the air toward Renardet's window. She came toward
him as she had come on the day of the crime. And the man recoiled before
the apparition—he retreated to his bed and sank down upon it, knowing
well that the little one had entered the room and that she now was
standing behind the curtain, which presently moved. And until daybreak
he kept staring at this curtain with a fixed glance, ever waiting to see
his victim depart.

But she did not show herself any more; she remained there behind the
curtain, which quivered tremulously now and then.

And Renardet, his fingers clutching the clothes, squeezed them as he had
squeezed the throat of little Louise Roque.

He heard the clock striking the hours, and in the stillness the pendulum
kept ticking in time with the loud beating of his heart. And he
suffered, the wretched man, more than any man had ever suffered before.

Then, as soon as a white streak of light on the ceiling announced the
approaching day, he felt himself free, alone at last, alone in his room;
and he went to sleep. He slept several hours—a restless, feverish sleep
in which he retraced in dreams the horrible vision of the past night.

When he went down to the late breakfast he felt exhausted as after
unusual exertion, and he scarcely ate anything, still haunted as he was
by the fear of what he had seen the night before.

He knew well, however, that it was not an apparition, that the dead do
not come back, and that his sick soul, his soul possessed by one thought
alone, by an indelible remembrance, was the only cause of his torture,
was what brought the dead girl back to life and raised her form before
his eyes, on which it was ineffaceably imprinted. But he knew, too, that
there was no cure, that he would never escape from the savage
persecution of his memory, and he resolved to die rather than to endure
these tortures any longer.

Then he thought of how he would kill himself, It must be something
simple and natural, which would preclude the idea of suicide. For he
clung to his reputation, to the name bequeathed to him by his ancestors;
and if his death awakened any suspicion people's thoughts might be,
perhaps, directed toward the mysterious crime, toward the murderer who
could not be found, and they would not hesitate to accuse him of the
crime.

A strange idea came into his head, that of allowing himself to be
crushed by the tree at the foot of which he had assassinated little
Louise Roque. So he determined to have the wood cut down and to simulate
an accident. But the beech tree refused to crush his ribs.

Returning to his house, a prey to utter despair, he had snatched up his
revolver, and then did not dare to fire it.

The dinner bell summoned him. He could eat nothing, and he went upstairs
again. And he did not know what to do. Now that he had escaped the first
time, he felt himself a coward. Presently he would be ready, brave,
decided, master of his courage and of his resolution; now he was weak
and feared death as much as he did the dead girl.

He faltered:

“I dare not venture it again—I dare not venture it.”

Then he glanced with terror, first at the revolver on the table and next
at the curtain which hid his window. It seemed to him, moreover, that
something horrible would occur as soon as his life was ended. Something?
What? A meeting with her, perhaps. She was watching for him; she was
waiting for him; she was calling him; and it was in order to seize him
in her turn, to draw him toward the doom that would avenge her, and to
lead him to die, that she appeared thus every night.

He began to cry like a child, repeating:

“I will not venture it again—I will not venture it.”

Then he fell on his knees and murmured:

“My God! my God!” without believing, nevertheless, in God. And he no
longer dared, in fact, to look at his window, where he knew the
apparition was hiding, nor at his table, where his revolver gleamed.
When he had risen up he said:

“This cannot last; there must be an end of it”

The sound of his voice in the silent room made a chill of fear pass
through his limbs, but as he could not bring himself to come to a
determination, as he felt certain that his finger would always refuse to
pull the trigger of his revolver, he turned round to hide his head under
the bedclothes and began to reflect.

He would have to find some way in which he could force himself to die,
to play some trick on himself which would not permit of any hesitation
on his part, any delay, any possible regrets. He envied condemned
criminals who are led to the scaffold surrounded by soldiers. Oh! if he
could only beg of some one to shoot him; if after confessing his crime
to a true friend who would never divulge it he could procure death at
his hand. But from whom could he ask this terrible service? From whom?
He thought of all the people he knew. The doctor? No, he would talk
about it afterward, most probably. And suddenly a fantastic idea entered
his mind. He would write to the magistrate, who was on terms of close
friendship with him, and would denounce himself as the perpetrator of
the crime. He would in this letter confess everything, revealing how his
soul had been tortured, how he had resolved to die, how he had hesitated
about carrying out his resolution and what means he had employed to
strengthen his failing courage. And in the name of their old friendship
he would implore of the other to destroy the letter as soon as he had
ascertained that the culprit had inflicted justice on himself. Renardet
could rely on this magistrate; he knew him to be true, discreet,
incapable of even an idle word. He was one of those men who have an
inflexible conscience, governed, directed, regulated by their reason
alone.

Scarcely had he formed this project when a strange feeling of joy took
possession of his heart. He was calm now. He would write his letter
slowly, then at daybreak he would deposit it in the box nailed to the
outside wall of his office; then he would ascend his tower to watch for
the postman's arrival; and when the man in the blue blouse had gone
away, he would cast himself head foremost on the rocks on which the
foundations rested, He would take care to be seen first by the workmen
who had cut down his wood. He could climb to the projecting stone which
bore the flagstaff displayed on festivals, He would smash this pole with
a shake and carry it along with him as he fell.

Who would suspect that it was not an accident? And he would be killed
outright, owing to his weight and the height of the tower.

Presently he got out of bed, went over to the table and began to write.
He omitted nothing, not a single detail of the crime, not a single
detail of the torments of his heart, and he ended by announcing that he
had passed sentence on himself, that he was going to execute the
criminal, and begged his friend, his old friend, to be careful that
there should never be any stain on his memory.

When he had finished this letter he saw that the day had dawned.

He closed, sealed it and wrote the address. Then he descended with light
steps, hurried toward the little white box fastened to the outside wall
in the corner of the farmhouse, and when he had thrown into it this
letter, which made his hand tremble, he came back quickly, drew the
bolts of the great door and climbed up to his tower to wait for the
passing of the postman, who was to bear away his death sentence.

He felt self-possessed now. Liberated! Saved!

A cold dry wind, an icy wind passed across his face. He inhaled it
eagerly with open mouth, drinking in its chilling kiss. The sky was red,
a wintry red, and all the plain, whitened with frost, glistened under
the first rays of the sun, as if it were covered with powdered glass.

Renardet, standing up, his head bare, gazed at the vast tract of country
before him, the meadows to the left and to the right the village whose
chimneys were beginning to smoke in preparation for the morning meal. At
his feet he saw the Brindille flowing amid the rocks, where he would
soon be crushed to death. He felt new life on that beautiful frosty
morning. The light bathed him, entered his being like a new-born hope. A
thousand recollections assailed him, recollections of similar mornings,
of rapid walks on the hard earth which rang beneath his footsteps, of
happy days of shooting on the edges of pools where wild ducks sleep. All
the good things that he loved, the good things of existence, rushed to
his memory, penetrated him with fresh desires, awakened all the vigorous
appetites of his active, powerful body.

And he was about to die! Why? He was going to kill himself stupidly
because he was afraid of a shadow-afraid of nothing! He was still rich
and in the prime of life. What folly! All he needed was distraction,
absence, a voyage in order to forget.

This night even he had not seen the little girl because his mind was
preoccupied and had wandered toward some other subject. Perhaps he would
not see her any more? And even if she still haunted him in this house,
certainly she would not follow him elsewhere! The earth was wide, the
future was long.

Why should he die?

His glance travelled across the meadows, and he perceived a blue spot in
the path which wound alongside the Brindille. It was Mederic coming to
bring letters from the town and to carry away those of the village.

Renardet gave a start, a sensation of pain shot through his breast, and
he rushed down the winding staircase to get back his letter, to demand
it back from the postman. Little did it matter to him now whether he was
seen, He hurried across the grass damp from the light frost of the
previous night and arrived in front of the box in the corner of the
farmhouse exactly at the same time as the letter carrier.

The latter had opened the little wooden door and drew forth the four
papers deposited there by the inhabitants of the locality.

Renardet said to him:

“Good-morrow, Mederic.”

“Good-morrow, Monsieur le Maire.”

“I say, Mederic, I threw a letter into the box that I want back again. I
came to ask you to give it back to me.”

“That's all right, Monsieur le Maire—you'll get it.”

And the postman raised his eyes. He stood petrified at the sight of
Renardet's face. The mayor's cheeks were purple, his eyes were anxious
and sunken, with black circles round them, his hair was unbrushed, his
beard untrimmed, his necktie unfastened. It was evident that he had not
been in bed.

The postman asked:

“Are you ill, Monsieur le Maire?”

The other, suddenly comprehending that his appearance must be unusual,
lost countenance and faltered:

“Oh! no-oh! no. Only I jumped out of bed to ask you for this letter. I
was asleep. You understand?”

He said in reply:

“What letter?”

“The one you are going to give back to me.”

Mederic now began to hesitate. The mayor's attitude did not strike him
as natural. There was perhaps a secret in that letter, a political
secret. He knew Renardet was not a Republican, and he knew all the
tricks and chicanery employed at elections.

He asked:

“To whom is it addressed, this letter of yours?”

“To Monsieur Putoin, the magistrate—you know, my friend, Monsieur
Putoin!”

The postman searched through the papers and found the one asked for.
Then he began looking at it, turning it round and round between his
fingers, much perplexed, much troubled by the fear of either committing
a grave offence or of making an enemy of the mayor.

Seeing his hesitation, Renardet made a movement for the purpose of
seizing the letter and snatching it away from him. This abrupt action
convinced Mederic that some important secret was at stake and made him
resolve to do his duty, cost what it may.

So he flung the letter into his bag and fastened it up, with the reply:

“No, I can't, Monsieur le Maire. As long as it is for the magistrate, I
can't.”

A dreadful pang wrung Renardet's heart and he murmured:

“Why, you know me well. You are even able to recognize my handwriting. I
tell you I want that paper.”

“I can't.”

“Look here, Mederic, you know that I'm incapable of deceiving you—I tell
you I want it.”

“No, I can't.”

A tremor of rage passed through Renardet's soul.

“Damn it all, take care! You know that I never trifle and that I could
get you out of your job, my good fellow, and without much delay, either,
And then, I am the mayor of the district, after all; and I now order you
to give me back that paper.”

The postman answered firmly:

“No, I can't, Monsieur le Maire.”

Thereupon Renardet, losing his head, caught hold of the postman's arms
in order to take away his bag; but, freeing himself by a strong effort,
and springing backward, the letter carrier raised his big holly stick.
Without losing his temper, he said emphatically:

“Don't touch me, Monsieur le Maire, or I'll strike. Take care, I'm only
doing my duty!”

Feeling that he was lost, Renardet suddenly became humble, gentle,
appealing to him like a whimpering child:

“Look here, look here, my friend, give me back that letter and I'll
recompense you—I'll give you money. Stop! stop! I'll give you a hundred
francs, you understand—a hundred francs!”

The postman turned on his heel and started on his journey.

Renardet followed him, out of breath, stammering:

“Mederic, Mederic, listen! I'll give you a thousand francs, you
understand—a thousand francs.”

The postman still went on without giving any answer.

Renardet went on:

“I'll make your fortune, you understand—whatever you wish—fifty thousand
francs—fifty thousand francs for that letter! What does it matter to
you? You won't? Well, a hundred thousand—I say—a hundred thousand
francs. Do you understand? A hundred thousand francs—a hundred thousand
francs.”

The postman turned back, his face hard, his eye severe:

“Enough of this, or else I'll repeat to the magistrate everything you
have just said to me.”

Renardet stopped abruptly. It was all over. He turned back and rushed
toward his house, running like a hunted animal.

Then, in his turn, Mederic stopped and watched his flight with
stupefaction. He saw the mayor reenter his house, and he waited still,
as if something astonishing were about to happen.

In fact, presently the tall form of Renardet appeared on the summit of
the Fox's tower. He ran round the platform like a madman. Then he seized
the flagstaff and shook it furiously without succeeding in breaking it;
then, all of a sudden, like a diver, with his two hands before him, he
plunged into space.

Mederic rushed forward to his assistance. He saw the woodcutters going
to work and called out to them, telling them an accident had occurred.
At the foot of the walls they found a bleeding body, its head crushed on
a rock. The Brindille surrounded this rock, and over its clear, calm
waters could be seen a long red thread of mingled brains and blood.





THE DONKEY

There was not a breath of air stirring; a heavy mist was lying over the
river. It was like a layer of cotton placed on the water. The banks
themselves were indistinct, hidden behind strange fogs. But day was
breaking and the hill was becoming visible. In the dawning light of day
the plaster houses began to appear like white spots. Cocks were crowing
in the barnyard.

On the other side of the river, hidden behind the fogs, just opposite
Frette, a slight noise from time to time broke the dead silence of the
quiet morning. At times it was an indistinct plashing, like the cautious
advance of a boat, then again a sharp noise like the rattle of an oar
and then the sound of something dropping in the water. Then silence.

Sometimes whispered words, coming perhaps from a distance, perhaps from
quite near, pierced through these opaque mists. They passed by like wild
birds which have slept in the rushes and which fly away at the first
light of day, crossing the mist and uttering a low and timid sound which
wakes their brothers along the shores.

Suddenly along the bank, near the village, a barely perceptible shadow
appeared on the water. Then it grew, became more distinct and, coming
out of the foggy curtain which hung over the river, a flatboat, manned
by two men, pushed up on the grass.

The one who was rowing rose and took a pailful of fish from the bottom
of the boat, then he threw the dripping net over his shoulder. His
companion, who had not made a motion, exclaimed: “Say, Mailloche, get
your gun and see if we can't land some rabbit along the shore.”

The other one answered: “All right. I'll be with you in a minute.” Then
he disappeared, in order to hide their catch.

The man who had stayed in the boat slowly filled his pipe and lighted
it. His name was Labouise, but he was called Chicot, and was in
partnership with Maillochon, commonly called Mailloche, to practice the
doubtful and undefined profession of junk-gatherers along the shore.

They were a low order of sailors and they navigated regularly only in
the months of famine. The rest of the time they acted as junk-gatherers.
Rowing about on the river day and night, watching for any prey, dead or
alive, poachers on the water and nocturnal hunters, sometimes ambushing
venison in the Saint-Germain forests, sometimes looking for drowned
people and searching their clothes, picking up floating rags and empty
bottles; thus did Labouise and Maillochon live easily.

At times they would set out on foot about noon and stroll along straight
ahead. They would dine in some inn on the shore and leave again side by
side. They would remain away for a couple of days; then one morning they
would be seen rowing about in the tub which they called their boat.

At Joinville or at Nogent some boatman would be looking for his boat,
which had disappeared one night, probably stolen, while twenty or thirty
miles from there, on the Oise, some shopkeeper would be rubbing his
hands, congratulating himself on the bargain he had made when he bought
a boat the day before for fifty francs, which two men offered him as
they were passing.

Maillochon reappeared with his gun wrapped up in rags. He was a man of
forty or fifty, tall and thin, with the restless eye of people who are
worried by legitimate troubles and of hunted animals. His open shirt
showed his hairy chest, but he seemed never to have had any more hair on
his face than a short brush of a mustache and a few stiff hairs under
his lower lip. He was bald around the temples. When he took off the
dirty cap that he wore his scalp seemed to be covered with a fluffy
down, like the body of a plucked chicken.

Chicot, on the contrary, was red, fat, short and hairy. He looked like a
raw beefsteak. He continually kept his left eye closed, as if he were
aiming at something or at somebody, and when people jokingly cried to
him, “Open your eye, Labouise!” he would answer quietly: “Never fear,
sister, I open it when there's cause to.”

He had a habit of calling every one “sister,” even his scavenger
companion.

He took up the oars again, and once more the boat disappeared in the
heavy mist, which was now turned snowy white in the pink-tinted sky.

“What kind of lead did you take, Maillochon?” Labouise asked.

“Very small, number nine; that's the best for rabbits.”

They were approaching the other shore so slowly, so quietly that no
noise betrayed them. This bank belongs to the Saint-Germain forest and
is the boundary line for rabbit hunting. It is covered with burrows
hidden under the roots of trees, and the creatures at daybreak frisk
about, running in and out of the holes.

Maillochon was kneeling in the bow, watching, his gun hidden on the
floor. Suddenly he seized it, aimed, and the report echoed for some time
throughout the quiet country.

Labouise, in a few strokes, touched the beach, and his companion,
jumping to the ground, picked up a little gray rabbit, not yet dead.

Then the boat once more disappeared into the fog in order to get to the
other side, where it could keep away from the game wardens.

The two men seemed to be riding easily on the water. The weapon had
disappeared under the board which served as a hiding place and the
rabbit was stuffed into Chicot's loose shirt.

After about a quarter of an hour Labouise asked: “Well, sister, shall we
get one more?”

“It will suit me,” Maillochon answered.

The boat started swiftly down the current. The mist, which was hiding
both shores, was beginning to rise. The trees could be barely perceived,
as through a veil, and the little clouds of fog were floating up from
the water. When they drew near the island, the end of which is opposite
Herblay, the two men slackened their pace and began to watch. Soon a
second rabbit was killed.

Then they went down until they were half way to Conflans. Here they
stopped their boat, tied it to a tree and went to sleep in the bottom of
it.

From time to time Labouise would sit up and look over the horizon with
his open eye. The last of the morning mist had disappeared and the large
summer sun was climbing in the blue sky.

On the other side of the river the vineyard-covered hill stretched out
in a semicircle. One house stood out alone at the summit. Everything was
silent.

Something was moving slowly along the tow-path, advancing with
difficulty. It was a woman dragging a donkey. The stubborn, stiff-
jointed beast occasionally stretched out a leg in answer to its
companion's efforts, and it proceeded thus, with outstretched neck and
ears lying flat, so slowly that one could not tell when it would ever be
out of sight.

The woman, bent double, was pulling, turning round occasionally to
strike the donkey with a stick.

As soon as he saw her, Labouise exclaimed: “Say, Mailloche!”

Mailloche answered: “What's the matter?”

“Want to have some fun?”

“Of course!”

“Then hurry, sister; we're going to have a laugh.”

Chicot took the oars. When he had crossed the river he stopped opposite
the woman and called:

“Hey, sister!”

The woman stopped dragging her donkey and looked.

Labouise continued: “What are you doing—going to the locomotive show?”

The woman made no reply. Chicot continued:

“Say, your trotter's prime for a race. Where are you taking him at that
speed?”

At last the woman answered: “I'm going to Macquart, at Champioux, to
have him killed. He's worthless.”

Labouise answered: “You're right. How much do you think Macquart will
give you for him?”

The woman wiped her forehead on the back of her hand and hesitated,
saying: “How do I know? Perhaps three francs, perhaps four.”

Chicot exclaimed: “I'll give you five francs and your errand's done!
How's that?”

The woman considered the matter for a second and then exclaimed: “Done!”

The two men landed. Labouise grasped the animal by the bridle.
Maillochon asked in surprise:

“What do you expect to do with that carcass?”

Chicot this time opened his other eye in order to express his gaiety.
His whole red face was grinning with joy. He chuckled: “Don't worry,
sister. I've got my idea.”

He gave five francs to the woman, who then sat down by the road to see
what was going to happen. Then Labouise, in great humor, got the gun and
held it out to Maillochon, saying: “Each one in turn; we're going after
big game, sister. Don't get so near or you'll kill it right away! You
must make the pleasure last a little.”

He placed his companion about forty paces from the victim. The ass,
feeling itself free, was trying to get a little of the tall grass, but
it was so exhausted that it swayed on its legs as if it were about to
fall.

Maillochon aimed slowly and said: “A little pepper for the ears; watch,
Ghicot!” And he fired.

The tiny shot struck the donkey's long ears and he began to shake them
in order to get rid of the stinging sensation. The two men were doubled
up with laughter and stamped their feet with joy. The woman, indignant,
rushed forward; she did not want her donkey to be tortured, and she
offered to return the five francs. Labouise threatened her with a
thrashing and pretended to roll up his sleeves. He had paid, hadn't he?
Well, then, he would take a shot at her skirts, just to show that it
didn't hurt. She went away, threatening to call the police. They could
hear her protesting indignantly and cursing as she went her way.

Maillochon held out the gun to his comrade, saying: “It's your turn,
Chicot.”

Labouise aimed and fired. The donkey received the charge in his thighs,
but the shot was so small and came from such a distance that he thought
he was being stung by flies, for he began to thrash himself with his
tail.

Labouise sat down to laugh more comfortably, while Maillochon reloaded
the weapon, so happy that he seemed to sneeze into the barrel. He
stepped forward a few paces, and, aiming at the same place that his
friend had shot at, he fired again. This time the beast started, tried
to kick and turned its head. At last a little blood was running. It had
been wounded and felt a sharp pain, for it tried to run away with a
slow, limping, jerky gallop.

Both men darted after the beast, Maillochon with a long stride, Labouise
with the short, breathless trot of a little man. But the donkey, tired
out, had stopped, and, with a bewildered look, was watching his two
murderers approach. Suddenly he stretched his neck and began to bray.

Labouise, out of breath, had taken the gun. This time he walked right up
close, as he did not wish to begin the chase over again.

When the poor beast had finished its mournful cry, like a last call for
help, the man called: “Hey, Mailloche! Come here, sister; I'm going to
give him some medicine.” And while the other man was forcing the
animal's mouth open, Chicot stuck the barrel of his gun down its throat,
as if he were trying to make it drink a potion. Then he said: “Look out,
sister, here she goes!”

He pressed the trigger. The donkey stumbled back a few steps, fell down,
tried to get up again and finally lay on its side and closed its eyes:
The whole body was trembling, its legs were kicking as if it were,
trying to run. A stream of blood was oozing through its teeth. Soon it
stopped moving. It was dead.

The two men went along, laughing. It was over too quickly; they had not
had their money's worth. Maillochon asked: “Well, what are we going to
do now?”

Labouise answered: “Don't worry, sister. Get the thing on the boat;
we're going to have some fun when night comes.”

They went and got the boat. The animal's body was placed on the bottom,
covered with fresh grass, and the two men stretched out on it and went
to sleep.

Toward noon Labouise drew a bottle of wine, some bread and butter and
raw onions from a hiding place in their muddy, worm-eaten boat, and they
began to eat.

When the meal was over they once more stretched out on the dead donkey
and slept. At nightfall Labouise awoke and shook his comrade, who was
snoring like a buzzsaw. “Come on, sister,” he ordered.

Maillochon began to row. As they had plenty of time they went up the
Seine slowly. They coasted along the reaches covered with water-lilies,
and the heavy, mud-covered boat slipped over the lily pads and bent the
flowers, which stood up again as soon as they had passed.

When they reached the wall of the Eperon, which separates the Saint-
Germain forest from the Maisons-Laffitte Park, Labouise stopped his
companion and explained his idea to him. Maillochon was moved by a
prolonged, silent laugh.

They threw into the water the grass which had covered the body, took the
animal by the feet and hid it behind some bushes. Then they got into
their boat again and went to Maisons-Laffitte.

The night was perfectly black when they reached the wine shop of old man
Jules. As soon as the dealer saw them he came up, shook hands with them
and sat down at their table. They began to talk of one thing and
another. By eleven o'clock the last customer had left and old man Jules
winked at Labouise and asked: “Well, have you got any?”

Labouise made a motion with his head and answered: “Perhaps so, perhaps
not!”

The dealer insisted: “Perhaps you've not nothing but gray ones?”

Chicot dug his hands into his flannel shirt, drew out the ears of a
rabbit and declared: “Three francs a pair!”

Then began a long discussion about the price. Two francs sixty-five and
the two rabbits were delivered. As the two men were getting up to go,
old man Jules, who had been watching them, exclaimed:

“You have something else, but you won't say what.”

Labouise answered: “Possibly, but it is not for you; you're too stingy.”

The man, growing eager, kept asking: “What is it? Something big? Perhaps
we might make a deal.”

Labouise, who seemed perplexed, pretended to consult Maillochon with a
glance. Then he answered in a slow voice: “This is how it is. We were in
the bushes at Eperon when something passed right near us, to the left,
at the end of the wall. Mailloche takes a shot and it drops. We skipped
on account of the game people. I can't tell you what it is, because I
don't know. But it's big enough. But what is it? If I told you I'd be
lying, and you know, sister, between us everything's above-board.”

Anxiously the man asked: “Think it's venison?”

Labouise answered: “Might be and then again it might not! Venison?—uh!
uh!—might be a little big for that! Mind you, I don't say it's a doe,
because I don't know, but it might be.”

Still the dealer insisted: “Perhaps it's a buck?”

Labouise stretched out his hand, exclaiming: “No, it's not that! It's
not a buck. I should have seen the horns. No, it's not a buck!”

“Why didn't you bring it with you?” asked the man.

“Because, sister, from now on I sell from where I stand. Plenty of
people will buy. All you have to do is to take a walk over there, find
the thing and take it. No risk for me.”

The innkeeper, growing suspicious, exclaimed “Supposing he wasn't
there!”

Labouise once more raised his hand and said:

“He's there, I swear!—first bush to the left. What it is, I don't know.
But it's not a buck, I'm positive. It's for you to find out what it is.
Twenty-five francs, cash down!”

Still the man hesitated: “Couldn't you bring it?”

Maillochon exclaimed: “No, indeed! You know our price! Take it or leave
it!”

The dealer decided: “It's a bargain for twenty francs!”

And they shook hands over the deal.

Then he took out four big five-franc pieces from the cash drawer, and
the two friends pocketed the money. Labouise arose, emptied his glass
and left. As he was disappearing in the shadows he turned round to
exclaim: “It isn't a buck. I don't know what it is!—but it's there. I'll
give you back your money if you find nothing!”

And he disappeared in the darkness. Maillochon, who was following him,
kept punching him in the back to express his joy.





MOIRON

As we were still talking about Pranzini, M. Maloureau, who had been
attorney general under the Empire, said: “Oh! I formerly knew a very
curious affair, curious for several reasons, as you will see.

“I was at that time imperial attorney in one of the provinces. I had to
take up the case which has remained famous under the name of the Moiron
case.

“Monsieur Moiron, who was a teacher in the north of France, enjoyed an
excellent reputation throughout the whole country. He was a person of
intelligence, quiet, very religious, a little taciturn; he had married
in the district of Boislinot, where he exercised his profession. He had
had three children, who had died of consumption, one after the other.
From this time he seemed to bestow upon the youngsters confided to his
care all the tenderness of his heart. With his own money he bought toys
for his best scholars and for the good boys; he gave them little dinners
and stuffed them with delicacies, candy and cakes: Everybody loved this
good man with his big heart, when suddenly five of his pupils died, in a
strange manner, one after the other. It was supposed that there was an
epidemic due to the condition of the water, resulting from drought; they
looked for the causes without being able to discover them, the more so
that the symptoms were so peculiar. The children seemed to be attacked
by a feeling of lassitude; they would not eat, they complained of pains
in their stomachs, dragged along for a short time, and died in frightful
suffering.

“A post-mortem examination was held over the last one, but nothing was
discovered. The vitals were sent to Paris and analyzed, and they
revealed the presence of no toxic substance.

“For a year nothing new developed; then two little boys, the best
scholars in the class, Moiron's favorites, died within four days of each
other. An examination of the bodies was again ordered, and in both of
them were discovered tiny fragments of crushed glass. The conclusion
arrived at was that the two youngsters must imprudently have eaten from
some carelessly cleaned receptacle. A glass broken over a pail of milk
could have produced this frightful accident, and the affair would have
been pushed no further if Moiron's servant had not been taken sick at
this time. The physician who was called in noticed the same symptoms he
had seen in the children. He questioned her and obtained the admission
that she had stolen and eaten some candies that had been bought by the
teacher for his scholars.

“On an order from the court the schoolhouse was searched, and a closet
was found which was full of toys and dainties destined for the children.
Almost all these delicacies contained bits of crushed glass or pieces of
broken needles!

“Moiron was immediately arrested; but he seemed so astonished and
indignant at the suspicion hanging over him that he was almost released.
How ever, indications of his guilt kept appearing, and baffled in my
mind my first conviction, based on his excellent reputation, on his
whole life, on the complete absence of any motive for such a crime.

“Why should this good, simple, religious man have killed little
children, and the very children whom he seemed to love the most, whom he
spoiled and stuffed with sweet things, for whom he spent half his salary
in buying toys and bonbons?

“One must consider him insane to believe him guilty of this act. Now,
Moiron seemed so normal, so quiet, so rational and sensible that it
seemed impossible to adjudge him insane.

“However, the proofs kept growing! In none of the candies that were
bought at the places where the schoolmaster secured his provisions could
the slightest trace of anything suspicious be found.

“He then insisted that an unknown enemy must have opened his cupboard
with a false key in order to introduce the glass and the needles into
the eatables. And he made up a whole story of an inheritance dependent
on the death of a child, determined on and sought by some peasant, and
promoted thus by casting suspicions on the schoolmaster. This brute, he
claimed, did not care about the other children who were forced to die as
well.

“The story was possible. The man appeared to be so sure of himself and
in such despair that we should undoubtedly have acquitted him,
notwithstanding the charges against him, if two crushing discoveries had
not been made, one after the other.

“The first one was a snuffbox full of crushed glass; his own snuffbox,
hidden in the desk where he kept his money!

“He explained this new find in an acceptable manner, as the ruse of the
real unknown criminal. But a mercer from Saint-Marlouf came to the
presiding judge and said that a gentleman had several times come to his
store to buy some needles; and he always asked for the thinnest needles
he could find, and would break them to see whether they pleased him. The
man was brought forward in the presence of a dozen or more persons, and
immediately recognized Moiron. The inquest revealed that the
schoolmaster had indeed gone into Saint-Marlouf on the days mentioned by
the tradesman.

“I will pass over the terrible testimony of children on the choice of
dainties and the care which he took to have them eat the things in his
presence, and to remove the slightest traces.

“Public indignation demanded capital punishment, and it became more and
more insistent, overturning all objections.

“Moiron was condemned to death, and his appeal was rejected. Nothing was
left for him but the imperial pardon. I knew through my father that the
emperor would not grant it.

“One morning, as I was working in my study, the visit of the prison
almoner was announced. He was an old priest who knew men well and
understood the habits of criminals. He seemed troubled, ill at ease,
nervous. After talking for a few minutes about one thing and another, he
arose and said suddenly: 'If Moiron is executed, monsieur, you will have
put an innocent man to death.'

“Then he left without bowing, leaving me behind with the deep impression
made by his words. He had pronounced them in such a sincere and solemn
manner, opening those lips, closed and sealed by the secret of
confession, in order to save a life.

“An hour later I left for Paris, and my father immediately asked that I
be granted an audience with the emperor.

“The following day I was received. His majesty was working in a little
reception room when we were introduced. I described the whole case, and
I was just telling about the priest's visit when a door opened behind
the sovereign's chair and the empress, who supposed he was alone,
appeared. His majesty, Napoleon, consulted her. As soon as she had heard
the matter, she exclaimed: 'This man must be pardoned. He must, since he
is innocent.'

“Why did this sudden conviction of a religious woman cast a terrible
doubt in my mind?

“Until then I had ardently desired a change of sentence. And now I
suddenly felt myself the toy, the dupe of a cunning criminal who had
employed the priest and confession as a last means of defence.

“I explained my hesitancy to their majesties. The emperor remained
undecided, urged on one side by his natural kindness and held back on
the other by the fear of being deceived by a criminal; but the empress,
who was convinced that the priest had obeyed a divine inspiration, kept
repeating: 'Never mind! It is better to spare a criminal than to kill an
innocent man!' Her advice was taken. The death sentence was commuted to
one of hard labor.

“A few years later I heard that Moiron had again been called to the
emperor's attention on account of his exemplary conduct in the prison at
Toulon and was now employed as a servant by the director of the
penitentiary.

“For a long time I heard nothing more of this man. But about two years
ago, while I was spending a summer near Lille with my cousin, De
Larielle, I was informed one evening, just as we were sitting down to
dinner, that a young priest wished to speak to me.

“I had him shown in and he begged me to come to a dying man who desired
absolutely to see me. This had often happened to me in my long career as
a magistrate, and, although I had been set aside by the Republic, I was
still often called upon in similar circumstances. I therefore followed
the priest, who led me to a miserable little room in a large tenement
house.

“There I found a strange-looking man on a bed of straw, sitting with his
back against the wall, in order to get his breath. He was a sort of
skeleton, with dark, gleaming eyes.

“As soon as he saw me, he murmured: 'Don't you recognize me?'

“'No.'

“'I am Moiron.'

“I felt a shiver run through me, and I asked 'The schoolmaster?'

“'Yes.'

“'How do you happen to be here?'

“'The story is too long. I haven't time to tell it. I was going to die
—and that priest was brought to me—and as I knew that you were here I
sent for you. It is to you that I wish to confess—since you were the one
who once saved my life.'

“His hands clutched the straw of his bed through the sheet and he
continued in a hoarse, forcible and low tone: 'You see—I owe you the
truth—I owe it to you—for it must be told to some one before I leave
this earth.

“'It is I who killed the children—all of them. I did it—for revenge!

“'Listen. I was an honest, straightforward, pure man—adoring God—this
good Father—this Master who teaches us to love, and not the false God,
the executioner, the robber, the murderer who governs the earth. I had
never done any harm; I had never committed an evil act. I was as good as
it is possible to be, monsieur.

“'I married and had children, and I loved them as no father or mother
ever loved their children. I lived only for them. I was wild about them.
All three of them died! Why? why? What had I done? I was rebellious,
furious; and suddenly my eyes were opened as if I were waking up out of
a sleep. I understood that God is bad. Why had He killed my children? I
opened my eyes and saw that He loves to kill. He loves only that,
monsieur. He gives life but to destroy it! God, monsieur, is a murderer!
He needs death every day. And He makes it of every variety, in order the
better to be amused. He has invented sickness and accidents in order to
give Him diversion all through the months and the years; and when He
grows tired of this, He has epidemics, the plague, cholera, diphtheria,
smallpox, everything possible! But this does not satisfy Him; all these
things are too similar; and so from time to time He has wars, in order
to see two hundred thousand soldiers killed at once, crushed in blood
and in the mud, blown apart, their arms and legs torn off, their heads
smashed by bullets, like eggs that fall on the ground.

“'But this is not all. He has made men who eat each other. And then, as
men become better than He, He has made beasts, in order to see men hunt
them, kill them and eat them. That is not all. He has made tiny little
animals which live one day, flies who die by the millions in one hour,
ants which we are continually crushing under our feet, and so many, many
others that we cannot even imagine. And all these things are continually
killing each other and dying. And the good Lord looks on and is amused,
for He sees everything, the big ones as well as the little ones, those
who are in the drops of water and those in the other firmaments. He
watches them and is amused. Wretch!

“'Then, monsieur, I began to kill children. I played a trick on Him. He
did not get those. It was not He, but I! And I would have killed many
others, but you caught me. There!

“'I was to be executed. I! How He would have laughed! Then I asked for a
priest, and I lied. I confessed to him. I lied and I lived.

“'Now, all is over. I can no longer escape from Him. I no longer fear
Him, monsieur; I despise Him too much.'

“This poor wretch was frightful to see as he lay there gasping, opening
an enormous mouth in order to utter words which could scarcely be heard,
his breath rattling, picking at his bed and moving his thin legs under a
grimy sheet as though trying to escape.

“Oh! The mere remembrance of it is frightful!

“'You have nothing more to say?' I asked.

“'No, monsieur.'

“'Then, farewell.'

“'Farewell, monsieur, till some day——'

“I turned to the ashen-faced priest, whose dark outline stood out
against the wall, and asked: 'Are you going to stay here, Monsieur
l'Abbe?'

“'Yes.'

“Then the dying man sneered: 'Yes, yes, He sends His vultures to the
corpses.'

“I had had enough of this. I opened the door and ran away.”





THE DISPENSER OF HOLY WATER

He lived formerly in a little house beside the high road outside the
village. He had set up in business as a wheelwright, after marrying the
daughter of a farmer of the neighborhood, and as they were both
industrious, they managed to save up a nice little fortune. But they had
no children, and this caused them great sorrow. Finally a son was born,
whom they named Jean. They both loved and petted him, enfolding him with
their affection, and were unwilling to let him be out of their sight.

When he was five years old some mountebanks passed through the country
and set up their tent in the town hall square.

Jean, who had seen them pass by, made his escape from the house, and
after his father had made a long search for him, he found him among the
learned goats and trick dogs, uttering shouts of laughter and sitting on
the knees of an old clown.

Three days later, just as they were sitting down to dinner, the
wheelwright and his wife noticed that their son was not in the house.
They looked for him in the garden, and as they did not find him, his
father went out into the road and shouted at the top of his voice,
“Jean!”

Night came on. A brown vapor arose making distant objects look still
farther away and giving them a dismal, weird appearance. Three tall
pines, close at hand, seemed to be weeping. Still there was no reply,
but the air appeared to be full of indistinct sighing. The father
listened for some time, thinking he heard a sound first in one
direction, then in another, and, almost beside himself, he ran, out into
the night, calling incessantly “Jean! Jean!”

He ran along thus until daybreak, filling the, darkness with his shouts,
terrifying stray animals, torn by a terrible anguish and fearing that he
was losing his mind. His wife, seated on the stone step of their home,
sobbed until morning.

They did not find their son. They both aged rapidly in their
inconsolable sorrow. Finally they sold their house and set out to search
together.

They inquired of the shepherds on the hillsides, of the tradesmen
passing by, of the peasants in the villages and of the authorities in
the towns. But their boy had been lost a long time and no one knew
anything about him. He had probably forgotten his own name by this time
and also the name of his village, and his parents wept in silence,
having lost hope.

Before long their money came to an end, and they worked out by the day
in the farms and inns, doing the most menial work, eating what was left
from the tables, sleeping on the ground and suffering from cold. Then as
they became enfeebled by hard work no one would employ them any longer,
and they were forced to beg along the high roads. They accosted passers-
by in an entreating voice and with sad, discouraged faces; they begged a
morsel of bread from the harvesters who were dining around a tree in the
fields at noon, and they ate in silence seated on the edge of a ditch.
An innkeeper to whom they told their story said to them one day:

“I know some one who had lost their daughter, and they found her in
Paris.”

They at once set out for Paris.

When they entered the great city they were bewildered by its size and by
the crowds that they saw. But they knew that Jean must be in the midst
of all these people, though they did not know how to set about looking
for him. Then they feared that they might not recognize him, for he was
only five years old when they last saw him.

They visited every place, went through all the streets, stopping
whenever they saw a group of people, hoping for some providential
meeting, some extraordinary luck, some compassionate fate.

They frequently walked at haphazard straight ahead, leaning one against
the other, looking so sad and poverty-stricken that people would give
them alms without their asking.

They spent every Sunday at the doors of the churches, watching the
crowds entering and leaving, trying to distinguish among the faces one
that might be familiar. Several times they thought they recognized him,
but always found they had made a mistake.

In the vestibule of one of the churches which they visited the most
frequently there was an old dispenser of holy Water who had become their
friend. He also had a very sad history, and their sympathy for him had
established a bond of close friendship between them. It ended by them
all three living together in a poor lodging on the top floor of a large
house situated at some distance, quite on the outskirts of the city, and
the wheelwright would sometimes take his new friend's place at the
church when the latter was ill.

Winter came, a very severe winter. The poor holy water sprinkler died
and the parish priest appointed the wheelwright, whose misfortunes had
come to his knowledge, to replace him. He went every morning and sat in
the same place, on the same chair, wearing away the old stone pillar by
continually leaning against it. He would gaze steadily at every man who
entered the church and looked forward to Sunday with as much impatience
as a schoolboy, for on that day the church was filled with people from
morning till night.

He became very old, growing weaker each day from the dampness of the
church, and his hope oozed away gradually.

He now knew by sight all the people who came to the services; he knew
their hours, their manners, could distinguish their step on the stone
pavement.

His interests had become so contracted that the entrance of a stranger
in the church was for him a great event. One day two ladies came in; one
was old, the other young—a mother and daughter probably. Behind them
came a man who was following them. He bowed to them as they came out,
and after offering them some holy water, he took the arm of the elder
lady.

“That must be the fiance of the younger one,” thought the wheelwright.
And until evening he kept trying to recall where he had formerly seen a
young man who resembled this one. But the one he was thinking of must be
an old man by this time, for it seemed as if he had known him down home
in his youth.

The same man frequently came again to walk home with the ladies, and
this vague, distant, familiar resemblance which he could not place
worried the old man so much that he made his wife come with him to see
if she could help his impaired memory.

One evening as it was growing dusk the three strangers entered together.
When they had passed the old man said:

“Well, do you know him?”

His wife anxiously tried to ransack her memory. Suddenly she said in a
low tone:

“Yes—yes—but he is darker, taller, stouter and is dressed like a
gentleman, but, father, all the same, it is your face when you were
young!”

The old man started violently.

It was true. He looked like himself and also like his brother who was
dead, and like his father, whom he remembered while he was yet young.
The old couple were so affected that they could not speak. The three
persons came out and were about to leave the church.

The man touched his finger to the holy water sprinkler. Then the old
man, whose hand was trembling so that he was fairly sprinkling the
ground with holy water, exclaimed:

“Jean!”

The young man stopped and looked at him.

He repeated in a lower tone:

“Jean!”

The two women looked at them without understanding.

He then said for the third time, sobbing as he did so:

“Jean!”

The man stooped down, with his face close to the old man's, and as a
memory of his childhood dawned on him he replied:

“Papa Pierre, Mamma Jeanne!”

He had forgotten everything, his father's surname and the name of his
native place, but he always remembered those two words that he had so
often repeated: “Papa Pierre, Mamma Jeanne.”

He sank to the floor, his face on the old man's knees, and he wept,
kissing now his father and then his mother, while they were almost
breathless from intense joy.

The two ladies also wept, understanding as they did that some great
happiness had come to pass.

Then they all went to the young man's house and he told them his
history. The circus people had carried him off. For three years he
traveled with them in various countries. Then the troupe disbanded, and
one day an old lady in a chateau had paid to have him stay with her
because she liked his appearance. As he was intelligent, he was sent to
school, then to college, and the old lady having no children, had left
him all her money. He, for his part, had tried to find his parents, but
as he could remember only the two names, “Papa Pierre, Mamma Jeanne,” he
had been unable to do so. Now he was about to be married, and he
introduced his fiancee, who was very good and very pretty.

When the two old people had told their story in their turn he kissed
them once more. They sat up very late that night, not daring to retire
lest the happiness they had so long sought should escape them again
while they were asleep.

But misfortune had lost its hold on them and they were happy for the
rest of their lives.





A PARRICIDE

The lawyer had presented a plea of insanity. How could anyone explain
this strange crime otherwise?

One morning, in the grass near Chatou, two bodies had been found, a man
and a woman, well known, rich, no longer young and married since the
preceding year, the woman having been a widow for three years before.

They were not known to have enemies; they had not been robbed. They
seemed to have been thrown from the roadside into the river, after
having been struck, one after the other, with a long iron spike.

The investigation revealed nothing. The boatmen, who had been
questioned, knew nothing. The matter was about to be given up, when a
young carpenter from a neighboring village, Georges Louis, nicknamed
“the Bourgeois,” gave himself up.

To all questions he only answered this:

“I had known the man for two years, the woman for six months. They often
had me repair old furniture for them, because I am a clever workman.”

And when he was asked:

“Why did you kill them?”

He would obstinately answer:

“I killed them because I wanted to kill them.”

They could get nothing more out of him.

This man was undoubtedly an illegitimate child, put out to nurse and
then abandoned. He had no other name than Georges Louis, but as on
growing up he became particularly intelligent, with the good taste and
native refinement which his acquaintances did not have, he was nicknamed
“the Bourgeois,” and he was never called otherwise. He had become
remarkably clever in the trade of a carpenter, which he had taken up. He
was also said to be a socialist fanatic, a believer in communistic and
nihilistic doctrines, a great reader of bloodthirsty novels, an
influential political agitator and a clever orator in the public
meetings of workmen or of farmers.

His lawyer had pleaded insanity.

Indeed, how could one imagine that this workman should kill his best
customers, rich and generous (as he knew), who in two years had enabled
him to earn three thousand francs (his books showed it)? Only one
explanation could be offered: insanity, the fixed idea of the unclassed
individual who reeks vengeance on two bourgeois, on all the bourgeoisie,
and the lawyer made a clever allusion to this nickname of “The
Bourgeois,” given throughout the neighborhood to this poor wretch. He
exclaimed:

“Is this irony not enough to unbalance the mind of this poor wretch, who
has neither father nor mother? He is an ardent republican. What am I
saying? He even belongs to the same political party, the members of
which, formerly shot or exiled by the government, it now welcomes with
open arms this party to which arson is a principle and murder an
ordinary occurrence.

“These gloomy doctrines, now applauded in public meetings, have ruined
this man. He has heard republicans—even women, yes, women—ask for the
blood of M. Gambetta, the blood of M. Grevy; his weakened mind gave way;
he wanted blood, the blood of a bourgeois!

“It is not he whom you should condemn, gentlemen; it is the Commune!”

Everywhere could be heard murmurs of assent. Everyone felt that the
lawyer had won his case. The prosecuting attorney did not oppose him.

Then the presiding judge asked the accused the customary question:

“Prisoner, is there anything that you wish to add to your defense?”

The man stood up.

He was a short, flaxen blond, with calm, clear, gray eyes. A strong,
frank, sonorous voice came from this frail-looking boy and, at the first
words, quickly changed the opinion which had been formed of him.

He spoke loud in a declamatory manner, but so distinctly that every word
could be understood in the farthest corners of the big hall:

“Your honor, as I do not wish to go to an insane asylum, and as I even
prefer death to that, I will tell everything.

“I killed this man and this woman because they were my parents.

“Now, listen, and judge me.

“A woman, having given birth to a boy, sent him out, somewhere, to a
nurse. Did she even know where her accomplice carried this innocent
little being, condemned to eternal misery, to the shame of an
illegitimate birth; to more than that—to death, since he was abandoned
and the nurse, no longer receiving the monthly pension, might, as they
often do, let him die of hunger and neglect!

“The woman who nursed me was honest, better, more noble, more of a
mother than my own mother. She brought me up. She did wrong in doing her
duty. It is more humane to let them die, these little wretches who are
cast away in suburban villages just as garbage is thrown away.

“I grew up with the indistinct impression that I was carrying some
burden of shame. One day the other children called me a 'b——-'. They did
not know the meaning of this word, which one of them had heard at home.
I was also ignorant of its meaning, but I felt the sting all the same.

“I was, I may say, one of the cleverest boys in the school. I would have
been a good man, your honor, perhaps a man of superior intellect, if my
parents had not committed the crime of abandoning me.

“This crime was committed against me. I was the victim, they were the
guilty ones. I was defenseless, they were pitiless. Their duty was to
love me, they rejected me.

“I owed them life—but is life a boon? To me, at any rate, it was a
misfortune. After their shameful desertion, I owed them only vengeance.
They committed against me the most inhuman, the most infamous, the most
monstrous crime which can be committed against a human creature.

“A man who has been insulted, strikes; a man who has been robbed, takes
back his own by force. A man who has been deceived, played upon,
tortured, kills; a man who has been slapped, kills; a man who has been
dishonored, kills. I have been robbed, deceived, tortured, morally
slapped, dishonored, all this to a greater degree than those whose anger
you excuse.

“I revenged myself, I killed. It was my legitimate right. I took their
happy life in exchange for the terrible one which they had forced on me.

“You will call me parricide! Were these people my parents, for whom I
was an abominable burden, a terror, an infamous shame; for whom my birth
was a calamity and my life a threat of disgrace? They sought a selfish
pleasure; they got an unexpected child. They suppressed the child. My
turn came to do the same for them.

“And yet, up to quite recently, I was ready to love them.

“As I have said, this man, my father, came to me for the first time two
years ago. I suspected nothing. He ordered two pieces of furniture. I
found out, later on, that, under the seal of secrecy, naturally, he had
sought information from the priest.

“He returned often. He gave me a lot of work and paid me well. Sometimes
he would even talk to me of one thing or another. I felt a growing
affection for him.

“At the beginning of this year he brought with him his wife, my mother.
When she entered she was trembling so that I thought her to be suffering
from some nervous disease. Then she asked for a seat and a glass of
water. She said nothing; she looked around abstractedly at my work and
only answered 'yes' and 'no,' at random, to all the questions which he
asked her. When she had left I thought her a little unbalanced.

“The following month they returned. She was calm, self-controlled. That
day they chattered for a long time, and they left me a rather large
order. I saw her three more times, without suspecting anything. But one
day she began to talk to me of my life, of my childhood, of my parents.
I answered: 'Madame, my parents were wretches who deserted me.' Then she
clutched at her heart and fell, unconscious. I immediately thought: 'She
is my mother!' but I took care not to let her notice anything. I wished
to observe her.

“I, in turn, sought out information about them. I learned that they had
been married since last July, my mother having been a widow for only
three years. There had been rumors that they had loved each other during
the lifetime of the first husband, but there was no proof of it. I was
the proof—the proof which they had at first hidden and then hoped to
destroy.

“I waited. She returned one evening, escorted as usual by my father.
That day she seemed deeply moved, I don't know why. Then, as she was
leaving, she said to me: 'I wish you success, because you seem to me to
be honest and a hard worker; some day you will undoubtedly think of
getting married. I have come to help you to choose freely the woman who
may suit you. I was married against my inclination once and I know what
suffering it causes. Now I am rich, childless, free, mistress of my
fortune. Here is your dowry.'

“She held out to me a large, sealed envelope.

“I looked her straight in the eyes and then said: 'Are you my mother?'

“She drew back a few steps and hid her face in her hands so as not to
see me. He, the man, my father, supported her in his arms and cried out
to me: 'You must be crazy!'

“I answered: 'Not in the least. I know that you are my parents. I cannot
be thus deceived. Admit it and I will keep the secret; I will bear you
no ill will; I will remain what I am, a carpenter.'

“He retreated towards the door, still supporting his wife who was
beginning to sob. Quickly I locked the door, put the key in my pocket
and continued: 'Look at her and dare to deny that she is my mother.'

“Then he flew into a passion, very pale, terrified at the thought that
the scandal, which had so far been avoided, might suddenly break out;
that their position, their good name, their honor might all at once be
lost. He stammered out: 'You are a rascal, you wish to get money from
us! That's the thanks we get for trying to help such common people!'

“My mother, bewildered, kept repeating: 'Let's get out of here, let's
get out!'

“Then, when he found the door locked, he exclaimed: 'If you do not open
this door immediately, I will have you thrown into prison for blackmail
and assault!'

“I had remained calm; I opened the door and saw them disappear in the
darkness.

“Then I seemed to have been suddenly orphaned, deserted, pushed to the
wall. I was seized with an overwhelming sadness, mingled with anger,
hatred, disgust; my whole being seemed to rise up in revolt against the
injustice, the meanness, the dishonor, the rejected love. I began to
run, in order to overtake them along the Seine, which they had to follow
in order to reach the station of Chaton.

“I soon caught up with them. It was now pitch dark. I was creeping up
behind them softly, that they might not hear me. My mother was still
crying. My father was saying: 'It's all your own fault. Why did you wish
to see him? It was absurd in our position. We could have helped him from
afar, without showing ourselves. Of what use are these dangerous visits,
since we can't recognize him?'

“Then I rushed up to them, beseeching. I cried:

“'You see! You are my parents. You have already rejected me once; would
you repulse me again?'

“Then, your honor, he struck me. I swear it on my honor, before the law
and my country. He struck me, and as I seized him by the collar, he drew
from his pocket a revolver.

“The blood rushed to my head, I no longer knew what I was doing, I had
my compass in my pocket; I struck him with it as often as I could.

“Then she began to cry: 'Help! murder!' and to pull my beard. It seems
that I killed her also. How do I know what I did then?

“Then, when I saw them both lying on the ground, without thinking, I
threw them into the Seine.

“That's all. Now sentence me.”

The prisoner sat down. After this revelation the case was carried over
to the following session. It comes up very soon. If we were jurymen,
what would we do with this parricide?





BERTHA

Dr. Bonnet, my old friend—one sometimes has friends older than one's
self—had often invited me to spend some time with him at Riom, and, as I
did not know Auvergne, I made up my mind to visit him in the summer of
1876.

I arrived by the morning train, and the first person I saw on the
platform was the doctor. He was dressed in a gray suit, and wore a soft,
black, wide-brimmed, high-crowned felt hat, narrow at the top like a
chimney pot, a hat which hardly any one except an Auvergnat would wear,
and which reminded one of a charcoal burner. Dressed like that, the
doctor had the appearance of an old young man, with his spare body under
his thin coat, and his large head covered with white hair.

He embraced me with that evident pleasure which country people feel when
they meet long-expected friends, and, stretching out his arm, he said
proudly:

“This is Auvergne!” I saw nothing before me except a range of mountains,
whose summits, which resembled truncated cones, must have been extinct
volcanoes.

Then, pointing to the name of the station, he said:

“Riom, the fatherland of magistrates, the pride of the magistracy, and
which ought rather to be the fatherland of doctors.”

“Why?” I, asked.

“Why?” he replied with a laugh. “If you transpose the letters, you have
the Latin word 'mori', to die. That is the reason why I settled here, my
young friend.”

And, delighted at his own joke, he carried me off, rubbing his hands.

As soon as I had swallowed a cup of coffee, he made me go and see the
town. I admired the druggist's house, and the other noted houses, which
were all black, but as pretty as bric-a-brac, with their facades of
sculptured stone. I admired the statue of the Virgin, the patroness of
butchers, and he told me an amusing story about this, which I will
relate some other time, and then Dr. Bonnet said to me:

“I must beg you to excuse me for a few minutes while I go and see a
patient, and then I will take you to Chatel-Guyon, so as to show you the
general aspect of the town, and all the mountain chain of the Puy-de-
Dome before lunch. You can wait for me outside; I shall only go upstairs
and come down immediately.”

He left me outside one of those old, gloomy, silent, melancholy houses,
which one sees in the provinces, and this one appeared to look
particularly sinister, and I soon discovered the reason. All the large
windows on the first floor were boarded half way up. The upper part of
them alone could be opened, as if one had wished to prevent the people
who were locked up in that huge stone box from looking into the street.

When the doctor came down again, I told him how it struck me, and he
replied:

“You are quite right; the poor creature who is living there must never
see what is going on outside. She is a madwoman, or rather an idiot,
what you Normans would call a Niente. It is a miserable story, but a
very singular pathological case at the same time. Shall I tell you?”

I begged him to do so, and he continued:

“Twenty years ago the owners of this house, who were my patients, had a
daughter who was like all other girls, but I soon discovered that while
her body became admirably developed, her intellect remained stationary.

“She began to walk very early, but she could not talk. At first I
thought she was deaf, but I soon discovered that, although she heard
perfectly, she did not understand anything that was said to her. Violent
noises made her start and frightened her, without her understanding how
they were caused.

“She grew up into a superb woman, but she was dumb, from an absolute
want of intellect. I tried all means to introduce a gleam of
intelligence into her brain, but nothing succeeded. I thought I noticed
that she knew her nurse, though as soon as she was weaned, she failed to
recognize her mother. She could never pronounce that word which is the
first that children utter and the last which soldiers murmur when they
are dying on the field of battle. She sometimes tried to talk, but she
produced nothing but incoherent sounds.

“When the weather was fine, she laughed continually, and emitted low
cries which might be compared to the twittering of birds; when it rained
she cried and moaned in a mournful, terrifying manner, which sounded
like the howling of a dog before a death occurs in a house.

“She was fond of rolling on the grass, as young animals do, and of
running about madly, and she would clap her hands every morning, when
the sun shone into her room, and would insist, by signs, on being
dressed as quickly as possible, so that she might get out.

“She did not appear to distinguish between people, between her mother
and her nurse, or between her father and me, or between the coachman and
the cook. I particularly liked her parents, who were very unhappy on her
account, and went to see them nearly every day. I dined with them quite
frequently, which enabled me to remark that Bertha (they had called her
Bertha) seemed to recognize the various dishes, and to prefer some to
others. At that time she was twelve years old, but as fully formed in
figure as a girl of eighteen, and taller than I was. Then the idea
struck me of developing her greediness, and by this means of cultivating
some slight power of discrimination in her mind, and to force her, by
the diversity of flavors, if not to reason, at any rate to arrive at
instinctive distinctions, which would of themselves constitute a kind of
process that was necessary to thought. Later on, by appealing to her
passions, and by carefully making use of those which could serve our
purpose, we might hope to obtain a kind of reaction on her intellect,
and by degrees increase the unconscious action of her brain.

“One day I put two plates before her, one of soup, and the other of very
sweet vanilla cream. I made her taste each of them successively, and
then I let her choose for herself, and she ate the plate of cream. In a
short time I made her very greedy, so greedy that it appeared as if the
only idea she had in her head was the desire for eating. She perfectly
recognized the various dishes, and stretched out her hands toward those
that she liked, and took hold of them eagerly, and she used to cry when
they were taken from her. Then I thought I would try and teach her to
come to the dining-room when the dinner bell rang. It took a long time,
but I succeeded in the end. In her vacant intellect a vague correlation
was established between sound and taste, a correspondence between the
two senses, an appeal from one to the other, and consequently a sort of
connection of ideas—if one can call that kind of instinctive hyphen
between two organic functions an idea—and so I carried my experiments
further, and taught her, with much difficulty, to recognize meal times
by the clock.

“It was impossible for me for a long time to attract her attention to
the hands, but I succeeded in making her remark the clockwork and the
striking apparatus. The means I employed were very simple; I asked them
not to have the bell rung for lunch, and everybody got up and went into
the dining-room when the little brass hammer struck twelve o'clock, but
I found great difficulty in making her learn to count the strokes. She
ran to the door each time she heard the clock strike, but by degrees she
learned that all the strokes had not the same value as far as regarded
meals, and she frequently fixed her eyes, guided by her ears, on the
dial of the clock.

“When I noticed that, I took care every day at twelve, and at six
o'clock, to place my fingers on the figures twelve and six, as soon as
the moment she was waiting for had arrived, and I soon noticed that she
attentively followed the motion of the small brass hands, which I had
often turned in her presence.

“She had understood! Perhaps I ought rather to say that she had grasped
the idea. I had succeeded in getting the knowledge, or, rather, the
sensation, of the time into her, just as is the case with carp, who
certainly have no clocks, when they are fed every day exactly at the
same time.

“When once I had obtained that result all the clocks and watches in the
house occupied her attention almost exclusively. She spent her time in
looking at them, listening to them, and in waiting for meal time, and
once something very funny happened. The striking apparatus of a pretty
little Louis XVI clock that hung at the head of her bed having got out
of order, she noticed it. She sat for twenty minutes with her eyes on
the hands, waiting for it to strike ten, but when the hands passed the
figure she was astonished at not hearing anything; so stupefied was she,
indeed, that she sat down, no doubt overwhelmed by a feeling of violent
emotion such as attacks us in the face of some terrible catastrophe. And
she had the wonderful patience to wait until eleven o'clock in order to
see what would happen, and as she naturally heard nothing, she was
suddenly either seized with a wild fit of rage at having been deceived
and imposed upon by appearances, or else overcome by that fear which
some frightened creature feels at some terrible mystery, and by the
furious impatience of a passionate individual who meets with some
obstacle; she took up the tongs from the fireplace and struck the clock
so violently that she broke it to pieces in a moment.

“It was evident, therefore, that her, brain did act and calculate,
obscurely it is true, and within very restricted limits, for I could
never succeed in making her distinguish persons as she distinguished the
time; and to stir her intellect, it was necessary to appeal to her
passions, in the material sense of the word, and we soon had another,
and alas! a very terrible proof of this!

“She had grown up into a splendid girl, a perfect type of a race, a sort
of lovely and stupid Venus. She was sixteen, and I have rarely seen such
perfection of form, such suppleness and such regular features. I said
she was a Venus; yes, a fair, stout, vigorous Venus, with large, bright,
vacant eyes, which were as blue as the flowers of the flax plant; she
had a large mouth with full lips, the mouth of a glutton, of a
sensualist, a mouth made for kisses. Well, one morning her father came
into my consulting room with a strange look on his face, and, sitting
down without even replying to my greeting, he said:

“'I want to speak to you about a very serious matter. Would it be
possible—would it be possible for Bertha to marry?'

“'Bertha to marry! Why, it is quite impossible!'

“'Yes, I know, I know,' he replied. 'But reflect, doctor. Don't you
think—perhaps—we hoped—if she had children—it would be a great shock to
her, but a great happiness, and—who knows whether maternity might not
rouse her intellect?'

“I was in a state of great perplexity. He was right, and it was possible
that such a new situation, and that wonderful instinct of maternity,
which beats in the hearts of the lower animals as it does in the heart
of a woman, which makes the hen fly at a dog's jaws to defend her
chickens, might bring about a revolution, an utter change in her vacant
mind, and set the motionless mechanism of her thoughts in motion. And
then, moreover, I immediately remembered a personal instance. Some years
previously I had owned a spaniel bitch who was so stupid that I could do
nothing with her, but when she had had puppies she became, if not
exactly intelligent, yet almost like many other dogs who had not been
thoroughly broken.

“As soon as I foresaw the possibility of this, the wish to get Bertha
married grew in me, not so much out of friendship for her and her poor
parents as from scientific curiosity. What would happen? It was a
singular problem. I said in reply to her father:

“'Perhaps you are right. You might make the attempt, but you will never
find a man to consent to marry her.'

“'I have found somebody,' he said, in a low voice.

“I was dumfounded, and said: 'Somebody really suitable? Some one of your
own rank and position in society?'

“'Decidedly,' he replied.

“'Oh! And may I ask his name?'

“'I came on purpose to tell you, and to consult you. It is Monsieur
Gaston du Boys de Lucelles.'

“I felt inclined to exclaim: 'The wretch!' but I held my tongue, and
after a few moments' silence I said:

“'Oh! Very good. I see nothing against it.'

“The poor man shook me heartily by the hand.

“'She is to be married next month,' he said.

“Monsieur Gaston du Boys de Lucelles was a scapegrace of good family,
who, after having spent all that he had inherited from his father, and
having incurred debts in all kinds of doubtful ways, had been trying to
discover some other means of obtaining money, and he had discovered this
method. He was a good-looking young fellow, and in capital health, but
fast; one of that odious race of provincial fast men, and he appeared to
me to be as suitable as anyone, and could be got rid of later by making
him an allowance. He came to the house to pay his addresses and to strut
about before the idiot girl, who, however, seemed to please him. He
brought her flowers, kissed her hands, sat at her feet, and looked at
her with affectionate eyes; but she took no notice of any of his
attentions, and did not make any distinction between him and the other
persons who were about her.

“However, the marriage took place, and you may guess how my curiosity
was aroused. I went to see Bertha the next day to try and discover from
her looks whether any feelings had been awakened in her, but I found her
just the same as she was every day, wholly taken up with the clock and
dinner, while he, on the contrary, appeared really in love, and tried to
rouse his wife's spirits and affection by little endearments and such
caresses as one bestows on a kitten. He could think of nothing better.

“I called upon the married couple pretty frequently, and I soon
perceived that the young woman knew her husband, and gave him those
eager looks which she had hitherto only bestowed on sweet dishes.

“She followed his movements, knew his step on the stairs or in the
neighboring rooms, clapped her hands when he came in, and her face was
changed and brightened by the flames of profound happiness and of
desire.

“She loved him with her whole body and with all her soul to the very
depths of her poor, weak soul, and with all her heart, that poor heart
of some grateful animal. It was really a delightful and innocent picture
of simple passion, of carnal and yet modest passion, such as nature had
implanted in mankind, before man had complicated and disfigured it by
all the various shades of sentiment. But he soon grew tired of this
ardent, beautiful, dumb creature, and did not spend more than an hour
during the day with her, thinking it sufficient if he came home at
night, and she began to suffer in consequence. She used to wait for him
from morning till night with her eyes on the clock; she did not even
look after the meals now, for he took all his away from home, Clermont,
Chatel-Guyon, Royat, no matter where, as long as he was not obliged to
come home.

“She began to grow thin; every other thought, every other wish, every
other expectation, and every confused hope disappeared from her mind,
and the hours during which she did not see him became hours of terrible
suffering to her. Soon he ceased to come home regularly of nights; he
spent them with women at the casino at Royat and did not come home until
daybreak. But she never went to bed before he returned. She remained
sitting motionless in an easy-chair, with her eyes fixed on the hands of
the clock, which turned so slowly and regularly round the china face on
which the hours were painted.

“She heard the trot of his horse in the distance and sat up with a
start, and when he came into the room she got up with the movements of
an automaton and pointed to the clock, as if to say: 'Look how late it
is!'

“And he began to be afraid of this amorous and jealous, half-witted
woman, and flew into a rage, as brutes do; and one night he even went so
far as to strike her, so they sent for me. When I arrived she was
writhing and screaming in a terrible crisis of pain, anger, passion, how
do I know what? Can one tell what goes on in such undeveloped brains?

“I calmed her by subcutaneous injections of morphine, and forbade her to
see that man again, for I saw clearly that marriage would infallibly
kill her by degrees.

“Then she went mad! Yes, my dear friend, that idiot went mad. She is
always thinking of him and waiting for him; she waits for him all day
and night, awake or asleep, at this very moment, ceaselessly. When I saw
her getting thinner and thinner, and as she persisted in never taking
her eyes off the clocks, I had them removed from the house. I thus made
it impossible for her to count the hours, and to try to remember, from
her indistinct reminiscences, at what time he used to come home
formerly. I hope to destroy the recollection of it in time, and to
extinguish that ray of thought which I kindled with so much difficulty.

“The other day I tried an experiment. I offered her my watch; she took
it and looked at it for some time; then she began to scream terribly, as
if the sight of that little object had suddenly awakened her memory,
which was beginning to grow indistinct. She is pitiably thin now, with
hollow and glittering eyes, and she walks up and down ceaselessly, like
a wild beast in its cage; I have had gratings put on the windows,
boarded them up half way, and have had the seats fixed to the floor so
as to prevent her from looking to see whether he is coming.

“Oh! her poor parents! What a life they must lead!”

We had got to the top of the hill, and the doctor turned round and said
to me:

“Look at Riom from here.”

The gloomy town looked like some ancient city. Behind it a green, wooded
plain studded with towns and villages, and bathed in a soft blue haze,
extended until it was lost in the distance. Far away, on my right, there
was a range of lofty mountains with round summits, or else cut off flat,
as if with a sword, and the doctor began to enumerate the villages,
towns and hills, and to give me the history of all of them. But I did
not listen to him; I was thinking of nothing but the madwoman, and I
only saw her. She seemed to be hovering over that vast extent of country
like a mournful ghost, and I asked him abruptly:

“What has become of the husband?”

My friend seemed rather surprised, but after a few moments' hesitation,
he replied:

“He is living at Royat, on an allowance that they made him, and is quite
happy; he leads a very fast life.”

As we were slowly going back, both of us silent and rather low-spirited,
an English dogcart, drawn by a thoroughbred horse, came up behind us and
passed us rapidly. The doctor took me by the arm.

“There he is,” he said.

I saw nothing except a gray felt hat, cocked over one ear above a pair
of broad shoulders, driving off in a cloud of dust.





THE PATRON

We never dreamed of such good fortune! The son of a provincial bailiff,
Jean Marin had come, as do so many others, to study law in the Quartier
Latin. In the various beer-houses that he had frequented he had made
friends with several talkative students who spouted politics as they
drank their beer. He had a great admiration for them and followed them
persistently from cafe to cafe, even paying for their drinks when he had
the money.

He became a lawyer and pleaded causes, which he lost. However, one
morning he read in the papers that one of his former comrades of the
Quartier had just been appointed deputy.

He again became his faithful hound, the friend who does the drudgery,
the unpleasant tasks, for whom one sends when one has need of him and
with whom one does not stand on ceremony. But it chanced through some
parliamentary incident that the deputy became a minister. Six months
later Jean Marin was appointed a state councillor.

He was so elated with pride at first that he lost his head. He would
walk through the streets just to show himself off, as though one could
tell by his appearance what position he occupied. He managed to say to
the shopkeepers as soon as he entered a store, bringing it in somehow in
the course of the most insignificant remarks and even to the news
vendors and the cabmen:

“I, who am a state councillor—”

Then, in consequence of his position as well as for professional reasons
and as in duty bound through being an influential and generous man, he
felt an imperious need of patronizing others. He offered his support to
every one on all occasions and with unbounded generosity.

When he met any one he recognized on the boulevards he would advance to
meet them with a charmed air, would take their hand, inquire after their
health, and, without waiting for any questions, remark:

“You know I am state councillor, and I am entirely at your service. If I
can be of any use to you, do not hesitate to call on me. In my position
one has great influence.”

Then he would go into some cafe with the friend he had just met and ask
for a pen and ink and a sheet of paper. “Just one, waiter; it is to
write a letter of recommendation.”

And he wrote ten, twenty, fifty letters of recommendation a day. He
wrote them to the Cafe Americain, to Bignon's, to Tortoni's, to the
Maison Doree, to the Cafe Riche, to the Helder, to the Cafe Anglais, to
the Napolitain, everywhere, everywhere. He wrote them to all the
officials of the republican government, from the magistrates to the
ministers. And he was happy, perfectly happy.

One morning as he was starting out to go to the council it began to
rain. He hesitated about taking a cab, but decided not to do so and set
out on foot.

The rain came down in torrents, swamping the sidewalks and inundating
the streets. M. Marin was obliged to take shelter in a doorway. An old
priest was standing there—an old priest with white hair. Before he
became a councillor M. Marin did not like the clergy. Now he treated
them with consideration, ever since a cardinal had consulted him on an
important matter. The rain continued to pour down in floods and obliged
the two men to take shelter in the porter's lodge so as to avoid getting
wet. M. Marin, who was always itching to talk so as to let people know
who he was, remarked:

“This is horrible weather, Monsieur l'Abbe.”

The old priest bowed:

“Yes indeed, sir, it is very unpleasant when one comes to Paris for only
a few days.”

“Ah! You come from the provinces?”

“Yes, monsieur. I am only passing through on my journey.”

“It certainly is very disagreeable to have rain during the few days one
spends in the capital. We officials who stay here the year round, we
think nothing of it.”

The priest did not reply. He was looking at the street where the rain
seemed to be falling less heavily. And with a sudden resolve he raised
his cassock just as women raise their skirts in stepping across water.

M. Marin, seeing him start away, exclaimed:

“You will get drenched, Monsieur l'Abbe. Wait a few moments longer; the
rain will be over.”

The good man stopped irresistibly and then said:

“But I am in a great hurry. I have an important engagement.”

M. Marin seemed quite worried.

“But you will be absolutely drenched. Might I ask in which direction you
are going?”

The priest appeared to hesitate. Then he said:

“I am going in the direction of the Palais Royal.”

“In that case, if you will allow me, Monsieur l'Abbe, I will offer you
the shelter of my umbrella: As for me, I am going to the council. I am a
councillor of state.”

The old priest raised his head and looked at his neighbor and then
exclaimed:

“I thank you, monsieur. I shall be glad to accept your offer.”

M. Marin then took his arm and led him away. He directed him, watched
over him and advised him.

“Be careful of that stream, Monsieur l'Abbe. And be very careful about
the carriage wheels; they spatter you with mud sometimes from head to
foot. Look out for the umbrellas of the people passing by; there is
nothing more dangerous to the eyes than the tips of the ribs. Women
especially are unbearable; they pay no heed to where they are going and
always jab you in the face with the point of their parasols or
umbrellas. And they never move aside for anybody. One would suppose the
town belonged to them. They monopolize the pavement and the street. It
is my opinion that their education has been greatly neglected.”

And M. Marin laughed.

The priest did not reply. He walked along, slightly bent over, picking
his steps carefully so as not to get mud on his boots or his cassock.

M. Marin resumed:

“I suppose you have come to Paris to divert your mind a little?”

The good man replied:

“No, I have some business to attend to.”

“Ali! Is it important business? Might I venture to ask what it is? If I
can be of any service to you, you may command me.”

The priest seemed embarrassed. He murmured:

“Oh, it is a little personal matter; a little difficulty with—with my
bishop. It would not interest you. It is a matter of internal
regulation—an ecclesiastical affair.”

M. Marin was eager.

“But it is precisely the state council that regulates all those things.
In that case, make use of me.”

“Yes, monsieur, it is to the council that I am going. You are a thousand
times too kind. I have to see M. Lerepere and M. Savon and also perhaps
M. Petitpas.”

M. Marin stopped short.

“Why, those are my friends, Monsieur l'Abbe, my best friends, excellent
colleagues, charming men. I will speak to them about you, and very
highly. Count upon me.”

The cure thanked him, apologizing for troubling him, and stammered out a
thousand grateful promises.

M. Marin was enchanted.

“Ah, you may be proud of having made a stroke of luck, Monsieur l'Abbe.
You will see—you will see that, thanks to me, your affair will go along
swimmingly.”

They reached the council hall. M. Marin took the priest into his office,
offered him a chair in front of the fire and sat down himself at his
desk and began to write.

“My dear colleague, allow me to recommend to you most highly a venerable
and particularly worthy and deserving priest, M. L'Abbe——”

He stopped and asked:

“Your name, if you please?”

“L'Abbe Ceinture.”

“M. l'Abbe Ceinture, who needs your good office in a little matter which
he will communicate to you.

“I am pleased at this incident which gives me an opportunity, my dear
colleague——”

And he finished with the usual compliments.

When he had written the three letters he handed them to his protege, who
took his departure with many protestations of gratitude.

M. Marin attended to some business and then went home, passed the day
quietly, slept well, woke in a good humor and sent for his newspapers.

The first he opened was a radical sheet. He read:

“OUR CLERGY AND OUR GOVERNMENT OFFICIALS

“We shall never make an end of enumerating the misdeeds of the clergy. A
certain priest, named Ceinture, convicted of conspiracy against the
present government, accused of base actions to which we will not even
allude, suspected besides of being a former Jesuit, metamorphosed into a
simple priest, suspended by a bishop for causes that are said to be
unmentionable and summoned to Paris to give an explanation of his
conduct, has found an ardent defender in the man named Marin, a
councillor of state, who was not afraid to give this frocked malefactor
the warmest letters of recommendation to all the republican officials,
his colleagues.

“We call the, attention of the ministry to the unheard of attitude of
this councillor of state——”

M. Marin bounded out of bed, dressed himself and hastened to his
colleague, Petitpas, who said to him:

“How now? You were crazy to recommend to me that old conspirator!”

M. Marin, bewildered, stammered out:

“Why no—you see—I was deceived. He looked such an honest man. He played
me a trick—a disgraceful trick! I beg that you will sentence him
severely, very severely. I am going to write. Tell me to whom I should
write about having him punished. I will go and see the attorney-general
and the archbishop of Paris—yes, the archbishop.”

And seating himself abruptly at M. Petitpas' desk, he wrote:

“Monseigneur, I have the honor to bring to your grace's notice the fact
that I have recently been made a victim of the intrigues and lies of a
certain Abbe Ceinture, who imposed on my kind-heartedness.

“Deceived by the representations of this ecclesiastic, I was led——”

Then, having signed and sealed his letter, he turned to his colleague
and exclaimed:

“See here; my dear friend, let this be a warning to you never to
recommend any one again.”





THE DOOR

“Bah!” exclaimed Karl Massouligny, “the question of complaisant husbands
is a difficult one. I have seen many kinds, and yet I am unable to give
an opinion about any of them. I have often tried to determine whether
they are blind, weak or clairvoyant. I believe that there are some which
belong to each of these categories.

“Let us quickly pass over the blind ones. They cannot rightly be called
complaisant, since they do not know, but they are good creatures who
cannot see farther than their nose. It is a curious and interesting
thing to notice the ease with which men and women can, be deceived. We
are taken in by the slightest trick of those who surround us, by our
children, our friends, our servants, our tradespeople. Humanity is
credulous, and in order to discover deceit in others, we do not display
one-tenth the shrewdness which we use when we, in turn, wish to deceive
some one else.

“Clairvoyant husbands may be divided into three classes: Those who have
some interest, pecuniary, ambitious or otherwise, in their wife's having
love affairs. These ask only to safeguard appearances as much as
possible, and they are satisfied.

“Next come those who get angry. What a beautiful novel one could write
about them!

“Finally the weak ones! Those who are afraid of scandal.

“There are also those who are powerless, or, rather, tired, who flee
from the duties of matrimony through fear of ataxia or apoplexy, who are
satisfied to see a friend run these risks.

“But I once met a husband of a rare species, who guarded against the
common accident in a strange and witty manner.

“In Paris I had made the acquaintance of an elegant, fashionable couple.
The woman, nervous, tall, slender, courted, was supposed to have had
many love adventures. She pleased me with her wit, and I believe that I
pleased her also. I courted her, a trial courting to which she answered
with evident provocations. Soon we got to tender glances, hand
pressures, all the little gallantries which precede the final attack.

“Nevertheless, I hesitated. I consider that, as a rule, the majority of
society intrigues, however short they may be, are not worth the trouble
which they give us and the difficulties which may arise. I therefore
mentally compared the advantages and disadvantages which I might expect,
and I thought I noticed that the husband suspected me.

“One evening, at a ball, as I was saying tender things to the young
woman in a little parlor leading from the big hall where the dancing was
going on, I noticed in a mirror the reflection of some one who was
watching me. It was he. Our looks met and then I saw him turn his head
and walk away.

“I murmured: 'Your husband is spying on us.'

“She seemed dumbfounded and asked: 'My husband?'

“'Yes, he has been watching us for some time:

“'Nonsense! Are you sure?'

“'Very sure.'

“'How strange! He is usually extraordinarily pleasant to all my
friends.'

“'Perhaps he guessed that I love you!'

“'Nonsense! You are not the first one to pay attention to me. Every
woman who is a little in view drags behind her a herd of admirers.'

“'Yes. But I love you deeply.'

“'Admitting that that is true, does a husband ever guess those things?'

“'Then he is not jealous?'

“'No-no!'

“She thought for an instant and then continued: 'No. I do not think that
I ever noticed any jealousy on his part.'

“'Has he never watched you?'

“'No. As I said, he is always agreeable to my friends.'

“From that day my courting became much more assiduous. The woman did not
please me any more than before, but the probable jealousy of her husband
tempted me greatly.

“As for her, I judged her coolly and clearly. She had a certain worldly
charm, due to a quick, gay, amiable and superficial mind, but no real,
deep attraction. She was, as I have already said, an excitable little
being, all on the surface, with rather a showy elegance. How can I
explain myself? She was an ornament, not a home.

“One day, after taking dinner with her, her husband said to me, just as
I was leaving: 'My dear friend' (he now called me 'friend'), 'we soon
leave for the country. It is a great pleasure to my wife and myself to
entertain people whom we like. We would be very pleased to have you
spend a month with us. It would be very nice of you to do so.'

“I was dumbfounded, but I accepted.

“A month later I arrived at their estate of Vertcresson, in Touraine.
They were waiting for me at the station, five miles from the chateau.
There were three of them, she, the husband and a gentleman unknown to
me, the Comte de Morterade, to whom I was introduced. He appeared to be
delighted to make my acquaintance, and the strangest ideas passed
through my mind while we trotted along the beautiful road between two
hedges. I was saying to myself: 'Let's see, what can this mean? Here is
a husband who cannot doubt that his wife and I are on more than friendly
terms, and yet he invites me to his house, receives me like an old
friend and seems to say: “Go ahead, my friend, the road is clear!”'

“Then I am introduced to a very pleasant gentleman, who seems already to
have settled down in the house, and—and who is perhaps trying to get out
of it, and who seems as pleased at my arrival as the husband himself.

“Is it some former admirer who wishes to retire? One might think so.
But, then, would these two men tacitly have come to one of these
infamous little agreements so common in society? And it is proposed to
me that I should quietly enter into the pact and carry it out. All hands
and arms are held out to me. All doors and hearts are open to me.

“And what about her? An enigma. She cannot be ignorant of everything.
However—however—Well, I cannot understand it.

“The dinner was very gay and cordial. On leaving the table the husband
and his friend began to play cards, while I went out on the porch to
look at the moonlight with madame. She seemed to be greatly affected by
nature, and I judged that the moment for my happiness was near. That
evening she was really delightful. The country had seemed to make her
more tender. Her long, slender waist looked pretty on this stone porch
beside a great vase in which grew some flowers. I felt like dragging her
out under the trees, throwing myself at her feet and speaking to her
words of love.

“Her husband's voice called 'Louise!'

“'Yes, dear.'

“'You are forgetting the tea.'

“'I'll go and see about it, my friend.'

“We returned to the house, and she gave us some tea. When the two men
had finished playing cards, they were visibly tired. I had to go to my
room. I did not get to sleep till late, and then I slept badly.

“An excursion was decided upon for the following afternoon, and we went
in an open carriage to visit some ruins. She and I were in the back of
the vehicle and they were opposite us, riding backward. The conversation
was sympathetic and agreeable. I am an orphan, and it seemed to me as
though I had just found my family, I felt so at home with them.

“Suddenly, as she had stretched out her foot between her husband's legs,
he murmured reproachfully: 'Louise, please don't wear out your old shoes
yourself. There is no reason for being neater in Paris than in the
country.'

“I lowered my eyes. She was indeed wearing worn-out shoes, and I noticed
that her stockings were not pulled up tight.

“She had blushed and hidden her foot under her dress. The friend was
looking out in the distance with an indifferent and unconcerned look.

“The husband offered me a cigar, which I accepted. For a few days it was
impossible for me to be alone with her for two minutes; he was with us
everywhere. He was delightful to me, however.

“One morning he came to get me to take a walk before breakfast, and the
conversation happened to turn on marriage. I spoke a little about
solitude and about how charming life can be made by the affection of a
woman. Suddenly he interrupted me, saying: 'My friend, don't talk about
things you know nothing about. A woman who has no other reason for
loving you will not love you long. All the little coquetries which make
them so exquisite when they do not definitely belong to us cease as soon
as they become ours. And then—the respectable women—that is to say our
wives—are—are not—in fact do not understand their profession of wife. Do
you understand?'

“He said no more, and I could not guess his thoughts.

“Two days after this conversation he called me to his room quite early,
in order to show me a collection of engravings. I sat in an easy chair
opposite the big door which separated his apartment from his wife's, and
behind this door I heard some one walking and moving, and I was thinking
very little of the engravings, although I kept exclaiming: 'Oh,
charming! delightful! exquisite!'

“He suddenly said: 'Oh, I have a beautiful specimen in the next room.
I'll go and get it.'

“He ran to the door quickly, and both sides opened as though for a
theatrical effect.

“In a large room, all in disorder, in the midst of skirts, collars,
waists lying around on the floor, stood a tall, dried-up creature. The
lower part of her body was covered with an old, worn-out silk petticoat,
which was hanging limply on her shapeless form, and she was standing in
front of a mirror brushing some short, sparse blond hairs. Her arms
formed two acute angles, and as she turned around in astonishment I saw
under a common cotton chemise a regular cemetery of ribs, which were
hidden from the public gaze by well-arranged pads.

“The husband uttered a natural exclamation and came back, closing the
doors, and said: 'Gracious! how stupid I am! Oh, how thoughtless! My
wife will never forgive me for that!'

“I already felt like thanking him. I left three days later, after
cordially shaking hands with the two men and kissing the lady's fingers.
She bade me a cold good-by.”

Karl Massouligny was silent. Some one asked: “But what was the friend?”

“I don't know—however—however he looked greatly distressed to see me
leaving so soon.”





A SALE

The defendants, Cesaire-Isidore Brument and Prosper-Napoleon Cornu,
appeared before the Court of Assizes of the Seine-Inferieure, on a
charge of attempted murder, by drowning, of Mme. Brument, lawful wife of
the first of the aforenamed.

The two prisoners sat side by side on the traditional bench. They were
two peasants; the first was small and stout, with short arms, short
legs, and a round head with a red pimply face, planted directly on his
trunk, which was also round and short, and with apparently no neck. He
was a raiser of pigs and lived at Cacheville-la-Goupil, in the district
of Criquetot.

Cornu (Prosper-Napoleon) was thin, of medium height, with enormously
long arms. His head was on crooked, his jaw awry, and he squinted. A
blue blouse, as long as a shirt, hung down to his knees, and his yellow
hair, which was scanty and plastered down on his head, gave his face a
worn-out, dirty look, a dilapidated look that was frightful. He had been
nicknamed “the cure” because he could imitate to perfection the chanting
in church, and even the sound of the serpent. This talent attracted to
his cafe—for he was a saloon keeper at Criquetot—a great many customers
who preferred the “mass at Cornu” to the mass in church.

Mme. Brument, seated on the witness bench, was a thin peasant woman who
seemed to be always asleep. She sat there motionless, her hands crossed
on her knees, gazing fixedly before her with a stupid expression.

The judge continued his interrogation.

“Well, then, Mme. Brument, they came into your house and threw you into
a barrel full of water. Tell us the details. Stand up.”

She rose. She looked as tall as a flag pole with her cap which looked
like a white skull cap. She said in a drawling tone:

“I was shelling beans. Just then they came in. I said to myself, 'What
is the matter with them? They do not seem natural, they seem up to some
mischief.' They watched me sideways, like this, especially Cornu,
because he squints. I do not like to see them together, for they are two
good-for-nothings when they are in company. I said: 'What do you want
with me?' They did not answer. I had a sort of mistrust——”

The defendant Brument interrupted the witness hastily, saying:

“I was full.”

Then Cornu, turning towards his accomplice said in the deep tones of an
organ:

“Say that we were both full, and you will be telling no lie.”

The judge, severely:

“You mean by that that you were both drunk?”

Brument: “There can be no question about it.”

Cornu: “That might happen to anyone.”

The judge to the victim: “Continue your testimony, woman Brument.”

“Well, Brument said to me, 'Do you wish to earn a hundred sous?' 'Yes,'
I replied, seeing that a hundred sous are not picked up in a horse's
tracks. Then he said: 'Open your eyes and do as I do,' and he went to
fetch the large empty barrel which is under the rain pipe in the corner,
and he turned it over and brought it into my kitchen, and stuck it down
in the middle of the floor, and then he said to me: 'Go and fetch water
until it is full.'

“So I went to the pond with two pails and carried water, and still more
water for an hour, seeing that the barrel was as large as a vat, saving
your presence, m'sieu le president.

“All this time Brument and Cornu were drinking a glass, and then another
glass, and then another. They were finishing their drinks when I said to
them: 'You are full, fuller than this barrel.' And Brument answered me.
'Do not worry, go on with your work, your turn will come, each one has
his share.' I paid no attention to what he said as he was full.

“When the barrel was full to the brim, I said: 'There, that's done.'

“And then Cornu gave me a hundred sous, not Brument, Cornu; it was Cornu
gave them to me. And Brument said: 'Do you wish to earn a hundred sous
more?' 'Yes,' I said, for I am not accustomed to presents like that.
Then he said: 'Take off your clothes!

“'Take off my clothes?'

“'Yes,' he said.

“'How many shall I take off?'

“'If it worries you at all, keep on your chemise, that won't bother us.'

“A hundred sous is a hundred sous, and I have to undress myself; but I
did not fancy undressing before those two good-for-nothings. I took off
my cap, and then my jacket, and then my skirt, and then my sabots.
Brument said, 'Keep on your stockings, also; we are good fellows.'

“And Cornu said, too, 'We are good fellows.'

“So there I was, almost like mother Eve. And they got up from their
chairs, but could not stand straight, they were so full, saving your
presence, M'sieu le president.

“I said to myself: 'What are they up to?'

“And Brument said: 'Are you ready?'

“And Cornu said: 'I'm ready!'

“And then they took me, Brument by the head, and Cornu by the feet, as
one might take, for instance, a sheet that has been washed. Then I began
to bawl.

“And Brument said: 'Keep still, wretched creature!'

“And they lifted me up in the air and put me into the barrel, which was
full of water, so that I had a check of the circulation, a chill to my
very insides.

“And Brument said: 'Is that all?'

“Cornu said: 'That is all.'

“Brument said: 'The head is not in, that will make a difference in the
measure.'

“Cornu said: 'Put in her head.'

“And then Brument pushed down my head as if to drown me, so that the
water ran into my nose, so that I could already see Paradise. And he
pushed it down, and I disappeared.

“And then he must have been frightened. He pulled me out and said: 'Go
and get dry, carcass.'

“As for me, I took to my heels and ran as far as M. le cure's. He lent
me a skirt belonging to his servant, for I was almost in a state of
nature, and he went to fetch Maitre Chicot, the country watchman who
went to Criquetot to fetch the police who came to my house with me.

“Then we found Brument and Cornu fighting each other like two rams.

“Brument was bawling: 'It isn't true, I tell you that there is at least
a cubic metre in it. It is the method that was no good.'

“Cornu bawled: 'Four pails, that is almost half a cubic metre. You need
not reply, that's what it is.'

“The police captain put them both under arrest. I have no more to tell.”

She sat down. The audience in the court room laughed. The jurors looked
at one another in astonishment. The judge said:

“Defendant Cornu, you seem to have been the instigator of this infamous
plot. What have you to say?”

And Cornu rose in his turn.

“Judge,” he replied, “I was full.”

The Judge answered gravely:

“I know it. Proceed.”

“I will. Well, Brument came to my place about nine o'clock, and ordered
two drinks, and said: 'There's one for you, Cornu.' I sat down opposite
him and drank, and out of politeness, I offered him a glass. Then he
returned the compliment and so did I, and so it went on from glass to
glass until noon, when we were full.

“Then Brument began to cry. That touched me. I asked him what was the
matter. He said: 'I must have a thousand francs by Thursday.' That
cooled me off a little, you understand. Then he said to me all at once:
'I will sell you my wife.'

“I was full, and I was a widower. You understand, that stirred me up. I
did not know his wife, but she was a woman, wasn't she? I asked him:
'How much would you sell her for?'

“He reflected, or pretended to reflect. When one is full one is not very
clear-headed, and he replied: 'I will sell her by the cubic metre.'

“That did not surprise me, for I was as drunk as he was, and I knew what
a cubic metre is in my business. It is a thousand litres, that suited
me.

“But the price remained to be settled. All depends on the quality. I
said: 'How much do you want a cubic metre?'

“He answered: 'Two thousand francs.'

“I gave a bound like a rabbit, and then I reflected that a woman ought
not to measure more than three hundred litres. So I said: 'That's too
dear.'

“He answered: 'I cannot do it for less. I should lose by it.'

“You understand, one is not a dealer in hogs for nothing. One
understands one's business. But, if he is smart, the seller of bacon, I
am smarter, seeing that I sell them also. Ha, Ha, Ha! So I said to him:
'If she were new, I would not say anything, but she has been married to
you for some time, so she is not as fresh as she was. I will give you
fifteen hundred francs a cubic metre, not a sou more. Will that suit
you?'

“He answered: 'That will do. That's a bargain!'

“I agreed, and we started out, arm in arm. We must help each other in
this world.

“But a fear came to me: 'How can you measure her unless you put her into
the liquid?'

“Then he explained his idea, not without difficulty for he was full. He
said to me: 'I take a barrel, and fill it with water to the brim. I put
her in it. All the water that comes out we will measure, that is the way
to fix it.'

“I said: 'I see, I understand. But this water that overflows will run
away; how are you going to gather it up?'

“Then he began stuffing me and explained to me that all we should have
to do would be to refill the barrel with the water his wife had
displaced as soon as she should have left. All the water we should pour
in would be the measure. I supposed about ten pails; that would be a
cubic metre. He isn't a fool, all the same, when he is drunk, that old
horse.

“To be brief, we reached his house and I took a look at its mistress. A
beautiful woman she certainly was not. Anyone can see her, for there she
is. I said to myself: 'I am disappointed, but never mind, she will be of
value; handsome or ugly, it is all the same, is it not, monsieur le
president?' And then I saw that she was as thin as a rail. I said to
myself: 'She will not measure four hundred litres.' I understand the
matter, it being in liquids.

“She told you about the proceeding. I even let her keep on her chemise
and stockings, to my own disadvantage.

“When that was done she ran away. I said: 'Look out, Brument! she is
escaping.'

“He replied: 'Do not be afraid. I will catch her all right. She will
have to come back to sleep, I will measure the deficit.'

“We measured. Not four pailfuls. Ha, Ha, Ha!”

The witness began to laugh so persistently that a gendarme was obliged
to punch him in the back. Having quieted down, he resumed:

“In short, Brument exclaimed: 'Nothing doing, that is not enough.' I
bawled and bawled, and bawled again, he punched me, I hit back. That
would have kept on till the Day of judgment, seeing we were both drunk.

“Then came the gendarmes! They swore at us, they took us off to prison.
I want damages.”

He sat down.

Brument confirmed in every particular the statements of his accomplice.
The jury, in consternation, retired to deliberate.

At the end of an hour they returned a verdict of acquittal for the
defendants, with some severe strictures on the dignity of marriage, and
establishing the precise limitations of business transactions.

Brument went home to the domestic roof accompanied by his wife.

Cornu went back to his business.





THE IMPOLITE SEX

Madame de X. to Madame de L.

ETRETAT, Friday. My Dear Aunt:

I am coming to see you without anyone knowing it. I shall be at Les
Fresnes on the 2d of September, the day before the hunting season opens,
as I do not want to miss it, so that I may tease these gentlemen. You
are too good, aunt, and you will allow them, as you usually do when
there are no strange guests, to come to table, under pretext of fatigue,
without dressing or shaving for the occasion.

They are delighted, of course, when I am not present. But I shall be
there and will hold a review, like a general, at dinner time; and, if I
find a single one of them at all careless in dress, no matter how
little, I mean to send them down to the kitchen with the servants.

The men of to-day have so little consideration for others and so little
good manners that one must be always severe with them. We live indeed in
an age of vulgarity. When they quarrel, they insult each other in terms
worthy of longshoremen, and, in our presence, they do not conduct
themselves even as well as our servants. It is at the seaside that you
see this most clearly. They are to be found there in battalions, and you
can judge them in the lump. Oh! what coarse beings they are!

Just imagine, in a train, a gentleman who looked well, as I thought at
first sight, thanks to his tailor, carefully took off his boots in order
to put on a pair of old shoes! Another, an old man who was probably some
wealthy upstart (these are the most ill-bred), while sitting opposite to
me, had the delicacy to place his two feet on the seat quite close to
me. This is a positive fact.

At the watering-places the vulgarity is unrestrained. I must here make
one admission—that my indignation is perhaps due to the fact that I am
not accustomed to associate, as a rule, with the sort of people one
comes across here, for I should be less shocked by their manners if I
had the opportunity of observing them oftener. In the office of the
hotel I was nearly thrown down by a young man who snatched the key over
my head. Another knocked against me so violently without begging my
pardon or lifting his hat, coming away from a ball at the Casino, that
it gave me a pain in the chest. It is the same way with all of them.
Watch them addressing ladies on the terrace; they scarcely ever bow.
They merely raise their hands to their headgear. But, indeed, as they
are all more or less bald, it is the best plan.

But what exasperates and disgusts me particularly is the liberty they
take of talking in public, without any kind of precaution, about the
most revolting adventures. When two men are together, they relate to
each other, in the broadest language and with the most abominable
comments really horrible stories, without caring in the slightest degree
whether a woman's ear is within reach of their voices. Yesterday, on the
beach, I was forced to leave the place where I was sitting in order not
to be any longer the involuntary confidante of an obscene anecdote, told
in such immodest language that I felt just as humiliated as indignant at
having heard it. Would not the most elementary good-breeding teach them
to speak in a lower tone about such matters when we are near at hand.
Etretat is, moreover, the country of gossip and scandal. From five to
seven o'clock you can see people wandering about in quest of scandal,
which they retail from group to group. As you remarked to me, my dear
aunt, tittle-tattle is the mark of petty individuals and petty minds. It
is also the consolation of women who are no longer loved or sought
after. It is enough for me to observe the women who are fondest of
gossiping to be persuaded that you are quite right.

The other day I was present at a musical evening at the Casino, given by
a remarkable artist, Madame Masson, who sings in a truly delightful
manner. I took the opportunity of applauding the admirable Coquelin, as
well as two charming vaudeville performers, M——and Meillet. I met, on
this occasion, all the bathers who were at the beach. It is no great
distinction this year.

Next day I went to lunch at Yport. I noticed a tall man with a beard,
coming out of a large house like a castle. It was the painter, Jean Paul
Laurens. He is not satisfied apparently with imprisoning the subjects of
his pictures, he insists on imprisoning himself.

Then I found myself seated on the shingle close to a man still young, of
gentle and refined appearance, who was reading poetry. But he read it
with such concentration, with such passion, I may say, that he did not
even raise his eyes towards me. I was somewhat astonished and asked the
proprietor of the baths, without appearing to be much concerned, the
name of this gentleman. I laughed to myself a little at this reader of
rhymes; he seemed behind the age, for a man. This person, I thought,
must be a simpleton. Well, aunt, I am now infatuated about this
stranger. Just fancy, his name is Sully Prudhomme! I went back and sat
down beside him again so as to get a good look at him. His face has an
expression of calmness and of penetration. Somebody came to look for
him, and I heard his voice, which is sweet and almost timid. He would
certainly not tell obscene stories aloud in public or knock up against
ladies without apologizing. He is assuredly a man of refinement, but his
refinement is of an almost morbid, sensitive character, I will try this
winter to get an introduction to him.

I have no more news, my dear aunt, and I must finish this letter in
haste, as the mail will soon close. I kiss your hands and your cheeks.
Your devoted niece, BERTHE DE X.

P. S.—I should add, however, by way of justification of French
politeness, that our fellow-countrymen are, when travelling, models of
good manners in comparison with the abominable English, who seem to have
been brought up in a stable, so careful are they not to discommode
themselves in any way, while they always discommode their neighbors.

Madame de L. to Madame de X.

LES FRESNES, Saturday. My Dear Child:

Many of the things you have said to me are very sensible, but that does
not prevent you from being wrong. Like you, I used formerly to feel very
indignant at the impoliteness of men, who, as I supposed, constantly
treated me with neglect; but, as I grew older and reflected on
everything, putting aside coquetry, and observing things without taking
any part in them myself, I perceived this much—that if men are not
always polite, women are always indescribably rude.

We imagine that we should be permitted to do anything, my darling, and
at the same time we consider that we have a right to the utmost respect,
and in the most flagrant manner we commit actions devoid of that
elementary good-breeding of which you speak so feelingly.

I find, on the contrary, that men consider us much more than we consider
them. Besides, darling, men must needs be, and are, what we make them.
In a state of society, where women are all true gentlewomen, all men
would become gentlemen.

Come now; just observe and reflect.

Look at two women meeting in the street. What an attitude each assumes
towards the other! What disparaging looks! What contempt they throw into
each glance! How they toss their heads while they inspect each other to
find something to condemn! And, if the footpath is narrow, do you think
one woman would make room for another, or would beg pardon as she sweeps
by? Never! When two men jostle each other by accident in some narrow
lane, each of them bows and at the same time gets out of the other's
way, while we women press against each other stomach to stomach, face to
face, insolently staring each other out of countenance.

Look at two women who are acquaintances meeting on a staircase outside
the door of a friend's drawing-room, one of them just leaving, the other
about to go in. They begin to talk to each other and block up all the
landing. If anyone happens to be coming up behind them, man or woman, do
you imagine that they will put themselves half an inch out of their way?
Never! never!

I was waiting myself, with my watch in my hands, one day last winter at
a certain drawing-room door. And, behind me, two gentlemen were also
waiting without showing any readiness, as I did, to lose their temper.
The reason was that they had long grown accustomed to our unconscionable
insolence.

The other day, before leaving Paris, I went to dine with no less a
person than your husband, in the Champs Elysees, in order to enjoy the
fresh air. Every table was occupied. The waiter asked us to wait and
there would soon be a vacant table.

At that moment I noticed an elderly lady of noble figure, who, having
paid for her dinner, seemed on the point of going away. She saw me,
scanned me from head to foot, and did not budge. For more than a quarter
of an hour she sat there, immovable, putting on her gloves, and calmly
staring at those who were waiting like myself. Now, two young men who
were just finishing their dinner, having seen me in their turn, hastily
summoned the waiter, paid what they owed, and at once offered me their
seats, even insisting on standing while waiting for their change. And,
bear in mind, my fair niece, that I am no longer pretty, like you, but
old and white-haired.

It is we, you see, who should be taught politeness, and the task would
be such a difficult one that Hercules himself would not be equal to it.
You speak to me about Etretat and about the people who indulged in
“tittle-tattle” along the beach of that delightful watering-place. It is
a spot now lost to me, a thing of the past, but I found much amusement
therein days gone by.

There were only a few of us, people in good society, really good
society, and a few artists, and we all fraternized. We paid little
attention to gossip in those days.

As we had no monotonous Casino, where people only gather for show, where
they whisper, where they dance stupidly, where they succeed in
thoroughly boring one another, we sought some other way of passing our
evenings pleasantly. Now, just guess what came into the head of one of
our husbands? Nothing less than to go and dance each night in one of the
farm-houses in the neighborhood.

We started out in a group with a street-organ, generally played by Le
Poittevin, the painter, with a cotton nightcap on his head. Two men
carried lanterns. We followed in procession, laughing and chattering
like a pack of fools.

We woke up the farmer and his servant-maids and farm hands. We got them
to make onion soup (horror!), and we danced under the apple trees, to
the sound of the barrel-organ. The cocks waking up began to crow in the
darkness of the out-houses; the horses began prancing on the straw of
their stables. The cool air of the country caressed our cheeks with the
smell of grass and of new-mown hay.

How long ago it is! How long ago it is! It is thirty years since then!

I do not want you, my darling, to come for the opening of the hunting
season. Why spoil the pleasure of our friends by inflicting on them
fashionable toilettes on this day of vigorous exercise in the country?
This is the way, child, that men are spoiled. I embrace you. Your old
aunt, GENEVIEVE DE L.





A WEDDING GIFT

For a long time Jacques Bourdillere had sworn that he would never marry,
but he suddenly changed his mind. It happened suddenly, one summer, at
the seashore.

One morning as he lay stretched out on the sand, watching the women
coming out of the water, a little foot had struck him by its neatness
and daintiness. He raised his eyes and was delighted with the whole
person, although in fact he could see nothing but the ankles and the
head emerging from a flannel bathrobe carefully held closed. He was
supposed to be sensual and a fast liver. It was therefore by the mere
grace of the form that he was at first captured. Then he was held by the
charm of the young girl's sweet mind, so simple and good, as fresh as
her cheeks and lips.

He was presented to the family and pleased them. He immediately fell
madly in love. When he saw Berthe Lannis in the distance, on the long
yellow stretch of sand, he would tingle to the roots of his hair. When
he was near her he would become silent, unable to speak or even to
think, with a kind of throbbing at his heart, and a buzzing in his ears,
and a bewilderment in his mind. Was that love?

He did not know or understand, but he had fully decided to have this
child for his wife.

Her parents hesitated for a long time, restrained by the young man's bad
reputation. It was said that he had an old sweetheart, one of these
binding attachments which one always believes to be broken off and yet
which always hold.

Besides, for a shorter or longer period, he loved every woman who came
within reach of his lips.

Then he settled down and refused, even once, to see the one with whom he
had lived for so long. A friend took care of this woman's pension and
assured her an income. Jacques paid, but he did not even wish to hear of
her, pretending even to ignore her name. She wrote him letters which he
never opened. Every week he would recognize the clumsy writing of the
abandoned woman, and every week a greater anger surged within him
against her, and he would quickly tear the envelope and the paper,
without opening it, without reading one single line, knowing in advance
the reproaches and complaints which it contained.

As no one had much faith in his constancy, the test was prolonged
through the winter, and Berthe's hand was not granted him until the
spring. The wedding took place in Paris at the beginning of May.

The young couple had decided not to take the conventional wedding trip,
but after a little dance for the younger cousins, which would not be
prolonged after eleven o'clock, in order that this day of lengthy
ceremonies might not be too tiresome, the young pair were to spend the
first night in the parental home and then, on the following morning, to
leave for the beach so dear to their hearts, where they had first known
and loved each other.

Night had come, and the dance was going on in the large parlor. 'The two
had retired into a little Japanese boudoir hung with bright silks and
dimly lighted by the soft rays of a large colored lantern hanging from
the ceiling like a gigantic egg. Through the open window the fresh air
from outside passed over their faces like a caress, for the night was
warm and calm, full of the odor of spring.

They were silent, holding each other's hands and from time to time
squeezing them with all their might. She sat there with a dreamy look,
feeling a little lost at this great change in her life, but smiling,
moved, ready to cry, often also almost ready to faint from joy,
believing the whole world to be changed by what had just happened to
her, uneasy, she knew not why, and feeling her whole body and soul
filled with an indefinable and delicious lassitude.

He was looking at her persistently with a fixed smile. He wished to
speak, but found nothing to say, and so sat there, expressing all his
ardor by pressures of the hand. From time to time he would murmur:
“Berthe!” And each time she would raise her eyes to him with a look of
tenderness; they would look at each other for a second and then her
look, pierced and fascinated by his, would fall.

They found no thoughts to exchange. They had been left alone, but
occasionally some of the dancers would cast a rapid glance at them, as
though they were the discreet and trusty witnesses of a mystery.

A door opened and a servant entered, holding on a tray a letter which a
messenger had just brought. Jacques, trembling, took this paper,
overwhelmed by a vague and sudden fear, the mysterious terror of swift
misfortune.

He looked for a longtime at the envelope, the writing on which he did
not know, not daring to open it, not wishing to read it, with a wild
desire to put it in his pocket and say to himself: “I'll leave that till
to-morrow, when I'm far away!” But on one corner two big words,
underlined, “Very urgent,” filled him with terror. Saying, “Please
excuse me, my dear,” he tore open the envelope. He read the paper, grew
frightfully pale, looked over it again, and, slowly, he seemed to spell
it out word for word.

When he raised his head his whole expression showed how upset he was. He
stammered: “My dear, it's—it's from my best friend, who has had a very
great misfortune. He has need of me immediately—for a matter of life or
death. Will you excuse me if I leave you for half an hour? I'll be right
back.”

Trembling and dazed, she stammered: “Go, my dear!” not having been his
wife long enough to dare to question him, to demand to know. He
disappeared. She remained alone, listening to the dancing in the
neighboring parlor.

He had seized the first hat and coat he came to and rushed downstairs
three steps at a time. As he was emerging into the street he stopped
under the gas-jet of the vestibule and reread the letter. This is what
it said:

SIR: A girl by the name of Ravet, an old sweetheart of yours, it seems,
has just given birth to a child that she says is yours. The mother is
about to die and is begging for you. I take the liberty to write and ask
you if you can grant this last request to a woman who seems to be very
unhappy and worthy of pity. Yours truly,                 DR. BONNARD.

When he reached the sick-room the woman was already on the point of
death. He did not recognize her at first. The doctor and two nurses were
taking care of her. And everywhere on the floor were pails full of ice
and rags covered with blood. Water flooded the carpet; two candles were
burning on a bureau; behind the bed, in a little wicker crib, the child
was crying, and each time it would moan the mother, in torture, would
try to move, shivering under her ice bandages.

She was mortally wounded, killed by this birth. Her life was flowing
from her, and, notwithstanding the ice and the care, the merciless
hemorrhage continued, hastening her last hour.

She recognized Jacques and wished to raise her arms. They were so weak
that she could not do so, but tears coursed down her pallid cheeks. He
dropped to his knees beside the bed, seized one of her hands and kissed
it frantically. Then, little by little, he drew close to the thin face,
which started at the contact. One of the nurses was lighting them with a
candle, and the doctor was watching them from the back of the room.

Then she said in a voice which sounded as though it came from a
distance: “I am going to die, dear. Promise to stay to the end. Oh!
don't leave me now. Don't leave me in my last moments!”

He kissed her face and her hair, and, weeping, he murmured: “Do not be
uneasy; I will stay.”

It was several minutes before she could speak again, she was so weak.
She continued: “The little one is yours. I swear it before God and on my
soul. I swear it as I am dying! I have never loved another man but you
—promise to take care of the child.”

He was trying to take this poor pain-racked body in his arms. Maddened
by remorse and sorrow, he stammered: “I swear to you that I will bring
him up and love him. He shall never leave me.”

Then she tried to kiss Jacques. Powerless to lift her head, she held out
her white lips in an appeal for a kiss. He approached his lips to
respond to this piteous entreaty.

As soon as she felt a little calmer, she murmured: “Bring him here and
let me see if you love him.”

He went and got the child. He placed him gently on the bed between them,
and the little one stopped crying. She murmured: “Don't move any more!”
And he was quiet. And he stayed there, holding in his burning hand this
other hand shaking in the chill of death, just as, a while ago, he had
been holding a hand trembling with love. From time to time he would cast
a quick glance at the clock, which marked midnight, then one o'clock,
then two.

The physician had returned. The two nurses, after noiselessly moving
about the room for a while, were now sleeping on chairs. The child was
asleep, and the mother, with eyes shut, appeared also to be resting.

Suddenly, just as pale daylight was creeping in behind the curtains, she
stretched out her arms with such a quick and violent motion that she
almost threw her baby on the floor. A kind of rattle was heard in her
throat, then she lay on her back motionless, dead.

The nurses sprang forward and declared: “All is over!”

He looked once more at this woman whom he had so loved, then at the
clock, which pointed to four, and he ran away, forgetting his overcoat,
in the evening dress, with the child in his arms.

After he had left her alone the young wife had waited, calmly enough at
first, in the little Japanese boudoir. Then, as she did not see him
return, she went back to the parlor with an indifferent and calm
appearance, but terribly anxious. When her mother saw her alone she
asked: “Where is your husband?” She answered: “In his room; he is coming
right back.”

After an hour, when everybody had questioned her, she told about the
letter, Jacques' upset appearance and her fears of an accident.

Still they waited. The guests left; only the nearest relatives remained.
At midnight the bride was put to bed, sobbing bitterly. Her mother and
two aunts, sitting around the bed, listened to her crying, silent and in
despair. The father had gone to the commissary of police to see if he
could obtain some news.

At five o'clock a slight noise was heard in the hall. A door was softly
opened and closed. Then suddenly a little cry like the mewing of a cat
was heard throughout the silent house.

All the women started forward and Berthe sprang ahead of them all,
pushing her way past her aunts, wrapped in a bathrobe.

Jacques stood in the middle of the room, pale and out of breath, holding
an infant in his arms. The four women looked at him, astonished; but
Berthe, who had suddenly become courageous, rushed forward with anguish
in her heart, exclaiming: “What is it? What's the matter?”

He looked about him wildly and answered shortly:

“I—I have a child and the mother has just died.”

And with his clumsy hands he held out the screaming infant.

Without saying a word, Berthe seized the child, kissed it and hugged it
to her. Then she raised her tear-filled eyes to him, asking: “Did you
say that the mother was dead?” He answered: “Yes—just now—in my arms. I
had broken with her since summer. I knew nothing. The physician sent for
me.”

Then Berthe murmured: “Well, we will bring up the little one.”





THE RELIC “To the Abbe Louis d'Ennemare, at Soissons.

“My Dear Abbe.

“My marriage with your cousin is broken off in the most stupid way, all
on account of an idiotic trick which I almost involuntarily played my
intended. In my perplexity I turn to you, my old school chum, for you
may be able to help me out of the difficulty. If you can, I shall be
grateful to you until I die.

“You know Gilberte, or, rather, you think you know her, but do we ever
understand women? All their opinions, their ideas, their creeds, are a
surprise to us. They are all full of twists and turns, cf the
unforeseen, of unintelligible arguments, of defective logic and of
obstinate ideas, which seem final, but which they alter because a little
bird came and perched on the window ledge.

“I need not tell you that your cousin is very religious, as she was
brought up by the White (or was it the Black?) Ladies at Nancy. You know
that better than I do, but what you perhaps do not know is, that she is
just as excitable about other matters as she is about religion. Her head
flies away, just as a leaf is whirled away by the wind; and she is a
true woman, or, rather, girl, for she is moved or made angry in a
moment, starting off at a gallop in affection, just as she does in
hatred, and returning in the same manner; and she is pretty—as you know,
and more charming than I can say—as you will never know.

“Well, we became engaged, and I adored her, as I adore her still, and
she appeared to love me.

“One evening, I received a telegram summoning me to Cologne for a
consultation, which might be followed by a serious and difficult
operation, and as I had to start the next morning, I went to wish
Gilberte good-by, and tell her why I could not dine with them on
Wednesday, but would do so on Friday, the day of my return. Ah! Beware
of Fridays, for I assure you they are unlucky!

“When I told her that I had to go to Germany, I saw that her eyes filled
with tears, but when I said I should be back very soon, she clapped her
hands, and said:

“'I am very glad you are going, then! You must bring me back something;
a mere trifle, just a souvenir, but a souvenir that you have chosen for
me. You must guess what I should like best, do you hear? And then I
shall see whether you have any imagination.'

“She thought for a few moments, and then added:

“'I forbid you to spend more than twenty francs on it. I want it for the
intention, and for a remembrance of your penetration, and not for its
intrinsic value:

“And then, after another moment's silence, she said, in a low voice, and
with downcast eyes:

“'If it costs you nothing in money, but is something very ingenious and
pretty, I will—I will kiss you.'

“The next day I was in Cologne. It was a case of a terrible accident,
which had plunged a whole family into despair, and a difficult
amputation was necessary. They lodged me in the house; I might say, they
almost locked me up, and I saw nobody but people in tears, who almost
deafened me with their lamentations; I operated on a man who appeared to
be in a moribund state, and who nearly died under my hands, and with
whom I remained two nights; and then, when I saw that there was a chance
of his recovery, I drove to the station. I had, however, made a mistake
in the trains, and I had an hour to wait, and so I wandered about the
streets, still thinking of my poor patient, when a man accosted me. I do
not know German, and he was totally ignorant of French, but at last I
made out that he was offering me some relics. I thought of Gilberte, for
I knew her fanatical devotion, and here was my present ready to hand, so
I followed the man into a shop where religious objects were for sale,
and I bought a small piece of a bone of one of the Eleven Thousand
Virgins.

“The pretended relic was inclosed in a charming old silver box, and that
determined my choice, and, putting my purchase into my pocket, I went to
the railway station, and so on to Paris.

“As soon as I got home, I wished to examine my purchase again, and on
taking hold of it, I found that the box was open, and the relic missing!
I searched in vain in my pocket, and turned it inside out; the small bit
of bone, which was no bigger than half a pin, had disappeared.

“You know, my dear little Abbe, that my faith is not very fervent, but,
as my friend, you are magnanimous enough to put up with my lukewarmness,
and to leave me alone, and to wait for the future, so you say. But I
absolutely disbelieve in the relics of secondhand dealers in piety, and
you share my doubts in that respect. Therefore, the loss of that bit of
sheep's carcass did not grieve me, and I easily procured a similar
fragment, which I carefully fastened inside my jewel-box, and then I
went to see my intended.

“As soon as she saw me, she ran up to me, smiling and eager, and, said
to me:

“'What have you brought me?'

“I pretended to have forgotten, but she did not believe me, and I made
her beg, and even beseech me. But when I saw that she was devoured by
curiosity, I gave her the sacred silver box. She appeared overjoyed.

“'A relic! Oh! A relic!'

“And she kissed the box passionately, so that I was ashamed of my
deception. She was not quite satisfied, however, and her uneasiness soon
turned to terrible fear, and looking straight into my eyes, she said:

“'Are you sure-that it is genuine?'

“'Absolutely certain.'

“'How can you be so certain?'

“I was trapped; for to say that I had bought it of a man in the streets
would be my destruction. What was I to say? A wild idea struck me, and I
said, in a low, mysterious voice:

“'I stole it for you.'

“She looked at me with astonishment and delight in her large eyes.

“'Oh! You stole it? Where?'

“'In the cathedral; in the very shrine of the Eleven Thousand Virgins.'

“Her heart beat with pleasure, and she murmured:

“'Oh! Did you really do that-for me? Tell me-all about it!'

“That was the climax; I could not retract what I had said. I made up a
fanciful story; with precise details: I had given the custodian of the
building a hundred francs to be allowed to go about the building by
myself; the shrine was being repaired, but I happened to be there at the
breakfast hour of the workmen and clergy; by removing a small panel, I
had been enabled to seize a small piece of bone (oh! so small), among a
quantity of others (I said a quantity, as I thought of the amount that
the remains of the skeletons of eleven thousand virgins must produce).
Then I went to a goldsmith's and bought a casket worthy of the relic;
and I was not sorry to let her know that the silver box cost me five
hundred francs.

“But she did not think of that; she listened to me, trembling, in an
ecstasy, and whispering: 'How I love you!' she threw herself into my
arms.

“Just note this: I had committed sacrilege for her sake. I had committed
a theft; I had violated a church; I had violated a shrine; violated and
stolen holy relics, and for that she adored me, thought me perfect,
tender, divine. Such is woman, my dear Abbe, every woman.

“For two months I was the most admirable of lovers. In her room, she had
made a kind of magnificent chapel in which to keep this bit of mutton
chop, which, as she thought, had made me commit that divine love-crime,
and she worked up her religious enthusiasm in front of it every morning
and evening. I had asked her to keep the matter secret, for fear, as I
said, that I might be arrested, condemned, and given over to Germany,
and she kept her promise.

“Well, at the beginning of the summer, she was seized with an
irresistible desire to see the scene of my exploit, and she teased her
father so persistently (without telling him her secret reason), that he
took her to Cologne, but without telling me of their trip, according to
his daughter's wish.

“I need not tell you that I had not seen the interior of the cathedral.
I do not know where the tomb (if there be a tomb) of the Eleven Thousand
Virgins is; and then, it appears, it is unapproachable, alas!

“A week afterward, I received ten lines, breaking off our engagement,
and then an explanatory letter from her father, whom she had, somewhat
late, taken into her confidence.

“At the sight of the shrine, she had suddenly seen through my trickery
and my lie, and at the same time discovered my real innocence of any
crime. Having asked the keeper of the relics whether any robbery had
been committed, the man began to laugh, and pointed out to them how
impossible such a crime was. But, from the moment that I had not plunged
my profane hand into venerable relics, I was no longer worthy of my
fair-haired, sensitive betrothed.

“I was forbidden the house; I begged and prayed in vain; nothing could
move the fair devotee, and I became ill from grief. Well, last week, her
cousin, Madame d'Arville, who is your cousin also, sent me word that she
should like to see me, and when I called, she told me on what conditions
I might obtain my pardon, and here they are. I must bring her a relic, a
real, authentic relic of some virgin and martyr, certified to be such by
our Holy Father, the Pope, and I am going mad from embarrassment and
anxiety.

“I will go to Rome, if needful, but I cannot call on the Pope
unexpectedly, to tell him my stupid misadventure; and, besides, I doubt
whether they allow private individuals to have relics. Could not you
give me an introduction to some cardinal, or even to some French prelate
who possesses some remains of a female saint? Or, perhaps, you may have
the precious object she wants in your collection?

“Help me out of my difficulty, my dear Abbe, and I promise you that I
will be converted ten years sooner than I otherwise should be!

“Madame d'Arville, who takes the matter seriously, said to me the other
day:

“'Poor Gilberte will never marry.'

“My dear old schoolmate, will you allow your cousin to die the victim of
a stupid piece of subterfuge on my part? Pray prevent her from being
virgin eleven thousand and one.

“Pardon me, I am unworthy, but I embrace you, and love you with all my
heart.

“Your old friend, “HENRI FONTAL.”






ORIGINAL SHORT STORIES, Vol. 4.

GUY DE MAUPASSANT ORIGINAL SHORT STORIES Translated by ALBERT M. C.
McMASTER, B.A. A. E. HENDERSON, B.A. MME. QUESADA and Others





VOLUME IV.





THE MORIBUND

The warm autumn sun was beating down on the farmyard. Under the grass,
which had been cropped close by the cows, the earth soaked by recent
rains, was soft and sank in under the feet with a soggy noise, and the
apple trees, loaded with apples, were dropping their pale green fruit in
the dark green grass.

Four young heifers, tied in a line, were grazing and at times looking
toward the house and lowing. The fowls made a colored patch on the dung-
heap before the stable, scratching, moving about and cackling, while two
roosters crowed continually, digging worms for their hens, whom they
were calling with a loud clucking.

The wooden gate opened and a man entered. He might have been forty years
old, but he looked at least sixty, wrinkled, bent, walking slowly,
impeded by the weight of heavy wooden shoes full of straw. His long arms
hung down on both sides of his body. When he got near the farm a yellow
cur, tied at the foot of an enormous pear tree, beside a barrel which
served as his kennel, began at first to wag his tail and then to bark
for joy. The man cried:

“Down, Finot!”

The dog was quiet.

A peasant woman came out of the house. Her large, flat, bony body was
outlined under a long woollen jacket drawn in at the waist. A gray
skirt, too short, fell to the middle of her legs, which were encased in
blue stockings. She, too, wore wooden shoes, filled with straw. The
white cap, turned yellow, covered a few hairs which were plastered to
the scalp, and her brown, thin, ugly, toothless face had that wild,
animal expression which is often to be found on the faces of the
peasants.

The man asked:

“How is he gettin' along?”

The woman answered:

“The priest said it's the end—that he will never live through the
night.”

Both of them went into the house.

After passing through the kitchen, they entered a low, dark room, barely
lighted by one window, in front of which a piece of calico was hanging.
The big beams, turned brown with age and smoke, crossed the room from
one side to the other, supporting the thin floor of the garret, where an
army of rats ran about day and night.

The moist, lumpy earthen floor looked greasy, and, at the back of the
room, the bed made an indistinct white spot. A harsh, regular noise, a
difficult, hoarse, wheezing breathing, like the gurgling of water from a
broken pump, came from the darkened couch where an old man, the father
of the peasant woman, was dying.

The man and the woman approached the dying man and looked at him with
calm, resigned eyes.

The son-in-law said:

“I guess it's all up with him this time; he will not last the night.”

The woman answered:

“He's been gurglin' like that ever since midday.” They were silent. The
father's eyes were closed, his face was the color of the earth and so
dry that it looked like wood. Through his open mouth came his harsh,
rattling breath, and the gray linen sheet rose and fell with each
respiration.

The son-in-law, after a long silence, said:

“There's nothing more to do; I can't help him. It's a nuisance, just the
same, because the weather is good and we've got a lot of work to do.”

His wife seemed annoyed at this idea. She reflected a few moments and
then said:

“He won't be buried till Saturday, and that will give you all day
tomorrow.”

The peasant thought the matter over and answered:

“Yes, but to-morrow I'll have to invite the people to the funeral. That
means five or six hours to go round to Tourville and Manetot, and to see
everybody.”

The woman, after meditating two or three minutes, declared:

“It isn't three o'clock yet. You could begin this evening and go all
round the country to Tourville. You can just as well say that he's dead,
seem' as he's as good as that now.”

The man stood perplexed for a while, weighing the pros and cons of the
idea. At last he declared:

“Well, I'll go!”

He was leaving the room, but came back after a minute's hesitation:

“As you haven't got anythin' to do you might shake down some apples to
bake and make four dozen dumplings for those who come to the funeral,
for one must have something to cheer them. You can light the fire with
the wood that's under the shed. It's dry.”

He left the room, went back into the kitchen, opened the cupboard, took
out a six-pound loaf of bread, cut off a slice, and carefully gathered
the crumbs in the palm of his hand and threw them into his mouth, so as
not to lose anything. Then, with the end of his knife, he scraped out a
little salt butter from the bottom of an earthen jar, spread it on his
bread and began to eat slowly, as he did everything.

He recrossed the farmyard, quieted the dog, which had started barking
again, went out on the road bordering on his ditch, and disappeared in
the direction of Tourville.

As soon as she was alone, the woman began to work. She uncovered the
meal-bin and made the dough for the dumplings. She kneaded it a long
time, turning it over and over again, punching, pressing, crushing it.
Finally she made a big, round, yellow-white ball, which she placed on
the corner of the table.

Then she went to get her apples, and, in order not to injure the tree
with a pole, she climbed up into it by a ladder. She chose the fruit
with care, only taking the ripe ones, and gathering them in her apron.

A voice called from the road:

“Hey, Madame Chicot!”

She turned round. It was a neighbor, Osime Favet, the mayor, on his way
to fertilize his fields, seated on the manure-wagon, with his feet
hanging over the side. She turned round and answered:

“What can I do for you, Maitre Osime?”

“And how is the father?”

She cried:

“He is as good as dead. The funeral is Saturday at seven, because
there's lots of work to be done.”

The neighbor answered:

“So! Good luck to you! Take care of yourself.”

To his kind remarks she answered:”

“Thanks; the same to you.”

And she continued picking apples.

When she went back to the house, she went over to look at her father,
expecting to find him dead. But as soon as she reached the door she
heard his monotonous, noisy rattle, and, thinking it a waste of time to
go over to him, she began to prepare her dumplings. She wrapped up the
fruit, one by one, in a thin layer of paste, then she lined them up on
the edge of the table. When she had made forty-eight dumplings, arranged
in dozens, one in front of the other, she began to think of preparing
supper, and she hung her kettle over the fire to cook potatoes, for she
judged it useless to heat the oven that day, as she had all the next day
in which to finish the preparations.

Her husband returned at about five. As soon as he had crossed the
threshold he asked:

“Is it over?”

She answered:

“Not yet; he's still gurglin'.”

They went to look at him. The old man was in exactly the same condition.
His hoarse rattle, as regular as the ticking of a clock, was neither
quicker nor slower. It returned every second, the tone varying a little,
according as the air entered or left his chest.

His son-in-law looked at him and then said:

“He'll pass away without our noticin' it, just like a candle.”

They returned to the kitchen and started to eat without saying a word.
When they had swallowed their soup, they ate another piece of bread and
butter. Then, as soon as the dishes were washed, they returned to the
dying man.

The woman, carrying a little lamp with a smoky wick, held it in front of
her father's face. If he had not been breathing, one would certainly
have thought him dead.

The couple's bed was hidden in a little recess at the other end of the
room. Silently they retired, put out the light, closed their eyes, and
soon two unequal snores, one deep and the other shriller, accompanied
the uninterrupted rattle of the dying man.

The rats ran about in the garret.

The husband awoke at the first streaks of dawn. His father-in-law was
still alive. He shook his wife, worried by the tenacity of the old man.

“Say, Phemie, he don't want to quit. What would you do?”

He knew that she gave good advice.

She answered:

“You needn't be afraid; he can't live through the day. And the mayor
won't stop our burying him to-morrow, because he allowed it for Maitre
Renard's father, who died just during the planting season.”

He was convinced by this argument, and left for the fields.

His wife baked the dumplings and then attended to her housework.

At noon the old man was not dead. The people hired for the day's work
came by groups to look at him. Each one had his say. Then they left
again for the fields.

At six o'clock, when the work was over, the father was still breathing.
At last his son-in-law was frightened.

“What would you do now, Phemie?”

She no longer knew how to solve the problem. They went to the mayor. He
promised that he would close his eyes and authorize the funeral for the
following day. They also went to the health officer, who likewise
promised, in order to oblige Maitre Chicot, to antedate the death
certificate. The man and the woman returned, feeling more at ease.

They went to bed and to sleep, just as they did the preceding day, their
sonorous breathing blending with the feeble breathing of the old man.

When they awoke, he was not yet dead.

Then they began to be frightened. They stood by their father, watching
him with distrust, as though he had wished to play them a mean trick, to
deceive them, to annoy them on purpose, and they were vexed at him for
the time which he was making them lose.

The son-in-law asked:

“What am I goin' to do?”

She did not know. She answered:

“It certainly is annoying!”

The guests who were expected could not be notified. They decided to wait
and explain the case to them.

Toward a quarter to seven the first ones arrived. The women in black,
their heads covered with large veils, looking very sad. Then men, ill at
ease in their homespun coats, were coming forward more slowly, in
couples, talking business.

Maitre Chicot and his wife, bewildered, received them sorrowfully, and
suddenly both of them together began to cry as they approached the first
group. They explained the matter, related their difficulty, offered
chairs, bustled about, tried to make excuses, attempting to prove that
everybody would have done as they did, talking continually and giving
nobody a chance to answer.

They were going from one person to another:

“I never would have thought it; it's incredible how he can last this
long!”

The guests, taken aback, a little disappointed, as though they had
missed an expected entertainment, did not know what to do, some
remaining seated others standing. Several wished to leave. Maitre Chicot
held them back:

“You must take something, anyhow! We made some dumplings; might as well
make use of 'em.”

The faces brightened at this idea. The yard was filling little by
little; the early arrivals were telling the news to those who had
arrived later. Everybody was whispering. The idea of the dumplings
seemed to cheer everyone up.

The women went in to take a look at the dying man. They crossed
themselves beside the bed, muttered a prayer and went out again. The
men, less anxious for this spectacle, cast a look through the window,
which had been opened.

Madame Chicot explained her distress:

“That's how he's been for two days, neither better nor worse. Doesn't he
sound like a pump that has gone dry?”

When everybody had had a look at the dying man, they thought of the
refreshments; but as there were too many people for the kitchen to hold,
the table was moved out in front of the door. The four dozen golden
dumplings, tempting and appetizing, arranged in two big dishes,
attracted the eyes of all. Each one reached out to take his, fearing
that there would not be enough. But four remained over.

Maitre Chicot, his mouth full, said:

“Father would feel sad if he were to see this. He loved them so much
when he was alive.”

A big, jovial peasant declared:

“He won't eat any more now. Each one in his turn.”

This remark, instead of making the guests sad, seemed to cheer them up.
It was their turn now to eat dumplings.

Madame Chicot, distressed at the expense, kept running down to the
cellar continually for cider. The pitchers were emptied in quick
succession. The company was laughing and talking loud now. They were
beginning to shout as they do at feasts.

Suddenly an old peasant woman who had stayed beside the dying man, held
there by a morbid fear of what would soon happen to herself, appeared at
the window and cried in a shrill voice:

“He's dead! he's dead!”

Everybody was silent. The women arose quickly to go and see. He was
indeed dead. The rattle had ceased. The men looked at each other,
looking down, ill at ease. They hadn't finished eating the dumplings.
Certainly the rascal had not chosen a propitious moment. The Chicots
were no longer weeping. It was over; they were relieved.

They kept repeating:

“I knew it couldn't 'last. If he could only have done it last night, it
would have saved us all this trouble.”

Well, anyhow, it was over. They would bury him on Monday, that was all,
and they would eat some more dumplings for the occasion.

The guests went away, talking the matter over, pleased at having had the
chance to see him and of getting something to eat.

And when the husband and wife were alone, face to face, she said, her
face distorted with grief:

“We'll have to bake four dozen more dumplings! Why couldn't he have made
up his mind last night?”

The husband, more resigned, answered:

“Well, we'll not have to do this every day.”





THE GAMEKEEPER

It was after dinner, and we were talking about adventures and accidents
which happened while out shooting.

An old friend, known to all of us, M. Boniface, a great sportsman and a
connoisseur of wine, a man of wonderful physique, witty and gay, and
endowed with an ironical and resigned philosophy, which manifested
itself in caustic humor, and never in melancholy, suddenly exclaimed:

“I know a story, or rather a tragedy, which is somewhat peculiar. It is
not at all like those which one hears of usually, and I have never told
it, thinking that it would interest no one.

“It is not at all sympathetic. I mean by that, that it does not arouse
the kind of interest which pleases or which moves one agreeably.

“Here is the story:

“I was then about thirty-five years of age, and a most enthusiastic
sportsman.

“In those days I owned a lonely bit of property in the neighborhood of
Jumieges, surrounded by forests and abounding in hares and rabbits. I
was accustomed to spending four or five days alone there each year,
there not being room enough to allow of my bringing a friend with me.

“I had placed there as gamekeeper, an old retired gendarme, a good man,
hot-tempered, a severe disciplinarian, a terror to poachers and fearing
nothing. He lived all alone, far from the village, in a little house, or
rather hut, consisting of two rooms downstairs, with kitchen and store-
room, and two upstairs. One of them, a kind of box just large enough to
accommodate a bed, a cupboard and a chair, was reserved for my use.

“Old man Cavalier lived in the other one. When I said that he was alone
in this place, I was wrong. He had taken his nephew with him, a young
scamp about fourteen years old, who used to go to the village and run
errands for the old man.

“This young scapegrace was long and lanky, with yellow hair, so light
that it resembled the fluff of a plucked chicken, so thin that he seemed
bald. Besides this, he had enormous feet and the hands of a giant.

“He was cross-eyed, and never looked at anyone. He struck me as being in
the same relation to the human race as ill-smelling beasts are to the
animal race. He reminded me of a polecat.

“He slept in a kind of hole at the top of the stairs which led to the
two rooms.

“But during my short sojourns at the Pavilion—so I called the hut
—Marius would give up his nook to an old woman from Ecorcheville, called
Celeste, who used to come and cook for me, as old man Cavalier's stews
were not sufficient for my healthy appetite.

“You now know the characters and the locality. Here is the story:

“It was on the fifteenth of October, 1854—I shall remember that date as
long as I live.

“I left Rouen on horseback, followed by my dog Bock, a big Dalmatian
hound from Poitou, full-chested and with a heavy jaw, which could
retrieve among the bushes like a Pont-Andemer spaniel.

“I was carrying my satchel slung across my back and my gun diagonally
across my chest. It was a cold, windy, gloomy day, with clouds scurrying
across the sky.

“As I went up the hill at Canteleu, I looked over the broad valley of
the Seine, the river winding in and out along its course as far as the
eye could see. To the right the towers of Rouen stood out against the
sky, and to the left the landscape was bounded by the distant slopes
covered with trees. Then I crossed the forest of Roumare and, toward
five o'clock, reached the Pavilion, where Cavalier and Celeste were
expecting me.

“For ten years I had appeared there at the same time, in the same
manner; and for ten years the same faces had greeted me with the same
words:

“'Welcome, master! We hope your health is good.'

“Cavalier had hardly changed. He withstood time like an old tree; but
Celeste, especially in the past four years, had become unrecognizable.

“She was bent almost double, and, although still active, when she walked
her body was almost at right angles to her legs.

“The old woman, who was very devoted to me, always seemed affected at
seeing me again, and each time, as I left, she would say:

“'This may be the last time, master.'

“The sad, timid farewell of this old servant, this hopeless resignation
to the inevitable fate which was not far off for her, moved me strangely
each year.

“I dismounted, and while Cavalier, whom I had greeted, was leading my
horse to the little shed which served as a stable, I entered the
kitchen, which also served as dining-room, followed by Celeste.

“Here the gamekeeper joined us. I saw at first glance that something was
the matter. He seemed preoccupied, ill at ease, worried.

“I said to him:

“'Well, Cavalier, is everything all right?'

“He muttered:

“'Yes and no. There are things I don't like.'

“I asked:

“'What? Tell me about it.'

“But he shook his head.

“'No, not yet, monsieur. I do not wish to bother you with my little
troubles so soon after your arrival.'

“I insisted, but he absolutely refused to give me any information before
dinner. From his expression, I could tell that it was something very
serious.

“Not knowing what to say to him, I asked:

“'How about game? Much of it this year?'

“'Oh, yes! You'll find all you want. Thank heaven, I looked out for
that.'

“He said this with so much seriousness, with such sad solemnity, that it
was really almost funny. His big gray mustache seemed almost ready to
drop from his lips.

“Suddenly I remembered that I had not yet seen his nephew.

“'Where is Marius? Why does he not show himself?'

“The gamekeeper started, looking me suddenly in the face:

“Well, monsieur, I had rather tell you the whole business right away;
it's on account of him that I am worrying.'

“'Ah! Well, where is he?'

“'Over in the stable, monsieur. I was waiting for the right time to
bring him out.'

“'What has he done?'

“'Well, monsieur——'

“The gamekeeper, however, hesitated, his voice altered and shaky, his
face suddenly furrowed by the deep lines of an old man.

“He continued slowly:

“'Well, I found out, last winter, that someone was poaching in the woods
of Roseraies, but I couldn't seem to catch the man. I spent night after
night on the lookout for him. In vain. During that time they began
poaching over by Ecorcheville. I was growing thin from vexation. But as
for catching the trespasser, impossible! One might have thought that the
rascal was forewarned of my plans.

“'But one day, while I was brushing Marius' Sunday trousers, I found
forty cents in his pocket. Where did he get it?

“'I thought the matter over for about a week, and I noticed that he used
to go out; he would leave the house just as I was coming home to go to
bed—yes, monsieur.

“'Then I started to watch him, without the slightest suspicion of the
real facts. One morning, just after I had gone to bed before him, I got
right up again, and followed him. For shadowing a man, there is nobody
like me, monsieur.

“'And I caught him, Marius, poaching on your land, monsieur; he my
nephew, I your keeper!

“'The blood rushed to my head, and I almost killed him on the spot, I
hit him so hard. Oh! yes, I thrashed him all right. And I promised him
that he would get another beating from my hand, in your presence, as an
example.

“'There! I have grown thin from sorrow. You know how it is when one is
worried like that. But tell me, what would you have done? The boy has no
father or mother, and I am the last one of his blood; I kept him, I
couldn't drive him out, could I?

“'I told him that if it happened again I would have no more pity for
him, all would be over. There! Did I do right, monsieur?'

“I answered, holding out my hand:

“'You did well, Cavalier; you are an honest man.'

“He rose.

“'Thank you, monsieur. Now I am going to fetch him. I must give him his
thrashing, as an example.'

“I knew that it was hopeless to try and turn the old man from his idea.
I therefore let him have his own way.

“He got the rascal and brought him back by the ear.

“I was seated on a cane chair, with the solemn expression of a judge.

“Marius seemed to have grown; he was homelier even than the year before,
with his evil, sneaking expression.

“His big hands seemed gigantic.

“His uncle pushed him up to me, and, in his soldierly voice, said:

“'Beg the gentleman's pardon.'

“The boy didn't say a word.

“Then putting one arm round him, the former gendarme lifted him right
off the ground, and began to whack him with such force that I rose to
stop the blows.

“The boy was now howling: 'Mercy! mercy! mercy! I promise——'

“Cavalier put him back on the ground and forced him to his knees:

“'Beg for pardon,' he said.

“With eyes lowered, the scamp murmured:

“'I ask for pardon!'

“Then his uncle lifted him to his feet, and dismissed him with a cuff
which almost knocked him down again.

“He made his escape, and I did not see him again that evening.

“Cavalier appeared overwhelmed.'

“'He is a bad egg,' he said.

“And throughout the whole dinner, he kept repeating:

“'Oh! that worries me, monsieur, that worries me.'

“I tried to comfort him, but in vain.

“I went to bed early, so that I might start out at daybreak.

“My dog was already asleep on the floor, at the foot of my bed, when I
put out the light.

“I was awakened toward midnight by the furious barking of my dog Bock. I
immediately noticed that my room was full of smoke. I jumped out of bed,
struck a light, ran to the door and opened it. A cloud of flames burst
in. The house was on fire.

“I quickly closed the heavy oak door and, drawing on my trousers, I
first lowered the dog through the window, by means of a rope made of my
sheets; then, having thrown out the rest of my clothes, my game-bag and
my gun, I in turn escaped the same way.

“I began to shout with all my might: 'Cavalier! Cavalier! Cavalier!'

“But the gamekeeper did not wake up. He slept soundly like an old
gendarme.

“However, I could see through the lower windows that the whole ground-
floor was nothing but a roaring furnace; I also noticed that it had been
filled with straw to make it burn readily.

“Somebody must purposely have set fire to the place!

“I continued shrieking wildly: 'Cavalier!'

“Then the thought struck me that the smoke might be suffocating him. An
idea came to me. I slipped two cartridges into my gun, and shot straight
at his window.

“The six panes of glass shattered into the room in a cloud of glass.
This time the old man had heard me, and he appeared, dazed, in his
nightshirt, bewildered by the glare which illumined the whole front of
his 'house.

“I cried to him:

“'Your house is on fire! Escape through the window! Quick! Quick!'

“The flames were coming out through all the cracks downstairs, were
licking along the wall, were creeping toward him and going to surround
him. He jumped and landed on his feet, like a cat.

“It was none too soon. The thatched roof cracked in the middle, right
over the staircase, which formed a kind of flue for the fire downstairs;
and an immense red jet jumped up into the air, spreading like a stream
of water and sprinkling a shower of sparks around the hut. In a few
seconds it was nothing but a pool of flames.

“Cavalier, thunderstruck, asked:

“'How did the fire start?'

“I answered:

“'Somebody lit it in the kitchen.'

“He muttered:

“'Who could have started the fire?'

“And I, suddenly guessing, answered:

“'Marius!'

“The old man understood. He stammered:

“'Good God! That is why he didn't return.'

“A terrible thought flashed through my mind. I cried:

“'And Celeste! Celeste!'

“He did not answer. The house caved in before us, forming only an
enormous, bright, blinding brazier, an awe-inspiring funeral-pile, where
the poor woman could no longer be anything but a glowing ember, a
glowing ember of human flesh.

“We had not heard a single cry.

“As the fire crept toward the shed, I suddenly bethought me of my horse,
and Cavalier ran to free it.

“Hardly had he opened the door of the stable, when a supple, nimble body
darted between his legs, and threw him on his face. It was Marius,
running for all he was worth.

“The man was up in a second. He tried to run after the wretch, but,
seeing that he could not catch him, and maddened by an irresistible
anger, yielding to one of those thoughtless impulses which we cannot
foresee or prevent, he picked up my gun, which was lying on the ground.
near him, put it to his shoulder, and, before I could make a motion, he
pulled the trigger without even noticing whether or not the weapon was
loaded.

“One of the cartridges which I had put in to announce the fire was still
intact, and the charge caught the fugitive right in the back,—throwing
him forward on the ground, bleeding profusely. He immediately began to
claw the earth with his hands and with his knees, as though trying to
run on all fours like a rabbit who has been mortally wounded, and sees
the hunter approaching.

“I rushed forward to the boy, but I could already hear the death-rattle.
He passed away before the fire was extinguished, without having said a
word.

“Cavalier, still in his shirt, his legs bare, was standing near us,
motionless, dazed.

“When the people from the village arrived, my gamekeeper was taken away,
like an insane man.

“I appeared at the trial as witness, and related the facts in detail,
without changing a thing. Cavalier was acquitted. He disappeared that
very day, leaving the country.

“I have never seen him since.

“There, gentlemen, that is my story.”





THE STORY OF A FARM GIRL





PART I

As the weather was very fine, the people on the farm had hurried through
their dinner and had returned to the fields.

The servant, Rose, remained alone in the large kitchen, where the fire
was dying out on the hearth beneath the large boiler of hot water. From
time to time she dipped out some water and slowly washed her dishes,
stopping occasionally to look at the two streaks of light which the sun
threw across 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
mantelpiece and put the plates on the high dresser close to the wooden
clock with its loud tick-tock, 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 and from which
hung spiders' webs, smoked herrings and strings of onions, and then she
sat down, rather overcome by the stale odor from the earthen floor, on
which so many things had been continually spilled and which the heat
brought out. With this there was mingled the sour 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, and so
she went to the door to get a mouthful of fresh air, which seemed to do
her good.

The fowls were lying on the steaming dunghill; some of them were
scratching with one claw in search of worms, while the cock stood up
proudly in their midst. When he crowed, the cocks in all the neighboring
farmyards replied to him, as if they were uttering 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. Just
then a colt, full of life and friskiness, 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 eggs in the hen loft.
There were thirteen of them, which she took in and put into the
storeroom; but the smell from the kitchen annoyed 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, amid which the tall yellow dandelions rose up like streaks
of yellow light, was of a vivid, fresh spring green. The apple trees
cast their shade all round them, and the thatched roofs, on which grew
blue and yellow irises, with their sword-like leaves, steamed as if the
moisture of the stables and barns were coming through the straw. The
girl went to the shed, where the carts and buggies were kept. Close to
it, in a ditch, there was a large patch of violets, whose fragrance was
spread abroad, while beyond the slope the open country could be seen,
where grain was growing, with clumps of trees in places, and groups of
laborers here and there, who looked as small as dolls, and white horses
like toys, who were drawing a child's cart, driven by a man as tall as
one's finger.

She took up a bundle of straw, 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 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 herding the sheep, and, seeing her
lying down in the shade, had come up 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 forever.
She grew sad as she thought of it, while he, with one fixed idea in his
head, drew closer to her.

“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, toward 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 a 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's 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 sideways, while she looked straight
ahead of her. She had fat, red cheeks, a full bust beneath her cotton
jacket; 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 him till they were
both out of breath. From that moment the eternal story of love began
between them. They plagued one another in corners; they met in the
moonlight beside the haystack and gave each other bruises on the legs,
under the table, 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 enceinte.

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 every one 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 above 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 with clenched teeth, and
trembling with anger, she 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 or his back, so that he
could not get away from her, and, half strangling him, she shouted into
his face:

“I am enceinte, do you hear? I am enceinte!”

He gasped for breath, as he was almost choked, and so they remained,
both of them, motionless and without speaking, in the dark silence,
which was only broken by the noise made by a horse as he, pulled the hay
out of the manger and then slowly munched 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 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 the bolster, so that she might
not be heard. During the day, however, she tried to obtain some
information without exciting any suspicion, 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, before 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 her apron did not look too short.

The months went on, and she scarcely spoke now, and when she was asked a
question, did not appear to understand; but she had a frightened look,
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 any one. 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.

“From 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 under her, and she fell down by the roadside and remained
there till night.

When she got back, she told the farmer her bad news, and he allowed her
to go home for as long as she liked, and promised to have her work done
by a charwoman 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, which were as thin as a crab's legs; but it lived for all that.
She said she was married, but could not be burdened 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 now 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, though 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 the mad longing to kiss it, to press it in her arms, to feel the
warmth of its little body against her breast. She could not sleep at
night; she thought of it the whole day long, and in the evening, when
her work was done, she would sit in front of the fire and gaze at it
intently, as 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 some way of saving up money
for it, and determined to work so that her master would be obliged to
raise her wages.

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 chickens 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 purchase 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 around 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 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 were 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 recognize it. It
had grown rosy and chubby all over, like a little roll of fat. She threw
herself on 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 know 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,
although he could not understand her, 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 would say to herself in a low voice as she danced it in
her arms: “It is my baby, it's 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.” 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 Heaven!”

She jumped up, but fell back on her chair, as if she had been struck,
and there she remained motionless, like a person who is overwhelmed by
some great misfortune. 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 tomorrow to think it over.”

And he hurried out of the room, very glad to have got through with the
matter, which had troubled him a good deal, 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 his interests 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 every one is very nearly equal; the farmer works with
his laborers, 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 life or habits.

Rose did not go to bed that night. She threw herself, dressed as she
was, on her bed, and she had not even the strength to cry left in her,
she was so thoroughly dumfounded. 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 something 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 out in a perspiration from grief. She became bewildered,
and had the nightmare; her candle went out, and then she began to
imagine that some one had cast a spell over her, as country people so
often imagine, and she felt a mad inclination to run away, to escape and
to flee before her misfortune, like a ship scudding before the wind. An
owl hooted; she shivered, sat up, passed her hands over her face, 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, springy
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 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 farther; 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
slowly with her hand on her heart, in order to dip both her feet 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 dizziness, and with a mad longing to throw herself into it. All her
sufferings would be over in there, over forever. She no longer thought
of her child; she only wanted peace, complete rest, and to sleep
forever, 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 her
self 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 her lifeblood, 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.” 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 ragamuffin, 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 Baudu?”—“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 blue apron. But he still tried to
find it out, with his brutish obstinacy, and, as it were, scratching at
her heart to discover her secret, just as a terrier scratches at a hole
to try and get at the animal which he scents inside 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?”
asked the cunning peasant, who partly guessed the truth; 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 was as exhausted as if she had been turning
the thrashing machine all day in the place 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 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 and began to tremble violently, as she felt
quite alone in the darkness, still heavy from sleep, and quite
unprotected, with that man standing near her. She certainly did not
consent, but she resisted carelessly struggling against that instinct
which is always strong in simple natures and very imperfectly protected
by the undecided will of inert and gentle races. She turned her head now
to the wall, and now toward the room, in order to avoid the attentions
which the farmer tried to press on her, but she was weakened by fatigue,
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
sides from which she could never get out, and all kinds of misfortunes
were 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 robbed, 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 it. And so years went on, until 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 troubled by some care, some mental disturbance, which was
gradually increasing. He remained sitting at table 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 had 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 rather
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 composure, and did not venture to remain
alone with him after the meal was over, but 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 Cure at home?” she asked. “Of course he is; this is his
dinnertime.” 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 on to 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 it is not that they may
live alone together to the end of their 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 provoking, 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 drink 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 each
of them was to eat a piece of it, 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 Fecamp. Rose went with the crowd and
prostrated herself in the abbey, and, mingling her prayers with the
coarse desires 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
quarrelled all day long, and when they were in their room together at
night he flung insults and obscenities at her, choking 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. 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 amid her tears she continued: “That was the reason why
I did not want to marry you. I could not 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 took 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 the 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 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 cure about an orphan
some time ago.”

Then, still laughing, he kissed his weeping and agitated wife on both
cheeks, and shouted out, as though 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 downstairs; and while she was
kneeling in front of the fireplace and lighting the fire under the
saucepan, he continued to walk up and down the kitchen with long
strides, repeating:

“Well, I am really glad of this; I am not saying it for form's sake, but
I am glad, I am really very glad.”




THE WRECK


It was yesterday, the 31st of December.

I had just finished breakfast with my old friend Georges Garin when the
servant handed him a letter covered with seals and foreign stamps.

Georges said:

“Will you excuse me?”

“Certainly.”

And so he began to read the letter, which was written in a large English
handwriting, crossed and recrossed in every direction. He read them
slowly, with serious attention and the interest which we only pay to
things which touch our hearts.

Then he put the letter on the mantelpiece and said:

“That was a curious story! I've never told you about it, I think. Yet it
was a sentimental adventure, and it really happened to me. That was a
strange New Year's Day, indeed! It must have been twenty years ago, for
I was then thirty and am now fifty years old.

“I was then an inspector in the Maritime Insurance Company, of which I
am now director. I had arranged to pass New Year's Day in Paris—since it
is customary to make that day a fete—when I received a letter from the
manager, asking me to proceed at once to the island of Re, where a
three-masted vessel from Saint-Nazaire, insured by us, had just been
driven ashore. It was then eight o'clock in the morning. I arrived at
the office at ten to get my advices, and that evening I took the
express, which put me down in La Rochelle the next day, the 31st of
December.

“I had two hours to wait before going aboard the boat for Re. So I made
a tour of the town. It is certainly a queer city, La Rochelle, with
strong characteristics of its own streets tangled like a labyrinth,
sidewalks running under endless arcaded galleries like those of the Rue
de Rivoli, but low, mysterious, built as if to form a suitable setting
for conspirators and making a striking background for those old-time
wars, the savage heroic wars of religion. It is indeed the typical old
Huguenot city, conservative, discreet, with no fine art to show, with no
wonderful monuments, such as make Rouen; but it is remarkable for its
severe, somewhat sullen look; it is a city of obstinate fighters, a city
where fanaticism might well blossom, where the faith of the Calvinists
became enthusiastic and which gave birth to the plot of the 'Four
Sergeants.'

“After I had wandered for some time about these curious streets, I went
aboard the black, rotund little steamboat which was to take me to the
island of Re. It was called the Jean Guiton. It started with angry
puffings, passed between the two old towers which guard the harbor,
crossed the roadstead and issued from the mole built by Richelieu, the
great stones of which can be seen at the water's edge, enclosing the
town like a great necklace. Then the steamboat turned to the right.

“It was one of those sad days which give one the blues, tighten the
heart and take away all strength and energy and force-a gray, cold day,
with a heavy mist which was as wet as rain, as cold as frost, as bad to
breathe as the steam of a wash-tub.

“Under this low sky of dismal fog the shallow, yellow, sandy sea of all
practically level beaches lay without a wrinkle, without a movement,
without life, a sea of turbid water, of greasy water, of stagnant water.
The Jean Guiton passed over it, rolling a little from habit, dividing
the smooth, dark blue water and leaving behind a few waves, a little
splashing, a slight swell, which soon calmed down.

“I began to talk to the captain, a little man with small feet, as round
as his boat and rolling in the same manner. I wanted some details of the
disaster on which I was to draw up a report. A great square-rigged
three-master, the Marie Joseph, of Saint-Nazaire, had gone ashore one
night in a hurricane on the sands of the island of Re.

“The owner wrote us that the storm had thrown the ship so far ashore
that it was impossible to float her and that they had to remove
everything which could be detached with the utmost possible haste.
Nevertheless I must examine the situation of the wreck, estimate what
must have been her condition before the disaster and decide whether all
efforts had been used to get her afloat. I came as an agent of the
company in order to give contradictory testimony, if necessary, at the
trial.

“On receipt of my report, the manager would take what measures he might
think necessary to protect our interests.

“The captain of the Jean Guiton knew all about the affair, having been
summoned with his boat to assist in the attempts at salvage.

“He told me the story of the disaster. The Marie Joseph, driven by a
furious gale lost her bearings completely in the night, and steering by
chance over a heavy foaming sea—'a milk-soup sea,' said the captain—had
gone ashore on those immense sand banks which make the coasts of this
country look like limitless Saharas when the tide is low.

“While talking I looked around and ahead. Between the ocean and the
lowering sky lay an open space where the eye could see into the
distance. We were following a coast. I asked:

“'Is that the island of Re?'

“'Yes, sir.'

“And suddenly the captain stretched his right hand out before us,
pointed to something almost imperceptible in the open sea, and said:

“'There's your ship!'

“'The Marie Joseph!'

“'Yes.'

“I was amazed. This black, almost imperceptible speck, which looked to
me like a rock, seemed at least three miles from land.

“I continued:

“'But, captain, there must be a hundred fathoms of water in that place.'

“He began to laugh.

“'A hundred fathoms, my child! Well, I should say about two!'

“He was from Bordeaux. He continued:

“'It's now nine-forty, just high tide. Go down along the beach with your
hands in your pockets after you've had lunch at the Hotel du Dauphin,
and I'll wager that at ten minutes to three, or three o'clock, you'll
reach the wreck without wetting your feet, and have from an hour and
three-quarters to two hours aboard of her; but not more, or you'll be
caught. The faster the sea goes out the faster it comes back. This coast
is as flat as a turtle! But start away at ten minutes to five, as I tell
you, and at half-past seven you will be again aboard of the Jean Guiton,
which will put you down this same evening on the quay at La Rochelle.'

“I thanked the captain and I went and sat down in the bow of the steamer
to get a good look at the little city of Saint-Martin, which we were now
rapidly approaching.

“It was just like all small seaports which serve as capitals of the
barren islands scattered along the coast—a large fishing village, one
foot on sea and one on shore, subsisting on fish and wild fowl,
vegetables and shell-fish, radishes and mussels. The island is very low
and little cultivated, yet it seems to be thickly populated. However, I
did not penetrate into the interior.

“After breakfast I climbed across a little promontory, and then, as the
tide was rapidly falling, I started out across the sands toward a kind
of black rock which I could just perceive above the surface of the
water, out a considerable distance.

“I walked quickly over the yellow plain. It was elastic, like flesh and
seemed to sweat beneath my tread. The sea had been there very lately.
Now I perceived it at a distance, escaping out of sight, and I no longer
could distinguish the line which separated the sands from ocean. I felt
as though I were looking at a gigantic supernatural work of enchantment.
The Atlantic had just now been before me, then it had disappeared into
the sands, just as scenery disappears through a trap; and I was now
walking in the midst of a desert. Only the feeling, the breath of the
salt-water, remained in me. I perceived the smell of the wrack, the
smell of the sea, the good strong smell of sea coasts. I walked fast; I
was no longer cold. I looked at the stranded wreck, which grew in size
as I approached, and came now to resemble an enormous shipwrecked whale.

“It seemed fairly to rise out of the ground, and on that great, flat,
yellow stretch of sand assumed wonderful proportions. After an hour's
walk I at last reached it. It lay upon its side, ruined and shattered,
its broken bones showing as though it were an animal, its bones of
tarred wood pierced with great bolts. The sand had already invaded it,
entering it by all the crannies, and held it and refused to let it go.
It seemed to have taken root in it. The bow had entered deep into this
soft, treacherous beach, while the stern, high in air, seemed to cast at
heaven, like a cry of despairing appeal, the two white words on the
black planking, Marie Joseph.

“I climbed upon this carcass of a ship by the lowest side; then, having
reached the deck, I went below. The daylight, which entered by the
stove-in hatches and the cracks in the sides, showed me dimly long dark
cavities full of demolished woodwork. They contained nothing but sand,
which served as foot-soil in this cavern of planks.

“I began to take some notes about the condition of the ship. I was
seated on a broken empty cask, writing by the light of a great crack,
through which I could perceive the boundless stretch of the strand. A
strange shivering of cold and loneliness ran over my skin from time to
time, and I would often stop writing for a moment to listen to the
mysterious noises in the derelict: the noise of crabs scratching the
planking with their crooked claws; the noise of a thousand little
creatures of the sea already crawling over this dead body or else boring
into the wood.

“Suddenly, very near me, I heard human voices. I started as though I had
seen a ghost. For a second I really thought I was about to see drowned
men rise from the sinister depths of the hold, who would tell me about
their death. At any rate, it did not take me long to swing myself on
deck. There, standing by the bows, was a tall Englishman with three
young misses. Certainly they were a good deal more frightened at seeing
this sudden apparition on the abandoned three-master than I was at
seeing them. The youngest girl turned and ran, the two others threw
their arms round their father. As for him, he opened his mouth—that was
the only sign of emotion which he showed.

“Then, after several seconds, he spoke:

“'Mosieu, are you the owner of this ship?'

“'I am.'

“'May I go over it?'

“'You may.'

“Then he uttered a long sentence in English, in which I only
distinguished the word 'gracious,' repeated several times.

“As he was looking for a place to climb up I showed him the easiest way,
and gave him a hand. He climbed up. Then we helped up the three girls,
who had now quite recovered their composure. They were charming,
especially the oldest, a blonde of eighteen, fresh as a flower, and very
dainty and pretty! Ah, yes! the pretty Englishwomen have indeed the look
of tender sea fruit. One would have said of this one that she had just
risen out of the sands and that her hair had kept their tint. They all,
with their exquisite freshness, make you think of the delicate colors of
pink sea-shells and of shining pearls hidden in the unknown depths of
the ocean.

“She spoke French a little better than her father and acted as
interpreter. I had to tell all about the shipwreck, and I romanced as
though I had been present at the catastrophe. Then the whole family
descended into the interior of the wreck. As soon as they had penetrated
into this sombre, dimly lit cavity they uttered cries of astonishment
and admiration. Suddenly the father and his three daughters were holding
sketch-books in their hands, which they had doubtless carried hidden
somewhere in their heavy weather-proof clothes, and were all beginning
at once to make pencil sketches of this melancholy and weird place.

“They had seated themselves side by side on a projecting beam, and the
four sketch-books on the eight knees were being rapidly covered with
little black lines which were intended to represent the half-opened hulk
of the Marie Joseph.

“I continued to inspect the skeleton of the ship, and the oldest girl
talked to me while she worked.

“They had none of the usual English arrogance; they were simple honest
hearts of that class of continuous travellers with which England covers
the globe. The father was long and thin, with a red face framed in white
whiskers, and looking like a living sandwich, a piece of ham carved like
a face between two wads of hair. The daughters, who had long legs like
young storks, were also thin-except the oldest. All three were pretty,
especially the tallest.

“She had such a droll way of speaking, of laughing, of understanding and
of not understanding, of raising her eyes to ask a question (eyes blue
as the deep ocean), of stopping her drawing a moment to make a guess at
what you meant, of returning once more to work, of saying 'yes' or
'no'—that I could have listened and looked indefinitely.

“Suddenly she murmured:

“'I hear a little sound on this boat.'

“I listened and I immediately distinguished a low, steady, curious
sound. I rose and looked out of the crack and gave a scream. The sea had
come up to us; it would soon surround us!

“We were on deck in an instant. It was too late. The water circled us
about and was running toward the coast at tremendous speed. No, it did
not run, it glided, crept, spread like an immense, limitless blot. The
water was barely a few centimeters deep, but the rising flood had gone
so far that we no longer saw the vanishing line of the imperceptible
tide.

“The Englishman wanted to jump. I held him back. Flight was impossible
because of the deep places which we had been obliged to go round on our
way out and into which we should fall on our return.

“There was a minute of horrible anguish in our hearts. Then the little
English girl began to smile and murmured:

“'It is we who are shipwrecked.'

“I tried to laugh, but fear held me, a fear which was cowardly and
horrid and base and treacherous like the tide. All the danger which we
ran appeared to me at once. I wanted to shriek: 'Help!' But to whom?

“The two younger girls were clinging to their father, who looked in
consternation at the measureless sea which hedged us round about.

“The night fell as swiftly as the ocean rose—a lowering, wet, icy night.

“I said:

“'There's nothing to do but to stay on the ship:

“The Englishman answered:

“'Oh, yes!'

“And we waited there a quarter of an hour, half an hour, indeed I don't
know how long, watching that creeping water growing deeper as it swirled
around us, as though it were playing on the beach, which it had
regained.

“One of the young girls was cold, and we went below to shelter ourselves
from the light but freezing wind that made our skins tingle.

“I leaned over the hatchway. The ship was full of water. So we had to
cower against the stern planking, which shielded us a little.

“Darkness was now coming on, and we remained huddled together. I felt
the shoulder of the little English girl trembling against mine, her
teeth chattering from time to time. But I also felt the gentle warmth of
her body through her ulster, and that warmth was as delicious to me as a
kiss. We no longer spoke; we sat motionless, mute, cowering down like
animals in a ditch when a hurricane is raging. And, nevertheless,
despite the night, despite the terrible and increasing danger, I began
to feel happy that I was there, glad of the cold and the peril, glad of
the long hours of darkness and anguish that I must pass on this plank so
near this dainty, pretty little girl.

“I asked myself, 'Why this strange sensation of well-being and of joy?'

“Why! Does one know? Because she was there? Who? She, a little unknown
English girl? I did not love her, I did not even know her. And for all
that, I was touched and conquered. I wanted to save her, to sacrifice
myself for her, to commit a thousand follies! Strange thing! How does it
happen that the presence of a woman overwhelms us so? Is it the power of
her grace which enfolds us? Is it the seduction of her beauty and youth,
which intoxicates one like wine?

“Is it not rather the touch of Love, of Love the Mysterious, who seeks
constantly to unite two beings, who tries his strength the instant he
has put a man and a woman face to face?

“The silence of the darkness became terrible, the stillness of the sky
dreadful, because we could hear vaguely about us a slight, continuous
sound, the sound of the rising tide and the monotonous plashing of the
water against the ship.

“Suddenly I heard the sound of sobs. The youngest of the girls was
crying. Her father tried to console her, and they began to talk in their
own tongue, which I did not understand. I guessed that he was reassuring
her and that she was still afraid.

“I asked my neighbor:

“'You are not too cold, are you, mademoiselle?'

“'Oh, yes. I am very cold.'

“I offered to give her my cloak; she refused it.

“But I had taken it off and I covered her with it against her will. In
the short struggle her hand touched mine. It made a delicious thrill run
through my body.

“For some minutes the air had been growing brisker, the dashing of the
water stronger against the flanks of the ship. I raised myself; a great
gust of wind blew in my face. The wind was rising!

“The Englishman perceived this at the same time that I did and said
simply:

“'This is bad for us, this——'

“Of course it was bad, it was certain death if any breakers, however
feeble, should attack and shake the wreck, which was already so
shattered and disconnected that the first big sea would carry it off.

“So our anguish increased momentarily as the squalls grew stronger and
stronger. Now the sea broke a little, and I saw in the darkness white
lines appearing and disappearing, lines of foam, while each wave struck
the Marie Joseph and shook her with a short quiver which went to our
hearts.

“The English girl was trembling. I felt her shiver against me. And I had
a wild desire to take her in my arms.

“Down there, before and behind us, to the left and right, lighthouses
were shining along the shore—lighthouses white, yellow and red,
revolving like the enormous eyes of giants who were watching us, waiting
eagerly for us to disappear. One of them in especial irritated me. It
went out every thirty seconds and it lit up again immediately. It was
indeed an eye, that one, with its lid incessantly lowered over its fiery
glance.

“From time to time the Englishman struck a match to see the hour; then
he put his watch back in his pocket. Suddenly he said to me, over the
heads of his daughters, with tremendous gravity:

“'I wish you a happy New Year, Mosieu.'

“It was midnight. I held out my hand, which he pressed. Then he said
something in English, and suddenly he and his daughters began to sing
'God Save the Queen,' which rose through the black and silent air and
vanished into space.

“At first I felt a desire to laugh; then I was seized by a powerful,
strange emotion.

“It was something sinister and superb, this chant of the shipwrecked,
the condemned, something like a prayer and also like something grander,
something comparable to the ancient 'Ave Caesar morituri te salutant.'

“When they had finished I asked my neighbor to sing a ballad alone,
anything she liked, to make us forget our terrors. She consented, and
immediately her clear young voice rang out into the night. She sang
something which was doubtless sad, because the notes were long drawn out
and hovered, like wounded birds, above the waves.

“The sea was rising now and beating upon our wreck. As for me, I thought
only of that voice. And I thought also of the sirens. If a ship had
passed near by us what would the sailors have said? My troubled spirit
lost itself in the dream! A siren! Was she not really a siren, this
daughter of the sea, who had kept me on this worm-eaten ship and who was
soon about to go down with me deep into the waters?

“But suddenly we were all five rolling on the deck, because the Marie
Joseph had sunk on her right side. The English girl had fallen upon me,
and before I knew what I was doing, thinking that my last moment was
come, I had caught her in my arms and kissed her cheek, her temple and
her hair.

“The ship did not move again, and we, we also, remained motionless.

“The father said, 'Kate!' The one whom I was holding answered 'Yes' and
made a movement to free herself. And at that moment I should have wished
the ship to split in two and let me fall with her into the sea.

“The Englishman continued:

“'A little rocking; it's nothing. I have my three daughters safe.'

“Not having seen the oldest, he had thought she was lost overboard!

“I rose slowly, and suddenly I made out a light on the sea quite close
to us. I shouted; they answered. It was a boat sent out in search of us
by the hotelkeeper, who had guessed at our imprudence.

“We were saved. I was in despair. They picked us up off our raft and
they brought us back to Saint-Martin.

“The Englishman began to rub his hand and murmur:

“'A good supper! A good supper!'

“We did sup. I was not gay. I regretted the Marie Joseph.

“We had to separate the next day after much handshaking and many
promises to write. They departed for Biarritz. I wanted to follow them.

“I was hard hit. I wanted to ask this little girl to marry me. If we had
passed eight days together, I should have done so! How weak and
incomprehensible a man sometimes is!

“Two years passed without my hearing a word from them. Then I received a
letter from New York. She was married and wrote to tell me. And since
then we write to each other every year, on New Year's Day. She tells me
about her life, talks of her children, her sisters, never of her
husband! Why? Ah! why? And as for me, I only talk of the Marie Joseph.
That was perhaps the only woman I have ever loved—no—that I ever should
have loved. Ah, well! who can tell? Circumstances rule one. And then—and
then—all passes. She must be old now; I should not know her. Ah! she of
the bygone time, she of the wreck! What a creature! Divine! She writes
me her hair is white. That caused me terrible pain. Ah! her yellow hair.
No, my English girl exists no longer. How sad it all is!”





THEODULE SABOT'S CONFESSION

When Sabot entered the inn at Martinville it was a signal for laughter.
What a rogue he was, this Sabot! There was a man who did not like
priests, for instance! Oh, no, oh, no! He did not spare them, the scamp.

Sabot (Theodule), a master carpenter, represented liberal thought in
Martinville. He was a tall, thin man, with gray, cunning eyes, and thin
lips, and wore his hair plastered down on his temples. When he said:
“Our holy father, the pope” in a certain manner, everyone laughed. He
made a point of working on Sunday during the hour of mass. He killed his
pig each year on Monday in Holy Week in order to have enough black
pudding to last till Easter, and when the priest passed by, he always
said by way of a joke: “There goes one who has just swallowed his God
off a salver.”

The priest, a stout man and also very tall, dreaded him on account of
his boastful talk which attracted followers. The Abbe Maritime was a
politic man, and believed in being diplomatic. There had been a rivalry
between them for ten years, a secret, intense, incessant rivalry. Sabot
was municipal councillor, and they thought he would become mayor, which
would inevitably mean the final overthrow of the church.

The elections were about to take place. The church party was shaking in
its shoes in Martinville.

One morning the cure set out for Rouen, telling his servant that he was
going to see the archbishop. He returned in two days with a joyous,
triumphant air. And everyone knew the following day that the chancel of
the church was going to be renovated. A sum of six hundred francs had
been contributed by the archbishop out of his private fund. All the old
pine pews were to be removed, and replaced by new pews made of oak. It
would be a big carpentering job, and they talked about it that very
evening in all the houses in the village.

Theodule Sabot was not laughing.

When he went through the village the following morning, the neighbors,
friends and enemies, all asked him, jokingly:

“Are you going to do the work on the chancel of the church?”

He could find nothing to say, but he was furious, he was good and angry.

Ill-natured people added:

“It is a good piece of work; and will bring in not less than two or
three per cent. profit.”

Two days later, they heard that the work of renovation had been
entrusted to Celestin Chambrelan, the carpenter from Percheville. Then
this was denied, and it was said that all the pews in the church were
going to be changed. That would be well worth the two thousand francs
that had been demanded of the church administration.

Theodule Sabot could not sleep for thinking about it. Never, in all the
memory of man, had a country carpenter undertaken a similar piece of
work. Then a rumor spread abroad that the cure felt very grieved that he
had to give this work to a carpenter who was a stranger in the
community, but that Sabot's opinions were a barrier to his being
entrusted with the job.

Sabot knew it well. He called at the parsonage just as it was growing
dark. The servant told him that the cure was at church. He went to the
church.

Two attendants on the altar of the Virgin, two sour old maids, were
decorating the altar for the month of Mary, under the direction of the
priest, who stood in the middle of the chancel with his portly paunch,
directing the two women who, mounted on chairs, were placing flowers
around the tabernacle.

Sabot felt ill at ease in there, as though he were in the house of his
greatest enemy, but the greed of gain was gnawing at his heart. He drew
nearer, holding his cap in his hand, and not paying any attention to the
“demoiselles de la Vierge,” who remained standing startled, astonished,
motionless on their chairs.

He faltered:

“Good morning, monsieur le cure.”

The priest replied without looking at him, all occupied as he was with
the altar:

“Good morning, Mr. Carpenter.”

Sabot, nonplussed, knew not what to say next. But after a pause he
remarked:

“You are making preparations?”

Abbe Maritime replied:

“Yes, we are near the month of Mary.”

“Why, why,” remarked Sabot and then was silent. He would have liked to
retire now without saying anything, but a glance at the chancel held him
back. He saw sixteen seats that had to be remade, six to the right and
eight to the left, the door of the sacristy occupying the place of two.
Sixteen oak seats, that would be worth at most three hundred francs, and
by figuring carefully one might certainly make two hundred francs on the
work if one were not clumsy.

Then he stammered out:

“I have come about the work.”

The cure appeared surprised. He asked:

“What work?”

“The work to be done,” murmured Sabot, in dismay.

Then the priest turned round and looking him straight in the eyes, said:

“Do you mean the repairs in the chancel of my church?”

At the tone of the abbe, Theodule Sabot felt a chill run down his back
and he once more had a longing to take to his heels. However, he replied
humbly:

“Why, yes, monsieur le cure.”

Then the abbe folded his arms across his large stomach and, as if filled
with amazement, said:

“Is it you—you—you, Sabot—who have come to ask me for this . . . You—the
only irreligious man in my parish! Why, it would be a scandal, a public
scandal! The archbishop would give me a reprimand, perhaps transfer me.”

He stopped a few seconds, for breath, and then resumed in a calmer tone:
“I can understand that it pains you to see a work of such importance
entrusted to a carpenter from a neighboring parish. But I cannot do
otherwise, unless—but no—it is impossible—you would not consent, and
unless you did, never.”

Sabot now looked at the row of benches in line as far as the entrance
door. Christopher, if they were going to change all those!

And he asked:

“What would you require of me? Tell me.”

The priest, in a firm tone replied:

“I must have an extraordinary token of your good intentions.”

“I do not say—I do not say; perhaps we might come to an understanding,”
faltered Sabot.

“You will have to take communion publicly at high mass next Sunday,”
declared the cure.

The carpenter felt he was growing pale, and without replying, he asked:

“And the benches, are they going to be renovated?”

The abbe replied with confidence:

“Yes, but later on.”

Sabot resumed:

“I do not say, I do not say. I am not calling it off, I am consenting to
religion, for sure. But what rubs me the wrong way is, putting it in
practice; but in this case I will not be refractory.”

The attendants of the Virgin, having got off their chairs had concealed
themselves behind the altar; and they listened pale with emotion.

The cure, seeing he had gained the victory, became all at once very
friendly, quite familiar.

“That is good, that is good. That was wisely said, and not stupid, you
understand. You will see, you will see.”

Sabot smiled and asked with an awkward air:

“Would it not be possible to put off this communion just a trifle?”

But the priest replied, resuming his severe expression:

“From the moment that the work is put into your hands, I want to be
assured of your conversion.”

Then he continued more gently:

“You will come to confession to-morrow; for I must examine you at least
twice.”

“Twice?” repeated Sabot.

“Yes.”

The priest smiled.

“You understand perfectly that you must have a general cleaning up, a
thorough cleansing. So I will expect you to-morrow.”

The carpenter, much agitated, asked:

“Where do you do that?”

“Why—in the confessional.”

“In—that box, over there in the corner? The fact is—is—that it does not
suit me, your box.”

“How is that?”

“Seeing that—seeing that I am not accustomed to that, and also I am
rather hard of hearing.”

The cure was very affable and said:

“Well, then! you shall come to my house and into my parlor. We will have
it just the two of us, tete-a-tete. Does that suit you?”

“Yes, that is all right, that will suit me, but your box, no.”

“Well, then, to-morrow after the days work, at six o'clock.”

“That is understood, that is all right, that is agreed on. To-morrow,
monsieur le cure. Whoever draws back is a skunk!”

And he held out his great rough hand which the priest grasped heartily
with a clap that resounded through the church.

Theodule Sabot was not easy in his mind all the following day. He had a
feeling analogous to the apprehension one experiences when a tooth has
to be drawn. The thought recurred to him at every moment: “I must go to
confession this evening.” And his troubled mind, the mind of an atheist
only half convinced, was bewildered with a confused and overwhelming
dread of the divine mystery.

As soon as he had finished his work, he betook himself to the parsonage.
The cure was waiting for him in the garden, reading his breviary as he
walked along a little path. He appeared radiant and greeted him with a
good-natured laugh.

“Well, here we are! Come in, come in, Monsieur Sabot, no one will eat
you.”

And Sabot preceded him into the house. He faltered:

“If you do not mind I should like to get through with this little matter
at once.”

The cure replied:

“I am at your service. I have my surplice here. One minute and I will
listen to you.”

The carpenter, so disturbed that he had not two ideas in his head,
watched him as he put on the white vestment with its pleated folds. The
priest beckoned to him and said:

“Kneel down on this cushion.”

Sabot remained standing, ashamed of having to kneel. He stuttered:

“Is it necessary?”

But the abbe had become dignified.

“You cannot approach the penitent bench except on your knees.”

And Sabot knelt down.

“Repeat the confiteor,” said the priest.

“What is that?” asked Sabot.

“The confiteor. If you do not remember it, repeat after me, one by one,
the words I am going to say.” And the cure repeated the sacred prayer,
in a slow tone, emphasizing the words which the carpenter repeated after
him. Then he said:

“Now make your confession.”

But Sabot was silent, not knowing where to begin. The abbe then came to
his aid.

“My child, I will ask you questions, since you don't seem familiar with
these things. We will take, one by one, the commandments of God. Listen
to me and do not be disturbed. Speak very frankly and never fear that
you may say too much.

“'One God alone, thou shalt adore, And love him perfectly.'

“Have you ever loved anything, or anybody, as well as you loved God?
Have you loved him with all your soul, all your heart, all the strength
of your love?”

Sabot was perspiring with the effort of thinking. He replied:

“No. Oh, no, m'sieu le cure. I love God as much as I can. That is —yes—I
love him very much. To say that I do not love my children, no—I cannot
say that. To say that if I had to choose between them and God, I could
not be sure. To say that if I had to lose a hundred francs for the love
of God, I could not say about that. But I love him well, for sure, I
love him all the same.” The priest said gravely “You must love Him more
than all besides.” And Sabot, meaning well, declared “I will do what I
possibly can, m'sieu le cure.” The abbe resumed:

“'God's name in vain thou shalt not take Nor swear by any other thing.'

“Did you ever swear?”

“No-oh, that, no! I never swear, never. Sometimes, in a moment of anger,
I may say sacre nom de Dieu! But then, I never swear.”

“That is swearing,” cried the priest, and added seriously:

“Do not do it again.

“'Thy Sundays thou shalt keep In serving God devoutly.'

“What do you do on Sunday?”

This time Sabot scratched his ear.

“Why, I serve God as best I can, m'sieu le cure. I serve him—at home. I
work on Sunday.”

The cure interrupted him, saying magnanimously:

“I know, you will do better in future. I will pass over the following
commandments, certain that you have not transgressed the two first. We
will take from the sixth to the ninth. I will resume:

“'Others' goods thou shalt not take Nor keep what is not thine.'

“Have you ever taken in any way what belonged to another?”

But Theodule Sabot became indignant.

“Of course not, of course not! I am an honest man, m'sieu le cure, I
swear it, for sure. To say that I have not sometimes charged for a few
more hours of work to customers who had means, I could not say that. To
say that I never add a few centimes to bills, only a few, I would not
say that. But to steal, no! Oh, not that, no!”

The priest resumed severely:

“To take one single centime constitutes a theft. Do not do it again.

'False witness thou shalt not bear, Nor lie in any way.'

“Have you ever told a lie?”

“No, as to that, no. I am not a liar. That is my quality. To say that I
have never told a big story, I would not like to say that. To say that I
have never made people believe things that were not true when it was to
my own interest, I would not like to say that. But as for lying, I am
not a liar.”

The priest simply said:

“Watch yourself more closely.” Then he continued:

“'The works of the flesh thou shalt not desire Except in marriage only.'

“Did you ever desire, or live with, any other woman than your wife?”

Sabot exclaimed with sincerity:

“As to that, no; oh, as to that, no, m'sieu le Cure. My poor wife,
deceive her! No, no! Not so much as the tip of a finger, either in
thought or in act. That is the truth.”

They were silent a few seconds, then, in a lower tone, as though a doubt
had arisen in his mind, he resumed:

“When I go to town, to say that I never go into a house, you know, one
of the licensed houses, just to laugh and talk and see something
different, I could not say that. But I always pay, monsieur le cure, I
always pay. From the moment you pay, without anyone seeing or knowing
you, no one can get you into trouble.”

The cure did not insist, and gave him absolution.

Theodule Sabot did the work on the chancel, and goes to communion every
month.





THE WRONG HOUSE

Quartermaster Varajou had obtained a week's leave to go and visit his
sister, Madame Padoie. Varajou, who was in garrison at Rennes and was
leading a pretty gay life, finding himself high and dry, wrote to his
sister saying that he would devote a week to her. It was not that he
cared particularly for Mme. Padoie, a little moralist, a devotee, and
always cross; but he needed money, needed it very badly, and he
remembered that, of all his relations, the Padoies were the only ones
whom he had never approached on the subject.

Pere Varajou, formerly a horticulturist at Angers, but now retired from
business, had closed his purse strings to his scapegrace son and had
hardly seen him for two years. His daughter had married Padoie, a former
treasury clerk, who had just been appointed tax collector at Vannes.

Varajou, on leaving the train, had some one direct him to the house of
his brother-in-law, whom he found in his office arguing with the Breton
peasants of the neighborhood. Padoie rose from his seat, held out his
hand across the table littered with papers, murmured, “Take a chair. I
will be at liberty in a moment,” sat down again and resumed his
discussion.

The peasants did not understand his explanations, the collector did not
understand their line of argument. He spoke French, they spoke Breton,
and the clerk who acted as interpreter appeared not to understand
either.

It lasted a long time, a very long time. Varajou looked at his brother-
in-law and thought: “What a fool!” Padoie must have been almost fifty.
He was tall, thin, bony, slow, hairy, with heavy arched eyebrows. He
wore a velvet skull cap with a gold cord vandyke design round it. His
look was gentle, like his actions. His speech, his gestures, his
thoughts, all were soft. Varajou said to himself, “What a fool!”

He, himself, was one of those noisy roysterers for whom the greatest
pleasures in life are the cafe and abandoned women. He understood
nothing outside of these conditions of existence.

A boisterous braggart, filled with contempt for the rest of the world,
he despised the entire universe from the height of his ignorance. When
he said: “Nom d'un chien, what a spree!” he expressed the highest degree
of admiration of which his mind was capable.

Having finally got rid of his peasants, Padoie inquired:

“How are you?”

“Pretty well, as you see. And how are you?”

“Quite well, thank you. It is very kind of you to have thought of coming
to see us.”

“Oh, I have been thinking of it for some time; but, you know, in the
military profession one has not much freedom.”

“Oh, I know, I know. All the same, it is very kind of you.”

“And Josephine, is she well?”

“Yes, yes, thank you; you will see her presently.” “Where is she?”

“She is making some calls. We have a great many friends here; it is a
very nice town.”

“I thought so.”

The door opened and Mme. Padoie appeared. She went over to her brother
without any eagerness, held her cheek for him to kiss, and asked:

“Have you been here long?”

“No, hardly half an hour.”

“Oh, I thought the train would be late. Will you come into the parlor?”

They went into the adjoining room, leaving Padoie to his accounts and
his taxpayers. As soon as they were alone, she said:

“I have heard nice things about you!”

“What have you heard?”

“It seems that you are behaving like a blackguard, getting drunk and
contracting debts.”

He appeared very much astonished.

“I! never in the world!”

“Oh, do not deny it, I know it.”

He attempted to defend himself, but she gave him such a lecture that he
could say nothing more.

She then resumed:

“We dine at six o'clock, and you can amuse yourself until then. I cannot
entertain you, as I have so many things to do.”

When he was alone he hesitated as to whether he should sleep or take a
walk. He looked first at the door leading to his room and then at the
hall door, and decided to go out. He sauntered slowly through the quiet
Breton town, so sleepy, so calm, so dead, on the shores of its inland
bay that is called “le Morbihan.” He looked at the little gray houses,
the occasional pedestrians, the empty stores, and he murmured:

“Vannes is certainly not gay, not lively. It was a sad idea, my coming
here.”

He reached the harbor, the desolate harbor, walked back along a lonely,
deserted boulevard, and got home before five o'clock. Then he threw
himself on his bed to sleep till dinner time. The maid woke him,
knocking at the door.

“Dinner is ready, sir:”

He went downstairs. In the damp dining-room with the paper peeling from
the walls near the floor, he saw a soup tureen on a round table without
any table cloth, on which were also three melancholy soup-plates.

M. and Mme. Padoie entered the room at the same time as Varajou. They
all sat down to table, and the husband and wife crossed themselves over
the pit of their stomachs, after which Padoie helped the soup, a meat
soup. It was the day for pot-roast.

After the soup, they had the beef, which was done to rags, melted,
greasy, like pap. The officer ate slowly, with disgust, weariness and
rage.

Mme. Padoie said to her husband:

“Are you going to the judge's house this evening?”

“Yes, dear.”

“Do not stay late. You always get so tired when you go out. You are not
made for society, with your poor health.”

She then talked about society in Vannes, of the excellent social circle
in which the Padoies moved, thanks to their religious sentiments.

A puree of potatoes and a dish of pork were next served, in honor of the
guest. Then some cheese, and that was all. No coffee.

When Varajou saw that he would have to spend the evening tete-a-tete
with his sister, endure her reproaches, listen to her sermons, without
even a glass of liqueur to help him to swallow these remonstrances, he
felt that he could not stand the torture, and declared that he was
obliged to go to the police station to have something attended to
regarding his leave of absence. And he made his escape at seven o'clock.

He had scarcely reached the street before he gave himself a shake like a
dog coming out of the water. He muttered:

“Heavens, heavens, heavens, what a galley slave's life!”

And he set out to look for a cafe, the best in the town. He found it on
a public square, behind two gas lamps. Inside the cafe, five or six men,
semi-gentlemen, and not noisy, were drinking and chatting quietly,
leaning their elbows on the small tables, while two billiard players
walked round the green baize, where the balls were hitting each other as
they rolled.

One heard them counting:

“Eighteen-nineteen. No luck. Oh, that's a good stroke! Well played!
Eleven. You should have played on the red. Twenty. Froze! Froze! Twelve.
Ha! Wasn't I right?”

Varajou ordered:

“A demi-tasse and a small decanter of brandy, the best.” Then he sat
down and waited for it.

He was accustomed to spending his evenings off duty with his companions,
amid noise and the smoke of pipes. This silence, this quiet, exasperated
him. He began to drink; first the coffee, then the brandy, and asked for
another decanter. He now wanted to laugh, to shout, to sing, to fight
some one. He said to himself:

“Gee, I am half full. I must go and have a good time.”

And he thought he would go and look for some girls to amuse him. He
called the waiter:

“Hey, waiter.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Tell me, where does one amuse oneself here?”

The man looked stupid, and replied:

“I do not know, sir. Here, I suppose!”

“How do you mean here? What do you call amusing oneself, yourself?”

“I do not know, sir, drinking good beer or good wine.”

“Ah, go away, dummy, how about the girls?”

“The girls, ah! ah!”

“Yes, the girls, where can one find any here?”

“Girls?”

“Why, yes, girls!”

The boy approached and lowering his voice, said: “You want to know where
they live?”

“Why, yes, the devil!”

“You take the second street to the left and then the first to the right.
It is number fifteen.”

“Thank you, old man. There is something for you.”

“Thank you, sir.”

And Varajou went out of the cafe, repeating, “Second to the left, first
to the right, number 15.” But at the end of a few seconds he thought,
“second to the left yes. But on leaving the cafe must I walk to the
right or the left? Bah, it cannot be helped, we shall see.”

And he walked on, turned down the second street to the left, then the
first to the right and looked for number 15. It was a nice looking
house, and one could see behind the closed blinds that the windows were
lighted up on the first floor. The hall door was left partly open, and a
lamp was burning in the vestibule. The non-commissioned officer thought
to himself:

“This looks all right.”

He went in and, as no one appeared, he called out:

“Hallo there, hallo!”

A little maid appeared and looked astonished at seeing a soldier. He
said:

“Good-morning, my child. Are the ladies upstairs?”

“Yes, sir.”

“In the parlor?”

“Yes, sir.”

“May I go up?”

“Yes, sir.”

“The door opposite the stairs?”

“Yes, sir.”

He ascended the stairs, opened a door and saw sitting in a room well
lighted up by two lamps, a chandelier, and two candelabras with candles
in them, four ladies in evening dress, apparently expecting some one.

Three of them, the younger ones, remained seated, with rather a formal
air, on some crimson velvet chairs; while the fourth, who was about
forty-five, was arranging some flowers in a vase. She was very stout,
and wore a green silk dress with low neck and short sleeves, allowing
her red neck, covered with powder, to escape as a huge flower might from
its corolla.

The officer saluted them, saying:

“Good-day, ladies.”

The older woman turned round, appeared surprised, but bowed.

“Good-morning, sir.”

He sat down. But seeing that they did not welcome him eagerly, he
thought that possibly only commissioned officers were admitted to the
house, and this made him uneasy. But he said:

“Bah, if one comes in, we can soon tell.”

He then remarked:

“Are you all well?”

The large lady, no doubt the mistress of the house, replied:

“Very well, thank you!”

He could think of nothing else to say, and they were all silent. But at
last, being ashamed of his bashfulness, and with an awkward laugh, he
said:

“Do not people have any amusement in this country? I will pay for a
bottle of wine.”

He had not finished his sentence when the door opened, and in walked
Padoie dressed in a black suit.

Varajou gave a shout of joy, and rising from his seat, he rushed at his
brother-in-law, put his arms round him and waltzed him round the room,
shouting:

“Here is Padoie! Here is Padoie! Here is Padoie!”

Then letting go of the tax collector he exclaimed as he looked him in
the face:

“Oh, oh, oh, you scamp, you scamp! You are out for a good time, too. Oh,
you scamp! And my sister! Are you tired of her, say?”

As he thought of all that he might gain through this unexpected
situation, the forced loan, the inevitable blackmail, he flung himself
on the lounge and laughed so heartily that the piece of furniture
creaked all over.

The three young ladies, rising simultaneously, made their escape, while
the older woman retreated to the door looking as though she were about
to faint.

And then two gentlemen appeared in evening dress, and wearing the ribbon
of an order. Padoie rushed up to them.

“Oh, judge—he is crazy, he is crazy. He was sent to us as a
convalescent. You can see that he is crazy.”

Varajou was sitting up now, and not being able to understand it all, he
guessed that he had committed some monstrous folly. Then he rose, and
turning to his brother-in-law, said:

“What house is this?”

But Padoie, becoming suddenly furious, stammered out:

“What house—what—what house is this? Wretch—scoundrel—villain—what
house, indeed? The house of the judge—of the judge of the Supreme
Court—of the Supreme Court—of the Supreme Court—Oh, oh—rascal!
—rascal!—rascal!”





THE DIAMOND NECKLACE

The girl was one of those pretty and charming young creatures who
sometimes are born, as if by a slip of fate, into a family of clerks.
She had no dowry, no expectations, no way of being known, understood,
loved, married by any rich and distinguished man; so she let herself be
married to a little clerk of the Ministry of Public Instruction.

She dressed plainly because she could not dress well, but she was
unhappy as if she had really fallen from a higher station; since with
women there is neither caste nor rank, for beauty, grace and charm take
the place of family and birth. Natural ingenuity, instinct for what is
elegant, a supple mind are their sole hierarchy, and often make of women
of the people the equals of the very greatest ladies.

Mathilde suffered ceaselessly, feeling herself born to enjoy all
delicacies and all luxuries. She was distressed at the poverty of her
dwelling, at the bareness of the walls, at the shabby chairs, the
ugliness of the curtains. All those things, of which another woman of
her rank would never even have been conscious, tortured her and made her
angry. The sight of the little Breton peasant who did her humble
housework aroused in her despairing regrets and bewildering dreams. She
thought of silent antechambers hung with Oriental tapestry, illumined by
tall bronze candelabra, and of two great footmen in knee breeches who
sleep in the big armchairs, made drowsy by the oppressive heat of the
stove. She thought of long reception halls hung with ancient silk, of
the dainty cabinets containing priceless curiosities and of the little
coquettish perfumed reception rooms made for chatting at five o'clock
with intimate friends, with men famous and sought after, whom all women
envy and whose attention they all desire.

When she sat down to dinner, before the round table covered with a
tablecloth in use three days, opposite her husband, who uncovered the
soup tureen and declared with a delighted air, “Ah, the good soup! I
don't know anything better than that,” she thought of dainty dinners, of
shining silverware, of tapestry that peopled the walls with ancient
personages and with strange birds flying in the midst of a fairy forest;
and she thought of delicious dishes served on marvellous plates and of
the whispered gallantries to which you listen with a sphinxlike smile
while you are eating the pink meat of a trout or the wings of a quail.

She had no gowns, no jewels, nothing. And she loved nothing but that.
She felt made for that. She would have liked so much to please, to be
envied, to be charming, to be sought after.

She had a friend, a former schoolmate at the convent, who was rich, and
whom she did not like to go to see any more because she felt so sad when
she came home.

But one evening her husband reached home with a triumphant air and
holding a large envelope in his hand.

“There,” said he, “there is something for you.”

She tore the paper quickly and drew out a printed card which bore these
words:

The Minister of Public Instruction and Madame Georges Ramponneau request
the honor of M. and Madame Loisel's company at the palace of the
Ministry on Monday evening, January 18th.

Instead of being delighted, as her husband had hoped, she threw the
invitation on the table crossly, muttering:

“What do you wish me to do with that?”

“Why, my dear, I thought you would be glad. You never go out, and this
is such a fine opportunity. I had great trouble to get it. Every one
wants to go; it is very select, and they are not giving many invitations
to clerks. The whole official world will be there.”

She looked at him with an irritated glance and said impatiently:

“And what do you wish me to put on my back?”

He had not thought of that. He stammered:

“Why, the gown you go to the theatre in. It looks very well to me.”

He stopped, distracted, seeing that his wife was weeping. Two great
tears ran slowly from the corners of her eyes toward the corners of her
mouth.

“What's the matter? What's the matter?” he answered.

By a violent effort she conquered her grief and replied in a calm voice,
while she wiped her wet cheeks:

“Nothing. Only I have no gown, and, therefore, I can't go to this ball.
Give your card to some colleague whose wife is better equipped than I
am.”

He was in despair. He resumed:

“Come, let us see, Mathilde. How much would it cost, a suitable gown,
which you could use on other occasions—something very simple?”

She reflected several seconds, making her calculations and wondering
also what sum she could ask without drawing on herself an immediate
refusal and a frightened exclamation from the economical clerk.

Finally she replied hesitating:

“I don't know exactly, but I think I could manage it with four hundred
francs.”

He grew a little pale, because he was laying aside just that amount to
buy a gun and treat himself to a little shooting next summer on the
plain of Nanterre, with several friends who went to shoot larks there of
a Sunday.

But he said:

“Very well. I will give you four hundred francs. And try to have a
pretty gown.”

The day of the ball drew near and Madame Loisel seemed sad, uneasy,
anxious. Her frock was ready, however. Her husband said to her one
evening:

“What is the matter? Come, you have seemed very queer these last three
days.”

And she answered:

“It annoys me not to have a single piece of jewelry, not a single
ornament, nothing to put on. I shall look poverty-stricken. I would
almost rather not go at all.”

“You might wear natural flowers,” said her husband. “They're very
stylish at this time of year. For ten francs you can get two or three
magnificent roses.”

She was not convinced.

“No; there's nothing more humiliating than to look poor among other
women who are rich.”

“How stupid you are!” her husband cried. “Go look up your friend, Madame
Forestier, and ask her to lend you some jewels. You're intimate enough
with her to do that.”

She uttered a cry of joy:

“True! I never thought of it.”

The next day she went to her friend and told her of her distress.

Madame Forestier went to a wardrobe with a mirror, took out a large
jewel box, brought it back, opened it and said to Madame Loisel:

“Choose, my dear.”

She saw first some bracelets, then a pearl necklace, then a Venetian
gold cross set with precious stones, of admirable workmanship. She tried
on the ornaments before the mirror, hesitated and could not make up her
mind to part with them, to give them back. She kept asking:

“Haven't you any more?”

“Why, yes. Look further; I don't know what you like.”

Suddenly she discovered, in a black satin box, a superb diamond
necklace, and her heart throbbed with an immoderate desire. Her hands
trembled as she took it. She fastened it round her throat, outside her
high-necked waist, and was lost in ecstasy at her reflection in the
mirror.

Then she asked, hesitating, filled with anxious doubt:

“Will you lend me this, only this?”

“Why, yes, certainly.”

She threw her arms round her friend's neck, kissed her passionately,
then fled with her treasure.

The night of the ball arrived. Madame Loisel was a great success. She
was prettier than any other woman present, elegant, graceful, smiling
and wild with joy. All the men looked at her, asked her name, sought to
be introduced. All the attaches of the Cabinet wished to waltz with her.
She was remarked by the minister himself.

She danced with rapture, with passion, intoxicated by pleasure,
forgetting all in the triumph of her beauty, in the glory of her
success, in a sort of cloud of happiness comprised of all this homage,
admiration, these awakened desires and of that sense of triumph which is
so sweet to woman's heart.

She left the ball about four o'clock in the morning. Her husband had
been sleeping since midnight in a little deserted anteroom with three
other gentlemen whose wives were enjoying the ball.

He threw over her shoulders the wraps he had brought, the modest wraps
of common life, the poverty of which contrasted with the elegance of the
ball dress. She felt this and wished to escape so as not to be remarked
by the other women, who were enveloping themselves in costly furs.

Loisel held her back, saying: “Wait a bit. You will catch cold outside.
I will call a cab.”

But she did not listen to him and rapidly descended the stairs. When
they reached the street they could not find a carriage and began to look
for one, shouting after the cabmen passing at a distance.

They went toward the Seine in despair, shivering with cold. At last they
found on the quay one of those ancient night cabs which, as though they
were ashamed to show their shabbiness during the day, are never seen
round Paris until after dark.

It took them to their dwelling in the Rue des Martyrs, and sadly they
mounted the stairs to their flat. All was ended for her. As to him, he
reflected that he must be at the ministry at ten o'clock that morning.

She removed her wraps before the glass so as to see herself once more in
all her glory. But suddenly she uttered a cry. She no longer had the
necklace around her neck!

“What is the matter with you?” demanded her husband, already half
undressed.

She turned distractedly toward him.

“I have—I have—I've lost Madame Forestier's necklace,” she cried.

He stood up, bewildered.

“What!—how? Impossible!”

They looked among the folds of her skirt, of her cloak, in her pockets,
everywhere, but did not find it.

“You're sure you had it on when you left the ball?” he asked.

“Yes, I felt it in the vestibule of the minister's house.”

“But if you had lost it in the street we should have heard it fall. It
must be in the cab.”

“Yes, probably. Did you take his number?”

“No. And you—didn't you notice it?”

“No.”

They looked, thunderstruck, at each other. At last Loisel put on his
clothes.

“I shall go back on foot,” said he, “over the whole route, to see
whether I can find it.”

He went out. She sat waiting on a chair in her ball dress, without
strength to go to bed, overwhelmed, without any fire, without a thought.

Her husband returned about seven o'clock. He had found nothing.

He went to police headquarters, to the newspaper offices to offer a
reward; he went to the cab companies—everywhere, in fact, whither he was
urged by the least spark of hope.

She waited all day, in the same condition of mad fear before this
terrible calamity.

Loisel returned at night with a hollow, pale face. He had discovered
nothing.

“You must write to your friend,” said he, “that you have broken the
clasp of her necklace and that you are having it mended. That will give
us time to turn round.”

She wrote at his dictation.

At the end of a week they had lost all hope. Loisel, who had aged five
years, declared:

“We must consider how to replace that ornament.”

The next day they took the box that had contained it and went to the
jeweler whose name was found within. He consulted his books.

“It was not I, madame, who sold that necklace; I must simply have
furnished the case.”

Then they went from jeweler to jeweler, searching for a necklace like
the other, trying to recall it, both sick with chagrin and grief.

They found, in a shop at the Palais Royal, a string of diamonds that
seemed to them exactly like the one they had lost. It was worth forty
thousand francs. They could have it for thirty-six.

So they begged the jeweler not to sell it for three days yet. And they
made a bargain that he should buy it back for thirty-four thousand
francs, in case they should find the lost necklace before the end of
February.

Loisel possessed eighteen thousand francs which his father had left him.
He would borrow the rest.

He did borrow, asking a thousand francs of one, five hundred of another,
five louis here, three louis there. He gave notes, took up ruinous
obligations, dealt with usurers and all the race of lenders. He
compromised all the rest of his life, risked signing a note without even
knowing whether he could meet it; and, frightened by the trouble yet to
come, by the black misery that was about to fall upon him, by the
prospect of all the physical privations and moral tortures that he was
to suffer, he went to get the new necklace, laying upon the jeweler's
counter thirty-six thousand francs.

When Madame Loisel took back the necklace Madame Forestier said to her
with a chilly manner:

“You should have returned it sooner; I might have needed it.”

She did not open the case, as her friend had so much feared. If she had
detected the substitution, what would she have thought, what would she
have said? Would she not have taken Madame Loisel for a thief?

Thereafter Madame Loisel knew the horrible existence of the needy. She
bore her part, however, with sudden heroism. That dreadful debt must be
paid. She would pay it. They dismissed their servant; they changed their
lodgings; they rented a garret under the roof.

She came to know what heavy housework meant and the odious cares of the
kitchen. She washed the dishes, using her dainty fingers and rosy nails
on greasy pots and pans. She washed the soiled linen, the shirts and the
dishcloths, which she dried upon a line; she carried the slops down to
the street every morning and carried up the water, stopping for breath
at every landing. And dressed like a woman of the people, she went to
the fruiterer, the grocer, the butcher, a basket on her arm, bargaining,
meeting with impertinence, defending her miserable money, sou by sou.

Every month they had to meet some notes, renew others, obtain more time.

Her husband worked evenings, making up a tradesman's accounts, and late
at night he often copied manuscript for five sous a page.

This life lasted ten years.

At the end of ten years they had paid everything, everything, with the
rates of usury and the accumulations of the compound interest.

Madame Loisel looked old now. She had become the woman of impoverished
households—strong and hard and rough. With frowsy hair, skirts askew and
red hands, she talked loud while washing the floor with great swishes of
water. But sometimes, when her husband was at the office, she sat down
near the window and she thought of that gay evening of long ago, of that
ball where she had been so beautiful and so admired.

What would have happened if she had not lost that necklace? Who knows?
who knows? How strange and changeful is life! How small a thing is
needed to make or ruin us!

But one Sunday, having gone to take a walk in the Champs Elysees to
refresh herself after the labors of the week, she suddenly perceived a
woman who was leading a child. It was Madame Forestier, still young,
still beautiful, still charming.

Madame Loisel felt moved. Should she speak to her? Yes, certainly. And
now that she had paid, she would tell her all about it. Why not?

She went up.

“Good-day, Jeanne.”

The other, astonished to be familiarly addressed by this plain good-
wife, did not recognize her at all and stammered:

“But—madame!—I do not know—You must have mistaken.”

“No. I am Mathilde Loisel.”

Her friend uttered a cry.

“Oh, my poor Mathilde! How you are changed!”

“Yes, I have had a pretty hard life, since I last saw you, and great
poverty—and that because of you!”

“Of me! How so?”

“Do you remember that diamond necklace you lent me to wear at the
ministerial ball?”

“Yes. Well?”

“Well, I lost it.”

“What do you mean? You brought it back.”

“I brought you back another exactly like it. And it has taken us ten
years to pay for it. You can understand that it was not easy for us, for
us who had nothing. At last it is ended, and I am very glad.”

Madame Forestier had stopped.

“You say that you bought a necklace of diamonds to replace mine?”

“Yes. You never noticed it, then! They were very similar.”

And she smiled with a joy that was at once proud and ingenuous.

Madame Forestier, deeply moved, took her hands.

“Oh, my poor Mathilde! Why, my necklace was paste! It was worth at most
only five hundred francs!”





THE MARQUIS DE FUMEROL

Roger de Tourneville was whiffing a cigar and blowing out small clouds
of smoke every now and then, as he sat astride a chair amid a party of
friends. He was talking.

“We were at dinner when a letter was brought in which my father opened.
You know my father, who thinks that he is king of France ad interim. I
call him Don Quixote, because for twelve years he has been running a
tilt against the windmill of the Republic, without quite knowing whether
it was in the cause of the Bourbons or the Orleanists. At present he is
bearing the lance in the cause of the Orleanists alone, because there is
no one else left. In any case, he thinks himself the first gentleman of
France, the best known, the most influential, the head of the party; and
as he is an irremovable senator, he thinks that the thrones of the
neighboring kings are very insecure.

“As for my mother, she is my father's soul, she is the soul of the
kingdom and of religion, and the scourge of all evil-thinkers.

“Well, a letter was brought in while we were at dinner, and my father
opened and read it, and then he said to mother: 'Your brother is dying.'
She grew very pale. My uncle was scarcely ever mentioned in the house,
and I did not know him at all; all I knew from public talk was, that he
had led, and was still leading, a gay life. After having spent his
fortune in fast living, he was now in small apartments in the Rue des
Martyrs.

“An ancient peer of France and former colonel of cavalry, it was said
that he believed in neither God nor devil. Not believing, therefore, in
a future life he had abused the present life in every way, and had
become a live wound in my mother's heart.

“'Give me that letter, Paul,' she said, and when she read it, I asked
for it in my turn. Here it is:

'Monsieur le Comte, I think I ought to let you know that your brother-
in-law, the Comte Fumerol, is going to die. Perhaps you would like to
make some arrangements, and do not forget I told you. Your servant,
'MELANIE.'

“'We must take counsel,' papa murmured. 'In my position, I ought to
watch over your brother's last moments.'

“Mamma continued: 'I will send for Abbe Poivron and ask his advice, and
then I will go to my brother with the abbe and Roger. Remain here, Paul,
for you must not compromise yourself; but a woman can, and ought to do
these things. For a politician in your position, it is another matter.
It would be a fine thing for one of your opponents to be able to bring
one of your most laudable actions up against you.' 'You are right,' my
father said. 'Do as you think best, my dear wife.'

“A quarter of an hour, later, the Abbe Poivron came into the drawing-
room, and the situation was explained to him, analyzed and discussed in
all its bearings. If the Marquis de Fumerol, one of the greatest names
in France, were to die without the ministrations of religion, it would
assuredly be a terrible blow to the nobility in general, and to the
Count de Tourneville in particular, and the freethinkers would be
triumphant. The liberal newspapers would sing songs of victory for six
months; my mother's name would be dragged through the mire and brought
into the prose of Socialistic journals, and my father's name would be
smirched. It was impossible that such a thing should be.

“A crusade was therefore immediately decided upon, which was to be led
by the Abbe Poivron, a little, fat, clean, priest with a faint perfume
about him, a true vicar of a large church in a noble and rich quarter.

“The landau was ordered and we all three set out, my mother, the cure
and I, to administer the last sacraments to my uncle.

“It had been decided first of all we should see Madame Melanie who had
written the letter, and who was most likely the porter's wife, or my
uncle's servant, and I dismounted, as an advance guard, in front of a
seven-story house and went into a dark passage, where I had great
difficulty in finding the porter's den. He looked at me distrustfully,
and I said:

“'Madame Melanie, if you please.' 'Don't know her!' 'But I have received
a letter from her.' 'That may be, but I don't know her. Are you asking
for a lodger?' 'No, a servant probably. She wrote me about a place.' 'A
servant?—a servant? Perhaps it is the marquis'. Go and see, the fifth
story on the left.'

“As soon as he found I was not asking for a doubtful character he became
more friendly and came as far as the corridor with me. He was a tall,
thin man with white whiskers, the manners of a beadle and majestic
gestures.

“I climbed up a long spiral staircase, the railing of which I did not
venture to touch, and I gave three discreet knocks at the left-hand door
on the fifth story. It opened immediately, and an enormous dirty woman
appeared before me. She barred the entrance with her extended arms which
she placed against the two doorposts, and growled:

“'What do you want?' 'Are you Madame Melanie?' 'Yes.' 'I am the Visconte
de Tourneville.' 'Ah! All right! Come in.' 'Well, the fact is, my mother
is downstairs with a priest.' 'Oh! All right; go and bring them up; but
be careful of the porter.'

“I went downstairs and came up again with my mother, who was followed by
the abbe, and I fancied that I heard other footsteps behind us. As soon
as we were in the kitchen, Melanie offered us chairs, and we all four
sat down to deliberate.

“'Is he very ill?' my mother asked. 'Oh! yes, madame; he will not be
here long.' 'Does he seem disposed to receive a visit from a priest?'
'Oh! I do not think so.' 'Can I see him?' 'Well—yes madame—only
—only—those young ladies are with him.' 'What young ladies?'
'Why—why—his lady friends, of course.' 'Oh!' Mamma had grown scarlet,
and the Abbe Poivron had lowered his eyes.

“The affair began to amuse me, and I said: 'Suppose I go in first? I
shall see how he receives me, and perhaps I shall be able to prepare him
to receive you.'

“My mother, who did not suspect any trick, replied: 'Yes, go, my dear.'
But a woman's voice cried out: 'Melanie!'

“The servant ran out and said: 'What do you want, Mademoiselle Claire?'
'The omelette; quickly.' 'In a minute, mademoiselle.' And coming back to
us, she explained this summons.

“They had ordered a cheese omelette at two o'clock as a slight
collation. And she at once began to break the eggs into a salad bowl,
and to whip them vigorously, while I went out on the landing and pulled
the bell, so as to formally announce my arrival. Melanie opened the door
to me, and made me sit down in an ante-room, while she went to tell my
uncle that I had come; then she came back and asked me to go in, while
the abbe hid behind the door, so that he might appear at the first
signal.

“I was certainly very much surprised at the sight of my uncle, for he
was very handsome, very solemn and very elegant, the old rake.

“Sitting, almost lying, in a large armchair, his legs wrapped in
blankets, his hands, his long, white hands, over the arms of the chair,
he was waiting for death with the dignity of a patriarch. His white
beard fell on his chest, and his hair, which was also white, mingled
with it on his cheeks.

“Standing behind his armchair, as if to defend him against me, were two
young women, who looked at me with bold eyes. In their petticoats and
morning wrappers, with bare arms, with coal black hair twisted in a knot
on the nape of their neck, with embroidered, Oriental slippers, which
showed their ankles and silk stockings, they looked like the figures in
some symbolical painting, by the side of the dying man. Between the
easy-chair and the bed, there was a table covered with a white cloth, on
which two plates, two glasses, two forks and two knives, were waiting
for the cheese omelette which had been ordered some time before of
Melanie.

“My uncle said in a weak, almost breathless, but clear voice:

“'Good-morning, my child; it is rather late in the day to come and see
me; our acquaintanceship will not last long.' I stammered out, 'It was
not my fault, uncle:' 'No; I know that,' he replied. 'It is your father
and mother's fault more than yours. How are they?' 'Pretty well, thank
you. When they heard that you were ill, they sent me to ask after you.'
'Ah! Why did they not come themselves?'

“I looked up at the two girls and said gently: 'It is not their fault if
they could not come, uncle. But it would be difficult for my father, and
impossible for my mother to come in here.' The old man did not reply,
but raised his hand toward mine, and I took the pale, cold hand and held
it in my own.

“The door opened, Melanie came in with the omelette and put it on the
table, and the two girls immediately sat down at the table, and began to
eat without taking their eyes off me. Then I said: 'Uncle, it would give
great pleasure to my mother to embrace you.' 'I also,' he murmured,
'should like——' He said no more, and I could think of nothing to propose
to him, and there was silence except for the noise of the plates and
that vague sound of eating.

“Now, the abbe, who was listening behind the door, seeing our
embarrassment, and thinking we had won the game, thought the time had
come to interpose, and showed himself. My uncle was so stupefied at
sight of him that at first he remained motionless; and then he opened
his mouth as if he meant to swallow up the priest, and shouted to him in
a strong, deep, furious voice: 'What are you doing here?'

“The abbe, who was used to difficult situations, came forward into the
room, murmuring: 'I have come in your sister's name, Monsieur le
Marquis; she has sent me. She would be happy, monsieur—'

“But the marquis was not listening. Raising one hand, he pointed to the
door with a proud, tragic gesture, and said angrily and breathing hard:
'Leave this room—go out—robber of souls. Go out from here, you violator
of consciences. Go out from here, you pick-lock of dying men's doors!'

“The abbe retreated, and I also went to the door, beating a retreat with
the priest; the two young women, who had the best of it, got up, leaving
their omelette only half eaten, and went and stood on either side of my
uncle's easy-chair, putting their hands on his arms to calm him, and to
protect him against the criminal enterprises of the Family, and of
Religion.

“The abbe and I rejoined my mother in the kitchen, and Melanie again
offered us chairs. 'I knew quite well that this method would not work;
we must try some other means, otherwise he will escape us.' And they
began deliberating afresh, my mother being of one opinion and the abbe
of another, while I held a third.

“We had been discussing the matter in a low voice for half an hour,
perhaps, when a great noise of furniture being moved and of cries
uttered by my uncle, more vehement and terrible even than the former had
been, made us all four jump up.

“Through the doors and walls we could hear him shouting: 'Go out—out
—rascals—humbugs, get out, scoundrels—get out—get out!'

“Melanie rushed in, but came back immediately to call me to help her,
and I hastened in. Opposite to my uncle, who was terribly excited by
anger, almost standing up and vociferating, stood two men, one behind
the other, who seemed to be waiting till he should be dead with rage.

“By his ridiculous long coat, his long English shoes, his manners of a
tutor out of a position, his high collar, white necktie and straight
hair, his humble face of a false priest of a bastard religion, I
immediately recognized the first as a Protestant minister.

“The second was the porter of the house, who belonged to the reformed
religion and had followed us, and having seen our defeat, had gone to
fetch his own pastor, in hopes that he might meet a better reception. My
uncle seemed mad with rage! If the sight of the Catholic priest, of the
priest of his ancestors, had irritated the Marquis de Fumerol, who had
become a freethinker, the sight of his porter's minister made him
altogether beside himself. I therefore took the two men by the arm and
threw them out of the room so roughly that they bumped against each
other twice, between the two doors which led to the staircase; and then
I disappeared in my turn and returned to the kitchen, which was our
headquarters in order to take counsel with my mother and the abbe.

“But Melanie came back in terror, sobbing out:

“'He is dying—he is dying—come immediately—he is dying.'

“My mother rushed out. My uncle had fallen to the ground, and lay full
length along the floor, without moving. I fancy he was already dead. My
mother was superb at that moment! She went straight up to the two girls
who were kneeling by the body and trying to raise it up, and pointing to
the door with irresistible authority, dignity and majesty, she said:
'Now it is time for you to leave the room.'

“And they went out without a word of protest. I must add, that I was
getting ready to turn them out as unceremoniously as I had done the
parson and the porter.

“Then the Abbe Poivron administered the last sacraments to my uncle with
all the customary prayers, and remitted all his sins, while my mother
sobbed as she knelt near her brother. Suddenly, however, she exclaimed:
'He recognized me; he pressed my hand; I am sure he recognized me!!!—and
that he thanked me! Oh, God, what happiness!'

“Poor mamma! If she had known or guessed for whom those thanks were
intended!

“They laid my uncle on his bed; he was certainly dead this time.

“'Madame,' Melanie said, 'we have no sheets to bury him in; all the
linen belongs to these two young ladies,' and when I looked at the
omelette which they had not finished, I felt inclined to laugh and to
cry at the same time. There are some humorous moments and some humorous
situations in life, occasionally!

“We gave my uncle a magnificent funeral, with five speeches at the
grave. Baron de Croiselles, the senator, showed in admirable terms that
God always returns victorious into well-born souls which have
temporarily been led into error. All the members of the Royalist and
Catholic party followed the funeral procession with the enthusiasm of
victors, as they spoke of that beautiful death after a somewhat
troublous life.”

Viscount Roger ceased speaking; his audience was laughing. Then somebody
said: “Bah! That is the story of all conversions in extremis.”





THE TRIP OF LE HORLA

On the morning of July 8th I received the following telegram: “Fine day.
Always my predictions. Belgian frontier. Baggage and servants left at
noon at the social session. Beginning of manoeuvres at three. So I will
wait for you at the works from five o'clock on. Jovis.”

At five o'clock sharp I entered the gas works of La Villette. It might
have been mistaken for the colossal ruins of an old town inhabited by
Cyclops. There were immense dark avenues separating heavy gasometers
standing one behind another, like monstrous columns, unequally high and,
undoubtedly, in the past the supports of some tremendous, some fearful
iron edifice.

The balloon was lying in the courtyard and had the appearance of a cake
made of yellow cloth, flattened on the ground under a rope. That is
called placing a balloon in a sweep-net, and, in fact, it appeared like
an enormous fish.

Two or three hundred people were looking at it, sitting or standing, and
some were examining the basket, a nice little square basket for a human
cargo, bearing on its side in gold letters on a mahogany plate the
words: Le Horla.

Suddenly the people began to stand back, for the gas was beginning to
enter into the balloon through a long tube of yellow cloth, which lay on
the soil, swelling and undulating like an enormous worm. But another
thought, another picture occurs to every mind. It is thus that nature
itself nourishes beings until their birth. The creature that will rise
soon begins to move, and the attendants of Captain Jovis, as Le Horla
grew larger, spread and put in place the net which covers it, so that
the pressure will be regular and equally distributed at every point.

The operation is very delicate and very important, for the resistance of
the cotton cloth of which the balloon is made is figured not in
proportion to the contact surface of this cloth with the net, but in
proportion to the links of the basket.

Le Horla, moreover, has been designed by M. Mallet, constructed under
his own eyes and made by himself. Everything had been made in the shops
of M. Jovis by his own working staff and nothing was made outside.

We must add that everything was new in this balloon, from the varnish to
the valve, those two essential parts of a balloon. Both must render the
cloth gas-proof, as the sides of a ship are waterproof. The old
varnishes, made with a base of linseed oil, sometimes fermented and thus
burned the cloth, which in a short time would tear like a piece of
paper.

The valves were apt to close imperfectly after being opened and when the
covering called “cataplasme” was injured. The fall of M. L'Hoste in the
open sea during the night proved the imperfection of the old system.

The two discoveries of Captain Jovis, the varnish principally, are of
inestimable value in the art of ballooning.

The crowd has begun to talk, and some men, who appear to be specialists,
affirm with authority that we shall come down before reaching the
fortifications. Several other things have been criticized in this novel
type of balloon with which we are about to experiment with so much
pleasure and success.

It is growing slowly but surely. Some small holes and scratches made in
transit have been discovered, and we cover them and plug them with a
little piece of paper applied on the cloth while wet. This method of
repairing alarms and mystifies the public.

While Captain Jovis and his assistants are busy with the last details,
the travellers go to dine in the canteen of the gas-works, according to
the established custom.

When we come out again the balloon is swaying, enormous and transparent,
a prodigious golden fruit, a fantastic pear which is still ripening,
covered by the last rays of the setting sun. Now the basket is attached,
the barometers are brought, the siren, which we will blow to our hearts'
content, is also brought, also the two trumpets, the eatables, the
overcoats and raincoats, all the small articles that can go with the men
in that flying basket.

As the wind pushes the balloon against the gasometers, it is necessary
to steady it now and then, to avoid an accident at the start.

Captain Jovis is now ready and calls all the passengers.

Lieutenant Mallet jumps aboard, climbing first on the aerial net between
the basket and the balloon, from which he will watch during the night
the movements of Le Horla across the skies, as the officer on watch,
standing on starboard, watches the course of a ship.

M. Etierine Beer gets in after him, then comes M. Paul Bessand, then M.
Patrice Eyries and I get in last.

But the basket is too heavy for the balloon, considering the long trip
to be taken, and M. Eyries has to get out, not without great regret.

M. Joliet, standing erect on the edge of the basket, begs the ladies, in
very gallant terms, to stand aside a little, for he is afraid he might
throw sand on their hats in rising. Then he commands:

“Let it loose,” and, cutting with one stroke of his knife the ropes that
hold the balloon to the ground, he gives Le Horla its liberty.

In one second we fly skyward. Nothing can be heard; we float, we rise,
we fly, we glide. Our friends shout with glee and applaud, but we hardly
hear them, we hardly see them. We are already so far, so high! What? Are
we really leaving these people down there? Is it possible? Paris spreads
out beneath us, a dark bluish patch, cut by its streets, from which
rise, here and there, domes, towers, steeples, then around it the plain,
the country, traversed by long roads, thin and white, amidst green
fields of a tender or dark green, and woods almost black.

The Seine appears like a coiled snake, asleep, of which we see neither
head nor tail; it crosses Paris, and the entire field resembles an
immense basin of prairies and forests dotted here and there by
mountains, hardly visible in the horizon.

The sun, which we could no longer see down below, now reappears as
though it were about to rise again, and our balloon seems to be lighted;
it must appear like a star to the people who are looking up. M. Mallet
every few seconds throws a cigarette paper intospace and says quietly:
“We are rising, always rising,” while Captain Jovis, radiant with joy,
rubs his hands together and repeats: “Eh? this varnish? Isn't it good?”

In fact, we can see whether we are rising or sinking only by throwing a
cigarette paper out of the basket now and then. If this paper appears to
fall down like a stone, it means that the balloon is rising; if it
appears to shoot skyward the balloon is descending.

The two barometers mark about five hundred meters, and we gaze with
enthusiastic admiration at the earth we are leaving and to which we are
not attached in any way; it looks like a colored map, an immense plan of
the country. All its noises, however, rise to our ears very distinctly,
easily recognizable. We hear the sound of the wheels rolling in the
streets, the snap of a whip, the cries of drivers, the rolling and
whistling of trains and the laughter of small boys running after one
another. Every time we pass over a village the noise of children's
voices is heard above the rest and with the greatest distinctness. Some
men are calling us; the locomotives whistle; we answer with the siren,
which emits plaintive, fearfully shrill wails like the voice of a weird
being wandering through the world.

We perceive lights here and there, some isolated fire in the farms, and
lines of gas in the towns. We are going toward the northwest, after
roaming for some time over the little lake of Enghien. Now we see a
river; it is the Oise, and we begin to argue about the exact spot we are
passing. Is that town Creil or Pontoise—the one with so many lights? But
if we were over Pontoise we could see the junction of the Seine and the
Oise; and that enormous fire to the left, isn't it the blast furnaces of
Montataire? So then we are above Creil. The view is superb; it is dark
on the earth, but we are still in the light, and it is now past ten
o'clock. Now we begin to hear slight country noises, the double cry of
the quail in particular, then the mewing of cats and the barking of
dogs. Surely the dogs have scented the balloon; they have seen it and
have given the alarm. We can hear them barking all over the plain and
making the identical noise they make when baying at the moon. The cows
also seem to wake up in the barns, for we can hear them lowing; all the
beasts are scared and moved before the aerial monster that is passing.

The delicious odors of the soil rise toward us, the smell of hay, of
flowers, of the moist, verdant earth, perfuming the air-a light air, in
fact, so light, so sweet, so delightful that I realize I never was so
fortunate as to breathe before. A profound sense of well-being, unknown
to me heretofore, pervades me, a well-being of body and spirit, composed
of supineness, of infinite rest, of forgetfulness, of indifference to
everything and of this novel sensation of traversing space without any
of the sensations that make motion unbearable, without noise, without
shocks and without fear.

At times we rise and then descend. Every few minutes Lieutenant Mallet,
suspended in his cobweb of netting, says to Captain Jovis: “We are
descending; throw down half a handful.” And the captain, who is talking
and laughing with us, with a bag of ballast between his legs, takes a
handful of sand out of the bag and throws it overboard.

Nothing is more amusing, more delicate, more interesting than the
manoeuvring of a balloon. It is an enormous toy, free and docile, which
obeys with surprising sensitiveness, but it is also, and before all, the
slave of the wind, which we cannot control. A pinch of sand, half a
sheet of paper, one or two drops of water, the bones of a chicken which
we had just eaten, thrown overboard, makes it go up quickly.

A breath of cool, damp air rising from the river or the wood we are
traversing makes the balloon descend two hundred metres. It does not
vary when passing over fields of ripe grain, and it rises when it passes
over towns.

The earth sleeps now, or, rather, men sleep on the earth, for the beasts
awakened by the sight of our balloon announce our approach everywhere.
Now and then the rolling of a train or the whistling of a locomotive is
plainly distinguishable. We sound our siren as we pass over inhabited
places; and the peasants, terrified in their beds, must surely tremble
and ask themselves if the Angel Gabriel is not passing by.

A strong and continuous odor of gas can be plainly observed. We must
have encountered a current of warm air, and the balloon expands, losing
its invisible blood by the escape-valve, which is called the appendix,
and which closes of itself as soon as the expansion ceases.

We are rising. The earth no longer gives back the echo of our trumpets;
we have risen almost two thousand feet. It is not light enough for us to
consult the instruments; we only know that the rice paper falls from us
like dead butterflies, that we are rising, always rising. We can no
longer see the earth; a light mist separates us from it; and above our
head twinkles a world of stars.

A silvery light appears before us and makes the sky turn pale, and
suddenly, as if it were rising from unknown depths behind the horizon
below us rises the moon on the edge of a cloud. It seems to be coming
from below, while we are looking down upon it from a great height,
leaning on the edge of our basket like an audience on a balcony. Clear
and round, it emerges from the clouds and slowly rises in the sky.

The earth no longer seems to exist, it is buried in milky vapors that
resemble a sea. We are now alone in space with the moon, which looks
like another balloon travelling opposite us; and our balloon, which
shines in the air, appears like another, larger moon, a world wandering
in the sky amid the stars, through infinity. We no longer speak, think
nor live; we float along through space in delicious inertia. The air
which is bearing us up has made of us all beings which resemble itself,
silent, joyous, irresponsible beings, intoxicated by this stupendous
flight, peculiarly alert, although motionless. One is no longer
conscious of one's flesh or one's bones; one's heart seems to have
ceased beating; we have become something indescribable, birds who do not
even have to flap their wings.

All memory has disappeared from our minds, all trouble from our
thoughts; we have no more regrets, plans nor hopes. We look, we feel, we
wildly enjoy this fantastic journey; nothing in the sky but the moon and
ourselves! We are a wandering, travelling world, like our sisters, the
planets; and this little world carries five men who have left the earth
and who have almost forgotten it. We can now see as plainly as in
daylight; we look at each other, surprised at this brightness, for we
have nothing to look at but ourselves and a few silvery clouds floating
below us. The barometers mark twelve hundred metres, then thirteen,
fourteen, fifteen hundred; and the little rice papers still fall about
us.

Captain Jovis claims that the moon has often made balloons act thus, and
that the upward journey will continue.

We are now at two thousand metres; we go up to two thousand three
hundred and fifty; then the balloon stops: We blow the siren and are
surprised that no one answers us from the stars.

We are now going down rapidly. M. Mallet keeps crying: “Throw out more
ballast! throw out more ballast!” And the sand and stones that we throw
over come back into our faces, as if they were going up, thrown from
below toward the stars, so rapid is our descent.

Here is the earth! Where are we? It is now past midnight, and we are
crossing a broad, dry, well-cultivated country, with many roads and well
populated.

To the right is a large city and farther away to the left is another.
But suddenly from the earth appears a bright fairy light; it disappears,
reappears and once more disappears. Jovis, intoxicated by space,
exclaims: “Look, look at this phenomenon of the moon in the water. One
can see nothing more beautiful at night!”

Nothing indeed can give one an idea of the wonderful brightness of these
spots of light which are not fire, which do not look like reflections,
which appear quickly here or there and immediately go out again. These
shining lights appear on the winding rivers at every turn, but one
hardly has time to see them as the balloon passes as quickly as the
wind.

We are now quite near the earth, and Beer exclaims:—“Look at that! What
is that running over there in the fields? Isn't it a dog?” Indeed,
something is running along the ground with great speed, and this
something seems to jump over ditches, roads, trees with such ease that
we could not understand what it might be. The captain laughed: “It is
the shadow of our balloon. It will grow as we descend.”

I distinctly hear a great noise of foundries in the distance. And,
according to the polar star, which we have been observing all night,
'and which I have so often watched and consulted from the bridge of my
little yacht on the Mediterranean, we are heading straight for Belgium.

Our siren and our two horns are continually calling. A few cries from
some truck driver or belated reveler answer us. We bellow: “Where are
we?” But the balloon is going so rapidly that the bewildered man has not
even time to answer us. The growing shadow of Le Horla, as large as a
child's ball, is fleeing before us over the fields, roads and woods. It
goes along steadily, preceding us by about a quarter of a mile; and now
I am leaning out of the basket, listening to the roaring of the wind in
the trees and across the harvest fields. I say to Captain Jovis: “How
the wind blows!”

He answers: “No, those are probably waterfalls.” I insist, sure of my
ear that knows the sound of the wind, from hearing it so often whistle
through the rigging. Then Jovis nudges me; he fears to frighten his
happy, quiet passengers, for he knows full well that a storm is pursuing
us.

At last a man manages to understand us; he answers: “Nord!” We get the
same reply from another.

Suddenly the lights of a town, which seems to be of considerable size,
appear before us. Perhaps it is Lille. As we approach it, such a
wonderful flow of fire appears below us that I think myself transported
into some fairyland where precious stones are manufactured for giants.

It seems that it is a brick factory. Here are others, two, three. The
fusing material bubbles, sparkles, throws out blue, red, yellow, green
sparks, reflections from giant diamonds, rubies, emeralds, turquoises,
sapphires, topazes. And near by are great foundries roaring like
apocalyptic lions; high chimneys belch forth their clouds of smoke and
flame, and we can hear the noise of metal striking against metal.

“Where are we?”

The voice of some joker or of a crazy person answers: “In a balloon!”

“Where are we?”

“At Lille!”

We were not mistaken. We are already out of sight of the town, and we
see Roubaix to the right, then some well-cultivated, rectangular fields,
of different colors according to the crops, some yellow, some gray or
brown. But the clouds are gathering behind us, hiding the moon, whereas
toward the east the sky is growing lighter, becoming a clear blue tinged
with red. It is dawn. It grows rapidly, now showing us all the little
details of the earth, the trains, the brooks, the cows, the goats. And
all this passes beneath us with surprising speed. One hardly has time to
notice that other fields, other meadows, other houses have already
disappeared. Cocks are crowing, but the voice of ducks drowns
everything. One might think the world to be peopled, covered with them,
they make so much noise.

The early rising peasants are waving their arms and crying to us: “Let
yourselves drop!” But we go along steadily, neither rising nor falling,
leaning over the edge of the basket and watching the world fleeing under
our feet.

Jovis sights another city far off in the distance. It approaches;
everywhere are old church spires. They are delightful, seen thus from
above. Where are we? Is this Courtrai? Is it Ghent?

We are already very near it, and we see that it is surrounded by water
and crossed in every direction by canals. One might think it a Venice of
the north. Just as we are passing so near to a church tower that our
long guy-rope almost touches it, the chimes begin to ring three o'clock.
The sweet, clear sounds rise to us from this frail roof which we have
almost touched in our wandering course. It is a charming greeting, a
friendly welcome from Holland. We answer with our siren, whose raucous
voice echoes throughout the streets.

It was Bruges. But we have hardly lost sight of it when my neighbor,
Paul Bessand, asks me: “Don't you see something over there, to the
right, in front of us? It looks like a river.”

And, indeed, far ahead of us stretches a bright highway, in the light of
the dawning day. Yes, it looks like a river, an immense river full of
islands.

“Get ready for the descent,” cried the captain. He makes M. Mallet leave
his net and return to the basket; then we pack the barometers and
everything that could be injured by possible shocks. M. Bessand
exclaims: “Look at the masts over there to the left! We are at the sea!”

Fogs had hidden it from us until then. The sea was everywhere, to the
left and opposite us, while to our right the Scheldt, which had joined
the Moselle, extended as far as the sea, its mouths vaster than a lake.

It was necessary to descend within a minute or two. The rope to the
escape-valve, which had been religiously enclosed in a little white bag
and placed in sight of all so that no one would touch it, is unrolled,
and M. Mallet holds it in his hand while Captain Jovis looks for a
favorable landing.

Behind us the thunder was rumbling and not a single bird followed our
mad flight.

“Pull!” cried Jovis.

We were passing over a canal. The basket trembled and tipped over
slightly. The guy-rope touched the tall trees on both banks. But our
speed is so great that the long rope now trailing does not seem to slow
down, and we pass with frightful rapidity over a large farm, from which
the bewildered chickens, pigeons and ducks fly away, while the cows,
cats and dogs run, terrified, toward the house.

Just one-half bag of ballast is left. Jovis throws it overboard, and Le
Horla flies lightly across the roof.

The captain once more cries: “The escape-valve!”

M. Mallet reaches for the rope and hangs to it, and we drop like an
arrow. With a slash of a knife the cord which retains the anchor is cut,
and we drag this grapple behind us, through a field of beets. Here are
the trees.

“Take care! Hold fast! Look out for your heads!”

We pass over them. Then a strong shock shakes us. The anchor has taken
hold.

“Look out! Take a good hold! Raise yourselves by your wrists. We are
going to touch ground.”

The basket does indeed strike the earth. Then it flies up again. Once
more it falls and bounds upward again, and at last it settles on the
ground, while the balloon struggles madly, like a wounded beast.

Peasants run toward us, but they do not dare approach. They were a long
time before they decided to come and deliver us, for one cannot set foot
on the ground until the bag is almost completely deflated.

Then, almost at the same time as the bewildered men, some of whom showed
their astonishment by jumping, with the wild gestures of savages, all
the cows that were grazing along the coast came toward us, surrounding
our balloon with a strange and comical circle of horns, big eyes and
blowing nostrils.

With the help of the accommodating and hospitable Belgian peasants, we
were able in a short time to pack up all our material and carry it to
the station at Heyst, where at twenty minutes past eight we took the
train for Paris.

The descent occurred at three-fifteen in the morning, preceding by only
a few seconds the torrent of rain and the blinding lightning of the
storm which had been chasing us before it.

Thanks to Captain Jovis, of whom I had heard much from my colleague,
Paul Ginisty—for both of them had fallen together and voluntarily into
the sea opposite Mentone—thanks to this brave man, we were able to see,
in a single night, from far up in the sky, the setting of the sun, the
rising of the moon and the dawn of day and to go from Paris to the mouth
of the Scheldt through the skies.

[This story appeared in “Figaro” on July 16, 1887, under the title:
“From Paris to Heyst.”]





FAREWELL!

The two friends were getting near the end of their dinner. Through the
cafe windows they could see the Boulevard, crowded with people. They
could feel the gentle breezes which are wafted over Paris on warm summer
evenings and make you feel like going out somewhere, you care not where,
under the trees, and make you dream of moonlit rivers, of fireflies and
of larks.

One of the two, Henri Simon, heaved a deep sigh and said:

“Ah! I am growing old. It's sad. Formerly, on evenings like this, I felt
full of life. Now, I only feel regrets. Life is short!”

He was perhaps forty-five years old, very bald and already growing
stout.

The other, Pierre Carnier, a trifle older, but thin and lively,
answered:

“Well, my boy, I have grown old without noticing it in the least. I have
always been merry, healthy, vigorous and all the rest. As one sees
oneself in the mirror every day, one does not realize the work of age,
for it is slow, regular, and it modifies the countenance so gently that
the changes are unnoticeable. It is for this reason alone that we do not
die of sorrow after two or three years of excitement. For we cannot
understand the alterations which time produces. In order to appreciate
them one would have to remain six months without seeing one's own face
—then, oh, what a shock!

“And the women, my friend, how I pity the poor beings! All their joy,
all their power, all their life, lies in their beauty, which lasts ten
years.

“As I said, I aged without noticing it; I thought myself practically a
youth, when I was almost fifty years old. Not feeling the slightest
infirmity, I went about, happy and peaceful.

“The revelation of my decline came to me in a simple and terrible
manner, which overwhelmed me for almost six months—then I became
resigned.

“Like all men, I have often been in love, but most especially once.

“I met her at the seashore, at Etretat, about twelve years ago, shortly
after the war. There is nothing prettier than this beach during the
morning bathing hour. It is small, shaped like a horseshoe, framed by
high white cliffs, which are pierced by strange holes called the
'Portes,' one stretching out into the ocean like the leg of a giant, the
other short and dumpy. The women gather on the narrow strip of sand in
this frame of high rocks, which they make into a gorgeous garden of
beautiful gowns. The sun beats down on the shores, on the multicolored
parasols, on the blue-green sea; and all is gay, delightful, smiling.
You sit down at the edge of the water and you watch the bathers. The
women come down, wrapped in long bath robes, which they throw off
daintily when they reach the foamy edge of the rippling waves; and they
run into the water with a rapid little step, stopping from time to time
for a delightful little thrill from the cold water, a short gasp.

“Very few stand the test of the bath. It is there that they can be
judged, from the ankle to the throat. Especially on leaving the water
are the defects revealed, although water is a powerful aid to flabby
skin.

“The first time that I saw this young woman in the water, I was
delighted, entranced. She stood the test well. There are faces whose
charms appeal to you at first glance and delight you instantly. You seem
to have found the woman whom you were born to love. I had that feeling
and that shock.

“I was introduced, and was soon smitten worse than I had ever been
before. My heart longed for her. It is a terrible yet delightful thing
thus to be dominated by a young woman. It is almost torture, and yet
infinite delight. Her look, her smile, her hair fluttering in the wind,
the little lines of her face, the slightest movement of her features,
delighted me, upset me, entranced me. She had captured me, body and
soul, by her gestures, her manners, even by her clothes, which seemed to
take on a peculiar charm as soon as she wore them. I grew tender at the
sight of her veil on some piece of furniture, her gloves thrown on a
chair. Her gowns seemed to me inimitable. Nobody had hats like hers.

“She was married, but her husband came only on Saturday, and left on
Monday. I didn't cencern myself about him, anyhow. I wasn't jealous of
him, I don't know why; never did a creature seem to me to be of less
importance in life, to attract my attention less than this man.

“But she! how I loved her! How beautiful, graceful and young she was!
She was youth, elegance, freshness itself! Never before had I felt so
strongly what a pretty, distinguished, delicate, charming, graceful
being woman is. Never before had I appreciated the seductive beauty to
be found in the curve of a cheek, the movement of a lip, the pinkness of
an ear, the shape of that foolish organ called the nose.

“This lasted three months; then I left for America, overwhelmed with
sadness. But her memory remained in me, persistent, triumphant. From far
away I was as much hers as I had been when she was near me. Years passed
by, and I did not forget her. The charming image of her person was ever
before my eyes and in my heart. And my love remained true to her, a
quiet tenderness now, something like the beloved memory of the most
beautiful and the most enchanting thing I had ever met in my life.

“Twelve years are not much in a lifetime! One does not feel them slip
by. The years follow each other gently and quickly, slowly yet rapidly,
each one is long and yet so soon over! They add up so rapidly, they
leave so few traces behind them, they disappear so completely, that,
when one turns round to look back over bygone years, one sees nothing
and yet one does not understand how one happens to be so old. It seemed
to me, really, that hardly a few months separated me from that charming
season on the sands of Etretat.

“Last spring I went to dine with some friends at Maisons-Laffitte.

“Just as the train was leaving, a big, fat lady, escorted by four little
girls, got into my car. I hardly looked at this mother hen, very big,
very round, with a face as full as the moon framed in an enormous,
beribboned hat.

“She was puffing, out of breath from having been forced to walk quickly.
The children began to chatter. I unfolded my paper and began to read.

“We had just passed Asnieres, when my neighbor suddenly turned to me and
said:

“'Excuse me, sir, but are you not Monsieur Garnier?'

“'Yes, madame.'

“Then she began to laugh, the pleased laugh of a good woman; and yet it
was sad.

“'You do not seem to recognize me.'

“I hesitated. It seemed to me that I had seen that face somewhere; but
where? when? I answered:

“'Yes—and no. I certainly know you, and yet I cannot recall your name.'

“She blushed a little:

“'Madame Julie Lefevre.'

“Never had I received such a shock. In a second it seemed to me as
though it were all over with me! I felt that a veil had been torn from
my eyes and that I was going to make a horrible and heartrending
discovery.

“So that was she! That big, fat, common woman, she! She had become the
mother of these four girls since I had last her. And these little beings
surprised me as much as their mother. They were part of her; they were
big girls, and already had a place in life. Whereas she no longer
counted, she, that marvel of dainty and charming gracefulness. It seemed
to me that I had seen her but yesterday, and this is how I found her
again! Was it possible? A poignant grief seized my heart; and also a
revolt against nature herself, an unreasoning indignation against this
brutal, infarious act of destruction.

“I looked at her, bewildered. Then I took her hand in mine, and tears
came to my eyes. I wept for her lost youth. For I did not know this fat
lady.

“She was also excited, and stammered:

“'I am greatly changed, am I not? What can you expect—everything has its
time! You see, I have become a mother, nothing but a good mother.
Farewell to the rest, that is over. Oh! I never expected you to
recognize me if we met. You, too, have changed. It took me quite a while
to be sure that I was not mistaken. Your hair is all white. Just think!
Twelve years ago! Twelve years! My oldest girl is already ten.'

“I looked at the child. And I recognized in her something of her
mother's old charm, but something as yet unformed, something which
promised for the future. And life seemed to me as swift as a passing
train.

“We had reached. Maisons-Laffitte. I kissed my old friend's hand. I had
found nothing but the most commonplace remarks. I was too much upset to
talk.

“At night, alone, at home, I stood in front of the mirror for a long
time, a very long time. And I finally remembered what I had been,
finally saw in my mind's eye my brown mustache, my black hair and the
youthful expression of my face. Now I was old. Farewell!”





THE WOLF

This is what the old Marquis d'Arville told us after St. Hubert's dinner
at the house of the Baron des Ravels.

We had killed a stag that day. The marquis was the only one of the
guests who had not taken part in this chase. He never hunted.

During that long repast we had talked about hardly anything but the
slaughter of animals. The ladies themselves were interested in bloody
and exaggerated tales, and the orators imitated the attacks and the
combats of men against beasts, raised their arms, romanced in a
thundering voice.

M. d Arville talked well, in a certain flowery, high-sounding, but
effective style. He must have told this story frequently, for he told it
fluently, never hesitating for words, choosing them with skill to make
his description vivid.

Gentlemen, I have never hunted, neither did my father, nor my
grandfather, nor my great-grandfather. This last was the son of a man
who hunted more than all of you put together. He died in 1764. I will
tell you the story of his death.

His name was Jean. He was married, father of that child who became my
great-grandfather, and he lived with his younger brother, Francois
d'Arville, in our castle in Lorraine, in the midst of the forest.

Francois d'Arville had remained a bachelor for love of the chase.

They both hunted from one end of the year to the other, without stopping
and seemingly without fatigue. They loved only hunting, understood
nothing else, talked only of that, lived only for that.

They had at heart that one passion, which was terrible and inexorable.
It consumed them, had completely absorbed them, leaving room for no
other thought.

They had given orders that they should not be interrupted in the chase
for any reason whatever. My great-grandfather was born while his father
was following a fox, and Jean d'Arville did not stop the chase, but
exclaimed: “The deuce! The rascal might have waited till after the view
—halloo!”

His brother Francois was still more infatuated. On rising he went to see
the dogs, then the horses, then he shot little birds about the castle
until the time came to hunt some large game.

In the countryside they were called M. le Marquis and M. le Cadet, the
nobles then not being at all like the chance nobility of our time, which
wishes to establish an hereditary hierarchy in titles; for the son of a
marquis is no more a count, nor the son of a viscount a baron, than a
son of a general is a colonel by birth. But the contemptible vanity of
today finds profit in that arrangement.

My ancestors were unusually tall, bony, hairy, violent and vigorous. The
younger, still taller than the older, had a voice so strong that,
according to a legend of which he was proud, all the leaves of the
forest shook when he shouted.

When they were both mounted to set out hunting, it must have been a
superb sight to see those two giants straddling their huge horses.

Now, toward the midwinter of that year, 1764, the frosts were excessive,
and the wolves became ferocious.

They even attacked belated peasants, roamed at night outside the houses,
howled from sunset to sunrise, and robbed the stables.

And soon a rumor began to circulate. People talked of a colossal wolf
with gray fur, almost white, who had eaten two children, gnawed off a
woman's arm, strangled all the watch dogs in the district, and even come
without fear into the farmyards. The people in the houses affirmed that
they had felt his breath, and that it made the flame of the lights
flicker. And soon a panic ran through all the province. No one dared go
out any more after nightfall. The darkness seemed haunted by the image
of the beast.

The brothers d'Arville determined to find and kill him, and several
times they brought together all the gentlemen of the country to a great
hunt.

They beat the forests and searched the coverts in vain; they never met
him. They killed wolves, but not that one. And every night after a
battue the beast, as if to avenge himself, attacked some traveller or
killed some one's cattle, always far from the place where they had
looked for him.

Finally, one night he stole into the pigpen of the Chateau d'Arville and
ate the two fattest pigs.

The brothers were roused to anger, considering this attack as a direct
insult and a defiance. They took their strong bloodhounds, used to
pursue dangerous animals, and they set off to hunt, their hearts filled
with rage.

From dawn until the hour when the empurpled sun descended behind the
great naked trees, they beat the woods without finding anything.

At last, furious and disgusted, both were returning, walking their
horses along a lane bordered with hedges, and they marvelled that their
skill as huntsmen should be baffled by this wolf, and they were suddenly
seized with a mysterious fear.

The elder said:

“That beast is not an ordinary one. You would say it had a mind like a
man.”

The younger answered:

“Perhaps we should have a bullet blessed by our cousin, the bishop, or
pray some priest to pronounce the words which are needed.”

Then they were silent.

Jean continued:

“Look how red the sun is. The great wolf will do some harm to-night.”

He had hardly finished speaking when his horse reared; that of Franqois
began to kick. A large thicket covered with dead leaves opened before
them, and a mammoth beast, entirely gray, jumped up and ran off through
the wood.

Both uttered a kind of grunt of joy, and bending over the necks of their
heavy horses, they threw them forward with an impulse from all their
body, hurling them on at such a pace, urging them, hurrying them away,
exciting them so with voice and with gesture and with spur that the
experienced riders seemed to be carrying the heavy beasts between their
thighs and to bear them off as if they were flying.

Thus they went, plunging through the thickets, dashing across the beds
of streams, climbing the hillsides, descending the gorges, and blowing
the horn as loud as they could to attract their people and the dogs.

And now, suddenly, in that mad race, my ancestor struck his forehead
against an enormous branch which split his skull; and he fell dead on
the ground, while his frightened horse took himself off, disappearing in
the gloom which enveloped the woods.

The younger d'Arville stopped quick, leaped to the earth, seized his
brother in his arms, and saw that the brains were escaping from the
wound with the blood.

Then he sat down beside the body, rested the head, disfigured and red,
on his knees, and waited, regarding the immobile face of his elder
brother. Little by little a fear possessed him, a strange fear which he
had never felt before, the fear of the dark, the fear of loneliness, the
fear of the deserted wood, and the fear also of the weird wolf who had
just killed his brother to avenge himself upon them both.

The gloom thickened; the acute cold made the trees crack. Francois got
up, shivering, unable to remain there longer, feeling himself growing
faint. Nothing was to be heard, neither the voice of the dogs nor the
sound of the horns-all was silent along the invisible horizon; and this
mournful silence of the frozen night had something about it terrific and
strange.

He seized in his immense hands the great body of Jean, straightened it,
and laid it across the saddle to carry it back to the chateau; then he
went on his way softly, his mind troubled as if he were in a stupor,
pursued by horrible and fear-giving images.

And all at once, in the growing darkness a great shape crossed his path.
It was the beast. A shock of terror shook the hunter; something cold,
like a drop of water, seemed to glide down his back, and, like a monk
haunted of the devil, he made a great sign of the cross, dismayed at
this abrupt return of the horrible prowler. But his eyes fell again on
the inert body before him, and passing abruptly from fear to anger, he
shook with an indescribable rage.

Then he spurred his horse and rushed after the wolf.

He followed it through the copses, the ravines, and the tall trees,
traversing woods which he no longer recognized, his eyes fixed on the
white speck which fled before him through the night.

His horse also seemed animated by a force and strength hitherto unknown.
It galloped straight ahead with outstretched neck, striking against
trees, and rocks, the head and the feet of the dead man thrown across
the saddle. The limbs tore out his hair; the brow, beating the huge
trunks, spattered them with blood; the spurs tore their ragged coats of
bark. Suddenly the beast and the horseman issued from the forest and
rushed into a valley, just as the moon appeared above the mountains. The
valley here was stony, inclosed by enormous rocks.

Francois then uttered a yell of joy which the echoes repeated like a
peal of thunder, and he leaped from his horse, his cutlass in his hand.

The beast, with bristling hair, the back arched, awaited him, its eyes
gleaming like two stars. But, before beginning battle, the strong
hunter, seizing his brother, seated him on a rock, and, placing stones
under his head, which was no more than a mass of blood, he shouted in
the ears as if he was talking to a deaf man: “Look, Jean; look at this!”

Then he attacked the monster. He felt himself strong enough to overturn
a mountain, to bruise stones in his hands. The beast tried to bite him,
aiming for his stomach; but he had seized the fierce animal by the neck,
without even using his weapon, and he strangled it gently, listening to
the cessation of breathing in its throat and the beatings of its heart.
He laughed, wild with joy, pressing closer and closer his formidable
embrace, crying in a delirium of joy, “Look, Jean, look!” All resistance
ceased; the body of the wolf became limp. He was dead.

Francois took him up in his arms and carried him to the feet of the
elder brother, where he laid him, repeating, in a tender voice: “There,
there, there, my little Jean, see him!”

Then he replaced on the saddle the two bodies, one upon the other, and
rode away.

He returned to the chateau, laughing and crying, like Gargantua at the
birth of Pantagruel, uttering shouts of triumph, and boisterous with joy
as he related the death of the beast, and grieving and tearing his beard
in telling of that of his brother.

And often, later, when he talked again of that day, he would say, with
tears in his eyes: “If only poor Jean could have seen me strangle the
beast, he would have died content, that I am sure!”

The widow of my ancestor inspired her orphan son with that horror of the
chase which has transmitted itself from father to son as far down as
myself.

The Marquis d'Arville was silent. Some one asked:

“That story is a legend, isn't it?”

And the story teller answered:

“I swear to you that it is true from beginning to end.”

Then a lady declared, in a little, soft voice

“All the same, it is fine to have passions like that.”





THE INN

Resembling in appearance all the wooden hostelries of the High Alps
situated at the foot of glaciers in the barren rocky gorges that
intersect the summits of the mountains, the Inn of Schwarenbach serves
as a resting place for travellers crossing the Gemini Pass.

It remains open for six months in the year and is inhabited by the
family of Jean Hauser; then, as soon as the snow begins to fall and to
fill the valley so as to make the road down to Loeche impassable, the
father and his three sons go away and leave the house in charge of the
old guide, Gaspard Hari, with the young guide, Ulrich Kunsi, and Sam,
the great mountain dog.

The two men and the dog remain till the spring in their snowy prison,
with nothing before their eyes except the immense white slopes of the
Balmhorn, surrounded by light, glistening summits, and are shut in,
blocked up and buried by the snow which rises around them and which
envelops, binds and crushes the little house, which lies piled on the
roof, covering the windows and blocking up the door.

It was the day on which the Hauser family were going to return to
Loeche, as winter was approaching, and the descent was becoming
dangerous. Three mules started first, laden with baggage and led by the
three sons. Then the mother, Jeanne Hauser, and her daughter Louise
mounted a fourth mule and set off in their turn and the father followed
them, accompanied by the two men in charge, who were to escort the
family as far as the brow of the descent. First of all they passed round
the small lake, which was now frozen over, at the bottom of the mass of
rocks which stretched in front of the inn, and then they followed the
valley, which was dominated on all sides by the snow-covered summits.

A ray of sunlight fell into that little white, glistening, frozen desert
and illuminated it with a cold and dazzling flame. No living thing
appeared among this ocean of mountains. There was no motion in this
immeasurable solitude and no noise disturbed the profound silence.

By degrees the young guide, Ulrich Kunsi, a tall, long-legged Swiss,
left old man Hauser and old Gaspard behind, in order to catch up the
mule which bore the two women. The younger one looked at him as he
approached and appeared to be calling him with her sad eyes. She was a
young, fairhaired little peasant girl, whose milk-white cheeks and pale
hair looked as if they had lost their color by their long abode amid the
ice. When he had got up to the animal she was riding he put his hand on
the crupper and relaxed his speed. Mother Hauser began to talk to him,
enumerating with the minutest details all that he would have to attend
to during the winter. It was the first time that he was going to stay up
there, while old Hari had already spent fourteen winters amid the snow,
at the inn of Schwarenbach.

Ulrich Kunsi listened, without appearing to understand and looked
incessantly at the girl. From time to time he replied: “Yes, Madame
Hauser,” but his thoughts seemed far away and his calm features remained
unmoved.

They reached Lake Daube, whose broad, frozen surface extended to the end
of the valley. On the right one saw the black, pointed, rocky summits of
the Daubenhorn beside the enormous moraines of the Lommern glacier,
above which rose the Wildstrubel. As they approached the Gemmi pass,
where the descent of Loeche begins, they suddenly beheld the immense
horizon of the Alps of the Valais, from which the broad, deep valley of
the Rhone separated them.

In the distance there was a group of white, unequal, flat, or pointed
mountain summits, which glistened in the sun; the Mischabel with its two
peaks, the huge group of the Weisshorn, the heavy Brunegghorn, the lofty
and formidable pyramid of Mount Cervin, that slayer of men, and the
Dent-Blanche, that monstrous coquette.

Then beneath them, in a tremendous hole, at the bottom of a terrific
abyss, they perceived Loeche, where houses looked as grains of sand
which had been thrown into that enormous crevice that is ended and
closed by the Gemmi and which opens, down below, on the Rhone.

The mule stopped at the edge of the path, which winds and turns
continually, doubling backward, then, fantastically and strangely, along
the side of the mountain as far as the almost invisible little village
at its feet. The women jumped into the snow and the two old men joined
them. “Well,” father Hauser said, “good-by, and keep up your spirits
till next year, my friends,” and old Hari replied: “Till next year.”

They embraced each other and then Madame Hauser in her turn offered her
cheek, and the girl did the same.

When Ulrich Kunsi's turn came, he whispered in Louise's ear, “Do not
forget those up yonder,” and she replied, “No,” in such a low voice that
he guessed what she had said without hearing it. “Well, adieu,” Jean
Hauser repeated, “and don't fall ill.” And going before the two women,
he commenced the descent, and soon all three disappeared at the first
turn in the road, while the two men returned to the inn at Schwarenbach.

They walked slowly, side by side, without speaking. It was over, and
they would be alone together for four or five months. Then Gaspard Hari
began to relate his life last winter. He had remained with Michael
Canol, who was too old now to stand it, for an accident might happen
during that long solitude. They had not been dull, however; the only
thing was to make up one's mind to it from the first, and in the end one
would find plenty of distraction, games and other means of whiling away
the time.

Ulrich Kunsi listened to him with his eyes on the ground, for in his
thoughts he was following those who were descending to the village. They
soon came in sight of the inn, which was, however, scarcely visible, so
small did it look, a black speck at the foot of that enormous billow of
snow, and when they opened the door Sam, the great curly dog, began to
romp round them.

“Come, my boy,” old Gaspard said, “we have no women now, so we must get
our own dinner ready. Go and peel the potatoes.” And they both sat down
on wooden stools and began to prepare the soup.

The next morning seemed very long to Kunsi. Old Hari smoked and spat on
the hearth, while the young man looked out of the window at the snow-
covered mountain opposite the house.

In the afternoon he went out, and going over yesterday's ground again,
he looked for the traces of the mule that had carried the two women.
Then when he had reached the Gemmi Pass, he laid himself down on his
stomach and looked at Loeche.

The village, in its rocky pit, was not yet buried under the snow, from
which it was sheltered by the pine woods which protected it on all
sides. Its low houses looked like paving stones in a large meadow from
above. Hauser's little daughter was there now in one of those gray-
colored houses. In which? Ulrich Kunsi was too far away to be able to
make them out separately. How he would have liked to go down while he
was yet able!

But the sun had disappeared behind the lofty crest of the Wildstrubel
and the young man returned to the chalet. Daddy Hari was smoking, and
when he saw his mate come in he proposed a game of cards to him, and
they sat down opposite each other, on either side of the table. They
played for a long time a simple game called brisque and then they had
supper and went to bed.

The following days were like the first, bright and cold, without any
fresh snow. Old Gaspard spent his afternoons in watching the eagles and
other rare birds which ventured on those frozen heights, while Ulrich
returned regularly to the Gemmi Pass to look at the village. Then they
played cards, dice or dominoes and lost and won a trifle, just to create
an interest in the game.

One morning Hari, who was up first, called his companion. A moving, deep
and light cloud of white spray was falling on them noiselessly and was
by degrees burying them under a thick, heavy coverlet of foam. That
lasted four days and four nights. It was necessary to free the door and
the windows, to dig out a passage and to cut steps to get over this
frozen powder, which a twelve hours' frost had made as hard as the
granite of the moraines.

They lived like prisoners and did not venture outside their abode. They
had divided their duties, which they performed regularly. Ulrich Kunsi
undertook the scouring, washing and everything that belonged to
cleanliness. He also chopped up the wood while Gaspard Hari did the
cooking and attended to the fire. Their regular and monotonous work was
interrupted by long games at cards or dice, and they never quarrelled,
but were always calm and placid. They were never seen impatient or ill-
humored, nor did they ever use hard words, for they had laid in a stock
of patience for their wintering on the top of the mountain.

Sometimes old Gaspard took his rifle and went after chamois, and
occasionally he killed one. Then there was a feast in the inn at
Schwarenbach and they revelled in fresh meat. One morning he went out as
usual. The thermometer outside marked eighteen degrees of frost, and as
the sun had not yet risen, the hunter hoped to surprise the animals at
the approaches to the Wildstrubel, and Ulrich, being alone, remained in
bed until ten o'clock. He was of a sleepy nature, but he would not have
dared to give way like that to his inclination in the presence of the
old guide, who was ever an early riser. He breakfasted leisurely with
Sam, who also spent his days and nights in sleeping in front of the
fire; then he felt low-spirited and even frightened at the solitude, and
was seized by a longing for his daily game of cards, as one is by the
craving of a confirmed habit, and so he went out to meet his companion,
who was to return at four o'clock.

The snow had levelled the whole deep valley, filled up the crevasses,
obliterated all signs of the two lakes and covered the rocks, so that
between the high summits there was nothing but an immense, white,
regular, dazzling and frozen surface. For three weeks Ulrich had not
been to the edge of the precipice from which he had looked down on the
village, and he wanted to go there before climbing the slopes which led
to Wildstrubel. Loeche was now also covered by the snow and the houses
could scarcely be distinguished, covered as they were by that white
cloak.

Then, turning to the right, he reached the Loemmern glacier. He went
along with a mountaineer's long strides, striking the snow, which was as
hard as a rock, with his iron-pointed stick, and with his piercing eyes
he looked for the little black, moving speck in the distance, on that
enormous, white expanse.

When he reached the end of the glacier he stopped and asked himself
whether the old man had taken that road, and then he began to walk along
the moraines with rapid and uneasy steps. The day was declining, the
snow was assuming a rosy tint, and a dry, frozen wind blew in rough
gusts over its crystal surface. Ulrich uttered a long, shrill, vibrating
call. His voice sped through the deathlike silence in which the
mountains were sleeping; it reached the distance, across profound and
motionless waves of glacial foam, like the cry of a bird across the
waves of the sea. Then it died away and nothing answered him.

He began to walk again. The sun had sunk yonder behind the mountain
tops, which were still purple with the reflection from the sky, but the
depths of the valley were becoming gray, and suddenly the young man felt
frightened. It seemed to him as if the silence, the cold, the solitude,
the winter death of these mountains were taking possession of him, were
going to stop and to freeze his blood, to make his limbs grow stiff and
to turn him into a motionless and frozen object, and he set off running,
fleeing toward his dwelling. The old man, he thought, would have
returned during his absence. He had taken another road; he would, no
doubt, be sitting before the fire, with a dead chamois at his feet. He
soon came in sight of the inn, but no smoke rose from it. Ulrich walked
faster and opened the door. Sam ran up to him to greet him, but Gaspard
Hari had not returned. Kunsi, in his alarm, turned round suddenly, as if
he had expected to find his comrade hidden in a corner. Then he
relighted the fire and made the soup, hoping every moment to see the old
man come in. From time to time he went out to see if he were not coming.
It was quite night now, that wan, livid night of the mountains, lighted
by a thin, yellow crescent moon, just disappearing behind the mountain
tops.

Then the young man went in and sat down to warm his hands and feet,
while he pictured to himself every possible accident. Gaspard might have
broken a leg, have fallen into a crevasse, taken a false step and
dislocated his ankle. And, perhaps, he was lying on the snow, overcome
and stiff with the cold, in agony of mind, lost and, perhaps, shouting
for help, calling with all his might in the silence of the night.. But
where? The mountain was so vast, so rugged, so dangerous in places,
especially at that time of the year, that it would have required ten or
twenty guides to walk for a week in all directions to find a man in that
immense space. Ulrich Kunsi, however, made up his mind to set out with
Sam if Gaspard did not return by one in the morning, and he made his
preparations.

He put provisions for two days into a bag, took his steel climbing iron,
tied a long, thin, strong rope round his waist, and looked to see that
his iron-shod stick and his axe, which served to cut steps in the ice,
were in order. Then he waited. The fire was burning on the hearth, the
great dog was snoring in front of it, and the clock was ticking, as
regularly as a heart beating, in its resounding wooden case. He waited,
with his ears on the alert for distant sounds, and he shivered when the
wind blew against the roof and the walls. It struck twelve and he
trembled: Then, frightened and shivering, he put some water on the fire,
so that he might have some hot coffee before starting, and when the
clock struck one he got up, woke Sam, opened the door and went off in
the direction of the Wildstrubel. For five hours he mounted, scaling the
rocks by means of his climbing irons, cutting into the ice, advancing
continually, and occasionally hauling up the dog, who remained below at
the foot of some slope that was too steep for him, by means of the rope.
It was about six o'clock when he reached one of the summits to which old
Gaspard often came after chamois, and he waited till it should be
daylight.

The sky was growing pale overhead, and a strange light, springing nobody
could tell whence, suddenly illuminated the immense ocean of pale
mountain summits, which extended for a hundred leagues around him. One
might have said that this vague brightness arose from the snow itself
and spread abroad in space. By degrees the highest distant summits
assumed a delicate, pink flesh color, and the red sun appeared behind
the ponderous giants of the Bernese Alps.

Ulrich Kunsi set off again, walking like a hunter, bent over, looking
for tracks, and saying to his dog: “Seek, old fellow, seek!”

He was descending the mountain now, scanning the depths closely, and
from time to time shouting, uttering aloud, prolonged cry, which soon
died away in that silent vastness. Then he put his ear to the ground to
listen. He thought he could distinguish a voice, and he began to run and
shouted again, but he heard nothing more and sat down, exhausted and in
despair. Toward midday he breakfasted and gave Sam, who was as tired as
himself, something to eat also, and then he recommenced his search.

When evening came he was still walking, and he had walked more than
thirty miles over the mountains. As he was too far away to return home
and too tired to drag himself along any further, he dug a hole in the
snow and crouched in it with his dog under a blanket which he had
brought with him. And the man and the dog lay side by side, trying to
keep warm, but frozen to the marrow nevertheless. Ulrich scarcely slept,
his mind haunted by visions and his limbs shaking with cold.

Day was breaking when he got up. His legs were as stiff as iron bars and
his spirits so low that he was ready to cry with anguish, while his
heart was beating so that he almost fell over with agitation, when he
thought he heard a noise.

Suddenly he imagined that he also was going to die of cold in the midst
of this vast solitude, and the terror of such a death roused his
energies and gave him renewed vigor. He was descending toward the inn,
falling down and getting up again, and followed at a distance by Sam,
who was limping on three legs, and they did not reach Schwarenbach until
four o'clock in the afternoon. The house was empty and the young man
made a fire, had something to eat and went to sleep, so worn out that he
did not think of anything more.

He slept for a long time, for a very long time, an irresistible sleep.
But suddenly a voice, a cry, a name, “Ulrich!” aroused him from his
profound torpor and made him sit up in bed. Had he been dreaming? Was it
one of those strange appeals which cross the dreams of disquieted minds?
No, he heard it still, that reverberating cry-which had entered his ears
and remained in his flesh-to the tips of his sinewy fingers. Certainly
somebody had cried out and called “Ulrich!” There was somebody there
near the house, there could be no doubt of that, and he opened the door
and shouted, “Is it you, Gaspard?” with all the strength of his lungs.
But there was no reply, no murmur, no groan, nothing. It was quite dark
and the snow looked wan.

The wind had risen, that icy wind that cracks the rocks and leaves
nothing alive on those deserted heights, and it came in sudden gusts,
which were more parching and more deadly than the burning wind of the
desert, and again Ulrich shouted: “Gaspard! Gaspard! Gaspard.” And then
he waited again. Everything was silent on the mountain.

Then he shook with terror and with a bound he was inside the inn, when
he shut and bolted the door, and then he fell into a chair trembling all
over, for he felt certain that his comrade had called him at the moment
he was expiring.

He was sure of that, as sure as one is of being alive or of eating a
piece of bread. Old Gaspard Hari had been dying for two days and three
nights somewhere, in some hole, in one of those deep, untrodden ravines
whose whiteness is more sinister than subterranean darkness. He had been
dying for two days and three nights and he had just then died, thinking
of his comrade. His soul, almost before it was released, had taken its
flight to the inn where Ulrich was sleeping, and it had called him by
that terrible and mysterious power which the spirits of the dead have to
haunt the living. That voiceless soul had cried to the worn-out soul of
the sleeper; it had uttered its last farewell, or its reproach, or its
curse on the man who had not searched carefully enough.

And Ulrich felt that it was there, quite close to him, behind the wall,
behind the door which he had just fastened. It was wandering about, like
a night bird which lightly touches a lighted window with his wings, and
the terrified young man was ready to scream with horror. He wanted to
run away, but did not dare to go out; he did not dare, and he should
never dare to do it in the future, for that phantom would remain there
day and night, round the inn, as long as the old man's body was not
recovered and had not been deposited in the consecrated earth of a
churchyard.

When it was daylight Kunsi recovered some of his courage at the return
of the bright sun. He prepared his meal, gave his dog some food and then
remained motionless on a chair, tortured at heart as he thought of the
old man lying on the snow, and then, as soon as night once more covered
the mountains, new terrors assailed him. He now walked up and down the
dark kitchen, which was scarcely lighted by the flame of one candle, and
he walked from one end of it to the other with great strides, listening,
listening whether the terrible cry of the other night would again break
the dreary silence outside. He felt himself alone, unhappy man, as no
man had ever been alone before! He was alone in this immense desert of
Snow, alone five thousand feet above the inhabited earth, above human
habitation, above that stirring, noisy, palpitating life, alone under an
icy sky! A mad longing impelled him to run away, no matter where, to get
down to Loeche by flinging himself over the precipice; but he did not
even dare to open the door, as he felt sure that the other, the dead
man, would bar his road, so that he might not be obliged to remain up
there alone:

Toward midnight, tired with walking, worn out by grief and fear, he at
last fell into a doze in his chair, for he was afraid of his bed as one
is of a haunted spot. But suddenly the strident cry of the other evening
pierced his ears, and it was so shrill that Ulrich stretched out his
arms to repulse the ghost, and he fell backward with his chair.

Sam, who was awakened by the noise, began to howl as frightened dogs do
howl, and he walked all about the house trying to find out where the
danger came from. When he got to the door, he sniffed beneath it,
smelling vigorously, with his coat bristling and his tail stiff, while
he growled angrily. Kunsi, who was terrified, jumped up, and, holding
his chair by one leg, he cried: “Don't come in, don't come in, or I
shall kill you.” And the dog, excited by this threat, barked angrily at
that invisible enemy who defied his master's voice. By degrees, however,
he quieted down and came back and stretched himself in front of the
fire, but he was uneasy and kept his head up and growled between his
teeth.

Ulrich, in turn, recovered his senses, but as he felt faint with terror,
he went and got a bottle of brandy out of the sideboard, and he drank
off several glasses, one after anther, at a gulp. His ideas became
vague, his courage revived and a feverish glow ran through his veins.

He ate scarcely anything the next day and limited himself to alcohol,
and so he lived for several days, like a drunken brute. As soon as he
thought of Gaspard Hari, he began to drink again, and went on drinking
until he fell to the ground, overcome by intoxication. And there he
remained lying on his face, dead drunk, his limbs benumbed, and snoring
loudly. But scarcely had he digested the maddening and burning liquor
than the same cry, “Ulrich!” woke him like a bullet piercing his brain,
and he got up, still staggering, stretching out his hands to save
himself from falling, and calling to Sam to help him. And the dog, who
appeared to be going mad like his master, rushed to the door, scratched
it with his claws and gnawed it with his long white teeth, while the
young man, with his head thrown back drank the brandy in draughts, as if
it had been cold water, so that it might by and by send his thoughts,
his frantic terror, and his memory to sleep again.

In three weeks he had consumed all his stock of ardent spirits. But his
continual drunkenness only lulled his terror, which awoke more furiously
than ever as soon as it was impossible for him to calm it. His fixed
idea then, which had been intensified by a month of drunkenness, and
which was continually increasing in his absolute solitude, penetrated
him like a gimlet. He now walked about the house like a wild beast in
its cage, putting his ear to the door to listen if the other were there
and defying him through the wall. Then, as soon as he dozed, overcome by
fatigue, he heard the voice which made him leap to his feet.

At last one night, as cowards do when driven to extremities, he sprang
to the door and opened it, to see who was calling him and to force him
to keep quiet, but such a gust of cold wind blew into his face that it
chilled him to the bone, and he closed and bolted the door again
immediately, without noticing that Sam had rushed out. Then, as he was
shivering with cold, he threw some wood on the fire and sat down in
front of it to warm himself, but suddenly he started, for somebody was
scratching at the wall and crying. In desperation he called out: “Go
away!” but was answered by another long, sorrowful wail.

Then all his remaining senses forsook him from sheer fright. He
repeated: “Go away!” and turned round to try to find some corner in
which to hide, while the other person went round the house still crying
and rubbing against the wall. Ulrich went to the oak sideboard, which
was full of plates and dishes and of provisions, and lifting it up with
superhuman strength, he dragged it to the door, so as to form a
barricade. Then piling up all the rest of the furniture, the mattresses,
palliasses and chairs, he stopped up the windows as one does when
assailed by an enemy.

But the person outside now uttered long, plaintive, mournful groans, to
which the young man replied by similar groans, and thus days and nights
passed without their ceasing to howl at each other. The one was
continually walking round the house and scraped the walls with his nails
so vigorously that it seemed as if he wished to destroy them, while the
other, inside, followed all his movements, stooping down and holding his
ear to the walls and replying to all his appeals with terrible cries.
One evening, however, Ulrich heard nothing more, and he sat down, so
overcome by fatigue, that he went to sleep immediately and awoke in the
morning without a thought, without any recollection of what had
happened, just as if his head had been emptied during his heavy sleep,
but he felt hungry, and he ate.

The winter was over and the Gemmi Pass was practicable again, so the
Hauser family started off to return to their inn. As soon as they had
reached the top of the ascent the women mounted their mule and spoke
about the two men whom they would meet again shortly. They were, indeed,
rather surprised that neither of them had come down a few days before,
as soon as the road was open, in order to tell them all about their long
winter sojourn. At last, however, they saw the inn, still covered with
snow, like a quilt. The door and the window were closed, but a little
smoke was coming out of the chimney, which reassured old Hauser. On
going up to the door, however, he saw the skeleton of an animal which
had been torn to pieces by the eagles, a large skeleton lying on its
side.

They all looked close at it and the mother said:

“That must be Sam,” and then she shouted: “Hi, Gaspard!” A cry from the
interior of the house answered her and a sharp cry that one might have
thought some animal had uttered it. Old Hauser repeated, “Hi, Gaspard!”
and they heard another cry similar to the first.

Then the three men, the father and the two sons, tried to open the door,
but it resisted their efforts. From the empty cow-stall they took a beam
to serve as a battering-ram and hurled it against the door with all
their might. The wood gave way and the boards flew into splinters. Then
the house was shaken by a loud voice, and inside, behind the side board
which was overturned, they saw a man standing upright, with his hair
falling on his shoulders and a beard descending to his breast, with
shining eyes, and nothing but rags to cover him. They did not recognize
him, but Louise Hauser exclaimed:

“It is Ulrich, mother.” And her mother declared that it was Ulrich,
although his hair was white.

He allowed them to go up to him and to touch him, but he did not reply
to any of their questions, and they were obliged to take him to Loeche,
where the doctors found that he was mad, and nobody ever found out what
had become of his companion.

Little Louise Hauser nearly died that summer of decline, which the
physicians attributed to the cold air of the mountains.





ORIGINAL SHORT STORIES, Vol. 5.

GUY DE MAUPASSANT ORIGINAL SHORT STORIES Translated by ALBERT M. C.
McMASTER, B.A. A. E. HENDERSON, B.A. MME. QUESADA and Others





VOLUME V.





MONSIEUR PARENT

George's father was sitting in an iron chair, watching his little son
with concentrated affection and attention, as little George piled up the
sand into heaps during one of their walks. He would take up the sand
with both hands, make a mound of it, and put a chestnut leaf on top. His
father saw no one but him in that public park full of people.

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

Monsieur Parent, accidentally looking up at the church clock, saw that
he was five minutes late. He got up, took the child by the arm, shook
his dress, which was covered with sand, wiped his hands, and led him in
the direction of the Rue Blanche. He walked quickly, so as not to get in
after his wife, and 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, already turning gray, and rather
stout. At last he reached his house. An old servant who had brought him
up, one of those trusted servants who are the tyrants of families,
opened the door to him.

“Has madame come in yet?” he asked anxiously.

The servant shrugged her shoulders:

“When have you ever known madame to come home at half-past six,
monsieur?”

“Very well; all the better; it will give me time to change my things,
for I am very warm.”

The servant looked at him with angry and contemptuous pity. “Oh, I can
see that well enough,” she grumbled. “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 dinner ready on time. I 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 pretended not to hear, but went into his own room, and
as soon as he got in, 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.

What could he do? To get rid of Julie seemed to him 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 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. He said to himself: “It is
lucky that I have George; without him I should-be very miserable.”

Just then the clock struck seven, and he started up. Seven o'clock, and
he had not even changed his clothes. Nervous and breathless, he
undressed, put on a clean shirt, hastily finished his toilet, as if he
had been expected in the next room for some event of extreme importance,
and 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 again, when the door opened, and the boy came in, washed,
brushed, and smiling. 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 exertion.
Then, taking George on his knee, he made him ride a-cock-horse. The
child laughed and clapped his hands and shouted with pleasure, as did
his father, who laughed until his big stomach shook, for it amused him
almost more than it did the child.

Parent loved him with all the heart of a weak, resigned, ill-used man.
He loved him 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 Julie came to the door, with a pale face and glistening eyes,
and 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. “Julie,” he
said, “I will not allow you to speak like that of your mistress. You
understand me, do you not? Do not forget it in the future.”

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

Eight o'clock struck, the door opened, 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.”

“You know quite well,” she continued, “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 every one 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 carrying
on with Monsieur Limousin. I have seen them kiss scores of times behind
the door. 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, his face livid: “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 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.

George, who had been at first astonished and then frightened at those
angry voices, began to utter shrill screams, and remained behind his
father, with his face puckered up and his mouth open, roaring.

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,
exclaiming: “Ah! you wretch. You will drive the child out of his
senses.” He already had his hand on her, when she screamed in his face:

“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, let his arms fall, and remained standing opposite
to her, so overwhelmed that he could understand nothing more.

“You need only to look at the child,” she added, “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.”

He had taken her by the shoulders, and was now shaking her with all his
might. “Viper, viper!” he said. “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
across the table, which was laid for dinner, breaking the glasses. Then,
rising to her feet, she put the table between her master and herself.
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, 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 mind, like muddy water, became calmer and clearer,
and the abominable revelations began to work in his heart.

He was no longer thinking of George. The child was quiet now and sitting
on the carpet; but, seeing that no notice was being taken of him, he
began to cry. His father ran to him, took him in 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 to 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 through his
clothes, and it filled him with love, courage, and happiness; that
gentle warmth 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!” He looked at him with
haggard, troubled eyes, and tried to discover whether there was any
likeness in his forehead, in his nose, mouth, or cheeks. His thoughts
wandered as they do when a person is going mad, and his child's face
changed in his eyes, and assumed a strange look and improbable
resemblances.

The hall bell rang. 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, to have time to bathe his eyes. But in a few
moments another ring at the bell made him jump again, and then 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. He wished
to know the truth, he desired it with the rage of a timid man, and with
the tenacity of an easy-going man who has been exasperated.

Nevertheless, he trembled. 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. Suddenly, however, the
noise of the bell over his head startled him like an explosion. 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 as he tried to.
reply, without being able to utter a word.

“Are you dumb?” she continued. “I asked you where Julie is?”

“She—she—has—gone——” he managed to stammer.

His wife began to get angry. “What do you mean by gone? Where has she
gone? Why?”

By degrees he regained his coolness. He felt an intense hatred rise up
in him for that insolent woman who was standing before him.

“Yes, she has gone altogether. I sent her away.”

“You have sent away Julie? Why, you must be mad.”

“Yes, I 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 condition of things. She shut the
door quickly, threw her cloak on a chair, and going straight up to her
husband, she stammered out:

“You say? You say? That I am——”

Very pale and calm, he 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, 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 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 some soup
and half a chicken, as they were in a great hurry to get back.

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: “What 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 saltcellars. “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?”

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 upon 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
through 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 toward the young woman, 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 could 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,” she replied. “Let him settle it!” And she went into her
own room, quite forgetting that her child had not had anything to eat.

Limousin immediately set to work to help his friend. He picked up the
broken glasses which strewed the table and took them out, replaced the
plates and knives and forks, and put the child into his high chair,
while Parent went to look for the chambermaid to wait at table. The girl
came in, 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 himself, but he could only swallow with an effort, as his
throat felt paralyzed. By degrees he was seized with an insane desire to
look at Limousin, who was sitting opposite to him, 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 examined it carefully. It looked so
different to what he had imagined. From time to time he looked at
Limousin, 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 swallow 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. He
started when he heard the door open. His wife came in. “I am hungry,”
she said; “are not you, Limousin?”

He hesitated a little, and then said: “Yes, I am, upon my word.” She had
the leg of mutton brought in again. 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. Her husband watched her furtively. She had on a pink
teagown trimmed with white lace, and her fair head, her white neck and
her plump hands stood out from that coquettish and perfumed dress as
though it were a sea shell edged with foam.

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
into 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
girl this very day. I will go at once 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.” 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 room.”

Parent had got up; he was unsteady on his legs, dazed and bewildered,
and saying, “I shall see you again later on,” he went out, holding on to
the wall, for the floor seemed to roll like a ship. George had been
carried out by his nurse, while Henriette and Limousin went into the
drawing-room.

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 mantelpiece, 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! 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, born in the
back room of a shop, half cocotte and half bourgeoise, brought up to
entice customers to the store by her glances, and married, 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?'

“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 extraordinary 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 one another, you like each other better on
that account, while we women hate a man from the moment that we have
betrayed him.”

“I do not see why one should hate an excellent fellow because one is
friendly with his wife.”

“You do not see it? You do not see it? You all of you are wanting in
refinement of feeling. However, that is one of those things which one
feels and 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 an impure woman, she put both
her hands on his shoulders and held up her lips to him. He stooped down
and clasped her closely in his arms, and their lips met. And as they
stood in front of the mantel mirror, another couple exactly like them
embraced behind the clock.

They had 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 looking at them, livid with
rage, without his shoes on and his hat over his forehead. He looked at
each, one after the other, with a quick glance of his eyes and without
moving his head. He appeared beside himself. Then, without saying a
word, he threw himself on Limousin, 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, struck his head violently against the wall.

When Henriette saw that her husband was going to murder her lover, she
threw herself on Parent, seized him by the neck, and digging her ten
delicate, 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 choking, loosened his hold on
Limousin, in order to shake off his wife, who was hanging to his neck.
Putting his arms round 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 gasping for 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, her hair hanging down, the bodice of her dress
unfastened, waited like a wild animal which is about to spring. Parent
continued 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 toward him, and, grown
almost insolent, she said: “Have you lost your head? What is the matter
with you? What is the meaning of this unjustifiable violence?”

But he turned toward 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
aggravated now, drove her to audacity, made her feel the need of
bravado, and of defying him, and 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——” He seized a
chair and whirled it over his head.

Henriette walked quickly across the room, took her lover by the arm,
dragged him from the wall, to which he appeared fixed, and led him
toward 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 vile creature! 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—worthless woman!”

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 backward, and then he suddenly turned round, took a
candle, and rushed into the next room; returning almost immediately,
carrying little George wrapped up in his bedclothes. The child, who had
been suddenly awakened, was crying from fright. Parent threw him into
his wife's arms, and then, without speaking, he pushed her roughly out
toward the stairs, where Limousin was waiting, from motives of prudence.

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

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 took his meals at a restaurant, as he had done
formerly. As he wished to avoid any scandal, he made his wife an
allowance, which was arranged by their lawyers. By degrees, however, the
thought 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 would begin to beat, and he would get up quickly and open
the door, to see whether, by chance, the child might have returned, as
dogs or pigeons do. Why should a child have less instinct than an
animal? On finding that he was mistaken, he would sit down in his
armchair again and think of the boy. He would think 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 on his knees and dance him. He felt the child's little arms
around 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 as a man might for some beloved woman who has left him.
Twenty or a hundred times a day he asked himself the question whether he
was or was not George's father, and almost before he was in bed every
night he recommenced the same series of despairing questionings.

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 afraid 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 flickered, 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 toward 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 among 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 cafe
full of drinkers and of light. He went there as flies go to a candle,
and he would sit down at one of the little round tables and ask for a
“bock,” which he would drink slowly, feeling uneasy every time 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 should come up to him and say sharply: “Come,
monsieur, it is closing time!”

He thus got into 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 lull
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 distract his glances and his thoughts, and soon, as he felt
too lazy to move, he took his meals there.

After every meal, during more than an hour, he sipped three or four
small glasses of brandy, which stupefied him by degrees, and then his
head drooped on his chest, he shut his eyes, and went to sleep. Then,
awaking, he raised himself on the red velvet seat, straightened his
waistcoat, pulled down his cuffs, and took up the newspapers again,
though he had already seen them in the morning, and read them all
through again, from beginning to end. 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 would 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 as 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 his 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 relatives, 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 down,
and of his solitary fireplace, 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 them, 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 in their warm
beds. Five years passed thus; five miserable years. 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 got a side view of her and recognized her pretty
features, the movements of her lips, her smile, and her coaxing glances.
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 from
what he had been formerly.

They went on again and Parent followed them. He 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 by accident. The boy
turned round and looked at the clumsy man angrily, and Parent hurried
away, shocked, hurt, and pursued by that look. He went off like a thief,
seized with a horrible fear lest he should have been seen and recognized
by his wife and her lover. He went to his cafe without stopping, and
fell breathless into his chair. 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, 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 their clothes on the threadbare velvet
of the couches.

He grew old amid the smoke from 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 cafe in a new hat he would look at
himself in the glass for a long time before sitting down, and take it
off and put it on again several times, and at last ask 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 theatre, and in the summer he
sometimes spent his evenings at one of the open-air concerts in the
Champs Elysees. And so the years followed each other slow, monotonous,
and short, because they were quite uneventful.

He very rarely now thought of the dreadful 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. The landlord of his cafe
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 be used to say to the
barmaid: “That poor Monsieur Parent is booked for another world; it is
bad never to get out of Paris. Advise him to go out of town for a day
occasionally; he has confidence in you. Summer will soon be here; that
will put him straight.”

And she, full of pity and kindness 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!”

By degrees he was seized with a vague desire to go just once and see
whether it was really as pleasant there as she said, outside the walls
of the great city. One morning he said to her:

“Do you know where one can get a good luncheon in the neighborhood of
Paris?”

“Go to the Terrace at Saint-Germain; it is delightful there!”

He had been there formerly, just when he became engaged. He made up his
mind to go there again, and he chose a Sunday, for no 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. He felt low-spirited and vexed at having yielded to that
new longing, and at having broken through his usual habits. He was
thirsty; he would have liked to get out at every station and sit down in
the cafe which he saw outside and drink a “bock” or two, and then take
the first train back to Paris. The journey seemed very long to him. He
could 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 small boats going at great speed under
the vigorous strokes of the bare-armed oarsmen, and he thought: “There
are some fellows who are certainly enjoying themselves!” The train
entered the tunnel just before you get to the station at Saint-Germain,
and presently stopped at the platform. Parent got out, and walked
slowly, for he already felt tired, toward the Terrace, with his hands
behind his back, and when he got to the iron balustrade, stopped to look
at the distant horizon. The immense plain spread out before him vast as
the sea, green and studded with large villages, almost as populous as
towns. The sun bathed the whole landscape in its full, warm light. The
Seine wound like an endless serpent through the plain, flowed round the
villages and along the slopes. 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:

“Why, it is delightful here.”

Then he went on a few steps, and stopped again to look about him. The
utter misery of his existence seemed to be brought into full relief by
the intense light which inundated the landscape. He saw his twenty years
of cafe life—dull, monotonous, heartbreaking. He might have traveled as
others did, have gone among foreigners, to unknown countries beyond the
sea, have interested himself somewhat in everything which other men are
passionately devoted to, in arts and science; 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 cafe
and his lethargy! All the thoughts, all the dreams, all the desires
which are dormant in the slough of stagnating hearts had reawakened,
brought to life by those rays of sunlight on the plain.

Parent felt that if he were to remain there any longer he should lose
his reason, and he made haste to get to the Pavilion Henri IV for lunch,
to try and forget his troubles under—the influence of wine and alcohol,
and at any rate to have some one 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. He
felt more comfortable; he was no longer alone. Three persons were eating
luncheon near him. He looked at them two or three times without seeing
them clearly, as one looks at total strangers. Suddenly a woman's voice
sent a shiver through him which seemed to penetrate to his very marrow.
“George,” it said, “will you carve the chicken?”

And another voice 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 elderly, serious, respectable lady,
and she held her head forward 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 uneven and almost colorless beard
which adorns the cheeks of youths. He wore a high hat, a white
waistcoat, and a monocle, because it looked swell, 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.

All three of them seemed happy and satisfied; they came and took
luncheon 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, simple-minded, jovial man, to all the
miseries of solitude, to that abominable life which he had led, between
the pavement and a bar-room, to every mental torture and every physical
misery! They had made him a useless, aimless being, a waif in the world,
a poor old man without any pleasures, any prospects, expecting nothing
from anybody or anything. 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 inside any door the beloved face, the face of wife or child
which smiles when it sees you. This 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, positively 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 siphon of Seltzer water at them, to split open Limousin's head
as he every moment bent it over his plate, raising it again immediately.

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 opportunity to
escape him, as he might never have another.

Suddenly an idea struck him, a terrible idea; and he left off drinking
to mature it. He smiled as he murmured: “I have them, I have them! We
will see; we will see!”

They finished their luncheon slowly, conversing with perfect unconcern.
Parent could not hear what they were saying, but he saw their quiet
gestures. His wife's face especially exasperated him. She had assumed a
haughty air, the air of a comfortable, devout woman, of an
unapproachable, devout woman, sheathed in principles, iron-clad in
virtue. They paid their bill and got up from table. Parent then noticed
Limousin. He might have been taken for a retired diplomat, for he looked
a man of great importance, with his soft white whiskers, the tips of
which touched his coat collar.

They walked away. Parent rose and followed them. First they went up and
down the terrace, and calmly admired the landscape, and then they went
into the forest. Parent followed them at a distance, hiding himself so
as not to excite their suspicion too soon.

Parent came up to them by degrees, breathing hard with emotion and
fatigue, for he was unused to walking now. He soon came up to them, but
was seized with 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,
feeling 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 were still chatting. He made up his mind, and walked
back rapidly; 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 stared at this man, who seemed to be insane. He
continued:

“One would suppose that you did not know me again. Just look at me! I am
Parent, Henri Parent. 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, terrified, hid her face in her hands, murmuring: “Oh! Good
heavens!”

Seeing this stranger, who seemed to be threatening his mother, George
sprang up, ready to seize him by the collar. Limousin, thunderstruck,
looked in horror at this apparition, who, after gasping for breath,
continued:

“So now we will have an explanation; the proper moment has come! Ah! you
deceived me, you condemned me to the life of a convict, and you thought
that I should never catch you!”

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!”

“What do I want?” replied Parent. “I want to tell you who these people
are.”

George, however, was in a rage, and shook him; and was even going to
strike him.

“Let me go,” said Parent. “I am your father. There, see whether they
recognize me now, the wretches!”

The young man, thunderstruck, unclenched his fists and turned toward his
mother. Parent, as soon as he was released, approached her.

“Well,” he said, “tell him yourself who I am! 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 money, and whom
you deceived from the very first day. Tell him who you are, and who I
am——”

He stammered and gasped for breath in his rage. 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 risen to his feet. He said in a very low voice: “Hold
your tongue! Hold your tongue! Do you understand what you are doing?”

“I quite know what I am doing,” resumed Parent, “and that is not all.
There is one thing that I will know, something that has tormented me for
twenty years.” 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.
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, now! I call upon you 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. 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 you thought I was going to 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!”

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 his father
is. 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 'fit.

“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!
Ha! ha! ha! Nobody knows . . . nobody . . . How can 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 . . . nor does he, nor do you,
nobody knows. You can choose . . . 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, you will come and let me know, will you not? I am living at the
Hotel des Continents . . . I should be glad to know . . . Good evening .
. . I hope you will enjoy yourselves very much . . .”

And he went away gesticulating, talking to himself under the tall trees,
in the quiet, the cool air, which was full of the fragrance of growing
plants. 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. All at once 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, full of aches and pains as if he
had broken some bones. Nevertheless, he went to have a “bock” at his
brewery.

When she saw him come in, Mademoiselle Zoe asked in surprise: “What!
back already? are you tired?”

“Yes—yes, I am tired . . . very tired . . . You know, when one is not
used to going out. . . I've had enough of it. I shall not go into the
country again. It would have been better to have stayed here. For the
future, I shall not stir out.”

She could not persuade him to tell her about his little excursion, much
as she wished to.

For the first time in his life he got thoroughly drunk that night, and
had to be carried home.





QUEEN HORTENSE

In Argenteuil she was called Queen Hortense. No one knew why. Perhaps it
was because she had a commanding tone of voice; perhaps because she was
tall, bony, imperious; perhaps because she governed a kingdom of
servants, chickens, dogs, cats, canaries, parrots, all so dear to an old
maid's heart. But she did not spoil these familiar friends; she had for
them none of those endearing names, none of the foolish tenderness which
women seem to lavish on the soft fur of a purring cat. She governed
these beasts with authority; she reigned.

She was indeed an old maid—one of those old maids with a harsh voice and
angular motions, whose very soul seems to be hard. She never would stand
contradiction, argument, hesitation, indifference, laziness nor fatigue.
She had never been heard to complain, to regret anything, to envy
anyone. She would say: “Everyone has his share,” with the conviction of
a fatalist. She did not go to church, she had no use for priests, she
hardly believed in God, calling all religious things “weeper's wares.”

For thirty years she had lived in her little house, with its tiny garden
running along the street; she had never changed her habits, only
changing her servants pitilessly, as soon as they reached twenty-one
years of age.

When her dogs, cats and birds would die of old age, or from an accident,
she would replace them without tears and without regret; with a little
spade she would bury the dead animal in a strip of ground, throwing a
few shovelfuls of earth over it and stamping it down with her feet in an
indifferent manner.

She had a few friends in town, families of clerks who went to Paris
every day. Once in a while she would be invited out, in the evening, to
tea. She would inevitably fall asleep, and she would have to be
awakened, when it was time for her to go home. She never allowed anyone
to accompany her, fearing neither light nor darkness. She did not appear
to like children.

She kept herself busy doing countless masculine tasks—carpentering,
gardening, sawing or chopping wood, even laying bricks when it was
necessary.

She had relatives who came to see her twice a year, the Cimmes and the
Colombels, her two sisters having married, one of them a florist and the
other a retired merchant. The Cimmes had no children; the Colombels had
three: Henri, Pauline and Joseph. Henri was twenty, Pauline seventeen
and Joseph only three.

There was no love lost between the old maid and her relatives.

In the spring of the year 1882 Queen Hortense suddenly fell sick. The
neighbors called in a physician, whom she immediately drove out. A
priest then having presented himself, she jumped out of bed, in order to
throw him out of the house.

The young servant, in despair, was brewing her some tea.

After lying in bed for three days the situation appeared so serious that
the barrel-maker, who lived next door, to the right, acting on advice
from the doctor, who had forcibly returned to the house, took it upon
himself to call together the two families.

They arrived by the same train, towards ten in the morning, the
Colombels bringing little Joseph with them.

When they got to the garden gate, they saw the servant seated in the
chair against the wall, crying.

The dog was sleeping on the door mat in the broiling sun; two cats,
which looked as though they might be dead, were stretched out in front
of the two windows, their eyes closed, their paws and tails stretched
out at full length.

A big clucking hen was parading through the garden with a whole regiment
of yellow, downy chicks, and a big cage hanging from the wall and
covered with pimpernel, contained a population of birds which were
chirping away in the warmth of this beautiful spring morning.

In another cage, shaped like a chalet, two lovebirds sat motionless side
by side on their perch.

M. Cimme, a fat, puffing person, who always entered first everywhere,
pushing aside everyone else, whether man or woman, when it was
necessary, asked:

“Well, Celeste, aren't things going well?”

The little servant moaned through her tears:

“She doesn't even recognize me any more. The doctor says it's the end.”

Everybody looked around.

Mme. Cimme and Mme. Colombel immediately embraced each other, without
saying a word. They looked very much alike, having always worn their
hair in Madonna bands, and loud red French cashmere shawls.

Cimme turned to his brother-in-law, a pale, sallow-complexioned, thin
man, wasted by stomach complaints, who limped badly, and said in a
serious tone of voice:

“Gad! It was high time.”

But no one dared to enter the dying woman's room on the ground floor.
Even Cimme made way for the others. Colombel was the first to make up
his mind, and, swaying from side to side like the mast of a ship, the
iron ferule of his cane clattering on the paved hall, he entered.

The two women were the next to venture, and M. Cimmes closed the
procession.

Little Joseph had remained outside, pleased at the sight of the dog.

A ray of sunlight seemed to cut the bed in two, shining just on the
hands, which were moving nervously, continually opening and closing. The
fingers were twitching as though moved by some thought, as though trying
to point out a meaning or idea, as though obeying the dictates of a
will. The rest of the body lay motionless under the sheets. The angular
frame showed not a single movement. The eyes remained closed.

The family spread out in a semi-circle and, without a word, they began
to watch the contracted chest and the short, gasping breathing. The
little servant had followed them and was still crying.

At last Cimme asked:

“Exactly what did the doctor say?”

The girl stammered:

“He said to leave her alone, that nothing more could be done for her.”

But suddenly the old woman's lips began to move. She seemed to be
uttering silent words, words hidden in the brain of this dying being,
and her hands quickened their peculiar movements.

Then she began to speak in a thin, high voice, which no one had ever
heard, a voice which seemed to come from the distance, perhaps from the
depths of this heart which had always been closed.

Cimme, finding this scene painful, walked away on tiptoe. Colombel,
whose crippled leg was growing tired, sat down.

The two women remained standing.

Queen Hortense was now babbling away, and no one could understand a
word. She was pronouncing names, many names, tenderly calling imaginary
people.

“Come here, Philippe, kiss your mother. Tell me, child, do you love your
mamma? You, Rose, take care of your little sister while I am away. And
don't leave her alone. Don't play with matches!”

She stopped for a while, then, in a louder voice, as though she were
calling someone: “Henriette!” then waited a moment and continued:

“Tell your father that I wish to speak to him before he goes to
business.” And suddenly: “I am not feeling very well to-day, darling;
promise not to come home late. Tell your employer that I am sick. You
know, it isn't safe to leave the children alone when I am in bed. For
dinner I will fix you up a nice dish of rice. The little ones like that
very much. Won't Claire be happy?”

And she broke into a happy, joyous laugh, such as they had never heard:
“Look at Jean, how funny he looks! He has smeared jam all over his face,
the little pig! Look, sweetheart, look; isn't he funny?”

Colombel, who was continually lifting his tired leg from place to place,
muttered:

“She is dreaming that she has children and a husband; it is the
beginning of the death agony.”

The two sisters had not yet moved, surprised, astounded.

The little maid exclaimed:

“You must take off your shawls and your hats! Would you like to go into
the parlor?”

They went out without having said a word. And Colombel followed them,
limping, once more leaving the dying woman alone.

When they were relieved of their travelling garments, the women finally
sat down. Then one of the cats left its window, stretched, jumped into
the room and on to Mme. Cimme's knees. She began to pet it.

In the next room could be heard the voice of the dying woman, living, in
this last hour, the life for which she had doubtless hoped, living her
dreams themselves just when all was over for her.

Cimme, in the garden, was playing with little Joseph and the dog,
enjoying himself in the whole hearted manner of a countryman, having
completely forgotten the dying woman.

But suddenly he entered the house and said to the girl:

“I say, my girl, are we not going to have luncheon? What do you ladies
wish to eat?”

They finally agreed on an omelet, a piece of steak with new potatoes,
cheese and coffee.

As Mme. Colombel was fumbling in her pocket for her purse, Cimme stopped
her, and, turning to the maid: “Have you got any money?”

She answered:

“Yes, monsieur.”

“How much?”

“Fifteen francs.”

“That's enough. Hustle, my girl, because I am beginning to get very
hungry:”

Mme. Cimme, looking out over the climbing vines bathed in sunlight, and
at the two turtle-doves on the roof opposite, said in an annoyed tone of
voice:

“What a pity to have had to come for such a sad occasion. It is so nice
in the country to-day.”

Her sister sighed without answering, and Colombel mumbled, thinking
perhaps of the walk ahead of him:

“My leg certainly is bothering me to-day:”

Little Joseph and the dog were making a terrible noise; one was
shrieking with pleasure, the other was barking wildly. They were playing
hide-and-seek around the three flower beds, running after each other
like mad.

The dying woman continued to call her children, talking with each one,
imagining that she was dressing them, fondling them, teaching them how
to read: “Come on! Simon repeat: A, B, C, D. You are not paying
attention, listen—D, D, D; do you hear me? Now repeat—”

Cimme exclaimed: “Funny what people say when in that condition.”

Mme. Colombel then asked:

“Wouldn't it be better if we were to return to her?”

But Cimme dissuaded her from the idea:

“What's the use? You can't change anything. We are just as comfortable
here.”

Nobody insisted. Mme. Cimme observed the two green birds called love-
birds. In a few words she praised this singular faithfulness and blamed
the men for not imitating these animals. Cimme began to laugh, looked at
his wife and hummed in a teasing way: “Tra-la-la, tra-la-la” as though
to cast a good deal of doubt on his own, Cimme's, faithfulness:

Colombel was suffering from cramps and was rapping the floor with his
cane.

The other cat, its tail pointing upright to the sky, now came in.

They sat down to luncheon at one o'clock.

As soon as he had tasted the wine, Colombel, for whom only the best of
Bordeaux had been prescribed, called the servant back:

“I say, my girl, is this the best stuff that you have in the cellar?”

“No, monsieur; there is some better wine, which was only brought out
when you came.”

“Well, bring us three bottles of it.”

They tasted the wine and found it excellent, not because it was of a
remarkable vintage, but because it had been in the cellar fifteen years.
Cimme declared:

“That is regular invalid's wine.”

Colombel, filled with an ardent desire to gain possession of this
Bordeaux, once more questioned the girl:

“How much of it is left?”

“Oh! Almost all, monsieur; mamz'elle never touched it. It's in the
bottom stack.”

Then he turned to his brother-in-law:

“If you wish, Cimme, I would be willing to exchange something else for
this wine; it suits my stomach marvellously.”

The chicken had now appeared with its regiment of young ones. The two
women were enjoying themselves throwing crumbs to them.

Joseph and the dog, who had eaten enough, were sent back to the garden.

Queen Hortense was still talking, but in a low, hushed voice, so that
the words could no longer be distinguished.

When they had finished their coffee all went in to observe the condition
of the sick woman. She seemed calm.

They went outside again and seated themselves in a circle in the garden,
in order to complete their digestion.

Suddenly the dog, who was carrying something in his mouth, began to run
around the chairs at full speed. The child was chasing him wildly. Both
disappeared into the house.

Cimme fell asleep, his well-rounded paunch bathed in the glow of the
shining sun.

The dying woman once more began to talk in a loud voice. Then suddenly
she shrieked.

The two women and Colombel rushed in to see what was the matter. Cimme,
waking up, did not budge, because, he did not wish to witness such a
scene.

She was sitting up, with haggard eyes. Her dog, in order to escape being
pursued by little Joseph, had jumped up on the bed, run over the sick
woman, and entrenched behind the pillow, was looking down at his
playmate with snapping eyes, ready to jump down and begin the game
again. He was holding in his mouth one of his mistress' slippers, which
he had torn to pieces and with which he had been playing for the last
hour.

The child, frightened by this woman who had suddenly risen in front of
him, stood motionless before the bed.

The hen had also come in, and frightened by the noise, had jumped up on
a chair and was wildly calling her chicks, who were chirping
distractedly around the four legs of the chair.

Queen Hortense was shrieking:

“No, no, I don't want to die, I don't want to! I don't want to! Who will
bring up my children? Who will take care of them? Who will love them?
No, I don't want to!—I don't——”

She fell back. All was over.

The dog, wild with excitement, jumped about the room, barking.

Colombel ran to the window, calling his brother-in-law:

“Hurry up, hurry up! I think that she has just gone.”

Then Cimme, resigned, arose and entered the room, mumbling

“It didn't take as long as I thought it would!”





TIMBUCTOO

The boulevard, that river of humanity, was alive with people in the
golden light of the setting sun. The whole sky was red, blinding, and
behind the Madeleine an immense bank of flaming clouds cast a shower of
light the whole length of the boulevard, vibrant as the heat from a
brazier.

The gay, animated crowd went by in this golden mist and seemed to be
glorified. Their faces were gilded, their black hats and clothes took on
purple tints, the patent leather of their shoes cast bright reflections
on the asphalt of the sidewalk.

Before the cafes a mass of men were drinking opalescent liquids that
looked like precious stones dissolved in the glasses.

In the midst of the drinkers two officers in full uniform dazzled all
eyes with their glittering gold lace. They chatted, happy without asking
why, in this glory of life, in this radiant light of sunset, and they
looked at the crowd, the leisurely men and the hurrying women who left a
bewildering odor of perfume as they passed by.

All at once an enormous negro, dressed in black, with a paunch beneath
his jean waistcoat, which was covered with charms, his face shining as
if it had been polished, passed before them with a triumphant air. He
laughed at the passers-by, at the news venders, at the dazzling sky, at
the whole of Paris. He was so tall that he overtopped everyone else, and
when he passed all the loungers turned round to look at his back.

But he suddenly perceived the officers and darted towards them, jostling
the drinkers in his path. As soon as he reached their table he fixed his
gleaming and delighted eyes upon them and the corners of his mouth
expanded to his ears, showing his dazzling white teeth like a crescent
moon in a black sky. The two men looked in astonishment at this ebony
giant, unable to understand his delight.

With a voice that made all the guests laugh, he said:

“Good-day, my lieutenant.”

One of the officers was commander of a battalion, the other was a
colonel. The former said:

“I do not know you, sir. I am at a loss to know what you want of me.”

“Me like you much, Lieutenant Vedie, siege of Bezi, much grapes, find
me.”

The officer, utterly bewildered, looked at the man intently, trying to
refresh his memory. Then he cried abruptly:

“Timbuctoo?”

The negro, radiant, slapped his thigh as he uttered a tremendous laugh
and roared:

“Yes, yes, my lieutenant; you remember Timbuctoo, ya. How do you do?”

The commandant held out his hand, laughing heartily as he did so. Then
Timbuctoo became serious. He seized the officer's hand and, before the
other could prevent it, he kissed it, according to negro and Arab
custom. The officer embarrassed, said in a severe tone:

“Come now, Timbuctoo, we are not in Africa. Sit down there and tell me
how it is I find you here.”

Timbuctoo swelled himself out and, his words falling over one another,
replied hurriedly:

“Make much money, much, big restaurant, good food; Prussians, me, much
steal, much, French cooking; Timbuctoo cook to the emperor; two thousand
francs mine. Ha, ha, ha, ha!”

And he laughed, doubling himself up, roaring, with wild delight in his
glances.

When the officer, who understood his strange manner of expressing
himself, had questioned him he said:

“Well, au revoir, Timbuctoo. I will see you again.”

The negro rose, this time shaking the hand that was extended to him and,
smiling still, cried:

“Good-day, good-day, my lieutenant!”

He went off so happy that he gesticulated as he walked, and people
thought he was crazy.

“Who is that brute?” asked the colonel.

“A fine fellow and a brave soldier. I will tell you what I know about
him. It is funny enough.

“You know that at the commencement of the war of 1870 I was shut up in
Bezieres, that this negro calls Bezi. We were not besieged, but
blockaded. The Prussian lines surrounded us on all sides, outside the
reach of cannon, not firing on us, but slowly starving us out.

“I was then lieutenant. Our garrison consisted of soldier of all
descriptions, fragments of slaughtered regiments, some that had run
away, freebooters separated from the main army, etc. We had all kinds,
in fact even eleven Turcos [Algerian soldiers in the service of France],
who arrived one evening no one knew whence or how. They appeared at the
gates of the city, exhausted, in rags, starving and dirty. They were
handed over to me.

“I saw very soon that they were absolutely undisciplined, always in the
street and always drunk. I tried putting them in the police station,
even in prison, but nothing was of any use. They would disappear,
sometimes for days at a time, as if they had been swallowed up by the
earth, and then come back staggering drunk. They had no money. Where did
they buy drink and how and with what?

“This began to worry me greatly, all the more as these savages
interested me with their everlasting laugh and their characteristics of
overgrown frolicsome children.

“I then noticed that they blindly obeyed the largest among them, the one
you have just seen. He made them do as he pleased, planned their
mysterious expeditions with the all-powerful and undisputed authority of
a leader. I sent for him and questioned him. Our conversation lasted
fully three hours, for it was hard for me to understand his remarkable
gibberish. As for him, poor devil, he made unheard-of efforts to make
himself intelligible, invented words, gesticulated, perspired in his
anxiety, mopping his forehead, puffing, stopping and abruptly beginning
again when he thought he had found a new method of explaining what he
wanted to say.

“I gathered finally that he was the son of a big chief, a sort of negro
king of the region around Timbuctoo. I asked him his name. He repeated
something like 'Chavaharibouhalikranafotapolara.' It seemed simpler to
me to give him the name of his native place, 'Timbuctoo.' And a week
later he was known by no other name in the garrison.

“But we were all wildly anxious to find out where this African ex-prince
procured his drinks. I discovered it in a singular manner.

“I was on the ramparts one morning, watching the horizon, when I
perceived something moving about in a vineyard. It was near the time of
vintage, the grapes were ripe, but I was not thinking of that. I thought
that a spy was approaching the town, and I organized a complete
expedition to catch the prowler. I took command myself, after obtaining
permission from the general.

“I sent out by three different gates three little companies, which were
to meet at the suspected vineyard and form a cordon round it. In order
to cut off the spy's retreat, one of these detachments had to make at
least an hour's march. A watch on the walls signalled to me that the
person I had seen had not left the place. We went along in profound
silence, creeping, almost crawling, along the ditches. At last we
reached the spot assigned.

“I abruptly disbanded my soldiers, who darted into the vineyard and
found Timbuctoo on hands and knees travelling around among the vines and
eating grapes, or rather devouring them as a dog eats his sop, snatching
them in mouthfuls from the vine with his teeth.

“I wanted him to get up, but he could not think of it. I then understood
why he was crawling on his hands and knees. As soon as we stood him on
his feet he began to wabble, then stretched out his arms and fell down
on his nose. He was more drunk than I have ever seen anyone.

“They brought him home on two poles. He never stopped laughing all the
way back, gesticulating with his arms and legs.

“This explained the mystery. My men also drank the juice of the grapes,
and when they were so intoxicated they could not stir they went to sleep
in the vineyard. As for Timbuctoo, his love of the vineyard was beyond
all belief and all bounds. He lived in it as did the thrushes, whom he
hated with the jealous hate of a rival. He repeated incessantly: 'The
thrushes eat all the grapes, captain!'

“One evening I was sent for. Something had been seen on the plain coming
in our direction. I had not brought my field-glass and I could not
distinguish things clearly. It looked like a great serpent uncoiling
itself—a convoy. How could I tell?

“I sent some men to meet this strange caravan, which presently made its
triumphal entry. Timbuctoo and nine of his comrades were carrying on a
sort of altar made of camp stools eight severed, grinning and bleeding
heads. The African was dragging along a horse to whose tail another head
was fastened, and six other animals followed, adorned in the same
manner.

“This is what I learned: Having started out to the vineyard, my Africans
had suddenly perceived a detachment of Prussians approaching a village.
Instead of taking to their heels, they hid themselves, and as soon as
the Prussian officers dismounted at an inn to refresh themselves, the
eleven rascals rushed on them, put to flight the lancers, who thought
they were being attacked by the main army, killed the two sentries, then
the colonel and the five officers of his escort.

“That day I kissed Timbuctoo. I saw, however, that he walked with
difficulty and thought he was wounded. He laughed and said:

“'Me provisions for my country.'

“Timbuctoo was not fighting for glory, but for gain. Everything he found
that seemed to him to be of the slightest value, especially anything
that glistened, he put in his pocket. What a pocket! An abyss that began
at his hips and reached to his ankles. He had retained an old term used
by the troopers and called it his 'profonde,' and it was his 'profonde'
in fact.

“He had taken the gold lace off the Prussian uniforms, the brass off
their helmets, detached their buttons, etc., and had thrown them all
into his 'profonde,' which was full to overflowing.

“Each day he pocketed every glistening object that came beneath his
observation, pieces of tin or pieces of silver, and sometimes his
contour was very comical.

“He intended to carry all that back to the land of ostriches, whose
brother he might have been, this son of a king, tormented with the
longing to gobble up all objects that glistened. If he had not had his
'profonde' what would he have done? He doubtless would have swallowed
them.

“Each morning his pocket was empty. He had, then, some general store
where his riches were piled up. But where? I could not discover it.

“The general, on being informed of Timbuctoo's mighty act of valor, had
the headless bodies that had been left in the neighboring village
interred at once, that it might not be discovered that they were
decapitated. The Prussians returned thither the following day. The mayor
and seven prominent inhabitants were shot on the spot, by way of
reprisal, as having denounced the Prussians.

“Winter was here. We were exhausted and desperate. There were skirmishes
now every day. The famished men could no longer march. The eight
'Turcos' alone (three had been killed) remained fat and shiny, vigorous
and always ready to fight. Timbuctoo was even getting fatter. He said to
me one day:

“'You much hungry; me good meat.'

“And he brought me an excellent filet. But of what? We had no more
cattle, nor sheep, nor goats, nor donkeys, nor pigs. It was impossible
to get a horse. I thought of all this after I had devoured my meat. Then
a horrible idea came to me. These negroes were born close to a country
where they eat human beings! And each day such a number of soldiers were
killed around the town! I questioned Timbuctoo. He would not answer. I
did not insist, but from that time on I declined his presents.

“He worshipped me. One night snow took us by surprise at the outposts.
We were seated, on the ground. I looked with pity at those poor negroes
shivering beneath this white frozen shower. I was very cold and began to
cough. At once I felt something fall on me like a large warm quilt. It
was Timbuctoo's cape that he had thrown on my shoulders.

“I rose and returned his garment, saying:

“'Keep it, my boy; you need it more than I do.'

“'Non, my lieutenant, for you; me no need. Me hot, hot!'

“And he looked at me entreatingly.

“'Come, obey orders. Keep your cape; I insist,' I replied.

“He then stood up, drew his sword, which he had sharpened to an edge
like a scythe, and holding in his other hand the large cape which I had
refused, said:

“'If you not keep cape, me cut. No one cape.'

“And he would have done it. So I yielded.

“Eight days later we capitulated. Some of us had been able to escape,
the rest were to march out of the town and give themselves up to the
conquerors.

“I went towards the exercising ground, where we were all to meet, when I
was dumfounded at the sight of a gigantic negro dressed in white duck
and wearing a straw hat. It was Timbuctoo. He was beaming and was
walking with his hands in his pockets in front of a little shop where
two plates and two glasses were displayed.

“'What are you doing?' I said.

“'Me not go. Me good cook; me make food for Colonel Algeria. Me eat
Prussians; much steal, much.'

“There were ten degrees of frost. I shivered at sight of this negro in
white duck. He took me by the arm and made me go inside. I noticed an
immense flag that he was going to place outside his door as soon as we
had left, for he had some shame.”

I read this sign, traced by the hand of some accomplice

“'ARMY KITCHEN OF M. TIMBUCTOO, “'Formerly Cook to H. M. the Emperor.
“'A Parisian Artist. Moderate Prices.'

“In spite of the despair that was gnawing at my heart, I could not help
laughing, and I left my negro to his new enterprise.

“Was not that better than taking him prisoner?

“You have just seen that he made a success of it, the rascal.

“Bezieres to-day belongs to the Germans. The 'Restaurant Timbuctoo' is
the beginning of a retaliation.”





TOMBSTONES

The five friends had finished dinner, five men of the world, mature,
rich, three married, the two others bachelors. They met like this every
month in memory of their youth, and after dinner they chatted until two
o'clock in the morning. Having remained intimate friends, and enjoying
each other's society, they probably considered these the pleasantest
evenings of their lives. They talked on every subject, especially of
what interested and amused Parisians. Their conversation was, as in the
majority of salons elsewhere, a verbal rehash of what they had read in
the morning papers.

One of the most lively of them was Joseph de Bardon, a celibate living
the Parisian life in its fullest and most whimsical manner. He was not a
debauche nor depraved, but a singular, happy fellow, still young, for he
was scarcely forty. A man of the world in its widest and best sense,
gifted with a brilliant, but not profound, mind, with much varied
knowledge, but no true erudition, ready comprehension without true
understanding, he drew from his observations, his adventures, from
everything he saw, met with and found, anecdotes at once comical and
philosophical, and made humorous remarks that gave him a great
reputation for cleverness in society.

He was the after dinner speaker and had his own story each time, upon
which they counted, and he talked without having to be coaxed.

As he sat smoking, his elbows on the table, a petit verre half full
beside his plate, half torpid in an atmosphere of tobacco blended with
steaming coffee, he seemed to be perfectly at home. He said between two
whiffs:

“A curious thing happened to me some time ago.”

“Tell it to us,” they all exclaimed at once.

“With pleasure. You know that I wander about Paris a great deal, like
book collectors who ransack book stalls. I just look at the sights, at
the people, at all that is passing by and all that is going on.

“Toward the middle of September—it was beautiful weather—I went out one
afternoon, not knowing where I was going. One always has a vague wish to
call on some pretty woman or other. One chooses among them in one's
mental picture gallery, compares them in one's mind, weighs the interest
with which they inspire you, their comparative charms and finally
decides according to the influence of the day. But when the sun is very
bright and the air warm, it takes away from you all desire to make
calls.

“The sun was bright, the air warm. I lighted a cigar and sauntered
aimlessly along the outer boulevard. Then, as I strolled on, it occurred
to me to walk as far as Montmartre and go into the cemetery.

“I am very fond of cemeteries. They rest me and give me a feeling of
sadness; I need it. And, besides, I have good friends in there, those
that one no longer goes to call on, and I go there from time to time.

“It is in this cemetery of Montmartre that is buried a romance of my
life, a sweetheart who made a great impression on me, a very emotional,
charming little woman whose memory, although it causes me great sorrow,
also fills me with regrets—regrets of all kinds. And I go to dream
beside her grave. She has finished with life.

“And then I like cemeteries because they are immense cities filled to
overflowing with inhabitants. Think how many dead people there are in
this small space, think of all the generations of Parisians who are
housed there forever, veritable troglodytes enclosed in their little
vaults, in their little graves covered with a stone or marked by a
cross, while living beings take up so much room and make so much noise
—imbeciles that they are!

“Then, again, in cemeteries there are monuments almost as interesting as
in museums. The tomb of Cavaignac reminded me, I must confess without
making any comparison, of the chef d'oeuvre of Jean Goujon: the
recumbent statue of Louis de Breze in the subterranean chapel of the
Cathedral of Rouen. All modern and realistic art has originated there,
messieurs. This dead man, Louis de Breze, is more real, more terrible,
more like inanimate flesh still convulsed with the death agony than all
the tortured corpses that are distorted to-day in funeral monuments.

“But in Montmartre one can yet admire Baudin's monument, which has a
degree of grandeur; that of Gautier, of Murger, on which I saw the other
day a simple, paltry wreath of immortelles, yellow immortelles, brought
thither by whom? Possibly by the last grisette, very old and now
janitress in the neighborhood. It is a pretty little statue by Millet,
but ruined by dirt and neglect. Sing of youth, O Murger!

“Well, there I was in Montmartre Cemetery, and was all at once filled
with sadness, a sadness that is not all pain, a kind of sadness that
makes you think when you are in good health, 'This place is not amusing,
but my time has not come yet.'

“The feeling of autumn, of the warm moisture which is redolent of the
death of the leaves, and the weakened, weary, anaemic sun increased,
while rendering it poetical, the sensation of solitude and of finality
that hovered over this spot which savors of human mortality.

“I walked along slowly amid these streets of tombs, where the neighbors
do not visit each other, do not sleep together and do not read the
newspapers. And I began to read the epitaphs. That is the most amusing
thing in the world. Never did Labiche or Meilhac make me laugh as I have
laughed at the comical inscriptions on tombstones. Oh, how much superior
to the books of Paul de Kock for getting rid of the spleen are these
marble slabs and these crosses where the relatives of the deceased have
unburdened their sorrow, their desires for the happiness of the vanished
ones and their hope of rejoining them—humbugs!

“But I love above all in this cemetery the deserted portion, solitary,
full of great yews and cypresses, the older portion, belonging to those
dead long since, and which will soon be taken into use again; the
growing trees nourished by the human corpses cut down in order to bury
in rows beneath little slabs of marble those who have died more
recently.

“When I had sauntered about long enough to refresh my mind I felt that I
would soon have had enough of it and that I must place the faithful
homage of my remembrance on my little friend's last resting place. I
felt a tightening of the heart as I reached her grave. Poor dear, she
was so dainty, so loving and so white and fresh—and now—if one should
open the grave—

“Leaning over the iron grating, I told her of my sorrow in a low tone,
which she doubtless did not hear, and was moving away when I saw a woman
in black, in deep mourning, kneeling on the next grave. Her crape veil
was turned back, uncovering a pretty fair head, the hair in Madonna
bands looking like rays of dawn beneath her sombre headdress. I stayed.

“Surely she must be in profound grief. She had covered her face with her
hands and, standing there in meditation, rigid as a statue, given up to
her grief, telling the sad rosary of her remembrances within the shadow
of her concealed and closed eyes, she herself seemed like a dead person
mourning another who was dead. All at once a little motion of her back,
like a flutter of wind through a willow, led me to suppose that she was
going to cry. She wept softly at first, then louder, with quick motions
of her neck and shoulders. Suddenly she uncovered her eyes. They were
full of tears and charming, the eyes of a bewildered woman, with which
she glanced about her as if awaking from a nightmare. She looked at me,
seemed abashed and hid her face completely in her hands. Then she sobbed
convulsively, and her head slowly bent down toward the marble. She
leaned her forehead on it, and her veil spreading around her, covered
the white corners of the beloved tomb, like a fresh token of mourning. I
heard her sigh, then she sank down with her cheek on the marble slab and
remained motionless, unconscious.

“I darted toward her, slapped her hands, blew on her eyelids, while I
read this simple epitaph: 'Here lies Louis-Theodore Carrel, Captain of
Marine Infantry, killed by the enemy at Tonquin. Pray for him.'

“He had died some months before. I was affected to tears and redoubled
my attentions. They were successful. She regained consciousness. I
appeared very much moved. I am not bad looking, I am not forty. I saw by
her first glance that she would be polite and grateful. She was, and
amid more tears she told me her history in detached fragments as well as
her gasping breath would allow, how the officer was killed at Tonquin
when they had been married a year, how she had married him for love, and
being an orphan, she had only the usual dowry.

“I consoled her, I comforted her, raised her and lifted her on her feet.
Then I said:

“'Do not stay here. Come.'

“'I am unable to walk,' she murmured.

“'I will support you.'

“'Thank you, sir; you are good. Did you also come to mourn for some
one?'

“'Yes, madame.'

“'A dead friend?'

“'Yes, madame.'

“'Your wife?'

“'A friend.'

“'One may love a friend as much as they love their wife. Love has no
law.'

“'Yes, madame.'

“And we set off together, she leaning on my arm, while I almost carried
her along the paths of the cemetery. When we got outside she faltered:

“'I feel as if I were going to be ill.'

“'Would you like to go in anywhere, to take something?'

“'Yes, monsieur.'

“I perceived a restaurant, one of those places where the mourners of the
dead go to celebrate the funeral. We went in. I made her drink a cup of
hot tea, which seemed to revive her. A faint smile came to her lips. She
began to talk about herself. It was sad, so sad to be always alone in
life, alone in one's home, night and day, to have no one on whom one can
bestow affection, confidence, intimacy.

“That sounded sincere. It sounded pretty from her mouth. I was touched.
She was very young, perhaps twenty. I paid her compliments, which she
took in good part. Then, as time was passing, I suggested taking her
home in a carriage. She accepted, and in the cab we sat so close that
our shoulders touched.

“When the cab stopped at her house she murmured: 'I do not feel equal to
going upstairs alone, for I live on the fourth floor. You have been so
good. Will you let me take your arm as far as my own door?'

“I agreed with eagerness. She ascended the stairs slowly, breathing
hard. Then, as we stood at her door, she said:

“'Come in a few moments so that I may thank you.'

“And, by Jove, I went in. Everything was modest, even rather poor, but
simple and in good taste.

“We sat down side by side on a little sofa and she began to talk again
about her loneliness. She rang for her maid, in order to offer me some
wine. The maid did not come. I was delighted, thinking that this maid
probably came in the morning only, what one calls a charwoman.

“She had taken off her hat. She was really pretty, and she gazed at me
with her clear eyes, gazed so hard and her eyes were so clear that I was
terribly tempted. I caught her in my arms and rained kisses on her
eyelids, which she closed suddenly.

“She freed herself and pushed me away, saying:

“'Have done, have done.'

“But I next kissed her on the mouth and she did not resist, and as our
glances met after thus outraging the memory of the captain killed in
Tonquin, I saw that she had a languid, resigned expression that set my
mind at rest.

“I became very attentive and, after chatting for some time, I said:

“'Where do you dine?'

“'In a little restaurant in the neighborhood:

“'All alone?'

“'Why, yes.'

“'Will you dine with me?'

“'Where?'

“'In a good restaurant on the Boulevard.'

“She demurred a little. I insisted. She yielded, saying by way of
apology to herself: 'I am so lonely—so lonely.' Then she added:

“'I must put on something less sombre, and went into her bedroom. When
she reappeared she was dressed in half-mourning, charming, dainty and
slender in a very simple gray dress. She evidently had a costume for the
cemetery and one for the town.

“The dinner was very enjoyable. She drank some champagne, brightened up,
grew lively and I went home with her.

“This friendship, begun amid the tombs, lasted about three weeks. But
one gets tired of everything, especially of women. I left her under
pretext of an imperative journey. She made me promise that I would come
and see her on my return. She seemed to be really rather attached to me.

“Other things occupied my attention, and it was about a month before I
thought much about this little cemetery friend. However, I did not
forget her. The recollection of her haunted me like a mystery, like a
psychological problem, one of those inexplicable questions whose
solution baffles us.

“I do not know why, but one day I thought I might possibly meet her in
the Montmartre Cemetery, and I went there.

“I walked about a long time without meeting any but the ordinary
visitors to this spot, those who have not yet broken off all relations
with their dead. The grave of the captain killed at Tonquin had no
mourner on its marble slab, no flowers, no wreath.

“But as I wandered in another direction of this great city of the dead I
perceived suddenly, at the end of a narrow avenue of crosses, a couple
in deep mourning walking toward me, a man and a woman. Oh, horrors! As
they approached I recognized her. It was she!

“She saw me, blushed, and as I brushed past her she gave me a little
signal, a tiny little signal with her eye, which meant: 'Do not
recognize me!' and also seemed to say, 'Come back to see me again, my
dear!'

“The man was a gentleman, distingue, chic, an officer of the Legion of
Honor, about fifty years old. He was supporting her as I had supported
her myself when we were leaving the cemetery.

“I went my way, filled with amazement, asking myself what this all
meant, to what race of beings belonged this huntress of the tombs? Was
she just a common girl, one who went to seek among the tombs for men who
were in sorrow, haunted by the recollection of some woman, a wife or a
sweetheart, and still troubled by the memory of vanished caresses? Was
she unique? Are there many such? Is it a profession? Do they parade the
cemetery as they parade the street? Or else was she only impressed with
the admirable, profoundly philosophical idea of exploiting love
recollections, which are revived in these funereal places?

“And I would have liked to know whose widow she was on that special
day.”





MADEMOISELLE PEARL

I

What a strange idea it was for me to choose Mademoiselle Pearl for queen
that evening!

Every year I celebrate Twelfth Night with my old friend Chantal. My
father, who was his most intimate friend, used to take me round there
when I was a child. I continued the custom, and I doubtless shall
continue it as long as I live and as long as there is a Chantal in this
world.

The Chantals lead a peculiar existence; they live in Paris as though
they were in Grasse, Evetot, or Pont-a-Mousson.

They have a house with a little garden near the observatory. They live
there as though they were in the country. Of Paris, the real Paris, they
know nothing at all, they suspect nothing; they are so far, so far away!
However, from time to time, they take a trip into it. Mademoiselle
Chantal goes to lay in her provisions, as it is called in the family.
This is how they go to purchase their provisions:

Mademoiselle Pearl, who has the keys to the kitchen closet (for the
linen closets are administered by the mistress herself), Mademoiselle
Pearl gives warning that the supply of sugar is low, that the preserves
are giving out, that there is not much left in the bottom of the coffee
bag. Thus warned against famine, Mademoiselle Chantal passes everything
in review, taking notes on a pad. Then she puts down a lot of figures
and goes through lengthy calculations and long discussions with
Mademoiselle Pearl. At last they manage to agree, and they decide upon
the quantity of each thing of which they will lay in a three months'
provision; sugar, rice, prunes, coffee, preserves, cans of peas, beans,
lobster, salt or smoked fish, etc., etc. After which the day for the
purchasing is determined on and they go in a cab with a railing round
the top and drive to a large grocery store on the other side of the
river in the new sections of the town.

Madame Chantal and Mademoiselle Pearl make this trip together,
mysteriously, and only return at dinner time, tired out, although still
excited, and shaken up by the cab, the roof of which is covered with
bundles and bags, like an express wagon.

For the Chantals all that part of Paris situated on the other side of
the Seine constitutes the new quarter, a section inhabited by a strange,
noisy population, which cares little for honor, spends its days in
dissipation, its nights in revelry, and which throws money out of the
windows. From time to time, however, the young girls are taken to the
Opera-Comique or the Theatre Francais, when the play is recommended by
the paper which is read by M. Chantal.

At present the young ladies are respectively nineteen and seventeen.
They are two pretty girls, tall and fresh, very well brought up, in
fact, too well brought up, so much so that they pass by unperceived like
two pretty dolls. Never would the idea come to me to pay the slightest
attention or to pay court to one of the young Chantal ladies; they are
so immaculate that one hardly dares speak to them; one almost feels
indecent when bowing to them.

As for the father, he is a charming man, well educated, frank, cordial,
but he likes calm and quiet above all else, and has thus contributed
greatly to the mummifying of his family in order to live as he pleased
in stagnant quiescence. He reads a lot, loves to talk and is readily
affected. Lack of contact and of elbowing with the world has made his
moral skin very tender and sensitive. The slightest thing moves him,
excites him, and makes him suffer.

The Chantals have limited connections carefully chosen in the
neighborhood. They also exchange two or three yearly visits with
relatives who live in the distance.

As for me, I take dinner with them on the fifteenth of August and on
Twelfth Night. That is as much one of my duties as Easter communion is
for a Catholic.

On the fifteenth of August a few friends are invited, but on Twelfth
Night I am the only stranger.

Well, this year, as every former year, I went to the Chantals' for my
Epiphany dinner.

According to my usual custom, I kissed M. Chantal, Madame Chantal and
Mademoiselle Pearl, and I made a deep bow to the Misses Louise and
Pauline. I was questioned about a thousand and one things, about what
had happened on the boulevards, about politics, about how matters stood
in Tong-King, and about our representatives in Parliament. Madame
Chantal, a fat lady, whose ideas always gave me the impression of being
carved out square like building stones, was accustomed to exclaiming at
the end of every political discussion: “All that is seed which does not
promise much for the future!” Why have I always imagined that Madame
Chantal's ideas are square? I don't know; but everything that she says
takes that shape in my head: a big square, with four symmetrical angles.
There are other people whose ideas always strike me as being round and
rolling like a hoop. As soon as they begin a sentence on any subject it
rolls on and on, coming out in ten, twenty, fifty round ideas, large and
small, which I see rolling along, one behind the other, to the end of
the horizon. Other people have pointed ideas—but enough of this.

We sat down as usual and finished our dinner without anything out of the
ordinary being said. At dessert the Twelfth Night cake was brought on.
Now, M. Chantal had been king every year. I don't know whether this was
the result of continued chance or a family convention, but he
unfailingly found the bean in his piece of cake, and he would proclaim
Madame Chantal to be queen. Therefore, I was greatly surprised to find
something very hard, which almost made me break a tooth, in a mouthful
of cake. Gently I took this thing from my mouth and I saw that it was a
little porcelain doll, no bigger than a bean. Surprise caused me to
exclaim:

“Ah!” All looked at me, and Chantal clapped his hands and cried: “It's
Gaston! It's Gaston! Long live the king! Long live the king!”

All took up the chorus: “Long live the king!” And I blushed to the tip
of my ears, as one often does, without any reason at all, in situations
which are a little foolish. I sat there looking at my plate, with this
absurd little bit of pottery in my fingers, forcing myself to laugh and
not knowing what to do or say, when Chantal once more cried out: “Now,
you must choose a queen!”

Then I was thunderstruck. In a second a thousand thoughts and
suppositions flashed through my mind. Did they expect me to pick out one
of the young Chantal ladies? Was that a trick to make me say which one I
prefer? Was it a gentle, light, direct hint of the parents toward a
possible marriage? The idea of marriage roams continually in houses with
grown-up girls, and takes every shape and disguise, and employs every
subterfuge. A dread of compromising myself took hold of me as well as an
extreme timidity before the obstinately correct and reserved attitude of
the Misses Louise and Pauline. To choose one of them in preference to
the other seemed to me as difficult as choosing between two drops of
water; and then the fear of launching myself into an affair which might,
in spite of me, lead me gently into matrimonial ties, by means as wary
and imperceptible and as calm as this insignificant royalty—the fear of
all this haunted me.

Suddenly I had an inspiration, and I held out to Mademoiselle Pearl the
symbolical emblem. At first every one was surprised, then they doubtless
appreciated my delicacy and discretion, for they applauded furiously.
Everybody was crying: “Long live the queen! Long live the queen!”

As for herself, poor old maid, she was so amazed that she completely
lost control of herself; she was trembling and stammering: “No—no—oh!
no—not me—please—not me—I beg of you——”

Then for the first time in my life I looked at Mademoiselle Pearl and
wondered what she was.

I was accustomed to seeing her in this house, just as one sees old
upholstered armchairs on which one has been sitting since childhood
without ever noticing them. One day, with no reason at all, because a
ray of sunshine happens to strike the seat, you suddenly think: “Why,
that chair is very curious”; and then you discover that the wood has
been worked by a real artist and that the material is remarkable. I had
never taken any notice of Mademoiselle Pearl.

She was a part of the Chantal family, that was all. But how? By what
right? She was a tall, thin person who tried to remain in the
background, but who was by no means insignificant. She was treated in a
friendly manner, better than a housekeeper, not so well as a relative. I
suddenly observed several shades of distinction which I had never
noticed before. Madame Chantal said: “Pearl.” The young ladies:
“Mademoiselle Pearl,” and Chantal only addressed her as “Mademoiselle,”
with an air of greater respect, perhaps.

I began to observe her. How old could she be? Forty? Yes, forty. She was
not old, she made herself old. I was suddenly struck by this fact. She
fixed her hair and dressed in a ridiculous manner, and, notwithstanding
all that, she was not in the least ridiculous, she had such simple,
natural gracefulness, veiled and hidden. Truly, what a strange creature!
How was it I had never observed her before? She dressed her hair in a
grotesque manner with little old maid curls, most absurd; but beneath
this one could see a large, calm brow, cut by two deep lines, two
wrinkles of long sadness, then two blue eyes, large and tender, so
timid, so bashful, so humble, two beautiful eyes which had kept the
expression of naive wonder of a young girl, of youthful sensations, and
also of sorrow, which had softened without spoiling them.

Her whole face was refined and discreet, a face the expression of which
seemed to have gone out without being used up or faded by the fatigues
and great emotions of life.

What a dainty mouth! and such pretty teeth! But one would have thought
that she did not dare smile.

Suddenly I compared her to Madame Chantal! Undoubtedly Mademoiselle
Pearl was the better of the two, a hundred times better, daintier,
prouder, more noble. I was surprised at my observation. They were
pouring out champagne. I held my glass up to the queen and, with a well-
turned compliment, I drank to her health. I could see that she felt
inclined to hide her head in her napkin. Then, as she was dipping her
lips in the clear wine, everybody cried: “The queen drinks! the queen
drinks!” She almost turned purple and choked. Everybody was laughing;
but I could see that all loved her.

As soon as dinner was over Chantal took me by the arm. It was time for
his cigar, a sacred hour. When alone he would smoke it out in the
street; when guests came to dinner he would take them to the billiard
room and smoke while playing. That evening they had built a fire to
celebrate Twelfth Night; my old friend took his cue, a very fine one,
and chalked it with great care; then he said:

“You break, my boy!”

He called me “my boy,” although I was twenty-five, but he had known me
as a young child.

I started the game and made a few carroms. I missed some others, but as
the thought of Mademoiselle Pearl kept returning to my mind, I suddenly
asked:

“By the way, Monsieur Chantal, is Mademoiselle Pearl a relative of
yours?”

Greatly surprised, he stopped playing and looked at me:

“What! Don't you know? Haven't you heard about Mademoiselle Pearl?”

“No.”

“Didn't your father ever tell you?”

“No.”

“Well, well, that's funny! That certainly is funny! Why, it's a regular
romance!”

He paused, and then continued:

“And if you only knew how peculiar it is that you should ask me that to-
day, on Twelfth Night!”

“Why?”

“Why? Well, listen. Forty-one years ago to day, the day of the Epiphany,
the following events occurred: We were then living at Roily-le-Tors, on
the ramparts; but in order that you may understand, I must first explain
the house. Roily is built on a hill, or, rather, on a mound which
overlooks a great stretch of prairie. We had a house there with a
beautiful hanging garden supported by the old battlemented wall; so that
the house was in the town on the streets, while the garden overlooked
the plain. There was a door leading from the garden to the open country,
at the bottom of a secret stairway in the thick wall—the kind you read
about in novels. A road passed in front of this door, which was provided
with a big bell; for the peasants, in order to avoid the roundabout way,
would bring their provisions up this way.

“You now understand the place, don't you? Well, this year, at Epiphany,
it had been snowing for a week. One might have thought that the world
was coming to an end. When we went to the ramparts to look over the
plain, this immense white, frozen country, which shone like varnish,
would chill our very souls. One might have thought that the Lord had
packed the world in cotton to put it away in the storeroom for old
worlds. I can assure you that it was dreary looking.

“We were a very numerous family at that time my father, my mother, my
uncle and aunt, my two brothers and four cousins; they were pretty
little girls; I married the youngest. Of all that crowd, there are only
three of us left: my wife, I, and my sister-in-law, who lives in
Marseilles. Zounds! how quickly a family like that dwindles away! I
tremble when I think of it! I was fifteen years old then, since I am
fifty-six now.

“We were going to celebrate the Epiphany, and we were all happy, very
happy! Everybody was in the parlor, awaiting dinner, and my oldest
brother, Jacques, said: 'There has been a dog howling out in the plain
for about ten minutes; the poor beast must be lost.'

“He had hardly stopped talking when the garden bell began to ring. It
had the deep sound of a church bell, which made one think of death. A
shiver ran through everybody. My father called the servant and told him
to go outside and look. We waited in complete silence; we were thinking
of the snow which covered the ground. When the man returned he declared
that he had seen nothing. The dog kept up its ceaseless howling, and
always from the same spot.

“We sat down to dinner; but we were all uneasy, especially the young
people. Everything went well up to the roast, then the bell began to
ring again, three times in succession, three heavy, long strokes which
vibrated to the tips of our fingers and which stopped our conversation
short. We sat there looking at each other, fork in the air, still
listening, and shaken by a kind of supernatural fear.

“At last my mother spoke: 'It's surprising that they should have waited
so long to come back. Do not go alone, Baptiste; one of these gentlemen
will accompany you.'

“My Uncle Francois arose. He was a kind of Hercules, very proud of his
strength, and feared nothing in the world. My father said to him: 'Take
a gun. There is no telling what it might be.'

“But my uncle only took a cane and went out with the servant.

“We others remained there trembling with fear and apprehension, without
eating or speaking. My father tried to reassure us: 'Just wait and see,'
he said; 'it will be some beggar or some traveller lost in the snow.
After ringing once, seeing that the door was not immediately opened, he
attempted again to find his way, and being unable to, he has returned to
our door.'

“Our uncle seemed to stay away an hour. At last he came back, furious,
swearing: 'Nothing at all; it's some practical joker! There is nothing
but that damned dog howling away at about a hundred yards from the
walls. If I had taken a gun I would have killed him to make him keep
quiet.'

“We sat down to dinner again, but every one was excited; we felt that
all was not over, that something was going to happen, that the bell
would soon ring again.

“It rang just as the Twelfth Night cake was being cut. All the men
jumped up together. My Uncle, Francois, who had been drinking champagne,
swore so furiously that he would murder it, whatever it might be, that
my mother and my aunt threw themselves on him to prevent his going. My
father, although very calm and a little helpless (he limped ever since
he had broken his leg when thrown by a horse), declared, in turn, that
he wished to find out what was the matter and that he was going. My
brothers, aged eighteen and twenty, ran to get their guns; and as no one
was paying any attention to me I snatched up a little rifle that was
used in the garden and got ready to accompany the expedition.

“It started out immediately. My father and uncle were walking ahead with
Baptiste, who was carrying a lantern. My brothers, Jacques and Paul,
followed, and I trailed on behind in spite of the prayers of my mother,
who stood in front of the house with her sister and my cousins.

“It had been snowing again for the last hour, and the trees were
weighted down. The pines were bending under this heavy, white garment,
and looked like white pyramids or enormous sugar cones, and through the
gray curtains of small hurrying flakes could be seen the lighter bushes
which stood out pale in the shadow. The snow was falling so thick that
we could hardly see ten feet ahead of us. But the lantern threw a bright
light around us. When we began to go down the winding stairway in the
wall I really grew frightened. I felt as though some one were walking
behind me, were going to grab me by the shoulders and carry me away, and
I felt a strong desire to return; but, as I would have had to cross the
garden all alone, I did not dare. I heard some one opening the door
leading to the plain; my uncle began to swear again, exclaiming: 'By—-!
He has gone again! If I can catch sight of even his shadow, I'll take
care not to miss him, the swine!'

“It was a discouraging thing to see this great expanse of plain, or,
rather, to feel it before us, for we could not see it; we could only see
a thick, endless veil of snow, above, below, opposite us, to the right,
to the left, everywhere. My uncle continued:

“'Listen! There is the dog howling again; I will teach him how I shoot.
That will be something gained, anyhow.'

“But my father, who was kind-hearted, went on:

“'It will be much better to go on and get the poor animal, who is crying
for hunger. The poor fellow is barking for help; he is calling like a
man in distress. Let us go to him.'

“So we started out through this mist, through this thick continuous fall
of snow, which filled the air, which moved, floated, fell, and chilled
the skin with a burning sensation like a sharp, rapid pain as each flake
melted. We were sinking in up to our knees in this soft, cold mass, and
we had to lift our feet very high in order to walk. As we advanced the
dog's voice became clearer and stronger. My uncle cried: 'Here he is!'
We stopped to observe him as one does when he meets an enemy at night.

“I could see nothing, so I ran up to the others, and I caught sight of
him; he was frightful and weird-looking; he was a big black shepherd's
dog with long hair and a wolf's head, standing just within the gleam of
light cast by our lantern on the snow. He did not move; he was silently
watching us.

“My uncle said: 'That's peculiar, he is neither advancing nor
retreating. I feel like taking a shot at him.'

“My father answered in a firm voice: 'No, we must capture him.'

“Then my brother Jacques added: 'But he is not alone. There is something
behind him.”

“There was indeed something behind him, something gray, impossible to
distinguish. We started out again cautiously. When he saw us approaching
the dog sat down. He did not look wicked. Instead, he seemed pleased at
having been able to attract the attention of some one.

“My father went straight to him and petted him. The dog licked his
hands. We saw that he was tied to the wheel of a little carriage, a sort
of toy carriage entirely wrapped up in three or four woolen blankets. We
carefully took off these coverings, and as Baptiste approached his
lantern to the front of this little vehicle, which looked like a rolling
kennel, we saw in it a little baby sleeping peacefully.

“We were so astonished that we couldn't speak.

“My father was the first to collect his wits, and as he had a warm heart
and a broad mind, he stretched his hand over the roof of the carriage
and said: 'Poor little waif, you shall be one of us!' And he ordered my
brother Jacques to roll the foundling ahead of us. Thinking out loud, my
father continued:

“'Some child of love whose poor mother rang at my door on this night of
Epiphany in memory of the Child of God.'

“He once more stopped and called at the top of his lungs through the
night to the four corners of the heavens: 'We have found it!' Then,
putting his hand on his brother's shoulder, he murmured: 'What if you
had shot the dog, Francois?'

“My uncle did not answer, but in the darkness he crossed himself, for,
notwithstanding his blustering manner, he was very religious.

“The dog, which had been untied, was following us.

“Ah! But you should have seen us when we got to the house! At first we
had a lot of trouble in getting the carriage up through the winding
stairway; but we succeeded and even rolled it into the vestibule.

“How funny mamma was! How happy and astonished! And my four little
cousins (the youngest was only six), they looked like four chickens
around a nest. At last we took the child from the carriage. It was still
sleeping. It was a girl about six weeks old. In its clothes we found ten
thousand francs in gold, yes, my boy, ten thousand francs!—which papa
saved for her dowry. Therefore, it was not a child of poor people, but,
perhaps, the child of some nobleman and a little bourgeoise of the
town—or again—we made a thousand suppositions, but we never found out
anything-never the slightest clue. The dog himself was recognized by no
one. He was a stranger in the country. At any rate, the person who rang
three times at our door must have known my parents well, to have chosen
them thus.

“That is how, at the age of six weeks, Mademoiselle Pearl entered the
Chantal household.

“It was not until later that she was called Mademoiselle Pearl. She was
at first baptized 'Marie Simonne Claire,' Claire being intended, for her
family name.

“I can assure you that our return to the diningroom was amusing, with
this baby now awake and looking round her at these people and these
lights with her vague blue questioning eyes.

“We sat down to dinner again and the cake was cut. I was king, and for
queen I took Mademoiselle Pearl, just as you did to-day. On that day she
did not appreciate the honor that was being shown her.

“Well, the child was adopted and brought up in the family. She grew, and
the years flew by. She was so gentle and loving and minded so well that
every one would have spoiled her abominably had not my mother prevented
it.

“My mother was an orderly woman with a great respect for class
distinctions. She consented to treat little Claire as she did her own
sons, but, nevertheless, she wished the distance which separated us to
be well marked, and our positions well established. Therefore, as soon
as the child could understand, she acquainted her with her story and
gently, even tenderly, impressed on the little one's mind that, for the
Chantals, she was an adopted daughter, taken in, but, nevertheless, a
stranger. Claire understood the situation with peculiar intelligence and
with surprising instinct; she knew how to take the place which was
allotted her, and to keep it with so much tact, gracefulness and
gentleness that she often brought tears to my father's eyes. My mother
herself was often moved by the passionate gratitude and timid devotion
of this dainty and loving little creature that she began calling her:
'My daughter.' At times, when the little one had done something kind and
good, my mother would raise her spectacles on her forehead, a thing
which always indicated emotion with her, and she would repeat: 'This
child is a pearl, a perfect pearl!' This name stuck to the little
Claire, who became and remained for us Mademoiselle Pearl.”

II

M. Chantal stopped. He was sitting on the edge of the billiard table,
his feet hanging, and was playing with a ball with his left hand, while
with his right he crumpled a rag which served to rub the chalk marks
from the slate. A little red in the face, his voice thick, he was
talking away to himself now, lost in his memories, gently drifting
through the old scenes and events which awoke in his mind, just as we
walk through old family gardens where we were brought up and where each
tree, each walk, each hedge reminds us of some occurrence.

I stood opposite him leaning against the wall, my hands resting on my
idle cue.

After a slight pause he continued:

“By Jove! She was pretty at eighteen—and graceful—and perfect. Ah! She
was so sweet—and good and true—and charming! She had such eyes—blue-
transparent—clear—such eyes as I have never seen since!”

He was once more silent. I asked: “Why did she never marry?”

He answered, not to me, but to the word “marry” which had caught his
ear: “Why? why? She never would—she never would! She had a dowry of
thirty thousand francs, and she received several offers—but she never
would! She seemed sad at that time. That was when I married my cousin,
little Charlotte, my wife, to whom I had been engaged for six years.”

I looked at M. Chantal, and it seemed to me that I was looking into his
very soul, and I was suddenly witnessing one of those humble and cruel
tragedies of honest, straightforward, blameless hearts, one of those
secret tragedies known to no one, not even the silent and resigned
victims. A rash curiosity suddenly impelled me to exclaim:

“You should have married her, Monsieur Chantal!”

He started, looked at me, and said:

“I? Marry whom?”

“Mademoiselle Pearl.”

“Why?”

“Because you loved her more than your cousin.”

He stared at me with strange, round, bewildered eyes and stammered:

“I loved her—I? How? Who told you that?”

“Why, anyone can see that—and it's even on account of her that you
delayed for so long your marriage to your cousin who had been waiting
for you for six years.”

He dropped the ball which he was holding in his left hand, and, seizing
the chalk rag in both hands, he buried his face in it and began to sob.
He was weeping with his eyes, nose and mouth in a heartbreaking yet
ridiculous manner, like a sponge which one squeezes. He was coughing,
spitting and blowing his nose in the chalk rag, wiping his eyes and
sneezing; then the tears would again begin to flow down the wrinkles on
his face and he would make a strange gurgling noise in his throat. I
felt bewildered, ashamed; I wanted to run away, and I no longer knew
what to say, do, or attempt.

Suddenly Madame Chantal's voice sounded on the stairs. “Haven't you men
almost finished smoking your cigars?”

I opened the door and cried: “Yes, madame, we are coming right down.”

Then I rushed to her husband, and, seizing him by the shoulders, I
cried: “Monsieur Chantal, my friend Chantal, listen to me; your wife is
calling; pull yourself together, we must go downstairs.”

He stammered: “Yes—yes—I am coming—poor girl! I am coming—tell her that
I am coming.”

He began conscientiously to wipe his face on the cloth which, for the
last two or three years, had been used for marking off the chalk from
the slate; then he appeared, half white and half red, his forehead,
nose, cheeks and chin covered with chalk, and his eyes swollen, still
full of tears.

I caught him by the hands and dragged him into his bedroom, muttering:
“I beg your pardon, I beg your pardon, Monsieur Chantal, for having
caused you such sorrow—but—I did not know—you—you understand.”

He squeezed my hand, saying: “Yes—yes—there are difficult moments.”

Then he plunged his face into a bowl of water. When he emerged from it
he did not yet seem to me to be presentable; but I thought of a little
stratagem. As he was growing worried, looking at himself in the mirror,
I said to him: “All you have to do is to say that a little dust flew
into your eye and you can cry before everybody to your heart's content.”

He went downstairs rubbing his eyes with his handkerchief. All were
worried; each one wished to look for the speck, which could not be
found; and stories were told of similar cases where it had been
necessary to call in a physician.

I went over to Mademoiselle Pearl and watched her, tormented by an
ardent curiosity, which was turning to positive suffering. She must
indeed have been pretty, with her gentle, calm eyes, so large that it
looked as though she never closed them like other mortals. Her gown was
a little ridiculous, a real old maid's gown, which was unbecoming
without appearing clumsy.

It seemed to me as though I were looking into her soul, just as I had
into Monsieur Chantal's; that I was looking right from one end to the
other of this humble life, so simple and devoted. I felt an irresistible
longing to question her, to find out whether she, too, had loved him;
whether she also had suffered, as he had, from this long, secret,
poignant grief, which one cannot see, know, or guess, but which breaks
forth at night in the loneliness of the dark room. I was watching her,
and I could observe her heart beating under her waist, and I wondered
whether this sweet, candid face had wept on the soft pillow and she had
sobbed, her whole body shaken by the violence of her anguish.

I said to her in a low voice, like a child who is breaking a toy to see
what is inside: “If you could have seen Monsieur Chantal crying a while
ago it would have moved you.”

She started, asking: “What? He was weeping?”

“Ah, yes, he was indeed weeping!”

“Why?”

She seemed deeply moved. I answered:

“On your account.”

“On my account?”

“Yes. He was telling me how much he had loved you in the days gone by;
and what a pang it had given him to marry his cousin instead of you.”

Her pale face seemed to grow a little longer; her calm eyes, which
always remained open, suddenly closed so quickly that they seemed shut
forever. She slipped from her chair to the floor, and slowly, gently
sank down as would a fallen garment.

I cried: “Help! help! Mademoiselle Pearl is ill.”

Madame Chantal and her daughters rushed forward, and while they were
looking for towels, water and vinegar, I grabbed my hat and ran away.

I walked away with rapid strides, my heart heavy, my mind full of
remorse and regret. And yet sometimes I felt pleased; I felt as though I
had done a praiseworthy and necessary act. I was asking myself: “Did I
do wrong or right?” They had that shut up in their hearts, just as some
people carry a bullet in a closed wound. Will they not be happier now?
It was too late for their torture to begin over again and early enough
for them to remember it with tenderness.

And perhaps some evening next spring, moved by a beam of moonlight
falling through the branches on the grass at their feet, they will join
and press their hands in memory of all this cruel and suppressed
suffering; and, perhaps, also this short embrace may infuse in their
veins a little of this thrill which they would not have known without
it, and will give to those two dead souls, brought to life in a second,
the rapid and divine sensation of this intoxication, of this madness
which gives to lovers more happiness in an instant than other men can
gather during a whole lifetime!





THE THIEF

While apparently thinking of something else, Dr. Sorbier had been
listening quietly to those amazing accounts of burglaries and daring
deeds that might have been taken from the trial of Cartouche.
“Assuredly,” he exclaimed, “assuredly, I know of no viler fault nor any
meaner action than to attack a girl's innocence, to corrupt her, to
profit by a moment of unconscious weakness and of madness, when her
heart is beating like that of a frightened fawn, and her pure lips seek
those of her tempter; when she abandons herself without thinking of the
irremediable stain, nor of her fall, nor of the morrow.

“The man who has brought this about slowly, viciously, who can tell with
what science of evil, and who, in such a case, has not steadiness and
self-restraint enough to quench that flame by some icy words, who has
not sense enough for two, who cannot recover his self-possession and
master the runaway brute within him, and who loses his head on the edge
of the precipice over which she is going to fall, is as contemptible as
any man who breaks open a lock, or as any rascal on the lookout for a
house left defenceless and unprotected or for some easy and dishonest
stroke of business, or as that thief whose various exploits you have
just related to us.

“I, for my part, utterly refuse to absolve him, even when extenuating
circumstances plead in his favor, even when he is carrying on a
dangerous flirtation, in which a man tries in vain to keep his balance,
not to exceed the limits of the game, any more than at lawn tennis; even
when the parts are inverted and a man's adversary is some precocious,
curious, seductive girl, who shows you immediately that she has nothing
to learn and nothing to experience, except the last chapter of love, one
of those girls from whom may fate always preserve our sons, and whom a
psychological novel writer has christened 'The Semi-Virgins.'

“It is, of course, difficult and painful for that coarse and
unfathomable vanity which is characteristic of every man, and which
might be called 'malism', not to stir such a charming fire, difficult to
act the Joseph and the fool, to turn away his eyes, and, as it were, to
put wax into his ears, like the companions of Ulysses when they were
attracted by the divine, seductive songs of the Sirens, difficult only
to touch that pretty table covered with a perfectly new cloth, at which
you are invited to take a seat before any one else, in such a suggestive
voice, and are requested to quench your thirst and to taste that new
wine, whose fresh and strange flavor you will never forget. But who
would hesitate to exercise such self-restraint if, when he rapidly
examines his conscience, in one of those instinctive returns to his
sober self in which a man thinks clearly and recovers his head, he were
to measure the gravity of his fault, consider it, think of its
consequences, of the reprisals, of the uneasiness which he would always
feel in the future, and which would destroy the repose and happiness of
his life?

“You may guess that behind all these moral reflections, such as a
graybeard like myself may indulge in, there is a story hidden, and, sad
as it is, I am sure it will interest you on account of the strange
heroism it shows.”

He was silent for a few moments, as if to classify his recollections,
and, with his elbows resting on the arms of his easy-chair and his eyes
looking into space, he continued in the slow voice of a hospital
professor who is explaining a case to his class of medical students, at
a bedside:

“He was one of those men who, as our grandfathers used to say, never met
with a cruel woman, the type of the adventurous knight who was always
foraging, who had something of the scamp about him, but who despised
danger and was bold even to rashness. He was ardent in the pursuit of
pleasure, and had an irresistible charm about him, one of those men in
whom we excuse the greatest excesses as the most natural things in the
world. He had run through all his money at gambling and with pretty
girls, and so became, as it were, a soldier of fortune. He amused
himself whenever and however he could, and was at that time quartered at
Versailles.

“I knew him to the very depths of his childlike heart, which was only
too easily seen through and sounded, and I loved him as some old
bachelor uncle loves a nephew who plays him tricks, but who knows how to
coax him. He had made me his confidant rather than his adviser, kept me
informed of his slightest pranks, though he always pretended to be
speaking about one of his friends, and not about himself; and I must
confess that his youthful impetuosity, his careless gaiety, and his
amorous ardor sometimes distracted my thoughts and made me envy the
handsome, vigorous young fellow who was so happy at being alive, that I
had not the courage to check him, to show him the right road, and to
call out to him: 'Take care!' as children do at blind man's buff.

“And one day, after one of those interminable cotillons, where the
couples do not leave each other for hours, and can disappear together
without anybody thinking of noticing them, the poor fellow at last
discovered what love was, that real love which takes up its abode in the
very centre of the heart and in the brain, and is proud of being there,
and which rules like a sovereign and a tyrannous master, and he became
desperately enamored of a pretty but badly brought up girl, who was as
disquieting and wayward as she was pretty.

“She loved him, however, or rather she idolized him despotically, madly,
with all her enraptured soul and all her being. Left to do as she
pleased by imprudent and frivolous parents, suffering from neurosis, in
consequence of the unwholesome friendships which she contracted at the
convent school, instructed by what she saw and heard and knew was going
on around her, in spite of her deceitful and artificial conduct, knowing
that neither her father nor her mother, who were very proud of their
race as well as avaricious, would ever agree to let her marry the man
whom she had taken a liking to, that handsome fellow who had little
besides vision, ideas and debts, and who belonged to the middle-class,
she laid aside all scruples, thought of nothing but of becoming his, no
matter what might be the cost.

“By degrees, the unfortunate man's strength gave way, his heart
softened, and he allowed himself to be carried away by that current
which buffeted him, surrounded him, and left him on the shore like a
waif and a stray.

“They wrote letters full of madness to each other, and not a day passed
without their meeting, either accidentally, as it seemed, or at parties
and balls. She had yielded her lips to him in long, ardent caresses,
which had sealed their compact of mutual passion.”

The doctor stopped, and his eyes suddenly filled with tears, as these
former troubles came back to his mind; and then, in a hoarse voice, he
went on, full of the horror of what he was going to relate:

“For months he scaled the garden wall, and, holding his breath and
listening for the slightest noise, like a burglar who is going to break
into a house, he went in by the servants' entrance, which she had left
open, slunk barefoot down a long passage and up the broad staircase,
which creaked occasionally, to the second story, where his sweetheart's
room was, and stayed there for hours.

“One night, when it was darker than usual, and he was hurrying lest he
should be later than the time agreed on, he knocked up against a piece
of furniture in the anteroom and upset it. It so happened that the
girl's mother had not gone to sleep, either because she had a sick
headache, or else because she had sat up late over some novel, and,
frightened at that unusual noise which disturbed the silence of the
house, she jumped out of bed, opened the door, saw some one indistinctly
running away and keeping close to the wall, and, immediately thinking
that there were burglars in the house, she aroused her husband and the
servants by her frantic screams. The unfortunate man understood the
situation; and, seeing what a terrible fix he was in, and preferring to
be taken for a common thief to dishonoring his adored one's name, he ran
into the drawing-room, felt on the tables and what-nots, filled his
pockets at random with valuable bric-a-brac, and then cowered down
behind the grand piano, which barred the corner of a large room.

“The servants, who had run in with lighted candles, found him, and,
overwhelming him with abuse, seized him by the collar and dragged him,
panting and apparently half dead with shame and terror, to the nearest
police station. He defended himself with intentional awkwardness when he
was brought up for trial, kept up his part with the most perfect self-
possession and without any signs of the despair and anguish that he felt
in his heart, and, condemned and degraded and made to suffer martyrdom
in his honor as a man and a soldier—he was an officer—he did not
protest, but went to prison as one of those criminals whom society gets
rid of like noxious vermin.

“He died there of misery and of bitterness of spirit, with the name of
the fair-haired idol, for whom he had sacrificed himself, on his lips,
as if it had been an ecstatic prayer, and he intrusted his will 'to the
priest who administered extreme unction to him, and requested him to
give it to me. In it, without mentioning anybody, and without in the
least lifting the veil, he at last explained the enigma, and cleared
himself of those accusations the terrible burden of which he had borne
until his last breath.

“I have always thought myself, though I do not know why, that the girl
married and had several charming children, whom she brought up with the
austere strictness and in the serious piety of former days!”





CLAIR DE LUNE

Abbe Marignan's martial name suited him well. He was a tall, thin
priest, fanatic, excitable, yet upright. All his beliefs were fixed,
never varying. He believed sincerely that he knew his God, understood
His plans, desires and intentions.

When he walked with long strides along the garden walk of his little
country parsonage, he would sometimes ask himself the question: “Why has
God done this?” And he would dwell on this continually, putting himself
in the place of God, and he almost invariably found an answer. He would
never have cried out in an outburst of pious humility: “Thy ways, O
Lord, are past finding out.”

He said to himself: “I am the servant of God; it is right for me to know
the reason of His deeds, or to guess it if I do not know it.”

Everything in nature seemed to him to have been created in accordance
with an admirable and absolute logic. The “whys” and “becauses” always
balanced. Dawn was given to make our awakening pleasant, the days to
ripen the harvest, the rains to moisten it, the evenings for preparation
for slumber, and the dark nights for sleep.

The four seasons corresponded perfectly to the needs of agriculture, and
no suspicion had ever come to the priest of the fact that nature has no
intentions; that, on the contrary, everything which exists must conform
to the hard demands of seasons, climates and matter.

But he hated woman—hated her unconsciously, and despised her by
instinct. He often repeated the words of Christ: “Woman, what have I to
do with thee?” and he would add: “It seems as though God, Himself, were
dissatisfied with this work of His.” She was the tempter who led the
first man astray, and who since then had ever been busy with her work of
damnation, the feeble creature, dangerous and mysteriously affecting
one. And even more than their sinful bodies, he hated their loving
hearts.

He had often felt their tenderness directed toward himself, and though
he knew that he was invulnerable, he grew angry at this need of love
that is always vibrating in them.

According to his belief, God had created woman for the sole purpose of
tempting and testing man. One must not approach her without defensive
precautions and fear of possible snares. She was, indeed, just like a
snare, with her lips open and her arms stretched out to man.

He had no indulgence except for nuns, whom their vows had rendered
inoffensive; but he was stern with them, nevertheless, because he felt
that at the bottom of their fettered and humble hearts the everlasting
tenderness was burning brightly—that tenderness which was shown even to
him, a priest.

He felt this cursed tenderness, even in their docility, in the low tones
of their voices when speaking to him, in their lowered eyes, and in
their resigned tears when he reproved them roughly. And he would shake
his cassock on leaving the convent doors, and walk off, lengthening his
stride as though flying from danger.

He had a niece who lived with her mother in a little house near him. He
was bent upon making a sister of charity of her.

She was a pretty, brainless madcap. When the abbe preached she laughed,
and when he was angry with her she would give him a hug, drawing him to
her heart, while he sought unconsciously to release himself from this
embrace which nevertheless filled him with a sweet pleasure, awakening
in his depths the sensation of paternity which slumbers in every man.

Often, when walking by her side, along the country road, he would speak
to her of God, of his God. She never listened to him, but looked about
her at the sky, the grass and flowers, and one could see the joy of life
sparkling in her eyes. Sometimes she would dart forward to catch some
flying creature, crying out as she brought it back: “Look, uncle, how
pretty it is! I want to hug it!” And this desire to “hug” flies or lilac
blossoms disquieted, angered, and roused the priest, who saw, even in
this, the ineradicable tenderness that is always budding in women's
hearts.

Then there came a day when the sexton's wife, who kept house for Abbe
Marignan, told him, with caution, that his niece had a lover.

Almost suffocated by the fearful emotion this news roused in him, he
stood there, his face covered with soap, for he was in the act of
shaving.

When he had sufficiently recovered to think and speak he cried: “It is
not true; you lie, Melanie!”

But the peasant woman put her hand on her heart, saying: “May our Lord
judge me if I lie, Monsieur le Cure! I tell you, she goes there every
night when your sister has gone to bed. They meet by the river side; you
have only to go there and see, between ten o'clock and midnight.”

He ceased scraping his chin, and began to walk up and down impetuously,
as he always did when he was in deep thought. When he began shaving
again he cut himself three times from his nose to his ear.

All day long he was silent, full of anger and indignation. To his
priestly hatred of this invincible love was added the exasperation of
her spiritual father, of her guardian and pastor, deceived and tricked
by a child, and the selfish emotion shown by parents when their daughter
announces that she has chosen a husband without them, and in spite of
them.

After dinner he tried to read a little, but could not, growing more and,
more angry. When ten o'clock struck he seized his cane, a formidable oak
stick, which he was accustomed to carry in his nocturnal walks when
visiting the sick. And he smiled at the enormous club which he twirled
in a threatening manner in his strong, country fist. Then he raised it
suddenly and, gritting his teeth, brought it down on a chair, the broken
back of which fell over on the floor.

He opened the door to go out, but stopped on the sill, surprised by the
splendid moonlight, of such brilliance as is seldom seen.

And, as he was gifted with an emotional nature, one such as had all
those poetic dreamers, the Fathers of the Church, he felt suddenly
distracted and moved by all the grand and serene beauty of this pale
night.

In his little garden, all bathed in soft light, his fruit trees in a row
cast on the ground the shadow of their slender branches, scarcely in
full leaf, while the giant honeysuckle, clinging to the wall of his
house, exhaled a delicious sweetness, filling the warm moonlit
atmosphere with a kind of perfumed soul.

He began to take long breaths, drinking in the air as drunkards drink
wine, and he walked along slowly, delighted, marveling, almost
forgetting his niece.

As soon as he was outside of the garden, he stopped to gaze upon the
plain all flooded with the caressing light, bathed in that tender,
languishing charm of serene nights. At each moment was heard the short,
metallic note of the cricket, and distant nightingales shook out their
scattered notes—their light, vibrant music that sets one dreaming,
without thinking, a music made for kisses, for the seduction of
moonlight.

The abbe walked on again, his heart failing, though he knew not why. He
seemed weakened, suddenly exhausted; he wanted to sit down, to rest
there, to think, to admire God in His works.

Down yonder, following the undulations of the little river, a great line
of poplars wound in and out. A fine mist, a white haze through which the
moonbeams passed, silvering it and making it gleam, hung around and
above the mountains, covering all the tortuous course of the water with
a kind of light and transparent cotton.

The priest stopped once again, his soul filled with a growing and
irresistible tenderness.

And a doubt, a vague feeling of disquiet came over him; he was asking
one of those questions that he sometimes put to himself.

“Why did God make this? Since the night is destined for sleep,
unconsciousness, repose, forgetfulness of everything, why make it more
charming than day, softer than dawn or evening? And why does this
seductive planet, more poetic than the sun, that seems destined, so
discreet is it, to illuminate things too delicate and mysterious for the
light of day, make the darkness so transparent?

“Why does not the greatest of feathered songsters sleep like the others?
Why does it pour forth its voice in the mysterious night?

“Why this half-veil cast over the world? Why these tremblings of the
heart, this emotion of the spirit, this enervation of the body? Why this
display of enchantments that human beings do not see, since they are
lying in their beds? For whom is destined this sublime spectacle, this
abundance of poetry cast from heaven to earth?”

And the abbe could not understand.

But see, out there, on the edge of the meadow, under the arch of trees
bathed in a shining mist, two figures are walking side by side.

The man was the taller, and held his arm about his sweetheart's neck and
kissed her brow every little while. They imparted life, all at once, to
the placid landscape in which they were framed as by a heavenly hand.
The two seemed but a single being, the being for whom was destined this
calm and silent night, and they came toward the priest as a living
answer, the response his Master sent to his questionings.

He stood still, his heart beating, all upset; and it seemed to him that
he saw before him some biblical scene, like the loves of Ruth and Boaz,
the accomplishment of the will of the Lord, in some of those glorious
stories of which the sacred books tell. The verses of the Song of Songs
began to ring in his ears, the appeal of passion, all the poetry of this
poem replete with tenderness.

And he said unto himself: “Perhaps God has made such nights as these to
idealize the love of men.”

He shrank back from this couple that still advanced with arms
intertwined. Yet it was his niece. But he asked himself now if he would
not be disobeying God. And does not God permit love, since He surrounds
it with such visible splendor?

And he went back musing, almost ashamed, as if he had intruded into a
temple where he had, no right to enter.





WAITER, A “BOCK”

Why did I go into that beer hall on that particular evening? I do not
know. It was cold; a fine rain, a flying mist, veiled the gas lamps with
a transparent fog, made the side walks reflect the light that streamed
from the shop windows—lighting up the soft slush and the muddy feet of
the passers-by.

I was going nowhere in particular; was simply having a short walk after
dinner. I had passed the Credit Lyonnais, the Rue Vivienne, and several
other streets. I suddenly descried a large beer hall which was more than
half full. I walked inside, with no object in view. I was not the least
thirsty.

I glanced round to find a place that was not too crowded, and went and
sat down by the side of a man who seemed to me to be old, and who was
smoking a two-sous clay pipe, which was as black as coal. From six to
eight glasses piled up on the table in front of him indicated the number
of “bocks” he had already absorbed. At a glance I recognized a
“regular,” one of those frequenters of beer houses who come in the
morning when the place opens, and do not leave till evening when it is
about to close. He was dirty, bald on top of his head, with a fringe of
iron-gray hair falling on the collar of his frock coat. His clothes,
much too large for him, appeared to have been made for him at a time
when he was corpulent. One could guess that he did not wear suspenders,
for he could not take ten steps without having to stop to pull up his
trousers. Did he wear a vest? The mere thought of his boots and of that
which they covered filled me with horror. The frayed cuffs were
perfectly black at the edges, as were his nails.

As soon as I had seated myself beside him, this individual said to me in
a quiet tone of voice:

“How goes it?”

I turned sharply round and closely scanned his features, whereupon he
continued:

“I see you do not recognize me.”

“No, I do not.”

“Des Barrets.”

I was stupefied. It was Count Jean des Barrets, my old college chum.

I seized him by the hand, and was so dumbfounded that I could find
nothing to say. At length I managed to stammer out:

“And you, how goes it with you?”

He responded placidly:

“I get along as I can.”

“What are you doing now?” I asked.

“You see what I am doing,” he answered quit resignedly.

I felt my face getting red. I insisted:

“But every day?”

“Every day it is the same thing,” was his reply, accompanied with a
thick puff of tobacco smoke.

He then tapped with a sou on the top of the marble table, to attract the
attention of the waiter, and called out:

“Waiter, two 'bocks.'”

A voice in the distance repeated:

“Two bocks for the fourth table.”

Another voice, more distant still, shouted out:

“Here they are!”

Immediately a man with a white apron appeared, carrying two “bocks,”
which he set down, foaming, on the table, spilling some of the yellow
liquid on the sandy floor in his haste.

Des Barrets emptied his glass at a single draught and replaced it on the
table, while he sucked in the foam that had been left on his mustache.
He next asked:

“What is there new?”

I really had nothing new to tell him. I stammered:

“Nothing, old man. I am a business man.”

In his monotonous tone of voice he said:

“Indeed, does it amuse you?”

“No, but what can I do? One must do something!”

“Why should one?”

“So as to have occupation.”

“What's the use of an occupation? For my part, I do nothing at all, as
you see, never anything. When one has not a sou I can understand why one
should work. But when one has enough to live on, what's the use? What is
the good of working? Do you work for yourself, or for others? If you
work for yourself, you do it for your own amusement, which is all right;
if you work for others, you are a fool.”

Then, laying his pipe on the marble table, he called out anew:

“Waiter, a 'bock.'” And continued: “It makes me thirsty to keep calling
so. I am not accustomed to that sort of thing. Yes, yes, I do nothing. I
let things slide, and I am growing old. In dying I shall have nothing to
regret. My only remembrance will be this beer hall. No wife, no
children, no cares, no sorrows, nothing. That is best.”

He then emptied the glass which had been brought him, passed his tongue
over his lips, and resumed his pipe.

I looked at him in astonishment, and said:

“But you have not always been like that?”

“Pardon me; ever since I left college.”

“That is not a proper life to lead, my dear fellow; it is simply
horrible. Come, you must have something to do, you must love something,
you must have friends.”

“No, I get up at noon, I come here, I have my breakfast, I drink my
beer, I remain until the evening, I have my dinner, I drink beer. Then
about half-past one in the morning, I go home to bed, because the place
closes up; that annoys me more than anything. In the last ten years I
have passed fully six years on this bench, in my corner; and the other
four in my bed, nowhere else. I sometimes chat with the regular
customers.”

“But when you came to Paris what did you do at first?”

“I paid my devoirs to the Cafe de Medicis.”

“What next?”

“Next I crossed the water and came here.”

“Why did you take that trouble?”

“What do you mean? One cannot remain all one's life in the Latin
Quarter. The students make too much noise. Now I shall not move again.
Waiter, a 'bock.'”

I began to think that he was making fun of me, and I continued:

“Come now, be frank. You have been the victim of some great sorrow; some
disappointment in love, no doubt! It is easy to see that you are a man
who has had some trouble. What age are you?”

“I am thirty, but I look forty-five, at least.”

I looked him straight in the face. His wrinkled, ill-shaven face gave
one the impression that he was an old man. On the top of his head a few
long hairs waved over a skin of doubtful cleanliness. He had enormous
eyelashes, a heavy mustache, and a thick beard. Suddenly I had a kind of
vision, I know not why, of a basin filled with dirty water in which all
that hair had been washed. I said to him:

“You certainly look older than your age. You surely must have
experienced some great sorrow.”

He replied:

“I tell you that I have not. I am old because I never go out into the
air. Nothing makes a man deteriorate more than the life of a cafe.”

I still could not believe him.

“You must surely also have been married? One could not get as bald-
headed as you are without having been in love.”

He shook his head, shaking dandruff down on his coat as he did so.

“No, I have always been virtuous.”

And, raising his eyes toward the chandelier which heated our heads, he
said:

“If I am bald, it is the fault of the gas. It destroys the hair. Waiter,
a 'bock.' Are you not thirsty?”

“No, thank you. But you really interest me. Since when have you been so
morbid? Your life is not normal, it is not natural. There is something
beneath it all.”

“Yes, and it dates from my infancy. I received a great shock when I was
very young, and that turned my life into darkness which will last to the
end.”

“What was it?”

“You wish to know about it? Well, then, listen. You recall, of course,
the castle in which I was brought up, for you used to spend five or six
months there during vacation. You remember that large gray building, in
the middle of a great park, and the long avenues of oaks which opened to
the four points of the compass. You remember my father and mother, both
of whom were ceremonious, solemn, and severe.

“I worshipped my mother; I was afraid of my father; but I respected
both, accustomed always as I was to see every one bow before them. They
were Monsieur le Comte and Madame la Comtesse to all the country round,
and our neighbors, the Tannemares, the Ravelets, the Brennevilles,
showed them the utmost consideration.

“I was then thirteen years old. I was happy, pleased with everything, as
one is at that age, full of the joy of life.

“Well, toward the end of September, a few days before returning to
college, as I was playing about in the shrubbery of the park, among the
branches and leaves, as I was crossing a path, I saw my father and
mother, who were walking along.

“I recall it as though it were yesterday. It was a very windy day. The
whole line of trees swayed beneath the gusts of wind, groaning, and
seeming to utter cries-those dull, deep cries that forests give out
during a tempest.

“The falling leaves, turning yellow, flew away like birds, circling and
falling, and then running along the path like swift animals.

“Evening came on. It was dark in the thickets. The motion of the wind
and of the branches excited me, made me tear about as if I were crazy,
and howl in imitation of the wolves.

“As soon as I perceived my parents, I crept furtively toward them, under
the branches, in order to surprise them, as though I had been a
veritable prowler. But I stopped in fear a few paces from them. My
father, who was in a terrible passion, cried:

“'Your mother is a fool; moreover, it is not a question of your mother.
It is you. I tell you that I need this money, and I want you to sign
this.'

“My mother replied in a firm voice:

“'I will not sign it. It is Jean's fortune. I shall guard it for him and
I will not allow you to squander it with strange women, as you have your
own heritage.'

“Then my father, trembling with rage, wheeled round and, seizing his
wife by the throat, began to slap her with all his might full in the
face with his disengaged hand.

“My mother's hat fell off, her hair became loosened and fell over her
shoulders; she tried to parry the blows, but she could not do so. And my
father, like a madman, kept on striking her. My mother rolled over on
the ground, covering her face with her hands. Then he turned her over on
her back in order to slap her still more, pulling away her hands, which
were covering her face.

“As for me, my friend, it seemed as though the world was coming to an
end, that the eternal laws had changed. I experienced the overwhelming
dread that one has in presence of things supernatural, in presence of
irreparable disasters. My childish mind was bewildered, distracted. I
began to cry with all my might, without knowing why; a prey to a fearful
dread, sorrow, and astonishment. My father heard me, turned round, and,
on seeing me, started toward me. I believe that he wanted to kill me,
and I fled like a hunted animal, running straight ahead into the
thicket.

“I ran perhaps for an hour, perhaps for two. I know not. Darkness set
in. I sank on the grass, exhausted, and lay there dismayed, frantic with
fear, and devoured by a sorrow capable of breaking forever the heart of
a poor child. I was cold, hungry, perhaps. At length day broke. I was
afraid to get up, to walk, to return home, to run farther, fearing to
encounter my father, whom I did not wish to see again.

“I should probably have died of misery and of hunger at the foot of a
tree if the park guard had not discovered me and led me home by force.

“I found my parents looking as usual. My mother alone spoke to me “'How
you frightened me, you naughty boy. I lay awake the whole night.'

“I did not answer, but began to weep. My father did not utter a single
word.

“Eight days later I returned to school.

“Well, my friend, it was all over with me. I had witnessed the other
side of things, the bad side. I have not been able to perceive the good
side since that day. What has taken place in my mind, what strange
phenomenon has warped my ideas, I do not know. But I no longer had a
taste for anything, a wish for anything, a love for anybody, a desire
for anything whatever, any ambition, or any hope. And I always see my
poor mother on the ground, in the park, my father beating her. My mother
died some years later; my, father still lives. I have not seen him
since. Waiter, a 'bock.'”

A waiter brought him his “bock,” which he swallowed at a gulp. But, in
taking up his pipe again, trembling as he was, he broke it. “Confound
it!” he said, with a gesture of annoyance. “That is a real sorrow. It
will take me a month to color another!”

And he called out across the vast hall, now reeking with smoke and full
of men drinking, his everlasting: “Garcon, un 'bock'—and a new pipe.”





AFTER “My darlings,” said the comtesse, “you might go to bed.”

The three children, two girls and a boy, rose and kissed their
grandmother. Then they said good-night to M. le Cure, who had dined at
the chateau, as was his custom every Thursday.

The Abbe Mauduit lifted two of the children on his knees, passing his
long arms clad in black round their necks, and kissing them tenderly on
the forehead as he drew their heads toward him as a father might.

Then he set them down on the ground, and the little beings went off, the
boy ahead, and the girls following.

“You are fond of children, M. le Cure,” said the comtesse.

“Very fond, madame.”

The old woman raised her bright eyes toward the priest.

“And—has your solitude never weighed too heavily on you?”

“Yes, sometimes.”

He became silent, hesitated, and then added: “But I was never made for
ordinary life.”

“What do you know about it?”

“Oh! I know very well. I was made to be a priest; I followed my
vocation.”

The comtesse kept staring at him:

“Come now, M. le Cure, tell me this—tell me how it was you resolved to
renounce forever all that makes the rest of us love life—all that
consoles and sustains us? What is it that drove you, impelled you, to
separate yourself from the great natural path of marriage and the
family? You are neither an enthusiast nor a fanatic, neither a gloomy
person nor a sad person. Was it some incident, some sorrow, that led you
to take life vows?”

The Abbe Mauduit rose and approached the fire, then, holding toward the
flame his big shoes, such as country priests generally wear, he seemed
still hesitating as to what reply he should make.

He was a tall old man with white hair, and for the last twenty years had
been pastor of the parish of Saint-Antoine-du-Rocher. The peasants said
of him: “There's a good man for you!” And indeed he was a good man,
benevolent, friendly to all, gentle, and, to crown all, generous. Like
Saint Martin, he would have cut his cloak in two. He laughed readily,
and wept also, on slight provocation, just like a woman—which prejudiced
him more or less in the hard minds of the country folk.

The old Comtesse de Saville, living in retirement in her chateau of
Rocher, in order to bring up her grandchildren, after the successive
deaths of her son and her daughter-in-law, was very much attached to her
cure, and used to say of him: “What a heart he has!”

He came every Thursday to spend the evening with the comtesse, and they
were close friends, with the frank and honest friendship of old people.

She persisted:

“Look here, M. le Cure! it is your turn now to make a confession!”

He repeated: “I was not made for ordinary life. I saw it fortunately in
time, and I have had many proofs since that I made no mistake on the
point:

“My parents, who were mercers in Verdiers, and were quite well to do,
had great ambitions for me. They sent me to a boarding school while I
was very young. No one knows what a boy may suffer at school through the
mere fact of separation, of isolation. This monotonous life without
affection is good for some, and detestable for others. Young people are
often more sensitive than one supposes, and by shutting them up thus too
soon, far from those they love, we may develop to an exaggerated extent
a sensitiveness which is overwrought and may become sickly and
dangerous.

“I scarcely ever played; I had no companions; I passed my hours in
homesickness; I spent the whole night weeping in my bed. I sought to
bring before my mind recollections of home, trifling memories of little
things, little events. I thought incessantly of all I had left behind
there. I became almost imperceptibly an over-sensitive youth to whom the
slightest annoyances were terrible griefs.

“In this way I remained taciturn, self-absorbed, without expansion,
without confidants. This mental excitement was going on secretly and
surely. The nerves of children are quickly affected, and one should see
to it that they live a tranquil life until they are almost fully
developed. But who ever reflects that, for certain boys, an unjust
imposition may be as great a pang as the death of a friend in later
years? Who can explain why certain young temperaments are liable to
terrible emotions for the slightest cause, and may eventually become
morbid and incurable?

“This was my case. This faculty of regret developed in me to such an
extent that my existence became a martyrdom.

“I did not speak about it; I said nothing about it; but gradually I
became so sensitive that my soul resembled an open wound. Everything
that affected me gave me painful twitchings, frightful shocks, and
consequently impaired my health. Happy are the men whom nature has
buttressed with indifference and armed with stoicism.

“I reached my sixteenth year. An excessive timidity had arisen from this
abnormal sensitiveness. Feeling myself unprotected from all the attacks
of chance or fate, I feared every contact, every approach, every
current. I lived as though I were threatened by an unknown and always
expected misfortune. I did not venture either to speak or do anything in
public. I had, indeed, the feeling that life, is a battle, a dreadful
conflict in which one receives terrible blows, grievous, mortal wounds.
In place of cherishing, like all men, a cheerful anticipation of the
morrow, I had only a confused fear of it, and felt in my own mind a
desire to conceal myself to avoid that combat in which I would be
vanquished and slain.

“As soon as my studies were finished, they gave me six months' time to
choose a career. A very simple occurrence showed me clearly, all of a
sudden, the diseased condition of my mind, made me understand the
danger, and determined me to flee from it.

“Verdiers is a little town surrounded with plains and woods. In the
central street stands my parents' house. I now passed my days far from
this dwelling which I had so much regretted, so much desired. Dreams had
reawakened in me, and I walked alone in the fields in order to let them
escape and fly away. My father and mother, quite occupied with business,
and anxious about my future, talked to me only about their profits or
about my possible plans. They were fond of me after the manner of
hardheaded, practical people; they had more reason than heart in their
affection for me. I lived imprisoned in my thoughts, and vibrating with
my eternal sensitiveness.

“Now, one evening, after a long walk, as I was making my way home with
great strides so as not to be late, I saw a dog trotting toward me. He
was a species of red spaniel, very lean, with long curly ears.

“When he was ten paces away from me he stopped. I did the same. Then he
began wagging his tail, and came over to me with short steps and nervous
movements of his whole body, bending down on his paws as if appealing to
me, and softly shaking his head. I spoke to him. He then began to crawl
along in such a sad, humble, suppliant manner that I felt the tears
coming into my eyes. I approached him; he ran away, then he came back
again; and I bent down on one knee trying to coax him to approach me,
with soft words. At last, he was within reach of my hands, and I gently
and very carefully stroked him.

“He gained courage, gradually rose and, placing his paws on my
shoulders, began to lick my face. He followed me to the house.

“This was really the first being I had passionately loved, because he
returned my affection. My attachment to this animal was certainly
exaggerated and ridiculous. It seemed to me in a confused sort of way
that we were two brothers, lost on this earth, and therefore isolated
and without defense, one as well as the other. He never again quitted my
side. He slept at the foot of my bed, ate at the table in spite of the
objections of my parents, and followed me in my solitary walks.

“I often stopped at the side of a ditch, and sat down in the grass. Sam
immediately rushed up, lay down at my feet, and lifted up my hand with
his muzzle that I might caress him.

“One day toward the end of June, as we were on the road from Saint-
Pierre de Chavrol, I saw the diligence from Pavereau coming along. Its
four horses were going at a gallop, with its yellow body, and its
imperial with the black leather hood. The coachman cracked his whip; a
cloud of dust rose up under the wheels of the heavy vehicle, then
floated behind, just as a cloud would do.

“Suddenly, as the vehicle came close to me, Sam, perhaps frightened by
the noise and wishing to join me, jumped in front of it. A horse's hoof
knocked him down. I saw him roll over, turn round, fall back again
beneath the horses' feet, then the coach gave two jolts, and behind it I
saw something quivering in the dust on the road. He was nearly cut in
two; all his intestines were hanging out and blood was spurting from the
wound. He tried to get up, to walk, but he could only move his two front
paws, and scratch the ground with them, as if to make a hole. The two
others were already dead. And he howled dreadfully, mad with pain.

“He died in a few minutes. I cannot describe how much I felt and
suffered. I was confined to my room for a month.

“One night, my father, enraged at seeing me so affected by such a
trifling occurrence, exclaimed:

“'How will it be when you have real griefs—if you lose your wife or
children?'

“His words haunted me and I began to see my condition clearly. I
understood why all the small miseries of each day assumed in my eyes the
importance of a catastrophe; I saw that I was organized in such a way
that I suffered dreadfully from everything, that every painful
impression was multiplied by my diseased sensibility, and an atrocious
fear of life took possession of me. I was without passions, without
ambitions; I resolved to sacrifice possible joys in order to avoid sure
sorrows. Existence is short, but I made up my mind to spend it in the
service of others, in relieving their troubles and enjoying their
happiness. Having no direct experience of either one or the other, I
should only experience a milder form of emotion.

“And if you only knew how, in spite of this, misery tortures me, ravages
me! But what would formerly have been an intolerable affliction has
become commiseration, pity.

“These sorrows which cross my path at every moment, I could not endure
if they affected me directly. I could not have seen one of my children
die without dying myself. And I have, in spite of everything, preserved
such a mysterious, overwhelming fear of events that the sight of the
postman entering my house makes a shiver pass every day through my
veins, and yet I have nothing to be afraid of now.”

The Abbe Mauduit ceased speaking. He stared into the fire in the huge
grate, as if he saw there mysterious things, all the unknown of the
existence he might have passed had he been more fearless in the face of
suffering.

He added, then, in a subdued tone:

“I was right. I was not made for this world.”

The comtesse said nothing at first; but at length, after a long silence,
she remarked:

“For my part, if I had not my grandchildren, I believe I would not have
the courage to live.”

And the cure rose up without saying another word.

As the servants were asleep in the kitchen, she accompanied him herself
to the door, which looked out on the garden, and she saw his tall
shadow, lit up by the reflection of the lamp, disappearing through the
gloom of night.

Then she came back and sat down before the fire, and pondered over many
things we never think of when we are young.





FORGIVENESS

She had been brought up in one of those families who live entirely to
themselves, apart from all the rest of the world. Such families know
nothing of political events, although they are discussed at table; for
changes in the Government take place at such a distance from them that
they are spoken of as one speaks of a historical event, such as the
death of Louis XVI or the landing of Napoleon.

Customs are modified in course of time, fashions succeed one another,
but such variations are taken no account of in the placid family circle
where traditional usages prevail year after year. And if some scandalous
episode or other occurs in the neighborhood, the disreputable story dies
a natural death when it reaches the threshold of the house. The father
and mother may, perhaps, exchange a few words on the subject when alone
together some evening, but they speak in hushed tones—for even walls
have ears. The father says, with bated breath:

“You've heard of that terrible affair in the Rivoil family?”

And the mother answers:

“Who would have dreamed of such a thing? It's dreadful.”

The children suspected nothing, and arrive in their turn at years of
discretion with eyes and mind blindfolded, ignorant of the real side of
life, not knowing that people do not think as they speak, and do not
speak as they act; or aware that they should live at war, or at all
events, in a state of armed peace, with the rest of mankind; not
suspecting the fact that the simple are always deceived, the sincere
made sport of, the good maltreated.

Some go on till the day of their death in this blind probity and loyalty
and honor, so pure-minded that nothing can open their eyes.

Others, undeceived, but without fully understanding, make mistakes, are
dismayed, and become desperate, believing themselves the playthings of a
cruel fate, the wretched victims of adverse circumstances, and
exceptionally wicked men.

The Savignols married their daughter Bertha at the age of eighteen. She
wedded a young Parisian, George Baron by name, who had dealings on the
Stock Exchange. He was handsome, well-mannered, and apparently all that
could be desired. But in the depths of his heart he somewhat despised
his old-fashioned parents-in-law, whom he spoke of among his intimates
as “my dear old fossils.”

He belonged to a good family, and the girl was rich. They settled down
in Paris.

She became one of those provincial Parisians whose name is legion. She
remained in complete ignorance of the great city, of its social side,
its pleasures and its customs—just as she remained ignorant also of
life, its perfidy and its mysteries.

Devoted to her house, she knew scarcely anything beyond her own street;
and when she ventured into another part of Paris it seemed to her that
she had accomplished a long and arduous journey into some unknown,
unexplored city. She would then say to her husband in the evening:

“I have been through the boulevards to-day.”

Two or three times a year her husband took her to the theatre. These
were events the remembrance of which never grew dim; they provided
subjects of conversation for long afterward.

Sometimes three months afterward she would suddenly burst into laughter,
and exclaim:

“Do you remember that actor dressed up as a general, who crowed like a
cock?”

Her friends were limited to two families related to her own. She spoke
of them as “the Martinets” and “the Michelins.”

Her husband lived as he pleased, coming home when it suited him
—sometimes not until dawn—alleging business, but not putting himself out
overmuch to account for his movements, well aware that no suspicion
would ever enter his wife's guileless soul.

But one morning she received an anonymous letter.

She was thunderstruck—too simple-minded to understand the infamy of
unsigned information and to despise the letter, the writer of which
declared himself inspired by interest in her happiness, hatred of evil,
and love of truth.

This missive told her that her husband had had for two years past, a
sweetheart, a young widow named Madame Rosset, with whom he spent all
his evenings.

Bertha knew neither how to dissemble her grief nor how to spy on her
husband. When he came in for lunch she threw the letter down before him,
burst into tears, and fled to her room.

He had time to take in the situation and to prepare his reply. He
knocked at his wife's door. She opened it at once, but dared not look at
him. He smiled, sat down, drew her to his knee, and in a tone of light
raillery began:

“My dear child, as a matter of fact, I have a friend named Madame
Rosset, whom I have known for the last ten years, and of whom I have a
very high opinion. I may add that I know scores of other people whose
names I have never mentioned to you, seeing that you do not care for
society, or fresh acquaintances, or functions of any sort. But, to make
short work of such vile accusations as this, I want you to put on your
things after lunch, and we'll go together and call on this lady, who
will very soon become a friend of yours, too, I am quite sure.”

She embraced her husband warmly, and, moved by that feminine spirit of
curiosity which will not be lulled once it is aroused, consented to go
and see this unknown widow, of whom she was, in spite of everything,
just the least bit jealous. She felt instinctively that to know a danger
is to be already armed against it.

She entered a small, tastefully furnished flat on the fourth floor of an
attractive house. After waiting five minutes in a drawing-room rendered
somewhat dark by its many curtains and hangings, a door opened, and a
very dark, short, rather plump young woman appeared, surprised and
smiling.

George introduced them:

“My wife—Madame Julie Rosset.”

The young widow uttered a half-suppressed cry of astonishment and joy,
and ran forward with hands outstretched. She had not hoped, she said, to
have this pleasure, knowing that Madame Baron never saw any one, but she
was delighted to make her acquaintance. She was so fond of George (she
said “George” in a familiar, sisterly sort of way) that, she had been
most anxious to know his young wife and to make friends with her, too.

By the end of a month the two new friends were inseparable. They saw
each other every day, sometimes twice a day, and dined together every
evening, sometimes at one house, sometimes at the other. George no
longer deserted his home, no longer talked of pressing business. He
adored his own fireside, he said.

When, after a time, a flat in the house where Madame Rosset lived became
vacant Madame Baron hastened to take it, in order to be near her friend
and spend even more time with her than hitherto.

And for two whole years their friendship was without a cloud, a
friendship of heart and mind—absolute, tender, devoted. Bertha could
hardly speak without bringing in Julie's name. To her Madame Rosset
represented perfection.

She was utterly happy, calm and contented.

But Madame Rosset fell ill. Bertha hardly left her side. She spent her
nights with her, distracted with grief; even her husband seemed
inconsolable.

One morning the doctor, after leaving the invalid's bedside, took George
and his wife aside, and told them that he considered Julie's condition
very grave.

As soon as he had gone the grief-stricken husband and wife sat down
opposite each other and gave way to tears. That night they both sat up
with the patient. Bertha tenderly kissed her friend from time to time,
while George stood at the foot of the bed, his eyes gazing steadfastly
on the invalid's face.

The next day she was worse.

But toward evening she declared she felt better, and insisted that her
friends should go back to their own apartment to dinner.

They were sitting sadly in the dining-room, scarcely even attempting to
eat, when the maid gave George a note. He opened it, turned pale as
death, and, rising from the table, said to his wife in a constrained
voice:

“Wait for me. I must leave you a moment. I shall be back in ten minutes.
Don't go away on any account.”

And he hurried to his room to get his hat.

Bertha waited for him, a prey to fresh anxiety. But, docile in
everything, she would not go back to her friend till he returned.

At length, as he did not reappear, it occurred to her to visit his room
and see if he had taken his gloves. This would show whether or not he
had had a call to make.

She saw them at the first glance. Beside them lay a crumpled paper,
evidently thrown down in haste.

She recognized it at once as the note George had received.

And a burning temptation, the first that had ever assailed her urged her
to read it and discover the cause of her husband's abrupt departure. Her
rebellious conscience protested but a devouring and fearful curiosity
prevailed. She seized the paper, smoothed it out, recognized the
tremulous, penciled writing as Julie's, and read:

“Come alone and kiss me, my poor dear. I am dying.”

At first she did not understand, the idea of Julie's death being her
uppermost thought. But all at once the true meaning of what she read
burst in a flash upon her; this penciled note threw a lurid light upon
her whole existence, revealed the whole infamous truth, all the
treachery and perfidy of which she had been the victim. She understood
the long years of deceit, the way in which she had been made their
puppet. She saw them again, sitting side by side in the evening, reading
by lamplight out of the same book, glancing at each other at the end of
each page.

And her poor, indignant, suffering, bleeding heart was cast into the
depths of a despair which knew no bounds.

Footsteps drew near; she fled, and shut herself in her own room.

Presently her husband called her:

“Come quickly! Madame Rosset is dying.”

Bertha appeared at her door, and with trembling lips replied:

“Go back to her alone; she does not need me.”

He looked at her stupidly, dazed with grief, and repeated:

“Come at once! She's dying, I tell you!”

Bertha answered:

“You would rather it were I.”

Then at last he understood, and returned alone to the dying woman's
bedside.

He mourned her openly, shamelessly, indifferent to the sorrow of the
wife who no longer spoke to him, no longer looked at him; who passed her
life in solitude, hedged round with disgust, with indignant anger, and
praying night and day to God.

They still lived in the same house, however, and sat opposite each other
at table, in silence and despair.

Gradually his sorrow grew less acute; but she did not forgive him.

And so their life went on, hard and bitter for them both.

For a whole year they remained as complete strangers to each other as if
they had never met. Bertha nearly lost her reason.

At last one morning she went out very early, and returned about eight
o'clock bearing in her hands an enormous bouquet of white roses. And she
sent word to her husband that she wanted to speak to him. He came-
anxious and uneasy.

“We are going out together,” she said. “Please carry these flowers; they
are too heavy for me.”

A carriage took them to the gate of the cemetery, where they alighted.
Then, her eyes filling with tears, she said to George:

“Take me to her grave.”

He trembled, and could not understand her motive; but he led the way,
still carrying the flowers. At last he stopped before a white marble
slab, to which he pointed without a word.

She took the bouquet from him, and, kneeling down, placed it on the
grave. Then she offered up a silent, heartfelt prayer.

Behind her stood her husband, overcome by recollections of the past.

She rose, and held out her hands to him.

“If you wish it, we will be friends,” she said.





IN THE SPRING

With the first day of spring, when the awakening earth puts on its
garment of green, and the warm, fragrant air fans our faces and fills
our lungs and appears even to penetrate to our hearts, we experience a
vague, undefined longing for freedom, for happiness, a desire to run, to
wander aimlessly, to breathe in the spring. The previous winter having
been unusually severe, this spring feeling was like a form of
intoxication in May, as if there were an overabundant supply of sap.

One morning on waking I saw from my window the blue sky glowing in the
sun above the neighboring houses. The canaries hanging in the windows
were singing loudly, and so were the servants on every floor; a cheerful
noise rose up from the streets, and I went out, my spirits as bright as
the day, to go—I did not exactly know where. Everybody I met seemed to
be smiling; an air of happiness appeared to pervade everything in the
warm light of returning spring. One might almost have said that a breeze
of love was blowing through the city, and the sight of the young women
whom I saw in the streets in their morning toilets, in the depths of
whose eyes there lurked a hidden tenderness, and who walked with languid
grace, filled my heart with agitation.

Without knowing how or why, I found myself on the banks of the Seine.
Steamboats were starting for Suresnes, and suddenly I was seized by an
unconquerable desire to take a walk through the woods. The deck of the
Mouche was covered with passengers, for the sun in early spring draws
one out of the house, in spite of themselves, and everybody moves about,
goes and comes and talks to his neighbor.

I had a girl neighbor; a little work-girl, no doubt, who possessed the
true Parisian charm: a little head, with light curly hair, which looked
like a shimmer of light as it danced in the wind, came down to her ears,
and descended to the nape of her neck, where it became such fine, light-
colored clown that one could scarcely see it, but felt an irresistible
desire to shower kisses on it.

Under my persistent gaze, she turned her head toward me, and then
immediately looked down, while a slight crease at the side of her mouth,
that was ready to break out into a smile, also showed a fine, silky,
pale down which the sun was gilding a little.

The calm river grew wider; the atmosphere was warm and perfectly still,
but a murmur of life seemed to fill all space.

My neighbor raised her eyes again, and this time, as I was still looking
at her, she smiled decidedly. She was charming, and in her passing
glance I saw a thousand things, which I had hitherto been ignorant of,
for I perceived unknown depths, all the charm of tenderness, all the
poetry which we dream of, all the happiness which we are continually in
search of. I felt an insane longing to open my arms and to carry her off
somewhere, so as to whisper the sweet music of words of love into her
ears.

I was just about to address her when somebody touched me on the
shoulder, and as I turned round in some surprise, I saw an ordinary-
looking man, who was neither young nor old, and who gazed at me sadly.

“I should like to speak to you,” he said.

I made a grimace, which he no doubt saw, for he added:

“It is a matter of importance.”

I got up, therefore, and followed him to the other end of the boat and
then he said:

“Monsieur, when winter comes, with its cold, wet and snowy weather, your
doctor says to you constantly: 'Keep your feet warm, guard against
chills, colds, bronchitis, rheumatism and pleurisy.'

“Then you are very careful, you wear flannel, a heavy greatcoat and
thick shoes, but all this does not prevent you from passing two months
in bed. But when spring returns, with its leaves and flowers, its warm,
soft breezes and its smell of the fields, all of which causes you vague
disquiet and causeless emotion, nobody says to you:

“'Monsieur, beware of love! It is lying in ambush everywhere; it is
watching for you at every corner; all its snares are laid, all its
weapons are sharpened, all its guiles are prepared! Beware of love!
Beware of love! It is more dangerous than brandy, bronchitis or
pleurisy! It never forgives and makes everybody commit irreparable
follies.'

“Yes, monsieur, I say that the French Government ought to put large
public notices on the walls, with these words: 'Return of spring. French
citizens, beware of love!' just as they put: 'Beware of paint:

“However, as the government will not do this, I must supply its place,
and I say to you: 'Beware of love!' for it is just going to seize you,
and it is my duty to inform you of it, just as in Russia they inform any
one that his nose is frozen.”

I was much astonished at this individual, and assuming a dignified
manner, I said:

“Really, monsieur, you appear to me to be interfering in a matter which
is no concern of yours.”

He made an abrupt movement and replied:

“Ah! monsieur, monsieur! If I see that a man is in danger of being
drowned at a dangerous spot, ought I to let him perish? So just listen
to my story and you will see why I ventured to speak to you like this.

“It was about this time last year that it occurred. But, first of all, I
must tell you that I am a clerk in the Admiralty, where our chiefs, the
commissioners, take their gold lace as quill-driving officials
seriously, and treat us like forecastle men on board a ship. Well, from
my office I could see a small bit of blue sky and the swallows, and I
felt inclined to dance among my portfolios.

“My yearning for freedom grew so intense that, in spite of my
repugnance, I went to see my chief, a short, bad-tempered man, who was
always in a rage. When I told him that I was not well, he looked at me
and said: 'I do not believe it, monsieur, but be off with you! Do you
think that any office can go on with clerks like you?' I started at once
and went down the Seine. It was a day like this, and I took the Mouche,
to go as far as Saint Cloud. Ah! what a good thing it would have been if
my chief had refused me permission to leave the office that day!

“I seemed to myself to expand in the sun. I loved everything—the
steamer, the river, the trees, the houses and my fellow-passengers. I
felt inclined to kiss something, no matter what; it was love, laying its
snare. Presently, at the Trocadero, a girl, with a small parcel in her
hand, came on board and sat down opposite me. She was decidedly pretty,
but it is surprising, monsieur, how much prettier women seem to us when
the day is fine at the beginning of the spring. Then they have an
intoxicating charm, something quite peculiar about them. It is just like
drinking wine after cheese.

“I looked at her and she also looked at me, but only occasionally, as
that girl did at you, just now; but at last, by dint of looking at each
other constantly, it seemed to me that we knew each other well enough to
enter into conversation, and I spoke to her and she replied. She was
decidedly pretty and nice and she intoxicated me, monsieur!

“She got out at Saint-Cloud, and I followed her. She went and delivered
her parcel, and when she returned the boat had just started. I walked by
her side, and the warmth of the 'air made us both sigh. 'It would be
very nice in the woods,' I said. 'Indeed, it would!' she replied. 'Shall
we go there for a walk, mademoiselie?'

“She gave me a quick upward look, as if to see exactly what I was like,
and then, after a little hesitation, she accepted my proposal, and soon
we were there, walking side by side. Under the foliage, which was still
rather scanty, the tall, thick, bright green grass was inundated by the
sun, and the air was full of insects that were also making love to one
another, and birds were singing in all directions. My companion began to
jump and to run, intoxicated by the air and the smell of the country,
and I ran and jumped, following her example. How silly we are at times,
monsieur!

“Then she sang unrestrainedly a thousand things, opera airs and the song
of Musette! The song of Musette! How poetical it seemed to me, then! I
almost cried over it. Ah! Those silly songs make us lose our heads; and,
believe me, never marry a woman who sings in the country, especially if
she sings the song of Musette!

“She soon grew tired, and sat down on a grassy slope, and I sat at her
feet and took her hands, her little hands, that were so marked with the
needle, and that filled me with emotion. I said to myself:

“'These are the sacred marks of toil.' Oh! monsieur, do you know what
those sacred marks of toil mean? They mean all the gossip of the
workroom, the whispered scandal, the mind soiled by all the filth that
is talked; they mean lost chastity, foolish chatter, all the
wretchedness of their everyday life, all the narrowness of ideas which
belongs to women of the lower orders, combined to their fullest extent
in the girl whose fingers bear the sacred marks of toil.

“Then we looked into each other's eyes for a long while. Oh! what power
a woman's eye has! How it agitates us, how it invades our very being,
takes possession of us, and dominates us! How profound it seems, how
full of infinite promises! People call that looking into each other's
souls! Oh! monsieur, what humbug! If we could see into each other's
souls, we should be more careful of what we did. However, I was
captivated and was crazy about her and tried to take her into my arms,
but she said: 'Paws off!'. Then I knelt down and opened my heart to her
and poured out all the affection that was suffocating me. She seemed
surprised at my change of manner and gave me a sidelong glance, as if to
say, 'Ah! so that is the way women make a fool of you, old fellow! Very
well, we will see.'

“In love, monsieur, we are always novices, and women artful dealers.

“No doubt I could have had her, and I saw my own stupidity later, but
what I wanted was not a woman's person, it was love, it was the ideal. I
was sentimental, when I ought to have been using my time to a better
purpose.

“As soon as she had had enough of my declarations of affection, she got
up, and we returned to Saint-Cloud, and I did not leave her until we got
to Paris; but she had looked so sad as we were returning, that at last I
asked her what was the matter. 'I am thinking,' she replied, 'that this
has been one of those days of which we have but few in life.' My heart
beat so that it felt as if it would break my ribs.

“I saw her on the following Sunday, and the next Sunday, and every
Sunday. I took her to Bougival, Saint-Germain, Maisons-Lafitte, Poissy;
to every suburban resort of lovers.

“The little jade, in turn, pretended to love me, until, at last, I
altogether lost my head, and three months later I married her.

“What can you expect, monsieur, when a man is a clerk, living alone,
without any relations, or any one to advise him? One says to one's self:
'How sweet life would be with a wife!'

“And so one gets married and she calls you names from morning till
night, understands nothing, knows nothing, chatters continually, sings
the song of Musette at the, top of her voice (oh! that song of Musette,
how tired one gets of it!); quarrels with the charcoal dealer, tells the
janitor all her domestic details, confides all the secrets of her
bedroom to the neighbor's servant, discusses her husband with the
tradespeople and has her head so stuffed with stupid stories, with
idiotic superstitions, with extraordinary ideas and monstrous
prejudices, that I—for what I have said applies more particularly to
myself—shed tears of discouragement every time I talk to her.”

He stopped, as he was rather out of breath and very much moved, and I
looked at him, for I felt pity for this poor, artless devil, and I was
just going to give him some sort of answer, when the boat stopped. We
were at Saint-Cloud.

The little woman who had so taken my fancy rose from her seat in order
to land. She passed close to me, and gave me a sidelong glance and a
furtive smile, one of those smiles that drive you wild. Then she jumped
on the landing-stage. I sprang forward to follow her, but my neighbor
laid hold of my arm. I shook myself loose, however, whereupon he seized
the skirt of my coat and pulled me back, exclaiming: “You shall not go!
you shall not go!” in such a loud voice that everybody turned round and
laughed, and I remained standing motionless and furious, but without
venturing to face scandal and ridicule, and the steamboat started.

The little woman on the landing-stage looked at me as I went off with an
air of disappointment, while my persecutor rubbed his hands and
whispered to me:

“You must acknowledge that I have done you a great service.”





A QUEER NIGHT IN PARIS

Mattre Saval, notary at Vernon, was passionately fond of music. Although
still young he was already bald; he was always carefully shaven, was
somewhat corpulent as was suitable, and wore a gold pince-nez instead of
spectacles. He was active, gallant and cheerful and was considered quite
an artist in Vernon. He played the piano and the violin, and gave
musicals where the new operas were interpreted.

He had even what is called a bit of a voice; nothing but a bit, very
little bit of a voice; but he managed it with so much taste that cries
of “Bravo!” “Exquisite!” “Surprising!” “Adorable!” issued from every
throat as soon as he had murmured the last note.

He subscribed to a music publishing house in Paris, and they sent him
the latest music, and from time to time he sent invitations after this
fashion to the elite of the town:

“You are invited to be present on Monday evening at the house of M.
Saval, notary, Vernon, at the first rendering of 'Sais.'”

A few officers, gifted with good voices, formed the chorus. Two or three
lady amateurs also sang. The notary filled the part of leader of the
orchestra with so much correctness that the bandmaster of the 190th
regiment of the line said of him, one day, at the Cafe de l'Europe.

“Oh! M. Saval is a master. It is a great pity that he did not adopt the
career of an artist.”

When his name was mentioned in a drawing-room, there was always somebody
found to declare: “He is not an amateur; he is an artist, a genuine
artist.”

And two or three persons repeated, in a tone of profound conviction:

“Oh! yes, a genuine artist,” laying particular stress on the word
“genuine.”

Every time that a new work was interpreted at a big Parisian theatre M.
Saval paid a visit to the capital.

Now, last year, according to his custom, he went to hear Henri VIII. He
then took the express which arrives in Paris at 4:30 P.M., intending to
return by the 12:35 A.M. train, so as not to have to sleep at a hotel.
He had put on evening dress, a black coat and white tie, which he
concealed under his overcoat with the collar turned up.

As soon as he set foot on the Rue d'Amsterdam, he felt himself in quite
jovial mood. He said to himself:

“Decidedly, the air of Paris does not resemble any other air. It has in
it something indescribably stimulating, exciting, intoxicating, which
fills you with a strange longing to dance about and to do many other
things. As soon as I arrive here, it seems to me, all of a sudden, that
I have taken a bottle of champagne. What a life one can lead in this
city in the midst of artists! Happy are the elect, the great men who
make themselves a reputation in such a city! What an existence is
theirs!”

And he made plans; he would have liked to know some of these celebrated
men, to talk about them in Vernon, and to spend an evening with them
from time to time in Paris.

But suddenly an idea struck him. He had heard allusions to little cafes
in the outer boulevards at which well-known painters, men of letters,
and even musicians gathered, and he proceeded to go up to Montmartre at
a slow pace.

He had two hours before him. He wanted to look about him. He passed in
front of taverns frequented by belated bohemians, gazing at the
different faces, seeking to discover the artists. Finally, he came to
the sign of “The Dead Rat,” and, allured by the name, he entered.

Five or six women, with their elbows resting on the marble tables, were
talking in low tones about their love affairs, the quarrels of Lucie and
Hortense, and the scoundrelism of Octave. They were no longer young,
were too fat or too thin, tired out, used up. You could see that they
were almost bald; and they drank beer like men.

M. Saval sat down at some distance from them and waited, for the hour
for taking absinthe was at hand.

A tall young man soon came in and took a seat beside him. The landlady
called him M. “Romantin.” The notary quivered. Was this the Romantin who
had taken a medal at the last Salon?

The young man made a sign to the waiter.

“You will bring up my dinner at once, and then carry to my new studio,
15 Boulevard de Clichy, thirty bottles of beer, and the ham I ordered
this morning. We are going to have a housewarming.”

M. Saval immediately ordered dinner. Then, he took off his overcoat, so
that his dress suit and his white tie could be seen. His neighbor did
not seem to notice him. He had taken up a newspaper, and was reading it.
M. Saval glanced sideways at him, burning with the desire to speak to
him.

Two young men entered, in red vests and with peaked beards, in the
fashion of Henry III. They sat down opposite Romantin.

The first of the pair said:

“Is it for this evening?”

Romantin pressed his hand.

“I believe you, old chap, and everyone will be there. I have Bonnat,
Guillemet, Gervex, Beraud, Hebert, Duez, Clairin, and Jean-Paul Laurens.
It will be a stunning affair! And women, too! Wait till you see! Every
actress without exception—of course I mean, you know, all those who have
nothing to do this evening.”

The landlord of the establishment came across.

“Do you often have this housewarming?”

The painter replied:

“I believe you, every three months, each quarter.”

M. Saval could not restrain himself any longer, and in a hesitating
voice said:

“I beg your pardon for intruding on you, monsieur, but I heard your name
mentioned, and I would be very glad to know if you really are M.
Romantin, whose work in the last Salon I have so much admired?”

The painter answered:

“I am the very person, monsieur.”

The notary then paid the artist a very well-turned compliment, showing
that he was a man of culture.

The painter, gratified, thanked him politely in reply.

Then they chattered. Romantin returned to the subject of his house-
warming, going into details as to the magnificence of the forthcoming
entertainment.

M. Saval questioned him as to all the men he was going to receive,
adding:

“It would be an extraordinary piece of good fortune for a stranger to
meet at one time so many celebrities assembled in the studio of an
artist of your rank.”

Romantin, vanquished, replied:

“If it would be agreeable to you, come.”

M. Saval accepted the invitation with enthusiasm, reflecting:

“I shall have time enough to see Henri VIII.”

Both of them had finished their meal. The notary insisted on paying the
two bills, wishing to repay his neighbor's civilities. He also paid for
the drinks of the young fellows in red velvet; then he left the
establishment with the painter.

They stopped in front of a very long, low house, the first story having
the appearance of an interminable conservatory. Six studios stood in a
row with their fronts facing the boulevards.

Romantin was the first to enter, and, ascending the stairs, he opened a
door, and lighted a match and then a candle.

They found themselves in an immense apartment, the furniture of which
consisted of three chairs, two easels, and a few sketches standing on
the ground along the walls. M. Saval remained standing at the door
somewhat astonished.

The painter remarked:

“Here you are! we've got to the spot; but everything has yet to be
done.”

Then, examining the high, bare apartment, its ceiling disappearing in
the darkness, he said:

“We might make a great deal out of this studio.”

He walked round it, surveying it with the utmost attention, then went
on:

“I know someone who might easily give a helping hand. Women are
incomparable for hanging drapery. But I sent her to the country for to-
day in order to get her off my hands this evening. It is not that she
bores me, but she is too much lacking in the ways of good society. It
would be embarrassing to my guests.”

He reflected for a few seconds, and then added:

“She is a good girl, but not easy to deal with. If she knew that I was
holding a reception, she would tear out my eyes.”

M. Saval had not even moved; he did not understand.

The artist came over to him.

“Since I have invited you, you will assist me about something.”

The notary said emphatically:

“Make any use of me you please. I am at your disposal.”

Romantin took off his jacket.

“Well, citizen, to work!' We are first going to clean up.”

He went to the back of the easel, on which there was a canvas
representing a cat, and seized a very worn-out broom.

“I say! Just brush up while I look after the lighting.”

M. Saval took the broom, inspected it, and then began to sweep the floor
very awkwardly, raising a whirlwind of dust.

Romantin, disgusted, stopped him: “Deuce take it! you don't know how to
sweep the floor! Look at me!”

And he began to roll before him a heap of grayish sweepings, as if he
had done nothing else all his life. Then, he gave bark the broom to the
notary, who imitated him.

In five minutes, such a cloud of dust filled the studio that Rormantin
asked:

“Where are you? I can't see you any longer.”

M. Saval, who was coughing, came near to him. The painter said:

“How would you set about making a chandelier?”

The other, surprised, asked:

“What chandelier?”

“Why, a chandelier to light the room—a chandelier with wax-candles.”

The notary did not understand.

He answered: “I don't know.”

The painter began to jump about, cracking his fingers.

“Well, monseigneur, I have found out a way.”

Then he went on more calmly:

“Have you got five francs about you?”

M. Saval replied:

“Why, yes.”

The artist said: “Well! you'll go out and buy for me five francs' worth
of wax-candles while I go and see the cooper.”

And he pushed the notary in his evening coat into the street. At the end
of five minutes, they had returned, one of them with the wax-candles and
the other with the hoop of a cask. Then Romantin plunged his hand into a
cupboard, and drew forth twenty empty bottles, which he fixed in the
form of a crown around the hoop.

He then went downstairs to borrow a ladder from the janitress, after
having explained that he had made interest with the old woman by
painting the portrait of her cat, exhibited on the easel.

When he returned with the ladder, he said to M. Saval:

“Are you active?”

The other, without understanding, answered:

“Why, yes.”

“Well, you just climb up there, and fasten this chandelier for me to the
ring of the ceiling. Then, you put a wax-candle in each bottle, and
light it. I tell you I have a genius for lighting up. But off with your
coat, damn it! You are just like a Jeames.”

The door was opened brusquely. A woman appeared, her eyes flashing, and
remained standing on the threshold.

Romantin gazed at her with a look of terror.

She waited some seconds, crossing her arms over her breast, and then in
a shrill, vibrating, exasperated voice said:

“Ha! you dirty scoundrel, is this the way you leave me?”

Romantin made no reply. She went on:

“Ha! you scoundrel! You did a nice thing in parking me off to the
country. You'll soon see the way I'll settle your jollification. Yes,
I'm going to receive your friends.”

She grew warmer.

“I'm going to slap their faces with the bottles and the wax-candles——”

Romantin said in a soft tone:

“Mathilde——”

But she did not pay any attention to him; she went on:

“Wait a little, my fine fellow! wait a little!”

Romantin went over to her, and tried to take her by the hands.

“Mathilde——”

But she was now fairly under way; and on she went, emptying the vials of
her wrath with strong words and reproaches. They flowed out of her mouth
like, a stream sweeping a heap of filth along with it. The words pouring
forth seemed struggling for exit. She stuttered, stammered, yelled,
suddenly recovering her voice to cast forth an insult or a curse.

He seized her hands without her having noticed it. She did not seem to
see anything, so taken up was she in scolding and relieving her
feelings. And suddenly she began to weep. The tears flowed from her
eyes, but this did not stop her complaints. But her words were uttered
in a screaming falsetto voice with tears in it and interrupted by sobs.
She commenced afresh twice or three times, till she stopped as if
something were choking her, and at last she ceased with a regular flood
of tears.

Then he clasped her in his arms and kissed her hair, affected himself.

“Mathilde, my little Mathilde, listen. You must be reasonable. You know,
if I give a supper-party to my friends, it is to thank these gentlemen
for the medal I got at the Salon. I cannot receive women. You ought to
understand that. It is not the same with artists as with other people.”

She stammered, in the midst of her tears:

“Why didn't you tell me this?”

He replied:

“It was in order not to annoy you, not to give you pain. Listen, I'm
going to see you home. You will be very sensible, very nice; you will
remain quietly waiting for me in bed, and I'll come back as soon as it's
over.”

She murmured:

“Yes, but you will not begin over again?”

“No, I swear to you!”

He turned towards M. Saval, who had at last hooked on the chandelier:

“My dear friend, I am coming back in five minutes. If anyone arrives in
my absence, do the honors for me, will you not?”

And he carried off Mathilde, who kept drying her eyes with her
handkerchief as she went along.

Left to himself, M. Saval succeeded in putting everything around him in
order. Then he lighted the wax-candles, and waited.

He waited for a quarter of an hour, half an hour, an hour. Romantin did
not return. Then, suddenly there was a dreadful noise on the stairs, a
song shouted out in chorus by twenty mouths and a regular march like
that of a Prussian regiment. The whole house was shaken by the steady
tramp of feet. The door flew open, and a motley throng appeared—men and
women in file, two and two holding each other by the arm and stamping
their heels on the ground to mark time, advanced into the studio like a
snake uncoiling itself. They howled:

“Come, and let us all be merry, Pretty maids and soldiers gay!”


M. Saval, thunderstruck, remained standing in evening dress under the
chandelier. The procession of revellers caught sight of him, and uttered
a shout:

“A Jeames! A Jeames!”

And they began whirling round him, surrounding him with a circle of
vociferations. Then they took each other by the hand and went dancing
about madly.

He attempted to explain:

“Messieurs—messieurs—mesdames——”

But they did not listen to him. They whirled about, they jumped, they
brawled.

At last, the dancing ceased. M. Saval said:

“Gentlemen——”

A tall young fellow, fair-haired and bearded to the nose, interrupted
him:

“What's your name, my friend?”

The notary, quite scared, said:

“I am M. Saval.”

A voice exclaimed:

“You mean Baptiste.”

A woman said:

“Let the poor waiter alone! You'll end by making him get angry. He's
paid to wait on us, and not to be laughed at by us.”

Then, M. Saval noticed that each guest had brought his own provisions.
One held a bottle of wine, and the other a pie. This one had a loaf of
bread, and one a ham.

The tall, fair young fellow placed in his hands an enormous sausage, and
gave orders:

“Here, go and arrange the sideboard in the corner over there. Put the
bottles at the left and the provisions at the right.”

Saval, getting quite distracted, exclaimed: “But, messieurs, I am a
notary!”

There was a moment's silence and then a wild outburst of laughter. One
suspicious gentleman asked:

“How came you to be here?”

He explained, telling about his project of going to the opera, his
departure from Vernon, his arrival in Paris, and the way in which he had
spent the evening.

They sat around him to listen to him; they greeted him with words of
applause, and called him Scheherazade.

Romantin did not return. Other guests arrived. M. Saval was presented to
them so that he might begin his story over again. He declined; they
forced him to relate it. They seated and tied him on one of three chairs
between two women who kept constantly filling his glass. He drank; he
laughed; he talked; he sang, too. He tried to waltz with his chair, and
fell on the ground.

From that moment, he forgot everything. It seemed to him, however, that
they undressed him, put him to bed, and that he was nauseated.

When he awoke, it was broad daylight, and he lay stretched with his feet
against a cupboard, in a strange bed.

An old woman with a broom in her hand was glaring angrily at him. At
last, she said:

“Clear out, you blackguard! Clear out! What right has anyone to get
drunk like this?”

He sat up in bed, feeling very ill at ease. He asked:

“Where am I?”

“Where are you, you dirty scamp? You are drunk. Take your rotten carcass
out of here as quick as you can—and lose no time about it!”

He wanted to get up. He found that he was in no condition to do so. His
clothes had disappeared. He blurted out:

“Madame, I——Then he remembered. What was he to do? He asked:

“Did Monsieur Romantin come back?”

The doorkeeper shouted:

“Will you take your dirty carcass out of this, so that he at any rate
may not catch you here?”

M. Saval said, in a state of confusion:

“I haven't got my clothes; they have been taken away from me.”

He had to wait, to explain his situation, give notice to his friends,
and borrow some money to buy clothes. He did not leave Paris till
evening. And when people talk about music to him in his beautiful
drawing-room in Vernon, he declares with an air of authority that
painting is a very inferior art.





ORIGINAL SHORT STORIES, Vol. 6.

GUY DE MAUPASSANT ORIGINAL SHORT STORIES Translated by ALBERT M. C.
McMASTER, B.A. A. E. HENDERSON, B.A. MME. QUESADA and Others





VOLUME VI.





THAT COSTLY RIDE

The household lived frugally on the meager income derived from the
husband's insignificant appointments. Two children had been born of the
marriage, and the earlier condition of the strictest economy had become
one of quiet, concealed, shamefaced misery, the poverty of a noble
family—which in spite of misfortune never forgets its rank.

Hector de Gribelin had been educated in the provinces, under the
paternal roof, by an aged priest. His people were not rich, but they
managed to live and to keep up appearances.

At twenty years of age they tried to find him a position, and he entered
the Ministry of Marine as a clerk at sixty pounds a year. He foundered
on the rock of life like all those who have not been early prepared for
its rude struggles, who look at life through a mist, who do not know how
to protect themselves, whose special aptitudes and faculties have not
been developed from childhood, whose early training has not developed
the rough energy needed for the battle of life or furnished them with
tool or weapon.

His first three years of office work were a martyrdom.

He had, however, renewed the acquaintance of a few friends of his family
—elderly people, far behind the times, and poor like himself, who lived
in aristocratic streets, the gloomy thoroughfares of the Faubourg Saint-
Germain; and he had created a social circle for himself.

Strangers to modern life, humble yet proud, these needy aristocrats
lived in the upper stories of sleepy, old-world houses. From top to
bottom of their dwellings the tenants were titled, but money seemed just
as scarce on the ground floor as in the attics.

Their eternal prejudices, absorption in their rank, anxiety lest they
should lose caste, filled the minds and thoughts of these families once
so brilliant, now ruined by the idleness of the men of the family.
Hector de Gribelin met in this circle a young girl as well born and as
poor as himself and married her.

They had two children in four years.

For four years more the husband and wife, harassed by poverty, knew no
other distraction than the Sunday walk in the Champs-Elysees and a few
evenings at the theatre (amounting in all to one or two in the course of
the winter) which they owed to free passes presented by some comrade or
other.

But in the spring of the following year some overtime work was entrusted
to Hector de Gribelin by his chief, for which he received the large sum
of three hundred francs.

The day he brought the money home he said to his wife:

“My dear Henrietta, we must indulge in some sort of festivity—say an
outing for the children.”

And after a long discussion it was decided that they should go and lunch
one day in the country.

“Well,” cried Hector, “once will not break us, so we'll hire a wagonette
for you, the children and the maid. And I'll have a saddle horse; the
exercise will do me good.”

The whole week long they talked of nothing but the projected excursion.

Every evening, on his return from the office, Hector caught up his elder
son, put him astride his leg, and, making him bounce up and down as hard
as he could, said:

“That's how daddy will gallop next Sunday.”

And the youngster amused himself all day long by bestriding chairs,
dragging them round the room and shouting:

“This is daddy on horseback!”

The servant herself gazed at her master with awestruck eyes as she
thought of him riding alongside the carriage, and at meal-times she
listened with all her ears while he spoke of riding and recounted the
exploits of his youth, when he lived at home with his father. Oh, he had
learned in a good school, and once he felt his steed between his legs he
feared nothing—nothing whatever!

Rubbing his hands, he repeated gaily to his wife:

“If only they would give me a restive animal I should be all the better
pleased. You'll see how well I can ride; and if you like we'll come back
by the Champs-Elysees just as all the people are returning from the
Bois. As we shall make a good appearance, I shouldn't at all object to
meeting some one from the ministry. That is all that is necessary to
insure the respect of one's chiefs.”

On the day appointed the carriage and the riding horse arrived at the
same moment before the door. Hector went down immediately to examine his
mount. He had had straps sewn to his trousers and flourished in his hand
a whip he had bought the evening before.

He raised the horse's legs and felt them one after another, passed his
hand over the animal's neck, flank and hocks, opened his mouth, examined
his teeth, declared his age; and then, the whole household having
collected round him, he delivered a discourse on the horse in general
and the specimen before him in particular, pronouncing the latter
excellent in every respect.

When the rest of the party had taken their seats in the carriage he
examined the saddle-girth; then, putting his foot in the stirrup, he
sprang to the saddle. The animal began to curvet and nearly threw his
rider.

Hector, not altogether at his ease, tried to soothe him:

“Come, come, good horse, gently now!”

Then, when the horse had recovered his equanimity and the rider his
nerve, the latter asked:

“Are you ready?”

The occupants of the carriage replied with one voice:

“Yes.”

“Forward!” he commanded.

And the cavalcade set out.

All looks were centered on him. He trotted in the English style, rising
unnecessarily high in the saddle; looking at times as if he were
mounting into space. Sometimes he seemed on the point of falling forward
on the horse's mane; his eyes were fixed, his face drawn, his cheeks
pale.

His wife, holding one of the children on her knees, and the servant, who
was carrying the other, continually cried out:

“Look at papa! look at papa!”

And the two boys, intoxicated by the motion of the carriage, by their
delight and by the keen air, uttered shrill cries. The horse, frightened
by the noise they made, started off at a gallop, and while Hector was
trying to control his steed his hat fell off, and the driver had to get
down and pick it up. When the equestrian had recovered it he called to
his wife from a distance:

“Don't let the children shout like that! They'll make the horse bolt!”

They lunched on the grass in the Vesinet woods, having brought
provisions with them in the carriage.

Although the driver was looking after the three horses, Hector rose
every minute to see if his own lacked anything; he patted him on the
neck and fed him with bread, cakes and sugar.

“He's an unequal trotter,” he declared. “He certainly shook me up a
little at first, but, as you saw, I soon got used to it. He knows his
master now and won't give any more trouble.”

As had been decided, they returned by the Champs-Elysees.

That spacious thoroughfare literally swarmed with vehicles of every
kind, and on the sidewalks the pedestrians were so numerous that they
looked like two indeterminate black ribbons unfurling their length from
the Arc de Triomphe to the Place de la Concorde. A flood of sunlight
played on this gay scene, making the varnish of the carriages, the steel
of the harness and the handles of the carriage doors shine with dazzling
brilliancy.

An intoxication of life and motion seemed to have invaded this
assemblage of human beings, carriages and horses. In the distance the
outlines of the Obelisk could be discerned in a cloud of golden vapor.

As soon as Hector's horse had passed the Arc de Triomphe he became
suddenly imbued with fresh energy, and, realizing that his stable was
not far off, began to trot rapidly through the maze of wheels, despite
all his rider's efforts to restrain him.

The carriage was now far behind. When the horse arrived opposite the
Palais de l'Industrie he saw a clear field before him, and, turning to
the right, set off at a gallop.

An old woman wearing an apron was crossing the road in leisurely
fashion. She happened to be just in Hector's way as he arrived on the
scene riding at full speed. Powerless to control his mount, he shouted
at the top of his voice:

“Hi! Look out there! Hi!”

She must have been deaf, for she continued peacefully on her way until
the awful moment when, struck by the horse's chest as by a locomotive
under full steam, she rolled ten paces off, turning three somersaults on
the way.

Voices yelled:

“Stop him!”

Hector, frantic with terror, clung to the horse's mane and shouted:

“Help! help!”

A terrible jolt hurled him, as if shot from a gun, over his horse's ears
and cast him into the arms of a policeman who was running up to stop
him.

In the space of a second a furious, gesticulating, vociferating group
had gathered round him. An old gentleman with a white mustache, wearing
a large round decoration, seemed particularly exasperated. He repeated:

“Confound it! When a man is as awkward as all that he should remain at
home and not come killing people in the streets, if he doesn't know how
to handle a horse.”

Four men arrived on the scene, carrying the old woman. She appeared to
be dead. Her skin was like parchment, her cap on one side and she was
covered with dust.

“Take her to a druggist's,” ordered the old gentleman, “and let us go to
the commissary of police.”

Hector started on his way with a policeman on either side of him, a
third was leading his horse. A crowd followed them—and suddenly the
wagonette appeared in sight. His wife alighted in consternation, the
servant lost her head, the children whimpered. He explained that he
would soon be at home, that he had knocked a woman down and that there
was not much the matter. And his family, distracted with anxiety, went
on their way.

When they arrived before the commissary the explanation took place in
few words. He gave his name—Hector de Gribelin, employed at the Ministry
of Marine; and then they awaited news of the injured woman. A policeman
who had been sent to obtain information returned, saying that she had
recovered consciousness, but was complaining of frightful internal pain.
She was a charwoman, sixty-five years of age, named Madame Simon.

When he heard that she was not dead Hector regained hope and promised to
defray her doctor's bill. Then he hastened to the druggist's. The door
way was thronged; the injured woman, huddled in an armchair, was
groaning. Her arms hung at her sides, her face was drawn. Two doctors
were still engaged in examining her. No bones were broken, but they
feared some internal lesion.

Hector addressed her:

“Do you suffer much?”

“Oh, yes!”

“Where is the pain?”

“I feel as if my stomach were on fire.”

A doctor approached.

“Are you the gentleman who caused the accident?”

“I am.”

“This woman ought to be sent to a home. I know one where they would take
her at six francs a day. Would you like me to send her there?”

Hector was delighted at the idea, thanked him and returned home much
relieved.

His wife, dissolved in tears, was awaiting him. He reassured her.

“It's all right. This Madame Simon is better already and will be quite
well in two or three days. I have sent her to a home. It's all right.”

When he left his office the next day he went to inquire for Madame
Simon. He found her eating rich soup with an air of great satisfaction.

“Well?” said he.

“Oh, sir,” she replied, “I'm just the same. I feel sort of crushed—not a
bit better.”

The doctor declared they must wait and see; some complication or other
might arise.

Hector waited three days, then he returned. The old woman, fresh-faced
and clear-eyed, began to whine when she saw him:

“I can't move, sir; I can't move a bit. I shall be like this for the
rest of my days.”

A shudder passed through Hector's frame. He asked for the doctor, who
merely shrugged his shoulders and said:

“What can I do? I can't tell what's wrong with her. She shrieks when
they try to raise her. They can't even move her chair from one place to
another without her uttering the most distressing cries. I am bound to
believe what she tells me; I can't look into her inside. So long as I
have no chance of seeing her walk I am not justified in supposing her to
be telling lies about herself.”

The old woman listened, motionless, a malicious gleam in her eyes.

A week passed, then a fortnight, then a month. Madame Simon did not
leave her armchair. She ate from morning to night, grew fat, chatted
gaily with the other patients and seemed to enjoy her immobility as if
it were the rest to which she was entitled after fifty years of going up
and down stairs, of turning mattresses, of carrying coal from one story
to another, of sweeping and dusting.

Hector, at his wits' end, came to see her every day. Every day he found
her calm and serene, declaring:

“I can't move, sir; I shall never be able to move again.”

Every evening Madame de Gribelin, devoured with anxiety, said:

“How is Madame Simon?”

And every time he replied with a resignation born of despair:

“Just the same; no change whatever.”

They dismissed the servant, whose wages they could no longer afford.
They economized more rigidly than ever. The whole of the extra pay had
been swallowed up.

Then Hector summoned four noted doctors, who met in consultation over
the old woman. She let them examine her, feel her, sound her, watching
them the while with a cunning eye.

“We must make her walk,” said one.

“But, sirs, I can't!” she cried. “I can't move!”

Then they took hold of her, raised her and dragged her a short distance,
but she slipped from their grasp and fell to the floor, groaning and
giving vent to such heartrending cries that they carried her back to her
seat with infinite care and precaution.

They pronounced a guarded opinion—agreeing, however, that work was an
impossibility to her.

And when Hector brought this news to his wife she sank on a chair,
murmuring:

“It would be better to bring her here; it would cost us less.”

He started in amazement.

“Here? In our own house? How can you think of such a thing?”

But she, resigned now to anything, replied with tears in her eyes:

“But what can we do, my love? It's not my fault!”





USELESS BEAUTY I

About half-past five one afternoon at the end of June when the sun was
shining warm and bright into the large courtyard, a very elegant
victoria with two beautiful black horses drew up in front of the
mansion.

The Comtesse de Mascaret came down the steps 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 turned rather pale. The countess was
very beautiful, graceful and distinguished looking, with her long oval
face, her complexion like yellow 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 in which she answered him, he got in
and sat down by his wife's side and said: “Bois de Boulogne.” The
footman jumped up beside the coachman, and the horses as usual pranced
and tossed 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' 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
Elysees, toward 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 on it, showering fiery dust on it from the
sky.

The stream of carriages, with dashes of sunlight reflected in the silver
trappings of the harness and the glass of the lamps, flowed on in a
double current toward the town and toward the Bois, and the Comte de
Mascaret continued: “My dear Gabrielle!”

Unable to control herself any longer, she replied in an exasperated
voice: “Oh! do leave me in peace, pray! I am not even allowed to have my
carriage to myself now.” He pretended not to hear her and continued:
“You never have looked so pretty as you do to-day.”

Her patience had come to 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.”

The count was decidedly stupefied and upset, and, his violent nature
gaining the upper hand, he exclaimed: “What do you mean by that?” in a
tone that betrayed rather the brutal master than the lover. She replied
in a low voice, so that the servants might not hear amid 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 weighed 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 toward 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 any one to-day.”

He also was looking into her eyes and was already shaking with rage as
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
take my place in society as I have the 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 doorstep, you think it is time that I should
think of having another child.”

“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 much longer.”

“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 to 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 to you as it was to 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 motherhood, until the time should come 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 how you have behaved in the past! How for eleven years you
have compelled me to give up all society and simply be a mother to your
children. And then you would grow disgusted with me and I was sent into
the country, the family chateau, among fields and meadows. And when I
reappeared, fresh, pretty and unspoiled, still seductive and constantly
surrounded by admirers, hoping that at last I should live a little more
like a rich young society woman, you were seized with jealousy again,
and you began once more to persecute me with that infamous and hateful
desire from which you are suffering at this moment by my side. And it is
not the desire of possessing me—for I should never have refused myself
to you, but it is the wish to make me unsightly.

“And then that abominable and mysterious thing occurred which I was a
long time in understanding (but I grew sharp 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. You felt affection
for them, with all your aversion to me, and in spite of your ignoble
fears, which were momentarily allayed by your pleasure in seeing me lose
my symmetry.

“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 that were whispered around me without being
paid to me personally. 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 the 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 vise which was crushing them. The agony made her breathe hard and
the tears came into her eyes. “You see that I am the master and the
stronger,” he said. When he somewhat loosened his grip, 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: “Philippe!” And the coachman, bending
down a little, without taking his eyes from his horses, seemed to turn
his ear alone toward his mistress, who continued: “Drive to St.
Philippe-du-Roule.” And the victoria, which had reached the entrance of
the Bois de Boulogne returned to Paris.

Husband and wife did not exchange a word further 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 distant. 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, as women 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 the Comte 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 burned, 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 was the only revenge that was possible for
me in return for all your abominable masculine tyrannies, in return for
the penal servitude of childbearing to which you have condemned me. Who
was my lover? That you never will know! You may suspect every one, but
you never will find out. I gave myself to him, without love and without
pleasure, only for the sake of betraying you, and he also made me a
mother. Which is the child? That also you never will know. I have seven;
try to 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 today. I have now finished.”

She hurried through the church toward the open door, expecting to hear
behind her the quick step: 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

The Comtesse de Mascaret was waiting in her room for dinner time as a
criminal sentenced to death awaits the hour of his execution. What was
her husband 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 announced dinner.

“Has the count come in?”

“Yes, Madame la Comtesse. He is in the diningroom.”

For a little moment she felt inclined to arm herself with a small
revolver which she had bought some time before, 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 bottle of
smelling salts. He rose somewhat ceremoniously from his chair. They
exchanged a slight bow and sat down. The three boys with their tutor,
Abbe 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 abbe said grace as usual when there was no company, for the children
did not come down to dinner when guests were present. Then they began
dinner. The countess, suffering from emotion, which she had not
calculated upon, remained with her eyes cast down, while the count
scrutinized now the three boys and now the three girls with an
uncertain, unhappy expression, which travelled from one to the other.
Suddenly pushing his wineglass 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, in spite of themselves, in spite of the
irritation of their nerves caused by every glance, they continued to
exchange looks, rapid as pistol shots.

The abbe, who felt that there was some cause for embarrassment which he
could not divine, attempted to begin a conversation and tried 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, attempted 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 was heard except the slight sound of plates
and knives and forks.

Suddenly her husband said to her, bending forward: “Here, amid 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
toward the boys and the left toward 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 on the table with a movement of
exasperation, 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 abbe and Miss Smith and had tender, pretty
words for all her children, those sweet, tender mother's ways which
unfold little hearts.

When dinner was over she went into the drawing-room, all her children
following her. 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 the count would come, and she made
up her mind then, as her children were not with her, to protect herself
as a woman of the world as she would protect her life, 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, full of nervous energy, 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 gleam of dawn came in through the fringe at the bottom of
her curtain without his having come into her room, and then she awoke to
the fact, with much amazement, 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 handed her a letter
from her husband. He told her that he was going to undertake a longish
journey and in a postscript added that his lawyer would provide her with
any sums of money she might require for all her expenses.

III

It was at the opera, between two acts of “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
gold and jewelled studs glistened, and were looking at the boxes full of
ladies in low dresses covered with diamonds and pearls, who were
expanding like flowers in that illuminated hothouse, where the beauty of
their faces and the whiteness of their shoulders seemed to bloom in
order to be gazed at, amid the sound 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 pretension which displayed itself in all parts of the
Grand Theatre, and one of them, Roger de Salnis, said to his companion,
Bernard Grandin:

“Just look how beautiful the Comtesse de Mascaret still is.”

The older man in turn looked through his opera glasses at a tall lady in
a box opposite. She appeared to be still very young, and her striking
beauty seemed to attract all 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 streak of
light.

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 occasionally go to the house, which is a very quiet and
pleasant one, where one may see the phenomenon of the family in the
midst of society.”

“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, never finds out
exactly, but guesses at pretty closely.”

“What is it?”

“I do not know anything about it. Mascaret leads a very fast life now,
after being a model husband. As long as he remained a good spouse he had
a shocking temper, was crabbed and easily took offence, but since he has
been leading his present wild life he has become quite different, But
one might surmise 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 can have had seven children!”

“Yes, in eleven years; after which, when she was thirty, she refused to
have any more, in order to take her place in society, which she seems
likely to do for many years.”

“Poor women!”

“Why do you pity them?”

“Why? Ah! my dear fellow, just consider! Eleven years in a condition of
motherhood for such a woman! What a hell! All her youth, all her beauty,
every hope of success, every poetical ideal of a brilliant life
sacrificed to that abominable law of reproduction which turns the normal
woman into a mere machine for bringing children into the world.”

“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 on this earth that
is clean, pretty, elegant or accessory to our ideal; the human brain has
done it. It is man who has introduced a little grace, beauty, unknown
charm and mystery into creation by singing about it, interpreting it, by
admiring it as a poet, idealizing it as an artist and by explaining it
through science, doubtless making mistakes, but finding ingenious
reasons, hidden grace and beauty, unknown charm and mystery in the
various phenomena of Nature. God created only coarse beings, full of the
germs of disease, 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 seems to have made them only in order that they may
reproduce their species in an ignoble manner and then die like ephemeral
insects. I said reproduce their species in an ignoble manner and I
adhere to that expression. What is there as a matter of fact more
ignoble and more repugnant than that act of 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 another method of performing 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 renews itself of its own accord, while we
are thinking about it. The olfactory organs, through which the vital air
reaches the lungs, communicate 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, infinite and even physical
pleasure by means of sound! But one might say that the cynical and
cunning Creator wished to prohibit man from ever ennobling and
idealizing his intercourse with women. Nevertheless man has found love,
which is not a bad reply to that sly Deity, and he has adorned it with
so much poetry that woman often forgets the sensual part of it. Those
among us who are unable to deceive themselves have invented vice and
refined debauchery, which is another way of laughing at God and paying
homage, immodest homage, to beauty.

“But the normal man begets children just like an animal 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, feted and adored, has spent
eleven years of her life in providing heirs for the Comte 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 became more and more animated. “Do you know how I picture God
myself?” he said. “As an enormous, creative organ beyond our ken, 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. The human mind 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 little lapse of intelligence on His part
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 imagination, asked him: “Then you believe
that human thought is the spontaneous product of blind divine
generation?”

“Naturally! A fortuitous function of the nerve centres of our brain,
like the unforeseen chemical action due to new mixtures and similar also
to a charge of electricity, caused by friction or the unexpected
proximity of some substance, similar to all phenomena caused by the
infinite and fruitful fermentation of living matter.

“But, my dear fellow, the truth of this must be evident to any one who
looks about him. If the human mind, ordained by an omniscient Creator,
had been intended to be what it has become, exacting, inquiring,
agitated, tormented—so different from mere animal thought and
resignation—would the world which was created to receive the beings
which we now are have been this unpleasant little park for small game,
this salad patch, this wooded, rocky 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 to be fattened and 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 as do 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 theatre. Is there not here a human world created by us,
unforeseen and unknown to eternal fate, intelligible to our minds alone,
a sensual and intellectual distraction, which has been invented solely
by and for that discontented and restless little animal, man?

“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 any one 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 raising a family was becoming too expensive, 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 Comte and Comtesse 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 do so.”

“Do you 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?”

“Then you have really suffered very much?” she repeated.

And he replied in a constrained and sorrowful voice:

“Yes, for do I not tell you every day that it is intolerable torture to
me? Should I have remained in that house, near you and them, if I did
not love them? Oh! You have behaved abominably toward 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 you
said to 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 on my knee without asking myself, 'Can it be this one?' I have been
correct in my behavior toward 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” he said.

“I have been more guilty than you think perhaps,” she replied, “but I
could no longer endure that life of continual motherhood, and I had only
one means of driving you from me. I lied before God and I lied, with my
hand raised to my children's head, for I never have 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, wild with grief, he 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 into the courtyard of the house and when it had drawn
up in front of the steps the count alighted first, as usual, and offered
his wife his arm to mount the stairs. As soon as they reached the first
floor he said: “May I speak to you for a few moments longer?” And she
replied, “I am quite willing.”

They went into a small drawing-room and a footman, in some surprise,
lighted the wax candles. As soon as he had left the room and they were
alone the count 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!”

“Can a mother speak like that?”

“Oh!” she replied, “I do not feel that I am the mother of children who
never have 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 a woman of the civilized
world, monsieur—we all are—and we are no longer, and we refuse to be,
mere females to 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 never have 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 sparkled the diamond coronet,
like a radiance. He suddenly felt, felt by a kind of intuition, that
this grand creature was not merely a being destined to perpetuate the
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 have
wandered after a mystic, imperfectly perceived 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 esthetic charm which surround woman, a living statue that
brightens our life.

Her husband remained standing before her, stupefied at his 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
before 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.





THE FATHER I

He was a clerk in the Bureau of Public Education and lived at
Batignolles. He took the omnibus to Paris every morning and always sat
opposite a girl, with whom he fell in love.

She was employed in a shop and went in at the same time every day. She
was a little brunette, one of those girls whose eyes are so dark that
they look like black spots, on a complexion 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, out of breath, and,
sitting down, looked round her.

The first time that he saw her, Francois Tessier liked the face. One
sometimes meets a woman whom one longs to clasp in one's arms without
even knowing her. That girl seemed to respond to some chord in his
being, to that sort of ideal of love which one cherishes in the depths
of the heart, without knowing it.

He looked at her intently, not meaning to be rude, and she became
embarrassed and blushed. He noticed 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 seemed to
know 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 friendship had become
established between them, a daily freemasonry 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 day, saw her image continually during
the long office hours. He was haunted and bewitched by that floating and
yet tenacious recollection which the form of a beloved woman leaves in
us, and it seemed to him that if he could win that little person it
would be maddening happiness to him, almost above human realization.

Every morning she now shook hands with him, and he preserved the sense
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 on his palm. He anxiously waited for this short omnibus ride,
while Sundays seemed to him heartbreaking 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 on his arm, and looked down, her cheeks pale,
as she continued: “I do not want you to be deceived in me, 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.
He should love her less, certainly, if he knew that her conduct was
light, but then it would be so charming, so delicious to have a little
flirtation.

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 reached Maisons-Laffite they went toward the Seine. The
sun, which shone full on the river, on the leaves and the grass, seemed
to be reflected in their hearts, and they went, hand in hand, along the
bank, looking at the shoals of little fish swimming near the bank, and
they walked on, brimming over with happiness, as if they were walking on
air.

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 the ear that was nearest
him, but she moved from him with an abrupt movement, and, getting
suddenly angry, exclaimed: “Oh! Monsieur Francois, after what you swore
to me!” And they went back to Maisons-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
weak white wine and the sensation of being so close together made them
silent; their faces were flushed and they had a feeling of oppression;
but, after the coffee, they regained their high spirits, and, having
crossed the Seine, started off along the bank, toward the village of La
Frette. Suddenly he asked: “What-is your name?”

“Louise.”

“Louise,” he repeated and said nothing more.

The girl picked daisies and made them into a great bunch, while he sang
vigorously, as unrestrained as a colt that has been turned into a
meadow. On their left a vine-covered slope followed the river. Francois
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 purple wood! A kind of great carpet of
flowers 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 toward that
curious low hill, which, every year, furnishes all the lilac that is
drawn through Paris on the carts of the flower venders.

There was a narrow path beneath the trees, so they took it, and when
they came to a small clearing, 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 forest of blossoms a powerful fragrance
was borne toward them, a breath of perfume, the breath of the flowers.

A church clock struck in the distance, and they embraced gently, then,
without the knowledge of anything but that kiss, lay down on the grass.
But she soon came to herself with the feeling of a great misfortune, and
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-by. 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-by; I cannot meet you again.” “But why?” he
asked. “Because I cannot; I have been culpable, and I will not be so
again.”

Then he implored her, tortured by his 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 the door, she was there. She threw herself into his arms and did
not resist any longer, and for three months they were close friends. He
was beginning to grow tired of her, when she whispered something to him,
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 fear of the consequences of his rash
indiscretion, 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, gave birth to a boy. IV

Years passed, and Francois Tessier grew old, without there having been
any alteration in his life. He led the dull, monotonous life of an
office clerk, without hope and without expectation. Every day he got up
at the same time, went through the same streets, went through the same
door, past 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 different 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-Elysees, 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 du
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 Francois 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 anti 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 reserved appearance 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 Francois 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 tormented
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 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, Francois 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, to 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 in all. 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, while 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
wretched, 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.”

As he went up the staircase, Francois Tessier's heart beat so violently
that he had to stop several times. There was a dull and violent thumping
noise in his breast, as of some animal galloping; and he could breathe
only 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 maid servant 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. Francois Tessier sat
down, and then said, with choking breath: “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
commonplace stateliness of an honorable man, and Francois 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 the stranger, and Monsieur Flamel kissed him
and said: “Now, go and kiss that gentleman, my dear.” And the child went
up to the stranger and looked at him.

Francois 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 Francois, taking the child up in his arms, began to
kiss him wildly all over his face; on his eyes, his cheeks, his mouth,
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 Francois Tessier put him down and cried:
“Good-by! good-by!” And he rushed out of the room as if he had been a
thief.





MY UNCLE SOSTHENES

Some people are Freethinkers from sheer stupidity. My Uncle Sosthenes
was one of these. Some people are often religious for the same reason.
The very sight of a priest threw my uncle into a violent rage. He would
shake his fist and make grimaces at him, and would then touch a piece of
iron when the priest's back was turned, forgetting that the latter
action showed a belief after all, the belief in the evil eye. Now, when
beliefs are unreasonable, one should have all or none at all. I myself
am a Freethinker; I revolt at all dogmas, but feel no anger toward
places of worship, be they Catholic, Apostolic, Roman, Protestant,
Greek, Russian, Buddhist, Jewish, or Mohammedan.

My uncle was a Freemason, and I used to declare that they are stupider
than old women devotees. That is my opinion, and I maintain it; if we
must have any religion at all, the old one is good enough for me.

What is their object? Mutual help to be obtained by tickling the palms
of each other's hands. I see no harm in it, for they put into practice
the Christian precept: “Do unto others as ye would they should do unto
you.” The only difference consists in the tickling, but it does not seem
worth while to make such a fuss about lending a poor devil half a crown.

To all my arguments my uncle's reply used to be:

“We are raising up a religion against a religion; Free Thought will kill
clericalism. Freemasonry is the stronghold, of those who are demolishing
all deities.”

“Very well, my dear uncle,” I would reply—in my heart I felt inclined to
say, “You old idiot! it is just that which I am blaming you for. Instead
of destroying, you are organizing competition; it is only a case of
lowering prices. And then, if you admitted only Freethinkers among you,
I could understand it, but you admit anybody. You have a number of
Catholics among you, even the leaders of the party. Pius IX is said to
have been one of you before he became pope. If you call a society with
such an organization a bulwark against clericalism, I think it is an
extremely weak one.”

“My dear boy,” my uncle would reply, with a wink, “we are most to be
dreaded in politics; slowly and surely we are everywhere undermining the
monarchical spirit.”

Then I broke out: “Yes, you are very clever! If you tell me that
Freemasonry is an election machine, I will grant it. I will never deny
that it is used as a machine to control candidates of all shades; if you
say that it is only used to hoodwink people, to drill them to go to the
polls as soldiers are sent under fire, I agree with you; if you declare
that it is indispensable to all political ambitions because it changes
all its members into electoral agents, I should say to you: 'That is as
clear as the sun.' But when you tell me that it serves to undermine the
monarchical spirit, I can only laugh in your face.

“Just consider that gigantic and secret democratic association which had
Prince Napoleon for its grand master under the Empire; which has the
Crown Prince for its grand master in Germany, the Czar's brother in
Russia, and to which the Prince of Wales and King Humbert, and nearly
all the crowned heads of the globe belong.”

“You are quite right,” my uncle said; “but all these persons are serving
our projects without guessing it.”

I felt inclined to tell him he was talking a pack of nonsense.

It was, however, indeed a sight to see my uncle when he had a Freemason
to dinner.

On meeting they shook hands in a manner that was irresistibly funny; one
could see that they were going through a series of secret, mysterious
signs.

Then my uncle would take his friend into a corner to tell him something
important, and at dinner they had a peculiar way of looking at each
other, and of drinking to each other, in a manner as if to say: “We know
all about it, don't we?”

And to think that there are millions on the face of the globe who are
amused at such monkey tricks! I would sooner be a Jesuit.

Now, in our town there really was an old Jesuit who was my uncle's
detestation. Every time he met him, or if he only saw him at a distance,
he used to say: “Get away, you toad.” And then, taking my arm, he would
whisper to me:

“See here, that fellow will play me a trick some day or other, I feel
sure of it.”

My uncle spoke quite truly, and this was how it happened, and through my
fault.

It was close on Holy Week, and my uncle made up his mind to give a
dinner on Good Friday, a real dinner, with his favorite chitterlings and
black puddings. I resisted as much as I could, and said:

“I shall eat meat on that day, but at home, quite by myself. Your
manifestation, as you call it, is an idiotic idea. Why should you
manifest? What does it matter to you if people do not eat any meat?”

But my uncle would not be persuaded. He asked three of his friends to
dine with him at one of the best restaurants in the town, and as he was
going to pay the bill I had certainly, after all, no scruples about
manifesting.

At four o'clock we took a conspicuous place in the most frequented
restaurant in the town, and my uncle ordered dinner in a loud voice for
six o'clock.

We sat down punctually, and at ten o'clock we had not yet finished. Five
of us had drunk eighteen bottles of choice, still wine and four of
champagne. Then my uncle proposed what he was in the habit of calling
“the archbishop's circuit.” Each man put six small glasses in front of
him, each of them filled with a different liqueur, and they had all to
be emptied at one gulp, one after another, while one of the waiters
counted twenty. It was very stupid, but my uncle thought it was very
suitable to the occasion.

At eleven o'clock he was as drunk as a fly. So we had to take him home
in a cab and put him to bed, and one could easily foresee that his anti-
clerical demonstration would end in a terrible fit of indigestion.

As I was going back to my lodgings, being rather drunk myself, with a
cheerful drunkenness, a Machiavellian idea struck me which satisfied all
my sceptical instincts.

I arranged my necktie, put on a look of great distress, and went and,
rang loudly at the old Jesuit's door. As he was deaf he made me wait a
longish while, but at length appeared at his window in a cotton nightcap
and asked what I wanted.

I shouted out at the top of my voice:

“Make haste, reverend sir, and open the door; a poor, despairing, sick
man is in need of your spiritual ministrations.”

The good, kind man put on his trousers as quickly as he could, and came
down without his cassock. I told him in a breathless voice that my
uncle, the Freethinker, had been taken suddenly ill, and fearing it was
going to be something serious, he had been seized with a sudden dread of
death, and wished to see the priest and talk to him; to have his advice
and comfort, to make his peace with the Church, and to confess, so as to
be able to cross the dreaded threshold at peace with himself; and I
added in a mocking tone:

“At any rate, he wishes it, and if it does him no good it can do him no
harm.”

The old Jesuit, who was startled, delighted, and almost trembling, said
to me:

“Wait a moment, my son; I will come with you.” But I replied: “Pardon
me, reverend father, if I do not go with you; but my convictions will
not allow me to do so. I even refused to come and fetch you, so I beg
you not to say that you have seen me, but to declare that you had a
presentiment—a sort of revelation of his illness.”

The priest consented and went off quickly; knocked at my uncle's door,
and was soon let in; and I saw the black cassock disappear within that
stronghold of Free Thought.

I hid under a neighboring gateway to wait results. Had he been well, my
uncle would have half-murdered the Jesuit, but I knew that he would
scarcely be able to move an arm, and I asked myself gleefully what sort
of a scene would take place between these antagonists, what disputes,
what arguments, what a hubbub, and what would be the issue of the
situation, which my uncle's indignation would render still more tragic?

I laughed till my sides ached, and said half aloud: “Oh, what a joke,
what a joke!”

Meanwhile it was getting very cold, and I noticed that the Jesuit stayed
a long time, and I thought: “They are having an argument, I suppose.”

One, two, three hours passed, and still the reverend father did not come
out. What had happened? Had my uncle died in a fit when he saw him, or
had he killed the cassocked gentleman? Perhaps they had mutually
devoured each other? This last supposition appeared very unlikely, for I
fancied that my uncle was quite incapable of swallowing a grain more
nourishment at that moment.

At last the day broke.

I was very uneasy, and, not venturing to go into the house myself, went
to one of my friends who lived opposite. I woke him up, explained
matters to him, much to his amusement and astonishment, and took
possession of his window.

At nine o'clock he relieved me, and I got a little sleep. At two o'clock
I, in my turn, replaced him. We were utterly astonished.

At six o'clock the Jesuit left, with a very happy and satisfied look on
his face, and we saw him go away with a quiet step.

Then, timid and ashamed, I went and knocked at the door of my uncle's
house; and when the servant opened it I did not dare to ask her any
questions, but went upstairs without saying a word.

My uncle was lying, pale and exhausted, with weary, sorrowful eyes and
heavy arms, on his bed. A little religious picture was fastened to one
of the bed curtains with a pin.

“Why, uncle,” I said, “in bed still? Are you not well?”

He replied in a feeble voice:

“Oh, my dear boy, I have been very ill, nearly dead.”

“How was that, uncle?”

“I don't know; it was most surprising. But what is stranger still is
that the Jesuit priest who has just left—you know, that excellent man
whom I have made such fun of—had a divine revelation of my state, and
came to see me.”

I was seized with an almost uncontrollable desire to laugh, and with
difficulty said: “Oh, really!”

“Yes, he came. He heard a voice telling him to get up and come to me,
because I was going to die. I was a revelation.”

I pretended to sneeze, so as not to burst out laughing; I felt inclined
to roll on the ground with amusement.

In about a minute I managed to say indignantly:

“And you received him, uncle? You, a Freethinker, a Freemason? You did
not have him thrown out of doors?”

He seemed confused, and stammered:

“Listen a moment, it is so astonishing—so astonishing and providential!
He also spoke to me about my father; it seems he knew him formerly.”

“Your father, uncle? But that is no reason for receiving a Jesuit.”

“I know that, but I was very ill, and he looked after me most devotedly
all night long. He was perfect; no doubt he saved my life; those men all
know a little of medicine.”

“Oh! he looked after you all night? But you said just now that he had
only been gone a very short time.”

“That is quite true; I kept him to breakfast after all his kindness. He
had it at a table by my bedside while I drank a cup of tea.”

“And he ate meat?”

My uncle looked vexed, as if I had said something very uncalled for, and
then added:

“Don't joke, Gaston; such things are out of place at times. He has shown
me more devotion than many a relation would have done, and I expect to
have his convictions respected.”

This rather upset me, but I answered, nevertheless: “Very well, uncle;
and what did you do after breakfast?”

“We played a game of bezique, and then he repeated his breviary while I
read a little book which he happened to have in his pocket, and which
was not by any means badly written.”

“A religious book, uncle?”

“Yes, and no, or, rather—no. It is the history of their missions in
Central Africa, and is rather a book of travels and adventures. What
these men have done is very grand.”

I began to feel that matters were going badly, so I got up. “Well, good-
by, uncle,” I said, “I see you are going to give up Freemasonry for
religion; you are a renegade.”

He was still rather confused, and stammered:

“Well, but religion is a sort of Freemasonry.”

“When is your Jesuit coming back?” I asked.

“I don't—I don't know exactly; to-morrow, perhaps; but it is not
certain.”

I went out, altogether overwhelmed.

My joke turned out very badly for me! My uncle became thoroughly
converted, and if that had been all I should not have cared so much.
Clerical or Freemason, to me it is all the same; six of one and half a
dozen of the other; but the worst of it is that he has just made his
will—yes, made his will—and he has disinherited me in favor of that
rascally Jesuit!





THE BARONESS

“Come with me,” said my friend Boisrene, “you will see some very
interesting bric-a-brac and works of art there.”

He conducted me to the first floor of an elegant house in one of the big
streets of Paris. We were welcomed by a very pleasing man, with
excellent manners, who led us from room to room, showing us rare things,
the price of which he mentioned carelessly. Large sums, ten, twenty,
thirty, fifty thousand francs, dropped from his lips with such grace and
ease that one could not doubt that this gentleman-merchant had millions
shut up in his safe.

I had known him by reputation for a long time. Very bright, clever,
intelligent, he acted as intermediary in all sorts of transactions. He
kept in touch with all the richest art amateurs in Paris, and even of
Europe and America, knowing their tastes and preferences; he apprised
them by letter, or by wire if they lived in a distant city, as soon as
he knew of some work of art which might suit them.

Men of the best society had had recourse to him in times of difficulty,
either to find money for gambling, or to pay off a debt, or to sell a
picture, a family jewel, or a tapestry.

It was said that he never refused his services when he saw a chance of
gain.

Boisrene seemed very intimate with this strange merchant. They must have
worked together in many a deal. I observed the man with great interest.

He was tall, thin, bald, and very elegant. His soft, insinuating voice
had a peculiar, tempting charm which seemed to give the objects a
special value. When he held anything in his hands, he turned it round
and round, looking at it with such skill, refinement, and sympathy that
the object seemed immediately to be beautiful and transformed by his
look and touch. And its value increased in one's estimation, after the
object had passed from the showcase into his hands.

“And your Crucifix,” said Boisrene, “that beautiful Renaissance Crucifix
which you showed me last year?”

The man smiled and answered:

“It has been sold, and in a very peculiar manner. There is a real
Parisian story for you! Would you like to hear it?”

“With pleasure.”

“Do you know the Baroness Samoris?”

“Yes and no. I have seen her once, but I know what she is!”

“You know—everything?”

“Yes.”

“Would you mind telling me, so that I can see whether you are not
mistaken?”

“Certainly. Mme. Samoris is a woman of the world who has a daughter,
without anyone having known her husband. At any rate, she is received in
a certain tolerant, or blind society. She goes to church and devoutly
partakes of Communion, so that everyone may know it, and she never
compromises herself. She expects her daughter to marry well. Is that
correct?”

“Yes, but I will complete your information. She is a woman who makes
herself respected by her admirers in spite of everything. That is a rare
quality, for in this manner she can get what she wishes from a man. The
man whom she has chosen without his suspecting it courts her for a long
time, longs for her timidly, wins her with astonishment and possesses
her with consideration. He does not notice that he is paying, she is so
tactful; and she maintains her relations on such a footing of reserve
and dignity that he would slap the first man who dared doubt her in the
least. And all this in the best of faith.

“Several times I have been able to render little services to this woman.
She has no secrets from me.

“Toward the beginning of January she came to me in order to borrow
thirty thousand francs. Naturally, I did not lend them to her; but, as I
wished to oblige her, I told her to explain her situation to me
completely, so that I might see whether there was not something I could
do for her.

“She told me her troubles in such cautious language that she could not
have spoken more delicately of her child's first communion. I finally
managed to understand that times were hard, and that she was penniless.

“The commercial crisis, political unrest, rumors of war, had made money
scarce even in the hands of her clients. And then, of course, she was
very particular.

“She would associate only with a man in the best of society, who could
strengthen her reputation as well as help her financially. A reveller,
no matter how rich, would have compromised her forever, and would have
made the marriage of her daughter quite doubtful.

“She had to maintain her household expenses and continue to entertain,
in order not to lose the opportunity of finding, among her numerous
visitors, the discreet and distinguished friend for whom she was
waiting, and whom she would choose.

“I showed her that my thirty thousand francs would have but little
likelihood of returning to me; for, after spending them all, she would
have to find at least sixty thousand more, in a lump, to pay me back.

“She seemed very disheartened when she heard this. I did not know just
what to do, when an idea, a really fine idea, struck me.

“I had just bought this Renaissance Crucifix which I showed you, an
admirable piece of workmanship, one of the finest of its land that I
have ever seen.

“'My dear friend,' I said to her, 'I am going to send you that piece of
ivory. You will invent some ingenious, touching, poetic story, anything
that you wish, to explain your desire for parting with it. It is, of
course, a family heirloom left you by your father.

“'I myself will send you amateurs, or will bring them to you. The rest
concerns you. Before they come I will drop you a line about their
position, both social and financial. This Crucifix is worth fifty
thousand francs; but I will let it go for thirty thousand. The
difference will belong to you.'

“She considered the matter seriously for several minutes, and then
answered: 'Yes, it is, perhaps, a good idea. I thank you very-much.'

“The next day I sent her my Crucifix, and the same evening the Baron de
Saint-Hospital.

“For three months I sent her my best clients, from a business point of
view. But I heard nothing more from her.

“One day I received a visit from a foreigner who spoke very little
French. I decided to introduce him personally to the baroness, in order
to see how she was getting along.

“A footman in black livery received us and ushered us into a quiet
little parlor, furnished with taste, where we waited for several
minutes. She appeared, charming as usual, extended her hand to me and
invited us to be seated; and when I had explained the reason of my
visit, she rang.

“The footman appeared.

“'See if Mlle. Isabelle can let us go into her oratory.' The young girl
herself brought the answer. She was about fifteen years of age, modest
and good to look upon in the sweet freshness of her youth. She wished to
conduct us herself to her chapel.

“It was a kind of religious boudoir where a silver lamp was burning
before the Crucifix, my Crucifix, on a background of black velvet. The
setting was charming and very clever. The child crossed herself and then
said:

“'Look, gentlemen. Isn't it beautiful?'

“I took the object, examined it and declared it to be remarkable. The
foreigner also examined it, but he seemed much more interested in the
two women than in the crucifix.

“A delicate odor of incense, flowers and perfume pervaded the whole
house. One felt at home there. This really was a comfortable home, where
one would have liked to linger.

“When we had returned to the parlor I delicately broached the subject of
the price. Mme. Samoris, lowering her eyes, asked fifty thousand francs.

“Then she added: 'If you wish to see it again, monsieur, I very seldom
go out before three o'clock; and I can be found at home every day.'

“In the street the stranger asked me for some details about the
baroness, whom he had found charming. But I did not hear anything more
from either of them.

“Three months passed by.

“One morning, hardly two weeks ago, she came here at about lunch time,
and, placing a roll of bills in my hand, said: 'My dear, you are an
angel! Here are fifty thousand francs; I am buying your crucifix, and I
am paying twenty thousand francs more for it than the price agreed upon,
on condition that you always—always send your clients to me—for it is
still for sale.'”





MOTHER AND SON

A party of men were chatting in the smoking room after dinner. We were
talking of unexpected legacies, strange inheritances. Then M. le
Brument, who was sometimes called “the illustrious judge” and at other
times “the illustrious lawyer,” went and stood with his back to the
fire.

“I have,” said he, “to search for an heir who disappeared under
peculiarly distressing circumstances. It is one of those simple and
terrible dramas of ordinary life, a thing which possibly happens every
day, and which is nevertheless one of the most dreadful things I know.
Here are the facts:

“Nearly six months ago I was called to the bedside of a dying woman. She
said to me:

“'Monsieur, I want to intrust to you the most delicate, the most
difficult, and the most wearisome mission that can be conceived. Be good
enough to notice my will, which is there on the table. A sum of five
thousand francs is left to you as a fee if you do not succeed, and of a
hundred thousand francs if you do succeed. I want you to find my son
after my death.'

“She asked me to assist her to sit up in bed, in order that she might
talk with greater ease, for her voice, broken and gasping, was whistling
in her throat.

“It was a very wealthy establishment. The luxurious apartment, of an
elegant simplicity, was upholstered with materials as thick as walls,
with a soft inviting surface.

“The dying woman continued:

“'You are the first to hear my horrible story. I will try to have
strength enough to finish it. You must know all, in order that you, whom
I know to be a kind-hearted man as well as a man of the world, may have
a sincere desire to aid me with all your power.

“'Listen to me:

“'Before my marriage, I loved a young man, whose suit was rejected by my
family because he was not rich enough. Not long afterward, I married a
man of great wealth. I married him through ignorance, through obedience,
through indifference, as young girls do marry.

“'I had a child, a boy. My husband died in the course of a few years.

“'He whom I had loved had married, in his turn. When he saw that I was a
widow, he was crushed by grief at knowing he was not free. He came to
see me; he wept and sobbed so bitterly, that it was enough to break my
heart. He came to see me at first as a friend. Perhaps I ought not to
have received him. What could I do? I was alone, so sad, so solitary, so
hopeless! And I loved him still. What sufferings we women have sometimes
to endure!

“'I had only him in the world, my parents being dead. He came
frequently; he spent whole evenings with me. I should not have let him
come so often, seeing that he was married. But I had not enough will-
power to prevent him from coming.

“'How can I tell it?—he became my lover. How did this come about? Can I
explain it? Can any one explain such things? Do you think it could be
otherwise when two human beings are drawn to each other by the
irresistible force of mutual affection? Do you believe, monsieur, that
it is always in our power to resist, that we can keep up the struggle
forever, and refuse to yield to the prayers, the supplications, the
tears, the frenzied words, the appeals on bended knees, the transports
of passion, with which we are pursued by the man we adore, whom we want
to gratify even in his slightest wishes, whom we desire to crown with
every possible happiness, and whom, if we are to be guided by a worldly
code of honor, we must drive to despair? What strength would it not
require? What a renunciation of happiness? what self-denial? and even
what virtuous selfishness?

“'In short, monsieur, I was his mistress; and I was happy. I became—and
this was my greatest weakness and my greatest piece of cowardice-I
became his wife's friend.

“'We brought up my son together; we made a man of him, a thorough man,
intelligent, full of sense and resolution, of large and generous ideas.
The boy reached the age of seventeen.

“'He, the young man, was fond of my—my lover, almost as fond of him as I
was myself, for he had been equally cherished and cared for by both of
us. He used to call him his 'dear friend,' and respected him immensely,
having never received from him anything but wise counsels and an example
of integrity, honor, and probity. He looked upon him as an old loyal and
devoted comrade of his mother, as a sort of moral father, guardian,
protector—how am I to describe it?

“'Perhaps the reason why he never asked any questions was that he had
been accustomed from his earliest years to see this man in my house, at
my side, and at his side, always concerned about us both.

“'One evening the three of us were to dine together—this was my chief
amusement—and I waited for the two men, asking myself which of them
would be the first to arrive. The door opened; it was my old friend. I
went toward him, with outstretched arms; and he pressed my lips in a
long, delicious kiss.

“'All of a sudden, a slight sound, a faint rustling, that mysterious
sensation which indicates the presence of another person, made us start
and turn round abruptly. Jean, my son, stood there, livid, staring at
us.

“'There was a moment of atrocious confusion. I drew back, holding out my
hand toward my son as if in supplication; but I could not see him. He
had gone.

“'We remained facing each other—my lover and I—crushed, unable to utter
a word. I sank into an armchair, and I felt a desire, a vague, powerful
desire, to flee, to go out into the night, and to disappear forever.
Then convulsive sobs rose in my throat, and I wept, shaken with spasms,
my heart breaking, all my nerves writhing with the horrible sensation of
an irreparable misfortune, and with that dreadful sense of shame which,
in such moments as this, fills a mother's heart.

“'He looked at me in a terrified manner, not venturing to approach, to
speak to me, or to touch me, for fear of the boy's return. At last he
said:

“'I am going to follow him-to talk to him—to explain matters to him. In
short, I must see him and let him know——”

“'And he hurried away.

“'I waited—waited in a distracted frame of mind, trembling at the least
sound, starting with fear and with some unutterably strange and
intolerable emotion at every slight crackling of the fire in the grate.

“'I waited an hour, two hours, feeling my heart swell with a dread I had
never before experienced, such anguish that I would not wish the
greatest criminal to endure ten minutes of such misery. Where was my
son? What was he doing?

“'About midnight, a messenger brought me a note from my lover. I still
know its contents by heart:

“'Has your son returned? I did not find him. I am down here. I do not
want to go up at this hour.”

“'I wrote in pencil on the same slip of paper:

“'Jean has not returned. You must find him.”

“'And I remained all night in the armchair, waiting for him.

“'I felt as if I were going mad. I longed to run wildly about, to roll
on the ground. And yet I did not even stir, but kept waiting hour after
hour. What was going to happen? I tried to imagine, to guess. But I
could form no conception, in spite of my efforts, in spite of the
tortures of my soul!

“'And now I feared that they might meet. What would they do in that
case? What would my son do? My mind was torn with fearful doubts, with
terrible suppositions.

“'You can understand my feelings, can you not, monsieur? “'My
chambermaid, who knew nothing, who understood nothing, came into the
room every moment, believing, naturally, that I had lost my reason. I
sent her away with a word or a movement of the hand. She went for the
doctor, who found me in the throes of a nervous attack.

“'I was put to bed. I had brain fever.

“'When I regained consciousness, after a long illness, I saw beside my
bed my—lover—alone.

“'I exclaimed:

“'My son? Where is my son?

“'He made no reply. I stammered:

“'Dead-dead. Has he committed suicide?

“'No, no, I swear it. But we have not found him in spite of all my
efforts.

“'Then, becoming suddenly exasperated and even indignant—for women are
subject to such outbursts of unaccountable and unreasoning anger—I said:

“'I forbid you to come near me or to see me again unless you find him.
Go away!

“He did go away.

“'I have never seen one or the other of them since, monsieur, and thus I
have lived for the last twenty years.

“'Can you imagine what all this meant to me? Can you understand this
monstrous punishment, this slow, perpetual laceration of a mother's
heart, this abominable, endless waiting? Endless, did I say? No; it is
about to end, for I am dying. I am dying without ever again seeing
either of them—either one or the other!

“'He—the man I loved—has written to me every day for the last twenty
years; and I—I have never consented to see him, even for one second; for
I had a strange feeling that, if he were to come back here, my son would
make his appearance at the same moment. Oh! my son! my son! Is he dead?
Is he living? Where is he hiding? Over there, perhaps, beyond the great
ocean, in some country so far away that even its very name is unknown to
me! Does he ever think of me? Ah! if he only knew! How cruel one's
children are! Did he understand to what frightful suffering he condemned
me, into what depths of despair, into what tortures, he cast me while I
was still in the prime of life, leaving me to suffer until this moment,
when I am about to die—me, his mother, who loved him with all the
intensity of a mother's love? Oh! isn't it cruel, cruel?

“'You will tell him all this, monsieur—will you not? You will repeat to
him my last words:

“'My child, my dear, dear child, be less harsh toward poor women! Life
is already brutal and savage enough in its dealings with them. My dear
son, think of what the existence of your poor mother has been ever since
the day you left her. My dear child, forgive her, and love her, now that
she is dead, for she has had to endure the most frightful penance ever
inflicted on a woman.”

“She gasped for breath, trembling, as if she had addressed the last
words to her son and as if he stood by her bedside.

“Then she added:

“'You will tell him also, monsieur, that I never again saw-the other.'

“Once more she ceased speaking, then, in a broken voice, she said:

“'Leave me now, I beg of you. I want to die all alone, since they are
not with me.'”

Maitre Le Brument added:

“And I left the house, monsieurs, crying like a fool, so bitterly,
indeed, that my coachman turned round to stare at me.

“And to think that, every day, dramas like this are being enacted all
around us!

“I have not found the son—that son—well, say what you like about him,
but I call him that criminal son!”





THE HAND

All were crowding around M. Bermutier, the judge, who was giving his
opinion about the Saint-Cloud mystery. For a month this in explicable
crime had been the talk of Paris. Nobody could make head or tail of it.

M. Bermutier, standing with his back to the fireplace, was talking,
citing the evidence, discussing the various theories, but arriving at no
conclusion.

Some women had risen, in order to get nearer to him, and were standing
with their eyes fastened on the clean-shaven face of the judge, who was
saying such weighty things. They, were shaking and trembling, moved by
fear and curiosity, and by the eager and insatiable desire for the
horrible, which haunts the soul of every woman. One of them, paler than
the others, said during a pause:

“It's terrible. It verges on the supernatural. The truth will never be
known.”

The judge turned to her:

“True, madame, it is likely that the actual facts will never be
discovered. As for the word 'supernatural' which you have just used, it
has nothing to do with the matter. We are in the presence of a very
cleverly conceived and executed crime, so well enshrouded in mystery
that we cannot disentangle it from the involved circumstances which
surround it. But once I had to take charge of an affair in which the
uncanny seemed to play a part. In fact, the case became so confused that
it had to be given up.”

Several women exclaimed at once:

“Oh! Tell us about it!”

M. Bermutier smiled in a dignified manner, as a judge should, and went
on:

“Do not think, however, that I, for one minute, ascribed anything in the
case to supernatural influences. I believe only in normal causes. But
if, instead of using the word 'supernatural' to express what we do not
understand, we were simply to make use of the word 'inexplicable,' it
would be much better. At any rate, in the affair of which I am about to
tell you, it is especially the surrounding, preliminary circumstances
which impressed me. Here are the facts:

“I was, at that time, a judge at Ajaccio, a little white city on the
edge of a bay which is surrounded by high mountains.

“The majority of the cases which came up before me concerned vendettas.
There are some that are superb, dramatic, ferocious, heroic. We find
there the most beautiful causes for revenge of which one could dream,
enmities hundreds of years old, quieted for a time but never
extinguished; abominable stratagems, murders becoming massacres and
almost deeds of glory. For two years I heard of nothing but the price of
blood, of this terrible Corsican prejudice which compels revenge for
insults meted out to the offending person and all his descendants and
relatives. I had seen old men, children, cousins murdered; my head was
full of these stories.

“One day I learned that an Englishman had just hired a little villa at
the end of the bay for several years. He had brought with him a French
servant, whom he had engaged on the way at Marseilles.

“Soon this peculiar person, living alone, only going out to hunt and
fish, aroused a widespread interest. He never spoke to any one, never
went to the town, and every morning he would practice for an hour or so
with his revolver and rifle.

“Legends were built up around him. It was said that he was some high
personage, fleeing from his fatherland for political reasons; then it
was affirmed that he was in hiding after having committed some
abominable crime. Some particularly horrible circumstances were even
mentioned.

“In my judicial position I thought it necessary to get some information
about this man, but it was impossible to learn anything. He called
himself Sir John Rowell.

“I therefore had to be satisfied with watching him as closely as I
could, but I could see nothing suspicious about his actions.

“However, as rumors about him were growing and becoming more widespread,
I decided to try to see this stranger myself, and I began to hunt
regularly in the neighborhood of his grounds.

“For a long time I watched without finding an opportunity. At last it
came to me in the shape of a partridge which I shot and killed right in
front of the Englishman. My dog fetched it for me, but, taking the bird,
I went at once to Sir John Rowell and, begging his pardon, asked him to
accept it.

“He was a big man, with red hair and beard, very tall, very broad, a
kind of calm and polite Hercules. He had nothing of the so-called
British stiffness, and in a broad English accent he thanked me warmly
for my attention. At the end of a month we had had five or six
conversations.

“One night, at last, as I was passing before his door, I saw him in the
garden, seated astride a chair, smoking his pipe. I bowed and he invited
me to come in and have a glass of beer. I needed no urging.

“He received me with the most punctilious English courtesy, sang the
praises of France and of Corsica, and declared that he was quite in love
with this country.

“Then, with great caution and under the guise of a vivid interest, I
asked him a few questions about his life and his plans. He answered
without embarrassment, telling me that he had travelled a great deal in
Africa, in the Indies, in America. He added, laughing:

“'I have had many adventures.'

“Then I turned the conversation on hunting, and he gave me the most
curious details on hunting the hippopotamus, the tiger, the elephant and
even the gorilla.

“I said:

“'Are all these animals dangerous?'

“He smiled:

“'Oh, no! Man is the worst.'

“And he laughed a good broad laugh, the wholesome laugh of a contented
Englishman.

“'I have also frequently been man-hunting.'

“Then he began to talk about weapons, and he invited me to come in and
see different makes of guns.

“His parlor was draped in black, black silk embroidered in gold. Big
yellow flowers, as brilliant as fire, were worked on the dark material.

“He said:

“'It is a Japanese material.'

“But in the middle of the widest panel a strange thing attracted my
attention. A black object stood out against a square of red velvet. I
went up to it; it was a hand, a human hand. Not the clean white hand of
a skeleton, but a dried black hand, with yellow nails, the muscles
exposed and traces of old blood on the bones, which were cut off as
clean as though it had been chopped off with an axe, near the middle of
the forearm.

“Around the wrist, an enormous iron chain, riveted and soldered to this
unclean member, fastened it to the wall by a ring, strong enough to hold
an elephant in leash.

“I asked:

“'What is that?'

“The Englishman answered quietly:

“'That is my best enemy. It comes from America, too. The bones were
severed by a sword and the skin cut off with a sharp stone and dried in
the sun for a week.'

“I touched these human remains, which must have belonged to a giant. The
uncommonly long fingers were attached by enormous tendons which still
had pieces of skin hanging to them in places. This hand was terrible to
see; it made one think of some savage vengeance.

“I said:

“'This man must have been very strong.'

“The Englishman answered quietly:

“'Yes, but I was stronger than he. I put on this chain to hold him.'

“I thought that he was joking. I said:

“'This chain is useless now, the hand won't run away.'

“Sir John Rowell answered seriously:

“'It always wants to go away. This chain is needed.'

“I glanced at him quickly, questioning his face, and I asked myself:

“'Is he an insane man or a practical joker?'

“But his face remained inscrutable, calm and friendly. I turned to other
subjects, and admired his rifles.

“However, I noticed that he kept three loaded revolvers in the room, as
though constantly in fear of some attack.

“I paid him several calls. Then I did not go any more. People had become
used to his presence; everybody had lost interest in him.

“A whole year rolled by. One morning, toward the end of November, my
servant awoke me and announced that Sir John Rowell had been murdered
during the night.

“Half an hour later I entered the Englishman's house, together with the
police commissioner and the captain of the gendarmes. The servant,
bewildered and in despair, was crying before the door. At first I
suspected this man, but he was innocent.

“The guilty party could never be found.

“On entering Sir John's parlor, I noticed the body, stretched out on its
back, in the middle of the room.

“His vest was torn, the sleeve of his jacket had been pulled off,
everything pointed to, a violent struggle.

“The Englishman had been strangled! His face was black, swollen and
frightful, and seemed to express a terrible fear. He held something
between his teeth, and his neck, pierced by five or six holes which
looked as though they had been made by some iron instrument, was covered
with blood.

“A physician joined us. He examined the finger marks on the neck for a
long time and then made this strange announcement:

“'It looks as though he had been strangled by a skeleton.'

“A cold chill seemed to run down my back, and I looked over to where I
had formerly seen the terrible hand. It was no longer there. The chain
was hanging down, broken.

“I bent over the dead man and, in his contracted mouth, I found one of
the fingers of this vanished hand, cut—or rather sawed off by the teeth
down to the second knuckle.

“Then the investigation began. Nothing could be discovered. No door,
window or piece of furniture had been forced. The two watch dogs had not
been aroused from their sleep.

“Here, in a few words, is the testimony of the servant:

“For a month his master had seemed excited. He had received many
letters, which he would immediately burn.

“Often, in a fit of passion which approached madness, he had taken a
switch and struck wildly at this dried hand riveted to the wall, and
which had disappeared, no one knows how, at the very hour of the crime.

“He would go to bed very late and carefully lock himself in. He always
kept weapons within reach. Often at night he would talk loudly, as
though he were quarrelling with some one.

“That night, somehow, he had made no noise, and it was only on going to
open the windows that the servant had found Sir John murdered. He
suspected no one.

“I communicated what I knew of the dead man to the judges and public
officials. Throughout the whole island a minute investigation was
carried on. Nothing could be found out.

“One night, about three months after the crime, I had a terrible
nightmare. I seemed to see the horrible hand running over my curtains
and walls like an immense scorpion or spider. Three times I awoke, three
times I went to sleep again; three times I saw the hideous object
galloping round my room and moving its fingers like legs.

“The following day the hand was brought me, found in the cemetery, on
the grave of Sir John Rowell, who had been buried there because we had
been unable to find his family. The first finger was missing.

“Ladies, there is my story. I know nothing more.”

The women, deeply stirred, were pale and trembling. One of them
exclaimed:

“But that is neither a climax nor an explanation! We will be unable to
sleep unless you give us your opinion of what had occurred.”

The judge smiled severely:

“Oh! Ladies, I shall certainly spoil your terrible dreams. I simply
believe that the legitimate owner of the hand was not dead, that he came
to get it with his remaining one. But I don't know how. It was a kind of
vendetta.”

One of the women murmured:

“No, it can't be that.”

And the judge, still smiling, said:

“Didn't I tell you that my explanation would not satisfy you?”





A TRESS OF HAIR

The walls of the cell were bare and white washed. A narrow grated
window, placed so high that one could not reach it, lighted this
sinister little room. The mad inmate, seated on a straw chair, looked at
us with a fixed, vacant and haunted expression. He was very thin, with
hollow cheeks and hair almost white, which one guessed might have turned
gray in a few months. His clothes appeared to be too large for his
shrunken limbs, his sunken chest and empty paunch. One felt that this
man's mind was destroyed, eaten by his thoughts, by one thought, just as
a fruit is eaten by a worm. His craze, his idea was there in his brain,
insistent, harassing, destructive. It wasted his frame little by little.
It—the invisible, impalpable, intangible, immaterial idea—was mining his
health, drinking his blood, snuffing out his life.

What a mystery was this man, being killed by an ideal! He aroused
sorrow, fear and pity, this madman. What strange, tremendous and deadly
thoughts dwelt within this forehead which they creased with deep
wrinkles which were never still?

“He has terrible attacks of rage,” said the doctor to me. “His is one of
the most peculiar cases I have ever seen. He has seizures of erotic and
macaberesque madness. He is a sort of necrophile. He has kept a journal
in which he sets forth his disease with the utmost clearness. In it you
can, as it were, put your finger on it. If it would interest you, you
may go over this document.”

I followed the doctor into his office, where he handed me this wretched
man's diary, saying: “Read it and tell me what you think of it.” I read
as follows:

“Until the age of thirty-two I lived peacefully, without knowing love.
Life appeared very simple, very pleasant and very easy. I was rich. I
enjoyed so many things that I had no passion for anything in particular.
It was good to be alive! I awoke happy every morning and did those
things that pleased me during the day and went to bed at night
contented, in the expectation of a peaceful tomorrow and a future
without anxiety.

“I had had a few flirtations without my heart being touched by any true
passion or wounded by any of the sensations of true love. It is good to
live like that. It is better to love, but it is terrible. And yet those
who love in the ordinary way must experience ardent happiness, though
less than mine possibly, for love came to me in a remarkable manner.

“As I was wealthy, I bought all kinds of old furniture and old
curiosities, and I often thought of the unknown hands that had touched
these objects, of the eyes that had admired them, of the hearts that had
loved them; for one does love things! I sometimes remained hours and
hours looking at a little watch of the last century. It was so tiny, so
pretty with its enamel and gold chasing. And it kept time as on the day
when a woman first bought it, enraptured at owning this dainty trinket.
It had not ceased to vibrate, to live its mechanical life, and it had
kept up its regular tick-tock since the last century. Who had first worn
it on her bosom amid the warmth of her clothing, the heart of the watch
beating beside the heart of the woman? What hand had held it in its warm
fingers, had turned it over and then wiped the enamelled shepherds on
the case to remove the slight moisture from her fingers? What eyes had
watched the hands on its ornamental face for the expected, the beloved,
the sacred hour?

“How I wished I had known her, seen her, the woman who had selected this
exquisite and rare object! She is dead! I am possessed with a longing
for women of former days. I love, from afar, all those who have loved.
The story of those dead and gone loves fills my heart with regrets. Oh,
the beauty, the smiles, the youthful caresses, the hopes! Should not all
that be eternal?

“How I have wept whole nights-thinking of those poor women of former
days, so beautiful, so loving, so sweet, whose arms were extended in an
embrace, and who now are dead! A kiss is immortal! It goes from lips to
lips, from century to century, from age to age. Men receive them, give
them and die.

“The past attracts me, the present terrifies me because the future means
death. I regret all that has gone by. I mourn all who have lived; I
should like to check time, to stop the clock. But time goes, it goes, it
passes, it takes from me each second a little of myself for the
annihilation of to-morrow. And I shall never live again.

“Farewell, ye women of yesterday. I love you!

“But I am not to be pitied. I found her, the one I was waiting for, and
through her I enjoyed inestimable pleasure.

“I was sauntering in Paris on a bright, sunny morning, with a happy
heart and a high step, looking in at the shop windows with the vague
interest of an idler. All at once I noticed in the shop of a dealer in
antiques a piece of Italian furniture of the seventeenth century. It was
very handsome, very rare. I set it down as being the work of a Venetian
artist named Vitelli, who was celebrated in his day.

“I went on my way.

“Why did the remembrance of that piece of furniture haunt me with such
insistence that I retraced my steps? I again stopped before the shop, in
order to take another look at it, and I felt that it tempted me.

“What a singular thing temptation is! One gazes at an object, and,
little by little, it charms you, it disturbs you, it fills your thoughts
as a woman's face might do. The enchantment of it penetrates your being,
a strange enchantment of form, color and appearance of an inanimate
object. And one loves it, one desires it, one wishes to have it. A
longing to own it takes possession of you, gently at first, as though it
were timid, but growing, becoming intense, irresistible.

“And the dealers seem to guess, from your ardent gaze, your secret and
increasing longing.

“I bought this piece of furniture and had it sent home at once. I placed
it in my room.

“Oh, I am sorry for those who do not know the honeymoon of the collector
with the antique he has just purchased. One looks at it tenderly and
passes one's hand over it as if it were human flesh; one comes back to
it every moment, one is always thinking of it, wherever one goes,
whatever one does. The dear recollection of it pursues you in the
street, in society, everywhere; and when you return home at night,
before taking off your gloves or your hat; you go and look at it with
the tenderness of a lover.

“Truly, for eight days I worshipped this piece of furniture. I opened
its doors and pulled out the drawers every few moments. I handled it
with rapture, with all the intense joy of possession.

“But one evening I surmised, while I was feeling the thickness of one of
the panels, that there must be a secret drawer in it: My heart began to
beat, and I spent the night trying to discover this secret cavity.

“I succeeded on the following day by driving a knife into a slit in the
wood. A panel slid back and I saw, spread out on a piece of black
velvet, a magnificent tress of hair.

“Yes, a woman's hair, an immense coil of fair hair, almost red, which
must have been cut off close to the head, tied with a golden cord.

“I stood amazed, trembling, confused. An almost imperceptible perfume,
so ancient that it seemed to be the spirit of a perfume, issued from
this mysterious drawer and this remarkable relic.

“I lifted it gently, almost reverently, and took it out of its hiding
place. It at once unwound in a golden shower that reached to the floor,
dense but light; soft and gleaming like the tail of a comet.

“A strange emotion filled me. What was this? When, how, why had this
hair been shut up in this drawer? What adventure, what tragedy did this
souvenir conceal? Who had cut it off? A lover on a day of farewell, a
husband on a day of revenge, or the one whose head it had graced on the
day of despair?

“Was it as she was about to take the veil that they had cast thither
that love dowry as a pledge to the world of the living? Was it when they
were going to nail down the coffin of the beautiful young corpse that
the one who had adored her had cut off her tresses, the only thing that
he could retain of her, the only living part of her body that would not
suffer decay, the only thing he could still love, and caress, and kiss
in his paroxysms of grief?

“Was it not strange that this tress should have remained as it was in
life, when not an atom of the body on which it grew was in existence?

“It fell over my fingers, tickled the skin with a singular caress, the
caress of a dead woman. It affected me so that I felt as though I should
weep.

“I held it in my hands for a long time, then it seemed as if it
disturbed me, as though something of the soul had remained in it. And I
put it back on the velvet, rusty from age, and pushed in the drawer,
closed the doors of the antique cabinet and went out for a walk to
meditate.

“I walked along, filled with sadness and also with unrest, that unrest
that one feels when in love. I felt as though I must have lived before,
as though I must have known this woman.

“And Villon's lines came to my mind like a sob:

Tell me where, and in what place Is Flora, the beautiful Roman,
Hipparchia and Thais Who was her cousin-german?

Echo answers in the breeze O'er river and lake that blows, Their beauty
was above all praise, But where are last year's snows?

The queen, white as lilies, Who sang as sing the birds, Bertha
Broadfoot, Beatrice, Alice, Ermengarde, princess of Maine, And Joan, the
good Lorraine, Burned by the English at Rouen, Where are they, Virgin
Queen? And where are last year's snows?

“When I got home again I felt an irresistible longing to see my singular
treasure, and I took it out and, as I touched it, I felt a shiver go all
through me.

“For some days, however, I was in my ordinary condition, although the
thought of that tress of hair was always present to my mind.

“Whenever I came into the house I had to see it and take it in my,
hands. I turned the key of the cabinet with the same hesitation that one
opens the door leading to one's beloved, for in my hands and my heart I
felt a confused, singular, constant sensual longing to plunge my hands
in the enchanting golden flood of those dead tresses.

“Then, after I had finished caressing it and had locked the cabinet I
felt as if it were a living thing, shut up in there, imprisoned; and I
longed to see it again. I felt again the imperious desire to take it in
my hands, to touch it, to even feel uncomfortable at the cold, slippery,
irritating, bewildering contact.

“I lived thus for a month or two, I forget how long. It obsessed me,
haunted me. I was happy and tormented by turns, as when one falls in
love, and after the first vows have been exchanged.

“I shut myself in the room with it to feel it on my skin, to bury my
lips in it, to kiss it. I wound it round my face, covered my eyes with
the golden flood so as to see the day gleam through its gold.

“I loved it! Yes, I loved it. I could not be without it nor pass an hour
without looking at it.

“And I waited—I waited—for what? I do not know—For her!

“One night I woke up suddenly, feeling as though I were not alone in my
room.

“I was alone, nevertheless, but I could not go to sleep again, and, as I
was tossing about feverishly, I got up to look at the golden tress. It
seemed softer than usual, more life-like. Do the dead come back? I
almost lost consciousness as I kissed it. I took it back with me to bed
and pressed it to my lips as if it were my sweetheart.

“Do the dead come back? She came back. Yes, I saw her; I held her in my
arms, just as she was in life, tall, fair and round. She came back every
evening—the dead woman, the beautiful, adorable, mysterious unknown.

“My happiness was so great that I could not conceal it. No lover ever
tasted such intense, terrible enjoyment. I loved her so well that I
could not be separated from her. I took her with me always and
everywhere. I walked about the town with her as if she were my wife, and
took her to the theatre, always to a private box. But they saw her—they
guessed—they arrested me. They put me in prison like a criminal. They
took her. Oh, misery!”

Here the manuscript stopped. And as I suddenly raised my astonished eyes
to the doctor a terrific cry, a howl of impotent rage and of exasperated
longing resounded through the asylum.

“Listen,” said the doctor. “We have to douse the obscene madman with
water five times a day. Sergeant Bertrand was the only one who was in
love with the dead.”

Filled with astonishment, horror and pity, I stammered out:

“But—that tress—did it really exist?”

The doctor rose, opened a cabinet full of phials and instruments and
tossed over a long tress of fair hair which flew toward me like a golden
bird.

I shivered at feeling its soft, light touch on my hands. And I sat
there, my heart beating with disgust and desire, disgust as at the
contact of anything accessory to a crime and desire as at the temptation
of some infamous and mysterious thing.

The doctor said as he shrugged his shoulders:

“The mind of man is capable of anything.”





ON THE RIVER

I rented a little country house last summer on the banks of the Seine,
several leagues from Paris, and went out there to sleep every evening.
After a few days I made the acquaintance of one of my neighbors, a man
between thirty and forty, who certainly was the most curious specimen I
ever met. He was an old boating man, and crazy about boating. He was
always beside the water, on the water, or in the water. He must have
been born in a boat, and he will certainly die in a boat at the last.

One evening as we were walking along the banks of the Seine I asked him
to tell me some stories about his life on the water. The good man at
once became animated, his whole expression changed, he became eloquent,
almost poetical. There was in his heart one great passion, an absorbing,
irresistible passion-the river.

Ah, he said to me, how many memories I have, connected with that river
that you see flowing beside us! You people who live in streets know
nothing about the river. But listen to a fisherman as he mentions the
word. To him it is a mysterious thing, profound, unknown, a land of
mirages and phantasmagoria, where one sees by night things that do not
exist, hears sounds that one does not recognize, trembles without
knowing why, as in passing through a cemetery—and it is, in fact, the
most sinister of cemeteries, one in which one has no tomb.

The land seems limited to the river boatman, and on dark nights, when
there is no moon, the river seems limitless. A sailor has not the same
feeling for the sea. It is often remorseless and cruel, it is true; but
it shrieks, it roars, it is honest, the great sea; while the river is
silent and perfidious. It does not speak, it flows along without a
sound; and this eternal motion of flowing water is more terrible to me
than the high waves of the ocean.

Dreamers maintain that the sea hides in its bosom vast tracts of blue
where those who are drowned roam among the big fishes, amid strange
forests and crystal grottoes. The river has only black depths where one
rots in the slime. It is beautiful, however, when it sparkles in the
light of the rising sun and gently laps its banks covered with
whispering reeds.

The poet says, speaking of the ocean,

“O waves, what mournful tragedies ye know —Deep waves, the dread of
kneeling mothers' hearts! Ye tell them to each other as ye roll On
flowing tide, and this it is that gives The sad despairing tones unto
your voice As on ye roll at eve by mounting tide.”


Well, I think that the stories whispered by the slender reeds, with
their little soft voices, must be more sinister than the lugubrious
tragedies told by the roaring of the waves.

But as you have asked for some of my recollections, I will tell you of a
singular adventure that happened to me ten years ago.

I was living, as I am now, in Mother Lafon's house, and one of my
closest friends, Louis Bernet who has now given up boating, his low
shoes and his bare neck, to go into the Supreme Court, was living in the
village of C., two leagues further down the river. We dined together
every day, sometimes at his house, sometimes at mine.

One evening as I was coming home along and was pretty tired, rowing with
difficulty my big boat, a twelve-footer, which I always took out at
night, I stopped a few moments to draw breath near the reed-covered
point yonder, about two hundred metres from the railway bridge.

It was a magnificent night, the moon shone brightly, the river gleamed,
the air was calm and soft. This peacefulness tempted me. I thought to
myself that it would be pleasant to smoke a pipe in this spot. I took up
my anchor and cast it into the river.

The boat floated downstream with the current, to the end of the chain,
and then stopped, and I seated myself in the stern on my sheepskin and
made myself as comfortable as possible. There was not a sound to be
heard, except that I occasionally thought I could perceive an almost
imperceptible lapping of the water against the bank, and I noticed
taller groups of reeds which assumed strange shapes and seemed, at
times, to move.

The river was perfectly calm, but I felt myself affected by the unusual
silence that surrounded me. All the creatures, frogs and toads, those
nocturnal singers of the marsh, were silent.

Suddenly a frog croaked to my right, and close beside me. I shuddered.
It ceased, and I heard nothing more, and resolved to smoke, to soothe my
mind. But, although I was a noted colorer of pipes, I could not smoke;
at the second draw I was nauseated, and gave up trying. I began to sing.
The sound of my voice was distressing to me. So I lay still, but
presently the slight motion of the boat disturbed me. It seemed to me as
if she were making huge lurches, from bank to bank of the river,
touching each bank alternately. Then I felt as though an invisible
force, or being, were drawing her to the surface of the water and
lifting her out, to let her fall again. I was tossed about as in a
tempest. I heard noises around me. I sprang to my feet with a single
bound. The water was glistening, all was calm.

I saw that my nerves were somewhat shaky, and I resolved to leave the
spot. I pulled the anchor chain, the boat began to move; then I felt a
resistance. I pulled harder, the anchor did not come up; it had caught
on something at the bottom of the river and I could not raise it. I
began pulling again, but all in vain. Then, with my oars, I turned the
boat with its head up stream to change the position of the anchor. It
was no use, it was still caught. I flew into a rage and shook the chain
furiously. Nothing budged. I sat down, disheartened, and began to
reflect on my situation. I could not dream of breaking this chain, or
detaching it from the boat, for it was massive and was riveted at the
bows to a piece of wood as thick as my arm. However, as the weather was
so fine I thought that it probably would not be long before some
fisherman came to my aid. My ill-luck had quieted me. I sat down and was
able, at length, to smoke my pipe. I had a bottle of rum; I drank two or
three glasses, and was able to laugh at the situation. It was very warm;
so that, if need be, I could sleep out under the stars without any great
harm.

All at once there was a little knock at the side of the boat. I gave a
start, and a cold sweat broke out all over me. The noise was, doubtless,
caused by some piece of wood borne along by the current, but that was
enough, and I again became a prey to a strange nervous agitation. I
seized the chain and tensed my muscles in a desperate effort. The anchor
held firm. I sat down again, exhausted.

The river had slowly become enveloped in a thick white fog which lay
close to the water, so that when I stood up I could see neither the
river, nor my feet, nor my boat; but could perceive only the tops of the
reeds, and farther off in the distance the plain, lying white in the
moonlight, with big black patches rising up from it towards the sky,
which were formed by groups of Italian poplars. I was as if buried to
the waist in a cloud of cotton of singular whiteness, and all sorts of
strange fancies came into my mind. I thought that someone was trying to
climb into my boat which I could no longer distinguish, and that the
river, hidden by the thick fog, was full of strange creatures which were
swimming all around me. I felt horribly uncomfortable, my forehead felt
as if it had a tight band round it, my heart beat so that it almost
suffocated me, and, almost beside myself, I thought of swimming away
from the place. But then, again, the very idea made me tremble with
fear. I saw myself, lost, going by guesswork in this heavy fog,
struggling about amid the grasses and reeds which I could not escape, my
breath rattling with fear, neither seeing the bank, nor finding my boat;
and it seemed as if I would feel myself dragged down by the feet to the
bottom of these black waters.

In fact, as I should have had to ascend the stream at least five hundred
metres before finding a spot free from grasses and rushes where I could
land, there were nine chances to one that I could not find my way in the
fog and that I should drown, no matter how well I could swim.

I tried to reason with myself. My will made me resolve not to be afraid,
but there was something in me besides my will, and that other thing was
afraid. I asked myself what there was to be afraid of. My brave “ego”
ridiculed my coward “ego,” and never did I realize, as on that day, the
existence in us of two rival personalities, one desiring a thing, the
other resisting, and each winning the day in turn.

This stupid, inexplicable fear increased, and became terror. I remained
motionless, my eyes staring, my ears on the stretch with expectation. Of
what? I did not know, but it must be something terrible. I believe if it
had occurred to a fish to jump out of the water, as often happens,
nothing more would have been required to make me fall over, stiff and
unconscious.

However, by a violent effort I succeeded in becoming almost rational
again. I took up my bottle of rum and took several pulls. Then an idea
came to me, and I began to shout with all my might towards all the
points of the compass in succession. When my throat was absolutely
paralyzed I listened. A dog was howling, at a great distance.

I drank some more rum and stretched myself out at the bottom of the
boat. I remained there about an hour, perhaps two, not sleeping, my eyes
wide open, with nightmares all about me. I did not dare to rise, and yet
I intensely longed to do so. I delayed it from moment to moment. I said
to myself: “Come, get up!” and I was afraid to move. At last I raised
myself with infinite caution as though my life depended on the slightest
sound that I might make; and looked over the edge of the boat. I was
dazzled by the most marvellous, the most astonishing sight that it is
possible to see. It was one of those phantasmagoria of fairyland, one of
those sights described by travellers on their return from distant lands,
whom we listen to without believing.

The fog which, two hours before, had floated on the water, had gradually
cleared off and massed on the banks, leaving the river absolutely clear;
while it formed on either bank an uninterrupted wall six or seven metres
high, which shone in the moonlight with the dazzling brilliance of snow.
One saw nothing but the river gleaming with light between these two
white mountains; and high above my head sailed the great full moon, in
the midst of a bluish, milky sky.

All the creatures in the water were awake. The frogs croaked furiously,
while every few moments I heard, first to the right and then to the
left, the abrupt, monotonous and mournful metallic note of the
bullfrogs. Strange to say, I was no longer afraid. I was in the midst of
such an unusual landscape that the most remarkable things would not have
astonished me.

How long this lasted I do not know, for I ended by falling asleep. When
I opened my eyes the moon had gone down and the sky was full of clouds.
The water lapped mournfully, the wind was blowing, it was pitch dark. I
drank the rest of the rum, then listened, while I trembled, to the
rustling of the reeds and the foreboding sound of the river. I tried to
see, but could not distinguish my boat, nor even my hands, which I held
up close to my eyes.

Little by little, however, the blackness became less intense. All at
once I thought I noticed a shadow gliding past, quite near me. I
shouted, a voice replied; it was a fisherman. I called him; he came near
and I told him of my ill-luck. He rowed his boat alongside of mine and,
together, we pulled at the anchor chain. The anchor did not move. Day
came, gloomy gray, rainy and cold, one of those days that bring one
sorrows and misfortunes. I saw another boat. We hailed it. The man on
board of her joined his efforts to ours, and gradually the anchor
yielded. It rose, but slowly, slowly, loaded down by a considerable
weight. At length we perceived a black mass and we drew it on board. It
was the corpse of an old women with a big stone round her neck.





THE CRIPPLE

The following adventure happened to me about 1882. I had just taken the
train and settled down in a corner, hoping that I should be left alone,
when the door suddenly opened again and I heard a voice say: “Take care,
monsieur, we are just at a crossing; the step is very high.”

Another voice answered: “That's all right, Laurent, I have a firm hold
on the handle.”

Then a head appeared, and two hands seized the leather straps hanging on
either side of the door and slowly pulled up an enormous body, whose
feet striking on the step, sounded like two canes. When the man had
hoisted his torso into the compartment I noticed, at the loose edge of
his trousers, the end of a wooden leg, which was soon followed by its
mate. A head appeared behind this traveller and asked; “Are you all
right, monsieur?”

“Yes, my boy.”

“Then here are your packages and crutches.”

And a servant, who looked like an old soldier, climbed in, carrying in
his arms a stack of bundles wrapped in black and yellow papers and
carefully tied; he placed one after the other in the net over his
master's head. Then he said: “There, monsieur, that is all. There are
five of them—the candy, the doll the drum, the gun, and the pate de
foies gras.”

“Very well, my boy.”

“Thank you, Laurent; good health!”

The man closed the door and walked away, and I looked at my neighbor. He
was about thirty-five, although his hair was almost white; he wore the
ribbon of the Legion of Honor; he had a heavy mustache and was quite
stout, with the stoutness of a strong and active man who is kept
motionless on account of some infirmity. He wiped his brow, sighed, and,
looking me full in the face, he asked: “Does smoking annoy you,
monsieur?”

“No, monsieur.”

Surely I knew that eye, that voice, that face. But when and where had I
seen them? I had certainly met that man, spoken to him, shaken his hand.
That was a long, long time ago. It was lost in the haze wherein the mind
seems to feel around blindly for memories and pursues them like fleeing
phantoms without being able to seize them. He, too, was observing me,
staring me out of countenance, with the persistence of a man who
remembers slightly but not completely. Our eyes, embarrassed by this
persistent contact, turned away; then, after a few minutes, drawn
together again by the obscure and tenacious will of working memory, they
met once more, and I said: “Monsieur, instead of staring at each other
for an hour or so, would it not be better to try to discover where we
have known each other?”

My neighbor answered graciously: “You are quite right, monsieur.”

I named myself: “I am Henri Bonclair, a magistrate.”

He hesitated for a few minutes; then, with the vague look and voice
which accompany great mental tension, he said: “Oh, I remember
perfectly. I met you twelve years ago, before the war, at the Poincels!”

“Yes, monsieur. Ah! Ah! You are Lieutenant Revaliere?”

“Yes. I was Captain Revaliere even up to the time when I lost my feet
—both of them together from one cannon ball.”

Now that we knew each other's identity we looked at each other again. I
remembered perfectly the handsome, slender youth who led the cotillons
with such frenzied agility and gracefulness that he had been nicknamed
“the fury.” Going back into the dim, distant past, I recalled a story
which I had heard and forgotten, one of those stories to which one
listens but forgets, and which leave but a faint impression upon the
memory.

There was something about love in it. Little by little the shadows
cleared up, and the face of a young girl appeared before my eyes. Then
her name struck me with the force of an explosion: Mademoiselle de
Mandel. I remembered everything now. It was indeed a love story, but
quite commonplace. The young girl loved this young man, and when I had
met them there was already talk of the approaching wedding. The youth
seemed to be very much in love, very happy.

I raised my eye to the net, where all the packages which had been
brought in by the servant were trembling from the motion of the train,
and the voice of the servant came back to me, as if he had just finished
speaking. He had said: “There, monsieur, that is all. There are five of
them: the candy, the doll, the drum, the gun, and the pate de foies
gras.”

Then, in a second, a whole romance unfolded itself in my head. It was
like all those which I had already read, where the young lady married
notwithstanding the catastrophe, whether physical or financial;
therefore, this officer who had been maimed in the war had returned,
after the campaign, to the young girl who had given him her promise, and
she had kept her word.

I considered that very beautiful, but simple, just as one, considers
simple all devotions and climaxes in books or in plays. It always seems,
when one reads or listens to these stories of magnanimity, that one
could sacrifice one's self with enthusiastic pleasure and overwhelming
joy. But the following day, when an unfortunate friend comes to borrow
some money, there is a strange revulsion of feeling.

But, suddenly, another supposition, less poetic and more realistic,
replaced the first one. Perhaps he had married before the war, before
this frightful accident, and she, in despair and resignation, had been
forced to receive, care for, cheer, and support this husband, who had
departed, a handsome man, and had returned without his feet, a frightful
wreck, forced into immobility, powerless anger, and fatal obesity.

Was he happy or in torture? I was seized with an irresistible desire to
know his story, or, at least, the principal points, which would permit
me to guess that which he could not or would not tell me. Still thinking
the matter over, I began talking to him. We had exchanged a few
commonplace words; and I raised my eyes to the net, and thought: “He
must have three children: the bonbons are for his wife, the doll for his
little girl, the drum and the gun for his sons, and this pate de foies
gras for himself.”

Suddenly I asked him: “Are you a father, monsieur?”

He answered: “No, monsieur.”

I suddenly felt confused, as if I had been guilty of some breach of
etiquette, and I continued: “I beg your pardon. I had thought that you
were when I heard your servant speaking about the toys. One listens and
draws conclusions unconsciously.”

He smiled and then murmured: “No, I am not even married. I am still at
the preliminary stage.”

I pretended suddenly to remember, and said:

“Oh! that's true! When I knew you, you were engaged to Mademoiselle de
Mandel, I believe.”

“Yes, monsieur, your memory is excellent.”

I grew very bold and added: “I also seem to remember hearing that
Mademoiselle de Mandel married Monsieur—Monsieur—”

He calmly mentioned the name: “Monsieur de Fleurel.”

“Yes, that's it! I remember it was on that occasion that I heard of your
wound.”

I looked him full in the face, and he blushed. His full face, which was
already red from the oversupply of blood, turned crimson. He answered
quickly, with a sudden ardor of a man who is pleading a cause which is
lost in his mind and in his heart, but which he does not wish to admit.

“It is wrong, monsieur, to couple my name with that of Madame de
Fleurel. When I returned from the war-without my feet, alas! I never
would have permitted her to become my wife. Was it possible? When one
marries, monsieur, it is not in order to parade one's generosity; it is
in order to live every day, every hour, every minute, every second
beside a man; and if this man is disfigured, as I am, it is a death
sentence to marry him! Oh, I understand, I admire all sacrifices and
devotions when they have a limit, but I do not admit that a woman should
give up her whole life, all joy, all her dreams, in order to satisfy the
admiration of the gallery. When I hear, on the floor of my room, the
tapping of my wooden legs and of my crutches, I grow angry enough to
strangle my servant. Do you think that I would permit a woman to do what
I myself am unable to tolerate? And, then, do you think that my stumps
are pretty?”

He was silent. What could I say? He certainly was right. Could I blame
her, hold her in contempt, even say that she was wrong? No. However, the
end which conformed to the rule, to the truth, did not satisfy my poetic
appetite. These heroic deeds demand a beautiful sacrifice, which seemed
to be lacking, and I felt a certain disappointment. I suddenly asked:
“Has Madame de Fleurel any children?”

“Yes, one girl and two boys. It is for them that I am bringing these
toys. She and her husband are very kind to me.”

The train was going up the incline to Saint-Germain. It passed through
the tunnels, entered the station, and stopped. I was about to offer my
arm to the wounded officer, in order to help him descend, when two hands
were stretched up to him through the open door.

“Hello! my dear Revaliere!”

“Ah! Hello, Fleurel!”

Standing behind the man, the woman, still beautiful, was smiling and
waving her hands to him. A little girl, standing beside her, was jumping
for joy, and two young boys were eagerly watching the drum and the gun,
which were passing from the car into their father's hands.

When the cripple was on the ground, all the children kissed him. Then
they set off, the little girl holding in her hand the small varnished
rung of a crutch, just as she might walk beside her big friend and hold
his thumb.





A STROLL

When Old Man Leras, bookkeeper for Messieurs Labuze and Company, left
the store, he stood for a minute bewildered at the glory of the setting
sun. He had worked all day in the yellow light of a small jet of gas,
far in the back of the store, on a narrow court, as deep as a well. The
little room where he had been spending his days for forty years was so
dark that even in the middle of summer one could hardly see without
gaslight from eleven until three.

It was always damp and cold, and from this hole on which his window
opened came the musty odor of a sewer.

For forty years Monsieur Leras had been arriving every morning in this
prison at eight o'clock, and he would remain there until seven at night,
bending over his books, writing with the industry of a good clerk.

He was now making three thousand francs a year, having started at
fifteen hundred. He had remained a bachelor, as his means did not allow
him the luxury of a wife, and as he had never enjoyed anything, he
desired nothing. From time to time, however, tired of this continuous
and monotonous work, he formed a platonic wish: “Gad! If I only had an
income of fifteen thousand francs, I would take life easy.”

He had never taken life easy, as he had never had anything but his
monthly salary. His life had been uneventful, without emotions, without
hopes. The faculty of dreaming with which every one is blessed had never
developed in the mediocrity of his ambitions.

When he was twenty-one he entered the employ of Messieurs Labuze and
Company. And he had never left them.

In 1856 he had lost his father and then his mother in 1859. Since then
the only incident in his life was when he moved, in 1868, because his
landlord had tried to raise his rent.

Every day his alarm clock, with a frightful noise of rattling chains,
made him spring out of bed at 6 o'clock precisely.

Twice, however, this piece of mechanism had been out of order—once in
1866 and again in 1874; he had never been able to find out the reason
why. He would dress, make his bed, sweep his room, dust his chair and
the top of his bureau. All this took him an hour and a half.

Then he would go out, buy a roll at the Lahure Bakery, in which he had
seen eleven different owners without the name ever changing, and he
would eat this roll on the way to the office.

His entire existence had been spent in the narrow, dark office, which
was still decorated with the same wall paper. He had entered there as a
young man, as assistant to Monsieur Brument, and with the desire to
replace him.

He had taken his place and wished for nothing more.

The whole harvest of memories which other men reap in their span of
years, the unexpected events, sweet or tragic loves, adventurous
journeys, all the occurrences of a free existence, all these things had
remained unknown to him.

Days, weeks, months, seasons, years, all were alike to him. He got up
every day at the same hour, started out, arrived at the office, ate
luncheon, went away, had dinner and went to bed without ever
interrupting the regular monotony of similar actions, deeds and
thoughts.

Formerly he used to look at his blond mustache and wavy hair in the
little round mirror left by his predecessor. Now, every evening before
leaving, he would look at his white mustache and bald head in the same
mirror. Forty years had rolled by, long and rapid, dreary as a day of
sadness and as similar as the hours of a sleepless night. Forty years of
which nothing remained, not even a memory, not even a misfortune, since
the death of his parents. Nothing.

That day Monsieur Leras stood by the door, dazzled at the brilliancy of
the setting sun; and instead of returning home he decided to take a
little stroll before dinner, a thing which happened to him four or five
times a year.

He reached the boulevards, where people were streaming along under the
green trees. It was a spring evening, one of those first warm and
pleasant evenings which fill the heart with the joy of life.

Monsieur Leras went along with his mincing old man's step; he was going
along with joy in his heart, at peace with the world. He reached the
Champs-Elysees, and he continued to walk, enlivened by the sight of the
young people trotting along.

The whole sky was aflame; the Arc de Triomphe stood out against the
brilliant background of the horizon, like a giant surrounded by fire. As
he approached the immense monument, the old bookkeeper noticed that he
was hungry, and he went into a wine dealer's for dinner.

The meal was served in front of the store, on the sidewalk. It consisted
of some mutton, salad and asparagus. It was the best dinner that
Monsieur Leras had had in a long time. He washed down his cheese with a
small bottle of burgundy, had his after-dinner cup of coffee, a thing
which he rarely took, and finally a little pony of brandy.

When he had paid he felt quite youthful, even a little moved. And he
said to himself: “What a fine evening! I will continue my stroll as far
as the entrance to the Bois de Boulogne. It will do me good.” He set
out. An old tune which one of his neighbors used to sing kept returning
to his mind. He kept on humming it over and over again. A hot, still
night had fallen over Paris. Monsieur Leras walked along the Avenue du
Bois de Boulogne and watched the cabs drive by. They kept coming with
their shining lights, one behind the other, giving him a glimpse of the
couples inside, the women in their light dresses and the men dressed in
black.

It was one long procession of lovers, riding under the warm, starlit
sky. They kept on coming in rapid succession. They passed by in the
carriages, silent, side by side, lost in their dreams, in the emotion of
desire, in the anticipation of the approaching embrace. The warm shadows
seemed to be full of floating kisses. A sensation of tenderness filled
the air. All these carriages full of tender couples, all these people
intoxicated with the same idea, with the same thought, seemed to give
out a disturbing, subtle emanation.

At last Monsieur Leras grew a little tired of walking, and he sat down
on a bench to watch these carriages pass by with their burdens of love.
Almost immediately a woman walked up to him and sat down beside him.
“Good-evening, papa,” she said.

He answered: “Madame, you are mistaken.”

She slipped her arm through his, saying: “Come along, now; don't be
foolish. Listen——”

He arose and walked away, with sadness in his heart. A few yards away
another woman walked up to him and asked: “Won't you sit down beside
me?” He said: “What makes you take up this life?”

She stood before him and in an altered, hoarse, angry voice exclaimed:

“Well, it isn't for the fun of it, anyhow!”

He insisted in a gentle voice: “Then what makes you?”

She grumbled: “I've got to live! Foolish question!” And she walked away,
humming.

Monsieur Leras stood there bewildered. Other women were passing near
him, speaking to him and calling to him. He felt as though he were
enveloped in darkness by something disagreeable.

He sat down again on a bench. The carriages were still rolling by. He
thought: “I should have done better not to come here; I feel all upset.”
He began to think of all this venal or passionate love, of all these
kisses, sold or given, which were passing by in front of him. Love! He
scarcely knew it. In his lifetime he had only known two or three women,
his means forcing him to live a quiet life, and he looked back at the
life which he had led, so different from everybody else, so dreary, so
mournful, so empty.

Some people are really unfortunate. And suddenly, as though a veil had
been torn from his eyes, he perceived the infinite misery, the monotony
of his existence: the past, present and future misery; his last day
similar to his first one, with nothing before him, behind him or about
him, nothing in his heart or any place.

The stream of carriages was still going by. In the rapid passage of the
open carriage he still saw the two silent, loving creatures. It seemed
to him that the whole of humanity was flowing on before him, intoxicated
with joy, pleasure and happiness. He alone was looking on. To-morrow he
would again be alone, always alone, more so than any one else. He stood
up, took a few steps, and suddenly he felt as tired as though he had
taken a long journey on foot, and he sat down on the next bench.

What was he waiting for? What was he hoping for? Nothing. He was
thinking of how pleasant it must be in old age to return home and find
the little children. It is pleasant to grow old when one is surrounded
by those beings who owe their life to you, who love you, who caress you,
who tell you charming and foolish little things which warm your heart
and console you for everything.

And, thinking of his empty room, clean and sad, where no one but himself
ever entered, a feeling of distress filled his soul; and the place
seemed to him more mournful even than his little office. Nobody ever
came there; no one ever spoke in it. It was dead, silent, without the
echo of a human voice. It seems as though walls retain something of the
people who live within them, something of their manner, face and voice.
The very houses inhabited by happy families are gayer than the dwellings
of the unhappy. His room was as barren of memories as his life. And the
thought of returning to this place, all alone, of getting into his bed,
of again repeating all the duties and actions of every evening, this
thought terrified him. As though to escape farther from this sinister
home, and from the time when he would have to return to it, he arose and
walked along a path to a wooded corner, where he sat down on the grass.

About him, above him, everywhere, he heard a continuous, tremendous,
confused rumble, composed of countless and different noises, a vague and
throbbing pulsation of life: the life breath of Paris, breathing like a
giant.

The sun was already high and shed a flood of light on the Bois de
Boulogne. A few carriages were beginning to drive about and people were
appearing on horseback.

A couple was walking through a deserted alley.

Suddenly the young woman raised her eyes and saw something brown in the
branches. Surprised and anxious, she raised her hand, exclaiming: “Look!
what is that?”

Then she shrieked and fell into the arms of her companion, who was
forced to lay her on the ground.

The policeman who had been called cut down an old man who had hung
himself with his suspenders.

Examination showed that he had died the evening before. Papers found on
him showed that he was a bookkeeper for Messieurs Labuze and Company and
that his name was Leras.

His death was attributed to suicide, the cause of which could not be
suspected. Perhaps a sudden access of madness!





ALEXANDRE

At four o'clock that day, as on every other day, Alexandre rolled the
three-wheeled chair for cripples up to the door of the little house;
then, in obedience to the doctor's orders, he would push his old and
infirm mistress about until six o'clock.

When he had placed the light vehicle against the step, just at the place
where the old lady could most easily enter it, he went into the house;
and soon a furious, hoarse old soldier's voice was heard cursing inside
the house: it issued from the master, the retired ex-captain of
infantry, Joseph Maramballe.

Then could be heard the noise of doors being slammed, chairs being
pushed about, and hasty footsteps; then nothing more. After a few
seconds, Alexandre reappeared on the threshold, supporting with all his
strength Madame Maramballe, who was exhausted from the exertion of
descending the stairs. When she was at last settled in the rolling
chair, Alexandre passed behind it, grasped the handle, and set out
toward the river.

Thus they crossed the little town every day amid the respectful
greeting, of all. These bows were perhaps meant as much for the servant
as for the mistress, for if she was loved and esteemed by all, this old
trooper, with his long, white, patriarchal beard, was considered a model
domestic.

The July sun was beating down unmercifully on the street, bathing the
low houses in its crude and burning light. Dogs were sleeping on the
sidewalk in the shade of the houses, and Alexandre, a little out of
breath, hastened his footsteps in order sooner to arrive at the avenue
which leads to the water.

Madame Maramballe was already slumbering under her white parasol, the
point of which sometimes grazed along the man's impassive face. As soon
as they had reached the Allee des Tilleuls, she awoke in the shade of
the trees, and she said in a kindly voice: “Go more slowly, my poor boy;
you will kill yourself in this heat.”

Along this path, completely covered by arched linden trees, the Mavettek
flowed in its winding bed bordered by willows.

The gurgling of the eddies and the splashing of the little waves against
the rocks lent to the walk the charming music of babbling water and the
freshness of damp air. Madame Maramballe inhaled with deep delight the
humid charm of this spot and then murmured: “Ah! I feel better now! But
he wasn't in a good humor to-day.”

Alexandre answered: “No, madame.”

For thirty-five years he had been in the service of this couple, first
as officer's orderly, then as simple valet who did not wish to leave his
masters; and for the last six years, every afternoon, he had been
wheeling his mistress about through the narrow streets of the town. From
this long and devoted service, and then from this daily tete-a-tete, a
kind of familiarity arose between the old lady and the devoted servant,
affectionate on her part, deferential on his.

They talked over the affairs of the house exactly as if they were
equals. Their principal subject of conversation and of worry was the bad
disposition of the captain, soured by a long career which had begun with
promise, run along without promotion, end ended without glory.

Madame Maramballe continued: “He certainly was not in a good humor
today. This happens too often since he has left the service.”

And Alexandre, with a sigh, completed his mistress's thoughts, “Oh,
madame might say that it happens every day and that it also happened
before leaving the army.”

“That is true. But the poor man has been so unfortunate. He began with a
brave deed, which obtained for him the Legion of Honor at the age of
twenty; and then from twenty to fifty he was not able to rise higher
than captain, whereas at the beginning he expected to retire with at
least the rank of colonel.”

“Madame might also admit that it was his fault. If he had not always
been as cutting as a whip, his superiors would have loved and protected
him better. Harshness is of no use; one should try to please if one
wishes to advance. As far as his treatment of us is concerned, it is
also our fault, since we are willing to remain with him, but with others
it's different.”

Madame Maramballe was thinking. Oh, for how many years had she thus been
thinking of the brutality of her husband, whom she had married long ago
because he was a handsome officer, decorated quite young, and full of
promise, so they said! What mistakes one makes in life!

She murmured: “Let us stop a while, my poor Alexandre, and you rest on
that bench:”

It was a little worm-eaten bench, placed at a turn in the alley. Every
time they came in this direction Alexandre was accustomed to making a
short pause on this seat.

He sat down and with a proud and familiar gesture he took his beautiful
white beard in his hand, and, closing his, fingers over it, ran them
down to the point, which he held for a minute at the pit of his stomach,
as if once more to verify the length of this growth.

Madame Maramballe continued: “I married him; it is only just and natural
that I should bear his injustice; but what I do not understand is why
you also should have supported it, my good Alexandre!”

He merely shrugged his shoulders and answered: “Oh! I—madame.”

She added: “Really. I have often wondered. When I married him you were
his orderly and you could hardly do otherwise than endure him. But why
did you remain with us, who pay you so little and who treat you so
badly, when you could have done as every one else does, settle down,
marry, have a family?”

He answered: “Oh, madame! with me it's different.”

Then he was silent; but he kept pulling his beard as if he were ringing
a bell within him, as if he were trying to pull it out, and he rolled
his eyes like a man who is greatly embarrassed.

Madame Maramballe was following her own train of thought: “You are not a
peasant. You have an education—”

He interrupted her proudly: “I studied surveying, madame.”

“Then why did you stay with us, and blast your prospects?”

He stammered: “That's it! that's it! it's the fault of my dispositton.”

“How so, of your disposition?”

“Yes, when I become attached to a person I become attached to him,
that's all.”

She began to laugh: “You are not going to try to tell me that
Maramballe's sweet disposition caused you to become attached to him for
life.”

He was fidgeting about on his bench visibly embarrassed, and he muttered
behind his long beard:

“It was not he, it was you!”

The old lady, who had a sweet face, with a snowy line of curly white
hair between her forehead and her bonnet, turned around in her chair and
observed her servant with a surprised look, exclaiming: “I, my poor
Alexandre! How so?”

He began to look up in the air, then to one side, then toward the
distance, turning his head as do timid people when forced to admit
shameful secrets. At last he exclaimed, with the courage of a trooper
who is ordered to the line of fire: “You see, it's this way—the first
time I brought a letter to mademoiselle from the lieutenant,
mademoiselle gave me a franc and a smile, and that settled it.”

Not understanding well, she questioned him “Explain yourself.”

Then he cried out, like a malefactor who is admitting a fatal crime: “I
had a sentiment for madame! There!”

She answered nothing, stopped looking at him, hung her head, and
thought. She was good, full of justice, gentleness, reason, and
tenderness. In a second she saw the immense devotion of this poor
creature, who had given up everything in order to live beside her,
without saying anything. And she felt as if she could cry. Then, with a
sad but not angry expression, she said: “Let us return home.”

He rose and began to push the wheeled chair.

As they approached the village they saw Captain Maramballe coming toward
them. As soon as he joined them he asked his wife, with a visible desire
of getting angry: “What have we for dinner?”

“Some chicken with flageolets.”

He lost his temper: “Chicken! chicken! always chicken! By all that's
holy, I've had enough chicken! Have you no ideas in your head, that you
make me eat chicken every day?”

She answered, in a resigned tone: “But, my dear, you know that the
doctor has ordered it for you. It's the best thing for your stomach. If
your stomach were well, I could give you many things which I do not dare
set before you now.”

Then, exasperated, he planted himself in front of Alexandre, exclaiming:
“Well, if my stomach is out of order it's the fault of that brute. For
thirty-five years he has been poisoning me with his abominable cooking.”

Madame Maramballe suddenly turned about completely, in order to see the
old domestic. Their eyes met, and in this single glance they both said
“Thank you!” to each other.





THE LOG

The drawing-room was small, full of heavy draperies and discreetly
fragrant. A large fire burned in the grate and a solitary lamp at one
end of the mantelpiece threw a soft light on the two persons who were
talking.

She, the mistress of the house, was an old lady with white hair, but one
of those old ladies whose unwrinkled skin is as smooth as the finest
paper, and scented, impregnated with perfume, with the delicate essences
which she had used in her bath for so many years.

He was a very old friend, who had never married, a constant friend, a
companion in the journey of life, but nothing more.

They had not spoken for about a minute, and were both looking at the
fire, dreaming of no matter what, in one of those moments of friendly
silence between people who have no need to be constantly talking in
order to be happy together, when suddenly a large log, a stump covered
with burning roots, fell out. It fell over the firedogs into the
drawing-room and rolled on to the carpet, scattering great sparks around
it. The old lady, with a little scream, sprang to her feet to run away,
while he kicked the log back on to the hearth and stamped out all the
burning sparks with his boots.

When the disaster was remedied, there was a strong smell of burning,
and, sitting down opposite to his friend, the man looked at her with a
smile and said, as he pointed to the log:

“That is the reason why I never married.”

She looked at him in astonishment, with the inquisitive gaze of women
who wish to know everything, that eye which women have who are no longer
very young,—in which a complex, and often roguish, curiosity is
reflected, and she asked:

“How so?”

“Oh, it is a long story,” he replied; “a rather sad and unpleasant
story.

“My old friends were often surprised at the coldness which suddenly
sprang up between one of my best friends whose Christian name was
Julien, and myself. They could not understand how two such intimate and
inseparable friends, as we had been, could suddenly become almost
strangers to one another, and I will tell you the reason of it.

“He and I used to live together at one time. We were never apart, and
the friendship that united us seemed so strong that nothing could break
it.

“One evening when he came home, he told me that he was going to get
married, and it gave me a shock as if he had robbed me or betrayed me.
When a man's friend marries, it is all over between them. The jealous
affection of a woman, that suspicious, uneasy and carnal affection, will
not tolerate the sturdy and frank attachment, that attachment of the
mind, of the heart, and that mutual confidence which exists between two
men.

“You see, however great the love may be that unites them a man and a
woman are always strangers in mind and intellect; they remain
belligerents, they belong to different races. There must always be a
conqueror and a conquered, a master and a slave; now the one, now the
other—they are never two equals. They press each other's hands, those
hands trembling with amorous passion; but they never press them with a
long, strong, loyal pressure, with that pressure which seems to open
hearts and to lay them bare in a burst of sincere, strong, manly
affection. Philosophers of old, instead of marrying, and procreating as
a consolation for their old age children, who would abandon them, sought
for a good, reliable friend, and grew old with him in that communion of
thought which can only exist between men.

“Well, my friend Julien married. His wife was pretty, charming, a
little, curly-haired blonde, plump and lively, who seemed to worship
him. At first I went but rarely to their house, feeling myself de trop.
But, somehow, they attracted me to their home; they were constantly
inviting me, and seemed very fond of me. Consequently, by degrees, I
allowed myself to be allured by the charm of their life. I often dined
with them, and frequently, when I returned home at night, thought that I
would do as he had done, and get married, as my empty house now seemed
very dull.

“They appeared to be very much in love, and were never apart.

“Well, one evening Julien wrote and asked me to go to dinner, and I
naturally went.

“'My dear fellow,' he said, 'I must go out directly afterward on
business, and I shall not be back until eleven o'clock; but I shall be
back at eleven precisely, and I reckon on you to keep Bertha company.'

“The young woman smiled.

“'It was my idea,' she said, 'to send for you.'

“I held out my hand to her.

“'You are as nice as ever, I said, and I felt a long, friendly pressure
of my fingers, but I paid no attention to it; so we sat down to dinner,
and at eight o'clock Julien went out.

“As soon as he had gone, a kind of strange embarrassment immediately
seemed to arise between his wife and me. We had never been alone
together yet, and in spite of our daily increasing intimacy, this tete-
a-tete placed us in a new position. At first I spoke vaguely of those
indifferent matters with which one fills up an embarrassing silence, but
she did not reply, and remained opposite to me with her head down in an
undecided manner, as if she were thinking over some difficult subject,
and as I was at a loss for small talk, I held my tongue. It is
surprising how hard it is at times to find anything to say.

“And then also I felt something in the air, something I could not
express, one of those mysterious premonitions that warn one of another
person's secret intentions in regard to yourself, whether they be good
or evil.

“That painful silence lasted some time, and then Bertha said to me:

“'Will you kindly put a log on the fire for it is going out.'

“So I opened the box where the wood was kept, which was placed just
where yours is, took out the largest log and put it on top of the
others, which were three parts burned, and then silence again reigned in
the room.

“In a few minutes the log was burning so brightly that it scorched our
faces, and the young woman raised her eyes to mine—eyes that had a
strange look to me.

“'It is too hot now,' she said; 'let us go and sit on the sofa over
there.'

“So we went and sat on the sofa, and then she said suddenly, looking me
full in the face:

“'What would you do if a woman were to tell you that she was in love
with you?'

“'Upon my word,' I replied, very much at a loss for an answer, 'I cannot
foresee such a case; but it would depend very much upon the woman.'

“She gave a hard, nervous, vibrating laugh; one of those false laughs
which seem as if they must break thin glass, and then she added: 'Men
are never either venturesome or spiteful.' And, after a moment's
silence, she continued: 'Have you ever been in love, Monsieur Paul?' I
was obliged to acknowledge that I certainly had, and she asked me to
tell her all about it. Whereupon I made up some story or other. She
listened to me attentively, with frequent signs of disapproval and
contempt, and then suddenly she said:

“'No, you understand nothing about the subject. It seems to me that real
love must unsettle the mind, upset the nerves and distract the head;
that it must—how shall I express it?—be dangerous, even terrible, almost
criminal and sacrilegious; that it must be a kind of treason; I mean to
say that it is bound to break laws, fraternal bonds, sacred obligations;
when love is tranquil, easy, lawful and without dangers, is it really
love?'

“I did not know what answer to give her, and I made this philosophical
reflection to myself: 'Oh! female brain, here; indeed, you show
yourself!'

“While speaking, she had assumed a demure saintly air; and, resting on
the cushions, she stretched herself out at full length, with her head on
my shoulder, and her dress pulled up a little so as to show her red
stockings, which the firelight made look still brighter. In a minute or
two she continued:

“'I suppose I have frightened you?' I protested against such a notion,
and she leaned against my breast altogether, and without looking at me,
she said: 'If I were to tell you that I love you, what would you do?'

“And before I could think of an answer, she had thrown her arms around
my neck, had quickly drawn my head down, and put her lips to mine.

“Oh! My dear friend, I can tell you that I did not feel at all happy!
What! deceive Julien? become the lover of this little, silly, wrong-
headed, deceitful woman, who was, no doubt, terribly sensual, and whom
her husband no longer satisfied.

“To betray him continually, to deceive him, to play at being in love
merely because I was attracted by forbidden fruit, by the danger
incurred and the friendship betrayed! No, that did not suit me, but what
was I to do? To imitate Joseph would be acting a very stupid and,
moreover, difficult part, for this woman was enchanting in her perfidy,
inflamed by audacity, palpitating and excited. Let the man who has never
felt on his lips the warm kiss of a woman who is ready to give herself
to him throw the first stone at me.

“Well, a minute more—you understand what I mean? A minute more, and—I
should have been—no, she would have been!—I beg your pardon, he would
have been—when a loud noise made us both jump up. The log had fallen
into the room, knocking over the fire irons and the fender, and on to
the carpet, which it had scorched, and had rolled under an armchair,
which it would certainly set alight.

“I jumped up like a madman, and, as I was replacing on the fire that log
which had saved me, the door opened hastily, and Julien came in.

“'I am free,' he said, with evident pleasure. 'The business was over two
hours sooner than I expected!'

“Yes, my dear friend, without that log, I should have been caught in the
very act, and you know what the consequences would have been!

“You may be sure that I took good care never to be found in a similar
situation again, never, never. Soon afterward I saw that Julien was
giving me the 'cold shoulder,' as they say. His wife was evidently
undermining our friendship. By degrees he got rid of me, and we have
altogether ceased to meet.

“I never married, which ought not to surprise you, I think.”





JULIE ROMAIN

Two years ago this spring I was making a walking tour along the shore of
the Mediterranean. Is there anything more pleasant than to meditate
while walking at a good pace along a highway? One walks in the sunlight,
through the caressing breeze, at the foot of the mountains, along the
coast of the sea. And one dreams! What a flood of illusions, loves,
adventures pass through a pedestrian's mind during a two hours' march!
What a crowd of confused and joyous hopes enter into you with the mild,
light air! You drink them in with the breeze, and they awaken in your
heart a longing for happiness which increases with the hun ger induced
by walking. The fleeting, charming ideas fly and sing like birds.

I was following that long road which goes from Saint Raphael to Italy,
or, rather, that long, splendid panoramic highway which seems made for
the representation of all the love-poems of earth. And I thought that
from Cannes, where one poses, to Monaco, where one gambles, people come
to this spot of the earth for hardly any other purpose than to get
embroiled or to throw away money on chance games, displaying under this
delicious sky and in this garden of roses and oranges all base vanities
and foolish pretensions and vile lusts, showing up the human mind such
as it is, servile, ignorant, arrogant and full of cupidity.

Suddenly I saw some villas in one of those ravishing bays that one meets
at every turn of the mountain; there were only four or five fronting the
sea at the foot of the mountains, and behind them a wild fir wood slopes
into two great valleys, that were untraversed by roads. I stopped short
before one of these chalets, it was so pretty: a small white house with
brown trimmings, overrun with rambler roses up to the top.

The garden was a mass of flowers, of all colors and all kinds, mixed in
a coquettish, well-planned disorder. The lawn was full of them, big pots
flanked each side of every step of the porch, pink or yellow clusters
framed each window, and the terrace with the stone balustrade, which
enclosed this pretty little dwelling, had a garland of enormous red
bells, like drops of blood. Behind the house I saw a long avenue of
orange trees in blossom, which went up to the foot of the mountain.

Over the door appeared the name, “Villa d'Antan,” in small gold letters.

I asked myself what poet or what fairy was living there, what inspired,
solitary being had discovered this spot and created this dream house,
which seemed to nestle in a nosegay.

A workman was breaking stones up the street, and I went to him to ask
the name of the proprietor of this jewel.

“It is Madame Julie Romain,” he replied.

Julie Romain! In my childhood, long ago, I had heard them speak of this
great actress, the rival of Rachel.

No woman ever was more applauded and more loved—especially more loved!
What duets and suicides on her account and what sensational adventures!
How old was this seductive woman now? Sixty, seventy, seventy-five!
Julie Romain here, in this house! The woman who had been adored by the
greatest musician and the most exquisite poet of our land! I still
remember the sensation (I was then twelve years of age) which her flight
to Sicily with the latter, after her rupture with the former, caused
throughout France.

She had left one evening, after a premiere, where the audience had
applauded her for a whole half hour, and had recalled her eleven times
in succession. She had gone away with the poet, in a post-chaise, as was
the fashion then; they had crossed the sea, to love each other in that
antique island, the daughter of Greece, in that immense orange wood
which surrounds Palermo, and which is called the “Shell of Gold.”

People told of their ascension of Mount Etna and how they had leaned
over the immense crater, arm in arm, cheek to cheek, as if to throw
themselves into the very abyss.

Now he was dead, that maker of verses so touching and so profound that
they turned, the heads of a whole generation, so subtle and so
mysterious that they opened a new world to the younger poets.

The other one also was dead—the deserted one, who had attained through
her musical periods that are alive in the memories of all, periods of
triumph and of despair, intoxicating triumph and heartrending despair.

And she was there, in that house veiled by flowers.

I did not hesitate, but rang the bell.

A small servant answered, a boy of eighteen with awkward mien and clumsy
hands. I wrote in pencil on my card a gallant compliment to the actress,
begging her to receive me. Perhaps, if she knew my name, she would open
her door to me.

The little valet took it in, and then came back, asking me to follow
him. He led me to a neat and decorous salon, furnished in the Louis-
Philippe style, with stiff and heavy furniture, from which a little maid
of sixteen, slender but not pretty, took off the covers in my honor.

Then I was left alone.

On the walls hung three portraits, that of the actress in one of her
roles, that of the poet in his close-fitting greatcoat and the ruffled
shirt then in style, and that of the musician seated at a piano.

She, blond, charming, but affected, according to the fashion of her day,
was smiling, with her pretty mouth and blue eyes; the painting was
careful, fine, elegant, but lifeless.

Those faces seemed to be already looking upon posterity.

The whole place had the air of a bygone time, of days that were done and
men who had vanished.

A door opened and a little woman entered, old, very old, very small,
with white hair and white eyebrows, a veritable white mouse, and as
quick and furtive of movement.

She held out her hand to me, saying in a voice still fresh, sonorous and
vibrant:

“Thank you, monsieur. How kind it is of the men of to-day to remember
the women of yesterday! Sit down.”

I told her that her house had attracted me, that I had inquired for the
proprietor's name, and that, on learning it, I could not resist the
desire to ring her bell.

“This gives me all the more pleasure, monsieur,” she replied, “as it is
the first time that such a thing has happened. When I received your
card, with the gracious note, I trembled as if an old friend who had
disappeared for twenty years had been announced to me. I am like a dead
body, whom no one remembers, of whom no one will think until the day
when I shall actually die; then the newspapers will mention Julie Romain
for three days, relating anecdotes and details of my life, reviving
memories, and praising me greatly. Then all will be over with me.”

After a few moments of silence, she continued:

“And this will not be so very long now. In a few months, in a few days,
nothing will remain but a little skeleton of this little woman who is
now alive.”

She raised her eyes toward her portrait, which smiled down upon this
caricature of herself; then she looked at those of the two men, the
disdainful poet and the inspired musician, who seemed to say: “What does
this ruin want of us?”

An indefinable, poignant, irresistible sadness overwhelmed my heart, the
sadness of existences that have had their day, but who are still
debating with their memories, like a person drowning in deep water.

From my seat I could see on the highroad the handsome carriages that
were whirling from Nice to Monaco; inside them I saw young, pretty, rich
and happy women and smiling, satisfied men. Following my eye, she
understood my thought and murmured with a smile of resignation:

“One cannot both be and have been.”

“How beautiful life must have been for you!” I said.

She heaved a great sigh.

“Beautiful and sweet! And for that reason I regret it so much.”

I saw that she was disposed to talk of herself, so I began to question
her, gently and discreetly, as one might touch bruised flesh.

She spoke of her successes, her intoxications and her friends, of her
whole triumphant existence.

“Was it on the stage that you found your most intense joys, your true
happiness?” I asked.

“Oh, no!” she replied quickly.

I smiled; then, raising her eyes to the two portraits, she said, with a
sad glance:

“It was with them.”

“Which one?” I could not help asking.

“Both. I even confuse them up a little now in my old woman's memory, and
then I feel remorse.”

“Then, madame, your acknowledgment is not to them, but to Love itself.
They were merely its interpreters.”

“That is possible. But what interpreters!”

“Are you sure that you have not been, or that you might not have been,
loved as well or better by a simple man, but not a great man, who would
have offered to you his whole life and heart, all his thoughts, all his
days, his whole being, while these gave you two redoubtable rivals,
Music and Poetry?”

“No, monsieur, no!” she exclaimed emphatically, with that still youthful
voice, which caused the soul to vibrate. “Another one might perhaps have
loved me more, but he would not have loved me as these did. Ah! those
two sang to me of the music of love as no one else in the world could
have sung of it. How they intoxicated me! Could any other man express
what they knew so well how to express in tones and in words? Is it
enough merely to love if one cannot put all the poetry and all the music
of heaven and earth into love? And they knew how to make a woman
delirious with songs and with words. Yes, perhaps there was more of
illusion than of reality in our passion; but these illusions lift you
into the clouds, while realities always leave you trailing in the dust.
If others have loved me more, through these two I have understood, felt
and worshipped love.”

Suddenly she began to weep.

She wept silently, shedding tears of despair.

I pretended not to see, looking off into the distance. She resumed,
after a few minutes:

“You see, monsieur, with nearly every one the heart ages with the body.
But this has not happened with me. My body is sixty-nine years old,
while my poor heart is only twenty. And that is the reason why I live
all alone, with my flowers and my dreams.”

There was a long silence between us. She grew calmer and continued,
smiling:

“How you would laugh at me, if you knew, if you knew how I pass my
evenings, when the weather is fine. I am ashamed and I pity myself at
the same time.”

Beg as I might, she would not tell me what she did. Then I rose to
leave.

“Already!” she exclaimed.

And as I said that I wished to dine at Monte Carlo, she asked timidly:

“Will you not dine with me? It would give me a great deal of pleasure.”

I accepted at once. She rang, delighted, and after giving some orders to
the little maid she took me over her house.

A kind of glass-enclosed veranda, filled with shrubs, opened into the
dining-room, revealing at the farther end the long avenue of orange
trees extending to the foot of the mountain. A low seat, hidden by
plants, indicated that the old actress often came there to sit down.

Then we went into the garden, to look at the flowers. Evening fell
softly, one of those calm, moist evenings when the earth breathes forth
all her perfumes. Daylight was almost gone when we sat down at table.
The dinner was good and it lasted a long time, and we became intimate
friends, she and I, when she understood what a profound sympathy she had
aroused in my heart. She had taken two thimblefuls of wine, as the
phrase goes, and had grown more confiding and expansive.

“Come, let us look at the moon,” she said. “I adore the good moon. She
has been the witness of my most intense joys. It seems to me that all my
memories are there, and that I need only look at her to bring them all
back to me. And even—some times—in the evening—I offer to myself a
pretty play—yes, pretty—if you only knew! But no, you would laugh at me.
I cannot—I dare not—no, no—really—no.”

I implored her to tell me what it was.

“Come, now! come, tell me; I promise you that I will not laugh. I swear
it to you—come, now!”

She hesitated. I took her hands—those poor little hands, so thin and so
cold!—and I kissed them one after the other, several times, as her
lovers had once kissed them. She was moved and hesitated.

“You promise me not to laugh?”

“Yes, I swear it to you.”

“Well, then, come.”

She rose, and as the little domestic, awkward in his green livery,
removed the chair behind her, she whispered quickly a few words into his
ear.

“Yes, madame, at once,” he replied.

She took my arm and led me to the veranda.

The avenue of oranges was really splendid to see. The full moon made a
narrow path of silver, a long bright line, which fell on the yellow
sand, between the round, opaque crowns of the dark trees.

As these trees were in bloom, their strong, sweet perfume filled the
night, and swarming among their dark foliage I saw thousands of
fireflies, which looked like seeds fallen from the stars.

“Oh, what a setting for a love scene!” I exclaimed.

She smiled.

“Is it not true? Is it not true? You will see!”

And she made me sit down beside her.

“This is what makes one long for more life. But you hardly think of
these things, you men of to-day. You are speculators, merchants and men
of affairs.

“You no longer even know how to talk to us. When I say 'you,' I mean
young men in general. Love has been turned into a liaison which very
often begins with an unpaid dressmaker's bill. If you think the bill is
dearer than the woman, you disappear; but if you hold the woman more
highly, you pay it. Nice morals—and a nice kind of love!”

She took my hand.

“Look!”

I looked, astonished and delighted. Down there at the end of the avenue,
in the moonlight, were two young people, with their arms around each
other's waist. They were walking along, interlaced, charming, with
short, little steps, crossing the flakes of light; which illuminated
them momentarily, and then sinking back into the shadow. The youth was
dressed in a suit of white satin, such as men wore in the eighteenth
century, and had on a hat with an ostrich plume. The girl was arrayed in
a gown with panniers, and the high, powdered coiffure of the handsome
dames of the time of the Regency.

They stopped a hundred paces from us, and standing in the middle of the
avenue, they kissed each other with graceful gestures.

Suddenly I recognized the two little servants. Then one of those
dreadful fits of laughter that convulse you made me writhe in my chair.
But I did not laugh aloud. I resisted, convulsed and feeling almost ill,
as a man whose leg is cut off resists the impulse to cry out.

As the young pair turned toward the farther end of the avenue they again
became delightful. They went farther and farther away, finally
disappearing as a dream disappears. I no longer saw them. The avenue
seemed a sad place.

I took my leave at once, so as not to see them again, for I guessed that
this little play would last a long time, awakening, as it did, a whole
past of love and of stage scenery; the artificial past, deceitful and
seductive, false but charming, which still stirred the heart of this
amorous old comedienne.





THE RONDOLI SISTERS I

I set out to see Italy thoroughly on two occasions, and each time I was
stopped at the frontier and could not get any further. So I do not know
Italy, said my friend, Charles Jouvent. And yet my two attempts gave me
a charming idea of the manners of that beautiful country. Some time,
however, I must visit its cities, as well as the museums and works of
art with which it abounds. I will make another attempt to penetrate into
the interior, which I have not yet succeeded in doing.

You don't understand me, so I will explain: In the spring of 1874 I was
seized with an irresistible desire to see Venice, Florence, Rome and
Naples. I am, as you know, not a great traveller; it appears to me a
useless and fatiguing business. Nights spent in a train, the disturbed
slumbers of the railway carriage, with the attendant headache, and
stiffness in every limb, the sudden waking in that rolling box, the
unwashed feeling, with your eyes and hair full of dust, the smell of the
coal on which one's lungs feed, those bad dinners in the draughty
refreshment rooms are, according to my ideas, a horrible way of
beginning a pleasure trip.

After this introduction, we have the miseries of the hotel; of some
great hotel full of people, and yet so empty; the strange room and the
doubtful bed!

I am most particular about my bed; it is the sanctuary of life. We
entrust our almost naked and fatigued bodies to it so that they may be
reanimated by reposing between soft sheets and feathers.

There we find the most delightful hours of our existence, the hours of
love and of sleep. The bed is sacred, and should be respected, venerated
and loved by us as the best and most delightful of our earthly
possessions.

I cannot lift up the sheets of a hotel bed without a shudder of disgust.
Who has occupied it the night before? Perhaps dirty, revolting people
have slept in it. I begin, then, to think of all the horrible people
with whom one rubs shoulders every day, people with suspicious-looking
skin which makes one think of the feet and all the rest! I call to mind
those who carry about with them the sickening smell of garlic or of
humanity. I think of those who are deformed and unhealthy, of the
perspiration emanating from the sick, of everything that is ugly and
filthy in man.

And all this, perhaps, in the bed in which I am about to sleep! The mere
idea of it makes me feel ill as I get into it.

And then the hotel dinners—those dreary table d'hote dinners in the
midst of all sorts of extraordinary people, or else those terrible
solitary dinners at a small table in a restaurant, feebly lighted by a
wretched composite candle under a shade.

Again, those terribly dull evenings in some unknown town! Do you know
anything more wretched than the approach of dusk on such an occasion?
One goes about as if almost in a dream, looking at faces that one never
has seen before and never will see again; listening to people talking
about matters which are quite indifferent to you in a language that
perhaps you do not understand. You have a terrible feeling, almost as if
you were lost, and you continue to walk on so as not to be obliged to
return to the hotel, where you would feel more lost still because you
are at home, in a home which belongs to anyone who can pay for it; and
at last you sink into a chair of some well-lighted cafe, whose gilding
and lights oppress you a thousand times more than the shadows in the
streets. Then you feel so abominably lonely sitting in front of the
glass of flat bock beer that a kind of madness seizes you, the longing
to go somewhere or other, no matter where, as long as you need not
remain in front of that marble table amid those dazzling lights.

And then, suddenly, you are aware that you are really alone in the
world, always and everywhere, and that in places which we know, the
familiar jostlings give us the illusion only of human fraternity. At
such moments of self-abandonment and sombre isolation in distant cities
one thinks broadly, clearly and profoundly. Then one suddenly sees the
whole of life outside the vision of eternal hope, apart from the
deceptions of our innate habits, and of our expectations of happiness,
which we indulge in dreams never to be realized.

It is only by going a long distance from home that we can fully
understand how short-lived and empty everything near at hand is; by
searching for the unknown, we perceive how commonplace and evanescent
everything is; only by wandering over the face of the earth can we
understand how small the world is, and how very much alike it is
everywhere.

How well I know, and how I hate and almost fear, those haphazard walks
through unknown streets; and this was the reason why, as nothing would
induce me to undertake a tour in Italy by myself, I made up my mind to
accompany my friend Paul Pavilly.

You know Paul, and how he idealizes women. To him the earth is habitable
only because they are there; the sun gives light and is warm because it
shines upon them; the air is soft and balmy because it blows upon their
skin and ruffles the soft hair on their temples; and the moon is
charming because it makes them dream and imparts a languorous charm to
love. Every act and action of Paul's has woman for its motive; all his
thoughts, all his efforts and hopes are centered in them.

When I mentioned Italy to Paul he at first absolutely refused to leave
Paris. I, however, began to tell him of the adventures I had on my
travels. I assured him that all Italian women are charming, and I made
him hope for the most refined pleasures at Naples, thanks to certain
letters of introduction which I had; and so at last he allowed himself
to be persuaded.

II

We took the express one Thursday evening, Paul and I. Hardly anyone goes
south at that time of the year, so that we had the carriages to
ourselves, and both of us were in a bad temper on leaving Paris, sorry
for having yielded to the temptation of this journey, and regretting
Marly, the Seine, and our lazy boating excursions, and all those
pleasures in and near Paris which are so dear to every true Parisian.

As soon as the train started Paul stuck himself in his corner, and said,
“It is most idiotic to go all that distance,” and as it was too late for
him to change his mind then, I said, “Well, you should not have come.”

He made no answer, and I felt very much inclined to laugh when I saw how
furious he looked. He is certainly always rather like a squirrel, but
then every one of us has retained the type of some animal or other as
the mark of his primitive origin. How many people have jaws like a
bulldog, or heads like goats, rabbits, foxes, horses, or oxen. Paul is a
squirrel turned into a man. He has its bright, quick eyes, its hair, its
pointed nose, its small, fine, supple, active body, and a certain
mysterious resemblance in his general bearing; in fact, a similarity of
movement, of gesture, and of bearing which might almost be taken for a
recollection.

At last we both went to sleep with that uncomfortable slumber of the
railway carriage, which is interrupted by horrible cramps in the arms
and neck, and by the sudden stoppages of the train.

We woke up as we were passing along the Rhone. Soon the continued noise
of crickets came in through the windows, that cry which seems to be the
voice of the warm earth, the song of Provence; and seemed to instill
into our looks, our breasts, and our souls the light and happy feeling
of the south, that odor of the parched earth, of the stony and light
soil of the olive with its gray-green foliage.

When the train stopped again a railway guard ran along the train calling
out “Valence” in a sonorous voice, with an accent that again gave us a
taste of that Provence which the shrill note of the crickets had already
imparted to us.

Nothing fresh happened till we got to Marseilles, where we alighted for
breakfast, but when we returned to our carriage we found a woman
installed there.

Paul, with a delighted glance at me, gave his short mustache a
mechanical twirl, and passed his fingers through his, hair, which had
become slightly out of order with the night's journey. Then he sat down
opposite the newcomer.

Whenever I happen to see a striking new face, either in travelling or in
society, I always have the strongest inclination to find out what
character, mind, and intellectual capacities are hidden beneath those
features.

She was a young and pretty woman, certainly a native of the south of
France, with splendid eyes, beautiful wavy black hair, which was so
thick and long that it seemed almost too heavy for her head. She was
dressed with a certain southern bad taste which made her look a little
vulgar. Her regular features had none of the grace and finish of the
refined races, of that slight delicacy which members of the aristocracy
inherit from their birth, and which is the hereditary mark of thinner
blood.

Her bracelets were too big to be of gold; she wore earrings with large
white stones that were certainly not diamonds, and she belonged
unmistakably to the People. One surmised that she would talk too loud,
and shout on every occasion with exaggerated gestures.

When the train started she remained motionless in her place, in the
attitude of a woman who was indignant, without even looking at us.

Paul began to talk to me, evidently with an eye to effect, trying to
attract her attention, as shopkeepers expose their choice wares to catch
the notice of passersby.

She, however, did not appear to be paying the least attention.

“Toulon! Ten minutes to wait! Refreshment room!” the porters shouted.

Paul motioned to me to get out, and as soon as we had done so, he said:

“I wonder who on earth she can be?”

I began to laugh. “I am sure I don't know, and I don't in the least
care.”

He was quite excited.

“She is an uncommonly fresh and pretty girl. What eyes she has, and how
cross she looks. She must have been dreadfully worried, for she takes no
notice of anything.”

“You will have all your trouble for nothing,” I growled.

He began to lose his temper.

“I am not taking any trouble, my dear fellow. I think her an extremely
pretty woman, that is all. If one could only speak to her! But I don't
know how to begin. Cannot you give me an idea? Can't you guess who she
is?”

“Upon my word, I cannot. However, I should rather think she is some
strolling actress who is going to rejoin her company after a love
adventure.”

He seemed quite upset, as if I had said something insulting.

“What makes you think that? On the contrary, I think she looks most
respectable.”

“Just look at her bracelets,” I said, “her earrings and her whole dress.
I should not be the least surprised if she were a dancer or a circus
rider, but most likely a dancer. Her whole style smacks very much of the
theatre.”

He evidently did not like the idea.

“She is much too young, I am sure; why, she is hardly twenty.”

“Well,” I replied, “there are many things which one can do before one is
twenty; dancing and elocution are among them.”

“Take your seats for Nice, Vintimiglia,” the guards and porters called.

We got in; our fellow passenger was eating an orange, and certainly she
did not do it elegantly. She had spread her pocket-handkerchief on her
knees, and the way in which she tore off the peel and opened her mouth
to put in the pieces, and then spat the pips out of the window, showed
that her training had been decidedly vulgar.

She seemed, also, more put out than ever, and swallowed the fruit with
an exceedingly comic air of rage.

Paul devoured her with his eyes, and tried to attract her attention and
excite her curiosity; but in spite of his talk, and of the manner in
which he brought in well-known names, she did not pay the least
attention to him.

After passing Frejus and St. Raphael, the train passed through a
veritable garden, a paradise of roses, and groves of oranges and lemons
covered with fruits and flowers at the same time. That delightful coast
from Marseilles to Genoa is a kingdom of perfumes in a home of flowers.

June is the time to see it in all its beauty, when in every narrow
valley and on every slope, the most exquisite flowers are growing
luxuriantly. And the roses! fields, hedges, groves of roses. They climb
up the walls, blossom on the roofs, hang from the trees, peep out from
among the bushes; they are white, red, yellow, large and small, single,
with a simple self-colored dress, or full and heavy in brilliant
toilettes.

Their breath makes the air heavy and relaxing, and the still more
penetrating odor of the orange blossoms sweetens the atmosphere till it
might almost be called the refinement of odor.

The shore, with its brown rocks, was bathed by the motionless
Mediterranean. The hot summer sun stretched like a fiery cloth over the
mountains, over the long expanses of sand, and over the motionless,
apparently solid blue sea. The train went on through the tunnels, along
the slopes, above the water, on straight, wall-like viaducts, and a
soft, vague, saltish smell, a smell of drying seaweed, mingled at times
with the strong, heavy perfume of the flowers.

But Paul neither saw, looked at, nor smelled anything, for our fellow
traveller engrossed all his attention.

When we reached Cannes, as he wished to speak to me he signed to me to
get out, and as soon as I did so, he took me by the arm.

“Do you know, she is really charming. Just look at her eyes; and I never
saw anything like her hair.”

“Don't excite yourself,” I replied, “or else address her, if you have
any intentions that way. She does not look unapproachable; I fancy,
although she appear to be a little bit grumpy.”

“Why don't you speak to her?” he said.

“I don't know what to say, for I am always terribly stupid at first; I
can never make advances to a woman in the street. I follow them, go
round and round them, and quite close to them, but never know what to
say at first. I only once tried to enter into conversation with a woman
in that way. As I clearly saw that she was waiting for me to make
overtures, and as I felt bound to say something, I stammered out, 'I
hope you are quite well, madame?' She laughed in my face, and I made my
escape.”

I promised Paul to do all I could to bring about a conversation, and
when we had taken our places again, I politely asked our neighbor:

“Have you any objection to the smell of tobacco, madame?”

She merely replied, “Non capisco.”

So she was an Italian! I felt an absurd inclination to laugh. As Paul
did not understand a word of that language, I was obliged to act as his
interpreter, so I said in Italian:

“I asked you, madame, whether you had any objection to tobacco smoke?”

With an angry look she replied, “Che mi fa!”

She had neither turned her head nor looked at me, and I really did not
know whether to take this “What do I care” for an authorization, a
refusal, a real sign of indifference, or for a mere “Let me alone.”

“Madame,” I replied, “if you mind the smell of tobacco in the least—”

She again said, “Mica,” in a tone which seemed to mean, “I wish to
goodness you would leave me alone!” It was, however, a kind of
permission, so I said to Paul:

“You may smoke.”

He looked at me in that curious sort of way that people have when they
try to understand others who are talking in a strange language before
them, and asked me:

“What did you say to her?”

“I asked whether we might smoke, and she said we might do whatever we
liked.”

Whereupon I lighted my cigar.

“Did she say anything more?”

“If you had counted her words you would have noticed that she used
exactly six, two of which gave me to understand that she knew no French,
so four remained, and much can be said in four words.”

Paul seemed quite unhappy, disappointed, and at sea, so to speak.

But suddenly the Italian asked me, in that tone of discontent which
seemed habitual to her, “Do you know at what time we shall get to
Genoa?”

“At eleven o'clock,” I replied. Then after a moment I went on:

“My friend and I are also going to Genoa, and if we can be of any
service to you, we shall be very happy, as you are quite alone.” But she
interrupted with such a “Mica!” that I did not venture on another word.

“What did she say?” Paul asked.

“She said she thought you were charming.”

But he was in no humor for joking, and begged me dryly not to make fun
of him; so I translated her question and my polite offer, which had been
so rudely rejected.

Then he really became as restless as a caged squirrel.

“If we only knew,” he said, “what hotel she was going to, we would go to
the same. Try to find out so as to have another opportunity to make her
talk.”

It was not particularly easy, and I did not know what pretext to invent,
desirous as I was to make the acquaintance of this unapproachable
person.

We passed Nice, Monaco, Mentone, and the train stopped at the frontier
for the examination of luggage.

Although I hate those ill-bred people who breakfast and dine in railway-
carriages, I went and bought a quantity of good things to make one last
attack on her by their means. I felt sure that this girl must,
ordinarily, be by no means inaccessible. Something had put her out and
made her irritable, but very little would suffice, a mere word or some
agreeable offer, to decide her and vanquish her.

We started again, and we three were still alone. I spread my eatables on
the seat. I cut up the fowl, put the slices of ham neatly on a piece of
paper, and then carefully laid out our dessert, strawberries, plums,
cherries and cakes, close to the girl.

When she saw that we were about to eat she took a piece of chocolate and
two little crisp cakes out of her pocket and began to munch them.

“Ask her to have some of ours,” Paul said in a whisper.

“That is exactly what I wish to do, but it is rather a difficult
matter.”

As she, however, glanced from time to time at our provisions, I felt
sure that she would still be hungry when she had finished what she had
with her; so, as soon as her frugal meal was over, I said to her:

“It would be very kind of you if you would take some of this fruit.”

Again she said “Mica!” but less crossly than before.

“Well, then,” I said, “may I offer you a little wine? I see you have not
drunk anything. It is Italian wine, and as we are now in your own
country, we should be very pleased to see such a pretty Italian mouth
accept the offer of its French neighbors.”

She shook her head slightly, evidently wishing to refuse, but very
desirous of accepting, and her mica this time was almost polite. I took
the flask, which was covered with straw in the Italian fashion, and
filling the glass, I offered it to her.

“Please drink it,” I said, “to bid us welcome to your country.”

She took the glass with her usual look, and emptied it at a draught,
like a woman consumed with thirst, and then gave it back to me without
even saying “Thank you.”

I then offered her the cherries. “Please take some,” I said; “we shall
be so glad if you will.”

Out of her corner she looked at all the fruit spread out beside her, and
said so rapidly that I could scarcely follow her: “A me non piacciono ne
le ciriegie ne le susine; amo soltano le fragole.”

“What does she say?” Paul asked.

“That she does riot care for cherries or plums, but only for
strawberries.”

I put a newspaper full of wild strawberries on her lap, and she ate them
quickly, tossing them into her mouth from some distance in a coquettish
and charming manner.

When she had finished the little red heap, which soon disappeared under
the rapid action of her hands, I asked her:

“What may I offer you now?”

“I will take a little chicken,” she replied.

She certainly devoured half of it, tearing it to pieces with the rapid
movements of her jaws like some carnivorous animal. Then she made up her
mind to have some cherries, which she “did not like,” and then some
plums, then some little cakes. Then she said, “I have had enough,” and
sat back in her corner.

I was much amused, and tried to make her eat more, insisting, in fact,
till she suddenly flew into a rage, and flung such a furious mica at me,
that I would no longer run the risk of spoiling her digestion.

I turned to my friend. “My poor Paul,” I said, “I am afraid we have had
our trouble for nothing.”

The night came on, one of those hot summer nights which extend their
warm shade over the burning and exhausted earth. Here and there, in the
distance, by the sea, on capes and promontories, bright stars, which I
was, at times, almost inclined to confound with lighthouses, began to
shine on the dark horizon:

The scent of the orange trees became more penetrating, and we breathed
with delight, distending our lungs to inhale it more deeply. The balmy
air was soft, delicious, almost divine.

Suddenly I noticed something like a shower of stars under the dense
shade of the trees along the line, where it was quite dark. It might
have been taken for drops of light, leaping, flying, playing and running
among the leaves, or for small stars fallen from the skies in order to
have an excursion on the earth; but they were only fireflies dancing a
strange fiery ballet in the perfumed air.

One of them happened to come into our carriage, and shed its
intermittent light, which seemed to be extinguished one moment and to be
burning the next. I covered the carriage-lamp with its blue shade and
watched the strange fly careering about in its fiery flight. Suddenly it
settled on the dark hair of our neighbor, who was half dozing after
dinner. Paul seemed delighted, with his eyes fixed on the bright,
sparkling spot, which looked like a living jewel on the forehead of the
sleeping woman.

The Italian woke up about eleven o'clock, with the bright insect still
in her hair. When I saw her move, I said: “We are just getting to Genoa,
madame,” and she murmured, without answering me, as if possessed by some
obstinate and embarrassing thought:

“What am I going to do, I wonder?”

And then she suddenly asked:

“Would you like me to come with you?”

I was so taken aback that I really did not understand her.

“With us? How do you mean?”

She repeated, looking more and more furious:

“Would you like me to be your guide now, as soon as we get out of the
train?”

“I am quite willing; but where do you want to go.”

She shrugged her shoulders with an air of supreme indifference.

“Wherever you like; what does it matter to me?” She repeated her “Che mi
fa” twice.

“But we are going to the hotel.”

“Very well, let us all go to the hotel,” she said, in a contemptuous
voice.

I turned to Paul, and said:

“She wishes to know whether we should like her to come with us.”

My friend's utter surprise restored my self-possession. He stammered:

“With us? Where to? What for? How?”

“I don't know, but she made this strange proposal to me in a most
irritated voice. I told her that we were going to the hotel, and she
said: 'Very well, let us all go there!' I suppose she is without a
penny. She certainly has a very strange way of making acquaintances.”

Paul, who 'was very much excited, exclaimed:

“I am quite agreeable. Tell her that we will go wherever she likes.”
Then, after a moment's hesitation, he said uneasily:

“We must know, however, with whom she wishes to go—with you or with me?”

I turned to the Italian, who did not even seem to be listening to us,
and said:

“We shall be very happy to have you with us, but my friend wishes to
know whether you will take my arm or his?”

She opened her black eyes wide with vague surprise, and said, “Che ni
fa?”

I was obliged to explain myself. “In Italy, I believe, when a man looks
after a woman, fulfils all her wishes, and satisfies all her caprices,
he is called a patito. Which of us two will you take for your patito?”

Without the slightest hesitation she replied:

“You!”

I turned to Paul. “You see, my friend, she chooses me; you have no
chance.”

“All the better for you,” he replied in a rage. Then, after thinking for
a few moments, he went on:

“Do you really care about taking this creature with you? She will spoil
our journey. What are we to do with this woman, who looks like I don't
know what? They will not take us in at any decent hotel.”

I, however, just began to find the Italian much nicer than I had thought
her at first, and I was now very desirous to take her with us. The idea
delighted me.

I replied, “My dear fellow, we have accepted, and it is too late to
recede. You were the first to advise me to say 'Yes.'”

“It is very stupid,” he growled, “but do as you please.”

The train whistled, slackened speed, and we ran into the station.

I got out of the carriage, and offered my new companion my hand. She
jumped out lightly, and I gave her my arm, which she took with an air of
seeming repugnance. As soon as we had claimed our luggage we set off
into the town, Paul walking in utter silence.

“To what hotel shall we go?” I asked him. “It may be difficult to get
into the City of Paris with a woman, especially with this Italian.”

Paul interrupted me. “Yes, with an Italian who looks more like a dancer
than a duchess. However, that is no business of mine. Do just as you
please.”

I was in a state of perplexity. I had written to the City of Paris to
retain our rooms, and now I did not know what to do.

Two commissionaires followed us with our luggage. I continued: “You
might as well go on first, and say that we are coming; and give the
landlord to understand that I have a—a friend with me and that we should
like rooms quite by themselves for us three, so as not to be brought in
contact with other travellers. He will understand, and we will decide
according to his answer.”

But Paul growled, “Thank you, such commissions and such parts do not
suit me, by any means. I did not come here to select your apartments or
to minister to your pleasures.”

But I was urgent: “Look here, don't be angry. It is surely far better to
go to a good hotel than to a bad one, and it is not difficult to ask the
landlord for three separate bedrooms and a dining-room.”

I put a stress on three, and that decided him.

He went on first, and I saw him go into a large hotel while I remained
on the other side of the street, with my fair Italian, who did not say a
word, and followed the porters with the luggage.

Paul came back at last, looking as dissatisfied as my companion.

“That is settled,” he said, “and they will take us in; but here are only
two bedrooms. You must settle it as you can.”

I followed him, rather ashamed of going in with such a strange
companion.

There were two bedrooms separated by a small sitting-room. I ordered a
cold supper, and then I turned to the Italian with a perplexed look.

“We have only been able to get two rooms, so you must choose which you
like.”

She replied with her eternal “Che mi fa!” I thereupon took up her little
black wooden trunk, such as servants use, and took it into the room on
the right, which I had chosen for her. A bit of paper was fastened to
the box, on which was written, Mademoiselle Francesca Rondoli, Genoa.

“Your name is Francesca?” I asked, and she nodded her head, without
replying.

“We shall have supper directly,” I continued. “Meanwhile, I dare say you
would like to arrange your toilette a little?”

She answered with a 'mica', a word which she employed just as frequently
as 'Che me fa', but I went on: “It is always pleasant after a journey.”

Then I suddenly remembered that she had not, perhaps, the necessary
requisites, for she appeared to me in a very singular position, as if
she had just escaped from some disagreeable adventure, and I brought her
my dressing-case.

I put out all the little instruments for cleanliness and comfort which
it contained: a nail-brush, a new toothbrush—I always carry a selection
of them about with me—my nail-scissors, a nail-file, and sponges. I
uncorked a bottle of eau de cologne, one of lavender-water, and a little
bottle of new-mown hay, so that she might have a choice. Then I opened
my powder-box, and put out the powder-puff, placed my fine towels over
the water-jug, and a piece of new soap near the basin.

She watched my movements with a look of annoyance in her wide-open eyes,
without appearing either astonished or pleased at my forethought.

“Here is all that you require,” I then said; “I will tell you when
supper is ready.”

When I returned to the sitting-room I found that Paul had shut himself
in the other room, so I sat down to wait.

A waiter went to and fro, bringing plates and glasses. He laid the table
slowly, then put a cold chicken on it, and told me that all was ready.

I knocked gently at Mademoiselle Rondoli's door. “Come in,” she said,
and when I did so I was struck by a strong, heavy smell of perfumes, as
if I were in a hairdresser's shop.

The Italian was sitting on her trunk in an attitude either of thoughtful
discontent or absent-mindedness. The towel was still folded over the
waterjug that was full of water, and the soap, untouched and dry, was
lying beside the empty basin; but one would have thought that the young
woman had used half the contents of the bottles of perfume. The eau de
cologne, however, had been spared, as only about a third of it had gone;
but to make up for that she had used a surprising amount of lavender-
water and new-mown hay. A cloud of violet powder, a vague white mist,
seemed still to be floating in the air, from the effects of her over-
powdering her face and neck. It seemed to cover her eyelashes, eyebrows,
and the hair on her temples like snow, while her cheeks were plastered
with it, and layers of it covered her nostrils, the corners of her eyes,
and her chin.

When she got up she exhaled such a strong odor of perfume that it almost
made me feel faint.

When we sat down to supper, I found that Paul was in a most execrable
temper, and I could get nothing out of him but blame, irritable words,
and disagreeable remarks.

Mademoiselle Francesca ate like an ogre, and as soon as she had finished
her meal she threw herself upon the sofa in the sitting-room. Sitting
down beside her, I said gallantly, kissing her hand:

“Shall I have the bed prepared, or will you sleep on the couch?”

“It is all the same to me. 'Che mi fa'!”

Her indifference vexed me.

“Should you like to retire at once?”

“Yes; I am very sleepy.”

She got up, yawned, gave her hand to Paul, who took it with a furious
look, and I lighted her into the bedroom. A disquieting feeling haunted
me. “Here is all you want,” I said again.

The next morning she got up early, like a woman who is accustomed to
work. She woke me by doing so, and I watched her through my half-closed
eyelids.

She came and went without hurrying herself, as if she were astonished at
having nothing to do. At length she went to the dressing-table, and in a
moment emptied all my bottles of perfume. She certainly also used some
water, but very little.

When she was quite dressed, she sat down on her trunk again, and
clasping one knee between her hands, she seemed to be thinking.

At that moment I pretended to first notice her, and said:

“Good-morning, Francesca.”

Without seeming in at all a better temper than the previous night, she
murmured, “Good-morning!”

When I asked her whether she had slept well, she nodded her head, and
jumping out of bed, I went and kissed her.

She turned her face toward me like a child who is being kissed against
its will; but I took her tenderly in my arms, and gently pressed my lips
on her eyelids, which she closed with evident distaste under my kisses
on her fresh cheek and full lips, which she turned away.

“You don't seem to like being kissed,” I said to her.

“Mica!” was her only answer.

I sat down on the trunk by her side, and passing my arm through hers, I
said: “Mica! mica! mica! in reply to everything. I shall call you
Mademoiselle Mica, I think.”

For the first time I fancied that I saw the shadow of a smile on her
lips, but it passed by so quickly that I may have been mistaken.

“But if you never say anything but Mica, I shall not know what to do to
please you. Let me see; what shall we do to-day?”

She hesitated a moment, as if some fancy had flitted through her head,
and then she said carelessly: “It is all the same to me; whatever you
like.”

“Very well, Mademoiselle Mica, we will have a carriage and go for a
drive.”

“As you please,” she said.

Paul was waiting for us in the dining-room, looking as bored as third
parties usually do in love affairs. I assumed a delighted air, and shook
hands with him with triumphant energy.

“What are you thinking of doing?” he asked.

“First of all, we will go and see a little of the town, and then we
might get a carriage and take a drive in the neighborhood.”

We breakfasted almost in silence, and then set out. I dragged Francesca
from palace to palace, and she either looked at nothing or merely
glanced carelessly at the various masterpieces. Paul followed us,
growling all sorts of disagreeable things. Then we all three took a
drive in silence into the country and returned to dinner.

The next day it was the same thing and the next day again; and on the
third Paul said to me: “Look here, I am going to leave you; I am not
going to stop here for three weeks watching you make love to this
creature.”

I was perplexed and annoyed, for to my great surprise I had become
singularly attached to Francesca. A man is but weak and foolish, carried
away by the merest trifle, and a coward every time that his senses are
excited or mastered. I clung to this unknown girl, silent and
dissatisfied as she always was. I liked her somewhat ill-tempered face,
the dissatisfied droop of her mouth, the weariness of her look; I liked
her fatigued movements, the contemptuous way in which she let me kiss
her, the very indifference of her caresses. A secret bond, that
mysterious bond of physical love, which does not satisfy, bound me to
her. I told Paul so, quite frankly. He treated me as if I were a fool,
and then said:

“Very well, take her with you.”

But she obstinately refused to leave Genoa, without giving any reason. I
besought, I reasoned, I promised, but all was of no avail, and so I
stayed on.

Paul declared that he would go by himself, and went so far as to pack up
his portmanteau; but he remained all the same.

Thus a fortnight passed. Francesca was always silent and irritable,
lived beside me rather than with me, responded to all my requirements
and all my propositions with her perpetual Che mi fa, or with her no
less perpetual Mica.

My friend became more and more furious, but my only answer was, “You can
go if you are tired of staying. I am not detaining you.”

Then he called me names, overwhelmed me with reproaches, and exclaimed:
“Where do you think I can go now? We had three weeks at our disposal,
and here is a fortnight gone! I cannot continue my journey now; and, in
any case, I am not going to Venice, Florence and Rome all by myself. But
you will pay for it, and more dearly than you think, most likely. You
are not going to bring a man all the way from Paris in order to shut him
up at a hotel in Genoa with an Italian adventuress.”

When I told him, very calmly, to return to Paris, he exclaimed that he
intended to do so the very next day; but the next day he was still
there, still in a rage and swearing.

By this time we began to be known in the streets through which we
wandered from morning till night. Sometimes French people would turn
round astonished at meeting their fellow-countrymen in the company of
this girl with her striking costume, who looked singularly out of place,
not to say compromising, beside us.

She used to walk along, leaning on my arm, without looking at anything.
Why did she remain with me, with us, who seemed to do so little to amuse
her? Who was she? Where did she come from? What was she doing? Had she
any plan or idea? Where did she live? As an adventuress, or by chance
meetings? I tried in vain to find out and to explain it. The better I
knew her the more enigmatical she became. She seemed to be a girl of
poor family who had been taken away, and then cast aside and lost. What
did she think would become of her, or whom was she waiting for? She
certainly did not appear to be trying to make a conquest of me, or to
make any real profit out of me.

I tried to question her, to speak to her of her childhood and family;
but she never gave me an answer. I stayed with her, my heart unfettered
and my senses enchained, never wearied of holding her in my arms, that
proud and quarrelsome woman, captivated by my senses, or rather carried
away, overcome by a youthful, healthy, powerful charm, which emanated
from her fragrant person and from the well-molded lines of her body.

Another week passed, and the term of my journey was drawing on, for I
had to be back in Paris by the eleventh of July. By this time Paul had
come to take his part in the adventure, though still grumbling at me,
while I invented pleasures, distractions and excursions to amuse
Francesca and my friend; and in order to do this I gave myself a great
amount of trouble.

One day I proposed an excursion to Sta Margarita, that charming little
town in the midst of gardens, hidden at the foot of a slope which
stretches far into the sea up to the village of Portofino. We three
walked along the excellent road which goes along the foot of the
mountain. Suddenly Francesca said to me: “I shall not be able to go with
you to-morrow; I must go and see some of my relatives.”

That was all; I did not ask her any questions, as I was quite sure she
would not answer me.

The next morning she got up very early. When she spoke to me it was in a
constrained and hesitating voice:

“If I do not come back again, shall you come and fetch me?”

“Most certainly I shall,” was my reply. “Where shall I go to find you?”

Then she explained: “You must go into the Street Victor-Emmanuel, down
the Falcone road and the side street San-Rafael and into the furniture
shop in the building at the right at the end of a court, and there you
must ask for Madame Rondoli. That is the place.”

And so she went away, leaving me rather astonished.

When Paul saw that I was alone, he stammered out: “Where; is Francesca?”
And when I told him what had happened, he exclaimed:

“My dear fellow, let us make use of our opportunity, and bolt; as it is,
our time is up. Two days, more or less, make no difference. Let us go at
once; go and pack up your things. Off we go!”

But I refused. I could not, as I told him, leave the girl in that manner
after such companionship for nearly three weeks. At any rate, I ought to
say good-by to her, and make her accept a present; I certainly had no
intention of behaving badly to her.

But he would not listen; he pressed and worried me, but I would not give
way.

I remained indoors for several hours, expecting Francesca's return, but
she did not come, and at last, at dinner, Paul said with a triumphant
air:

“She has flown, my dear fellow; it is certainly very strange.”

I must acknowledge that I was surprised and rather vexed. He laughed in
my face, and made fun of me.

“It is not exactly a bad way of getting rid of you, though rather
primitive. 'Just wait for me, I shall be back in a moment,' they often
say. How long are you going to wait? I should not wonder if you were
foolish enough to go and look for her at the address she gave you. 'Does
Madame Rondoli live here, please?' 'No, monsieur.' I'll bet that you are
longing to go there.”

“Not in the least,” I protested, “and I assure you that if she does not
come back to-morrow morning I shall leave by the express at eight
o'clock. I shall have waited twenty-four hours, and that is enough; my
conscience will be quite clear.”

I spent an uneasy and unpleasant evening, for I really had at heart a
very tender feeling for her. I went to bed at twelve o'clock, and hardly
slept at all. I got up at six, called Paul, packed up my things, and two
hours later we set out for France together.

III

The next year, at just about the same period, I was seized as one is
with a periodical fever, with a new desire to go to Italy, and I
immediately made up my mind to carry it into effect. There is no doubt
that every really well-educated man ought to see Florence, Venice and
Rome. This travel has, also, the additional advantage of providing many
subjects of conversation in society, and of giving one an opportunity
for bringing forward artistic generalities which appear profound.

This time I went alone, and I arrived at Genoa at the same time as the
year before, but without any adventure on the road. I went to the same
hotel, and actually happened to have the same room.

I was hardly in bed when the recollection of Francesca which, since the
evening before, had been floating vaguely through my mind, haunted me
with strange persistency. I thought of her nearly the whole night, and
by degrees the wish to see her again seized me, a confused desire at
first, which gradually grew stronger and more intense. At last I made up
my mind to spend the next day in Genoa to try to find her, and if I
should not succeed, to take the evening train.

Early in the morning I set out on my search. I remembered the directions
she had given me when she left me, perfectly—Victor-Emmanuel Street,
house of the furniture-dealer, at the bottom of the yard on the right.

I found it without the least difficulty, and I knocked at the door of a
somewhat dilapidated-looking dwelling. It was opened by a stout woman,
who must have been very handsome, but who actually was only very dirty.
Although she had too much embonpoint, she still bore the lines of
majestic beauty; her untidy hair fell over her forehead and shoulders,
and one fancied one could see her floating about in an enormous
dressing-gown covered with spots of dirt and grease. Round her neck she
wore a great gilt necklace, and on her wrists were splendid bracelets of
Genoa filigree work.

In rather a hostile manner she asked me what I wanted, and I replied by
requesting her to tell me whether Francesca Rondoli lived there.

“What do you want with her?” she asked.

“I had the pleasure of meeting her last year, and I should like to see
her again.”

The old woman looked at me suspiciously.

“Where did you meet her?” she asked.

“Why, here in Genoa itself.”

“What is your name?”

I hesitated a moment, and then I told her. I had hardly done so when the
Italian put out her arms as if to embrace me. “Oh! you are the Frenchman
how glad I am to see you! But what grief you caused the poor child! She
waited for you a month; yes, a whole month. At first she thought you
would come to fetch her. She wanted to see whether you loved her. If you
only knew how she cried when she saw that you were not coming! She cried
till she seemed to have no tears left. Then she went to the hotel, but
you had gone. She thought that most likely you were travelling in Italy,
and that you would return by Genoa to fetch her, as she would not go
with you. And she waited more than a month, monsieur; and she was so
unhappy; so unhappy. I am her mother.”

I really felt a little disconcerted, but I regained my self-possession,
and asked:

“Where is she now?”

“She has gone to Paris with a painter, a delightful man, who loves her
very much, and who gives her everything that she wants. Just look at
what she sent me; they are very pretty, are they not?”

And she showed me, with quite southern animation, her heavy bracelets
and necklace. “I have also,” she continued, “earrings with stones in
them, a silk dress, and some rings; but I only wear them on grand
occasions. Oh! she is very happy, monsieur, very happy. She will be so
pleased when I tell her you have been here. But pray come in and sit
down. You will take something or other, surely?”

But I refused, as I now wished to get away by the first train; but she
took me by the arm and pulled me in, saying:

“Please, come in; I must tell her that you have been in here.”

I found myself in a small, rather dark room, furnished with only a table
and a few chairs.

She continued: “Oh, she is very happy now, very happy. When you met her
in the train she was very miserable; she had had an unfortunate love
affair in Marseilles, and she was coming home, poor child. But she liked
you at once, though she was still rather sad, you understand. Now she
has all she wants, and she writes and tells me everything that she does.
His name is Bellemin, and they say he is a great painter in your
country. He fell in love with her at first sight. But you will take a
glass of sirup?-it is very good. Are you quite alone, this year?”

“Yes,” I said, “quite alone.”

I felt an increasing inclination to laugh, as my first disappointment
was dispelled by what Mother Rondoli said. I was obliged; however, to
drink a glass of her sirup.

“So you are quite alone?” she continued. “How sorry I am that Francesca
is not here now; she would have been company for you all the time you
stayed. It is not very amusing to go about all by oneself, and she will
be very sorry also.”

Then, as I was getting up to go, she exclaimed:

“But would you not like Carlotta to go with you? She knows all the walks
very well. She is my second daughter, monsieur.”

No doubt she took my look of surprise for consent, for she opened the
inner door and called out up the dark stairs which I could not see:

“Carlotta! Carlotta! make haste down, my dear child.”

I tried to protest, but she would not listen.

“No; she will be very glad to go with you; she is very nice, and much
more cheerful than her sister, and she is a good girl, a very good girl,
whom I love very much.”

In a few moments a tall, slender, dark girl appeared, her hair hanging
down, and her youthful figure showing unmistakably beneath an old dress
of her mother's.

The latter at once told her how matters stood.

“This is Francesca's Frenchman, you know, the one whom she knew last
year. He is quite alone, and has come to look for her, poor fellow; so I
told him that you would go with him to keep him company.”

The girl looked at me with her handsome dark eyes, and said, smiling:

“I have no objection, if he wishes it”

I could not possibly refuse, and merely said:

“Of course, I shall be very glad of your company.”

Her mother pushed her out. “Go and get dressed directly; put on your
blue dress and your hat with the flowers, and make haste.”

As soon as she had left the room the old woman explained herself: “I
have two others, but they are much younger. It costs a lot of money to
bring up four children. Luckily the eldest is off my hands at present.”

Then she told all about herself, about her husband, who had been an
employee on the railway, but who was dead, and she expatiated on the
good qualities of Carlotta, her second girl, who soon returned, dressed,
as her sister had been, in a striking, peculiar manner.

Her mother examined her from head to foot, and, after finding everything
right, she said:

“Now, my children, you can go.” Then turning to the girl, she said: “Be
sure you are back by ten o'clock to-night; you know the door is locked
then.” The answer was:

“All right, mamma; don't alarm yourself.”

She took my arm and we went wandering about the streets, just as I had
wandered the previous year with her sister.

We returned to the hotel for lunch, and then I took my new friend to
Santa Margarita, just as I had taken her sister the year previously.

During the whole fortnight which I had at my disposal, I took Carlotta
to all the places of interest in and about Genoa. She gave me no cause
to regret her sister.

She cried when I left her, and the morning of my departure I gave her
four bracelets for her mother, besides a substantial token of my
affection for herself.

One of these days I intend to return to Italy, and I cannot help
remembering with a certain amount of uneasiness, mingled with hope, that
Madame Rondoli has two more daughters.





ORIGINAL SHORT STORIES, Vol. 7.

GUY DE MAUPASSANT ORIGINAL SHORT STORIES Translated by ALBERT M. C.
McMASTER, B.A. A. E. HENDERSON, B.A. MME. QUESADA and Others





VOLUME VII.





THE FALSE GEMS

Monsieur Lantin had met the young girl at a reception at the house of
the second head of his department, and had fallen head over heels in
love with her.

She was the daughter of a provincial tax collector, who had been dead
several years. She and her mother came to live in Paris, where the
latter, who made the acquaintance of some of the families in her
neighborhood, hoped to find a husband for her daughter.

They had very moderate means, and were honorable, gentle, and quiet.

The young girl was a perfect type of the virtuous woman in whose hands
every sensible young man dreams of one day intrusting his happiness. Her
simple beauty had the charm of angelic modesty, and the imperceptible
smile which constantly hovered about the lips seemed to be the
reflection of a pure and lovely soul. Her praises resounded on every
side. People never tired of repeating: “Happy the man who wins her love!
He could not find a better wife.”

Monsieur Lantin, then chief clerk in the Department of the Interior,
enjoyed a snug little salary of three thousand five hundred francs, and
he proposed to this model young girl, and was accepted.

He was unspeakably happy with her. She governed his household with such
clever economy that they seemed to live in luxury. She lavished the most
delicate attentions on her husband, coaxed and fondled him; and so great
was her charm that six years after their marriage, Monsieur Lantin
discovered that he loved his wife even more than during the first days
of their honeymoon.

He found fault with only two of her tastes: Her love for the theatre,
and her taste for imitation jewelry. Her friends (the wives of some
petty officials) frequently procured for her a box at the theatre, often
for the first representations of the new plays; and her husband was
obliged to accompany her, whether he wished it or not, to these
entertainments which bored him excessively after his day's work at the
office.

After a time, Monsieur Lantin begged his wife to request some lady of
her acquaintance to accompany her, and to bring her home after the
theatre. She opposed this arrangement, at first; but, after much
persuasion, finally consented, to the infinite delight of her husband.

Now, with her love for the theatre, came also the desire for ornaments.
Her costumes remained as before, simple, in good taste, and always
modest; but she soon began to adorn her ears with huge rhinestones,
which glittered and sparkled like real diamonds. Around her neck she
wore strings of false pearls, on her arms bracelets of imitation gold,
and combs set with glass jewels.

Her husband frequently remonstrated with her, saying:

“My dear, as you cannot afford to buy real jewelry, you ought to appear
adorned with your beauty and modesty alone, which are the rarest
ornaments of your sex.”

But she would smile sweetly, and say:

“What can I do? I am so fond of jewelry. It is my only weakness. We
cannot change our nature.”

Then she would wind the pearl necklace round her fingers, make the
facets of the crystal gems sparkle, and say:

“Look! are they not lovely? One would swear they were real.”

Monsieur Lantin would then answer, smilingly:

“You have bohemian tastes, my dear.”

Sometimes, of an evening, when they were enjoying a tete-a-tete by the
fireside, she would place on the tea table the morocco leather box
containing the “trash,” as Monsieur Lantin called it. She would examine
the false gems with a passionate attention, as though they imparted some
deep and secret joy; and she often persisted in passing a necklace
around her husband's neck, and, laughing heartily, would exclaim: “How
droll you look!” Then she would throw herself into his arms, and kiss
him affectionately.

One evening, in winter, she had been to the opera, and returned home
chilled through and through. The next morning she coughed, and eight
days later she died of inflammation of the lungs.

Monsieur Lantin's despair was so great that his hair became white in one
month. He wept unceasingly; his heart was broken as he remembered her
smile, her voice, every charm of his dead wife.

Time did not assuage his grief. Often, during office hours, while his
colleagues were discussing the topics of the day, his eyes would
suddenly fill with tears, and he would give vent to his grief in
heartrending sobs. Everything in his wife's room remained as it was
during her lifetime; all her furniture, even her clothing, being left as
it was on the day of her death. Here he was wont to seclude himself
daily and think of her who had been his treasure-the joy of his
existence.

But life soon became a struggle. His income, which, in the hands of his
wife, covered all household expenses, was now no longer sufficient for
his own immediate wants; and he wondered how she could have managed to
buy such excellent wine and the rare delicacies which he could no longer
procure with his modest resources.

He incurred some debts, and was soon reduced to absolute poverty. One
morning, finding himself without a cent in his pocket, he resolved to
sell something, and immediately the thought occurred to him of disposing
of his wife's paste jewels, for he cherished in his heart a sort of
rancor against these “deceptions,” which had always irritated him in the
past. The very sight of them spoiled, somewhat, the memory of his lost
darling.

To the last days of her life she had continued to make purchases,
bringing home new gems almost every evening, and he turned them over
some time before finally deciding to sell the heavy necklace, which she
seemed to prefer, and which, he thought, ought to be worth about six or
seven francs; for it was of very fine workmanship, though only
imitation.

He put it in his pocket, and started out in search of what seemed a
reliable jeweler's shop. At length he found one, and went in, feeling a
little ashamed to expose his misery, and also to offer such a worthless
article for sale.

“Sir,” said he to the merchant, “I would like to know what this is
worth.”

The man took the necklace, examined it, called his clerk, and made some
remarks in an undertone; he then put the ornament back on the counter,
and looked at it from a distance to judge of the effect.

Monsieur Lantin, annoyed at all these ceremonies, was on the point of
saying: “Oh! I know well enough it is not worth anything,” when the
jeweler said: “Sir, that necklace is worth from twelve to fifteen
thousand francs; but I could not buy it, unless you can tell me exactly
where it came from.”

The widower opened his eyes wide and remained gaping, not comprehending
the merchant's meaning. Finally he stammered: “You say—are you sure?”
The other replied, drily: “You can try elsewhere and see if any one will
offer you more. I consider it worth fifteen thousand at the most. Come
back; here, if you cannot do better.”

Monsieur Lantin, beside himself with astonishment, took up the necklace
and left the store. He wished time for reflection.

Once outside, he felt inclined to laugh, and said to himself: “The fool!
Oh, the fool! Had I only taken him at his word! That jeweler cannot
distinguish real diamonds from the imitation article.”

A few minutes after, he entered another store, in the Rue de la Paix. As
soon as the proprietor glanced at the necklace, he cried out:

“Ah, parbleu! I know it well; it was bought here.”

Monsieur Lantin, greatly disturbed, asked:

“How much is it worth?”

“Well, I sold it for twenty thousand francs. I am willing to take it
back for eighteen thousand, when you inform me, according to our legal
formality, how it came to be in your possession.”

This time, Monsieur Lantin was dumfounded. He replied:

“But—but—examine it well. Until this moment I was under the impression
that it was imitation.”

The jeweler asked:

“What is your name, sir?”

“Lantin—I am in the employ of the Minister of the Interior. I live at
number sixteen Rue des Martyrs.”

The merchant looked through his books, found the entry, and said: “That
necklace was sent to Madame Lantin's address, sixteen Rue des Martyrs,
July 20, 1876.”

The two men looked into each other's eyes—the widower speechless with
astonishment; the jeweler scenting a thief. The latter broke the
silence.

“Will you leave this necklace here for twenty-four hours?” said he; “I
will give you a receipt.”

Monsieur Lantin answered hastily: “Yes, certainly.” Then, putting the
ticket in his pocket, he left the store.

He wandered aimlessly through the streets, his mind in a state of
dreadful confusion. He tried to reason, to understand. His wife could
not afford to purchase such a costly ornament. Certainly not.

But, then, it must have been a present!—a present!—a present, from whom?
Why was it given her?

He stopped, and remained standing in the middle of the street. A
horrible doubt entered his mind—She? Then, all the other jewels must
have been presents, too! The earth seemed to tremble beneath him—the
tree before him to be falling; he threw up his arms, and fell to the
ground, unconscious. He recovered his senses in a pharmacy, into which
the passers-by had borne him. He asked to be taken home, and, when he
reached the house, he shut himself up in his room, and wept until
nightfall. Finally, overcome with fatigue, he went to bed and fell into
a heavy sleep.

The sun awoke him next morning, and he began to dress slowly to go to
the office. It was hard to work after such shocks. He sent a letter to
his employer, requesting to be excused. Then he remembered that he had
to return to the jeweler's. He did not like the idea; but he could not
leave the necklace with that man. He dressed and went out.

It was a lovely day; a clear, blue sky smiled on the busy city below.
Men of leisure were strolling about with their hands in their pockets.

Monsieur Lantin, observing them, said to himself: “The rich, indeed, are
happy. With money it is possible to forget even the deepest sorrow. One
can go where one pleases, and in travel find that distraction which is
the surest cure for grief. Oh if I were only rich!”

He perceived that he was hungry, but his pocket was empty. He again
remembered the necklace. Eighteen thousand francs! Eighteen thousand
francs! What a sum!

He soon arrived in the Rue de la Paix, opposite the jeweler's. Eighteen
thousand francs! Twenty times he resolved to go in, but shame kept him
back. He was hungry, however—very hungry—and not a cent in his pocket.
He decided quickly, ran across the street, in order not to have time for
reflection, and rushed into the store.

The proprietor immediately came forward, and politely offered him a
chair; the clerks glanced at him knowingly.

“I have made inquiries, Monsieur Lantin,” said the jeweler, “and if you
are still resolved to dispose of the gems, I am ready to pay you the
price I offered.”

“Certainly, sir,” stammered Monsieur Lantin.

Whereupon the proprietor took from a drawer eighteen large bills,
counted, and handed them to Monsieur Lantin, who signed a receipt; and,
with trembling hand, put the money into his pocket.

As he was about to leave the store, he turned toward the merchant, who
still wore the same knowing smile, and lowering his eyes, said:

“I have—I have other gems, which came from the same source. Will you buy
them, also?”

The merchant bowed: “Certainly, sir.”

Monsieur Lantin said gravely: “I will bring them to you.” An hour later,
he returned with the gems.

The large diamond earrings were worth twenty thousand francs; the
bracelets, thirty-five thousand; the rings, sixteen thousand; a set of
emeralds and sapphires, fourteen thousand; a gold chain with solitaire
pendant, forty thousand—making the sum of one hundred and forty-three
thousand francs.

The jeweler remarked, jokingly:

“There was a person who invested all her savings in precious stones.”

Monsieur Lantin replied, seriously:

“It is only another way of investing one's money.”

That day he lunched at Voisin's, and drank wine worth twenty francs a
bottle. Then he hired a carriage and made a tour of the Bois. He gazed
at the various turnouts with a kind of disdain, and could hardly refrain
from crying out to the occupants:

“I, too, am rich!—I am worth two hundred thousand francs.”

Suddenly he thought of his employer. He drove up to the bureau, and
entered gaily, saying:

“Sir, I have come to resign my position. I have just inherited three
hundred thousand francs.”

He shook hands with his former colleagues, and confided to them some of
his projects for the future; he then went off to dine at the Cafe
Anglais.

He seated himself beside a gentleman of aristocratic bearing; and,
during the meal, informed the latter confidentially that he had just
inherited a fortune of four hundred thousand francs.

For the first time in his life, he was not bored at the theatre, and
spent the remainder of the night in a gay frolic.

Six months afterward, he married again. His second wife was a very
virtuous woman; but had a violent temper. She caused him much sorrow.





FASCINATION

I can tell you neither the name of the country, nor the name of the man.
It was a long, long way from here on a fertile and burning shore. We had
been walking since the morning along the coast, with the blue sea bathed
in sunlight on one side of us, and the shore covered with crops on the
other. Flowers were growing quite close to the waves, those light,
gentle, lulling waves. It was very warm, a soft warmth permeated with
the odor of the rich, damp, fertile soil. One fancied one was inhaling
germs.

I had been told, that evening, that I should meet with hospitality at
the house of a Frenchman who lived in an orange grove at the end of a
promontory. Who was he? I did not know. He had come there one morning
ten years before, and had bought land which he planted with vines and
sowed with grain. He had worked, this man, with passionate energy, with
fury. Then as he went on from month to month, year to year, enlarging
his boundaries, cultivating incessantly the strong virgin soil, he
accumulated a fortune by his indefatigable labor.

But he kept on working, they said. Rising at daybreak, he would remain
in the fields till evening, superintending everything without ceasing,
tormented by one fixed idea, the insatiable desire for money, which
nothing can quiet, nothing satisfy. He now appeared to be very rich. The
sun was setting as I reached his house. It was situated as described, at
the end of a promontory in the midst of a grove of orange trees. It was
a large square house, quite plain, and overlooked the sea. As I
approached, a man wearing a long beard appeared in the doorway. Having
greeted him, I asked if he would give me shelter for the night. He held
out his hand and said, smiling:

“Come in, monsieur, consider yourself at home.”

He led me into a room, and put a man servant at my disposal with the
perfect ease and familiar graciousness of a man-of-the-world. Then he
left me saying:

“We will dine as soon as you are ready to come downstairs.”

We took dinner, sitting opposite each other, on a terrace facing the
sea. I began to talk about this rich, distant, unknown land. He smiled,
as he replied carelessly:

“Yes, this country is beautiful. But no country satisfies one when they
are far from the one they love.”

“You regret France?”

“I regret Paris.”

“Why do you not go back?”

“Oh, I will return there.”

And gradually we began to talk of French society, of the boulevards, and
things Parisian. He asked me questions that showed he knew all about
these things, mentioned names, all the familiar names in vaudeville
known on the sidewalks.

“Whom does one see at Tortoni's now?

“Always the same crowd, except those who died.” I looked at him
attentively, haunted by a vague recollection. I certainly had seen that
head somewhere. But where? And when? He seemed tired, although he was
vigorous; and sad, although he was determined. His long, fair beard fell
on his chest. He was somewhat bald and had heavy eyebrows and a thick
mustache.

The sun was sinking into the sea, turning the vapor from the earth into
a fiery mist. The orange blossoms exhaled their powerful, delicious
fragrance. He seemed to see nothing besides me, and gazing steadfastly
he appeared to discover in the depths of my mind the far-away, beloved
and well-known image of the wide, shady pavement leading from the
Madeleine to the Rue Drouot.

“Do you know Boutrelle?”

“Yes, indeed.”

“Has he changed much?”

“Yes, his hair is quite white.”

“And La Ridamie?”

“The same as ever.”

“And the women? Tell me about the women. Let's see. Do you know Suzanne
Verner?”

“Yes, very much. But that is over.”

“Ah! And Sophie Astier?”

“Dead.”

“Poor girl. Did you—did you know—”

But he ceased abruptly: And then, in a changed voice, his face suddenly
turning pale, he continued:

“No, it is best that I should not speak of that any more, it breaks my
heart.”

Then, as if to change the current of his thoughts he rose.

“Would you like to go in?” he said.

“Yes, I think so.”

And he preceded me into the house. The downstairs rooms were enormous,
bare and mournful, and had a deserted look. Plates and glasses were
scattered on the tables, left there by the dark-skinned servants who
wandered incessantly about this spacious dwelling.

Two rifles were banging from two nails, on the wall; and in the corners
of the rooms were spades, fishing poles, dried palm leaves, every
imaginable thing set down at random when people came home in the evening
and ready to hand when they went out at any time, or went to work.

My host smiled as he said:

“This is the dwelling, or rather the kennel, of an exile, but my own
room is cleaner. Let us go there.”

As I entered I thought I was in a second-hand store, it was so full of
things of all descriptions, strange things of various kinds that one
felt must be souvenirs. On the walls were two pretty paintings by well-
known artists, draperies, weapons, swords and pistols, and exactly in
the middle, on the principal panel, a square of white satin in a gold
frame.

Somewhat surprised, I approached to look at it, and perceived a hairpin
fastened in the centre of the glossy satin. My host placed his hand on
my shoulder.

“That,” said he, “is the only thing that I look at here, and the only
thing that I have seen for ten years. M. Prudhomme said: 'This sword is
the most memorable day of my life.' I can say: 'This hairpin is all my
life.'”

I sought for some commonplace remark, and ended by saying:

“You have suffered on account of some woman?”

He replied abruptly:

“Say, rather, that I am suffering like a wretch.”

“But come out on my balcony. A name rose to my lips just now which I
dared not utter; for if you had said 'Dead' as you did of Sophie Astier,
I should have fired a bullet into my brain, this very day.”

We had gone out on the wide balcony from whence we could see two gulfs,
one to the right and the other to the left, enclosed by high gray
mountains. It was just twilight and the reflection of the sunset still
lingered in the sky.

He continued:

“Is Jeanne de Limours still alive?”

His eyes were fastened on mine and were full of a trembling anxiety. I
smiled.

“Parbleu—she is prettier than ever.”

“Do you know her?”

“Yes.”

He hesitated and then said:

“Very well?”

“No.”

He took my hand.

“Tell me about her,” he said.

“Why, I have nothing to tell. She is one of the most charming women, or,
rather, girls, and the most admired in Paris. She leads a delightful
existence and lives like a princess, that is all.”

“I love her,” he murmured in a tone in which he might have said “I am
going to die.” Then suddenly he continued:

“Ah! For three years we lived in a state of terror and delight. I almost
killed her five or six times. She tried to pierce my eyes with that
hairpin that you saw just now. Look, do you see that little white spot
beneath my left eye? We loved each other. How can I explain that
infatuation? You would not understand it.”

“There must be a simple form of love, the result of the mutual impulse
of two hearts and two souls. But there is also assuredly an atrocious
form, that tortures one cruelly, the result of the occult blending of
two unlike personalities who detest each other at the same time that
they adore one another.”

“In three years this woman had ruined me. I had four million francs
which she squandered in her calm manner, quietly, eat them up with a
gentle smile that seemed to fall from her eyes on to her lips.”

“You know her? There is something irresistible about her. What is it? I
do not know. Is it those gray eyes whose glance penetrates you like a
gimlet and remains there like the point of an arrow? It is more likely
the gentle, indifferent and fascinating smile that she wears like a
mask. Her slow grace pervades you little by little; exhales from her
like a perfume, from her slim figure that scarcely sways as she passes
you, for she seems to glide rather than walk; from her pretty voice with
its slight drawl that would seem to be the music of her smile; from her
gestures, also, which are never exaggerated, but always appropriate, and
intoxicate your vision with their harmony. For three years she was the
only being that existed for me on the earth! How I suffered; for she
deceived me as she deceived everyone! Why? For no reason; just for the
pleasure of deceiving. And when I found it out, when I treated her as a
common girl and a beggar, she said quietly: 'Are we married?'

“Since I have been here I have thought so much about her that at last I
understand her. She is Manon Lescaut come back to life. It is Marion,
who could not love without deceiving; Marion for whom love, amusement,
money, are all one.”

He was silent. After a few minutes he resumed:

“When I had spent my last sou on her she said simply:

“'You understand, my dear boy, that I cannot live on air and weather. I
love you very much, better than anyone, but I must live. Poverty and I
could not keep house together.”

“And if I should tell you what a horrible life I led with her! When I
looked at her I would just as soon have killed her as kissed her. When I
looked at her . . . I felt a furious desire to open my arms to embrace
and strangle her. She had, back of her eyes, something false and
intangible that made me execrate her; and that was, perhaps, the reason
I loved her so well. The eternal feminine, the odious and seductive
feminine, was stronger in her than in any other woman. She was full of
it, overcharged, as with a venomous and intoxicating fluid. She was a
woman to a greater extent than any one has ever been.”

“And when I went out with her she would look at all men in such a manner
that she seemed to offer herself to each in a single glance. This
exasperated me, and still it attached me to her all the more. This
creature in just walking along the street belonged to everyone, in spite
of me, in spite of herself, by the very fact of her nature, although she
had a modest, gentle carriage. Do you understand?

“And what torture! At the theatre, at the restaurant she seemed to
belong to others under my very eyes. And as soon as I left her she did
belong to others.

“It is now ten years since I saw her and I love her better than ever.”

Night spread over the earth. A strong perfume of orange blossoms
pervaded the air. I said:

“Will you see her again?”

“Parbleu! I now have here, in land and money, seven to eight thousand
francs. When I reach a million I shall sell out and go away. I shall
have enough to live on with her for a year—one whole year. And then,
good-bye, my life will be finished.”

“But after that?” I asked.

“After that, I do not know. That will be all, I may possibly ask her to
take me as a valet de chambre.”





YVETTE SAMORIS “The Comtesse Samoris.”

“That lady in black over there?”

“The very one. She's wearing mourning for her daughter, whom she
killed.”

“You don't mean that seriously? How did she die?”

“Oh! it is a very simple story, without any crime in it, any violence.”

“Then what really happened?”

“Almost nothing. Many courtesans are born to be virtuous women, they
say; and many women called virtuous are born to be courtesans—is that
not so? Now, Madame Samoris, who was born a courtesan, had a daughter
born a virtuous woman, that's all.”

“I don't quite understand you.”

“I'll—explain what I mean. The comtesse is nothing but a common,
ordinary parvenue originating no one knows where. A Hungarian or
Wallachian countess or I know not what. She appeared one winter in
apartments she had taken in the Champs Elysees, that quarter for
adventurers and adventuresses, and opened her drawing-room to the first
comer or to any one that turned up.

“I went there. Why? you will say. I really can't tell you. I went there,
as every one goes to such places because the women are facile and the
men are dishonest. You know that set composed of filibusters with varied
decorations, all noble, all titled, all unknown at the embassies, with
the exception of those who are spies. All talk of their honor without
the slightest occasion for doing so, boast of their ancestors, tell you
about their lives, braggarts, liars, sharpers, as dangerous as the false
cards they have up their sleeves, as delusive as their names—in short,
the aristocracy of the bagnio.

“I adore these people. They are interesting to study, interesting to
know, amusing to understand, often clever, never commonplace like public
functionaries. Their wives are always pretty, with a slight flavor of
foreign roguery, with the mystery of their existence, half of it perhaps
spent in a house of correction. They have, as a rule, magnificent eyes
and incredible hair. I adore them also.

“Madame Samoris is the type of these adventuresses, elegant, mature and
still beautiful. Charming feline creatures, you feel that they are
vicious to the marrow of their bones. You find them very amusing when
you visit them; they give card parties; they have dances and suppers; in
short, they offer you all the pleasures of social life.

“And she had a daughter—a tall, fine-looking girl, always ready for
amusement, always full of laughter and reckless gaiety—a true
adventuress' daughter—but, at the same time, an innocent,
unsophisticated, artless girl, who saw nothing, knew nothing, understood
nothing of all the things that happened in her father's house.

“The girl was simply a puzzle to me. She was a mystery. She lived amid
those infamous surroundings with a quiet, tranquil ease that was either
terribly criminal or else the result of innocence. She sprang from the
filth of that class like a beautiful flower fed on corruption.”

“How do you know about them?”

“How do I know? That's the funniest part of the business! One morning
there was a ring at my door, and my valet came up to tell me that M.
Joseph Bonenthal wanted to speak to me. I said directly:

“'And who is this gentleman?' My valet replied: 'I don't know, monsieur;
perhaps 'tis some one that wants employment.' And so it was. The man
wanted me to take him as a servant. I asked him where he had been last.
He answered: 'With the Comtesse Samoris.' 'Ah!' said I, 'but my house is
not a bit like hers.' 'I know that well, monsieur,' he said, 'and that's
the very reason I want to take service with monsieur. I've had enough of
these people: a man may stay a little while with them, but he won't
remain long with them.' I required an additional man servant at the time
and so I took him.

“A month later Mademoiselle Yvette Samoris died mysteriously, and here
are all the details of her death I could gather from Joseph, who got
them from his sweetheart, the comtesse's chambermaid.

“It was a ball night, and two newly arrived guests were chatting behind
a door. Mademoiselle Yvette, who had just been dancing, leaned against
this door to get a little air.

“They did not see her approaching, but she heard what they were saying.
And this was what they said:

“'But who is the father of the girl?'

“'A Russian, it appears; Count Rouvaloff. He never comes near the mother
now.'

“'And who is the reigning prince to-day?'

“'That English prince standing near the window; Madame Samoris adores
him. But her adoration of any one never lasts longer than a month or six
weeks. Nevertheless, as you see, she has a large circle of admirers. All
are called—and nearly all are chosen. That kind of thing costs a good
deal, but—hang it, what can you expect?'

“'And where did she get this name of Samoris?'

“'From the only man perhaps that she ever loved—a Jewish banker from
Berlin who goes by the name of Samuel Morris.'

“'Good. Thanks. Now that I know what kind of woman she is and have seen
her, I'm off!'

“What a shock this was to the mind of a young girl endowed with all the
instincts of a virtuous woman! What despair overwhelmed that simple
soul! What mental tortures quenched her unbounded gaiety, her delightful
laughter, her exultant satisfaction with life! What a conflict took
place in that youthful heart up to the moment when the last guest had
left! Those were things that Joseph could not tell me. But, the same
night, Yvette abruptly entered her mother's room just as the comtesse
was getting into bed, sent out the lady's maid, who was close to the
door, and, standing erect and pale and with great staring eyes, she
said:

“'Mamma, listen to what I heard a little while ago during the ball.'

“And she repeated word for word the conversation just as I told it to
you.

“The comtesse was so stunned that she did not know what to say in reply
at first. When she recovered her self-possession she denied everything
and called God to witness that there was no truth in the story.

“The young girl went away, distracted but not convinced. And she began
to watch her mother.

“I remember distinctly the strange alteration that then took place in
her. She became grave and melancholy. She would fix on us her great
earnest eyes as if she wanted to read what was at the bottom of our
hearts. We did not know what to think of her and used to imagine that
she was looking out for a husband.

“One evening she overheard her mother talking to her admirer and later
saw them together, and her doubts were confirmed. She was heartbroken,
and after telling her mother what she had seen, she said coldly, like a
man of business laying down the terms of an agreement:

“'Here is what I have determined to do, mamma: We will both go away to
some little town, or rather into the country. We will live there quietly
as well as we can. Your jewelry alone may be called a fortune. If you
wish to marry some honest man, so much the better; still better will it
be if I can find one. If you don't consent to do this, I will kill
myself.'

“This time the comtesse ordered her daughter to go to bed and never to
speak again in this manner, so unbecoming in the mouth of a child toward
her mother.

“Yvette's answer to this was: 'I give you a month to reflect. If, at the
end of that month, we have not changed our way of living, I will kill
myself, since there is no other honorable issue left to my life.'

“And she left the room.

“At the end of a month the Comtesse Samoris had resumed her usual
entertainments, as though nothing had occurred. One day, under the
pretext that she had a bad toothache, Yvette purchased a few drops of
chloroform from a neighboring chemist. The next day she purchased more,
and every time she went out she managed to procure small doses of the
narcotic. She filled a bottle with it.

“One morning she was found in bed, lifeless and already quite cold, with
a cotton mask soaked in chloroform over her face.

“Her coffin was covered with flowers, the church was hung in white.
There was a large crowd at the funeral ceremony.

“Ah! well, if I had known—but you never can know—I would have married
that girl, for she was infernally pretty.”

“And what became of the mother?”

“Oh! she shed a lot of tears over it. She has only begun to receive
visits again for the past week.”

“And what explanation is given of the girl's death?”

“Oh! they pretended that it was an accident caused by a new stove, the
mechanism of which got out of order. As a good many such accidents have
occurred, the thing seemed probable enough.”





A VENDETTA

The widow of Paolo Saverini lived alone with her son in a poor little
house on the outskirts of Bonifacio. The town, built on an outjutting
part of the mountain, in places even overhanging the sea, looks across
the straits, full of sandbanks, towards the southernmost coast of
Sardinia. Beneath it, on the other side and almost surrounding it, is a
cleft in the cliff like an immense corridor which serves as a harbor,
and along it the little Italian and Sardinian fishing boats come by a
circuitous route between precipitous cliffs as far as the first houses,
and every two weeks the old, wheezy steamer which makes the trip to
Ajaccio.

On the white mountain the houses, massed together, makes an even whiter
spot. They look like the nests of wild birds, clinging to this peak,
overlooking this terrible passage, where vessels rarely venture. The
wind, which blows uninterruptedly, has swept bare the forbidding coast;
it drives through the narrow straits and lays waste both sides. The pale
streaks of foam, clinging to the black rocks, whose countless peaks rise
up out of the water, look like bits of rag floating and drifting on the
surface of the sea.

The house of widow Saverini, clinging to the very edge of the precipice,
looks out, through its three windows, over this wild and desolate
picture.

She lived there alone, with her son Antonia and their dog “Semillante,”
a big, thin beast, with a long rough coat, of the sheep-dog breed. The
young man took her with him when out hunting.

One night, after some kind of a quarrel, Antoine Saverini was
treacherously stabbed by Nicolas Ravolati, who escaped the same evening
to Sardinia.

When the old mother received the body of her child, which the neighbors
had brought back to her, she did not cry, but she stayed there for a
long time motionless, watching him. Then, stretching her wrinkled hand
over the body, she promised him a vendetta. She did not wish anybody
near her, and she shut herself up beside the body with the dog, which
howled continuously, standing at the foot of the bed, her head stretched
towards her master and her tail between her legs. She did not move any
more than did the mother, who, now leaning over the body with a blank
stare, was weeping silently and watching it.

The young man, lying on his back, dressed in his jacket of coarse cloth,
torn at the chest, seemed to be asleep. But he had blood all over him;
on his shirt, which had been torn off in order to administer the first
aid; on his vest, on his trousers, on his face, on his hands. Clots of
blood had hardened in his beard and in his hair.

His old mother began to talk to him. At the sound of this voice the dog
quieted down.

“Never fear, my boy, my little baby, you shall be avenged. Sleep, sleep;
you shall be avenged. Do you hear? It's your mother's promise! And she
always keeps her word, your mother does, you know she does.”

Slowly she leaned over him, pressing her cold lips to his dead ones.

Then Semillante began to howl again with a long, monotonous,
penetrating, horrible howl.

The two of them, the woman and the dog, remained there until morning.

Antoine Saverini was buried the next day and soon his name ceased to be
mentioned in Bonifacio.

He had neither brothers nor cousins. No man was there to carry on the
vendetta. His mother, the old woman, alone pondered over it.

On the other side of the straits she saw, from morning until night, a
little white speck on the coast. It was the little Sardinian village
Longosardo, where Corsican criminals take refuge when they are too
closely pursued. They compose almost the entire population of this
hamlet, opposite their native island, awaiting the time to return, to go
back to the “maquis.” She knew that Nicolas Ravolati had sought refuge
in this village.

All alone, all day long, seated at her window, she was looking over
there and thinking of revenge. How could she do anything without
help—she, an invalid and so near death? But she had promised, she had
sworn on the body. She could not forget, she could not wait. What could
she do? She no longer slept at night; she had neither rest nor peace of
mind; she thought persistently. The dog, dozing at her feet, would
sometimes lift her head and howl. Since her master's death she often
howled thus, as though she were calling him, as though her beast's soul,
inconsolable too, had also retained a recollection that nothing could
wipe out.

One night, as Semillante began to howl, the mother suddenly got hold of
an idea, a savage, vindictive, fierce idea. She thought it over until
morning. Then, having arisen at daybreak she went to church. She prayed,
prostrate on the floor, begging the Lord to help her, to support her, to
give to her poor, broken-down body the strength which she needed in
order to avenge her son.

She returned home. In her yard she had an old barrel, which acted as a
cistern. She turned it over, emptied it, made it fast to the ground with
sticks and stones. Then she chained Semillante to this improvised kennel
and went into the house.

She walked ceaselessly now, her eyes always fixed on the distant coast
of Sardinia. He was over there, the murderer.

All day and all night the dog howled. In the morning the old woman
brought her some water in a bowl, but nothing more; no soup, no bread.

Another day went by. Semillante, exhausted, was sleeping. The following
day her eyes were shining, her hair on end and she was pulling wildly at
her chain.

All this day the old woman gave her nothing to eat. The beast, furious,
was barking hoarsely. Another night went by.

Then, at daybreak, Mother Saverini asked a neighbor for some straw. She
took the old rags which had formerly been worn by her husband and
stuffed them so as to make them look like a human body.

Having planted a stick in the ground, in front of Semillante's kennel,
she tied to it this dummy, which seemed to be standing up. Then she made
a head out of some old rags.

The dog, surprised, was watching this straw man, and was quiet, although
famished. Then the old woman went to the store and bought a piece of
black sausage. When she got home she started a fire in the yard, near
the kennel, and cooked the sausage. Semillante, frantic, was jumping
about, frothing at the mouth, her eyes fixed on the food, the odor of
which went right to her stomach.

Then the mother made of the smoking sausage a necktie for the dummy. She
tied it very tight around the neck with string, and when she had
finished she untied the dog.

With one leap the beast jumped at the dummy's throat, and with her paws
on its shoulders she began to tear at it. She would fall back with a
piece of food in her mouth, then would jump again, sinking her fangs
into the string, and snatching few pieces of meat she would fall back
again and once more spring forward. She was tearing up the face with her
teeth and the whole neck was in tatters.

The old woman, motionless and silent, was watching eagerly. Then she
chained the beast up again, made her fast for two more days and began
this strange performance again.

For three months she accustomed her to this battle, to this meal
conquered by a fight. She no longer chained her up, but just pointed to
the dummy.

She had taught her to tear him up and to devour him without even leaving
any traces in her throat.

Then, as a reward, she would give her a piece of sausage.

As soon as she saw the man, Semillante would begin to tremble. Then she
would look up to her mistress, who, lifting her finger, would cry, “Go!”
in a shrill tone.

When she thought that the proper time had come, the widow went to
confession and, one Sunday morning she partook of communion with an
ecstatic fervor. Then, putting on men's clothes and looking like an old
tramp, she struck a bargain with a Sardinian fisherman who carried her
and her dog to the other side of the straits.

In a bag she had a large piece of sausage. Semillante had had nothing to
eat for two days. The old woman kept letting her smell the food and
whetting her appetite.

They got to Longosardo. The Corsican woman walked with a limp. She went
to a baker's shop and asked for Nicolas Ravolati. He had taken up his
old trade, that of carpenter. He was working alone at the back of his
store.

The old woman opened the door and called:

“Hallo, Nicolas!”

He turned around. Then releasing her dog, she cried:

“Go, go! Eat him up! eat him up!”

The maddened animal sprang for his throat. The man stretched out his
arms, clasped the dog and rolled to the ground. For a few seconds he
squirmed, beating the ground with his feet. Then he stopped moving,
while Semillante dug her fangs into his throat and tore it to ribbons.
Two neighbors, seated before their door, remembered perfectly having
seen an old beggar come out with a thin, black dog which was eating
something that its master was giving him.

At nightfall the old woman was at home again. She slept well that night.





MY TWENTY-FIVE DAYS

I had just taken possession of my room in the hotel, a narrow den
between two papered partitions, through which I could hear every sound
made by my neighbors; and I was beginning to arrange my clothes and
linen in the wardrobe with a long mirror, when I opened the drawer which
is in this piece of furniture. I immediately noticed a roll of paper.
Having opened it, I spread it out before me, and read this title:

My Twenty-five Days.

It was the diary of a guest at the watering place, of the last occupant
of my room, and had been forgotten at the moment of departure.

These notes may be of some interest to sensible and healthy persons who
never leave their own homes. It is for their benefit that I transcribe
them without altering a letter.

“CHATEL-GUYON, July 15th.

“At the first glance it is not lively, this country. However, I am going
to spend twenty-five days here, to have my liver and stomach treated,
and to get thin. The twenty-five days of any one taking the baths are
very like the twenty-eight days of the reserves; they are all devoted to
fatigue duty, severe fatigue duty. To-day I have done nothing as yet; I
have been getting settled. I have made the acquaintance of the locality
and of the doctor. Chatel-Guyon consists of a stream in which flows
yellow water, in the midst of several hillocks on which are a casino,
some houses, and some stone crosses. On the bank of the stream, at the
end of the valley, may be seen a square building surrounded by a little
garden; this is the bathing establishment. Sad people wander around this
building—the invalids. A great silence reigns in the walks shaded by
trees, for this is not a pleasure resort, but a true health resort; one
takes care of one's health as a business, and one gets well, so it
seems.

“Those who know affirm, even, that the mineral springs perform true
miracles here. However, no votive offering is hung around the cashier's
office.

“From time to time a gentleman or a lady comes over to a kiosk with a
slate roof, which shelters a woman of smiling and gentle aspect, and a
spring boiling in a basin of cement: Not a word is exchanged between the
invalid and the female custodian of the healing water. She hands the
newcomer a little glass in which air bubbles sparkle in the transparent
liquid. The guest drinks and goes off with a grave step to resume his
interrupted walk beneath the trees.

“No noise in the little park, no breath of air in the leaves; no voice
passes through this silence. One ought to write at the entrance to this
district: 'No one laughs here; they take care of their health.'

“The people who chat resemble mutes who merely open their mouths to
simulate sounds, so afraid are they that their voices might escape.

“In the hotel, the same silence. It is a big hotel, where you dine
solemnly with people of good position, who have nothing to say to each
other. Their manners bespeak good breeding, and their faces reflect the
conviction of a superiority of which it might be difficult for some to
give actual proofs.

“At two o'clock I made my way up to the Casino, a little wooden hut
perched on a hillock, which one reaches by a goat path. But the view
from that height is admirable. Chatel-Guyon is situated in a very narrow
valley, exactly between the plain and the mountain. I perceive, at the
left, the first great billows of the mountains of Auvergne, covered with
woods, and here and there big gray patches, hard masses of lava, for we
are at the foot of the extinct volcanoes. At the right, through the
narrow cut of the valley, I discover a plain, infinite as the sea,
steeped in a bluish fog which lets one only dimly discern the villages,
the towns, the yellow fields of ripe grain, and the green squares of
meadowland shaded with apple trees. It is the Limagne, an immense level,
always enveloped in a light veil of vapor.

“The night has come. And now, after having dined alone, I write these
lines beside my open window. I hear, over there, in front of me, the
little orchestra of the Casino, which plays airs just as a foolish bird
might sing all alone in the desert.

“A dog barks at intervals. This great calm does one good. Goodnight.

“July 16th.—Nothing new. I have taken a bath and then a shower bath. I
have swallowed three glasses of water, and I have walked along the paths
in the park, a quarter of an hour between each glass, then half an hour
after the last. I have begun my twenty-five days.

“July 17th.—Remarked two mysterious, pretty women who are taking their
baths and their meals after every one else has finished.

“July 18th.—Nothing new.

“July 19th.—Saw the two pretty women again. They have style and a little
indescribable air which I like very much.

“July 20th.—Long walk in a charming wooded valley, as far as the
Hermitage of Sans-Souci. This country is delightful, although sad; but
so calm; so sweet, so green. One meets along the mountain roads long
wagons loaded with hay, drawn by two cows at a slow pace or held back by
them in going down the slopes with a great effort of their heads, which
are yoked together. A man with a big black hat on his head is driving
them with a slender stick, tipping them on the side or on the forehead;
and often with a simple gesture, an energetic and serious gesture, he
suddenly halts them when the excessive load precipitates their journey
down the too rugged descents.

“The air is good to inhale in these valleys. And, if it is very warm,
the dust bears with it a light odor of vanilla and of the stable, for so
many cows pass over these routes that they leave reminders everywhere.
And this odor is a perfume, when it would be a stench if it came from
other animals.

“July 21st.—Excursion to the valley of the Enval. It is a narrow gorge
inclosed by superb rocks at the very foot of the mountain. A stream
flows amid the heaped-up boulders.

“As I reached the bottom of this ravine I heard women's voices, and I
soon perceived the two mysterious ladies of my hotel, who were chatting,
seated on a stone.

“The occasion appeared to me a good one, and I introduced myself without
hesitation. My overtures were received without embarrassment. We walked
back together to the hotel. And we talked about Paris. They knew, it
seemed, many people whom I knew, too. Who can they be?

“I shall see them to-morrow. There is nothing more amusing than such
meetings as this.

“July 22d.—Day passed almost entirely with the two unknown ladies. They
are very pretty, by Jove!—one a brunette and the other a blonde. They
say they are widows. H'm?

“I offered to accompany them to Royat tomorrow, and they accepted my
offer.

“Chatel-Guyon is less sad than I thought on my arrival.

“July 23d.—Day spent at Royat. Royat is a little patch of hotels at the
bottom of a valley, at the gate of Clermont-Ferrand. A great many people
there. A large park full of life. Superb view of the Puyde-Dome, seen at
the end of a perspective of valleys.

“My fair companions are very popular, which is flattering to me. The man
who escorts a pretty woman always believes himself crowned with an
aureole; with much more reason, the man who is accompanied by one on
each side of him. Nothing is so pleasant as to dine in a fashionable
restaurant with a female companion at whom everybody stares, and there
is nothing better calculated to exalt a man in the estimation of his
neighbors.

“To go to the Bois, in a trap drawn by a sorry nag, or to go out into
the boulevard escorted by a plain woman, are the two most humiliating
things that could happen to a sensitive heart that values the opinion of
others. Of all luxuries, woman is the rarest and the most distinguished;
she is the one that costs most and which we desire most; she is,
therefore the one that we should seek by preference to exhibit to the
jealous eyes of the world.

“To exhibit to the world a pretty woman leaning on your arm is to
excite, all at once, every kind of jealousy. It is as much as to say:
'Look here! I am rich, since I possess this rare and costly object; I
have taste, since I have known how to discover this pearl; perhaps,
even, I am loved by her, unless I am deceived by her, which would still
prove that others also consider her charming.

“But, what a disgrace it is to walk about town with an ugly woman!

“And how many humiliating things this gives people to understand!

“In the first place, they assume she must be your wife, for how could it
be supposed that you would have an unattractive sweetheart? A true woman
may be ungraceful; but then, her ugliness implies a thousand
disagreeable things for you. One supposes you must be a notary or a
magistrate, as these two professions have a monopoly of grotesque and
well-dowered spouses. Now, is this not distressing to a man? And then,
it seems to proclaim to the public that you have the odious courage, and
are even under a legal obligation, to caress that ridiculous face and
that ill-shaped body, and that you will, without doubt, be shameless
enough to make a mother of this by no means desirable being—which is the
very height of the ridiculous.

“July 24th.—I never leave the side of the two unknown widows, whom I am
beginning to know quite well. This country is delightful and our hotel
is excellent. Good season. The treatment is doing me an immense amount
of good.

“July 25th.—Drive in a landau to the lake of Tazenat. An exquisite and
unexpected jaunt decided on at luncheon. We started immediately on
rising from table. After a long journey through the mountains we
suddenly perceived an admirable little lake, quite round, very blue,
clear as glass, and situated at the bottom of an extinct crater. One
side of this immense basin is barren, the other is wooded. In the midst
of the trees is a small house where sleeps a good-natured, intellectual
man, a sage who passes his days in this Virgilian region. He opens his
dwelling for us. An idea comes into my head. I exclaim:

“'Supposing we bathe?'

“'Yes,' they said, 'but costumes.'

“'Bah! we are in the wilderness.'

“And we did bathe!

“If I were a poet, how I would describe this unforgettable vision of
those lissome young forms in the transparency of the water! The high,
sloping sides shut in the lake, motionless, gleaming and round, as a
silver coin; the sun pours into it a flood of warm light; and along the
rocks the fair forms move in the almost invisible water in which the
swimmers seemed suspended. On the sand at the bottom of the lake one
could see their shadows as they moved along.

“July 26th.—Some persons seem to look with shocked and disapproving eyes
at my rapid intimacy with the two fair widows. There are some people,
then, who imagine that life consists in being bored. Everything that
appears to be amusing becomes immediately a breach of good breeding or
morality. For them duty has inflexible and mortally tedious rules.

“I would draw their attention, with all respect, to the fact that duty
is not the same for Mormons, Arabs Zulus, Turks, Englishmen, and
Frenchmen, and that there are very virtuous people among all these
nations.

“I will cite a single example. As regards women, duty begins in England
at nine years of age; in France at fifteen. As for me, I take a little
of each people's notion of duty, and of the whole I make a result
comparable to the morality of good King Solomon.

“July 27th.—Good news. I have lost 620 grams in weight. Excellent, this
water of Chatel-Guyon! I am taking the widows to dine at Riom. A sad
town whose anagram constitutes it an objectionable neighbor to healing
springs: Riom, Mori.

“July 28th.—Hello, how's this! My two widows have been visited by two
gentlemen who came to look for them. Two widowers, without doubt. They
are leaving this evening. They have written to me on fancy notepaper.

“July 29th.—Alone! Long excursion on foot to the extinct crater of
Nachere. Splendid view.

“July 30th.—Nothing. I am taking the treatment.

“July 31st.—Ditto. Ditto. This pretty country is full of polluted
streams. I am drawing the notice of the municipality to the abominable
sewer which poisons the road in front of the hotel. All the kitchen
refuse of the establishment is thrown into it. This is a good way to
breed cholera.

“August 1st.—Nothing. The treatment.

“August 2d.—Admirable walk to Chateauneuf, a place of sojourn for
rheumatic patients, where everybody is lame. Nothing can be queerer than
this population of cripples!

“August 3d.—Nothing. The treatment.

“August 4th.—Ditto. Ditto.

“August 5th.—Ditto. Ditto.

“August 6th.—Despair! I have just weighed myself. I have gained 310
grams. But then?

“August 7th.—Drove sixty-six kilometres in a carriage on the mountain. I
will not mention the name of the country through respect for its women.

“This excursion had been pointed out to me as a beautiful one, and one
that was rarely made. After four hours on the road, I arrived at a
rather pretty village on the banks of a river in the midst of an
admirable wood of walnut trees. I had not yet seen a forest of walnut
trees of such dimensions in Auvergne. It constitutes, moreover, all the
wealth of the district, for it is planted on the village common. This
common was formerly only a hillside covered with brushwood. The
authorities had tried in vain to get it cultivated. There was scarcely
enough pasture on it to feed a few sheep.

“To-day it is a superb wood, thanks to the women, and it has a curious
name: it is called the Sins of the Cure.

“Now I must say that the women of the mountain districts have the
reputation of being light, lighter than in the plain. A bachelor who
meets them owes them at least a kiss; and if he does not take more he is
only a blockhead. If we consider this fairly, this way of looking at the
matter is the only one that is logical and reasonable. As woman, whether
she be of the town or the country, has her natural mission to please
man, man should always show her that she pleases him. If he abstains
from every sort of demonstration, this means that he considers her ugly;
it is almost an insult to her. If I were a woman, I would not receive, a
second time, a man who failed to show me respect at our first meeting,
for I would consider that he had failed in appreciation of my beauty, my
charm, and my feminine qualities.

“So the bachelors of the village X often proved to the women of the
district that they found them to their taste, and, as the cure was
unable to prevent these demonstrations, as gallant as they were natural,
he resolved to utilize them for the benefit of the general prosperity.
So he imposed as a penance on every woman who had gone wrong that she
should plant a walnut tree on the common. And every night lanterns were
seen moving about like will-o'-the-wisps on the hillock, for the erring
ones scarcely like to perform their penance in broad daylight.

“In two years there was no longer any room on the lands belonging to the
village, and to-day they calculate that there are more than three
thousand trees around the belfry which rings out the services amid their
foliage. These are the Sins of the Cure.

“Since we have been seeking for so many ways of rewooding France, the
Administration of Forests might surely enter into some arrangement with
the clergy to employ a method so simple as that employed by this humble
cure.

“August 7th.—Treatment.

“August 8th.—I am packing up my trunks and saying good-by to the
charming little district so calm and silent, to the green mountain, to
the quiet valleys, to the deserted Casino, from which you can see,
almost veiled by its light, bluish mist, the immense plain of the
Limagne.

“I shall leave to-morrow.”

Here the manuscript stopped. I will add nothing to it, my impressions of
the country not having been exactly the same as those of my predecessor.
For I did not find the two widows!





“THE TERROR”

You say you cannot possibly understand it, and I believe you. You think
I am losing my mind? Perhaps I am, but for other reasons than those you
imagine, my dear friend.

Yes, I am going to be married, and will tell you what has led me to take
that step.

I may add that I know very little of the girl who is going to become my
wife to-morrow; I have only seen her four or five times. I know that
there is nothing unpleasing about her, and that is enough for my
purpose. She is small, fair, and stout; so, of course, the day after to-
morrow I shall ardently wish for a tall, dark, thin woman.

She is not rich, and belongs to the middle classes. She is a girl such
as you may find by the gross, well adapted for matrimony, without any
apparent faults, and with no particularly striking qualities. People say
of her:

“Mlle. Lajolle is a very nice girl,” and tomorrow they will say: “What a
very nice woman Madame Raymon is.” She belongs, in a word, to that
immense number of girls whom one is glad to have for one's wife, till
the moment comes when one discovers that one happens to prefer all other
women to that particular woman whom one has married.

“Well,” you will say to me, “what on earth did you get married for?”

I hardly like to tell you the strange and seemingly improbable reason
that urged me on to this senseless act; the fact, however, is that I am
afraid of being alone.

I don't know how to tell you or to make you understand me, but my state
of mind is so wretched that you will pity me and despise me.

I do not want to be alone any longer at night. I want to feel that there
is some one close to me, touching me, a being who can speak and say
something, no matter what it be.

I wish to be able to awaken somebody by my side, so that I may be able
to ask some sudden question, a stupid question even, if I feel inclined,
so that I may hear a human voice, and feel that there is some waking
soul close to me, some one whose reason is at work; so that when I
hastily light the candle I may see some human face by my
side—because—because —I am ashamed to confess it—because I am afraid of
being alone.

Oh, you don't understand me yet.

I am not afraid of any danger; if a man were to come into the room, I
should kill him without trembling. I am not afraid of ghosts, nor do I
believe in the supernatural. I am not afraid of dead people, for I
believe in the total annihilation of every being that disappears from
the face of this earth.

Well—yes, well, it must be told: I am afraid of myself, afraid of that
horrible sensation of incomprehensible fear.

You may laugh, if you like. It is terrible, and I cannot get over it. I
am afraid of the walls, of the furniture, of the familiar objects; which
are animated, as far as I am concerned, by a kind of animal life. Above
all, I am afraid of my own dreadful thoughts, of my reason, which seems
as if it were about to leave me, driven away by a mysterious and
invisible agony.

At first I feel a vague uneasiness in my mind, which causes a cold
shiver to run all over me. I look round, and of course nothing is to be
seen, and I wish that there were something there, no matter what, as
long as it were something tangible. I am frightened merely because I
cannot understand my own terror.

If I speak, I am afraid of my own voice. If I walk, I am afraid of I
know not what, behind the door, behind the curtains, in the cupboard, or
under my bed, and yet all the time I know there is nothing anywhere, and
I turn round suddenly because I am afraid of what is behind me, although
there is nothing there, and I know it.

I become agitated. I feel that my fear increases, and so I shut myself
up in my own room, get into bed, and hide under the clothes; and there,
cowering down, rolled into a ball, I close my eyes in despair, and
remain thus for an indefinite time, remembering that my candle is alight
on the table by my bedside, and that I ought to put it out, and yet—I
dare not do it.

It is very terrible, is it not, to be like that?

Formerly I felt nothing of all that. I came home quite calm, and went up
and down my apartment without anything disturbing my peace of mind. Had
any one told me that I should be attacked by a malady—for I can call it
nothing else—of most improbable fear, such a stupid and terrible malady
as it is, I should have laughed outright. I was certainly never afraid
of opening the door in the dark. I went to bed slowly, without locking
it, and never got up in the middle of the night to make sure that
everything was firmly closed.

It began last year in a very strange manner on a damp autumn evening.
When my servant had left the room, after I had dined, I asked myself
what I was going to do. I walked up and down my room for some time,
feeling tired without any reason for it, unable to work, and even
without energy to read. A fine rain was falling, and I felt unhappy, a
prey to one of those fits of despondency, without any apparent cause,
which make us feel inclined to cry, or to talk, no matter to whom, so as
to shake off our depressing thoughts.

I felt that I was alone, and my rooms seemed to me to be more empty than
they had ever been before. I was in the midst of infinite and
overwhelming solitude. What was I to do? I sat down, but a kind of
nervous impatience seemed to affect my legs, so I got up and began to
walk about again. I was, perhaps, rather feverish, for my hands, which I
had clasped behind me, as one often does when walking slowly, almost
seemed to burn one another. Then suddenly a cold shiver ran down my
back, and I thought the damp air might have penetrated into my rooms, so
I lit the fire for the first time that year, and sat down again and
looked at the flames. But soon I felt that I could not possibly remain
quiet, and so I got up again and determined to go out, to pull myself
together, and to find a friend to bear me company.

I could not find anyone, so I walked to the boulevard to try and meet
some acquaintance or other there.

It was wretched everywhere, and the wet pavement glistened in the
gaslight, while the oppressive warmth of the almost impalpable rain lay
heavily over the streets and seemed to obscure the light of the lamps.

I went on slowly, saying to myself: “I shall not find a soul to talk
to.”

I glanced into several cafes, from the Madeleine as far as the Faubourg
Poissoniere, and saw many unhappy-looking individuals sitting at the
tables who did not seem even to have enough energy left to finish the
refreshments they had ordered.

For a long time I wandered aimlessly up and down, and about midnight I
started for home. I was very calm and very tired. My janitor opened the
door at once, which was quite unusual for him, and I thought that
another lodger had probably just come in.

When I go out I always double-lock the door of my room, and I found it
merely closed, which surprised me; but I supposed that some letters had
been brought up for me in the course of the evening.

I went in, and found my fire still burning so that it lighted up the
room a little, and, while in the act of taking up a candle, I noticed
somebody sitting in my armchair by the fire, warming his feet, with his
back toward me.

I was not in the slightest degree frightened. I thought, very naturally,
that some friend or other had come to see me. No doubt the porter, to
whom I had said I was going out, had lent him his own key. In a moment I
remembered all the circumstances of my return, how the street door had
been opened immediately, and that my own door was only latched and not
locked.

I could see nothing of my friend but his head, and he had evidently gone
to sleep while waiting for me, so I went up to him to rouse him. I saw
him quite distinctly; his right arm was hanging down and his legs were
crossed; the position of his head, which was somewhat inclined to the
left of the armchair, seemed to indicate that he was asleep. “Who can it
be?” I asked myself. I could not see clearly, as the room was rather
dark, so I put out my hand to touch him on the shoulder, and it came in
contact with the back of the chair. There was nobody there; the seat was
empty.

I fairly jumped with fright. For a moment I drew back as if confronted
by some terrible danger; then I turned round again, impelled by an
imperious standing upright, panting with fear, so upset that I could not
collect my thoughts, and ready to faint.

But I am a cool man, and soon recovered myself. I thought: “It is a mere
hallucination, that is all,” and I immediately began to reflect on this
phenomenon. Thoughts fly quickly at such moments.

I had been suffering from an hallucination, that was an incontestable
fact. My mind had been perfectly lucid and had acted regularly and
logically, so there was nothing the matter with the brain. It was only
my eyes that had been deceived; they had had a vision, one of those
visions which lead simple folk to believe in miracles. It was a nervous
seizure of the optical apparatus, nothing more; the eyes were rather
congested, perhaps.

I lit my candle, and when I stooped down to the fire in doing so I
noticed that I was trembling, and I raised myself up with a jump, as if
somebody had touched me from behind.

I was certainly not by any means calm.

I walked up and down a little, and hummed a tune or two. Then I double-
locked the door and felt rather reassured; now, at any rate, nobody
could come in.

I sat down again and thought over my adventure for a long time; then I
went to bed and blew out my light.

For some minutes all went well; I lay quietly on my back, but presently
an irresistible desire seized me to look round the room, and I turned
over on my side.

My fire was nearly out, and the few glowing embers threw a faint light
on the floor by the chair, where I fancied I saw the man sitting again.

I quickly struck a match, but I had been mistaken; there was nothing
there. I got up, however, and hid the chair behind my bed, and tried to
get to sleep, as the room was now dark; but I had not forgotten myself
for more than five minutes, when in my dream I saw all the scene which I
had previously witnessed as clearly as if it were reality. I woke up
with a start, and having lit the candle, sat up in bed, without
venturing even to try to go to sleep again.

Twice, however, sleep overcame me for a few moments in spite of myself,
and twice I saw the same thing again, till I fancied I was going mad.
When day broke, however, I thought that I was cured, and slept
peacefully till noon.

It was all past and over. I had been feverish, had had the nightmare. I
know not what. I had been ill, in fact, but yet thought I was a great
fool.

I enjoyed myself thoroughly that evening. I dined at a restaurant and
afterward went to the theatre, and then started for home. But as I got
near the house I was once more seized by a strange feeling of
uneasiness. I was afraid of seeing him again. I was not afraid of him,
not afraid of his presence, in which I did not believe; but I was afraid
of being deceived again. I was afraid of some fresh hallucination,
afraid lest fear should take possession of me.

For more than an hour I wandered up and down the pavement; then, feeling
that I was really too foolish, I returned home. I breathed so hard that
I could hardly get upstairs, and remained standing outside my door for
more than ten minutes; then suddenly I had a courageous impulse and my
will asserted itself. I inserted my key into the lock, and went into the
apartment with a candle in my hand. I kicked open my bedroom door, which
was partly open, and cast a frightened glance toward the fireplace.
There was nothing there. A-h! What a relief and what a delight! What a
deliverance! I walked up and down briskly and boldly, but I was not
altogether reassured, and kept turning round with a jump; the very
shadows in the corners disquieted me.

I slept badly, and was constantly disturbed by imaginary noises, but did
not see him; no, that was all over.

Since that time I have been afraid of being alone at night. I feel that
the spectre is there, close to me, around me; but it has not appeared to
me again.

And supposing it did, what would it matter, since I do not believe in
it, and know that it is nothing?

However, it still worries me, because I am constantly thinking of it.
His right arm hanging down and his head inclined to the left like a man
who was asleep—I don't want to think about it!

Why, however, am I so persistently possessed with this idea? His feet
were close to the fire!

He haunts me; it is very stupid, but who and what is he? I know that he
does not exist except in my cowardly imagination, in my fears, and in my
agony. There—enough of that!

Yes, it is all very well for me to reason with myself, to stiffen my
backbone, so to say; but I cannot remain at home because I know he is
there. I know I shall not see him again; he will not show himself again;
that is all over. But he is there, all the same, in my thoughts. He
remains invisible, but that does not prevent his being there. He is
behind the doors, in the closed cupboard, in the wardrobe, under the
bed, in every dark corner. If I open the door or the cupboard, if I take
the candle to look under the bed and throw a light on the dark places he
is there no longer, but I feel that he is behind me. I turn round,
certain that I shall not see him, that I shall never see him again; but
for all that, he is behind me.

It is very stupid, it is dreadful; but what am I to do? I cannot help
it.

But if there were two of us in the place I feel certain that he would
not be there any longer, for he is there just because I am alone, simply
and solely because I am alone!





LEGEND OF MONT ST. MICHEL

I had first seen it from Cancale, this fairy castle in the sea. I got an
indistinct impression of it as of a gray shadow outlined against the
misty sky. I saw it again from Avranches at sunset. The immense stretch
of sand was red, the horizon was red, the whole boundless bay was red.
The rocky castle rising out there in the distance like a weird,
seignorial residence, like a dream palace, strange and beautiful-this
alone remained black in the crimson light of the dying day.

The following morning at dawn I went toward it across the sands, my eyes
fastened on this, gigantic jewel, as big as a mountain, cut like a
cameo, and as dainty as lace. The nearer I approached the greater my
admiration grew, for nothing in the world could be more wonderful or
more perfect.

As surprised as if I had discovered the habitation of a god, I wandered
through those halls supported by frail or massive columns, raising my
eyes in wonder to those spires which looked like rockets starting for
the sky, and to that marvellous assemblage of towers, of gargoyles, of
slender and charming ornaments, a regular fireworks of stone, granite
lace, a masterpiece of colossal and delicate architecture.

As I was looking up in ecstasy a Lower Normandy peasant came up to me
and told me the story of the great quarrel between Saint Michael and the
devil.

A sceptical genius has said: “God made man in his image and man has
returned the compliment.”

This saying is an eternal truth, and it would be very curious to write
the history of the local divinity of every continent as well as the
history of the patron saints in each one of our provinces. The negro has
his ferocious man-eating idols; the polygamous Mahometan fills his
paradise with women; the Greeks, like a practical people, deified all
the passions.

Every village in France is under the influence of some protecting saint,
modelled according to the characteristics of the inhabitants.

Saint Michael watches over Lower Normandy, Saint Michael, the radiant
and victorious angel, the sword-carrier, the hero of Heaven, the
victorious, the conqueror of Satan.

But this is how the Lower Normandy peasant, cunning, deceitful and
tricky, understands and tells of the struggle between the great saint
and the devil.

To escape from the malice of his neighbor, the devil, Saint Michael
built himself, in the open ocean, this habitation worthy of an
archangel; and only such a saint could build a residence of such
magnificence.

But as he still feared the approaches of the wicked one, he surrounded
his domains by quicksands, more treacherous even than the sea.

The devil lived in a humble cottage on the hill, but he owned all the
salt marshes, the rich lands where grow the finest crops, the wooded
valleys and all the fertile hills of the country, while the saint ruled
only over the sands. Therefore Satan was rich, whereas Saint Michael was
as poor as a church mouse.

After a few years of fasting the saint grew tired of this state of
affairs and began to think of some compromise with the devil, but the
matter was by no means easy, as Satan kept a good hold on his crops.

He thought the thing over for about six months; then one morning he
walked across to the shore. The demon was eating his soup in front of
his door when he saw the saint. He immediately rushed toward him, kissed
the hem of his sleeve, invited him in and offered him refreshments.

Saint Michael drank a bowl of milk and then began: “I have come here to
propose to you a good bargain.”

The devil, candid and trustful, answered: “That will suit me.”

“Here it is. Give me all your lands.”

Satan, growing alarmed, wished to speak “But—”

The saint continued: “Listen first. Give me all your lands. I will take
care of all the work, the ploughing, the sowing, the fertilizing,
everything, and we will share the crops equally. How does that suit
you?”

The devil, who was naturally lazy, accepted. He only demanded in
addition a few of those delicious gray mullet which are caught around
the solitary mount. Saint Michael promised the fish.

They grasped hands and spat on the ground to show that it was a bargain,
and the saint continued: “See here, so that you will have nothing to
complain of, choose that part of the crops which you prefer: the part
that grows above ground or the part that stays in the ground.” Satan
cried out: “I will take all that will be above ground.”

“It's a bargain!” said the saint. And he went away.

Six months later, all over the immense domain of the devil, one could
see nothing but carrots, turnips, onions, salsify, all the plants whose
juicy roots are good and savory and whose useless leaves are good for
nothing but for feeding animals.

Satan wished to break the contract, calling Saint Michael a swindler.

But the saint, who had developed quite a taste for agriculture, went
back to see the devil and said:

“Really, I hadn't thought of that at all; it was just an accident, no
fault of mine. And to make things fair with you, this year I'll let you
take everything that is under the ground.”

“Very well,” answered Satan.

The following spring all the evil spirit's lands were covered with
golden wheat, oats as big as beans, flax, magnificent colza, red clover,
peas, cabbage, artichokes, everything that develops into grains or fruit
in the sunlight.

Once more Satan received nothing, and this time he completely lost his
temper. He took back his fields and remained deaf to all the fresh
propositions of his neighbor.

A whole year rolled by. From the top of his lonely manor Saint Michael
looked at the distant and fertile lands and watched the devil direct the
work, take in his crops and thresh the wheat. And he grew angry,
exasperated at his powerlessness.

As he was no longer able to deceive Satan, he decided to wreak vengeance
on him, and he went out to invite him to dinner for the following
Monday.

“You have been very unfortunate in your dealings with me,” he said; “I
know it, but I don't want any ill feeling between us, and I expect you
to dine with me. I'll give you some good things to eat.”

Satan, who was as greedy as he was lazy, accepted eagerly. On the day
appointed he donned his finest clothes and set out for the castle.

Saint Michael sat him down to a magnificent meal. First there was a
'vol-au-vent', full of cocks' crests and kidneys, with meat-balls, then
two big gray mullet with cream sauce, a turkey stuffed with chestnuts
soaked in wine, some salt-marsh lamb as tender as cake, vegetables which
melted in the mouth and nice hot pancake which was brought on smoking
and spreading a delicious odor of butter.

They drank new, sweet, sparkling cider and heady red wine, and after
each course they whetted their appetites with some old apple brandy.

The devil drank and ate to his heart's content; in fact he took so much
that he was very uncomfortable, and began to retch.

Then Saint Michael arose in anger and cried in a voice like thunder:
“What! before me, rascal! You dare—before me—”

Satan, terrified, ran away, and the saint, seizing a stick, pursued him.
They ran through the halls, turning round the pillars, running up the
staircases, galloping along the cornices, jumping from gargoyle to
gargoyle. The poor devil, who was woefully ill, was running about madly
and trying hard to escape. At last he found himself at the top of the
last terrace, right at the top, from which could be seen the immense
bay, with its distant towns, sands and pastures. He could no longer
escape, and the saint came up behind him and gave him a furious kick,
which shot him through space like a cannonball.

He shot through the air like a javelin and fell heavily before the town
of Mortain. His horns and claws stuck deep into the rock, which keeps
through eternity the traces of this fall of Satan.

He stood up again, limping, crippled until the end of time, and as he
looked at this fatal castle in the distance, standing out against the
setting sun, he understood well that he would always be vanquished in
this unequal struggle, and he went away limping, heading for distant
countries, leaving to his enemy his fields, his hills, his valleys and
his marshes.

And this is how Saint Michael, the patron saint of Normandy, vanquished
the devil.

Another people would have dreamed of this battle in an entirely
different manner.





A NEW YEAR'S GIFT

Jacques de Randal, having dined at home alone, told his valet he might
go out, and he sat down at his table to write some letters.

He ended every year in this manner, writing and dreaming. He reviewed
the events of his life since last New Year's Day, things that were now
all over and dead; and, in proportion as the faces of his friends rose
up before his eyes, he wrote them a few lines, a cordial New Year's
greeting on the first of January.

So he sat down, opened a drawer, took out of it a woman's photograph,
gazed at it a few moments, and kissed it. Then, having laid it beside a
sheet of notepaper, he began:

“MY DEAR IRENE: You must by this time have received the little souvenir
I sent you addressed to the maid. I have shut myself up this evening in
order to tell you——”


The pen here ceased to move. Jacques rose up and began walking up and
down the room.

For the last ten months he had had a sweetheart, not like the others, a
woman with whom one engages in a passing intrigue, of the theatrical
world or the demi-monde, but a woman whom he loved and won. He was no
longer a young man, although he was still comparatively young for a man,
and he looked on life seriously in a positive and practical spirit.

Accordingly, he drew up the balance sheet of his passion, as he drew up
every year the balance sheet of friendships that were ended or freshly
contracted, of circumstances and persons that had entered into his life.

His first ardor of love having grown calmer, he asked himself with the
precision of a merchant making a calculation what was the state of his
heart with regard to her, and he tried to form an idea of what it would
be in the future.

He found there a great and deep affection; made up of tenderness,
gratitude and the thousand subtleties which give birth to long and
powerful attachments.

A ring at the bell made him start. He hesitated. Should he open the
door? But he said to himself that one must always open the door on New
Year's night, to admit the unknown who is passing by and knocks, no
matter who it may be.

So he took a wax candle, passed through the antechamber, drew back the
bolts, turned the key, pulled the door back, and saw his sweetheart
standing pale as a corpse, leaning against the wall.

He stammered:

“What is the matter with you?”

She replied:

“Are you alone?”

“Yes.”

“Without servants?”

“Yes.”

“You are not going out?”

“No.”

She entered with the air of a woman who knew the house. As soon as she
was in the drawing-room, she sank down on the sofa, and, covering her
face with her hands, began to weep bitterly.

He knelt down at her feet, and tried to remove her hands from her eyes,
so that he might look at them, and exclaimed:

“Irene, Irene, what is the matter with you? I implore you to tell me
what is the matter with you?”

Then, amid her sobs, she murmured:

“I can no longer live like this.”

“Live like this? What do you mean?”

“Yes. I can no longer live like this. I have endured so much. He struck
me this afternoon.”

“Who? Your husband?”

“Yes, my husband.”

“Ah!”

He was astonished, having never suspected that her husband could be
brutal. He was a man of the world, of the better class, a clubman, a
lover of horses, a theatergoer and an expert swordsman; he was known,
talked about, appreciated everywhere, having very courteous manners, a
very mediocre intellect, an absence of education and of the real culture
needed in order to think like all well-bred people, and finally a
respect for conventionalities.

He appeared to devote himself to his wife, as a man ought to do in the
case of wealthy and well-bred people. He displayed enough of anxiety
about her wishes, her health, her dresses, and, beyond that, left her
perfectly free.

Randal, having become Irene's friend, had a right to the affectionate
hand-clasp which every husband endowed with good manners owes to his
wife's intimate acquaintance. Then, when Jacques, after having been for
some time the friend, became the lover, his relations with the husband
were more cordial, as is fitting.

Jacques had never dreamed that there were storms in this household, and
he was bewildered at this unexpected revelation.

He asked:

“How did it happen? Tell me.”

Thereupon she related a long story, the entire history of her life since
the day of her marriage, the first disagreement arising out of a mere
nothing, then becoming accentuated at every new difference of opinion
between two dissimilar dispositions.

Then came quarrels, a complete separation, not apparent, but real; next,
her husband showed himself aggressive, suspicious, violent. Now, he was
jealous, jealous of Jacques, and that very day, after a scene, he had
struck her.

She added with decision: “I will not go back to him. Do with me what you
like.”

Jacques sat down opposite to her, their knees touching. He took her
hands:

“My dear love, you are going to commit a gross, an irreparable folly. If
you want to leave your husband, put him in the wrong, so that your
position as a woman of the world may be saved.”

She asked, as she looked at him uneasily:

“Then, what do you advise me?”

“To go back home and to put up with your life there till the day when
you can obtain either a separation or a divorce, with the honors of
war.”

“Is not this thing which you advise me to do a little cowardly?”

“No; it is wise and sensible. You have a high position, a reputation to
protect, friends to preserve and relations to deal with. You must not
lose all these through a mere caprice.”

She rose up, and said with violence:

“Well, no! I cannot stand it any longer! It is at an end! it is at an
end!”

Then, placing her two hands on her lover's shoulders, and looking him
straight in the face, she asked:

“Do you love me?”

“Yes.”

“Really and truly?”

“Yes.”

“Then take care of me.”

He exclaimed:

“Take care of you? In my own house? Here? Why, you are mad. It would
mean losing you forever; losing you beyond hope of recall! You are mad!”

She replied, slowly and seriously, like a woman who feels the weight of
her words:

“Listen, Jacques. He has forbidden me to see you again, and I will not
play this comedy of coming secretly to your house. You must either lose
me or take me.”

“My dear Irene, in that case, obtain your divorce, and I will marry
you.”

“Yes, you will marry me in—two years at the soonest. Yours is a patient
love.”

“Look here! Reflect! If you remain here he'll come to-morrow to take you
away, seeing that he is your husband, seeing that he has right and law
on his side.”

“I did not ask you to keep me in your own house, Jacques, but to take me
anywhere you like. I thought you loved me enough to do that. I have made
a mistake. Good-by!”

She turned round and went toward the door so quickly that he was only
able to catch hold of her when she was outside the room:

“Listen, Irene.”

She struggled, and would not listen to him. Her eyes were full of tears,
and she stammered:

“Let me alone! let me alone! let me alone!”

He made her sit down by force, and once more falling on his knees at her
feet, he now brought forward a number of arguments and counsels to make
her understand the folly and terrible risk of her project. He omitted
nothing which he deemed necessary to convince her, finding even in his
very affection for her incentives to persuasion.

As she remained silent and cold as ice, he begged of her, implored of
her to listen to him, to trust him, to follow his advice.

When he had finished speaking, she only replied:

“Are you disposed to let me go away now? Take away your hands, so that I
may rise to my feet.”

“Look here, Irene.”

“Will you let me go?”

“Irene—is your resolution irrevocable?”

“Will you let me go.”

“Tell me only whether this resolution, this mad resolution of yours,
which you will bitterly regret, is irrevocable?”

“Yes—let me go!”

“Then stay. You know well that you are at home here. We shall go away
to-morrow morning.”

She rose to her feet in spite of him, and said in a hard tone:

“No. It is too late. I do not want sacrifice; I do not want devotion.”

“Stay! I have done what I ought to do; I have said what I ought to say.
I have no further responsibility on your behalf. My conscience is at
peace. Tell me what you want me to do, and I will obey.”'

She resumed her seat, looked at him for a long time, and then asked, in
a very calm voice:

“Well, then, explain.”

“Explain what? What do you wish me to explain?”

“Everything—everything that you thought about before changing your mind.
Then I will see what I ought to do.”

“But I thought about nothing at all. I had to warn you that you were
going to commit an act of folly. You persist; then I ask to share in
this act of folly, and I even insist on it.”

“It is not natural to change one's mind so quickly.”

“Listen, my dear love. It is not a question here of sacrifice or
devotion. On the day when I realized that I loved you, I said to myself
what every lover ought to say to himself in the same case: 'The man who
loves a woman, who makes an effort to win her, who gets her, and who
takes her, enters into a sacred contract with himself and with her. That
is, of course, in dealing with a woman like you, not a woman with a
fickle heart and easily impressed.'

“Marriage which has a great social value, a great legal value, possesses
in my eyes only a very slight moral value, taking into account the
conditions under which it generally takes place.

“Therefore, when a woman, united by this lawful bond, but having no
attachment to her husband, whom she cannot love, a woman whose heart is
free, meets a man whom she cares for, and gives herself to him, when a
man who has no other tie, takes a woman in this way, I say that they
pledge themselves toward each other by this mutual and free agreement
much more than by the 'Yes' uttered in the presence of the mayor.

“I say that, if they are both honorable persons, their union must be
more intimate, more real, more wholesome, than if all the sacraments had
consecrated it.

“This woman risks everything. And it is exactly because she knows it,
because she gives everything, her heart, her body, her soul, her honor,
her life, because she has foreseen all miseries, all dangers all
catastrophes, because she dares to do a bold act, an intrepid act,
because she is prepared, determined to brave everything—her husband, who
might kill her, and society, which may cast her out. This is why she is
worthy of respect in the midst of her conjugal infidelity; this is why
her lover, in taking her, should also foresee everything, and prefer her
to every one else whatever may happen. I have nothing more to say. I
spoke in the beginning like a sensible man whose duty it was to warn
you; and now I am only a man—a man who loves you—Command, and I obey.”

Radiant, she closed his mouth with a kiss, and said in a low tone:

“It is not true, darling! There is nothing the matter! My husband does
not suspect anything. But I wanted to see, I wanted to know, what you
would do. I wished for a New Year's gift—the gift of your heart—another
gift besides the necklace you sent me. You have given it to me. Thanks!
thanks! God be thanked for the happiness you have given me!”





FRIEND PATIENCE What became of Leremy?”

“He is captain in the Sixth Dragoons.”

“And Pinson?”

“He's a subprefect.”

“And Racollet?”

“Dead.”

We were searching for other names which would remind us of the youthful
faces of our younger days. Once in a while we had met some of these old
comrades, bearded, bald, married, fathers of several children, and the
realization of these changes had given us an unpleasant shudder,
reminding us how short life is, how everything passes away, how
everything changes. My friend asked me:

“And Patience, fat Patience?”

I almost, howled:

“Oh! as for him, just listen to this. Four or five years ago I was in
Limoges, on a tour of inspection, and I was waiting for dinner time. I
was seated before the big cafe in the Place du Theatre, just bored to
death. The tradespeople were coming by twos, threes or fours, to take
their absinthe or vermouth, talking all the time of their own or other
people's business, laughing loudly, or lowering their voices in order to
impart some important or delicate piece of news.

“I was saying to myself: 'What shall I do after dinner?' And I thought
of the long evening in this provincial town, of the slow, dreary walk
through unknown streets, of the impression of deadly gloom which these
provincial people produce on the lonely traveller, and of the whole
oppressive atmosphere of the place.

“I was thinking of all these things as I watched the little jets of gas
flare up, feeling my loneliness increase with the falling shadows.

“A big, fat man sat down at the next table and called in a stentorian
voice:

“'Waiter, my bitters!'

“The 'my' came out like the report of a cannon. I immediately understood
that everything was his in life, and not another's; that he had his
nature, by Jove, his appetite, his trousers, his everything, his, more
absolutely and more completely than anyone else's. Then he looked round
him with a satisfied air. His bitters were brought, and he ordered:

“'My newspaper!'

“I wondered: 'Which newspaper can his be?' The title would certainly
reveal to me his opinions, his theories, his principles, his hobbies,
his weaknesses.

“The waiter brought the Temps. I was surprised. Why the Temps, a
serious, sombre, doctrinaire, impartial sheet? I thought:

“'He must be a serious man with settled and regular habits; in short, a
good bourgeois.'

“He put on his gold-rimmed spectacles, leaned back before beginning to
read, and once more glanced about him. He noticed me, and immediately
began to stare at me in an annoying manner. I was even going to ask the
reason for this attention, when he exclaimed from his seat:

“'Well, by all that's holy, if this isn't Gontran Lardois.'

“I answered:

“'Yes, monsieur, you are not mistaken.'

“Then he quickly rose and came toward me with hands outstretched:

“'Well, old man, how are you?'

“As I did not recognize him at all I was greatly embarrassed. I
stammered:

“'Why-very well-and-you?'

“He began to laugh “'I bet you don't recognize me.'

“'No, not exactly. It seems—however—'

“He slapped me on the back:

“'Come on, no joking! I am Patience, Robert Patience, your friend, your
chum.'

“I recognized him. Yes, Robert Patience, my old college chum. It was he.
I took his outstretched hand:

“'And how are you?'

“'Fine!'

“His smile was like a paean of victory.

“He asked:

“'What are you doing here?'

“I explained that I was government inspector of taxes.

“He continued, pointing to my red ribbon:

“'Then you have-been a success?'

“I answered:

“'Fairly so. And you?'

“'I am doing well!'

“'What are you doing?'

“'I'm in business.'

“'Making money?'

“'Heaps. I'm very rich. But come around to lunch, to-morrow noon, 17 Rue
du Coq-qui-Chante; you will see my place.'

“He seemed to hesitate a second, then continued:

“'Are you still the good sport that you used to be?'

“'I—I hope so.'

“'Not married?'

“'No.'

“'Good. And do you still love a good time and potatoes?'

“I was beginning to find him hopelessly vulgar. Nevertheless, I answered
“'Yes.'

“'And pretty girls?'

“'Most assuredly.'

“He began to laugh good-humoredly.

“'Good, good! Do you remember our first escapade, in Bordeaux, after
that dinner at Routie's? What a spree!'

“I did, indeed, remember that spree; and the recollection of it cheered
me up. This called to mind other pranks. He would say:

“'Say, do you remember the time when we locked the proctor up in old man
Latoque's cellar?'

“And he laughed and banged the table with his fist, and then he
continued:

“'Yes-yes-yes-and do you remember the face of the geography teacher, M.
Marin, the day we set off a firecracker in the globe, just as he was
haranguing about the principal volcanoes of the earth?'

“Then suddenly I asked him:

“'And you, are you married?'

“He exclaimed:

“'Ten years, my boy, and I have four children, remarkable youngsters;
but you'll see them and their mother.'

“We were talking rather loud; the people around us looked at us in
surprise.

“Suddenly my friend looked at his watch, a chronometer the size of a
pumpkin, and he cried:

“'Thunder! I'm sorry, but I'll have to leave you; I am never free at
night.'

“He rose, took both my hands, shook them as though he were trying to
wrench my arms from their sockets, and exclaimed:

“'So long, then; till to-morrow noon!'

“'So long!'

“I spent the morning working in the office of the collector-general of
the Department. The chief wished me to stay to luncheon, but I told him
that I had an engagement with a friend. As he had to go out, he
accompanied me.

“I asked him:

“'Can you tell me how I can find the Rue du Coq-qui-Chante?'

“He answered:

“'Yes, it's only five minutes' walk from here. As I have nothing special
to do, I will take you there.'

“We started out and soon found ourselves there. It was a wide, fine-
looking street, on the outskirts of the town. I looked at the houses and
I noticed No. 17. It was a large house with a garden behind it. The
facade, decorated with frescoes, in the Italian style, appeared to me as
being in bad taste. There were goddesses holding vases, others swathed
in clouds. Two stone cupids supported the number of the house.

“I said to the treasurer:

“'Here is where I am going.'

“I held my hand out to him. He made a quick, strange gesture, said
nothing and shook my hand.

“I rang. A maid appeared. I asked:

“'Monsieur Patience, if you please?'

“She answered:

“'Right here, sir. Is it to monsieur that you wish to speak?'

“'Yes.'

“The hall was decorated with paintings from the brush of some local
artist. Pauls and Virginias were kissing each other under palm trees
bathed in a pink light. A hideous Oriental lantern was ranging from the
ceiling. Several doors were concealed by bright hangings.

“But what struck me especially was the odor. It was a sickening and
perfumed odor, reminding one of rice powder and the mouldy smell of a
cellar. An indefinable odor in a heavy atmosphere as oppressive as that
of public baths. I followed the maid up a marble stairway, covered with
a green, Oriental carpet, and was ushered into a sumptubus parlor.

“Left alone, I looked about me.

“The room was richly furnished, but in the pretentious taste of a
parvenu. Rather fine engravings of the last century represented women
with powdered hair dressed high surprised by gentlemen in interesting
positions. Another lady, lying in a large bed, was teasing with her foot
a little dog, lost in the sheets. One drawing showed four feet, bodies
concealed behind a curtain. The large room, surrounded by soft couches,
was entirely impregnated with that enervating and insipid odor which I
had already noticed. There seemed to be something suspicious about the
walls, the hangings, the exaggerated luxury, everything.

“I approached the window to look into the garden. It was very big,
shady, beautiful. A wide path wound round a grass plot in the midst of
which was a fountain, entered a shrubbery and came out farther away.
And, suddenly, yonder, in the distance, between two clumps of bushes,
three women appeared. They were walking slowly, arm in arm, clad in
long, white tea-gowns covered with lace. Two were blondes and the other
was dark-haired. Almost immediately they disappeared again behind the
trees. I stood there entranced, delighted with this short and charming
apparition, which brought to my mind a whole world of poetry. They had
scarcely allowed themselves to be seen, in just the proper light, in
that frame of foliage, in the midst of that mysterious, delightful park.
It seemed to me that I had suddenly seen before me the great ladies of
the last century, who were depicted in the engravings on the wall. And I
began to think of the happy, joyous, witty and amorous times when
manners were so graceful and lips so approachable.

“A deep voice made me jump. Patience had come in, beaming, and held out
his hands to me.

“He looked into my eyes with the sly look which one takes when divulging
secrets of love, and, with a Napoleonic gesture, he showed me his
sumptuous parlor, his park, the three women, who had reappeared in the
back of it, then, in a triumphant voice, where the note of pride was
prominent, he said:

“'And to think that I began with nothing—my wife and my sister-in-law!'”





ABANDONED

“I really think you must be mad, my dear, to go for a country walk in
such weather as this. You have had some very strange notions for the
last two months. You drag me to the seaside in spite of myself, when you
have never once had such a whim during all the forty-four years that we
have been married. You chose Fecamp, which is a very dull town, without
consulting me in the matter, and now you are seized with such a rage for
walking, you who hardly ever stir out on foot, that you want to take a
country walk on the hottest day of the year. Ask d'Apreval to go with
you, as he is ready to gratify all your whims. As for me, I am going
back to have a nap.”

Madame de Cadour turned to her old friend and said:

“Will you come with me, Monsieur d'Apreval?”

He bowed with a smile, and with all the gallantry of former years:

“I will go wherever you go,” he replied.

“Very well, then, go and get a sunstroke,” Monsieur de Cadour said; and
he went back to the Hotel des Bains to lie down for an hour or two.

As soon as they were alone, the old lady and her old companion set off,
and she said to him in a low voice, squeezing his hand:

“At last! at last!”

“You are mad,” he said in a whisper. “I assure you that you are mad.
Think of the risk you are running. If that man—”

She started.

“Oh! Henri, do not say that man, when you are speaking of him.”

“Very well,” he said abruptly, “if our son guesses anything, if he has
any suspicions, he will have you, he will have us both in his power. You
have got on without seeing him for the last forty years. What is the
matter with you to-day?”

They had been going up the long street that leads from the sea to the
town, and now they turned to the right, to go to Etretat. The white road
stretched in front of him, then under a blaze of brilliant sunshine, so
they went on slowly in the burning heat. She had taken her old friend's
arm, and was looking straight in front of her, with a fixed and haunted
gaze, and at last she said:

“And so you have not seen him again, either?”

“No, never.”

“Is it possible?”

“My dear friend, do not let us begin that discussion again. I have a
wife and children and you have a husband, so we both of us have much to
fear from other people's opinion.”

She did not reply; she was thinking of her long past youth and of many
sad things that had occurred. How well she recalled all the details of
their early friendship, his smiles, the way he used to linger, in order
to watch her until she was indoors. What happy days they were, the only
really delicious days she had ever enjoyed, and how quickly they were
over!

And then—her discovery—of the penalty she paid! What anguish!

Of that journey to the South, that long journey, her sufferings, her
constant terror, that secluded life in the small, solitary house on the
shores of the Mediterranean, at the bottom of a garden, which she did
not venture to leave. How well she remembered those long days which she
spent lying under an orange tree, looking up at the round, red fruit,
amid the green leaves. How she used to long to go out, as far as the
sea, whose fresh breezes came to her over the wall, and whose small
waves she could hear lapping on the beach. She dreamed of its immense
blue expanse sparkling under the sun, with the white sails of the small
vessels, and a mountain on the horizon. But she did not dare to go
outside the gate. Suppose anybody had recognized her!

And those days of waiting, those last days of misery and expectation!
The impending suffering, and then that terrible night! What misery she
had endured, and what a night it was! How she had groaned and screamed!
She could still see the pale face of her lover, who kissed her hand
every moment, and the clean-shaven face of the doctor and the nurse's
white cap.

And what she felt when she heard the child's feeble cries, that wail,
that first effort of a human's voice!

And the next day! the next day! the only day of her life on which she
had seen and kissed her son; for, from that time, she had never even
caught a glimpse of him.

And what a long, void existence hers had been since then, with the
thought of that child always, always floating before her. She had never
seen her son, that little creature that had been part of herself, even
once since then; they had taken him from her, carried him away, and had
hidden him. All she knew was that he had been brought up by some
peasants in Normandy, that he had become a peasant himself, had married
well, and that his father, whose name he did not know, had settled a
handsome sum of money on him.

How often during the last forty years had she wished to go and see him
and to embrace him! She could not imagine to herself that he had grown!
She always thought of that small human atom which she had held in her
arms and pressed to her bosom for a day.

How often she had said to M. d'Apreval: “I cannot bear it any longer; I
must go and see him.”

But he had always stopped her and kept her from going. She would be
unable to restrain and to master herself; their son would guess it and
take advantage of her, blackmail her; she would be lost.

“What is he like?” she said.

“I do not know. I have not seen him again, either.”

“Is it possible? To have a son and not to know him; to be afraid of him
and to reject him as if he were a disgrace! It is horrible.”

They went along the dusty road, overcome by the scorching sun, and
continually ascending that interminable hill.

“One might take it for a punishment,” she continued; “I have never had
another child, and I could no longer resist the longing to see him,
which has possessed me for forty years. You men cannot understand that.
You must remember that I shall not live much longer, and suppose I
should never see him, never have seen him! . . . Is it possible? How
could I wait so long? I have thought about him every day since, and what
a terrible existence mine has been! I have never awakened, never, do you
understand, without my first thoughts being of him, of my child. How is
he? Oh, how guilty I feel toward him! Ought one to fear what the world
may say in a case like this? I ought to have left everything to go after
him, to bring him up and to show my love for him. I should certainly
have been much happier, but I did not dare, I was a coward. How I have
suffered! Oh, how those poor, abandoned children must hate their
mothers!”

She stopped suddenly, for she was choked by her sobs. The whole valley
was deserted and silent in the dazzling light and the overwhelming heat,
and only the grasshoppers uttered their shrill, continuous chirp among
the sparse yellow grass on both sides of the road.

“Sit down a little,” he said.

She allowed herself to be led to the side of the ditch and sank down
with her face in her hands. Her white hair, which hung in curls on both
sides of her face, had become tangled. She wept, overcome by profound
grief, while he stood facing her, uneasy and not knowing what to say,
and he merely murmured: “Come, take courage.”

She got up.

“I will,” she said, and wiping her eyes, she began to walk again with
the uncertain step of an elderly woman.

A little farther on the road passed beneath a clump of trees, which hid
a few houses, and they could distinguish the vibrating and regular blows
of a blacksmith's hammer on the anvil; and presently they saw a wagon
standing on the right side of the road in front of a low cottage, and
two men shoeing a horse under a shed.

Monsieur d'Apreval went up to them.

“Where is Pierre Benedict's farm?” he asked.

“Take the road to the left, close to the inn, and then go straight on;
it is the third house past Poret's. There is a small spruce fir close to
the gate; you cannot make a mistake.”

They turned to the left. She was walking very slowly now, her legs
threatened to give way, and her heart was beating so violently that she
felt as if she should suffocate, while at every step she murmured, as if
in prayer:

“Oh! Heaven! Heaven!”

Monsieur d'Apreval, who was also nervous and rather pale, said to her
somewhat gruffly:

“If you cannot manage to control your feelings, you will betray yourself
at once. Do try and restrain yourself.”

“How can I?” she replied. “My child! When I think that I am going to see
my child.”

They were going along one of those narrow country lanes between
farmyards, that are concealed beneath a double row of beech trees at
either side of the ditches, and suddenly they found themselves in front
of a gate, beside which there was a young spruce fir.

“This is it,” he said.

She stopped suddenly and looked about her. The courtyard, which was
planted with apple trees, was large and extended as far as the small
thatched dwelling house. On the opposite side were the stable, the barn,
the cow house and the poultry house, while the gig, the wagon and the
manure cart were under a slated outhouse. Four calves were grazing under
the shade of the trees and black hens were wandering all about the
enclosure.

All was perfectly still; the house door was open, but nobody was to be
seen, and so they went in, when immediately a large black dog came out
of a barrel that was standing under a pear tree, and began to bark
furiously.

There were four bee-hives on boards against the wall of the house.

Monsieur d'Apreval stood outside and called out:

“Is anybody at home?”

Then a child appeared, a little girl of about ten, dressed in a chemise
and a linen, petticoat, with dirty, bare legs and a timid and cunning
look. She remained standing in the doorway, as if to prevent any one
going in.

“What do you want?” she asked.

“Is your father in?”

“No.”

“Where is he?”

“I don't know.”

“And your mother?”

“Gone after the cows.”

“Will she be back soon?”

“I don't know.”

Then suddenly the lady, as if she feared that her companion might force
her to return, said quickly:

“I shall not go without having seen him.”

“We will wait for him, my dear friend.”

As they turned away, they saw a peasant woman coming toward the house,
carrying two tin pails, which appeared to be heavy and which glistened
brightly in the sunlight.

She limped with her right leg, and in her brown knitted jacket, that was
faded by the sun and washed out by the rain, she looked like a poor,
wretched, dirty servant.

“Here is mamma,” the child said.

When she got close to the house, she looked at the strangers angrily and
suspiciously, and then she went in, as if she had not seen them. She
looked old and had a hard, yellow, wrinkled face, one of those wooden
faces that country people so often have.

Monsieur d'Apreval called her back.

“I beg your pardon, madame, but we came in to know whether you could
sell us two glasses of milk.”

She was grumbling when she reappeared in the door, after putting down
her pails.

“I don't sell milk,” she replied.

“We are very thirsty,” he said, “and madame is very tired. Can we not
get something to drink?”

The peasant woman gave them an uneasy and cunning glance and then she
made up her mind.

“As you are here, I will give you some,” she said, going into the house,
and almost immediately the child came out and brought two chairs, which
she placed under an apple tree, and then the mother, in turn, brought
out two bowls of foaming milk, which she gave to the visitors. She did
not return to the house, however, but remained standing near them, as if
to watch them and to find out for what purpose they had come there.

“You have come from Fecamp?” she said.

“Yes,” Monsieur d'Apreval replied, “we are staying at Fecamp for the
summer.”

And then, after a short silence, he continued:

“Have you any fowls you could sell us every week?”

The woman hesitated for a moment and then replied:

“Yes, I think I have. I suppose you want young ones?”

“Yes, of course.”

“'What do you pay for them in the market?”

D'Apreval, who had not the least idea, turned to his companion:

“What are you paying for poultry in Fecamp, my dear lady?”

“Four francs and four francs fifty centimes,” she said, her eyes full of
tears, while the farmer's wife, who was looking at her askance, asked in
much surprise:

“Is the lady ill, as she is crying?”

He did not know what to say, and replied with some hesitation:

“No—no—but she lost her watch as we came along, a very handsome watch,
and that troubles her. If anybody should find it, please let us know.”

Mother Benedict did not reply, as she thought it a very equivocal sort
of answer, but suddenly she exclaimed:

“Oh, here is my husband!”

She was the only one who had seen him, as she was facing the gate.
D'Apreval started and Madame de Cadour nearly fell as she turned round
suddenly on her chair.

A man bent nearly double, and out of breath, stood there, ten-yards from
them, dragging a cow at the end of a rope. Without taking any notice of
the visitors, he said:

“Confound it! What a brute!”

And he went past them and disappeared in the cow house.

Her tears had dried quickly as she sat there startled, without a word
and with the one thought in her mind, that this was her son, and
D'Apreval, whom the same thought had struck very unpleasantly, said in
an agitated voice:

“Is this Monsieur Benedict?”

“Who told you his name?” the wife asked, still rather suspiciously.

“The blacksmith at the corner of the highroad,” he replied, and then
they were all silent, with their eyes fixed on the door of the cow
house, which formed a sort of black hole in the wall of the building.
Nothing could be seen inside, but they heard a vague noise, movements
and footsteps and the sound of hoofs, which were deadened by the straw
on the floor, and soon the man reappeared in the door, wiping his
forehead, and came toward the house with long, slow strides. He passed
the strangers without seeming to notice them and said to his wife:

“Go and draw me a jug of cider; I am very thirsty.”

Then he went back into the house, while his wife went into the cellar
and left the two Parisians alone.

“Let us go, let us go, Henri,” Madame de Cadour said, nearly distracted
with grief, and so d'Apreval took her by the arm, helped her to rise,
and sustaining her with all his strength, for he felt that she was
nearly fainting, he led her out, after throwing five francs on one of
the chairs.

As soon as they were outside the gate, she began to sob and said,
shaking with grief:

“Oh! oh! is that what you have made of him?”

He was very pale and replied coldly:

“I did what I could. His farm is worth eighty thousand francs, and that
is more than most of the sons of the middle classes have.”

They returned slowly, without speaking a word. She was still crying; the
tears ran down her cheeks continually for a time, but by degrees they
stopped, and they went back to Fecamp, where they found Monsieur de
Cadour waiting dinner for them. As soon as he saw them, he began to
laugh and exclaimed:

“So my wife has had a sunstroke, and I am very glad of it. I really
think she has lost her head for some time past!”

Neither of them replied, and when the husband asked them, rubbing his
hands:

“Well, I hope that, at least, you have had a pleasant walk?”

Monsieur d'Apreval replied:

“A delightful walk, I assure you; perfectly delightful.”





THE MAISON TELLIER

They went there every evening about eleven o'clock, just as they would
go to the club. Six or eight of them; always the same set, not fast men,
but respectable tradesmen, and young men in government or some other
employ, and they would drink their Chartreuse, and laugh with the girls,
or else talk seriously with Madame Tellier, whom everybody respected,
and then they would go home at twelve o'clock! The younger men would
sometimes stay later.

It was a small, comfortable house painted yellow, at the corner of a
street behind Saint Etienne's Church, and from the windows one could see
the docks full of ships being unloaded, the big salt marsh, and, rising
beyond it, the Virgin's Hill with its old gray chapel.

Madame Tellier, who came of a respectable family of peasant proprietors
in the Department of the Eure, had taken up her profession, just as she
would have become a milliner or dressmaker. The prejudice 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 an
establishment of this character 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 Tellier, who had formerly been innkeepers near
Yvetot, had immediately sold their house, as they thought that the
business at Fecamp 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. They were good people
enough in their way, and soon made themselves liked by their staff and
their neighbors.

Monsieur died of apoplexy two years later, for as the new place 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 made much of 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 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 a hard
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 school, and would 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'
Tellier as their kind mother, who was full of goodness and complaisance.

The house had two entrances. At the corner there was a sort of tap-room,
which sailors and the lower orders frequented at night, and she had two
girls whose special duty it was to wait on them with the assistance of
Frederic, 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 before the customers, and then urged the men to drink.

The three other girls—there were only five of them—formed a kind of
aristocracy, and they remained with the company on the first floor,
unless they were wanted downstairs and there was nobody on the first
floor. The salon de Jupiter, where the tradesmen used to meet, was
papered in blue, and embellished with a large drawing representing Leda
and the swan. The room was reached by a winding staircase, through a
narrow door opening on the street, and above this door a lantern
inclosed in wire, such as one still sees in some towns, at the foot of
the shrine of some saint, burned all night long.

The house, which was old and damp, smelled slightly of mildew. At times
there was an odor of eau de Cologne in the passages, or sometimes from a
half-open door downstairs the noisy mirth of the common men sitting and
drinking rose to the first floor, much to the disgust of the gentlemen
who were there. Madame Tellier, who was on friendly terms with her
customers, did not leave the room, 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 commonplace debauchery of
drinking a glass of liqueur in company with common women.

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, like
combed-out hemp, barely covered her head.

Raphaele, who came from Marseilles, played the indispensable part of the
handsome Jewess, and was thin, with high cheekbones, which were covered
with rouge, and black hair covered with pomatum, which curled on 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 was a little roll of fat, nearly all body, with very short legs,
and from morning till night she sang songs, which were alternately
risque 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 embonpoint and her short legs; her laugh, which was a torrent of
shrill cries, resounded here and there, ceaselessly, in a bedroom, in
the loft, in the cafe, everywhere, and all about nothing.

The two women on the ground floor, Lodise, who was nicknamed La Cocotte,
and Flora, whom they called Balancoise, because she limped a little, the
former always dressed as the Goddess of Liberty, with a tri-colored
sash, and the other as a Spanish woman, with a string of copper coins in
her carroty hair, which jingled at every uneven step, 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 were generally called “the
two pumps.”

A jealous peace, which was, however, very rarely disturbed, reigned
among these five women, thanks to Madame Tellier'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 Tellier 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 toward them, and when they met during the day, they
would say: “Until this evening, you know where,” just as men say: “At
the club, 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 toward the end of May, the first arrival, Monsieur Poulin,
who was a timber merchant, and had been mayor, found the door shut. The
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
gunmaker, 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 taproom with their fists.

The two tradesmen immediately made their escape, 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 annoyed, as he was a
married man and father of a family, and only went on Saturdays. That was
his regular evening, and now he should be deprived of this dissipation
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 alongside the hill, they returned over
the wooden bridge which crosses the Retenue, passed close to the
railway, and came out again on the market place, when, suddenly, a
quarrel arose between Monsieur Pinipesse, the collector, and Monsieur
Tournevau about an edible mushroom which one of them declared he had
found in the neighborhood.

As they were out of temper already from having nothing to do, 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-mayor, 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 was 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 townsmen hid
themselves in a doorway, 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. Monsieur Poulin and Monsieur Dupuis, who were angry with each
other, went in different directions, without wishing each other good-by.

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 lower room, antd then stopped and called Frederic, 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 fellows went on
their way toward 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 waited outside the door, was crying by that
time, as 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 annoyed at having to wait until the following Saturday,
and he hoped something would 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 closed.

He went back to it and examined the walls, trying to find out some
reason, and on the shutter he saw a notice stuck up. He struck a wax
match 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 Tellier had a brother, who was a carpenter in their native place,
Virville, in the Department of Eure. When she still kept the inn at
Yvetot, she had stood godmother 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 to write to his
sister, asking her to come and be present at the ceremony. Their old
parents were dead, and as she could not well refuse her goddaughter, she
accepted the invitation. Her brother, whose name was Joseph, hoped that
by dint of showing his sister attention, 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 Fecamp,” which might
mean that she was living on her own private income. It was quite twenty
leagues from Fecamp to Virville, and for a peasant, twenty leagues on
land is as long a journey as crossing the ocean would be to city people.
The people at Virville had never been further than Rouen, and nothing
attracted the people from Fecamp to a village of five hundred houses in
the middle of a plain, and situated in another department; at any rate,
nothing was known about her business.

But the Confirmation was coming on, and Madame Tellier was in great
embarrassment. She had no substitute, 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 Tellier and her companions in a second-class
carriage. As far as Beuzeville 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 turned-down collar, wide sleeves tight
at the wrist, ornamented with white embroidery, wearing 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 up stiffly in her rustic finery, had a
face like a fowl, 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
Tellier was dressed in blue silk from head to foot, and had on a
dazzling red imitation French cashmere shawl. Fernande was puffing in a
Scotch plaid dress, of which her companions had laced the bodice as
tight as they could, forcing up her full bust, that was continually
heaving up and down. Raphaele, with a bonnet covered with feathers, so
that it looked like a bird's nest, had on a lilac dress with gold spots
on it, and there was something Oriental about it that suited her Jewish
face. Rosa had on a pink skirt with largo 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 others a
high opinion of them. But at Bolbeck a gentleman with light whiskers, a
gold chain, and wearing two or three rings, got in, and put several
parcels wrapped in oilcloth on the rack over his head. He looked
inclined for a joke, and seemed a good-hearted fellow.

“Are you ladies changing your quarters?” he said, and that question
embarrassed them all considerably. Madame Tellier, however, quickly
regained 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.”

She could not think of a retort, so, perhaps thinking she had said
enough, madame gave him a dignified bow and compressed her lips.

Then the gentleman, who was sitting between Rosa 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 the 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 wit 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 as they did so the gentleman took them on his knee,
jumped them up and down and pinched their arms. 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, not a twitch.

Then the gentleman, who was a commercial traveller, offered the ladies
suspenders by way of a joke, and taking up one of his packages, he
opened it. It was a joke, 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 natural to all women when they are considering an article of
dress. They consulted one another by their looks or in a whisper, and
replied in the same manner, and Madame Tellier 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 had 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, but he quietly waited his time and said: “Well, if
you will not try them on 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 his offer to
them, and Flora, especially, visibly hesitated, and he insisted: “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 milkmaid, in a badly fitting, coarse stocking. The commercial
traveller stooped down and fastened the garter. When he had done this,
he gave her the lilac pair and asked: “Who next?”

“I! I!” they all shouted at once, and he began on Rosa, who uncovered a
shapeless, round thing without any ankle, a regular “sausage of a leg,”
as Raphaele used to say.

Lastly, Madame Tellier herself put out her leg, a handsome, muscular
Norman leg, and in his surprise and pleasure, the commercial traveller
gallantly took off his hat to salute that master calf, like a true
French cavalier.

The two peasants, who were speechless from surprise, glanced sideways
out of the corner of one eye, 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 no good and are off to that cursed place, Paris.”

The funny commercial traveller himself got out at Rouen, after behaving
so coarsely that Madame Tellier was obliged sharply to put him in 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 with a
number of chairs in it, 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 Tellier
and her brother on the three chairs in front, while 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 travellers about, to the right and to the
left, as if they were dancing puppets, which made them scream and make
horrible grimaces.

They clung on to the sides of the vehicle, their bonnets fell on their
backs, over their faces and on their shoulders, and the white horse went
on stretching out his head and holding out his little hairless tail like
a rat's, with which he whisked his buttocks from time to time.

Joseph Rivet, with one leg on the shafts and the other doubled under
him, held the reins with his elbows very high, and kept uttering a kind
of clucking 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 arose a strong, wholesome, sweet and penetrating odor, which the
wind carried to some distance.

The cornflowers showed their little blue heads amid 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
thick were the poppies, and the cart, which looked as if it were filled
with flowers of more brilliant hue, jogged on through fields bright 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. 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.

The capital omelet, followed by boiled chitterlings and washed down with
good hard cider, made them all feel comfortable.

Rivet had taken a glass so that he might drink with them, and his wife
cooked, waited on them, brought in the dishes, took them out and asked
each 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, a smell
of a carpenter's shop, that resinous odor which penetrates to the lungs.

They wanted to see the little girl, but she had gone to church and would
not be back again until evening, so they all went out for a stroll in
the country.

It was a small village, through which the highroad passed. Ten or a
dozen houses on either side of the single street were inhabited by the
butcher, the grocer, the carpenter, the innkeeper, the shoemaker and the
baker.

The church was at the end of the street and was surrounded by a small
churchyard, and four immense lime-trees, which stood just outside the
porch, shaded it completely. It was built of flint, in no particular
style, and had a slate-roofed steeple. When you got past it, you were
again in the open country, which was varied here and there by clumps of
trees which hid the homesteads.

Rivet had given his arm to his sister, out of politeness, although he
was in his working clothes, and was walking with her in a dignified
manner. His wife, who was overwhelmed by Raphaele's gold-striped dress,
walked between her and Fernande, and roly-poly Rosa was trotting behind
with Louise and Flora, the Seesaw, 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, who was almost blind, crossed herself as if it
were a religious procession, and they all gazed for a long time at those
handsome ladies from 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 Tellier would not let them
go in, for fear of disturbing the little cherubs.

After the walk, during which Joseph Rivet enumerated the principal
landed proprietors, spoke about the yield of the land and the
productiveness of the cows and sheep, he took his tribe of women home
and installed them in his house, and as it was very small, they had to
put them into the rooms, two and two.

Just for once Rivet would sleep in the workshop on the shavings; his
wife was 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 to herself at the top of the stairs, close to
the loft, where the candidate for confirmation was to sleep.

When the little 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 affection which had made them kiss the ducks in
the railway carriage.

They each of them took her on their knees, 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 everybody, 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 loneliness 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, 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 afraid in her small attic.

Rosa was delighted, got up softly so as not to awaken any one, and went
and fetched the child. She took her into her warm bed, kissed her and
pressed her to her bosom, 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
Rosa's bosom.

At five o'clock the little church bell, ringing the Angelus, woke the
women, who usually slept the whole morning long.

The villagers were up already, and the women went busily from house to
house, carefully bringing short, starched muslin dresses or very long
wax tapers tied in the middle with a bow of silk fringed with gold, and
with dents in the wax for the fingers.

The sun was already high in the blue sky, which still had a rosy tint
toward the horizon, like a faint remaining trace of dawn. Families of
fowls were walking about outside the 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, stopping at the
different houses, and tall Norman women dismounted, wearing dark
dresses, with kerchiefs crossed over the bosom, fastened with silver
brooches a hundred years old.

The men had put on their blue smocks 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, wagonettes, traps of every shape and age, tipping forward on
their shafts or else tipping backward with the shafts up in the air.

The carpenter's house was as busy as a bee-hive. The women, in dressing-
jackets and petticoats, with their thin, short hair, which looked faded
and worn, hanging down their backs, were busy dressing the child, who
was standing quietly 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 toward the parochial building, which
contained the two schools 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
embarrassed looks, and those clumsy movements of a body bent by toil.

The little girls disappeared in a cloud of muslin, which looked like
whipped cream, while the lads, who looked like embryo waiters in a cafe
and whose heads shone with pomatum, walked with their legs apart, so as
not to get any dust or dirt on their black trousers.

It was something for a family, to be proud of, when a large number of
relatives, who had come from a distance, surrounded the child, and the
carpenter's triumph was complete.

Madame Tellier's regiment, with its leader 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 Louise and Flora together,
and thus they proceeded 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 ranged 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 display of fireworks.

When they went into the church the congregation grew quite excited. They
pressed against each other, turned round and jostled one another in
order to see, and some of the devout ones spoke almost aloud, for they
were so astonished at the sight of those ladies whose dresses were more
elaborate than the priest's vestments.

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, Louise and Flora 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
on to “Amens” with interminable “a-a's,” which the reed stop of the
organ sustained in a monotonous, long-drawn-out tone.

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, their eyes fixed on
the big book of plain chant lying open before them on the outstretched
wings of a wooden eagle.

Then silence ensued and the service went on. Toward the close Rosa, with
her head in both hands, suddenly thought of her mother, her village
church and her first communion. She almost fancied that that day had
returned, when she was so small and was 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 in creased 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 in vain. A sort of rattle
escaped her throat, and she was answered by two other profound,
heartbreaking sobs, for her two neighbors, Louise and Flora, who were
kneeling near her, overcome by similar recollections, were sobbing by
her side, amid a flood of tears; and as tears are contagious, Madame
Tellier 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 affected at the
sight of those handsome ladies on their knees, shaken with 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 smocks 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
came like gusts of wind which blow the trees in a forest, and the
priest, paralyzed by emotion, stammered out incoherent prayers, without
finding words, ardent prayers of the soul soaring to 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 reed stop itself seemed hoarse, as if the instrument had been
weeping; the priest, however, raised his hand to command silence and
went and stood on the chancel steps, when everybody was silent at once.

After a few remarks on what had just taken place, and 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 lamb, for the Lord to descend on His flock.”

His voice failed him again, from emotion, and he said no more, but
concluded the service.

They now left the church as quickly as possible; the children themselves
were restless and tired with such a prolonged tension of the mind. The
parents left the church by degrees 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 took possession of
their 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 took the other, and Raphaele and
Fernande held up her long muslin skirt, 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 for home in the midst
of this guard of honor.

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 in the village. 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 sat
in their shirt-sleeves, drinking glass after glass of cider.

In the carpenter's house the gaiety maintained somewhat of an air of
reserve, the consequence of the emotion of the girls in the morning, and
Rivet was the only one who was in a jolly mood, and he was drinking to
excess. Madame Tellier looked at the clock every moment, for, in order
not to lose two days running, they must take the 3:55 train, which would
bring them to Fecamp 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 on hand, 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 put in the horse 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 was artful and pretended to be
very much affected, and Madame Tellier, who was holding the girl on her
knee, would not pledge herself to anything definite, but merely gave
vague promises—she would not forget her, there was plenty of time, and
besides, they would meet again.

But the conveyance did not come to the door and the women did not come
downstairs. Upstairs they even heard loud laughter, romping, 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, was plaguing Rosa, who was half choking with
laughter. Louise and Flora were holding him by the arms and trying to
calm him, as they were shocked at his levity 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 rebuff the drunken fellow received.

The man was furious, his face was red, and he was trying to shake off
the two women who were clinging to him, while he was pulling Rosa's
skirt with all his might and stammering incoherently.

But Madame Tellier, 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 the wall in the passage, and a minute
afterward they heard him pumping water on his head in the yard, and when
he reappeared with the cart he was quite calm.

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 jolting of the cart, pushed
their neighbors' chairs, and burst out laughing every moment.

There was a glare of light over the country, which dazzled their eyes,
and the wheels raised two trails of dust along the highroad. Presently,
Fernande, who was fond of music, asked Rosa to sing something, and she
boldly struck up the “Gros Cure de Meudon,” but Madame Tellier made her
stop immediately, as she thought it a very unsuitable song for such a
day, and she added:

“Sing us something of Beranger's.” And so, after a moment's hesitation,
Rosa began Beranger's song “The Grandmother” in her worn-out voice, and
all the girls, and even Madame Tellier herself, joined in the chorus:

“How I regret My dimpled arms, My nimble legs, And 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
shaft with his foot, and with the reins on the back of the horse, 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 top of the other, on
the bottom of the conveyance.

They got up, laughing as if they were mad, and the Gong 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 load of shouting females 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 good times together.”
But Madame Tellier 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 Fecamp next month.” And he gave
Rosa a roguish and knowing look.

“Come,” his sister replied, “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 movements.

“Passengers for Rouen, take your seats!” 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
ran along by the track to get another look at Rosa, and as the carriage
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 nimble legs, And 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
Tellier could not help saying:

“It was all very well, but I was longing to get home.”

They hurried over their supper, and then, when they had put on their
usual evening costume, waited for their regular customers, and the
little colored lamp outside the door told the passers-by that Madame
Tellier had returned, and in a moment the news spread, nobody knew how
or through whom.

Monsieur Philippe, the banker's son, even carried his friendliness so
far as to send a special messenger to Monsieur Tournevau, who was in the
bosom of his family.

The fish curer had several cousins to dinner every Sunday, 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
contained only 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 sons, 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 has hat and overcoat immediately. As soon
as he was in the street, he began to hurry, 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, and were being called for
in every direction at once.

The upstairs room was full by nine o'clock. Monsieur Vasse, the Judge of
the Tribunal of Commerce, Madame Tellier's regular 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 talking to Rosa, and she was running
her hands through the old gentleman's white whiskers.

Tall Fernande was on the sofa, her feet on the coat of Monsieur
Pinipesse, the tax collector, and leaning back against young Monsieur
Philippe, her right arm around his neck, while she held a cigarette in
her left hand.

Raphaele appeared to be talking seriously with Monsieur Dupuis, the
insurance agent, and she finished by saying: “Yes, I will, yes.”

Just then, the door opened suddenly, and Monsieur Tournevau came in, and
was greeted with enthusiastic cries of “Long live Tournevau!” And
Raphaele, who was dancing alone up and down the room, went and threw
herself into his arms. He seized her in a vigorous embrace and, without
saying a word, lifted her up as if she had been a feather.

Rosa was chatting to the ex-mayor, kissing him and puffing; both his
whiskers at the same time, in order to keep his head straight.

Fernanad and Madame Tellier 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 depths of the
instrument.

The tall girl put her arms round the tax collector, Madame Tellier let
Monsieur Vasse take her round the waist, 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 Tellier 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 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 draught 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 Tournevau
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 and had a
few turns, while their customers downstairs grew impatient, and then
they returned regretfully to the tap-room. At midnight they were still
dancing.

Madame Tellier let them amuse themselves while 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 cost only
six francs a bottle, instead of ten, which was the usual price, and when
they expressed their surprise at such generosity, Madame Tellier, who
was beaming, said to them:

“We don't have a holiday every day.”





DENIS

To Leon Chapron.

Marambot opened the letter which his servant Denis gave him and smiled.

For twenty years Denis has been a servant in this house. He was a short,
stout, jovial man, who was known throughout the countryside as a model
servant. He asked:

“Is monsieur pleased? Has monsieur received good news?”

M. Marambot was not rich. He was an old village druggist, a bachelor,
who lived on an income acquired with difficulty by selling drugs to the
farmers. He answered:

“Yes, my boy. Old man Malois is afraid of the law-suit with which I am
threatening him. I shall get my money to-morrow. Five thousand francs
are not liable to harm the account of an old bachelor.”

M. Marambot rubbed his hands with satisfaction. He was a man of quiet
temperament, more sad than gay, incapable of any prolonged effort,
careless in business.

He could undoubtedly have amassed a greater income had he taken
advantage of the deaths of colleagues established in more important
centers, by taking their places and carrying on their business. But the
trouble of moving and the thought of all the preparations had always
stopped him. After thinking the matter over for a few days, he would be
satisfied to say:

“Bah! I'll wait until the next time. I'll not lose anything by the
delay. I may even find something better.”

Denis, on the contrary, was always urging his master to new enterprises.
Of an energetic temperament, he would continually repeat:

“Oh! If I had only had the capital to start out with, I could have made
a fortune! One thousand francs would do me.”

M. Marambot would smile without answering and would go out in his little
garden, where, his hands behind his back, he would walk about dreaming.

All day long, Denis sang the joyful refrains of the folk-songs of the
district. He even showed an unusual activity, for he cleaned all the
windows of the house, energetically rubbing the glass, and singing at
the top of his voice.

M. Marambot, surprised at his zeal, said to him several times, smiling:

“My boy, if you work like that there will be nothing left for you to do
to-morrow.”

The following day, at about nine o'clock in the morning, the postman
gave Denis four letters for his master, one of them very heavy. M.
Marambot immediately shut himself up in his room until late in the
afternoon. He then handed his servant four letters for the mail. One of
them was addressed to M. Malois; it was undoubtedly a receipt for the
money.

Denis asked his master no questions; he appeared to be as sad and gloomy
that day as he had seemed joyful the day before.

Night came. M. Marambot went to bed as usual and slept.

He was awakened by a strange noise. He sat up in his bed and listened.
Suddenly the door opened, and Denis appeared, holding in one hand a
candle and in the other a carving knife, his eyes staring, his face
contracted as though moved by some deep emotion; he was as pale as a
ghost.

M. Marambot, astonished, thought that he was sleep-walking, and he was
going to get out of bed and assist him when the servant blew out the
light and rushed for the bed. His master stretched out his hands to
receive the shock which knocked him over on his back; he was trying to
seize the hands of his servant, whom he now thought to be crazy, in
order to avoid the blows which the latter was aiming at him.

He was struck by the knife; once in the shoulder, once in the forehead
and the third time in the chest. He fought wildly, waving his arms
around in the darkness, kicking and crying:

“Denis! Denis! Are you mad? Listen, Denis!”

But the latter, gasping for breath, kept up his furious attack always
striking, always repulsed, sometimes with a kick, sometimes with a
punch, and rushing forward again furiously.

M. Marambot was wounded twice more, once in the leg and once in the
stomach. But, suddenly, a thought flashed across his mind, and he began
to shriek:

“Stop, stop, Denis, I have not yet received my money!”

The man immediately ceased, and his master could hear his labored
breathing in the darkness.

M. Marambot then went on:

“I have received nothing. M. Malois takes back what he said, the law-
suit will take place; that is why you carried the letters to the mail.
Just read those on my desk.”

With a final effort, he reached for his matches and lit the candle.

He was covered with blood. His sheets, his curtains, and even the walls,
were spattered with red. Denis, standing in the middle of the room, was
also bloody from head to foot.

When he saw the blood, M. Marambot thought himself dead, and fell
unconscious.

At break of day he revived. It was some time, however, before he
regained his senses, and was able to understand or remember. But,
suddenly, the memory of the attack and of his wounds returned to him,
and he was filled with such terror that he closed his eyes in order not
to see anything. After a few minutes he grew calmer and began to think.
He had not died immediately, therefore he might still recover. He felt
weak, very weak; but he had no real pain, although he noticed an
uncomfortable smarting sensation in several parts of his body. He also
felt icy cold, and all wet, and as though wrapped up in bandages. He
thought that this dampness came from the blood which he had lost; and he
shivered at the dreadful thought of this red liquid which had come from
his veins and covered his bed. The idea of seeing this terrible
spectacle again so upset him that he kept his eyes closed with all his
strength, as though they might open in spite of himself.

What had become of Denis? He had probably escaped.

But what could he, Marambot, do now? Get up? Call for help? But if he
should make the slightest motions, his wounds would undoubtedly open up
again and he would die from loss of blood.

Suddenly he heard the door of his room open. His heart almost stopped.
It was certainly Denis who was coming to finish him up. He held his
breath in order to make the murderer think that he had been successful.

He felt his sheet being lifted up, and then someone feeling his stomach.
A sharp pain near his hip made him start. He was being very gently
washed with cold water. Therefore, someone must have discovered the
misdeed and he was being cared for. A wild joy seized him; but
prudently, he did not wish to show that he was conscious. He opened one
eye, just one, with the greatest precaution.

He recognized Denis standing beside him, Denis himself! Mercy! He
hastily closed his eye again.

Denis! What could he be doing? What did he want? What awful scheme could
he now be carrying out?

What was he doing? Well, he was washing him in order to hide the traces
of his crime! And he would now bury him in the garden, under ten feet of
earth, so that no one could discover him! Or perhaps under the wine
cellar! And M. Marambot began to tremble like a leaf. He kept saying to
himself: “I am lost, lost!” He closed his eyes so as not to see the
knife as it descended for the final stroke. It did not come. Denis was
now lifting him up and bandaging him. Then he began carefully to dress
the wound on his leg, as his master had taught him to do.

There was no longer any doubt. His servant, after wishing to kill him,
was trying to save him.

Then M. Marambot, in a dying voice, gave him the practical piece of
advice:

“Wash the wounds in a dilute solution of carbolic acid!”

Denis answered:

“This is what I am doing, monsieur.”

M. Marambot opened both his eyes. There was no sign of blood either on
the bed, on the walls, or on the murderer. The wounded man was stretched
out on clean white sheets.

The two men looked at each other.

Finally M. Marambot said calmly:

“You have been guilty of a great crime.”

Denis answered:

“I am trying to make up for it, monsieur. If you will not tell on me, I
will serve you as faithfully as in the past.”

This was no time to anger his servant. M. Marambot murmured as he closed
his eyes:

“I swear not to tell on you.”

Denis saved his master. He spent days and nights without sleep, never
leaving the sick room, preparing drugs, broths, potions, feeling his
pulse, anxiously counting the beats, attending him with the skill of a
trained nurse and the devotion of a son.

He continually asked:

“Well, monsieur, how do you feel?”

M. Marambot would answer in a weak voice:

“A little better, my boy, thank you.”

And when the sick man would wake up at night, he would often see his
servant seated in an armchair, weeping silently.

Never had the old druggist been so cared for, so fondled, so spoiled. At
first he had said to himself:

“As soon as I am well I shall get rid of this rascal.”

He was now convalescing, and from day to day he would put off dismissing
his murderer. He thought that no one would ever show him such care and
attention, for he held this man through fear; and he warned him that he
had left a document with a lawyer denouncing him to the law if any new
accident should occur.

This precaution seemed to guarantee him against any future attack; and
he then asked himself if it would not be wiser to keep this man near
him, in order to watch him closely.

Just as formerly, when he would hesitate about taking some larger place
of business, he could not make up his mind to any decision.

“There is always time,” he would say to himself.

Denis continued to show himself an admirable servant. M. Marambot was
well. He kept him.

One morning, just as he was finishing breakfast, he suddenly heard a
great noise in the kitchen. He hastened in there. Denis was struggling
with two gendarmes. An officer was taking notes on his pad.

As soon as he saw his master, the servant began to sob, exclaiming:

“You told on me, monsieur, that's not right, after what you had promised
me. You have broken your word of honor, Monsieur Marambot; that is not
right, that's not right!”

M. Marambot, bewildered and distressed at being suspected, lifted his
hand:

“I swear to you before the Lord, my boy that I did not tell on you. I
haven't the slightest idea how the police could have found out about
your attack on me.”

The officer started:

“You say that he attacked you, M. Marambot?”

The bewildered druggist answered:

“Yes—but I did not tell on him—I haven't said a word—I swear it—he has
served me excellently from that time on—”

The officer pronounced severely:

“I will take down your testimony. The law will take notice of this new
action, of which it was ignorant, Monsieur Marambot. I was commissioned
to arrest your servant for the theft of two ducks surreptitiously taken
by him from M. Duhamel of which act there are witnesses. I shall make a
note of your information.”

Then, turning toward his men, he ordered:

“Come on, bring him along!”

The two gendarmes dragged Denis out.

The lawyer used a plea of insanity, contrasting the two misdeeds in
order to strengthen his argument. He had clearly proved that the theft
of the two ducks came from the same mental condition as the eight knife-
wounds in the body of Maramlot. He had cunningly analyzed all the phases
of this transitory condition of mental aberration, which could,
doubtless, be cured by a few months' treatment in a reputable
sanatorium. He had spoken in enthusiastic terms of the continued
devotion of this faithful servant, of the care with which he had
surrounded his master, wounded by him in a moment of alienation.

Touched by this memory, M. Marambot felt the tears rising to his eyes.

The lawyer noticed it, opened his arms with a broad gesture, spreading
out the long black sleeves of his robe like the wings of a bat, and
exclaimed:

“Look, look, gentleman of the jury, look at those tears. What more can I
say for my client? What speech, what argument, what reasoning would be
worth these tears of his master? They, speak louder than I do, louder
than the law; they cry: 'Mercy, for the poor wandering mind of a while
ago! They implore, they pardon, they bless!”

He was silent and sat down.

Then the judge, turning to Marambot, whose testimony had been excellent
for his servant, asked him:

“But, monsieur, even admitting that you consider this man insane, that
does not explain why you should have kept him. He was none the less
dangerous.”

Marambot, wiping his eyes, answered:

“Well, your honor, what can you expect? Nowadays it's so hard to find
good servants—I could never have found a better one.”

Denis was acquitted and put in a sanatorium at his master's expense.





MY WIFE

It had been a stag dinner. These men still came together once in a while
without their wives as they had done when they were bachelors. They
would eat for a long time, drink for a long time; they would talk of
everything, stir up those old and joyful memories which bring a smile to
the lip and a tremor to the heart. One of them was saying: “Georges, do
you remember our excursion to Saint-Germain with those two little girls
from Montmartre?”

“I should say I do!”

And a little detail here or there would be remembered, and all these
things brought joy to the hearts.

The conversation turned on marriage, and each one said with a sincere
air: “Oh, if it were to do over again!” Georges Duportin added: “It's
strange how easily one falls into it. You have fully decided never to
marry; and then, in the springtime, you go to the country; the weather
is warm; the summer is beautiful; the fields are full of flowers; you
meet a young girl at some friend's house—crash! all is over. You return
married!”

Pierre Letoile exclaimed: “Correct! that is exactly my case, only there
were some peculiar incidents—”

His friend interrupted him: “As for you, you have no cause to complain.
You have the most charming wife in the world, pretty, amiable, perfect!
You are undoubtedly the happiest one of us all.”

The other one continued: “It's not my fault.”

“How so?”

“It is true that I have a perfect wife, but I certainly married her much
against my will.”

“Nonsense!”

“Yes—this is the adventure. I was thirty-five, and I had no more idea of
marrying than I had of hanging myself. Young girls seemed to me to be
inane, and I loved pleasure.

“During the month of May I was invited to the wedding of my cousin,
Simon d'Erabel, in Normandy. It was a regular Normandy wedding. We sat
down at the table at five o'clock in the evening and at eleven o'clock
we were still eating. I had been paired off, for the occasion, with a
Mademoiselle Dumoulin, daughter of a retired colonel, a young, blond,
soldierly person, well formed, frank and talkative. She took complete
possession of me for the whole day, dragged me into the park, made me
dance willy-nilly, bored me to death. I said to myself: 'That's all very
well for to-day, but tomorrow I'll get out. That's all there is to it!'

“Toward eleven o'clock at night the women retired to their rooms; the
men stayed, smoking while they drank or drinking while they smoked,
whichever you will.

“Through the open window we could see the country folks dancing. Farmers
and peasant girls were jumping about in a circle yelling at the top of
their lungs a dance air which was feebly accompanied by two violins and
a clarinet. The wild song of the peasants often completely drowned the
sound of the instruments, and the weak music, interrupted by the
unrestrained voices, seemed to come to us in little fragments of
scattered notes. Two enormous casks, surrounded by flaming torches,
contained drinks for the crowd. Two men were kept busy rinsing the
glasses or bowls in a bucket and immediately holding them under the
spigots, from which flowed the red stream of wine or the golden stream
of pure cider; and the parched dancers, the old ones quietly, the girls
panting, came up, stretched out their arms and grasped some receptacle,
threw back their heads and poured down their throats the drink which
they preferred. On a table were bread, butter, cheese and sausages. Each
one would step up from time to time and swallow a mouthful, and under
the starlit sky this healthy and violent exercise was a pleasing sight,
and made one also feel like drinking from these enormous casks and
eating the crisp bread and butter with a raw onion.

“A mad desire seized me to take part in this merrymaking, and I left my
companions. I must admit that I was probably a little tipsy, but I was
soon entirely so.

“I grabbed the hand of a big, panting peasant woman and I jumped her
about until I was out of breath.

“Then I drank some wine and reached for another girl. In order to
refresh myself afterward, I swallowed a bowlful of cider, and I began to
bounce around as if possessed.

“I was very light on my feet. The boys, delighted, were watching me and
trying to imitate me; the girls all wished to dance with me, and jumped
about heavily with the grace of cows.

“After each dance I drank a glass of wine or a glass of cider, and
toward two o'clock in the morning I was so drunk that I could hardly
stand up.

“I realized my condition and tried to reach my room. Everybody was
asleep and the house was silent and dark.

“I had no matches and everybody was in bed. As soon as I reached the
vestibule I began to, feel dizzy. I had a lot of trouble to find the
banister. At last, by accident, my hand came in contact with it, and I
sat down on the first step of the stairs in order to try to gather my
scattered wits.

“My room was on the second floor; it was the third door to the left.
Fortunately I had not forgotten that. Armed with this knowledge, I
arose, not without difficulty, and I began to ascend, step by step. In
my hands I firmly gripped the iron railing in order not to fall, and
took great pains to make no noise.

“Only three or four times did my foot miss the steps, and I went down on
my knees; but thanks to the energy of my arms and the strength of my
will, I avoided falling completely.

“At last I reached the second floor and I set out in my journey along
the hall, feeling my way by the walls. I felt one door; I counted:
'One'; but a sudden dizziness made me lose my hold on the wall, make a
strange turn and fall up against the other wall. I wished to turn in a
straight line: The crossing was long and full of hardships. At last I
reached the shore, and, prudently, I began to travel along again until I
met another door. In order to be sure to make no mistake, I again
counted out loud: 'Two.' I started out on my walk again. At last I found
the third door. I said: 'Three, that's my room,' and I turned the knob.
The door opened. Notwithstanding my befuddled state, I thought: 'Since
the door opens, this must be home.' After softly closing the door, I
stepped out in the darkness. I bumped against something soft: my easy-
chair. I immediately stretched myself out on it.

“In my condition it would not have been wise to look for my bureau, my
candles, my matches. It would have taken me at least two hours. It would
probably have taken me that long also to undress; and even then I might
not have succeeded. I gave it up.

“I only took my shoes off; I unbuttoned my waistcoat, which was choking
me, I loosened my trousers and went to sleep.

“This undoubtedly lasted for a long time. I was suddenly awakened by a
deep voice which was saying: 'What, you lazy girl, still in bed? It's
ten o'clock!'

“A woman's voice answered: 'Already! I was so tired yesterday.'

“In bewilderment I wondered what this dialogue meant. Where was I? What
had I done? My mind was wandering, still surrounded by a heavy fog. The
first voice continued: 'I'm going to raise your curtains.'

“I heard steps approaching me. Completely at a loss what to do, I sat
up. Then a hand was placed on my head. I started. The voice asked: 'Who
is there?' I took good care not to answer. A furious grasp seized me. I
in turn seized him, and a terrific struggle ensued. We were rolling
around, knocking over the furniture and crashing against the walls. A
woman's voice was shrieking: 'Help! help!'

“Servants, neighbors, frightened women crowded around us. The blinds
were open and the shades drawn. I was struggling with Colonel Dumoulin.

“I had slept beside his daughter's bed!

“When we were separated, I escaped to my room, dumbfounded. I locked
myself in and sat down with my feet on a chair, for my shoes had been
left in the young girl's room.

“I heard a great noise through the whole house, doors being opened and
closed, whisperings and rapid steps.

“After half an hour some one knocked on my door. I cried: 'Who is
there?' It was my uncle, the bridegroom's father. I opened the door:

“He was pale and furious, and he treated me harshly: 'You have behaved
like a scoundrel in my house, do you hear?' Then he added more gently
'But, you young fool, why the devil did you let yourself get caught at
ten o'clock in the morning? You go to sleep like a log in that room,
instead of leaving immediately—immediately after.'

“I exclaimed: 'But, uncle, I assure you that nothing occurred. I was
drunk and got into the wrong room.'

“He shrugged his shoulders! 'Don't talk nonsense.' I raised my hand,
exclaiming: 'I swear to you on my honor.' My uncle continued: 'Yes,
that's all right. It's your duty to say that.'

“I in turn grew angry and told him the whole unfortunate occurrence. He
looked at me with a bewildered expression, not knowing what to believe.
Then he went out to confer with the colonel.

“I heard that a kind of jury of the mothers had been formed, to which
were submitted the different phases of the situation.

“He came back an hour later, sat down with the dignity of a judge and
began: 'No matter what may be the situation, I can see only one way out
of it for you; it is to marry Mademoiselle Dumoulin.'

“I bounded out of the chair, crying: 'Never! never!'

“Gravely he asked: 'Well, what do you expect to do?'

“I answered simply: 'Why—leave as soon as my shoes are returned to me.'

“My uncle continued: 'Please do not jest. The colonel has decided to
blow your brains out as soon as he sees you. And you may be sure that he
does not threaten idly. I spoke of a duel and he answered: “No, I tell
you that I will blow his brains out.”'

“'Let us now examine the question from another point of view. Either you
have misbehaved yourself—and then so much the worse for you, my boy; one
should not go near a young girl—or else, being drunk, as you say, you
made a mistake in the room. In this case, it's even worse for you. You
shouldn't get yourself into such foolish situations. Whatever you may
say, the poor girl's reputation is lost, for a drunkard's excuses are
never believed. The only real victim in the matter is the girl. Think it
over.'

“He went away, while I cried after him: 'Say what you will, I'll not
marry her!'

“I stayed alone for another hour. Then my aunt came. She was crying. She
used every argument. No one believed my story. They could not imagine
that this young girl could have forgotten to lock her door in a house
full of company. The colonel had struck her. She had been crying the
whole morning. It was a terrible and unforgettable scandal. And my good
aunt added: 'Ask for her hand, anyhow. We may, perhaps, find some way
out of it when we are drawing up the papers.'

“This prospect relieved me. And I agreed to write my proposal. An hour
later I left for Paris. The following day I was informed that I had been
accepted.

“Then, in three weeks, before I had been able to find any excuse, the
banns were published, the announcement sent out, the contract signed,
and one Monday morning I found myself in a church, beside a weeping
young girl, after telling the magistrate that I consented to take her as
my companion—for better, for worse.

“I had not seen her since my adventure, and I glanced at her out of the
corner of my eye with a certain malevolent surprise. However, she was
not ugly—far from it. I said to myself: 'There is some one who won't
laugh every day.'

“She did not look at me once until, the evening, and she did not say a
single word.

“Toward the middle of the night I entered the bridal chamber with the
full intention of letting her know my resolutions, for I was now master.
I found her sitting in an armchair, fully dressed, pale and with red
eyes. As soon as I entered she rose and came slowly toward me saying:
'Monsieur, I am ready to do whatever you may command. I will kill myself
if you so desire'

“The colonel's daughter was as pretty as she could be in this heroic
role. I kissed her; it was my privilege.

“I soon saw that I had not got a bad bargain. I have now been married
five years. I do not regret it in the least.”

Pierre Letoile was silent. His companions were laughing. One of them
said: “Marriage is indeed a lottery; you must never choose your numbers.
The haphazard ones are the best.”

Another added by way of conclusion: “Yes, but do not forget that the god
of drunkards chose for Pierre.”





THE UNKNOWN

We were speaking of adventures, and each one of us was relating his
story of delightful experiences, surprising meetings, on the train, in a
hotel, at the seashore. According to Roger des Annettes, the seashore
was particularly favorable to the little blind god.

Gontran, who was keeping mum, was asked what he thought of it.

“I guess Paris is about the best place for that,” he said. “Woman is
like a precious trinket, we appreciate her all the more when we meet her
in the most unexpected places; but the rarest ones are only to be found
in Paris.”

He was silent for a moment, and then continued:

“By Jove, it's great! Walk along the streets on some spring morning. The
little women, daintily tripping along, seem to blossom out like flowers.
What a delightful, charming sight! The dainty perfume of violet is
everywhere. The city is gay, and everybody notices the women. By Jove,
how tempting they are in their light, thin dresses, which occasionally
give one a glimpse of the delicate pink flesh beneath!

“One saunters along, head up, mind alert, and eyes open. I tell you it's
great! You see her in the distance, while still a block away; you
already know that she is going to please you at closer quarters. You can
recognize her by the flower on her hat, the toss of her head, or her
gait. She approaches, and you say to yourself: 'Look out, here she is!'
You come closer to her and you devour her with your eyes.

“Is it a young girl running errands for some store, a young woman
returning from church, or hastening to see her lover? What do you care?
Her well-rounded bosom shows through the thin waist. Oh, if you could
only take her in your arms and fondle and kiss her! Her glance may be
timid or bold, her hair light or dark. What difference does it make? She
brushes against you, and a cold shiver runs down your spine. Ah, how you
wish for her all day! How many of these dear creatures have I met this
way, and how wildly in love I would have been had I known them more
intimately.

“Have you ever noticed that the ones we would love the most distractedly
are those whom we never meet to know? Curious, isn't it? From time to
time we barely catch a glimpse of some woman, the mere sight of whom
thrills our senses. But it goes no further. When I think of all the
adorable creatures that I have elbowed in the streets of Paris, I fairly
rave. Who are they! Where are they? Where can I find them again? There
is a proverb which says that happiness often passes our way; I am sure
that I have often passed alongside the one who could have caught me like
a linnet in the snare of her fresh beauty.”

Roger des Annettes had listened smilingly. He answered: “I know that as
well as you do. This is what happened to me: About five years ago, for
the first time I met, on the Pont de la Concorde, a young woman who made
a wonderful impression on me. She was dark, rather stout, with glossy
hair, and eyebrows which nearly met above two dark eyes. On her lip was
a scarcely perceptible down, which made one dream-dream as one dreams of
beloved woods, on seeing a bunch of wild violets. She had a small waist
and a well-developed bust, which seemed to present a challenge, offer a
temptation. Her eyes were like two black spots on white enamel. Her
glance was strange, vacant, unthinking, and yet wonderfully beautiful.

“I imagined that she might be a Jewess. I followed her, and then turned
round to look at her, as did many others. She walked with a swinging
gait that was not graceful, but somehow attracted one. At the Place de
la Concorde she took a carriage, and I stood there like a fool, moved by
the strongest desire that had ever assailed me.

“For about three weeks I thought only of her; and then her memory passed
out of my mind.

“Six months later I descried her in the Rue de la Paix again. On seeing
her I felt the same shock that one experiences on seeing a once dearly
loved woman. I stopped that I might better observe her. When she passed
close enough to touch me I felt as though I were standing before a red
hot furnace. Then, when she had passed by, I noticed a delicious
sensation, as of a cooling breeze blowing over my face. I did not follow
her. I was afraid of doing something foolish. I was afraid of myself.

“She haunted all my dreams.

“It was a year before I saw her again. But just as the sun was going
down on one beautiful evening in May I recognized her walking along the
Avenue des Champs-Elysees. The Arc de Triomphe stood out in bold relief
against the fiery glow of the sky. A golden haze filled the air; it was
one of those delightful spring evenings which are the glory of Paris.

“I followed her, tormented by a desire to address her, to kneel before
her, to pour forth the emotion which was choking me. Twice I passed by
her only to fall back, and each time as I passed by I felt this
sensation, as of scorching heat, which I had noticed in the Rue de la
Paix.

“She glanced at me, and then I saw her enter a house on the Rue de
Presbourg. I waited for her two hours and she did not come out. Then I
decided to question the janitor. He seemed not to understand me. 'She
must be visiting some one,' he said.

“The next time I was eight months without seeing her. But one freezing
morning in January, I was walking along the Boulevard Malesherbes at a
dog trot, so as to keep warm, when at the corner I bumped into a woman
and knocked a small package out of her hand. I tried to apologize. It
was she!

“At first I stood stock still from the shock; then having returned to
her the package which she had dropped, I said abruptly:

“'I am both grieved and delighted, madame, to have jostled you. For more
than two years I have known you, admired you, and had the most ardent
wish to be presented to you; nevertheless I have been unable to find out
who you are, or where you live. Please excuse these foolish words.
Attribute them to a passionate desire to be numbered among your
acquaintances. Such sentiments can surely offend you in no way! You do
not know me. My name is Baron Roger des Annettes. Make inquiries about
me, and you will find that I am a gentleman. Now, if you refuse my
request, you will throw me into abject misery. Please be good to me and
tell me how I can see you.'

“She looked at me with her strange vacant stare, and answered smilingly:

“'Give me your address. I will come and see you.'

“I was so dumfounded that I must have shown my surprise. But I quickly
gathered my wits together and gave her a visiting card, which she
slipped into her pocket with a quick, deft movement.

“Becoming bolder, I stammered:

“'When shall I see you again?'

“She hesitated, as though mentally running over her list of engagements,
and then murmured:

“'Will Sunday morning suit you?'

“'I should say it would!'

“She went on, after having stared at me, judged, weighed and analyzed me
with this heavy and vacant gaze which seemed to leave a quieting and
deadening impression on the person towards whom it was directed.

“Until Sunday my mind was occupied day and night trying to guess who she
might be and planning my course of conduct towards her. I finally
decided to buy her a jewel, a beautiful little jewel, which I placed in
its box on the mantelpiece, and left it there awaiting her arrival.

“I spent a restless night waiting for her.

“At ten o'clock she came, calm and quiet, and with her hand
outstretched, as though she had known me for years. Drawing up a chair,
I took her hat and coat and furs, and laid them aside. And then,
timidly, I took her hand in mine; after that all went on without a
hitch.

“Ah, my friends! what a bliss it is, to stand at a discreet distance and
watch the hidden pink and blue ribbons, partly concealed, to observe the
hazy lines of the beloved one's form, as they become visible through the
last of the filmy garments! What a delight it is to watch the ostrich-
like modesty of those who are in reality none too modest. And what is so
pretty as their motions!

“Her back was turned towards me, and suddenly, my eyes were irresistibly
drawn to a large black spot right between her shoulders. What could it
be? Were my eyes deceiving me? But no, there it was, staring me in the
face! Then my mind reverted to the faint down on her lip, the heavy
eyebrows almost meeting over her coal-black eyes, her glossy black hair
—I should have been prepared for some surprise.

“Nevertheless I was dumfounded, and my mind was haunted by dim visions
of strange adventures. I seemed to see before me one of the evil genii
of the Thousand and One Nights, one of these dangerous and crafty
creatures whose mission it is to drag men down to unknown depths. I
thought of Solomon, who made the Queen of Sheba walk on a mirror that he
might be sure that her feet were not cloven.

“And when the time came for me to sing of love to her, my voice forsook
me. At first she showed surprise, which soon turned to anger; and she
said, quickly putting on her wraps:

“'It was hardly worth while for me to go out of my way to come here.'

“I wanted her to accept the ring which I had bought for her, but she
replied haughtily: 'For whom do you take me, sir?' I blushed to the
roots of my hair. She left without saying another word.

“There is my whole adventure. But the worst part of it is that I am now
madly in love with her. I can't see a woman without thinking of her. All
the others disgust me, unless they remind me of her. I cannot kiss a
woman without seeing her face before me, and without suffering the
torture of unsatisfied desire. She is always with me, always there,
dressed or nude, my true love. She is there, beside the other one,
visible but intangible. I am almost willing to believe that she was
bewitched, and carried a talisman between her shoulders.

“Who is she? I don't know yet. I have met her once or twice since. I
bowed, but she pretended not to recognize me. Who is she? An Oriental?
Yes, doubtless an oriental Jewess! I believe that she must be a Jewess!
But why? Why? I don't know!”





THE APPARITION

The subject of sequestration of the person came up in speaking of a
recent lawsuit, and each of us had a story to tell—a true story, he
said. We had been spending the evening together at an old family mansion
in the Rue de Grenelle, just a party of intimate friends. The old
Marquis de la Tour-Samuel, who was eighty-two, rose, and, leaning his
elbow on the mantelpiece, said in his somewhat shaky voice:

“I also know of something strange, so strange that it has haunted me all
my life. It is now fifty-six years since the incident occurred, and yet
not a month passes that I do not see it again in a dream, so great is
the impression of fear it has left on my mind. For ten minutes I
experienced such horrible fright that ever since then a sort of constant
terror has remained with me. Sudden noises startle me violently, and
objects imperfectly distinguished at night inspire me with a mad desire
to flee from them. In short, I am afraid of the dark!

“But I would not have acknowledged that before I reached my present age.
Now I can say anything. I have never receded before real danger, ladies.
It is, therefore, permissible, at eighty-two years of age, not to be
brave in presence of imaginary danger.

“That affair so completely upset me, caused me such deep and mysterious
and terrible distress, that I never spoke of it to any one. I will now
tell it to you exactly as it happened, without any attempt at
explanation.

“In July, 1827, I was stationed at Rouen. One day as I was walking along
the quay I met a man whom I thought I recognized without being able to
recall exactly who he was. Instinctively I made a movement to stop. The
stranger perceived it and at once extended his hand.

“He was a friend to whom I had been deeply attached as a youth. For five
years I had not seen him; he seemed to have aged half a century. His
hair was quite white and he walked bent over as though completely
exhausted. He apparently understood my surprise, and he told me of the
misfortune which had shattered his life.

“Having fallen madly in love with a young girl, he had married her, but
after a year of more than earthly happiness she died suddenly of an
affection of the heart. He left his country home on the very day of her
burial and came to his town house in Rouen, where he lived, alone and
unhappy, so sad and wretched that he thought constantly of suicide.

“'Since I have found you again in this manner,' he said, 'I will ask you
to render me an important service. It is to go and get me out of the
desk in my bedroom—our bedroom—some papers of which I have urgent need.
I cannot send a servant or a business clerk, as discretion and absolute
silence are necessary. As for myself, nothing on earth would induce me
to reenter that house. I will give you the key of the room, which I
myself locked on leaving, and the key of my desk, also a few words for
my gardener, telling him to open the chateau for you. But come and
breakfast with me tomorrow and we will arrange all that.'

“I promised to do him the slight favor he asked. It was, for that
matter, only a ride which I could make in an hour on horseback, his
property being but a few miles distant from Rouen.

“At ten o'clock the following day I breakfasted, tete-a-tete, with my
friend, but he scarcely spoke.

“He begged me to pardon him; the thought of the visit I was about to
make to that room, the scene of his dead happiness, overcame him, he
said. He, indeed, seemed singularly agitated and preoccupied, as though
undergoing some mysterious mental struggle.

“At length he explained to me exactly what I had to do. It was very
simple. I must take two packages of letters and a roll of papers from
the first right-hand drawer of the desk, of which I had the key. He
added:

“'I need not beg you to refrain from glancing at them.'

“I was wounded at that remark and told him so somewhat sharply. He
stammered:

“'Forgive me, I suffer so,' and tears came to his eyes.

“At about one o'clock I took leave of him to accomplish my mission.

“'The weather was glorious, and I trotted across the fields, listening
to the song of the larks and the rhythmical clang of my sword against my
boot. Then I entered the forest and walked my horse. Branches of trees
caressed my face as I passed, and now and then I caught a leaf with my
teeth and chewed it, from sheer gladness of heart at being alive and
vigorous on such a radiant day.

“As I approached the chateau I took from my pocket the letter I had for
the gardener, and was astonished at finding it sealed. I was so
irritated that I was about to turn back without having fulfilled my
promise, but reflected that I should thereby display undue
susceptibility. My friend in his troubled condition might easily have
fastened the envelope without noticing that he did so.

“The manor looked as if it had been abandoned for twenty years. The open
gate was falling from its hinges, the walks were overgrown with grass
and the flower beds were no longer distinguishable.

“The noise I made by kicking at a shutter brought out an old man from a
side door. He seemed stunned with astonishment at seeing me. On
receiving my letter, he read it, reread it, turned it over and over,
looked me up and down, put the paper in his pocket and finally said:

“'Well, what is it you wish?'

“I replied shortly:

“'You ought to know, since you have just read your master's orders. I
wish to enter the chateau.'

“He seemed overcome.

“'Then you are going in—into her room?'

“I began to lose patience.

“'Damn it! Are you presuming to question me?'

“He stammered in confusion:

“'No—sir—but—but it has not been opened since—since the-death. If you
will be kind enough to wait five minutes I will go and—and see if—'

“I interrupted him angrily:

“'See here, what do you mean by your tricks?

“'You know very well you cannot enter the room, since here is the key!'

“He no longer objected.

“'Then, sir, I will show you the way.'

“'Show me the staircase and leave me. I'll find my way without you.'

“'But—sir—indeed—'

“This time I lost patience, and pushing him aside, went into the house.

“I first went through the kitchen, then two rooms occupied by this man
and his wife. I then crossed a large hall, mounted a staircase and
recognized the door described by my friend.

“I easily opened it, and entered the apartment. It was so dark that at
first I could distinguish nothing. I stopped short, disagreeably
affected by that disagreeable, musty odor of closed, unoccupied rooms.
As my eyes slowly became accustomed to the darkness I saw plainly enough
a large and disordered bedroom, the bed without sheets but still
retaining its mattresses and pillows, on one of which was a deep
impression, as though an elbow or a head had recently rested there.

“The chairs all seemed out of place. I noticed that a door, doubtless
that of a closet, had remained half open.

“I first went to the window, which I opened to let in the light, but the
fastenings of the shutters had grown so rusty that I could not move
them. I even tried to break them with my sword, but without success. As
I was growing irritated over my useless efforts and could now see fairly
well in the semi-darkness, I gave up the hope of getting more light, and
went over to the writing desk.

“I seated myself in an armchair and, letting down the lid of the desk, I
opened the drawer designated. It was full to the top. I needed but three
packages, which I knew how to recognize, and began searching for them.

“I was straining my eyes in the effort to read the superscriptions when
I seemed to hear, or, rather, feel, something rustle back of me. I paid
no attention, believing that a draught from the window was moving some
drapery. But in a minute or so another movement, almost imperceptible,
sent a strangely disagreeable little shiver over my skin. It was so
stupid to be affected, even slightly, that self-respect prevented my
turning around. I had just found the second package I needed and was
about to lay my hand on the third when a long and painful sigh, uttered
just at my shoulder, made me bound like a madman from my seat and land
several feet off. As I jumped I had turned round my hand on the hilt of
my sword, and, truly, if I had not felt it at my side I should have
taken to my heels like a coward.

“A tall woman dressed in white, stood gazing at me from the back of the
chair where I had been sitting an instant before.

“Such a shudder ran through all my limbs that I nearly fell backward. No
one who has not experienced it can understand that frightful,
unreasoning terror! The mind becomes vague, the heart ceases to beat,
the entire body grows as limp as a sponge.

“I do not believe in ghosts, nevertheless I collapsed from a hideous
dread of the dead, and I suffered, oh! I suffered in a few moments more
than in all the rest of my life from the irresistible terror of the
supernatural. If she had not spoken I should have died perhaps. But she
spoke, she spoke in a sweet, sad voice that set my nerves vibrating. I
dare not say that I became master of myself and recovered my reason. No!
I was terrified and scarcely knew what I was doing. But a certain innate
pride, a remnant of soldierly instinct, made me, almost in spite of
myself, maintain a bold front. She said:

“'Oh, sir, you can render me a great service.'

“I wanted to reply, but it was impossible for me to pronounce a word.
Only a vague sound came from my throat. She continued:

“'Will you? You can save me, cure me. I suffer frightfully. I suffer,
oh! how I suffer!' and she slowly seated herself in my armchair, still
looking at me.

“'Will you?' she said.

“I nodded in assent, my voice still being paralyzed.

“Then she held out to me a tortoise-shell comb and murmured:

“'Comb my hair, oh! comb my hair; that will cure me; it must be combed.
Look at my head—how I suffer; and my hair pulls so!'

“Her hair, unbound, very long and very black, it seemed to me, hung over
the back of the armchair and touched the floor.

“Why did I promise? Why did I take that comb with a shudder, and why did
I hold in my hands her long black hair that gave my skin a frightful
cold sensation, as though I were handling snakes? I cannot tell.

“That sensation has remained in my fingers, and I still tremble in
recalling it.

“I combed her hair. I handled, I know not how, those icy locks. I
twisted, knotted, and unknotted, and braided them. She sighed, bowed her
head, seemed happy. Suddenly she said, 'Thank you!' snatched the comb
from my hands and fled by the door that I had noticed ajar.

“Left alone, I experienced for several seconds the horrible agitation of
one who awakens from a nightmare. At length I regained my senses. I ran
to the window and with a mighty effort burst open the shutters, letting
a flood of light into the room. Immediately I sprang to the door by
which that being had departed. I found it closed and immovable!

“Then the mad desire to flee overcame me like a panic the panic which
soldiers know in battle. I seized the three packets of letters on the
open desk, ran from the room, dashed down the stairs four steps at a
time, found myself outside, I know not how, and, perceiving my horse a
few steps off, leaped into the saddle and galloped away.

“I stopped only when I reached Rouen and alighted at my lodgings.
Throwing the reins to my orderly, I fled to my room and shut myself in
to reflect. For an hour I anxiously asked myself if I were not the
victim of a hallucination. Undoubtedly I had had one of those
incomprehensible nervous attacks those exaltations of mind that give
rise to visions and are the stronghold of the supernatural. And I was
about to believe I had seen a vision, had a hallucination, when, as I
approached the window, my eyes fell, by chance, upon my breast. My
military cape was covered with long black hairs! One by one, with
trembling fingers, I plucked them off and threw them away.

“I then called my orderly. I was too disturbed, too upset to go and see
my friend that day, and I also wished to reflect more fully upon what I
ought to tell him. I sent him his letters, for which he gave the soldier
a receipt. He asked after me most particularly, and, on being told I was
ill—had had a sunstroke—appeared exceedingly anxious. Next morning I
went to him, determined to tell him the truth. He had gone out the
evening before and had not yet returned. I called again during the day;
my friend was still absent. After waiting a week longer without news of
him, I notified the authorities and a judicial search was instituted.
Not the slightest trace of his whereabouts or manner of disappearance
was discovered.

“A minute inspection of the abandoned chateau revealed nothing of a
suspicious character. There was no indication that a woman had been
concealed there.

“After fruitless researches all further efforts were abandoned, and for
fifty-six years I have heard nothing; I know no more than before.”





ORIGINAL SHORT STORIES, Vol. 8.

GUY DE MAUPASSANT ORIGINAL SHORT STORIES Translated by ALBERT M. C.
McMASTER, B.A. A. E. HENDERSON, B.A. MME. QUESADA and Others





VOLUME VIII.





CLOCHETTE

How strange those old recollections are which haunt us, without our
being able to get rid of them.

This one is so very old that I cannot understand how it has clung so
vividly and tenaciously to my memory. Since then I have seen so many
sinister things, which were either affecting or terrible, that I am
astonished at not being able to pass a single day without the face of
Mother Bellflower recurring to my mind's eye, just as I knew her
formerly, now so long ago, when I was ten or twelve years old.

She was an old seamstress who came to my parents' house once a week,
every Thursday, to mend the linen. My parents lived in one of those
country houses called chateaux, which are merely old houses with gable
roofs, to which are attached three or four farms lying around them.

The village, a large village, almost a market town, was a few hundred
yards away, closely circling the church, a red brick church, black with
age.

Well, every Thursday Mother Clochette came between half-past six and
seven in the morning, and went immediately into the linen-room and began
to work. She was a tall, thin, bearded or rather hairy woman, for she
had a beard all over her face, a surprising, an unexpected beard,
growing in improbable tufts, in curly bunches which looked as if they
had been sown by a madman over that great face of a gendarme in
petticoats. She had them on her nose, under her nose, round her nose, on
her chin, on her cheeks; and her eyebrows, which were extraordinarily
thick and long, and quite gray, bushy and bristling, looked exactly like
a pair of mustaches stuck on there by mistake.

She limped, not as lame people generally do, but like a ship at anchor.
When she planted her great, bony, swerving body on her sound leg, she
seemed to be preparing to mount some enormous wave, and then suddenly
she dipped as if to disappear in an abyss, and buried herself in the
ground. Her walk reminded one of a storm, as she swayed about, and her
head, which was always covered with an enormous white cap, whose ribbons
fluttered down her back, seemed to traverse the horizon from north to
south and from south to north, at each step.

I adored Mother Clochette. As soon as I was up I went into the linen-
room where I found her installed at work, with a foot-warmer under her
feet. As soon as I arrived, she made me take the foot-warmer and sit
upon it, so that I might not catch cold in that large, chilly room under
the roof.

“That draws the blood from your throat,” she said to me.

She told me stories, whilst mending the linen with her long crooked
nimble fingers; her eyes behind her magnifying spectacles, for age had
impaired her sight, appeared enormous to me, strangely profound, double.

She had, as far as I can remember the things which she told me and by
which my childish heart was moved, the large heart of a poor woman. She
told me what had happened in the village, how a cow had escaped from the
cow-house and had been found the next morning in front of Prosper
Malet's windmill, looking at the sails turning, or about a hen's egg
which had been found in the church belfry without any one being able to
understand what creature had been there to lay it, or the story of Jean-
Jean Pila's dog, who had been ten leagues to bring back his master's
breeches which a tramp had stolen whilst they were hanging up to dry out
of doors, after he had been in the rain. She told me these simple
adventures in such a manner, that in my mind they assumed the
proportions of never-to-be-forgotten dramas, of grand and mysterious
poems; and the ingenious stories invented by the poets which my mother
told me in the evening, had none of the flavor, none of the breadth or
vigor of the peasant woman's narratives.

Well, one Tuesday, when I had spent all the morning in listening to
Mother Clochette, I wanted to go upstairs to her again during the day
after picking hazelnuts with the manservant in the wood behind the farm.
I remember it all as clearly as what happened only yesterday.

On opening the door of the linen-room, I saw the old seamstress lying on
the ground by the side of her chair, with her face to the ground and her
arms stretched out, but still holding her needle in one hand and one of
my shirts in the other. One of her legs in a blue stocking, the longer
one, no doubt, was extended under her chair, and her spectacles
glistened against the wall, as they had rolled away from her.

I ran away uttering shrill cries. They all came running, and in a few
minutes I was told that Mother Clochette was dead.

I cannot describe the profound, poignant, terrible emotion which stirred
my childish heart. I went slowly down into the drawing-room and hid
myself in a dark corner, in the depths of an immense old armchair, where
I knelt down and wept. I remained there a long time, no doubt, for night
came on. Suddenly somebody came in with a lamp, without seeing me,
however, and I heard my father and mother talking with the medical man,
whose voice I recognized.

He had been sent for immediately, and he was explaining the causes of
the accident, of which I understood nothing, however. Then he sat down
and had a glass of liqueur and a biscuit.

He went on talking, and what he then said will remain engraved on my
mind until I die! I think that I can give the exact words which he used.

“Ah!” said he, “the poor woman! She broke her leg the day of my arrival
here, and I had not even had time to wash my hands after getting off the
diligence before I was sent for in all haste, for it was a bad case,
very bad.

“She was seventeen, and a pretty girl, very pretty! Would any one
believe it? I have never told her story before, and nobody except myself
and one other person who is no longer living in this part of the country
ever knew it. Now that she is dead, I may be less discreet.

“Just then a young assistant-teacher came to live in the village; he was
a handsome, well-made fellow, and looked like a non-commissioned
officer. All the girls ran after him, but he paid no attention to them,
partly because he was very much afraid of his superior, the
schoolmaster, old Grabu, who occasionally got out of bed the wrong foot
first.

“Old Grabu already employed pretty Hortense who has just died here, and
who was afterwards nicknamed Clochette. The assistant master singled out
the pretty young girl, who was, no doubt, flattered at being chosen by
this impregnable conqueror; at any rate, she fell in love with him, and
he succeeded in persuading her to give him a first meeting in the hay-
loft behind the school, at night, after she had done her day's sewing.

“She pretended to go home, but instead of going downstairs when she left
the Grabus' she went upstairs and hid among the hay, to wait for her
lover. He soon joined her, and was beginning to say pretty things to
her, when the door of the hay-loft opened and the schoolmaster appeared,
and asked: 'What are you doing up there, Sigisbert?' Feeling sure that
he would be caught, the young schoolmaster lost his presence of mind and
replied stupidly: 'I came up here to rest a little amongst the bundles
of hay, Monsieur Grabu.'

“The loft was very large and absolutely dark, and Sigisbert pushed the
frightened girl to the further end and said: 'Go over there and hide
yourself. I shall lose my position, so get away and hide yourself.'

“When the schoolmaster heard the whispering, he continued: 'Why, you are
not by yourself?' 'Yes, I am, Monsieur Grabu!' 'But you are not, for you
are talking.' 'I swear I am, Monsieur Grabu.' 'I will soon find out,'
the old man replied, and double locking the door, he went down to get a
light.

“Then the young man, who was a coward such as one frequently meets, lost
his head, and becoming furious all of a sudden, he repeated: 'Hide
yourself, so that he may not find you. You will keep me from making a
living for the rest of my life; you will ruin my whole career. Do hide
yourself!' They could hear the key turning in the lock again, and
Hortense ran to the window which looked out on the street, opened it
quickly, and then said in a low and determined voice: 'You will come and
pick me up when he is gone,' and she jumped out.

“Old Grabu found nobody, and went down again in great surprise, and a
quarter of an hour later, Monsieur Sigisbert came to me and related his
adventure. The girl had remained at the foot of the wall unable to get
up, as she had fallen from the second story, and I went with him to
fetch her. It was raining in torrents, and I brought the unfortunate
girl home with me, for the right leg was broken in three places, and the
bones had come trough the flesh. She did not complain, and merely said,
with admirable resignation: 'I am punished, well punished!'

“I sent for assistance and for the work-girl's relatives and told them
a, made-up story of a runaway carriage which had knocked her down and
lamed her outside my door. They believed me, and the gendarmes for a
whole month tried in vain to find the author of this accident.

“That is all! And I say that this woman was a heroine and belonged to
the race of those who accomplish the grandest deeds of history.

“That was her only love affair, and she died a virgin. She was a martyr,
a noble soul, a sublimely devoted woman! And if I did not absolutely
admire her, I should not have told you this story, which I would never
tell any one during her life; you understand why.”

The doctor ceased. Mamma cried and papa said some words which I did not
catch; then they left the room and I remained on my knees in the
armchair and sobbed, whilst I heard a strange noise of heavy footsteps
and something knocking against the side of the staircase.

They were carrying away Clochette's body.





THE KISS

My Little Darling: So you are crying from morning until night and from
night until morning, because your husband leaves you; you do not know
what to do and so you ask your old aunt for advice; you must consider
her quite an expert. I don't know as much as you think I do, and yet I
am not entirely ignorant of the art of loving, or, rather, of making
one's self loved, in which you are a little lacking. I can admit that at
my age.

You say that you are all attention, love, kisses and caresses for him.
Perhaps that is the very trouble; I think you kiss him too much.

My dear, we have in our hands the most terrible power in the world:
LOVE.

Man is gifted with physical strength, and he exercises force. Woman is
gifted with charm, and she rules with caresses. It is our weapon,
formidable and invincible, but we should know how to use it.

Know well that we are the mistresses of the world! To tell the history
of Love from the beginning of the world would be to tell the history of
man himself: Everything springs from it, the arts, great events,
customs, wars, the overthrow of empires.

In the Bible you find Delila, Judith; in fables we find Omphale, Helen;
in history the Sabines, Cleopatra and many others.

Therefore we reign supreme, all-powerful. But, like kings, we must make
use of delicate diplomacy.

Love, my dear, is made up of imperceptible sensations. We know that it
is as strong as death, but also as frail as glass. The slightest shock
breaks it, and our power crumbles, and we are never able to raise it
again.

We have the power of making ourselves adored, but we lack one tiny
thing, the understanding of the various kinds of caresses. In embraces
we lose the sentiment of delicacy, while the man over whom we rule
remains master of himself, capable of judging the foolishness of certain
words. Take care, my dear; that is the defect in our armor. It is our
Achilles' heel.

Do you know whence comes our real power? From the kiss, the kiss alone!
When we know how to hold out and give up our lips we can become queens.

The kiss is only a preface, however, but a charming preface. More
charming than the realization itself. A preface which can always be read
over again, whereas one cannot always read over the book.

Yes, the meeting of lips is the most perfect, the most divine sensation
given to human beings, the supreme limit of happiness: It is in the kiss
alone that one sometimes seems to feel this union of souls after which
we strive, the intermingling of hearts, as it were.

Do you remember the verses of Sully-Prudhomme:

Caresses are nothing but anxious bliss, Vain attempts of love to unite
souls through a kiss.

One caress alone gives this deep sensation of two beings welded into one
—it is the kiss. No violent delirium of complete possession is worth
this trembling approach of the lips, this first moist and fresh contact,
and then the long, lingering, motionless rapture.

Therefore, my dear, the kiss is our strongest weapon, but we must take
care not to dull it. Do not forget that its value is only relative,
purely conventional. It continually changes according to circumstances,
the state of expectancy and the ecstasy of the mind. I will call
attention to one example.

Another poet, Francois Coppee, has written a line which we all remember,
a line which we find delightful, which moves our very hearts.

After describing the expectancy of a lover, waiting in a room one
winter's evening, his anxiety, his nervous impatience, the terrible fear
of not seeing her, he describes the arrival of the beloved woman, who at
last enters hurriedly, out of breath, bringing with her part of the
winter breeze, and he exclaims:

Oh! the taste of the kisses first snatched through the veil.

Is that not a line of exquisite sentiment, a delicate and charming
observation, a perfect truth? All those who have hastened to a
clandestine meeting, whom passion has thrown into the arms of a man,
well do they know these first delicious kisses through the veil; and
they tremble at the memory of them. And yet their sole charm lies in the
circumstances, from being late, from the anxious expectancy, but from
the purely—or, rather, impurely, if you prefer—sensual point of view,
they are detestable.

Think! Outside it is cold. The young woman has walked quickly; the veil
is moist from her cold breath. Little drops of water shine in the lace.
The lover seizes her and presses his burning lips to her liquid breath.
The moist veil, which discolors and carries the dreadful odor of
chemical dye, penetrates into the young man's mouth, moistens his
mustache. He does not taste the lips of his beloved, he tastes the dye
of this lace moistened with cold breath. And yet, like the poet, we
would all exclaim:

Oh! the taste of the kisses first snatched through the veil.

Therefore, the value of this caress being entirely a matter of
convention, we must be careful not to abuse it.

Well, my dear, I have several times noticed that you are very clumsy.
However, you were not alone in that fault; the majority of women lose
their authority by abusing the kiss with untimely kisses. When they feel
that their husband or their lover is a little tired, at those times when
the heart as well as the body needs rest, instead of understanding what
is going on within him, they persist in giving inopportune caresses,
tire him by the obstinacy of begging lips and give caresses lavished
with neither rhyme nor reason.

Trust in the advice of my experience. First, never kiss your husband in
public, in the train, at the restaurant. It is bad taste; do not give in
to your desires. He would feel ridiculous and would never forgive you.

Beware of useless kisses lavished in intimacy. I am sure that you abuse
them. For instance, I remember one day that you did something quite
shocking. Probably you do not remember it.

All three of us were together in the drawing-room, and, as you did not
stand on ceremony before me, your husband was holding you on his knees
and kissing you at great length on the neck, the lips and throat.
Suddenly you exclaimed: “Oh! the fire!” You had been paying no attention
to it, and it was almost out. A few lingering embers were glowing on the
hearth. Then he rose, ran to the woodbox, from which he dragged two
enormous logs with great difficulty, when you came to him with begging
lips, murmuring:

“Kiss me!” He turned his head with difficulty and tried to hold up the
logs at the same time. Then you gently and slowly placed your mouth on
that of the poor fellow, who remained with his neck out of joint, his
sides twisted, his arms almost dropping off, trembling with fatigue and
tired from his desperate effort. And you kept drawing out this torturing
kiss, without seeing or understanding. Then when you freed him, you
began to grumble: “How badly you kiss!” No wonder!

Oh, take care of that! We all have this foolish habit, this unconscious
need of choosing the most inconvenient moments. When he is carrying a
glass of water, when he is putting on his shoes, when he is tying his
scarf—in short, when he finds himself in any uncomfortable position
—then is the time which we choose for a caress which makes him stop for
a whole minute in the middle of a gesture with the sole desire of
getting rid of us!

Do not think that this criticism is insignificant. Love, my dear, is a
delicate thing. The least little thing offends it; know that everything
depends on the tact of our caresses. An ill-placed kiss may do any
amount of harm.

Try following my advice.

Your old aunt, COLLETTE.

This story appeared in the Gaulois in November, 1882, under the
pseudonym of “Maufrigneuse.”





THE LEGION OF HONOR

HOW HE GOT THE LEGION OF HONOR

From the time some people begin to talk they seem to have an
overmastering desire or vocation.

Ever since he was a child, M. Caillard had only had one idea in his head
—to wear the ribbon of an order. When he was still quite a small boy he
used to wear a zinc cross of the Legion of Honor pinned on his tunic,
just as other children wear a soldier's cap, and he took his mother's
hand in the street with a proud air, sticking out his little chest with
its red ribbon and metal star so that it might show to advantage.

His studies were not a success, and he failed in his examination for
Bachelor of Arts; so, not knowing what to do, he married a pretty girl,
as he had plenty of money of his own.

They lived in Paris, as many rich middle-class people do, mixing with
their own particular set, and proud of knowing a deputy, who might
perhaps be a minister some day, and counting two heads of departments
among their friends.

But M. Caillard could not get rid of his one absorbing idea, and he felt
constantly unhappy because he had not the right to wear a little bit of
colored ribbon in his buttonhole.

When he met any men who were decorated on the boulevards, he looked at
them askance, with intense jealousy. Sometimes, when he had nothing to
do in the afternoon, he would count them, and say to himself: “Just let
me see how many I shall meet between the Madeleine and the Rue Drouot.”

Then he would walk slowly, looking at every coat with a practiced eye
for the little bit of red ribbon, and when he had got to the end of his
walk he always repeated the numbers aloud.

“Eight officers and seventeen knights. As many as that! It is stupid to
sow the cross broadcast in that fashion. I wonder how many I shall meet
going back?”

And he returned slowly, unhappy when the crowd of passers-by interfered
with his vision.

He knew the places where most were to be found. They swarmed in the
Palais Royal. Fewer were seen in the Avenue de l'Opera than in the Rue
de la Paix, while the right side of the boulevard was more frequented by
them than the left.

They also seemed to prefer certain cafes and theatres. Whenever he saw a
group of white-haired old gentlemen standing together in the middle of
the pavement, interfering with the traffic, he used to say to himself:

“They are officers of the Legion of Honor,” and he felt inclined to take
off his hat to them.

He had often remarked that the officers had a different bearing to the
mere knights. They carried their head differently, and one felt that
they enjoyed a higher official consideration and a more widely extended
importance.

Sometimes, however, the worthy man would be seized with a furious hatred
for every one who was decorated; he felt like a Socialist toward them.

Then, when he got home, excited at meeting so many crosses—just as a
poor, hungry wretch might be on passing some dainty provision shop—he
used to ask in a loud voice:

“When shall we get rid of this wretched government?”

And his wife would be surprised, and ask:

“What is the matter with you to-day?”

“I am indignant,” he replied, “at the injustice I see going on around
us. Oh, the Communards were certainly right!”

After dinner he would go out again and look at the shops where the
decorations were sold, and he examined all the emblems of various shapes
and colors. He would have liked to possess them all, and to have walked
gravely at the head of a procession, with his crush hat under his arm
and his breast covered with decorations, radiant as a star, amid a buzz
of admiring whispers and a hum of respect.

But, alas! he had no right to wear any decoration whatever.

He used to say to himself: “It is really too difficult for any man to
obtain the Legion of Honor unless he is some public functionary. Suppose
I try to be appointed an officer of the Academy!”

But he did not know how to set about it, and spoke on the subject to his
wife, who was stupefied.

“Officer of the Academy! What have you done to deserve it?”

He got angry. “I know what I am talking about. I only want to know how
to set about it. You are quite stupid at times.”

She smiled. “You are quite right. I don't understand anything about it.”

An idea struck him: “Suppose you were to speak to M. Rosselin, the
deputy; he might be able to advise me. You understand I cannot broach
the subject to him directly. It is rather difficult and delicate, but
coming from you it might seem quite natural.”

Mme. Caillard did what he asked her, and M. Rosselin promised to speak
to the minister about it; and then Caillard began to worry him, till the
deputy told him he must make a formal application and put forward his
claims.

“What were his charms?” he said. “He was not even a Bachelor of Arts.”
However, he set to work and produced a pamphlet, with the title, “The
People's Right to Instruction,” but he could not finish it for want of
ideas.

He sought for easier subjects, and began several in succession. The
first was, “The Instruction of Children by Means of the Eye.” He wanted
gratuitous theatres to be established in every poor quarter of Paris for
little children. Their parents were to take them there when they were
quite young, and, by means of a magic lantern, all the notions of human
knowledge were to be imparted to them. There were to be regular courses.
The sight would educate the mind, while the pictures would remain
impressed on the brain, and thus science would, so to say, be made
visible. What could be more simple than to teach universal history,
natural history, geography, botany, zoology, anatomy, etc., etc., in
this manner?

He had his ideas printed in pamphlets, and sent a copy to each deputy,
ten to each minister, fifty to the President of the Republic, ten to
each Parisian, and five to each provincial newspaper.

Then he wrote on “Street Lending-Libraries.” His idea was to have little
pushcarts full of books drawn about the streets. Everyone would have a
right to ten volumes a month in his home on payment of one sou.

“The people,” M. Caillard said, “will only disturb itself for the sake
of its pleasures, and since it will not go to instruction, instruction
must come to it,” etc., etc.

His essays attracted no attention, but he sent in his application, and
he got the usual formal official reply. He thought himself sure of
success, but nothing came of it.

Then he made up his mind to apply personally. He begged for an interview
with the Minister of Public Instruction, and he was received by a young
subordinate, who was very grave and important, and kept touching the
knobs of electric bells to summon ushers, and footmen, and officials
inferior to himself. He declared to M. Caillard that his matter was
going on quite favorably, and advised him to continue his remarkable
labors, and M. Caillard set at it again.

M. Rosselin, the deputy, seemed now to take a great interest in his
success, and gave him a lot of excellent, practical advice. He, himself,
was decorated, although nobody knew exactly what he had done to deserve
such a distinction.

He told Caillard what new studies he ought to undertake; he introduced
him to learned societies which took up particularly obscure points of
science, in the hope of gaining credit and honors thereby; and he even
took him under his wing at the ministry.

One day, when he came to lunch with his friend—for several months past
he had constantly taken his meals there—he said to him in a whisper as
he shook hands: “I have just obtained a great favor for you. The
Committee of Historical Works is going to intrust you with a commission.
There are some researches to be made in various libraries in France.”

Caillard was so delighted that he could scarcely eat or drink, and a
week later he set out. He went from town to town, studying catalogues,
rummaging in lofts full of dusty volumes, and was hated by all the
librarians.

One day, happening to be at Rouen, he thought he should like to go and
visit his wife, whom he had not seen for more than a week, so he took
the nine o'clock train, which would land him at home by twelve at night.

He had his latchkey, so he went in without making any noise, delighted
at the idea of the surprise he was going to give her. She had locked
herself in. How tiresome! However, he cried out through the door:

“Jeanne, it is I!”

She must have been very frightened, for he heard her jump out of her bed
and speak to herself, as if she were in a dream. Then she went to her
dressing room, opened and closed the door, and went quickly up and down
her room barefoot two or three times, shaking the furniture till the
vases and glasses sounded. Then at last she asked:

“Is it you, Alexander?”

“Yes, yes,” he replied; “make haste and open the door.”

As soon as she had done so, she threw herself into his arms, exclaiming:

“Oh, what a fright! What a surprise! What a pleasure!”

He began to undress himself methodically, as he did everything, and took
from a chair his overcoat, which he was in the habit of hanging up in
the hall. But suddenly he remained motionless, struck dumb with
astonishment—there was a red ribbon in the buttonhole:

“Why,” he stammered, “this—this—this overcoat has got the ribbon in it!”

In a second, his wife threw herself on him, and, taking it from his
hands, she said:

“No! you have made a mistake—give it to me.”

But he still held it by one of the sleeves, without letting it go,
repeating in a half-dazed manner:

“Oh! Why? Just explain—Whose overcoat is it? It is not mine, as it has
the Legion of Honor on it.”

She tried to take it from him, terrified and hardly able to say:

“Listen—listen! Give it to me! I must not tell you! It is a secret.
Listen to me!”

But he grew angry and turned pale.

“I want to know how this overcoat comes to be here? It does not belong
to me.”

Then she almost screamed at him:

“Yes, it does; listen! Swear to me—well—you are decorated!”

She did not intend to joke at his expense.

He was so overcome that he let the overcoat fall and dropped into an
armchair.

“I am—you say I am—decorated?”

“Yes, but it is a secret, a great secret.”

She had put the glorious garment into a cupboard, and came to her
husband pale and trembling.

“Yes,” she continued, “it is a new overcoat that I have had made for
you. But I swore that I would not tell you anything about it, as it will
not be officially announced for a month or six weeks, and you were not
to have known till your return from your business journey. M. Rosselin
managed it for you.”

“Rosselin!” he contrived to utter in his joy. “He has obtained the
decoration for me? He—Oh!”

And he was obliged to drink a glass of water.

A little piece of white paper fell to the floor out of the pocket of the
overcoat. Caillard picked it up; it was a visiting card, and he read
out:

“Rosselin-Deputy.”

“You see how it is,” said his wife.

He almost cried with joy, and, a week later, it was announced in the
Journal Officiel that M. Caillard had been awarded the Legion of Honor
on account of his exceptional services.





THE TEST

The Bondels were a happy family, and although they frequently quarrelled
about trifles, they soon became friends again.

Bondel was a merchant who had retired from active business after saving
enough to allow him to live quietly; he had rented a little house at
Saint-Germain and lived there with his wife. He was a quiet man with
very decided opinions; he had a certain degree of education and read
serious newspapers; nevertheless, he appreciated the gaulois wit.
Endowed with a logical mind, and that practical common sense which is
the master quality of the industrial French bourgeois, he thought
little, but clearly, and reached a decision only after careful
consideration of the matter in hand. He was of medium size, with a
distinguished look, and was beginning to turn gray.

His wife, who was full of serious qualities, had also several faults.
She had a quick temper and a frankness that bordered upon violence. She
bore a grudge a long time. She had once been pretty, but had now become
too stout and too red; but in her neighborhood at Saint-Germain she
still passed for a very beautiful woman, who exemplified health and an
uncertain temper.

Their dissensions almost always began at breakfast, over some trivial
matter, and they often continued all day and even until the following
day. Their simple, common, limited life imparted seriousness to the most
unimportant matters, and every topic of conversation became a subject of
dispute. This had not been so in the days when business occupied their
minds, drew their hearts together, and gave them common interests and
occupation.

But at Saint-Germain they saw fewer people. It had been necessary to
make new acquaintances, to create for themselves a new world among
strangers, a new existence devoid of occupations. Then the monotony of
loneliness had soured each of them a little; and the quiet happiness
which they had hoped and waited for with the coming of riches did not
appear.

One June morning, just as they were sitting down to breakfast, Bondel
asked:

“Do you know the people who live in the little red cottage at the end of
the Rue du Berceau?”

Madame Bondel was out of sorts. She answered:

“Yes and no; I am acquainted with them, but I do not care to know them.”

“Why not? They seem to be very nice.”

“Because—”

“This morning I met the husband on the terrace and we took a little walk
together.”

Seeing that there was danger in the air, Bendel added: “It was he who
spoke to me first.”

His wife looked at him in a displeased manner. She continued: “You would
have done just as well to avoid him.”

“Why?”

“Because there are rumors about them.”

“What kind?”

“Oh! rumors such as one often hears!”

M. Bondel was, unfortunately, a little hasty. He exclaimed:

“My dear, you know that I abhor gossip. As for those people, I find them
very pleasant.”

She asked testily: “The wife also?”

“Why, yes; although I have barely seen her.”

The discussion gradually grew more heated, always on the same subject
for lack of others. Madame Bondel obstinately refused to say what she
had heard about these neighbors, allowing things to be understood
without saying exactly what they were. Bendel would shrug his shoulders,
grin, and exasperate his wife. She finally cried out: “Well! that
gentleman is deceived by his wife, there!”

The husband answered quietly: “I can't see how that affects the honor of
a man.”

She seemed dumfounded: “What! you don't see?—you don't see?—well, that's
too much! You don't see!—why, it's a public scandal! he is disgraced!”

He answered: “Ah! by no means! Should a man be considered disgraced
because he is deceived, because he is betrayed, robbed? No, indeed! I'll
grant you that that may be the case for the wife, but as for him—”

She became furious, exclaiming: “For him as well as for her. They are
both in disgrace; it's a public shame.”

Bondel, very calm, asked: “First of all, is it true? Who can assert such
a thing as long as no one has been caught in the act?”

Madame Bondel was growing uneasy; she snapped: “What? Who can assert it?
Why, everybody! everybody! it's as clear as the nose on your face.
Everybody knows it and is talking about it. There is not the slightest
doubt.”

He was grinning: “For a long time people thought that the sun revolved
around the earth. This man loves his wife and speaks of her tenderly and
reverently. This whole business is nothing but lies!”

Stamping her foot, she stammered: “Do you think that that fool, that
idiot, knows anything about it?”

Bondel did not grow angry; he was reasoning clearly: “Excuse me. This
gentleman is no fool. He seemed to me, on the contrary, to be very
intelligent and shrewd; and you can't make me believe that a man with
brains doesn't notice such a thing in his own house, when the neighbors,
who are not there, are ignorant of no detail of this liaison—for I'll
warrant that they know everything.”

Madame Bondel had a fit of angry mirth, which irritated her husband's
nerves. She laughed: “Ha! ha! ha! they're all the same! There's not a
man alive who could discover a thing like that unless his nose was stuck
into it!”

The discussion was wandering to other topics now. She was exclaiming
over the blindness of deceived husbands, a thing which he doubted and
which she affirmed with such airs of personal contempt that he finally
grew angry. Then the discussion became an angry quarrel, where she took
the side of the women and he defended the men. He had the conceit to
declare: “Well, I swear that if I had ever been deceived, I should have
noticed it, and immediately, too. And I should have taken away your
desire for such things in such a manner that it would have taken more
than one doctor to set you on foot again!”

Boiling with anger, she cried out to him: “You! you! why, you're as big
a fool as the others, do you hear!”

He still maintained: “I can swear to you that I am not!”

She laughed so impertinently that he felt his heart beat and a chill run
down his back. For the third time he said:

“I should have seen it!”

She rose, still laughing in the same manner. She slammed the door and
left the room, saying: “Well! if that isn't too much!”

Bondel remained alone, ill at ease. That insolent, provoking laugh had
touched him to the quick. He went outside, walked, dreamed. The
realization of the loneliness of his new life made him sad and morbid.
The neighbor, whom he had met that morning, came to him with
outstretched hands. They continued their walk together. After touching
on various subjects they came to talk of their wives. Both seemed to
have something to confide, something inexpressible, vague, about these
beings associated with their lives; their wives. The neighbor was
saying:

“Really, at times, one might think that they bear some particular ill-
will toward their husband, just because he is a husband. I love my
wife—I love her very much; I appreciate and respect her; well! there are
times when she seems to have more confidence and faith in our friends
than in me.”

Bondel immediately thought: “There is no doubt; my wife was right!”

When he left this man he began to think things over again. He felt in
his soul a strange confusion of contradictory ideas, a sort of interior
burning; that mocking, impertinent laugh kept ringing in his ears and
seemed to say: “Why; you are just the same as the others, you fool!”
That was indeed bravado, one of those pieces of impudence of which a
woman makes use when she dares everything, risks everything, to wound
and humiliate the man who has aroused her ire. This poor man must also
be one of those deceived husbands, like so many others. He had said
sadly: “There are times when she seems to have more confidence and faith
in our friends than in me.” That is how a husband formulated his
observations on the particular attentions of his wife for another man.
That was all. He had seen nothing more. He was like the rest—all the
rest!

And how strangely Bondel's own wife had laughed as she said: “You, too
—you, too.” How wild and imprudent these creatures are who can arouse
such suspicions in the heart for the sole purpose of revenge!

He ran over their whole life since their marriage, reviewed his mental
list of their acquaintances, to see whether she had ever appeared to
show more confidence in any one else than in himself. He never had
suspected any one, he was so calm, so sure of her, so confident.

But, now he thought of it, she had had a friend, an intimate friend, who
for almost a year had dined with them three times a week. Tancret, good
old Tancret, whom he, Bendel, loved as a brother and whom he continued
to see on the sly, since his wife, he did not know why, had grown angry
at the charming fellow.

He stopped to think, looking over the past with anxious eyes. Then he
grew angry at himself for harboring this shameful insinuation of the
defiant, jealous, bad ego which lives in all of us. He blamed and
accused himself when he remembered the visits and the demeanor of this
friend whom his wife had dismissed for no apparent reason. But,
suddenly, other memories returned to him, similar ruptures due to the
vindictive character of Madame Bondel, who never pardoned a slight. Then
he laughed frankly at himself for the doubts which he had nursed; and he
remembered the angry looks of his wife as he would tell her, when he
returned at night: “I saw good old Tancret, and he wished to be
remembered to you,” and he reassured himself.

She would invariably answer: “When you see that gentleman you can tell
him that I can very well dispense with his remembrances.” With what an
irritated, angry look she would say these words! How well one could feel
that she did not and would not forgive—and he had suspected her even for
a second? Such foolishness!

But why did she grow so angry? She never had given the exact reason for
this quarrel. She still bore him that grudge! Was it?—But no—no—and
Bondel declared that he was lowering himself by even thinking of such
things.

Yes, he was undoubtedly lowering himself, but he could not help thinking
of it, and he asked himself with terror if this thought which had
entered into his mind had not come to stop, if he did not carry in his
heart the seed of fearful torment. He knew himself; he was a man to
think over his doubts, as formerly he would ruminate over his commercial
operations, for days and nights, endlessly weighing the pros and the
cons.

He was already becoming excited; he was walking fast and losing his
calmness. A thought cannot be downed. It is intangible, cannot be
caught, cannot be killed.

Suddenly a plan occurred to him; it was bold, so bold that at first he
doubted whether he would carry it out.

Each time that he met Tancret, his friend would ask for news of Madame
Bondel, and Bondel would answer: “She is still a little angry.” Nothing
more. Good Lord! What a fool he had been! Perhaps!

Well, he would take the train to Paris, go to Tancret, and bring him
back with him that very evening, assuring him that his wife's mysterious
anger had disappeared. But how would Madame Bondel act? What a scene
there would be! What anger! what scandal! What of it?—that would be
revenge! When she should come face to face with him, unexpectedly, he
certainly ought to be able to read the truth in their expressions.

He immediately went to the station, bought his ticket, got into the car,
and as soon as he felt him self being carried away by the train, he felt
a fear, a kind of dizziness, at what he was going to do. In order not to
weaken, back down, and return alone, he tried not to think of the matter
any longer, to bring his mind to bear on other affairs, to do what he
had decided to do with a blind resolution; and he began to hum tunes
from operettas and music halls until he reached Paris.

As soon as he found himself walking along the streets that led to
Tancret's, he felt like stopping, He paused in front of several shops,
noticed the prices of certain objects, was interested in new things,
felt like taking a glass of beer, which was not his usual custom; and as
he approached his friend's dwelling he ardently hoped not meet him. But
Tancret was at home, alone, reading. He jumped up in surprise, crying:
“Ah! Bondel! what luck!”

Bondel, embarrassed, answered: “Yes, my dear fellow, I happened to be in
Paris, and I thought I'd drop in and shake hands with you.”

“That's very nice, very nice! The more so that for some time you have
not favored me with your presence very often.”

“Well, you see—even against one's will, one is often influenced by
surrounding conditions, and as my wife seemed to bear you some ill-will”

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

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

“Oh! nothing at all—a bit of foolishness—a discussion in which we did
not both agree.”

“But what was the subject of this discussion?”

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

“Ah! really. Well, I think that my wife has forgotten her grudge, for
this very morning she spoke to me of you in very pleasant terms.”

Tancret started and seemed so dumfounded that for a few minutes he could
find nothing to say. Then he asked: “She spoke of me—in pleasant terms?”

“Yes.”

“You are sure?”

“Of course I am. I am not dreaming.”

“And then?”

“And then—as I was coming to Paris I thought that I would please you by
coming to tell you the good news.”

“Why, yes—why, yes—”

Bondel appeared to hesitate; then, after a short pause, he added: “I
even had an idea.”

“What is it?”

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

Tancret, who was naturally prudent, seemed a little worried by this
proposition, and he asked: “Oh! really—is it possible? Are we not
exposing ourselves to—to—a scene?”

“No, no, indeed!”

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

“Yes, but I can assure you that she no longer bears you any ill—will. I
am even convinced that it will be a great pleasure for her to see you
thus, unexpectedly.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really!”

“Well, then! let us go along. I am delighted. You see, this
misunderstanding was very unpleasant for me.”

They set out together toward the Saint-Lazare station, arm in arm. They
made the trip in silence. Both seemed absorbed in deep meditation.
Seated in the car, one opposite the other, they looked at each other
without speaking, each observing that the other was pale.

Then they left the train and once more linked arms as if to unite
against some common danger. After a walk of a few minutes they stopped,
a little out of breath, before Bondel's house. Bondel ushered his friend
into the parlor, called the servant, and asked: “Is madame at home?”

“Yes, monsieur.”

“Please ask her to come down at once.”

They dropped into two armchairs and waited. Both were filled with the
same longing to escape before the appearance of the much-feared person.

A well-known, heavy tread could be heard descending the stairs. A hand
moved the knob, and both men watched the brass handle turn. Then the
door opened wide, and Madame Bondel stopped and looked to see who was
there before she entered. She looked, blushed, trembled, retreated a
step, then stood motionless, her cheeks aflame and her hands resting
against the sides of the door frame.

Tancret, as pale as if about to faint, had arisen, letting fall his hat,
which rolled along the floor. He stammered out: “Mon Dieu—madame—it is
I—I thought—I ventured—I was so sorry—”

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

Then, quickly, carried away by some impulse, she walked toward him with
her hands outstretched; and when he had taken, pressed, and held these
two hands, she said, in a trembling, weak little voice, which was new to
her husband:

“Ah! my dear friend—how happy I am!”

And Bondel, who was watching them, felt an icy chill run over him, as if
he had been dipped in a cold bath.





FOUND ON A DROWNED MAN

Madame, you ask me whether I am laughing at you? You cannot believe that
a man has never been in love. Well, then, no, no, I have never loved,
never!

Why is this? I really cannot tell. I have never experienced that
intoxication of the heart which we call love! Never have I lived in that
dream, in that exaltation, in that state of madness into which the image
of a woman casts us. I have never been pursued, haunted, roused to fever
heat, lifted up to Paradise by the thought of meeting, or by the
possession of, a being who had suddenly become for me more desirable
than any good fortune, more beautiful than any other creature, of more
consequence than the whole world! I have never wept, I have never
suffered on account of any of you. I have not passed my nights
sleepless, while thinking of her. I have no experience of waking
thoughts bright with thought and memories of her. I have never known the
wild rapture of hope before her arrival, or the divine sadness of regret
when she went from me, leaving behind her a delicate odor of violet
powder.

I have never been in love.

I have also often asked myself why this is. And truly I can scarcely
tell. Nevertheless I have found some reasons for it; but they are of a
metaphysical character, and perhaps you will not be able to appreciate
them.

I suppose I am too critical of women to submit to their fascination. I
ask you to forgive me for this remark. I will explain what I mean. In
every creature there is a moral being and a physical being. In order to
love, it would be necessary for me to find a harmony between these two
beings which I have never found. One always predominates; sometimes the
moral, sometimes the physical.

The intellect which we have a right to require in a woman, in order to
love her, is not the same as the virile intellect. It is more, and it is
less. A woman must be frank, delicate, sensitive, refined,
impressionable. She has no need of either power or initiative in
thought, but she must have kindness, elegance, tenderness, coquetry and
that faculty of assimilation which, in a little while, raises her to an
equality with him who shares her life. Her greatest quality must be
tact, that subtle sense which is to the mind what touch is to the body.
It reveals to her a thousand little things, contours, angles and forms
on the plane of the intellectual.

Very frequently pretty women have not intellect to correspond with their
personal charms. Now, the slightest lack of harmony strikes me and pains
me at the first glance. In friendship this is not of importance.
Friendship is a compact in which one fairly shares defects and merits.
We may judge of friends, whether man or woman, giving them credit for
what is good, and overlooking what is bad in them, appreciating them at
their just value, while giving ourselves up to an intimate, intense and
charming sympathy.

In order to love, one must be blind, surrender one's self absolutely,
see nothing, question nothing, understand nothing. One must adore the
weakness as well as the beauty of the beloved object, renounce all
judgment, all reflection, all perspicacity.

I am incapable of such blindness and rebel at unreasoning subjugation.
This is not all. I have such a high and subtle idea of harmony that
nothing can ever fulfill my ideal. But you will call me a madman. Listen
to me. A woman, in my opinion, may have an exquisite soul and charming
body without that body and that soul being in perfect harmony with one
another. I mean that persons who have noses made in a certain shape
should not be expected to think in a certain fashion. The fat have no
right to make use of the same words and phrases as the thin. You, who
have blue eyes, madame, cannot look at life and judge of things and
events as if you had black eyes. The shade of your eyes should
correspond, by a sort of fatality, with the shade of your thought. In
perceiving these things, I have the scent of a bloodhound. Laugh if you
like, but it is so.

And yet, once I imagined that I was in love for an hour, for a day. I
had foolishly yielded to the influence of surrounding circumstances. I
allowed myself to be beguiled by a mirage of Dawn. Would you like me to
tell you this short story?

I met, one evening, a pretty, enthusiastic little woman who took a
poetic fancy to spend a night with me in a boat on a river. I would have
preferred a room and a bed; however, I consented to the river and the
boat.

It was in the month of June. My fair companion chose a moonlight night
in order the better to stimulate her imagination.

We had dined at a riverside inn and set out in the boat about ten
o'clock. I thought it a rather foolish kind of adventure, but as my
companion pleased me I did not worry about it. I sat down on the seat
facing her; I seized the oars, and off we starred.

I could not deny that the scene was picturesque. We glided past a wooded
isle full of nightingales, and the current carried us rapidly over the
river covered with silvery ripples. The tree toads uttered their shrill,
monotonous cry; the frogs croaked in the grass by the river's bank, and
the lapping of the water as it flowed on made around us a kind of
confused murmur almost imperceptible, disquieting, and gave us a vague
sensation of mysterious fear.

The sweet charm of warm nights and of streams glittering in the
moonlight penetrated us. It was delightful to be alive and to float
along thus, and to dream and to feel at one's side a sympathetic and
beautiful young woman.

I was somewhat affected, somewhat agitated, somewhat intoxicated by the
pale brightness of the night and the consciousness of my proximity to a
lovely woman.

“Come and sit beside me,” she said.

I obeyed.

She went on:

“Recite some poetry for me.”

This appeared to be rather too much. I declined; she persisted. She
certainly wanted to play the game, to have a whole orchestra of
sentiment, from the moon to the rhymes of poets. In the end I had to
yield, and, as if in mockery, I repeated to her a charming little poem
by Louis Bouilhet, of which the following are the last verses:

“I hate the poet who with tearful eye Murmurs some name while gazing
tow'rds a star, Who sees no magic in the earth or sky, Unless Lizette or
Ninon be not far.

“The bard who in all Nature nothing sees Divine, unless a petticoat he
ties Amorously to the branches of the trees Or nightcap to the grass, is
scarcely wise.

“He has not heard the Eternal's thunder tone, The voice of Nature in her
various moods, Who cannot tread the dim ravines alone, And of no woman
dream mid whispering woods.”


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

“How true it is!”

I was astonished. Had she understood?

Our boat had gradually approached the bank and become entangled in the
branches of a willow which impeded its progress. I placed my arm round
my companion's waist, and very gently approached my lips towards her
neck. But she repulsed me with an abrupt, angry movement.

“Have done, pray! How rude you are!”

I tried to draw her toward me. She resisted, caught hold of the tree,
and was near flinging us both into the water. I deemed it prudent to
cease my importunities.

She said:

“I would rather capsize you. I feel so happy. I want to dream. This is
so delightful.” Then, in a slightly malicious tone, she added:

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

She was right. I became silent.

She went on:

“Come, now!”

And I plied the oars once more.

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

My companion said to me:

“Will you make me a promise?”

“Yes. What is it?”

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

“What? Say what you mean!”

“Here is what I mean: I want to lie down on my back at the bottom of the
boat with you by my side. But I forbid you to touch me, to embrace me
—in short—to caress me.”

I promised. She said warningly:

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

And then we lay down side by side, our eyes turned toward the sky, while
the boat glided slowly through the water. We were rocked by its gentle
motion. The slight sounds of the night came to us more distinctly in the
bottom of the boat, sometimes causing us to start. And I felt springing
up within me a strange, poignant emotion, an infinite tenderness,
something like an irresistible impulse to open my arms in order to
embrace, to open my heart in order to love, to give myself, to give my
thoughts, my body, my life, my entire being to some one.

My companion murmured, like one in a dream:

“Where are we; Where are we going? It seems to me that I am leaving the
earth. How sweet it is! Ah, if you loved me—a little!!!”

My heart began to throb. I had no answer to give. It seemed to me that I
loved her. I had no longer any violent desire. I felt happy there by her
side, and that was enough for me.

And thus we remained for a long, long time without stirring. We had
clasped each other's hands; some delightful force rendered us
motionless, an unknown force stronger than ourselves, an alliance,
chaste, intimate, absolute, of our beings lying there side by side,
belonging to each other without contact. What was this? How do I know?
Love, perhaps?

Little by little the dawn appeared. It was three o'clock in the morning.
Slowly a great brightness spread over the sky. The boat knocked up
against something. I rose up. We had come close to a tiny islet.

But I remained enchanted, in an ecstasy. Before us stretched the
firmament, red, pink, violet, spotted with fiery clouds resembling
golden vapor. The river was glowing with purple and three houses on one
side of it seemed to be burning.

I bent toward my companion. I was going to say, “Oh! look!” But I held
my tongue, quite dazed, and I could no longer see anything except her.
She, too, was rosy, with rosy flesh tints with a deeper tinge that was
partly a reflection of the hue of the sky. Her tresses were rosy; her
eyes were rosy; her teeth were rosy; her dress, her laces, her smile,
all were rosy. And in truth I believed, so overpowering was the
illusion, that the dawn was there in the flesh before me.

She rose softly to her feet, holding out her lips to me; and I moved
toward her, trembling, delirious feeling indeed that I was going to kiss
Heaven, to kiss happiness, to kiss a dream that had become a woman, to
kiss the ideal which had descended into human flesh.

She said to me: “You have a caterpillar in your hair.” And, suddenly, I
felt as sad as if I had lost all hope in life.

That is all, madame. It is puerile, silly, stupid. But I am sure that
since that day it would be impossible for me to love. And yet—who can
tell?

[The young man upon whom this letter was found was yesterday taken out
of the Seine between Bougival and Marly. An obliging bargeman, who had
searched the pockets in order to ascertain the name of the deceased,
brought this paper to the author.]





THE ORPHAN

Mademoiselle Source had adopted this boy under very sad circumstances.
She was at the time thirty-six years old. Being disfigured through
having as a child slipped off her nurse's lap into the fireplace and
burned her face shockingly, she had determined not to marry, for she did
not want any man to marry her for her money.

A neighbor of hers, left a widow just before her child was born, died in
giving birth, without leaving a sou. Mademoiselle Source took the new-
born child, put him out to nurse, reared him, sent him to a boarding-
school, then brought him home in his fourteenth year, in order to have
in her empty house somebody who would love her, who would look after
her, and make her old age pleasant.

She had a little country place four leagues from Rennes, and she now
dispensed with a servant; her expenses having increased to more than
double since this orphan's arrival, her income of three thousand francs
was no longer sufficient to support three persons.

She attended to the housekeeping and cooking herself, and sent out the
boy on errands, letting him also occupy himself in cultivating the
garden. He was gentle, timid, silent, and affectionate. And she
experienced a deep happiness, a fresh happiness when he kissed her
without surprise or horror at her disfigurement. He called her “Aunt,”
and treated her as a mother.

In the evening they both sat down at the fireside, and she made nice
little dainties for him. She heated some wine and toasted a slice of
bread, and it made a charming little meal before going to bed. She often
took him on her knees and covered him with kisses, murmuring tender
words in his ear. She called him: “My little flower, my cherub, my
adored angel, my divine jewel.” He softly accepted her caresses, hiding
his head on the old maid's shoulder. Although he was now nearly fifteen,
he had remained small and weak, and had a rather sickly appearance.

Sometimes Mademoiselle Source took him to the city, to see two married
female relatives of hers, distant cousins, who were living in the
suburbs, and who were the only members of her family in existence. The
two women had always found fault with her, for having adopted this boy,
on account of the inheritance; but for all that, they gave her a cordial
welcome, having still hopes of getting a share for themselves, a third,
no doubt, if what she possessed were only equally divided.

She was happy, very happy, always occupied with her adopted child. She
bought books for him to improve his mind, and he became passionately
fond of reading.

He no longer climbed on her knee to pet her as he had formerly done;
but, instead, would go and sit down in his little chair in the chimney-
corner and open a volume. The lamp placed at the edge of the Tittle
table above his head shone on his curly hair, and on a portion of his
forehead; he did not move, he did not raise his eyes or make any
gesture. He read on, interested, entirely absorbed in the story he was
reading.

Seated opposite to him, she would gaze at him earnestly, astonished at
his studiousness, often on the point of bursting into tears.

She said to him occasionally: “You will fatigue yourself, my treasure!”
hoping that he would raise his head, and come across to embrace her; but
he did not even answer her; he had not heard or understood what she was
saying; he paid no attention to anything save what he read in those
pages.

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

After this, he asked Mademoiselle Source several times for money, which
she gave him. As he always wanted more, she ended by refusing, for she
was both methodical and decided, and knew how to act rationally when it
was necessary to do so. By dint of entreaties he obtained a large sum
from her one night; but when he begged her for more a few days later,
she showed herself inflexible, and did not give way to him further, in
fact.

He appeared to be satisfied with her decision.

He again became quiet, as he had formerly been, remaining seated for
entire hours, without moving, plunged in deep reverie. He now did not
even talk to Madame Source, merely answering her remarks with short,
formal words. Nevertheless, he was agreeable and attentive in his manner
toward her; but he never embraced her now.

She had by this time grown slightly afraid of him when they sat facing
one another at night on opposite sides of the fireplace. She wanted to
wake him up, to make him say something, no matter what, that would break
this dreadful silence, which was like the darkness of a wood. But he did
not appear to listen to her, and she shuddered with the terror of a poor
feeble woman when she had spoken to him five or six times successively
without being able to get a word out of him.

What was the matter with him? What was going on in that closed-up head?
When she had remained thus two or three hours opposite him, she felt as
if she were going insane, and longed to rush away and to escape into the
open country in order to avoid that mute, eternal companionship and also
some vague danger, which she could not define, but of which she had a
presentiment.

She frequently wept when she was alone. What was the matter with him?
When she expressed a wish, he unmurmuringly carried it into execution.
When she wanted anything brought from the city, he immediately went
there to procure it. She had no complaint to make of him; no, indeed!
And yet—

Another year flitted by, and it seemed to her that a fresh change had
taken place in the mind of the young man. She perceived it; she felt it;
she divined it. How? No matter! She was sure she was not mistaken; but
she could not have explained in what manner the unknown thoughts of this
strange youth had changed.

It seemed to her that, until now, he had been like a person in a
hesitating frame of mind, who had suddenly arrived at a determination.
This idea came to her one evening as she met his glance, a fixed,
singular glance which she had not seen in his face before.

Then he commenced to watch her incessantly, and she wished she could
hide herself in order to avoid that cold eye riveted on her.

He kept staring at her, evening after evening, for hours together, only
averting his eyes when she said, utterly unnerved:

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

Then he would lower his head.

But the moment her back was turned she once more felt that his eyes were
upon her. Wherever she went, he pursued her with his persistent gaze.

Sometimes, when she was walking in her little garden, she suddenly
noticed him hidden behind a bush, as if he were lying in wait for her;
and, again, when she sat in front of the house mending stockings while
he was digging some vegetable bed, he kept continually watching her in a
surreptitious manner, as he worked.

It was in vain that she asked him:

“What's the matter with you, my boy? For the last three years, you have
become very different. I don't recognize you. Do tell me what ails you,
and what you are thinking of.”

He invariably replied, in a quiet, weary tone:

“Why, nothing ails me, aunt!”

And when she persisted:

“Ah! my child, answer me, answer me when I speak to you. If you knew
what grief you caused me, you would always answer, and you would not
look at me that way. Have you any trouble? Tell me! I'll comfort you!”

He went away, with a tired air, murmuring:

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

He had not grown much, having always a childish look, although his
features were those of a man. They were, however, hard and badly cut. He
seemed incomplete, abortive, only half finished, and disquieting as a
mystery. He was a self-contained, unapproachable being, in whom there
seemed always to be some active, dangerous mental labor going on.
Mademoiselle Source was quite conscious of all this, and she could not
sleep at night, so great was her anxiety. Frightful terrors, dreadful
nightmares assailed her. She shut herself up in her own room, and
barricaded the door, tortured by fear.

What was she afraid of? She could not tell.

She feared everything, the night, the walls, the shadows thrown by the
moon on the white curtains of the windows, and, above all, she feared
him.

Why?

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

She could live this way no longer! She felt certain that a misfortune
threatened her, a frightful misfortune.

She set forth secretly one morning, and went into the city to see her
relatives. She told them about the matter in a gasping voice. The two
women thought she was going mad and tried to reassure her.

She said:

“If you knew the way he looks at me from morning till night. He never
takes his eyes off me! At times, I feel a longing to cry for help, to
call in the neighbors, so much am I afraid. But what could I say to
them? He does nothing but look at me.”

The two female cousins asked:

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

She replied:

“No, never; he does everything I wish; he works hard: he is steady; but
I am so frightened that I care nothing for that. He is planning
something, I am certain of that—quite certain. I don't care to remain
all alone like that with him in the country.”

The relatives, astonished at her words, declared that people would be
amazed, would not understand; and they advised her to keep silent about
her fears and her plans, without, however, dissuading her from coming to
reside in the city, hoping in that way that the entire inheritance would
eventually fall into their hands.

They even promised to assist her in selling her house, and in finding
another, near them.

Mademoiselle Source returned home. But her mind was so much upset that
she trembled at the slightest noise, and her hands shook whenever any
trifling disturbance agitated her.

Twice she went again to consult her relatives, quite determined now not
to remain any longer in this way in her lonely dwelling. At last, she
found a little cottage in the suburbs, which suited her, and she
privately bought it.

The signature of the contract took place on a Tuesday morning, and
Mademoiselle Source devoted the rest of the day to the preparations for
her change of residence.

At eight o'clock in the evening she got into the diligence which passed
within a few hundred yards of her house, and she told the conductor to
put her down in the place where she usually alighted. The man called out
to her as he whipped his horses:

“Good evening, Mademoiselle Source—good night!”

She replied as she walked on:

“Good evening, Pere Joseph.” Next morning, at half-past seven, the
postman who conveyed letters to the village noticed at the cross-road,
not far from the high road, a large splash of blood not yet dry. He said
to himself: “Hallo! some boozer must have had a nose bleed.”

But he perceived ten paces farther on a pocket handkerchief also stained
with blood. He picked it up. The linen was fine, and the postman, in
alarm, made his way over to the ditch, where he fancied he saw a strange
object.

Mademoiselle Source was lying at the bottom on the grass, her throat cut
with a knife.

An hour later, the gendarmes, the examining magistrate, and other
authorities made an inquiry as to the cause of death.

The two female relatives, called as witnesses, told all about the old
maid's fears and her last plans.

The orphan was arrested. After the death of the woman who had adopted
him, he wept from morning till night, plunged, at least to all
appearance, in the most violent grief.

He proved that he had spent the evening up to eleven o'clock in a cafe.
Ten persons had seen him, having remained there till his departure.

The driver of the diligence stated that he had set down the murdered
woman on the road between half-past nine and ten o'clock.

The accused was acquitted. A will, drawn up a long time before, which
had been left in the hands of a notary in Rennes, made him sole heir. So
he inherited everything.

For a long time, the people of the country boycotted him, as they still
suspected him. His house, that of the dead woman, was looked upon as
accursed. People avoided him in the street.

But he showed himself so good-natured, so open, so familiar, that
gradually these horrible doubts were forgotten. He was generous,
obliging, ready to talk to the humblest about anything, as long as they
cared to talk to him.

The notary, Maitre Rameau, was one of the first to take his part,
attracted by his smiling loquacity. He said at a dinner, at the tax
collector's house:

“A man who speaks with such facility and who is always in good humor
could not have such a crime on his conscience.”

Touched by his argument, the others who were present reflected, and they
recalled to mind the long conversations with this man who would almost
compel them to stop at the road corners to listen to his ideas, who
insisted on their going into his house when they were passing by his
garden, who could crack a joke better than the lieutenant of the
gendarmes himself, and who possessed such contagious gaiety that, in
spite of the repugnance with which he inspired them, they could not keep
from always laughing in his company.

All doors were opened to him after a time.

He is to-day the mayor of his township.





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

At the age of fifteen both his legs had been crushed by a carriage on
the Varville highway. From that time forth he begged, dragging himself
along the roads and through the farmyards, supported by crutches which
forced his shoulders up to his ears. His head looked as if it were
squeezed in between two mountains.

A foundling, picked up out of a ditch by the priest of Les Billettes on
the eve of All Saints' Day and baptized, for that reason, Nicholas
Toussaint, reared by charity, utterly without education, crippled in
consequence of having drunk several glasses of brandy given him by the
baker (such a funny story!) and a vagabond all his life afterward—the
only thing he knew how to do was to hold out his hand for alms.

At one time the Baroness d'Avary allowed him to sleep in a kind of
recess spread with straw, close to the poultry yard in the farm
adjoining the chateau, and if he was in great need he was sure of
getting a glass of cider and a crust of bread in the kitchen. Moreover,
the old lady often threw him a few pennies from her window. But she was
dead now.

In the villages people gave him scarcely anything—he was too well known.
Everybody had grown tired of seeing him, day after day for forty years,
dragging his deformed and tattered person from door to door on his
wooden crutches. But he could not make up his mind to go elsewhere,
because he knew no place on earth but this particular corner of the
country, these three or four villages where he had spent the whole of
his miserable existence. He had limited his begging operations and would
not for worlds have passed his accustomed bounds.

He did not even know whether the world extended for any distance beyond
the trees which had always bounded his vision. He did not ask himself
the question. And when the peasants, tired of constantly meeting him in
their fields or along their lanes, exclaimed: “Why don't you go to other
villages instead of always limping about here?” he did not answer, but
slunk away, possessed with a vague dread of the unknown—the dread of a
poor wretch who fears confusedly a thousand things—new faces, taunts,
insults, the suspicious glances of people who do not know him and the
policemen walking in couples on the roads. These last he always
instinctively avoided, taking refuge in the bushes or behind heaps of
stones when he saw them coming.

When he perceived them in the distance, 'With uniforms gleaming in the
sun, he was suddenly possessed with unwonted agility—the agility of a
wild animal seeking its lair. He threw aside his crutches, fell to the
ground like a limp rag, made himself as small as possible and crouched
like a hare under cover, his tattered vestments blending in hue with the
earth on which he cowered.

He had never had any trouble with the police, but the instinct to avoid
them was in his blood. He seemed to have inherited it from the parents
he had never known.

He had no refuge, no roof for his head, no shelter of any kind. In
summer he slept out of doors and in winter he showed remarkable skill in
slipping unperceived into barns and stables. He always decamped before
his presence could be discovered. He knew all the holes through which
one could creep into farm buildings, and the handling of his crutches
having made his arms surprisingly muscular he often hauled himself up
through sheer strength of wrist into hay-lofts, where he sometimes
remained for four or five days at a time, provided he had collected a
sufficient store of food beforehand.

He lived like the beasts of the field. He was in the midst of men, yet
knew no one, loved no one, exciting in the breasts of the peasants only
a sort of careless contempt and smoldering hostility. They nicknamed him
“Bell,” because he hung between his two crutches like a church bell
between its supports.

For two days he had eaten nothing. No one gave him anything now. Every
one's patience was exhausted. Women shouted to him from their doorsteps
when they saw him coming:

“Be off with you, you good-for-nothing vagabond! Why, I gave you a piece
of bread only three days ago!”

And he turned on his crutches to the next house, where he was received
in the same fashion.

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

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

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

He had exhausted Saint-Hilaire, Varville and Les Billettes without
getting a single copper or so much as a dry crust. His only hope was in
Tournolles, but to reach this place he would have to walk five miles
along the highroad, and he felt so weary that he could hardly drag
himself another yard. His stomach and his pocket were equally empty, but
he started on his way.

It was December and a cold wind blew over the fields and whistled
through the bare branches of the trees; the clouds careered madly across
the black, threatening sky. The cripple dragged himself slowly along,
raising one crutch after the other with a painful effort, propping
himself on the one distorted leg which remained to him.

Now and then he sat down beside a ditch for a few moments' rest. Hunger
was gnawing his vitals, and in his confused, slow-working mind he had
only one idea-to eat-but how this was to be accomplished he did not
know. For three hours he continued his painful journey. Then at last the
sight of the trees of the village inspired him with new energy.

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

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

And “Bell” went on his way. At every door he got nothing but hard words.
He made the round of the whole village, but received not a halfpenny for
his pains.

Then he visited the neighboring farms, toiling through the muddy land,
so exhausted that he could hardly raise his crutches from the ground. He
met with the same reception everywhere. It was one of those cold, bleak
days, when the heart is frozen and the temper irritable, and hands do
not open either to give money or food.

When he had visited all the houses he knew, “Bell” sank down in the
corner of a ditch running across Chiquet's farmyard. Letting his
crutches slip to the ground, he remained motionless, tortured by hunger,
but hardly intelligent enough to realize to the full his unutterable
misery.

He awaited he knew not what, possessed with that vague hope which
persists in the human heart in spite of everything. He awaited in the
corner of the farmyard in the biting December wind, some mysterious aid
from Heaven or from men, without the least idea whence it was to arrive.
A number of black hens ran hither and thither, seeking their food in the
earth which supports all living things. Ever now and then they snapped
up in their beaks a grain of corn or a tiny insect; then they continued
their slow, sure search for nutriment.

“Bell” watched them at first without thinking of anything. Then a
thought occurred rather to his stomach than to his mind—the thought that
one of those fowls would be good to eat if it were cooked over a fire of
dead wood.

He did not reflect that he was going to commit a theft. He took up a
stone which lay within reach, and, being of skillful aim, killed at the
first shot the fowl nearest to him. The bird fell on its side, flapping
its wings. The others fled wildly hither and thither, and “Bell,”
picking up his crutches, limped across to where his victim lay.

Just as he reached the little black body with its crimsoned head he
received a violent blow in his back which made him let go his hold of
his crutches and sent him flying ten paces distant. And Farmer Chiquet,
beside himself with rage, cuffed and kicked the marauder with all the
fury of a plundered peasant as “Bell” lay defenceless before him.

The farm hands came up also and joined their master in cuffing the lame
beggar. Then when they were tired of beating him they carried him off
and shut him up in the woodshed, while they went to fetch the police.

“Bell,” half dead, bleeding and perishing with hunger, lay on the floor.
Evening came—then night—then dawn. And still he had not eaten.

About midday the police arrived. They opened the door of the woodshed
with the utmost precaution, fearing resistance on the beggar's part, for
Farmer Chiquet asserted that he had been attacked by him and had had
great, difficulty in defending himself.

The sergeant cried:

“Come, get up!”

But “Bell” could not move. He did his best to raise himself on his
crutches, but without success. The police, thinking his weakness
feigned, pulled him up by main force and set him between the crutches.

Fear seized him—his native fear of a uniform, the fear of the game in
presence of the sportsman, the fear of a mouse for a cat-and by the
exercise of almost superhuman effort he succeeded in remaining upright.

“Forward!” said the sergeant. He walked. All the inmates of the farm
watched his departure. The women shook their fists at him the men
scoffed at and insulted him. He was taken at last! Good riddance! He
went off between his two guards. He mustered sufficient energy—the
energy of despair—to drag himself along until the evening, too dazed to
know what was happening to him, too frightened to understand.

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

“It's some thief or other.”

Toward evening he reached the country town. He had never been so far
before. He did not realize in the least what he was there for or what
was to become of him. All the terrible and unexpected events of the last
two days, all these unfamiliar faces and houses struck dismay into his
heart.

He said not a word, having nothing to say because he understood nothing.
Besides, he had spoken to no one for so many years past that he had
almost lost the use of his tongue, and his thoughts were too
indeterminate to be put into words.

He was shut up in the town jail. It did not occur to the police that he
might need food, and he was left alone until the following day. But when
in the early morning they came to examine him he was found dead on the
floor. Such an astonishing thing!





THE RABBIT

Old Lecacheur appeared at the door of his house between five and a
quarter past five in the morning, his usual hour, to watch his men going
to work.

He was only half awake, his face was red, and with his right eye open
and the left nearly closed, he was buttoning his braces over his fat
stomach with some difficulty, at the same time looking into every corner
of the farmyard with a searching glance. The sun darted its oblique rays
through the beech trees by the side of the ditch and athwart the apple
trees outside, and was making the cocks crow on the dunghill, and the
pigeons coo on the roof. The smell of the cow stable came through the
open door, and blended in the fresh morning air with the pungent odor of
the stable, where the horses were neighing, with their heads turned
toward the light.

As soon as his trousers were properly fastened, Lecacheur came out, and
went, first of all, toward the hen house to count the morning's eggs,
for he had been afraid of thefts for some time; but the servant girl ran
up to him with lifted arms and cried:

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

“A rabbit?”

“Yes, master, the big gray rabbit, from the hutch on the left”;
whereupon the farmer completely opened his left eye, and said, simply:

“I must see about that.”

And off he went to inspect it. The hutch had been broken open and the
rabbit was gone. Then he became thoughtful, closed his right eye again,
and scratched his nose, and after a little consideration, he said to the
frightened girl, who was standing stupidly before her master:

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

Lecacheur was mayor of the village, Pavigny-le-Gras, and ruled it like a
master, on account of his money and position, and as soon as the servant
had disappeared in the direction of the village, which was only about
five hundred yards off, he went into the house to have his morning
coffee and to discuss the matter with his wife, whom he found on her
knees in front of the fire, trying to make it burn quickly, and as soon
as he got to the door, he said:

“Somebody has stolen the gray rabbit.”

She turned round so suddenly that she found herself sitting on the
floor, and looking at her husband with distressed eyes, she said:

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

“The big gray one.”

She sighed.

“What a shame! Who can have done it?”

She was a little, thin, active, neat woman, who knew all about farming.
Lecacheur had his own ideas about the matter.

“It must be that fellow, Polyte.”

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

“He did it! he did it! You need not look for any one else. He did it!
You have said it, Cacheux!”

All her peasant's fury, all her avarice, all her rage of a saving woman
against the man of whom she had always been suspicious, and against the
girl whom she had always suspected, showed themselves in the contraction
of her mouth, and the wrinkles in the cheeks and forehead of her thin,
exasperated face.

“And what have you done?” she asked.

“I have sent for the gendarmes.”

This Polyte was a laborer, who had been employed on the farm for a few
days, and who had been dismissed by Lecacheur for an insolent answer. He
was an old soldier, and was supposed to have retained his habits of *
marauding and debauchery from his campaigns in Africa. He did anything
for a livelihood, but whether he were a mason, a navvy, a reaper,
whether he broke stones or lopped trees, he was always lazy, and so he
remained nowhere for long, and had, at times, to change his neighborhood
to obtain work.

From the first day that he came to the farm, Lecacheur's wife had
detested him, and now she was sure that he had committed the theft.

In about half an hour the two gendarmes arrived. Brigadier Senateur was
very tall and thin, and Gendarme Lenient short and fat. Lecacheur made
them sit down, and told them the affair, and then they went and saw the
scene of the theft, in order to verify the fact that the hutch had been
broken open, and to collect all the proofs they could. When they got
back to the kitchen, the mistress brought in some wine, filled their
glasses, and asked with a distrustful look:

“Shall you catch him?”

The brigadier, who had his sword between his legs, appeared thoughtful.
Certainly, he was sure of taking him, if he was pointed out to him, but
if not, he could not answer for being able to discover him, himself, and
after reflecting for a long time, he put this simple question:

“Do you know the thief?”

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

“As for knowing him, I do not, as I did not see him commit the theft. If
I had seen him, I should have made him eat it raw, skin and flesh,
without a drop of cider to wash it down. But as for saying who it is, I
cannot, although I believe it is that good-for-nothing Polyte.”

Then he related at length his troubles with Polyte, his leaving his
service, his bad reputation, things which had been told him,
accumulating insignificant and minute proofs, and then, the brigadier,
who had been listening very attentively while he emptied his glass and
filled it again with an indifferent air, turned to his gendarme and
said:

“We must go and look in the cottage of Severin's wife.” At which the
gendarme smiled and nodded three times.

Then Madame Lecacheur came to them, and very quietly, with all a
peasant's cunning, questioned the brigadier in her turn. That shepherd
Severin, a simpleton, a sort of brute who had been brought up and had
grown up among his bleating flocks, and who knew scarcely anything
besides them in the world, had nevertheless preserved the peasant's
instinct for saving, at the bottom of his heart. For years and years he
must have hidden in hollow trees and crevices in the rocks all that he
earned, either as a shepherd or by curing animals' sprains—for the
bonesetter's secret had been handed down to him by the old shepherd
whose place he took-by touch or word, and one day he bought a small
property, consisting of a cottage and a field, for three thousand
francs.

A few months later it became known that he was going to marry a servant,
notorious for her bad morals, the innkeeper's servant. The young fellows
said that the girl, knowing that he was pretty well off, had been to his
cottage every night, and had taken him, captured him, led him on to
matrimony, little by little night by night.

And then, having been to the mayor's office and to church, she now lived
in the house which her man had bought, while he continued to tend his
flocks, day and night, on the plains.

And the brigadier added:

“Polyte has been sleeping there for three weeks, for the thief has no
place of his own to go to!”

The gendarme made a little joke:

“He takes the shepherd's blankets.”

Madame Lecacheur, who was seized by a fresh access of rage, of rage
increased by a married woman's anger against debauchery, exclaimed:

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

But the brigadier was quite unmoved.

“One minute,” he said. “Let us wait until twelve o'clock, as he goes and
dines there every day. I shall catch them with it under their noses.”

The gendarme smiled, pleased at his chief's idea, and Lecacheur also
smiled now, for the affair of the shepherd struck him as very funny;
deceived husbands are always a joke.

Twelve o'clock had just struck when the brigadier, followed by his man,
knocked gently three times at the door of a little lonely house,
situated at the corner of a wood, five hundred yards from the village.

They had been standing close against the wall, so as not to be seen from
within, and they waited. As nobody answered, the brigadier knocked again
in a minute or two. It was so quiet that the house seemed uninhabited;
but Lenient, the gendarme, who had very quick ears, said that he heard
somebody moving about inside, and then Senateur got angry. He would not
allow any one to resist the authority of the law for a moment, and,
knocking at the door with the hilt of his sword, he cried out:

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

As this order had no effect, he roared out:

“If you do not obey, I shall smash the lock. I am the brigadier of the
gendarmerie, by G—! Here, Lenient.”

He had not finished speaking when the door opened and Senateur saw
before him a fat girl, with a very red, blowzy face, with drooping
breasts, a big stomach and broad hips, a sort of animal, the wife of the
shepherd Severin, and he went into the cottage.

“I have come to pay you a visit, as I want to make a little search,” he
said, and he looked about him. On the table there was a plate, a jug of
cider and a glass half full, which proved that a meal was in progress.
Two knives were lying side by side, and the shrewd gendarme winked at
his superior officer.

“It smells good,” the latter said.

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

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

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

She pretended not to understand, but she was trembling.

“What rabbit?”

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

“Come, come, you are not going to try and make us believe that you live
on couch grass. What were you eating there all by yourself for your
dinner?”

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

“You are a novice, my good woman. A mite of butter on your bread. You
are mistaken; you ought to have said: a mite of butter on the rabbit. By
G—, your butter smells good! It is special butter, extra good butter,
butter fit for a wedding; certainly, not household butter!”

The gendarme was shaking with laughter, and repeated:

“Not household butter certainly.”

As Brigadier Senateur was a joker, all the gendarmes had grown
facetious, and the officer continued:

“Where is your butter?”

“My butter?”

“Yes, your butter.”

“In the jar.”

“Then where is the butter jar?”

“Here it is.”

She brought out an old cup, at the bottom of which there was a layer of
rancid salt butter, and the brigadier smelled of it, and said, with a
shake of his head:

“It is not the same. I want the butter that smells of the rabbit. Come,
Lenient, open your eyes; look under the sideboard, my good fellow, and I
will look under the bed.”

Having shut the door, he went up to the bed and tried to move it; but it
was fixed to the wall, and had not been moved for more than half a
century, apparently. Then the brigadier stooped, and made his uniform
crack. A button had flown off.

“Lenient,” he said.

“Yes, brigadier?”

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

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

Lenient, who was short and stout, took off his kepi, laid himself on his
stomach, and, putting his face on the floor, looked at the black cavity
under the bed, and then, suddenly, he exclaimed:

“All right, here we are!”

“What have you got? The rabbit?”

“No, the thief.”

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

The gendarme had put his arms under the bed and laid hold of something,
and he was pulling with all his might, and at last a foot, shod in a
thick boot, appeared, which he was holding in his right hand. The
brigadier took it, crying:

“Pull! Pull!”

And Lenient, who was on his knees by that time, was pulling at the other
leg. But it was a hard job, for the prisoner kicked out hard, and arched
up his back under the bed.

“Courage! courage! pull! pull!” Senateur cried, and they pulled him with
all their strength, so that the wooden slat gave way, and he came out as
far as his head; but at last they got that out also, and they saw the
terrified and furious face of Polyte, whose arms remained stretched out
under the bed.

“Pull away!” the brigadier kept on exclaiming. Then they heard a strange
noise, and as the arms followed the shoulders, and the hands the arms,
they saw in the hands the handle of a saucepan, and at the end of the
handle the saucepan itself, which contained stewed rabbit.

“Good Lord! good Lord!” the brigadier shouted in his delight, while
Lenient took charge of the man; the rabbit's skin, an overwhelming
proof, was discovered under the mattress, and then the gendarmes
returned in triumph to the village with their prisoner and their booty.

A week later, as the affair had made much stir, Lecacheur, on going into
the mairie to consult the schoolmaster, was told that the shepherd
Severin had been waiting for him for more than an hour, and he found him
sitting on a chair in a corner, with his stick between his legs. When he
saw the mayor, he got up, took off his cap, and said:

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

“What do you want?” the former said.

“This is it, monsieur. Is it true that somebody stole one of your
rabbits last week?”

“Yes, it is quite true, Severin.”

“Who stole the rabbit?”

“Polyte Ancas, the laborer.”

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

“What do you mean, the rabbit?”

“The rabbit and then Polyte.”

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

“Pretty well everybody. I understand! And I suppose you know all about
marriages, as you marry people?”

“What about marriage?”

“With regard to one's rights.”

“What rights?”

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

“Of course I do.”

“Oh! Then just tell me, M'sieu Cacheux, has my wife the right to go to
bed with Polyte?”

“What, to go to bed with Polyte?”

“Yes, has she any right before the law, and, seeing that she is my wife,
to go to bed with Polyte?”

“Why, of course not, of course not.”

“If I catch him there again, shall I have the right to thrash him and
her also?”

“Why—why—why, yes.”

“Very well, then; I will tell you why I want to know. One night last
week, as I had my suspicions, I came in suddenly, and they were not
behaving properly. I chucked Polyte out, to go and sleep somewhere else;
but that was all, as I did not know what my rights were. This time I did
not see them; I only heard of it from others. That is over, and we will
not say any more about it; but if I catch them again—by G—, if I catch
them again, I will make them lose all taste for such nonsense, Maitre
Cacheux, as sure as my name is Severin.”





HIS AVENGER

When M. Antoine Leuillet married the widow, Madame Mathilde Souris, he
had already been in love with her for ten years.

M. Souris has been his friend, his old college chum. Leuillet was very
much attached to him, but thought he was somewhat of a simpleton. He
would often remark: “That poor Souris who will never set the world on
fire.”

When Souris married Miss Mathilde Duval, Leuillet was astonished and
somewhat annoyed, as he was slightly devoted to her, himself. She was
the daughter of a neighbor, a former proprietor of a draper's
establishment who had retired with quite a small fortune. She married
Souris for his money.

Then Leuillet thought he would start a flirtation with his friend's
wife. He was a good-looking man, intelligent and also rich. He thought
it would be all plain sailing, but he was mistaken. Then he really began
to admire her with an admiration that his friendship for the husband
obliged him to keep within the bounds of discretion, making him timid
and embarrassed. Madame Souris believing that his presumptions had
received a wholesome check now treated him as a good friend. This went
on for nine years.

One morning a messenger brought Leuillet a distracted note from the poor
woman. Souris had just died suddenly from the rupture of an aneurism. He
was dreadfully shocked, for they were just the same age. But almost
immediately a feeling of profound joy, of intense relief, of
emancipation filled his being. Madame Souris was free.

He managed, however, to assume the sad, sympathetic expression that was
appropriate, waited the required time, observed all social appearances.
At the end of fifteen months he married the widow.

This was considered to be a very natural, and even a generous action. It
was the act of a good friend of an upright man.

He was happy at last, perfectly happy.

They lived in the most cordial intimacy, having understood and
appreciated each other from the first. They had no secrets from one
another and even confided to each other their most secret thoughts.
Leuillet loved his wife now with a quiet and trustful affection; he
loved her as a tender, devoted companion who is an equal and a
confidante. But there lingered in his mind a strange and inexplicable
bitterness towards the defunct Souris, who had first been the husband of
this woman, who had had the flower of her youth and of her soul, and had
even robbed her of some of her poetry. The memory of the dead husband
marred the happiness of the living husband, and this posthumous jealousy
tormented his heart by day and by night.

The consequence was he talked incessantly of Souris, asked about a
thousand personal and secret minutia, wanted to know all about his
habits and his person. And he sneered at him even in his grave,
recalling with self-satisfaction his whims, ridiculing his absurdities,
dwelling on his faults.

He would call to his wife all over the house:

“Hallo, Mathilde!”

“Here I am, dear.”

“Come here a moment.”

She would come, always smiling, knowing well that he would say something
about Souris and ready to flatter her new husband's inoffensive mania.

“Tell me, do you remember one day how Souris insisted on explaining to
me that little men always commanded more affection than big men?”

And he made some remarks that were disparaging to the deceased, who was
a small man, and decidedly flattering to himself, Leuillet, who was a
tall man.

Mme. Leuillet allowed him to think he was right, quite right, and she
laughed heartily, gently ridiculing her former husband for the sake of
pleasing the present one, who always ended by saying:

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

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

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

“See here, dearie.”

“Well?”

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

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

He was flattered in his self-love and continued:

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

She did not reply. She only smiled slyly and hid her face in her
husband's neck.

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

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

He continued:

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

This time she was frank and replied:

“Oh yes!”

He kissed her again for this avowal and said:

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

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

Leuillet was delighted, forming in his mind a comparison, much in his
own favor, between his wife's former and present position. He was silent
for a time, and then with a burst of laughter he asked:

“Tell me?”

“What?”

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

“Why yes, my dear.”

“Well then, tell me truly did you never feel tempted to—to—to deceive
that imbecile Souris?”

Mme. Leuillet said: “Oh!” pretending to be shocked and hid her face
again on her husband's shoulder. But he saw that she was laughing.

“Come now, own up,” he persisted. “He looked like a ninny, that
creature! It would be funny, so funny! Good old Souris! Come, come,
dearie, you do not mind telling me, me, of all people.”

He insisted on the “me” thinking that if she had wished to deceive
Souris she would have chosen him, and he was trembling in anticipation
of her avowal, sure that if she had not been a virtuous woman she would
have encouraged his own attentions.

But she did not answer, laughing still, as at the recollection of
something exceedingly comical.

Leuillet, in his turn began to laugh, thinking he might have been the
lucky man, and he muttered amid his mirth: “That poor Souris, that poor
Souris, oh, yes, he looked like a fool!”

Mme. Leuillet was almost in spasms of laughter.

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

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

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

She was quieter now and putting her mouth to her husband's ear, she
whispered: “Yes, I did deceive him.”

He felt a chill run down his back and to his very bones, and he
stammered out, dumfounded: “You—you—deceived him—criminally?”

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

He was obliged to sit up to recover his breath, he was so shocked and
upset at what he had heard.

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

“With whom?” said Leuillet at length.

She was silent seeking some excuse.

“A young man,” she replied at length.

He turned suddenly toward her and said drily:

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

She did not answer.

He snatched the covers from her face, repeating:

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

Then she said sorrowfully: “I was only in fun.” But he was trembling
with rage. “What? How? You were only in fun? You were making fun of me,
then? But I am not satisfied, do you hear? I want the name of the young
man!”

She did not reply, but lay there motionless.

He took her by the arm and squeezed it, saying: “Do you understand me,
finally? I wish you to reply when I speak to you.”

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

He was wild with rage, not knowing what to say, exasperated, and he
shook her with all his might, repeating:

“Do you hear me, do you hear me?”

She made an abrupt effort to disengage herself and the tips of her
fingers touched her husband's nose. He was furious, thinking she had
tried to hit him, and he sprang upon her holding her down; and boxing
her ears with all his might, he cried: “Take that, and that, there,
there, wretch!”

When he was out of breath and exhausted, he rose and went toward the
dressing table to prepare a glass of eau sucree with orange flower, for
he felt as if he should faint.

She was weeping in bed, sobbing bitterly, for she felt as if her
happiness was over, through her own fault.

Then, amidst her tears, she stammered out:

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

And prepared to defend herself now, armed with excuses and artifice, she
raised her disheveled head with its nightcap all awry.

Turning toward her, he approached, ashamed of having struck her, but
feeling in the bottom of his heart as a husband, a relentless hatred
toward this woman who had deceived the former husband, Souris.





MY UNCLE JULES

A white-haired old man begged us for alms. My companion, Joseph
Davranche, gave him five francs. Noticing my surprised look, he said:

“That poor unfortunate reminds me of a story which I shall tell you, the
memory of which continually pursues me. Here it is:

“My family, which came originally from Havre, was not rich. We just
managed to make both ends meet. My father worked hard, came home late
from the office, and earned very little. I had two sisters.

“My mother suffered a good deal from our reduced circumstances, and she
often had harsh words for her husband, veiled and sly reproaches. The
poor man then made a gesture which used to distress me. He would pass
his open hand over his forehead, as if to wipe away perspiration which
did not exist, and he would answer nothing. I felt his helpless
suffering. We economized on everything, and never would accept an
invitation to dinner, so as not to have to return the courtesy. All our
provisions were bought at bargain sales. My sisters made their own
gowns, and long discussions would arise on the price of a piece of braid
worth fifteen centimes a yard. Our meals usually consisted of soup and
beef, prepared with every kind of sauce.

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

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

“Every Sunday, dressed in our best, we would take our walk along the
breakwater. My father, in a frock coat, high hat and kid gloves, would
offer his arm to my mother, decked out and beribboned like a ship on a
holiday. My sisters, who were always ready first, would await the signal
for leaving; but at the last minute some one always found a spot on my
father's frock coat, and it had to be wiped away quickly with a rag
moistened with benzine.

“My father, in his shirt sleeves, his silk hat on his head, would await
the completion of the operation, while my mother, putting on her
spectacles, and taking off her gloves in order not to spoil them, would
make haste.

“Then we set out ceremoniously. My sisters marched on ahead, arm in arm.
They were of marriageable age and had to be displayed. I walked on the
left of my mother and my father on her right. I remember the pompous air
of my poor parents in these Sunday walks, their stern expression, their
stiff walk. They moved slowly, with a serious expression, their bodies
straight, their legs stiff, as if something of extreme importance
depended upon their appearance.

“Every Sunday, when the big steamers were returning from unknown and
distant countries, my father would invariably utter the same words:

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

“My Uncle Jules, my father's brother, was the only hope of the family,
after being its only fear. I had heard about him since childhood, and it
seemed to me that I should recognize him immediately, knowing as much
about him as I did. I knew every detail of his life up to the day of his
departure for America, although this period of his life was spoken of
only in hushed tones.

“It seems that he had led a bad life, that is to say, he had squandered
a little money, which action, in a poor family, is one of the greatest
crimes. With rich people a man who amuses himself only sows his wild
oats. He is what is generally called a sport. But among needy families a
boy who forces his parents to break into the capital becomes a good-for-
nothing, a rascal, a scamp. And this distinction is just, although the
action be the same, for consequences alone determine the seriousness of
the act.

“Well, Uncle Jules had visibly diminished the inheritance on which my
father had counted, after he had swallowed his own to the last penny.
Then, according to the custom of the times, he had been shipped off to
America on a freighter going from Havre to New York.

“Once there, my uncle began to sell something or other, and he soon
wrote that he was making a little money and that he soon hoped to be
able to indemnify my father for the harm he had done him. This letter
caused a profound emotion in the family. Jules, who up to that time had
not been worth his salt, suddenly became a good man, a kind-hearted
fellow, true and honest like all the Davranches.

“One of the captains told us that he had rented a large shop and was
doing an important business.

“Two years later a second letter came, saying: 'My dear Philippe, I am
writing to tell you not to worry about my health, which is excellent.
Business is good. I leave to-morrow for a long trip to South America. I
may be away for several years without sending you any news. If I
shouldn't write, don't worry. When my fortune is made I shall return to
Havre. I hope that it will not be too long and that we shall all live
happily together . . . .'

“This letter became the gospel of the family. It was read on the
slightest provocation, and it was shown to everybody.

“For ten years nothing was heard from Uncle Jules; but as time went on
my father's hope grew, and my mother, also, often said:

“'When that good Jules is here, our position will be different. There is
one who knew how to get along!'

“And every Sunday, while watching the big steamers approaching from the
horizon, pouring out a stream of smoke, my father would repeat his
eternal question:

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

“We almost expected to see him waving his handkerchief and crying:

“'Hey! Philippe!'

“Thousands of schemes had been planned on the strength of this expected
return; we were even to buy a little house with my uncle's money—a
little place in the country near Ingouville. In fact, I wouldn't swear
that my father had not already begun negotiations.

“The elder of my sisters was then twenty-eight, the other twenty-six.
They were not yet married, and that was a great grief to every one.

“At last a suitor presented himself for the younger one. He was a clerk,
not rich, but honorable. I have always been morally certain that Uncle
Jules' letter, which was shown him one evening, had swept away the young
man's hesitation and definitely decided him.

“He was accepted eagerly, and it was decided that after the wedding the
whole family should take a trip to Jersey.

“Jersey is the ideal trip for poor people. It is not far; one crosses a
strip of sea in a steamer and lands on foreign soil, as this little
island belongs to England. Thus, a Frenchman, with a two hours' sail,
can observe a neighboring people at home and study their customs.

“This trip to Jersey completely absorbed our ideas, was our sole
anticipation, the constant thought of our minds.

“At last we left. I see it as plainly as if it had happened yesterday.
The boat was getting up steam against the quay at Granville; my father,
bewildered, was superintending the loading of our three pieces of
baggage; my mother, nervous, had taken the arm of my unmarried sister,
who seemed lost since the departure of the other one, like the last
chicken of a brood; behind us came the bride and groom, who always
stayed behind, a thing that often made me turn round.

“The whistle sounded. We got on board, and the vessel, leaving the
breakwater, forged ahead through a sea as flat as a marble table. We
watched the coast disappear in the distance, happy and proud, like all
who do not travel much.

“My father was swelling out his chest in the breeze, beneath his frock
coat, which had that morning been very carefully cleaned; and he spread
around him that odor of benzine which always made me recognize Sunday.
Suddenly he noticed two elegantly dressed ladies to whom two gentlemen
were offering oysters. An old, ragged sailor was opening them with his
knife and passing them to the gentlemen, who would then offer them to
the ladies. They ate them in a dainty manner, holding the shell on a
fine handkerchief and advancing their mouths a little in order not to
spot their dresses. Then they would drink the liquid with a rapid little
motion and throw the shell overboard.

“My father was probably pleased with this delicate manner of eating
oysters on a moving ship. He considered it good form, refined, and,
going up to my mother and sisters, he asked:

“'Would you like me to offer you some oysters?'

“My mother hesitated on account of the expense, but my two sisters
immediately accepted. My mother said in a provoked manner:

“'I am afraid that they will hurt my stomach. Offer the children some,
but not too much, it would make them sick.' Then, turning toward me, she
added:

“'As for Joseph, he doesn't need any. Boys shouldn't be spoiled.'

“However, I remained beside my mother, finding this discrimination
unjust. I watched my father as he pompously conducted my two sisters and
his son-in-law toward the ragged old sailor.

“The two ladies had just left, and my father showed my sisters how to
eat them without spilling the liquor. He even tried to give them an
example, and seized an oyster. He attempted to imitate the ladies, and
immediately spilled all the liquid over his coat. I heard my mother
mutter:

“'He would do far better to keep quiet.'

“But, suddenly, my father appeared to be worried; he retreated a few
steps, stared at his family gathered around the old shell opener, and
quickly came toward us. He seemed very pale, with a peculiar look. In a
low voice he said to my mother:

“'It's extraordinary how that man opening the oysters looks like Jules.'

“Astonished, my mother asked:

“'What Jules?'

“My father continued:

“'Why, my brother. If I did not know that he was well off in America, I
should think it was he.'

“Bewildered, my mother stammered:

“'You are crazy! As long as you know that it is not he, why do you say
such foolish things?'

“But my father insisted:

“'Go on over and see, Clarisse! I would rather have you see with your
own eyes.'

“She arose and walked to her daughters. I, too, was watching the man. He
was old, dirty, wrinkled, and did not lift his eyes from his work.

“My mother returned. I noticed that she was trembling. She exclaimed
quickly:

“'I believe that it is he. Why don't you ask the captain? But be very
careful that we don't have this rogue on our hands again!'

“My father walked away, but I followed him. I felt strangely moved.

“The captain, a tall, thin man, with blond whiskers, was walking along
the bridge with an important air as if he were commanding the Indian
mail steamer.

“My father addressed him ceremoniously, and questioned him about his
profession, adding many compliments:

“'What might be the importance of Jersey? What did it produce? What was
the population? The customs? The nature of the soil?' etc., etc.

“'You have there an old shell opener who seems quite interesting. Do you
know anything about him?'

“The captain, whom this conversation began to weary, answered dryly:

“'He is some old French tramp whom I found last year in America, and I
brought him back. It seems that he has some relatives in Havre, but that
he doesn't wish to return to them because he owes them money. His name
is Jules—Jules Darmanche or Darvanche or something like that. It seems
that he was once rich over there, but you can see what's left of him
now.'

“My father turned ashy pale and muttered, his throat contracted, his
eyes haggard.

“'Ah! ah! very well, very well. I'm not in the least surprised. Thank
you very much, captain.'

“He went away, and the astonished sailor watched him disappear. He
returned to my mother so upset that she said to him:

“'Sit down; some one will notice that something is the matter.'

“He sank down on a bench and stammered:

“'It's he! It's he!'

“Then he asked:

“'What are we going to do?'

“She answered quickly:

“'We must get the children out of the way. Since Joseph knows
everything, he can go and get them. We must take good care that our son-
in-law doesn't find out.'

“My father seemed absolutely bewildered. He murmured:

“'What a catastrophe!'

“Suddenly growing furious, my mother exclaimed:

“'I always thought that that thief never would do anything, and that he
would drop down on us again! As if one could expect anything from a
Davranche!'

“My father passed his hand over his forehead, as he always did when his
wife reproached him. She added:

“'Give Joseph some money so that he can pay for the oysters. All that it
needed to cap the climax would be to be recognized by that beggar. That
would be very pleasant! Let's get down to the other end of the boat, and
take care that that man doesn't come near us!'

“They gave me five francs and walked away.

“Astonished, my sisters were awaiting their father. I said that mamma
had felt a sudden attack of sea-sickness, and I asked the shell opener:

“'How much do we owe you, monsieur?'

“I felt like laughing: he was my uncle! He answered:

“'Two francs fifty.'

“I held out my five francs and he returned the change. I looked at his
hand; it was a poor, wrinkled, sailor's hand, and I looked at his face,
an unhappy old face. I said to myself:

“'That is my uncle, the brother of my father, my uncle!'

“I gave him a ten-cent tip. He thanked me:

“'God bless you, my young sir!'

“He spoke like a poor man receiving alms. I couldn't help thinking that
he must have begged over there! My sisters looked at me, surprised at my
generosity. When I returned the two francs to my father, my mother asked
me in surprise:

“'Was there three francs' worth? That is impossible.'

“I answered in a firm voice

“'I gave ten cents as a tip.'

“My mother started, and, staring at me, she exclaimed:

“'You must be crazy! Give ten cents to that man, to that vagabond—'

“She stopped at a look from my father, who was pointing at his son-in-
law. Then everybody was silent.

“Before us, on the distant horizon, a purple shadow seemed to rise out
of the sea. It was Jersey.

“As we approached the breakwater a violent desire seized me once more to
see my Uncle Jules, to be near him, to say to him something consoling,
something tender. But as no one was eating any more oysters, he had
disappeared, having probably gone below to the dirty hold which was the
home of the poor wretch.”





THE MODEL

Curving like a crescent moon, the little town of Etretat, with its white
cliffs, its white, shingly beach and its blue sea, lay in the sunlight
at high noon one July day. At either extremity of this crescent its two
“gates,” the smaller to the right, the larger one at the left, stretched
forth—one a dwarf and the other a colossal limb—into the water, and the
bell tower, almost as tall as the cliff, wide below, narrowing at the
top, raised its pointed summit to the sky.

On the sands beside the water a crowd was seated watching the bathers.
On the terrace of, the Casino another crowd, seated or walking,
displayed beneath the brilliant sky a perfect flower patch of bright
costumes, with red and blue parasols embroidered with large flowers in
silk.

On the walk at the end of the terrace, other persons, the restful, quiet
ones, were walking slowly, far from the dressy throng.

A young man, well known and celebrated as a painter, Jean Sumner, was
walking with a dejected air beside a wheeled chair in which sat a young
woman, his wife. A manservant was gently pushing the chair, and the
crippled woman was gazing sadly at the brightness of the sky, the
gladness of the day, and the happiness of others.

They did not speak. They did not look at each other.

“Let us stop a while,” said the young woman.

They stopped, and the painter sat down on a camp stool that the servant
handed him.

Those who were passing behind the silent and motionless couple looked at
them compassionately. A whole legend of devotion was attached to them.
He had married her in spite of her infirmity, touched by her affection
for him, it was said.

Not far from there, two young men were chatting, seated on a bench and
looking out into the horizon.

“No, it is not true; I tell you that I am well acquainted with Jean
Sumner.”

“But then, why did he marry her? For she was a cripple when she married,
was she not?”

“Just so. He married her—he married her—just as every one marries,
parbleu! because he was an idiot!”

“But why?”

“But why—but why, my friend? There is no why. People do stupid things
just because they do stupid things. And, besides, you know very well
that painters make a specialty of foolish marriages. They almost always
marry models, former sweethearts, in fact, women of doubtful reputation,
frequently. Why do they do this? Who can say? One would suppose that
constant association with the general run of models would disgust them
forever with that class of women. Not at all. After having posed them
they marry them. Read that little book, so true, so cruel and so
beautiful, by Alphonse Daudet: 'Artists' Wives.'

“In the case of the couple you see over there the accident occurred in a
special and terrible manner. The little woman played a frightful comedy,
or, rather, tragedy. She risked all to win all. Was she sincere? Did she
love Jean? Shall we ever know? Who is able to determine precisely how
much is put on and how much is real in the actions of a woman? They are
always sincere in an eternal mobility of impressions. They are furious,
criminal, devoted, admirable and base in obedience to intangible
emotions. They tell lies incessantly without intention, without knowing
or understanding why, and in spite of it all are absolutely frank in
their feelings and sentiments, which they display by violent,
unexpected, incomprehensible, foolish resolutions which overthrow our
arguments, our customary poise and all our selfish plans. The
unforeseenness and suddenness of their determinations will always render
them undecipherable enigmas as far as we are concerned. We continually
ask ourselves:

“'Are they sincere? Are they pretending?'

“But, my friend, they are sincere and insincere at one and the same
time, because it is their nature to be extremists in both and to be
neither one nor the other.

“See the methods that even the best of them employ to get what they
desire. They are complex and simple, these methods. So complex that we
can never guess at them beforehand, and so simple that after having been
victimized we cannot help being astonished and exclaiming: 'What! Did
she make a fool of me so easily as that?'

“And they always succeed, old man, especially when it is a question of
getting married.

“But this is Sumner's story:

“The little woman was a model, of course. She posed for him. She was
pretty, very stylish-looking, and had a divine figure, it seems. He
fancied that he loved her with his whole soul. That is another strange
thing. As soon as one likes a woman one sincerely believes that they
could not get along without her for the rest of their life. One knows
that one has felt the same way before and that disgust invariably
succeeded gratification; that in order to pass one's existence side by
side with another there must be not a brutal, physical passion which
soon dies out, but a sympathy of soul, temperament and temper. One
should know how to determine in the enchantment to which one is
subjected whether it proceeds from the physical, from a certain sensuous
intoxication, or from a deep spiritual charm.

“Well, he believed himself in love; he made her no end of promises of
fidelity, and was devoted to her.

“She was really attractive, gifted with that fashionable flippancy that
little Parisians so readily affect. She chattered, babbled, made foolish
remarks that sounded witty from the manner in which they were uttered.
She used graceful gesture's which were calculated to attract a painter's
eye. When she raised her arms, when she bent over, when she got into a
carriage, when she held out her hand to you, her gestures were perfect
and appropriate.

“For three months Jean never noticed that, in reality, she was like all
other models.

“He rented a little house for her for the summer at Andresy.

“I was there one evening when for the first time doubts came into my
friend's mind.

“As it was a beautiful evening we thought we would take a stroll along
the bank of the river. The moon poured a flood of light on the trembling
water, scattering yellow gleams along its ripples in the currents and
all along the course of the wide, slow river.

“We strolled along the bank, a little enthused by that vague exaltation
that these dreamy evenings produce in us. We would have liked to
undertake some wonderful task, to love some unknown, deliciously poetic
being. We felt ourselves vibrating with raptures, longings, strange
aspirations. And we were silent, our beings pervaded by the serene and
living coolness of the beautiful night, the coolness of the moonlight,
which seemed to penetrate one's body, permeate it, soothe one's spirit,
fill it with fragrance and steep it in happiness.

“Suddenly Josephine (that is her name) uttered an exclamation:

“'Oh, did you see the big fish that jumped, over there?'

“He replied without looking, without thinking:

“'Yes, dear.'

“She was angry.

“'No, you did not see it, for your back was turned.'

“He smiled.

“'Yes, that's true. It is so delightful that I am not thinking of
anything.'

“She was silent, but at the end of a minute she felt as if she must say
something and asked:

“'Are you going to Paris to-morrow?'

“'I do not know,' he replied.

“She was annoyed again.

“'Do you think it is very amusing to walk along without speaking? People
talk when they are not stupid.'

“He did not reply. Then, feeling with her woman's instinct that she was
going to make him angry, she began to sing a popular air that had
harassed our ears and our minds for two years:

“'Je regardais en fair.'

“He murmured:

“'Please keep quiet.'

“She replied angrily:

“'Why do you wish me to keep quiet?'

“'You spoil the landscape for us!' he said.

“Then followed a scene, a hateful, idiotic scene, with unexpected
reproaches, unsuitable recriminations, then tears. Nothing was left
unsaid. They went back to the house. He had allowed her to talk without
replying, enervated by the beauty of the scene and dumfounded by this
storm of abuse.

“Three months later he strove wildly to free himself from those
invincible and invisible bonds with which such a friendship chains our
lives. She kept him under her influence, tyrannizing over him, making
his life a burden to him. They quarreled continually, vituperating and
finally fighting each other.

“He wanted to break with her at any cost. He sold all his canvases,
borrowed money from his friends, realizing twenty thousand francs (he
was not well known then), and left them for her one morning with a note
of farewell.

“He came and took refuge with me.

“About three o'clock that afternoon there was a ring at the bell. I went
to the door. A woman sprang toward me, pushed me aside, came in and went
into my atelier. It was she!

“He had risen when he saw her coming.'

“She threw the envelope containing the banknotes at his feet with a
truly noble gesture and said in a quick tone:

“'There's your money. I don't want it!'

“She was very pale, trembling and ready undoubtedly to commit any folly.
As for him, I saw him grow pale also, pale with rage and exasperation,
ready also perhaps to commit any violence.

“He asked:

“'What do you want?'

“She replied:

“'I do not choose to be treated like a common woman. You implored me to
accept you. I asked you for nothing. Keep me with you!'

“He stamped his foot.

“'No, that's a little too much! If you think you are going—'

“I had seized his arm.

“'Keep still, Jean. . . Let me settle it.'

“I went toward her and quietly, little by little, I began to reason with
her, exhausting all the arguments that are used under similar
circumstances. She listened to me, motionless, with a fixed gaze,
obstinate and silent.

“Finally, not knowing what more to say, and seeing that there would be a
scene, I thought of a last resort and said:

“'He loves you still, my dear, but his family want him to marry some
one, and you understand—'

“She gave a start and exclaimed:

“'Ah! Ah! Now I understand:

“And turning toward him, she said:

“'You are—you are going to get married?'

“He replied decidedly” 'Yes.'

“She took a step forward.

“'If you marry, I will kill myself! Do you hear?'

“He shrugged his shoulders and replied:

“'Well, then kill yourself!'

“She stammered out, almost choking with her violent emotion:

“'What do you say? What do you say? What do you say? Say it again!'

“He repeated:

“'Well, then kill yourself if you like!'

“With her face almost livid, she replied:

“'Do not dare me! I will throw myself from the window!'

“He began to laugh, walked toward the window, opened it, and bowing with
the gesture of one who desires to let some one else precede him, he
said:

“'This is the way. After you!'

“She looked at him for a second with terrible, wild, staring eyes. Then,
taking a run as if she were going to jump a hedge in the country, she
rushed past me and past him, jumped over the sill and disappeared.

“I shall never forget the impression made on me by that open window
after I had seen that body pass through it to fall to the ground. It
appeared to me in a second to be as large as the heavens and as hollow
as space. And I drew back instinctively, not daring to look at it, as
though I feared I might fall out myself.

“Jean, dumfounded, stood motionless.

“They brought the poor girl in with both legs broken. She will never
walk again.

“Jean, wild with remorse and also possibly touched with gratitude, made
up his mind to marry her.

“There you have it, old man.”

It was growing dusk. The young woman felt chilly and wanted to go home,
and the servant wheeled the invalid chair in the direction of the
village. The painter walked beside his wife, neither of them having
exchanged a word for an hour.

This story appeared in Le Gaulois, December 17, 1883.





A VAGABOND

He was a journeyman carpenter, a good workman and a steady fellow,
twenty-seven years old, but, although the eldest son, Jacques Randel had
been forced to live on his family for two months, owing to the general
lack of work. He had walked about seeking work for over a month and had
left his native town, Ville-Avary, in La Manche, because he could find
nothing to do and would no longer deprive his family of the bread they
needed themselves, when he was the strongest of them all. His two
sisters earned but little as charwomen. He went and inquired at the town
hall, and the mayor's secretary told him that he would find work at the
Labor Agency, and so he started, well provided with papers and
certificates, and carrying another pair of shoes, a pair of trousers and
a shirt in a blue handkerchief at the end of his stick.

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

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

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

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

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

As he stumbled over the stones which tripped his bare feet, he grumbled:
“How wretched! how miserable! A set of hogs—to let a man die of hunger—a
carpenter—a set of hogs—not two sous—not two sous—and now it is
raining—a set of hogs!”

He was indignant at the injustice of fate, and cast the blame on men, on
all men, because nature, that great, blind mother, is unjust, cruel and
perfidious, and he repeated through his clenched teeth:

“A set of hogs” as he looked at the thin gray smoke which rose from the
roofs, for it was the dinner hour. And, without considering that there
is another injustice which is human, and which is called robbery and
violence, he felt inclined to go into one of those houses to murder the
inhabitants and to sit down to table in their stead.

He said to himself: “I have no right to live now, as they are letting me
die of hunger, and yet I only ask for work—a set of hogs!” And the pain
in his limbs, the gnawing in his heart rose to his head like terrible
intoxication, and gave rise to this simple thought in his brain: “I have
the right to live because I breathe and because the air is the common
property of everybody. So nobody has the right to leave me without
bread!”

A fine, thick, icy cold rain was coming down, and he stopped and
murmured: “Oh, misery! Another month of walking before I get home.” He
was indeed returning home then, for he saw that he should more easily
find work in his native town, where he was known—and he did not mind
what he did—than on the highroads, where everybody suspected him. As the
carpentering business was not prosperous, he would turn day laborer, be
a mason's hodman, a ditcher, break stones on the road. If he only earned
a franc a day, that would at any rate buy him something to eat.

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

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

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

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

He woke up, however, several times, with his back or his stomach half
frozen, according as he put one or the other against the animal's flank.
Then he turned over to warm and dry that part of his body which had
remained exposed to the night air, and soon went soundly to sleep again.
The crowing of a cock woke him; the day was breaking, it was no longer
raining, and the sky was bright. The cow was resting with her muzzle on
the ground, and he stooped down, resting on his hands, to kiss those
wide, moist nostrils, and said: “Good-by, my beauty, until next time.
You are a nice animal. Good-by.” Then he put on his shoes and went off,
and for two hours walked straight before him, always following the same
road, and then he felt so tired that he sat down on the grass. It was
broad daylight by that time, and the church bells were ringing; men in
blue blouses, women in white caps, some on foot, some in carts, began to
pass along the road, going to the neighboring villages to spend Sunday
with friends or relations.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“At any rate, give me something to eat,” the workman said, but the other
grew indignant: “Have we nothing to do but to feed you? Ah! ah! ah! that
is rather too much!” But Randel went on firmly: “If you let me nearly
die of hunger again, you will force me to commit a crime, and then, so
much the worse for you other fat fellows.”

The mayor had risen and he repeated: “Take him away immediately or I
shall end by getting angry.”

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

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

He said aloud in a grumbling voice: “In Heaven's name! they must give me
some this time!” And he began to knock at the door vigorously with his
stick, and as no one came he knocked louder and called out: “Hey! hey!
you people in there, open the door!” And then, as nothing stirred, he
went up to the window and pushed it wider open with his hand, and the
close warm air of the kitchen, full of the smell of hot soup, meat and
cabbage, escaped into the cold outer air, and with a bound the carpenter
was in the house. Two places were set at the table, and no doubt the
proprietors of the house, on going to church, had left their dinner on
the fire, their nice Sunday boiled beef and vegetable soup, while there
was a loaf of new bread on the chimney-piece, between two bottles which
seemed full.

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

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

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

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

“Oh! what joy, what joy it is, To pick the sweet, wild strawberries.”


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

“Oh! what joy, what joy it is, To pick the sweet, wild strawberries.”


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

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

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

She let her two pails fall, and they rolled over noisily, and all the
milk was spilt, and then she screamed lustily, but it was of no avail in
that lonely spot.

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

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

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

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

“Now, start!” the brigadier said, and they set off. It was late
afternoon, and the autumn twilight was setting in over the land, and in
half an hour they reached the village, where every door was open, for
the people had heard what had happened. Peasants and peasant women and
girls, excited with anger, as if every man had been robbed and every
woman attacked, wished to see the wretch brought back, so that they
might overwhelm him with abuse. They hooted him from the first house in
the village until they reached the Hotel de Ville, where the mayor was
waiting for him to be himself avenged on this vagabond, and as soon as
he saw him approaching he cried:

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

And then with increased satisfaction:

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





THE FISHING HOLE

“Cuts and wounds which caused death.” Such was the charge upon which
Leopold Renard, upholsterer, was summoned before the Court of Assizes.

Round him were the principal witnesses, Madame Flameche, widow of the
victim, and Louis Ladureau, cabinetmaker, and Jean Durdent, plumber.

Near the criminal was his wife, dressed in black, an ugly little woman,
who looked like a monkey dressed as a lady.

This is how Renard (Leopold) recounted the drama.

“Good heavens, it is a misfortune of which I was the prime victim all
the time, and with which my will has nothing to do. The facts are their
own commentary, Monsieur le President. I am an honest man, a hard-
working man, an upholsterer, living in the same street for the last
sixteen years, known, liked, respected and esteemed by all, as my
neighbors can testify, even the porter's wife, who is not amiable every
day. I am fond of work, I am fond of saving, I like honest men and
respectable amusements. That is what has ruined me, so much the worse
for me; but as my will had nothing to do with it, I continue to respect
myself.

“Every Sunday for the last five years my wife and I have spent the day
at Passy. We get fresh air, and, besides, we are fond of fishing. Oh! we
are as fond of it as we are of little onions. Melie inspired me with
that enthusiasm, the jade, and she is more enthusiastic than I am, the
scold, seeing that all the mischief in this business is her fault, as
you will see immediately.

“I am strong and mild tempered, without a pennyworth of malice in me.
But she! oh! la! la! she looks like nothing; she is short and thin. Very
well, she does more mischief than a weasel. I do not deny that she has
some good qualities; she has some, and very important ones for a man in
business. But her character! Just ask about it in the neighborhood, and
even the porter's wife, who has just sent me about my business—she will
tell you something about it.

“Every day she used to find fault with my mild temper: 'I would not put
up with this! I would not put up with that.' If I had listened to her,
Monsieur le President, I should have had at least three hand-to-hand
fights a month . . . .”

Madame Renard interrupted him: “And for good reasons, too; they laugh
best who laugh last.”

He turned toward her frankly: “Well, I can't blame you, since you were
not the cause of it.”

Then, facing the President again, he said:

“I will continue. We used to go to Passy every Saturday evening, so as
to begin fishing at daybreak the next morning. It is a habit which has
become second nature with us, as the saying is. Three years ago this
summer I discovered a place, oh! such a spot. Oh, dear, dear! In the
shade, eight feet of water at least and perhaps ten, a hole with
cavities under the bank, a regular nest for fish and a paradise for the
fisherman. I might look upon that fishing hole as my property, Monsieur
le President, as I was its Christopher Columbus. Everybody in the
neighborhood knew it, without making any opposition. They would say:
'That is Renard's place'; and nobody would have gone there, not even
Monsieur Plumeau, who is well known, be it said without any offense, for
poaching on other people's preserves.

“Well, I returned to this place of which I felt certain, just as if I
had owned it. I had scarcely got there on Saturday, when I got into
Delila, with my wife. Delila is my Norwegian boat, which I had built by
Fournaire, and which is light and safe. Well, as I said, we got into the
boat and we were going to set bait, and for setting bait there is none
to be compared with me, and they all know it. You want to know with what
I bait? I cannot answer that question; it has nothing to do with the
accident. I cannot answer; that is my secret. There are more than three
hundred people who have asked me; I have been offered glasses of brandy
and liqueur, fried fish, matelotes, to make me tell. But just go and try
whether the chub will come. Ah! they have tempted my stomach to get at
my secret, my recipe. Only my wife knows, and she will not tell it any
more than I will. Is not that so, Melie?”

The president of the court interrupted him.

“Just get to the facts as soon as you can,” and the accused continued:
“I am getting to them, I am getting to them. Well, on Saturday, July 8,
we left by the twenty-five past five train and before dinner we went to
set bait as usual. The weather promised to keep fine and I said to
Melie: 'All right for tomorrow.' And she replied: 'If looks like it,' We
never talk more than that together.

“And then we returned to dinner. I was happy and thirsty, and that was
the cause of everything. I said to Melie: 'Look here, Melie, it is fine
weather, suppose I drink a bottle of 'Casque a meche'.' That is a weak
white wine which we have christened so, because if you drink too much of
it it prevents you from sleeping and takes the place of a nightcap. Do
you understand me?

“She replied: 'You can do as you please, but you will be ill again and
will not be able to get up tomorrow.' That was true, sensible and
prudent, clear-sighted, I must confess. Nevertheless I could not resist,
and I drank my bottle. It all came from that.

“Well, I could not sleep. By Jove! it kept me awake till two o'clock in
the morning, and then I went to sleep so soundly that I should not have
heard the angel sounding his trump at the last judgment.

“In short, my wife woke me at six o'clock and I jumped out of bed,
hastily put on my trousers and jersey, washed my face and jumped on
board Delila. But it was too late, for when I arrived at my hole it was
already occupied! Such a thing had never happened to me in three years,
and it made me feel as if I were being robbed under my own eyes. I said
to myself: 'Confound it all! confound it!' And then my wife began to nag
at me. 'Eh! what about your 'Casque a meche'? Get along, you drunkard!
Are you satisfied, you great fool?' I could say nothing, because it was
all true, but I landed all the same near the spot and tried to profit by
what was left. Perhaps after all the fellow might catch nothing and go
away.

“He was a little thin man in white linen coat and waistcoat and a large
straw hat, and his wife, a fat woman, doing embroidery, sat behind him.

“When she saw us take up our position close to them she murmured: 'Are
there no other places on the river?' My wife, who was furious, replied:
'People who have any manners make inquiries about the habits of the
neighborhood before occupying reserved spots.'

“As I did not want a fuss, I said to her: 'Hold your tongue, Melie. Let
them alone, let them alone; we shall see.'

“Well, we fastened Delila under the willows and had landed and were
fishing side by side, Melie and I, close to the two others. But here,
monsieur, I must enter into details.

“We had only been there about five minutes when our neighbor's line
began to jerk twice, thrice; and then he pulled out a chub as thick as
my thigh; rather less, perhaps, but nearly as big! My heart beat, the
perspiration stood on my forehead and Melie said to me: 'Well, you sot,
did you see that?'

“Just then Monsieur Bru, the grocer of Poissy, who is fond of gudgeon
fishing, passed in a boat and called out to me: 'So somebody has taken
your usual place, Monsieur Renard?' And I replied: 'Yes, Monsieur Bru,
there are some people in this world who do not know the rules of common
politeness.'

“The little man in linen pretended not to hear, nor his fat lump of a
wife, either.”

Here the president interrupted him a second time: “Take care, you are
insulting the widow, Madame Flameche, who is present.”

Renard made his excuses: “I beg your pardon, I beg your pardon; my anger
carried me away. Well, not a quarter of an hour had passed when the
little man caught another chub, and another almost immediately, and
another five minutes later.

“Tears were in my eyes, and I knew that Madame Renard was boiling with
rage, for she kept on nagging at me: 'Oh, how horrid! Don't you see that
he is robbing you of your fish? Do you think that you will catch
anything? Not even a frog, nothing whatever. Why, my hands are tingling,
just to think of it.'

“But I said to myself: 'Let us wait until twelve o'clock. Then this
poacher will go to lunch and I shall get my place again. As for me,
Monsieur le President, I lunch on that spot every Sunday. We bring our
provisions in Delila. But there! At noon the wretch produced a chicken
in a newspaper, and while he was eating, he actually caught another
chub!

“Melie and I had a morsel also, just a bite, a mere nothing, for our
heart was not in it.

“Then I took up my newspaper to aid my digestion. Every Sunday I read
the Gil Blas in the shade by the side of the water. It is Columbine's
day, you know; Columbine, who writes the articles in the Gil Blas. I
generally put Madame Renard into a rage by pretending to know this
Columbine. It is not true, for I do not know her and have never seen
her, but that does not matter. She writes very well, and then she says
things that are pretty plain for a woman. She suits me and there are not
many of her sort.

“Well, I began to tease my wife, but she got angry immediately, and very
angry, so I held my tongue. At that moment our two witnesses who are
present here, Monsieur Ladureau and Monsieur Durdent, appeared on the
other side of the river. We knew each other by sight. The little man
began to fish again and he caught so many that I trembled with vexation
and his wife said: 'It is an uncommonly good spot, and we will come here
always, Desire.' As for me, a cold shiver ran down my back, and Madame
Renard kept repeating: 'You are not a man; you have the blood of a
chicken in your veins'; and suddenly I said to her: 'Look here, I would
rather go away or I shall be doing something foolish.'

“And she whispered to me, as if she had put a red-hot iron under my
nose: 'You are not a man. Now you are going to run away and surrender
your place! Go, then, Bazaine!'

“I felt hurt, but yet I did not move, while the other fellow pulled out
a bream: Oh, I never saw such a large one before, never! And then my
wife began to talk aloud, as if she were thinking, and you can see her
tricks. She said: 'That is what one might call stolen fish, seeing that
we set the bait ourselves. At any rate, they ought to give us back the
money we have spent on bait.'

“Then the fat woman in the cotton dress said in her turn: 'Do you mean
to call us thieves, madame?' Explanations followed and compliments began
to fly. Oh, Lord! those creatures know some good ones. They shouted so
loud that our two witnesses, who were on the other bank, began to call
out by way of a joke: 'Less noise over there; you will interfere with
your husbands' fishing.'

“The fact is that neither the little man nor I moved any more than if we
had been two tree stumps. We remained there, with our eyes fixed on the
water, as if we had heard nothing; but, by Jove! we heard all the same.
'You are a thief! You are nothing better than a tramp! You are a regular
jade!' and so on and so on. A sailor could not have said more.

“Suddenly I heard a noise behind me and turned round. It was the other
one, the fat woman, who had attacked my wife with her parasol. Whack,
whack! Melie got two of them. But she was furious, and she hits hard
when she is in a rage. She caught the fat woman by the hair and then
thump! thump! slaps in the face rained down like ripe plums. I should
have let them fight it out: women together, men together. It does not do
to mix the blows. But the little man in the linen jacket jumped up like
a devil and was going to rush at my wife. Ah! no, no, not that, my
friend! I caught the gentleman with the end of my fist, and crash!
crash! One on the nose, the other in the stomach. He threw up his arms
and legs and fell on his back into the river, just into the hole.

“I should have fished him out most certainly, Monsieur le President, if
I had had time. But, to make matters worse, the fat woman had the upper
hand and was pounding Melie for all she was worth. I know I ought not to
have interfered while the man was in the water, but I never thought that
he would drown and said to myself: 'Bah, it will cool him.'

“I therefore ran up to the women to separate them and all I received was
scratches and bites. Good Lord, what creatures! Well, it took me five
minutes, and perhaps ten, to separate those two viragos. When I turned
round there was nothing to be seen.

“The water was as smooth as a lake and the others yonder kept shouting:
'Fish him out! fish him out!' It was all very well to say that, but I
cannot swim and still less dive.

“At last the man from the dam came and two gentlemen with boathooks, but
over a quarter of an hour had passed. He was found at the bottom of the
hole, in eight feet of water, as I have said. There he was, the poor
little man, in his linen suit! Those are the facts such as I have sworn
to. I am innocent, on my honor.”

The witnesses having given testimony to the same effect, the accused was
acquitted.





THE SPASM

The hotel guests slowly entered the dining-room and took their places.
The waiters did not hurry themselves, in order to give the late comers a
chance and thus avoid the trouble of bringing in the dishes a second
time. The old bathers, the habitues, whose season was almost over,
glanced, gazed toward the door whenever it opened, to see what new faces
might appear.

This is the principal distraction of watering places. People look
forward to the dinner hour in order to inspect each day's new arrivals,
to find out who they are, what they do, and what they think. We always
have a vague desire to meet pleasant people, to make agreeable
acquaintances, perhaps to meet with a love adventure. In this life of
elbowings, unknown strangers assume an extreme importance. Curiosity is
aroused, sympathy is ready to exhibit itself, and sociability is the
order of the day.

We cherish antipathies for a week and friendships for a month; we see
people with different eyes, when we view them through the medium of
acquaintanceship at watering places. We discover in men suddenly, after
an hour's chat, in the evening after dinner, under the trees in the park
where the healing spring bubbles up, a high intelligence and astonishing
merits, and a month afterward we have completely forgotten these new
friends, who were so fascinating when we first met them.

Permanent and serious ties are also formed here sooner than anywhere
else. People see each other every day; they become acquainted very
quickly, and their affection is tinged with the sweetness and
unrestraint of long-standing intimacies. We cherish in after years the
dear and tender memories of those first hours of friendship, the memory
of those first conversations in which a soul was unveiled, of those
first glances which interrogate and respond to questions and secret
thoughts which the mouth has not as yet uttered, the memory of that
first cordial confidence, the memory of that delightful sensation of
opening our hearts to those who seem to open theirs to us in return.

And the melancholy of watering places, the monotony of days that are all
alike, proves hourly an incentive to this heart expansion.

Well, this evening, as on every other evening, we awaited the appearance
of strange faces.

Only two appeared, but they were very remarkable, a man and a woman
—father and daughter. They immediately reminded me of some of Edgar
Poe's characters; and yet there was about them a charm, the charm
associated with misfortune. I looked upon them as the victims of fate.
The man was very tall and thin, rather stooped, with perfectly white
hair, too white for his comparatively youthful physiognomy; and there
was in his bearing and in his person that austerity peculiar to
Protestants. The daughter, who was probably twenty-four or twenty-five,
was small in stature, and was also very thin, very pale, and she had the
air of one who was worn out with utter lassitude. We meet people like
this from time to time, who seem too weak for the tasks and the needs of
daily life, too weak to move about, to walk, to do all that we do every
day. She was rather pretty; with a transparent, spiritual beauty. And
she ate with extreme slowness, as if she were almost incapable of moving
her arms.

It must have been she, assuredly, who had come to take the waters.

They sat facing me, on the opposite side of the table; and I at once
noticed that the father had a very singular, nervous twitching.

Every time he wanted to reach an object, his hand described a sort of
zigzag before it succeeded in reaching what it was in search of, and
after a little while this movement annoyed me so that I turned aside my
head in order not to see it.

I noticed, too, that the young girl, during meals, wore a glove on her
left hand.

After dinner I went for a stroll in the park of the bathing
establishment. This led toward the little Auvergnese station of Chatel-
Guyon, hidden in a gorge at the foot of the high mountain, from which
flowed so many boiling springs, arising from the deep bed of extinct
volcanoes. Over yonder, above our heads, the domes of extinct craters
lifted their ragged peaks above the rest in the long mountain chain. For
Chatel-Guyon is situated at the entrance to the land of mountain domes.

Beyond it stretches out the region of peaks, and, farther on again the
region of precipitous summits.

The “Puy de Dome” is the highest of the domes, the Peak of Sancy is the
loftiest of the peaks, and Cantal is the most precipitous of these
mountain heights.

It was a very warm evening, and I was walking up and down a shady path,
listening to the opening, strains of the Casino band, which was playing
on an elevation overlooking the park.

And I saw the father and the daughter advancing slowly in my direction.
I bowed as one bows to one's hotel companions at a watering place; and
the man, coming to a sudden halt, said to me:

“Could you not, monsieur, tell us of a nice walk to take, short, pretty,
and not steep; and pardon my troubling you?”

I offered to show them the way toward the valley through which the
little river flowed, a deep valley forming a gorge between two tall,
craggy, wooded slopes.

They gladly accepted my offer.

And we talked, naturally, about the virtue of the waters.

“Oh,” he said, “my daughter has a strange malady, the seat of which is
unknown. She suffers from incomprehensible nervous attacks. At one time
the doctors think she has an attack of heart disease, at another time
they imagine it is some affection of the liver, and at another they
declare it to be a disease of the spine. To-day this protean malady,
that assumes a thousand forms and a thousand modes of attack, is
attributed to the stomach, which is the great caldron and regulator of
the body. This is why we have come here. For my part, I am rather
inclined to think it is the nerves. In any case it is very sad.”

Immediately the remembrance of the violent spasmodic movement of his
hand came back to my mind, and I asked him:

“But is this not the result of heredity? Are not your own nerves
somewhat affected?”

He replied calmly:

“Mine? Oh, no-my nerves have always been very steady.”

Then, suddenly, after a pause, he went on:

“Ah! You were alluding to the jerking movement of my hand every time I
try to reach for anything? This arises from a terrible experience which
I had. Just imagine, this daughter of mine was actually buried alive!”

I could only utter, “Ah!” so great were my astonishment and emotion.

He continued:

“Here is the story. It is simple. Juliette had been subject for some
time to serious attacks of the heart. We believed that she had disease
of that organ, and were prepared for the worst.

“One day she was carried into the house cold, lifeless, dead. She had
fallen down unconscious in the garden. The doctor certified that life
was extinct. I watched by her side for a day and two nights. I laid her
with my own hands in the coffin, which I accompanied to the cemetery,
where she was deposited in the family vault. It is situated in the very
heart of Lorraine.

“I wished to have her interred with her jewels, bracelets, necklaces,
rings, all presents which she had received from me, and wearing her
first ball dress.

“You may easily imagine my state of mind when I re-entered our home. She
was the only one I had, for my wife had been dead for many years. I
found my way to my own apartment in a half-distracted condition, utterly
exhausted, and sank into my easy-chair, without the capacity to think or
the strength to move. I was nothing better now than a suffering,
vibrating machine, a human being who had, as it were, been flayed alive;
my soul was like an open wound.

“My old valet, Prosper, who had assisted me in placing Juliette in her
coffin, and aided me in preparing her for her last sleep, entered the
room noiselessly, and asked:

“'Does monsieur want anything?'

“I merely shook my head in reply.

“'Monsieur is wrong,' he urged. 'He will injure his health. Would
monsieur like me to put him to bed?'

“I answered: 'No, let me alone!'

“And he left the room.

“I know not how many hours slipped away. Oh, what a night, what a night!
It was cold. My fire had died out in the huge grate; and the wind, the
winter wind, an icy wind, a winter hurricane, blew with a regular,
sinister noise against the windows.

“How many hours slipped away? There I was without sleeping, powerless,
crushed, my eyes wide open, my legs stretched out, my body limp,
inanimate, and my mind torpid with despair. Suddenly the great doorbell,
the great bell of the vestibule, rang out.

“I started so that my chair cracked under me. The solemn, ponderous
sound vibrated through the empty country house as through a vault. I
turned round to see what the hour was by the clock. It was just two in
the morning. Who could be coming at such an hour?

“And, abruptly, the bell again rang twice. The servants, without doubt,
were afraid to get up. I took a wax candle and descended the stairs. I
was on the point of asking: 'Who is there?'

“Then I felt ashamed of my weakness, and I slowly drew back the heavy
bolts. My heart was throbbing wildly. I was frightened. I opened the
door brusquely, and in the darkness I distinguished a white figure,
standing erect, something that resembled an apparition.

“I recoiled petrified with horror, faltering:

“'Who-who-who are you?'

“A voice replied:

“'It is I, father.'

“It was my daughter.

“I really thought I must be mad, and I retreated backward before this
advancing spectre. I kept moving away, making a sign with my hand,' as
if to drive the phantom away, that gesture which you have noticed—that
gesture which has remained with me ever since.

“'Do not be afraid, papa,' said the apparition. 'I was not dead.
Somebody tried to steal my rings and cut one of my fingers; the blood
began to flow, and that restored me to life.'

“And, in fact, I could see that her hand was covered with blood.

“I fell on my knees, choking with sobs and with a rattling in my throat.

“Then, when I had somewhat collected my thoughts, though I was still so
bewildered that I scarcely realized the awesome happiness that had
befallen me, I made her go up to my room and sit dawn in my easy-chair;
then I rang excitedly for Prosper to get him to rekindle the fire and to
bring some wine, and to summon assistance.

“The man entered, stared at my daughter, opened his mouth with a gasp of
alarm and stupefaction, and then fell back dead.

“It was he who had opened the vault, who had mutilated and then
abandoned my daughter; for he could not efface the traces of the theft.
He had not even taken the trouble to put back the coffin into its place,
feeling sure, besides, that he would not be suspected by me, as I
trusted him absolutely.

“You see, monsieur, that we are very unfortunate people.”

He was silent.

The night had fallen, casting its shadows over the desolate, mournful
vale, and a sort of mysterious fear possessed me at finding myself by
the side of those strange beings, of this young girl who had come back
from the tomb, and this father with his uncanny spasm.

I found it impossible to make any comment on this dreadful story. I only
murmured:

“What a horrible thing!”

Then, after a minute's silence, I added:

“Let us go indoors. I think it is growing cool.”

And we made our way back to the hotel.





IN THE WOOD

As the mayor was about to sit down to breakfast, word was brought to him
that the rural policeman, with two prisoners, was awaiting him at the
Hotel de Ville. He went there at once and found old Hochedur standing
guard before a middle-class couple whom he was regarding with a severe
expression on his face.

The man, a fat old fellow with a red nose and white hair, seemed utterly
dejected; while the woman, a little roundabout individual with shining
cheeks, looked at the official who had arrested them, with defiant eyes.

“What is it? What is it, Hochedur?”

The rural policeman made his deposition: He had gone out that morning at
his usual time, in order to patrol his beat from the forest of Champioux
as far as the boundaries of Argenteuil. He had not noticed anything
unusual in the country except that it was a fine day, and that the wheat
was doing well, when the son of old Bredel, who was going over his
vines, called out to him: “Here, Daddy Hochedur, go and have a look at
the outskirts of the wood. In the first thicket you will find a pair of
pigeons who must be a hundred and thirty years old between them!”

He went in the direction indicated, entered the thicket, and there he
heard words which made him suspect a flagrant breach of morality.
Advancing, therefore, on his hands and knees as if to surprise a
poacher, he had arrested the couple whom he found there.

The mayor looked at the culprits in astonishment, for the man was
certainly sixty, and the woman fifty-five at least, and he began to
question them, beginning with the man, who replied in such a weak voice
that he could scarcely be heard.

“What is your name?”

“Nicholas Beaurain.”

“Your occupation?”

“Haberdasher, in the Rue des Martyrs, in Paris.”

“What were you doing in the wood?”

The haberdasher remained silent, with his eyes on his fat paunch, and
his hands hanging at his sides, and the mayor continued:

“Do you deny what the officer of the municipal authorities states?”

“No, monsieur.”

“So you confess it?”

“Yes, monsieur.”

“What have you to say in your defence?”

“Nothing, monsieur.”

“Where did you meet the partner in your misdemeanor?”

“She is my wife, monsieur.”

“Your wife?”

“Yes, monsieur.”

“Then—then—you do not live together-in Paris?”

“I beg your pardon, monsieur, but we are living together!”

“But in that case—you must be mad, altogether mad, my dear sir, to get
caught playing lovers in the country at ten o'clock in the morning.”

The haberdasher seemed ready to cry with shame, and he muttered: “It was
she who enticed me! I told her it was very stupid, but when a woman once
gets a thing into her head—you know—you cannot get it out.”

The mayor, who liked a joke, smiled and replied: “In your case, the
contrary ought to have happened. You would not be here, if she had had
the idea only in her head.”

Then Monsieur Beauain was seized with rage and turning to his wife, he
said: “Do you see to what you have brought us with your poetry? And now
we shall have to go before the courts at our age, for a breach of
morals! And we shall have to shut up the shop, sell our good will, and
go to some other neighborhood! That's what it has come to.”

Madame Beaurain got up, and without looking at her husband, she
explained herself without embarrassment, without useless modesty, and
almost without hesitation.

“Of course, monsieur, I know that we have made ourselves ridiculous.
Will you allow me to plead my cause like an advocate, or rather like a
poor woman? And I hope that you will be kind enough to send us home, and
to spare us the disgrace of a prosecution.

“Years ago, when I was young, I made Monsieur Beaurain's acquaintance
one Sunday in this neighborhood. He was employed in a draper's shop, and
I was a saleswoman in a ready-made clothing establishment. I remember it
as if it were yesterday. I used to come and spend Sundays here
occasionally with a friend of mine, Rose Leveque, with whom I lived in
the Rue Pigalle, and Rose had a sweetheart, while I had none. He used to
bring us here, and one Saturday he told me laughing that he should bring
a friend with him the next day. I quite understood what he meant, but I
replied that it would be no good; for I was virtuous, monsieur.

“The next day we met Monsieur Beaurain at the railway station, and in
those days he was good-looking, but I had made up my mind not to
encourage him, and I did not. Well, we arrived at Bezons. It was a
lovely day, the sort of day that touches your heart. When it is fine
even now, just as it used to be formerly, I grow quite foolish, and when
I am in the country I utterly lose my head. The green grass, the
swallows flying so swiftly, the smell of the grass, the scarlet poppies,
the daisies, all that makes me crazy. It is like champagne when one is
not accustomed to it!

“Well, it was lovely weather, warm and bright, and it seemed to
penetrate your body through your eyes when you looked and through your
mouth when you breathed. Rose and Simon hugged and kissed each other
every minute, and that gave me a queer feeling! Monsieur Beaurain and I
walked behind them, without speaking much, for when people do not know
each other, they do not find anything to talk about. He looked timid,
and I liked to see his embarrassment. At last we got to the little wood;
it was as cool as in a bath there, and we four sat down. Rose and her
lover teased me because I looked rather stern, but you will understand
that I could not be otherwise. And then they began to kiss and hug
again, without putting any more restraint upon themselves than if we had
not been there; and then they whispered together, and got up and went
off among the trees, without saying a word. You may fancy what I looked
like, alone with this young fellow whom I saw for the first time. I felt
so confused at seeing them go that it gave me courage, and I began to
talk. I asked him what his business was, and he said he was a linen
draper's assistant, as I told you just now. We talked for a few minutes,
and that made him bold, and he wanted to take liberties with me, but I
told him sharply to keep his place. Is not that true, Monsieur
Beaurain?”

Monsieur Beaurain, who was looking at his feet in confusion, did not
reply, and she continued: “Then he saw that I was virtuous, and he began
to make love to me nicely, like an honorable man, and from that time he
came every Sunday, for he was very much in love with me. I was very fond
of him also, very fond of him! He was a good-looking fellow, formerly,
and in short he married me the next September, and we started in
business in the Rue des Martyrs.

“It was a hard struggle for some years, monsieur. Business did not
prosper, and we could not afford many country excursions, and, besides,
we had got out of the way of them. One has other things in one's head,
and thinks more of the cash box than of pretty speeches, when one is in
business. We were growing old by degrees without perceiving it, like
quiet people who do not think much about love. One does not regret
anything as long as one does not notice what one has lost.

“And then, monsieur, business became better, and we were tranquil as to
the future! Then, you see, I do not exactly know what went on in my
mind, no, I really do not know, but I began to dream like a little
boarding-school girl. The sight of the little carts full of flowers
which are drawn about the streets made me cry; the smell of violets
sought me out in my easy-chair, behind my cash box, and made my heart
beat! Then I would get up and go out on the doorstep to look at the blue
sky between the roofs. When one looks up at the sky from the street, it
looks like a river which is descending on Paris, winding as it flows,
and the swallows pass to and fro in it like fish. These ideas are very
stupid at my age! But how can one help it, monsieur, when one has worked
all one's life? A moment comes in which one perceives that one could
have done something else, and that one regrets, oh! yes, one feels
intense regret! Just think, for twenty years I might have gone and had
kisses in the woods, like other women. I used to think how delightful it
would be to lie under the trees and be in love with some one! And I
thought of it every day and every night! I dreamed of the moonlight on
the water, until I felt inclined to drown myself.

“I did not venture to speak to Monsieur Beaurain about this at first. I
knew that he would make fun of me, and send me back to sell my needles
and cotton! And then, to speak the truth, Monsieur Beaurain never said
much to me, but when I looked in the glass, I also understood quite well
that I no longer appealed to any one!

“Well, I made up my mind, and I proposed to him an excursion into the
country, to the place where we had first become acquainted. He agreed
without mistrusting anything, and we arrived here this morning, about
nine o'clock.

“I felt quite young again when I got among the wheat, for a woman's
heart never grows old! And really, I no longer saw my husband as he is
at present, but just as he was formerly! That I will swear to you,
monsieur. As true as I am standing here I was crazy. I began to kiss
him, and he was more surprised than if I had tried to murder him. He
kept saying to me: 'Why, you must be mad! You are mad this morning! What
is the matter with you?' I did not listen to him, I only listened to my
own heart, and I made him come into the wood with me. That is all. I
have spoken the truth, Monsieur le Maire, the whole truth.”

The mayor was a sensible man. He rose from his chair, smiled, and said:
“Go in peace, madame, and when you again visit our forests, be more
discreet.”





MARTINE

It came to him one Sunday after mass. He was walking home from church
along the by-road that led to his house when he saw ahead of him
Martine, who was also going home.

Her father walked beside his daughter with the important gait of a rich
farmer. Discarding the smock, he wore a short coat of gray cloth and on
his head a round-topped hat with wide brim.

She, laced up in a corset which she wore only once a week, walked along
erect, with her squeezed-in waist, her broad shoulders and prominent
hips, swinging herself a little. She wore a hat trimmed with flowers,
made by a milliner at Yvetot, and displayed the back of her full, round,
supple neck, reddened by the sun and air, on which fluttered little
stray locks of hair.

Benoist saw only her back; but he knew well the face he loved, without,
however, having ever noticed it more closely than he did now.

Suddenly he said: “Nom d'un nom, she is a fine girl, all the same, that
Martine.” He watched her as she walked, admiring her hastily, feeling a
desire taking possession of him. He did not long to see her face again,
no. He kept gazing at her figure, repeating to himself: “Nom d'un nom,
she is a fine girl.”

Martine turned to the right to enter “La Martiniere,” the farm of her
father, Jean Martin, and she cast a glance behind her as she turned
round. She saw Benoist, who looked to her very comical. She called out:
“Good-morning, Benoist.” He replied: “Good-morning, Martine; good-
morning, mait Martin,” and went on his way.

When he reached home the soup was on the table. He sat down opposite his
mother beside the farm hand and the hired man, while the maid servant
went to draw some cider.

He ate a few spoonfuls, then pushed away his plate. His mother said:

“Don't you feel well?”

“No. I feel as if I had some pap in my stomach and that takes away my
appetite.”

He watched the others eating, as he cut himself a piece of bread from
time to time and carried it lazily to his mouth, masticating it slowly.
He thought of Martine. “She is a fine girl, all the same.” And to think
that he had not noticed it before, and that it came to him, just like
that, all at once, and with such force that he could not eat.

He did not touch the stew. His mother said:

“Come, Benoist, try and eat a little; it is loin of mutton, it will do
you good. When one has no appetite, they should force themselves to
eat.”

He swallowed a few morsels, then, pushing away his plate, said:

“No. I can't go that, positively.”

When they rose from table he walked round the farm, telling the farm
hand he might go home and that he would drive up the animals as he
passed by them.

The country was deserted, as it was the day of rest. Here and there in a
field of clover cows were moving along heavily, with full bellies,
chewing their cud under a blazing sun. Unharnessed plows were standing
at the end of a furrow; and the upturned earth ready for the seed showed
broad brown patches of stubble of wheat and oats that had lately been
harvested.

A rather dry autumn wind blew across the plain, promising a cool evening
after the sun had set. Benoist sat down on a ditch, placed his hat on
his knees as if he needed to cool off his head, and said aloud in the
stillness of the country: “If you want a fine girl, she is a fine girl.”

He thought of it again at night, in his bed, and in the morning when he
awoke.

He was not sad, he was not discontented, he could not have told what
ailed him. It was something that had hold of him, something fastened in
his mind, an idea that would not leave him and that produced a sort of
tickling sensation in his heart.

Sometimes a big fly is shut up in a room. You hear it flying about,
buzzing, and the noise haunts you, irritates you. Suddenly it stops; you
forget it; but all at once it begins again, obliging you to look up. You
cannot catch it, nor drive it away, nor kill it, nor make it keep still.
As soon as it settles for a second, it starts off buzzing again.

The recollection of Martine disturbed Benoist's mind like an imprisoned
fly.

Then he longed to see her again and walked past the Martiniere several
times. He saw her, at last, hanging out some clothes on a line stretched
between two apple trees.

It was a warm day. She had on only a short skirt and her chemise,
showing the curves of her figure as she hung up the towels. He remained
there, concealed by the hedge, for more than an hour, even after she had
left. He returned home more obsessed with her image than ever.

For a month his mind was full of her, he trembled when her name was
mentioned in his presence. He could not eat, he had night sweats that
kept him from sleeping.

On Sunday, at mass, he never took his eyes off her. She noticed it and
smiled at him, flattered at his appreciation.

One evening, he suddenly met her in the road. She stopped short when she
saw him coming. Then he walked right up to her, choking with fear and
emotion, but determined to speak to her. He began falteringly:

“See here, Martine, this cannot go on like this any longer.”

She replied as if she wanted to tease him:

“What cannot go on any longer, Benoist?”

“My thinking of you as many hours as there are in the day,” he answered.

She put her hands on her hips.

“I do not oblige you to do so.”

“Yes, it is you,” he stammered; “I cannot sleep, nor rest, nor eat, nor
anything.”

“What do you need to cure you of all that?” she asked.

He stood there in dismay, his arms swinging, his eyes staring, his mouth
agape.

She hit him a punch in the stomach and ran off.

From that day they met each other along the roadside, in by-roads or
else at twilight on the edge of a field, when he was going home with his
horses and she was driving her cows home to the stable.

He felt himself carried, cast toward her by a strong impulse of his
heart and body. He would have liked to squeeze her, strangle her, eat
her, make her part of himself. And he trembled with impotence,
impatience, rage, to think she did not belong to him entirely, as if
they were one being.

People gossiped about it in the countryside. They said they were
engaged. He had, besides, asked her if she would be his wife, and she
had answered “Yes.”

They, were waiting for an opportunity to talk to their parents about it.

But, all at once, she stopped coming to meet him at the usual hour. He
did not even see her as he wandered round the farm. He could only catch
a glimpse of her at mass on Sunday. And one Sunday, after the sermon,
the priest actually published the banns of marriage between Victoire-
Adelaide Martin and Josephin-Isidore Vallin.

Benoist felt a sensation in his hands as if the blood had been drained
off. He had a buzzing in the ears; and could hear nothing; and presently
he perceived that his tears were falling on his prayer book.

For a month he stayed in his room. Then he went back to his work.

But he was not cured, and it was always in his mind. He avoided the
roads that led past her home, so that he might not even see the trees in
the yard, and this obliged him to make a great circuit morning and
evening.

She was now married to Vallin, the richest farmer in the district.
Benoist and he did not speak now, though they had been comrades from
childhood.

One evening, as Benoist was passing the town hall, he heard that she was
enceinte. Instead of experiencing a feeling of sorrow, he experienced,
on the contrary, a feeling of relief. It was over, now, all over. They
were more separated by that than by her marriage. He really preferred
that it should be so.

Months passed, and more months. He caught sight of her, occasionally,
going to the village with a heavier step than usual. She blushed as she
saw him, lowered her head and quickened her pace. And he turned out of
his way so as not to pass her and meet her glance.

He dreaded the thought that he might one morning meet her face to face,
and be obliged to speak to her. What could he say to her now, after all
he had said formerly, when he held her hands as he kissed her hair
beside her cheeks? He often thought of those meetings along the
roadside. She had acted horridly after all her promises.

By degrees his grief diminished, leaving only sadness behind. And one
day he took the old road that led past the farm where she now lived. He
looked at the roof from a distance. It was there, in there, that she
lived with another! The apple trees were in bloom, the cocks crowed on
the dung hill. The whole dwelling seemed empty, the farm hands had gone
to the fields to their spring toil. He stopped near the gate and looked
into the yard. The dog was asleep outside his kennel, three calves were
walking slowly, one behind the other, towards the pond. A big turkey was
strutting before the door, parading before the turkey hens like a singer
at the opera.

Benoist leaned against the gate post and was suddenly seized with a
desire to weep. But suddenly, he heard a cry, a loud cry for help coming
from the house. He was struck with dismay, his hands grasping the wooden
bars of the gate, and listened attentively. Another cry, a prolonged,
heartrending cry, reached his ears, his soul, his flesh. It was she who
was crying like that! He darted inside, crossed the grass patch, pushed
open the door, and saw her lying on the floor, her body drawn up, her
face livid, her eyes haggard, in the throes of childbirth.

He stood there, trembling and paler than she was, and stammered:

“Here I am, here I am, Martine!”

She replied in gasps:

“Oh, do not leave me, do not leave me, Benoist!”

He looked at her, not knowing what to say, what to do. She began to cry
out again:

“Oh, oh, it is killing me. Oh, Benoist!”

She writhed frightfully.

Benoist was suddenly seized with a frantic longing to help her, to quiet
her, to remove her pain. He leaned over, lifted her up and laid her on
her bed; and while she kept on moaning he began to take off her clothes,
her jacket, her skirt and her petticoat. She bit her fists to keep from
crying out. Then he did as he was accustomed to doing for cows, ewes,
and mares: he assisted in delivering her and found in his hands a large
infant who was moaning.

He wiped it off and wrapped it up in a towel that was drying in front of
the fire, and laid it on a bundle of clothes ready for ironing that was
on the table. Then he went back to the mother.

He took her up and placed her on the floor again, then he changed the
bedclothes and put her back into bed. She faltered:

“Thank you, Benoist, you have a noble heart.” And then she wept a little
as if she felt regretful.

He did not love her any longer, not the least bit. It was all over. Why?
How? He could not have said. What had happened had cured him better than
ten years of absence.

She asked, exhausted and trembling:

“What is it?”

He replied calmly:

“It is a very fine girl.”

Then they were silent again. At the end of a few moments, the mother, in
a weak voice, said:

“Show her to me, Benoist.”

He took up the little one and was showing it to her as if he were
holding the consecrated wafer, when the door opened, and Isidore Vallin
appeared.

He did not understand at first, then all at once he guessed.

Benoist, in consternation, stammered out:

“I was passing, I was just passing by when I heard her crying out, and I
came—there is your child, Vallin!”

Then the husband, his eyes full of tears, stepped forward, took the
little mite of humanity that he held out to him, kissed it, unable to
speak from emotion for a few seconds; then placing the child on the bed,
he held out both hands to Benoist, saying:

“Your hand upon it, Benoist. From now on we understand each other. If
you are willing, we will be a pair of friends, a pair of friends!” And
Benoist replied: “Indeed I will, certainly, indeed I will.”





ALL OVER

Compte de Lormerin had just finished dressing. He cast a parting glance
at the large mirror which occupied an entire panel in his dressing-room
and smiled.

He was really a fine-looking man still, although quite gray. Tall,
slight, elegant, with no sign of a paunch, with a small mustache of
doubtful shade, which might be called fair, he had a walk, a nobility, a
“chic,” in short, that indescribable something which establishes a
greater difference between two men than would millions of money. He
murmured:

“Lormerin is still alive!”

And he went into the drawing-room where his correspondence awaited him.

On his table, where everything had its place, the work table of the
gentleman who never works, there were a dozen letters lying beside three
newspapers of different opinions. With a single touch he spread out all
these letters, like a gambler giving the choice of a card; and he
scanned the handwriting, a thing he did each morning before opening the
envelopes.

It was for him a moment of delightful expectancy, of inquiry and vague
anxiety. What did these sealed mysterious letters bring him? What did
they contain of pleasure, of happiness, or of grief? He surveyed them
with a rapid sweep of the eye, recognizing the writing, selecting them,
making two or three lots, according to what he expected from them. Here,
friends; there, persons to whom he was indifferent; further on,
strangers. The last kind always gave him a little uneasiness. What did
they want from him? What hand had traced those curious characters full
of thoughts, promises, or threats?

This day one letter in particular caught his eye. It was simple,
nevertheless, without seeming to reveal anything; but he looked at it
uneasily, with a sort of chill at his heart. He thought: “From whom can
it be? I certainly know this writing, and yet I can't identify it.”

He raised it to a level with his face, holding it delicately between two
fingers, striving to read through the envelope, without making up his
mind to open it.

Then he smelled it, and snatched up from the table a little magnifying
glass which he used in studying all the niceties of handwriting. He
suddenly felt unnerved. “Whom is it from? This hand is familiar to me,
very familiar. I must have often read its tracings, yes, very often. But
this must have been a long, long time ago. Whom the deuce can it be
from? Pooh! it's only somebody asking for money.”

And he tore open the letter. Then he read:

MY DEAR FRIEND: You have, without doubt, forgotten me, for it is now
twenty-five years since we saw each other. I was young; I am old. When I
bade you farewell, I left Paris in order to follow into the provinces my
husband, my old husband, whom you used to call “my hospital.” Do you
remember him? He died five years ago, and now I am returning to Paris to
get my daughter married, for I have a daughter, a beautiful girl of
eighteen, whom you have never seen. I informed you of her birth, but you
certainly did not pay much attention to so trifling an event.

You are still the handsome Lormerin; so I have been told. Well, if you
still recollect little Lise, whom you used to call Lison, come and dine
with her this evening, with the elderly Baronne de Vance your ever
faithful friend, who, with some emotion, although happy, reaches out to
you a devoted hand, which you must clasp, but no longer kiss, my poor
Jaquelet. LISE DE VANCE.

Lormerin's heart began to throb. He remained sunk in his armchair with
the letter on his knees, staring straight before him, overcome by a
poignant emotion that made the tears mount up to his eyes!

If he had ever loved a woman in his life it was this one, little Lise,
Lise de Vance, whom he called “Ashflower,” on account of the strange
color of her hair and the pale gray of her eyes. Oh! what a dainty,
pretty, charming creature she was, this frail baronne, the wife of that
gouty, pimply baron, who had abruptly carried her off to the provinces,
shut her up, kept her in seclusion through jealousy, jealousy of the
handsome Lormerin.

Yes, he had loved her, and he believed that he too, had been truly
loved. She familiarly gave him, the name of Jaquelet, and would
pronounce that word in a delicious fashion.

A thousand forgotten memories came back to him, far, off and sweet and
melancholy now. One evening she had called on him on her way home from a
ball, and they went for a stroll in the Bois de Boulogne, she in evening
dress, he in his dressing-jacket. It was springtime; the weather was
beautiful. The fragrance from her bodice embalmed the warm air-the odor
of her bodice, and perhaps, too, the fragrance of her skin. What a
divine night! When they reached the lake, as the moon's rays fell across
the branches into the water, she began to weep. A little surprised, he
asked her why.

“I don't know. The moon and the water have affected me. Every time I see
poetic things I have a tightening at the heart, and I have to cry.”

He smiled, affected himself, considering her feminine emotion charming
—the unaffected emotion of a poor little woman, whom every sensation
overwhelms. And he embraced her passionately, stammering:

“My little Lise, you are exquisite.”

What a charming love affair, short-lived and dainty, it had been and
over all too quickly, cut short in the midst of its ardor by this old
brute of a baron, who had carried off his wife, and never let any one
see her afterward.

Lormerin had forgotten, in fact, at the end of two or three months. One
woman drives out another so quickly in Paris, when one is a bachelor! No
matter; he had kept a little altar for her in his heart, for he had
loved her alone! He assured himself now that this was so.

He rose, and said aloud: “Certainly, I will go and dine with her this
evening!”

And instinctively he turned toward the mirror to inspect himself from
head to foot. He reflected: “She must look very old, older than I look.”
And he felt gratified at the thought of showing himself to her still
handsome, still fresh, of astonishing her, perhaps of filling her with
emotion, and making her regret those bygone days so far, far distant!

He turned his attention to the other letters. They were of no
importance.

The whole day he kept thinking of this ghost of other days. What was she
like now? How strange it was to meet in this way after twenty-five
years! But would he recognize her?

He made his toilet with feminine coquetry, put on a white waistcoat,
which suited him better with the coat than a black one, sent for the
hairdresser to give him a finishing touch with the curling iron, for he
had preserved his hair, and started very early in order to show his
eagerness to see her.

The first thing he saw on entering a pretty drawing-room newly furnished
was his own portrait, an old faded photograph, dating from the days when
he was a beau, hanging on the wall in an antique silk frame.

He sat down and waited. A door opened behind him. He rose up abruptly,
and, turning round, beheld an old woman with white hair who extended
both hands toward him.

He seized them, kissed them one after the other several times; then,
lifting up his head, he gazed at the woman he had loved.

Yes, it was an old lady, an old lady whom he did not recognize, and who,
while she smiled, seemed ready to weep.

He could not abstain from murmuring:

“Is it you, Lise?”

She replied:

“Yes, it is I; it is I, indeed. You would not have known me, would you?
I have had so much sorrow—so much sorrow. Sorrow has consumed my life.
Look at me now—or, rather, don't look at me! But how handsome you have
kept—and young! If I had by chance met you in the street I would have
exclaimed: 'Jaquelet!'. Now, sit down and let us, first of all, have a
chat. And then I will call my daughter, my grown-up daughter. You'll see
how she resembles me—or, rather, how I resembled her—no, it is not quite
that; she is just like the 'me' of former days—you shall see! But I
wanted to be alone with you first. I feared that there would be some
emotion on my side, at the first moment. Now it is all over; it is past.
Pray be seated, my friend.”

He sat down beside her, holding her hand; but he did not know what to
say; he did not know this woman—it seemed to him that he had never seen
her before. Why had he come to this house? What could he talk about? Of
the long ago? What was there in common between him and her? He could no
longer recall anything in presence of this grandmotherly face. He could
no longer recall all the nice, tender things, so sweet, so bitter, that
had come to his mind that morning when he thought of the other, of
little Lise, of the dainty Ashflower. What, then, had become of her, the
former one, the one he had loved? That woman of far-off dreams, the
blonde with gray eyes, the young girl who used to call him “Jaquelet” so
prettily?

They remained side by side, motionless, both constrained, troubled,
profoundly ill at ease.

As they talked only commonplaces, awkwardly and spasmodically and
slowly, she rose and pressed the button of the bell.

“I am going to call Renee,” she said.

There was a tap at the door, then the rustle of a dress; then a young
voice exclaimed:

“Here I am, mamma!”

Lormerin remained bewildered as at the sight of an apparition.

He stammered:

“Good-day, mademoiselle”

Then, turning toward the mother:

“Oh! it is you!”

In fact, it was she, she whom he had known in bygone days, the Lise who
had vanished and come back! In her he found the woman he had won twenty-
five years before. This one was even younger, fresher, more childlike.

He felt a wild desire to open his arms, to clasp her to his heart again,
murmuring in her ear:

“Good-morning, Lison!”

A man-servant announced:

“Dinner is ready, madame.”

And they proceeded toward the dining-room.

What passed at this dinner? What did they say to him, and what could he
say in reply? He found himself plunged in one of those strange dreams
which border on insanity. He gazed at the two women with a fixed idea in
his mind, a morbid, self-contradictory idea:

“Which is the real one?”

The mother smiled again repeating over and over:

“Do you remember?” And it was in the bright eyes of the young girl that
he found again his memories of the past. Twenty times he opened his
mouth to say to her: “Do you remember, Lison?” forgetting this white-
haired lady who was looking at him tenderly.

And yet, there were moments when, he no longer felt sure, when he lost
his head. He could see that the woman of to-day was not exactly the
woman of long ago. The other one, the former one, had in her voice, in
her glances, in her entire being, something which he did not find again.
And he made prodigious efforts of mind to recall his lady love, to seize
again what had escaped from her, what this resuscitated one did not
possess.

The baronne said:

“You have lost your old vivacity, my poor friend.”

He murmured:

“There are many other things that I have lost!”

But in his heart, touched with emotion, he felt his old love springing
to life once more, like an awakened wild beast ready to bite him.

The young girl went on chattering, and every now and then some familiar
intonation, some expression of her mother's, a certain style of speaking
and thinking, that resemblance of mind and manner which people acquire
by living together, shook Lormerin from head to foot. All these things
penetrated him, making the reopened wound of his passion bleed anew.

He got away early, and took a turn along the boulevard. But the image of
this young girl pursued him, haunted him, quickened his heart, inflamed
his blood. Apart from the two women, he now saw only one, a young one,
the old one come back out of the past, and he loved her as he had loved
her in bygone years. He loved her with greater ardor, after an interval
of twenty-five years.

He went home to reflect on this strange and terrible thing, and to think
what he should do.

But, as he was passing, with a wax candle in his hand, before the glass,
the large glass in which he had contemplated himself and admired himself
before he started, he saw reflected there an elderly, gray-haired man;
and suddenly he recollected what he had been in olden days, in the days
of little Lise. He saw himself charming and handsome, as he had been
when he was loved! Then, drawing the light nearer, he looked at himself
more closely, as one inspects a strange thing with a magnifying glass,
tracing the wrinkles, discovering those frightful ravages, which he had
not perceived till now.

And he sat down, crushed at the sight of himself, at the sight of his
lamentable image, murmuring:

“All over, Lormerin!”





THE PARROT I

Everybody in Fecamp knew Mother Patin's story. She had certainly been
unfortunate with her husband, for in his lifetime he used to beat her,
just as wheat is threshed in the barn.

He was master of a fishing bark and had married her, formerly, because
she was pretty, although poor.

Patin was a good sailor, but brutal. He used to frequent Father Auban's
inn, where he would usually drink four or five glasses of brandy, on
lucky days eight or ten glasses and even more, according to his mood.
The brandy was served to the customers by Father Auban's daughter, a
pleasing brunette, who attracted people to the house only by her pretty
face, for nothing had ever been gossiped about her.

Patin, when he entered the inn, would be satisfied to look at her and to
compliment her politely and respectfully. After he had had his first
glass of brandy he would already find her much nicer; at the second he
would wink; at the third he would say. “If you were only willing,
Mam'zelle Desiree——” without ever finishing his sentence; at the fourth
he would try to hold her back by her skirt in order to kiss her; and
when he went as high as ten it was Father Auban who brought him the
remaining drinks.

The old innkeeper, who knew all the tricks of the trade, made Desiree
walk about between the tables in order to increase the consumption of
drinks; and Desiree, who was a worthy daughter of Father Auban, flitted
around among the benches and joked with them, her lips smiling and her
eyes sparkling.

Patin got so well accustomed to Desiree's face that he thought of it
even while at sea, when throwing out his nets, in storms or in calms, on
moonlit or dark evenings. He thought of her while holding the tiller in
the stern of his boat, while his four companions were slumbering with
their heads on their arms. He always saw her, smiling, pouring out the
yellow brandy with a peculiar shoulder movement and then exclaiming as
she turned away: “There, now; are you satisfied?”

He saw her so much in his mind's eye that he was overcome by an
irresistible desire to marry her, and, not being able to hold out any
longer, he asked for her hand.

He was rich, owned his own vessel, his nets and a little house at the
foot of the hill on the Retenue, whereas Father Auban had nothing. The
marriage was therefore eagerly agreed upon and the wedding took place as
soon as possible, as both parties were desirous for the affair to be
concluded as early as convenient.

Three days after the wedding Patin could no longer understand how he had
ever imagined Desiree to be different from other women. What a fool he
had been to encumber himself with a penniless creature, who had
undoubtedly inveigled him with some drug which she had put in his
brandy!

He would curse all day lung, break his pipe with his teeth and maul his
crew. After he had sworn by every known term at everything that came his
way he would rid himself of his remaining anger on the fish and
lobsters, which he pulled from the nets and threw into the baskets amid
oaths and foul language. When he returned home he would find his wife,
Father Auban's daughter, within reach of his mouth and hand, and it was
not long before he treated her like the lowest creature in the world. As
she listened calmly, accustomed to paternal violence, he grew
exasperated at her quiet, and one evening he beat her. Then life at his
home became unbearable.

For ten years the principal topic of conversation on the Retenue was
about the beatings that Patin gave his wife and his manner of cursing at
her for the least thing. He could, indeed, curse with a richness of
vocabulary in a roundness of tone unequalled by any other man in Fecamp.
As soon as his ship was sighted at the entrance of the harbor, returning
from the fishing expedition, every one awaited the first volley he would
hurl from the bridge as soon as he perceived his wife's white cap.

Standing at the stern he would steer, his eye fixed on the bows and on
the sail, and, notwithstanding the difficulty of the narrow passage and
the height of the turbulent waves, he would search among the watching
women and try to recognize his wife, Father Auban's daughter, the
wretch!

Then, as soon as he saw her, notwithstanding the noise of the wind and
waves, he would let loose upon her with such power and volubility that
every one would laugh, although they pitied her greatly. When he arrived
at the dock he would relieve his mind, while unloading the fish, in such
an expressive manner that he attracted around him all the loafers of the
neighborhood. The words left his mouth sometimes like shots from a
cannon, short and terrible, sometimes like peals of thunder, which roll
and rumble for five minutes, such a hurricane of oaths that he seemed to
have in his lungs one of the storms of the Eternal Father.

When he left his ship and found himself face to face with her,
surrounded by all the gossips of the neighborhood, he would bring up a
new cargo of insults and bring her back to their dwelling, she in front,
he behind, she weeping, he yelling at her.

At last, when alone with her behind closed doors, he would thrash her on
the slightest pretext. The least thing was sufficient to make him raise
his hand, and when he had once begun he did not stop, but he would throw
into her face the true motive for his anger. At each blow he would roar:
“There, you beggar! There, you wretch! There, you pauper! What a bright
thing I did when I rinsed my mouth with your rascal of a father's
apology for brandy.”

The poor woman lived in continual fear, in a ceaseless trembling of body
and soul, in everlasting expectation of outrageous thrashings.

This lasted ten years. She was so timorous that she would grow pale
whenever she spoke to any one, and she thought of nothing but the blows
with which she was threatened; and she became thinner, more yellow and
drier than a smoked fish.

II

One night, when her husband was at sea, she was suddenly awakened by the
wild roaring of the wind!

She sat up in her bed, trembling, but, as she hear nothing more, she lay
down again; almost immediately there was a roar in the chimney which
shook the entire house; it seemed to cross the heavens like a pack of
furious animals snorting and roaring.

Then she arose and rushed to the harbor. Other women were arriving from
all sides, carrying lanterns. The men also were gathering, and all were
watching the foaming crests of the breaking wave.

The storm lasted fifteen hours. Eleven sailors never returned; Patin was
among them.

In the neighborhood of Dieppe the wreck of his bark, the Jeune-Amelie,
was found. The bodies of his sailors were found near Saint-Valery, but
his body was never recovered. As his vessel seemed to have been cut in
two, his wife expected and feared his return for a long time, for if
there had been a collision he alone might have been picked up and
carried afar off.

Little by little she grew accustomed to the thought that she was rid of
him, although she would start every time that a neighbor, a beggar or a
peddler would enter suddenly.

One afternoon, about four years after the disappearance of her husband,
while she was walking along the Rue aux Juifs, she stopped before the
house of an old sea captain who had recently died and whose furniture
was for sale. Just at that moment a parrot was at auction. He had green
feathers and a blue head and was watching everybody with a displeased
look. “Three francs!” cried the auctioneer. “A bird that can talk like a
lawyer, three francs!”

A friend of the Patin woman nudged her and said:

“You ought to buy that, you who are rich. It would be good company for
you. That bird is worth more than thirty francs. Anyhow, you can always
sell it for twenty or twenty-five!”

Patin's widow added fifty centimes, and the bird was given her in a
little cage, which she carried away. She took it home, and, as she was
opening the wire door in order to give it something to drink, he bit her
finger and drew blood.

“Oh, how naughty he is!” she said.

Nevertheless she gave it some hemp-seed and corn and watched it pruning
its feathers as it glanced warily at its new home and its new mistress.
On the following morning, just as day was breaking, the Patin woman
distinctly heard a loud, deep, roaring voice calling: “Are you going to
get up, carrion?”

Her fear was so great that she hid her head under the sheets, for when
Patin was with her as soon as he would open his eyes he would shout
those well-known words into her ears.

Trembling, rolled into a ball, her back prepared for the thrashing which
she already expected, her face buried in the pillows, she murmured:
“Good Lord! he is here! Good Lord! he is here! Good Lord! he has come
back!”

Minutes passed; no noise disturbed the quiet room. Then, trembling, she
stuck her head out of the bed, sure that he was there, watching, ready
to beat her. Except for a ray of sun shining through the window, she saw
nothing, and she said to her self: “He must be hidden.”

She waited a long time and then, gaining courage, she said to herself:
“I must have dreamed it, seeing there is nobody here.”

A little reassured, she closed her eyes, when from quite near a furious
voice, the thunderous voice of the drowned man, could be heard crying:
“Say! when in the name of all that's holy are you going to get up, you
b——?”

She jumped out of bed, moved by obedience, by the passive obedience of a
woman accustomed to blows and who still remembers and always will
remember that voice! She said: “Here I am, Patin; what do you want?”

Put Patin did not answer. Then, at a complete loss, she looked around
her, then in the chimney and under the bed and finally sank into a
chair, wild with anxiety, convinced that Patin's soul alone was there,
near her, and that he had returned in order to torture her.

Suddenly she remembered the loft, in order to reach which one had to
take a ladder. Surely he must have hidden there in order to surprise
her. He must have been held by savages on some distant shore, unable to
escape until now, and he had returned, worse that ever. There was no
doubting the quality of that voice. She raised her head and asked: “Are
you up there, Patin?”

Patin did not answer. Then, with a terrible fear which made her heart
tremble, she climbed the ladder, opened the skylight, looked, saw
nothing, entered, looked about and found nothing. Sitting on some straw,
she began to cry, but while she was weeping, overcome by a poignant and
supernatural terror, she heard Patin talking in the room below.

He seemed less angry and he was saying: “Nasty weather! Fierce wind!
Nasty weather! I haven't eaten, damn it!”

She cried through the ceiling: “Here I am, Patin; I am getting your meal
ready. Don't get angry.”

She ran down again. There was no one in the room. She felt herself
growing weak, as if death were touching her, and she tried to run and
get help from the neighbors, when a voice near her cried out: “I haven't
had my breakfast, by G—!”

And the parrot in his cage watched her with his round, knowing, wicked
eye. She, too, looked at him wildly, murmuring: “Ah! so it's you!”

He shook his head and continued: “Just you wait! I'll teach you how to
loaf.”

What happened within her? She felt, she understood that it was he, the
dead man, who had come back, who had disguised himself in the feathers
of this bird in order to continue to torment her; that he would curse,
as formerly, all day long, and bite her, and swear at her, in order to
attract the neighbors and make them laugh. Then she rushed for the cage
and seized the bird, which scratched and tore her flesh with its claws
and beak. But she held it with all her strength between her hands. She
threw it on the ground and rolled over it with the frenzy of one
possessed. She crushed it and finally made of it nothing but a little
green, flabby lump which no longer moved or spoke. Then she wrapped it
in a cloth, as in a shroud, and she went out in her nightgown, barefoot;
she crossed the dock, against which the choppy waves of the sea were
beating, and she shook the cloth and let drop this little, dead thing,
which looked like so much grass. Then she returned, threw herself on her
knees before the empty cage, and, overcome by what she had done, kneeled
and prayed for forgiveness, as if she had committed some heinous crime.





THE PIECE OF STRING

It was market-day, and from all the country round Goderville the
peasants and their wives were coming toward the town. The men walked
slowly, throwing the whole body forward at every step of their long,
crooked legs. They were deformed from pushing the plough which makes the
left-shoulder higher, and bends their figures side-ways; from reaping
the grain, when they have to spread their legs so as to keep on their
feet. Their starched blue blouses, glossy as though varnished,
ornamented at collar and cuffs with a little embroidered design and
blown out around their bony bodies, looked very much like balloons about
to soar, whence issued two arms and two feet.

Some of these fellows dragged a cow or a calf at the end of a rope. And
just behind the animal followed their wives beating it over the back
with a leaf-covered branch to hasten its pace, and carrying large
baskets out of which protruded the heads of chickens or ducks. These
women walked more quickly and energetically than the men, with their
erect, dried-up figures, adorned with scanty little shawls pinned over
their flat bosoms, and their heads wrapped round with a white cloth,
enclosing the hair and surmounted by a cap.

Now a char-a-banc passed by, jogging along behind a nag and shaking up
strangely the two men on the seat, and the woman at the bottom of the
cart who held fast to its sides to lessen the hard jolting.

In the market-place at Goderville was a great crowd, a mingled multitude
of men and beasts. The horns of cattle, the high, long-napped hats of
wealthy peasants, the head-dresses of the women came to the surface of
that sea. And the sharp, shrill, barking voices made a continuous, wild
din, while above it occasionally rose a huge burst of laughter from the
sturdy lungs of a merry peasant or a prolonged bellow from a cow tied
fast to the wall of a house.

It all smelled of the stable, of milk, of hay and of perspiration,
giving off that half-human, half-animal odor which is peculiar to
country folks.

Maitre Hauchecorne, of Breaute, had just arrived at Goderville and was
making his way toward the square when he perceived on the ground a
little piece of string. Maitre Hauchecorne, economical as are all true
Normans, reflected that everything was worth picking up which could be
of any use, and he stooped down, but painfully, because he suffered from
rheumatism. He took the bit of thin string from the ground and was
carefully preparing to roll it up when he saw Maitre Malandain, the
harness maker, on his doorstep staring at him. They had once had a
quarrel about a halter, and they had borne each other malice ever since.
Maitre Hauchecorne was overcome with a sort of shame at being seen by
his enemy picking up a bit of string in the road. He quickly hid it
beneath his blouse and then slipped it into his breeches, pocket, then
pretended to be still looking for something on the ground which he did
not discover and finally went off toward the market-place, his head bent
forward and his body almost doubled in two by rheumatic pains.

He was at once lost in the crowd, which kept moving about slowly and
noisily as it chaffered and bargained. The peasants examined the cows,
went off, came back, always in doubt for fear of being cheated, never
quite daring to decide, looking the seller square in the eye in the
effort to discover the tricks of the man and the defect in the beast.

The women, having placed their great baskets at their feet, had taken
out the poultry, which lay upon the ground, their legs tied together,
with terrified eyes and scarlet combs.

They listened to propositions, maintaining their prices in a decided
manner with an impassive face or perhaps deciding to accept the smaller
price offered, suddenly calling out to the customer who was starting to
go away:

“All right, I'll let you have them, Mait' Anthime.”

Then, little by little, the square became empty, and when the Angelus
struck midday those who lived at a distance poured into the inns.

At Jourdain's the great room was filled with eaters, just as the vast
court was filled with vehicles of every sort—wagons, gigs, chars-a-
bancs, tilburies, innumerable vehicles which have no name, yellow with
mud, misshapen, pieced together, raising their shafts to heaven like two
arms, or it may be with their nose on the ground and their rear in the
air.

Just opposite to where the diners were at table the huge fireplace, with
its bright flame, gave out a burning heat on the backs of those who sat
at the right. Three spits were turning, loaded with chickens, with
pigeons and with joints of mutton, and a delectable odor of roast meat
and of gravy flowing over crisp brown skin arose from the hearth,
kindled merriment, caused mouths to water.

All the aristocracy of the plough were eating there at Mait' Jourdain's,
the innkeeper's, a dealer in horses also and a sharp fellow who had made
a great deal of money in his day.

The dishes were passed round, were emptied, as were the jugs of yellow
cider. Every one told of his affairs, of his purchases and his sales.
They exchanged news about the crops. The weather was good for greens,
but too wet for grain.

Suddenly the drum began to beat in the courtyard before the house. Every
one, except some of the most indifferent, was on their feet at once and
ran to the door, to the windows, their mouths full and napkins in their
hand.

When the public crier had finished his tattoo he called forth in a jerky
voice, pausing in the wrong places:

“Be it known to the inhabitants of Goderville and in general to all
persons present at the market that there has been lost this morning on
the Beuzeville road, between nine and ten o'clock, a black leather
pocketbook containing five hundred francs and business papers. You are
requested to return it to the mayor's office at once or to Maitre
Fortune Houlbreque, of Manneville. There will be twenty francs reward.”

Then the man went away. They heard once more at a distance the dull
beating of the drum and the faint voice of the crier. Then they all
began to talk of this incident, reckoning up the chances which Maitre
Houlbreque had of finding or of not finding his pocketbook again.

The meal went on. They were finishing their coffee when the corporal of
gendarmes appeared on the threshold.

He asked:

“Is Maitre Hauchecorne, of Breaute, here?”

Maitre Hauchecorne, seated at the other end of the table answered:

“Here I am, here I am.”

And he followed the corporal.

The mayor was waiting for him, seated in an armchair. He was the notary
of the place, a tall, grave man of pompous speech.

“Maitre Hauchecorne,” said he, “this morning on the Beuzeville road, you
were seen to pick up the pocketbook lost by Maitre Houlbreque, of
Manneville.”

The countryman looked at the mayor in amazement frightened already at
this suspicion which rested on him, he knew not why.

“I—I picked up that pocketbook?”

“Yes, YOU.”

“I swear I don't even know anything about it.”

“You were seen.”

“I was seen—I? Who saw me?”

“M. Malandain, the harness-maker.”

Then the old man remembered, understood, and, reddening with anger,
said:

“Ah! he saw me, did he, the rascal? He saw me picking up this string
here, M'sieu le Maire.”

And fumbling at the bottom of his pocket, he pulled out of it the little
end of string.

But the mayor incredulously shook his head:

“You will not make me believe, Maitre Hauchecorne, that M. Malandain,
who is a man whose word can be relied on, has mistaken this string for a
pocketbook.”

The peasant, furious, raised his hand and spat on the ground beside him
as if to attest his good faith, repeating:

“For all that, it is God's truth, M'sieu le Maire. There! On my soul's
salvation, I repeat it.”

The mayor continued:

“After you picked up the object in question, you even looked about for
some time in the mud to see if a piece of money had not dropped out of
it.”

The good man was choking with indignation and fear.

“How can they tell—how can they tell such lies as that to slander an
honest man! How can they?”

His protestations were in vain; he was not believed.

He was confronted with M. Malandain, who repeated and sustained his
testimony. They railed at one another for an hour. At his own request
Maitre Hauchecorne was searched. Nothing was found on him.

At last the mayor, much perplexed, sent him away, warning him that he
would inform the public prosecutor and ask for orders.

The news had spread. When he left the mayor's office the old man was
surrounded, interrogated with a curiosity which was serious or mocking,
as the case might be, but into which no indignation entered. And he
began to tell the story of the string. They did not believe him. They
laughed.

He passed on, buttonholed by every one, himself buttonholing his
acquaintances, beginning over and over again his tale and his
protestations, showing his pockets turned inside out to prove that he
had nothing in them.

They said to him:

“You old rogue!”

He grew more and more angry, feverish, in despair at not being believed,
and kept on telling his story.

The night came. It was time to go home. He left with three of his
neighbors, to whom he pointed out the place where he had picked up the
string, and all the way he talked of his adventure.

That evening he made the round of the village of Breaute for the purpose
of telling every one. He met only unbelievers.

He brooded over it all night long.

The next day, about one in the afternoon, Marius Paumelle, a farm hand
of Maitre Breton, the market gardener at Ymauville, returned the
pocketbook and its contents to Maitre Holbreque, of Manneville.

This man said, indeed, that he had found it on the road, but not knowing
how to read, he had carried it home and given it to his master.

The news spread to the environs. Maitre Hauchecorne was informed. He
started off at once and began to relate his story with the denoument. He
was triumphant.

“What grieved me,” said he, “was not the thing itself, do you
understand, but it was being accused of lying. Nothing does you so much
harm as being in disgrace for lying.”

All day he talked of his adventure. He told it on the roads to the
people who passed, at the cabaret to the people who drank and next
Sunday when they came out of church. He even stopped strangers to tell
them about it. He was easy now, and yet something worried him without
his knowing exactly what it was. People had a joking manner while they
listened. They did not seem convinced. He seemed to feel their remarks
behind his back.

On Tuesday of the following week he went to market at Goderville,
prompted solely by the need of telling his story.

Malandain, standing on his doorstep, began to laugh as he saw him pass.
Why?

He accosted a farmer of Criquetot, who did not let him finish, and
giving him a punch in the pit of the stomach cried in his face: “Oh, you
great rogue!” Then he turned his heel upon him.

Maitre Hauchecorne remained speechless and grew more and more uneasy.
Why had they called him “great rogue”?

When seated at table in Jourdain's tavern he began again to explain the
whole affair.

A horse dealer of Montivilliers shouted at him:

“Get out, get out, you old scamp! I know all about your old string.”

Hauchecorne stammered:

“But since they found it again, the pocketbook!”

But the other continued:

“Hold your tongue, daddy; there's one who finds it and there's another
who returns it. And no one the wiser.”

The farmer was speechless. He understood at last. They accused him of
having had the pocketbook brought back by an accomplice, by a
confederate.

He tried to protest. The whole table began to laugh.

He could not finish his dinner, and went away amid a chorus of jeers.

He went home indignant, choking with rage, with confusion, the more cast
down since with his Norman craftiness he was, perhaps, capable of having
done what they accused him of and even of boasting of it as a good
trick. He was dimly conscious that it was impossible to prove his
innocence, his craftiness being so well known. He felt himself struck to
the heart by the injustice of the suspicion.

He began anew to tell his tale, lengthening his recital every day, each
day adding new proofs, more energetic declarations and more sacred
oaths, which he thought of, which he prepared in his hours of solitude,
for his mind was entirely occupied with the story of the string. The
more he denied it, the more artful his arguments, the less he was
believed.

“Those are liars proofs,” they said behind his back.

He felt this. It preyed upon him and he exhausted himself in useless
efforts.

He was visibly wasting away.

Jokers would make him tell the story of “the piece of string” to amuse
them, just as you make a soldier who has been on a campaign tell his
story of the battle. His mind kept growing weaker and about the end of
December he took to his bed.

He passed away early in January, and, in the ravings of death agony, he
protested his innocence, repeating:

“A little bit of string—a little bit of string. See, here it is, M'sieu
le Maire.”





ORIGINAL SHORT STORIES, Vol. 9.

GUY DE MAUPASSANT ORIGINAL SHORT STORIES Translated by ALBERT M. C.
McMASTER, B.A. A. E. HENDERSON, B.A. MME. QUESADA and Others





VOLUME IX.





TOINE

He was known for thirty miles round was father Toine—fat Toine, Toine-
my-extra, Antoine Macheble, nicknamed Burnt-Brandy—the innkeeper of
Tournevent.

It was he who had made famous this hamlet buried in a niche in the
valley that led down to the sea, a poor little peasants' hamlet
consisting of ten Norman cottages surrounded by ditches and trees.

The houses were hidden behind a curve which had given the place the name
of Tournevent. It seemed to have sought shelter in this ravine overgrown
with grass and rushes, from the keen, salt sea wind—the ocean wind that
devours and burns like fire, that drys up and withers like the sharpest
frost of winter, just as birds seek shelter in the furrows of the fields
in time of storm.

But the whole hamlet seemed to be the property of Antoine Macheble,
nicknamed Burnt-Brandy, who was called also Toine, or Toine-My-Extra-
Special, the latter in consequence of a phrase current in his mouth:

“My Extra-Special is the best in France:”

His “Extra-Special” was, of course, his cognac.

For the last twenty years he had served the whole countryside with his
Extra-Special and his “Burnt-Brandy,” for whenever he was asked: “What
shall I drink, Toine?” he invariably answered: “A burnt-brandy, my son-
in-law; that warms the inside and clears the head—there's nothing better
for your body.”

He called everyone his son-in-law, though he had no daughter, either
married or to be married.

Well known indeed was Toine Burnt-Brandy, the stoutest man in all
Normandy. His little house seemed ridiculously small, far too small and
too low to hold him; and when people saw him standing at his door, as he
did all day long, they asked one another how he could possibly get
through the door. But he went in whenever a customer appeared, for it
was only right that Toine should be invited to take his thimbleful of
whatever was drunk in his wine shop.

His inn bore the sign: “The Friends' Meeting-Place”—and old Toine was,
indeed, the friend of all. His customers came from Fecamp and
Montvilliers, just for the fun of seeing him and hearing him talk; for
fat Toine would have made a tombstone laugh. He had a way of chaffing
people without offending them, or of winking to express what he didn't
say, of slapping his thighs when he was merry in such a way as to make
you hold your sides, laughing. And then, merely to see him drink was a
curiosity. He drank everything that was offered him, his roguish eyes
twinkling, both with the enjoyment of drinking and at the thought of the
money he was taking in. His was a double pleasure: first, that of
drinking; and second, that of piling up the cash.

You should have heard him quarrelling with his wife! It was worth paying
for to see them together. They had wrangled all the thirty years they
had been married; but Toine was good-humored, while his better-half grew
angry. She was a tall peasant woman, who walked with long steps like a
stork, and had a head resembling that of an angry screech-owl. She spent
her time rearing chickens in a little poultry-yard behind the inn, and
she was noted for her success in fattening them for the table.

Whenever the gentry of Fecamp gave a dinner they always had at least one
of Madame Toine's chickens to be in the fashion.

But she was born ill-tempered, and she went through life in a mood of
perpetual discontent. Annoyed at everyone, she seemed to be particularly
annoyed at her husband. She disliked his gaiety, his reputation, his
rude health, his embonpoint. She treated him as a good-for-nothing
creature because he earned his money without working, and as a glutton
because he ate and drank as much as ten ordinary men; and not a day went
by without her declaring spitefully:

“You'd be better in the stye along with the pigs! You're so fat it makes
me sick to look at you!”

And she would shout in his face:

“Wait! Wait a bit! We'll see! You'll burst one of these fine days like a
sack of corn-you old bloat, you!”

Toine would laugh heartily, patting his corpulent person, and replying:

“Well, well, old hen, why don't you fatten up your chickens like that?
just try!”

And, rolling his sleeves back from his enormous arm, he said:

“That would make a fine wing now, wouldn't it?”

And the customers, doubled up with laughter, would thump the table with
their fists and stamp their feet on the floor.

The old woman, mad with rage, would repeat:

“Wait a bit! Wait a bit! You'll see what'll happen. He'll burst like a
sack of grain!”

And off she would go, amid the jeers and laughter of the drinkers.

Toine was, in fact, an astonishing sight, he was so fat, so heavy, so
red. He was one of those enormous beings with whom Death seems to be
amusing himself—playing perfidious tricks and pranks, investing with an
irresistibly comic air his slow work of destruction. Instead of
manifesting his approach, as with others, in white hairs, in emaciation,
in wrinkles, in the gradual collapse which makes the onlookers say:
“Gad! how he has changed!” he took a malicious pleasure in fattening
Toine, in making him monstrous and absurd, in tingeing his face with a
deep crimson, in giving him the appearance of superhuman health, and the
changes he inflicts on all were in the case of Toine laughable, comic,
amusing, instead of being painful and distressing to witness.

“Wait a bit! Wait a bit!” said his wife. “You'll see.”

At last Toine had an apoplectic fit, and was paralyzed in consequence.
The giant was put to bed in the little room behind the partition of the
drinking-room that he might hear what was said and talk to his friends,
for his head was quite clear although his enormous body was helplessly
inert. It was hoped at first that his immense legs would regain some
degree of power; but this hope soon disappeared, and Toine spent his
days and nights in the bed, which was only made up once a week, with the
help of four neighbors who lifted the innkeeper, each holding a limb,
while his mattress was turned.

He kept his spirits, nevertheless; but his gaiety was of a different
kind—more timid, more humble; and he lived in a constant, childlike fear
of his wife, who grumbled from morning till night:

“Look at him there—the great glutton! the good-for-nothing creature, the
old boozer! Serve him right, serve him right!”

He no longer answered her. He contented himself with winking behind the
old woman's back, and turning over on his other side—the only movement
of which he was now capable. He called this exercise a “tack to the
north” or a “tack to the south.”

His great distraction nowadays was to listen to the conversations in the
bar, and to shout through the wall when he recognized a friend's voice:

“Hallo, my son-in-law! Is that you, Celestin?”

And Celestin Maloisel answered:

“Yes, it's me, Toine. Are you getting about again yet, old fellow?”

“Not exactly getting about,” answered Toine. “But I haven't grown thin;
my carcass is still good.”

Soon he got into the way of asking his intimates into his room to keep
him company, although it grieved him to see that they had to drink
without him. It pained him to the quick that his customers should be
drinking without him.

“That's what hurts worst of all,” he would say: “that I cannot drink my
Extra-Special any more. I can put up with everything else, but going
without drink is the very deuce.”

Then his wife's screech-owl face would appear at the window, and she
would break in with the words:

“Look at him! Look at him now, the good-for-nothing wretch! I've got to
feed him and wash him just as if he were a pig!”

And when the old woman had gone, a cock with red feathers would
sometimes fly up to the window sill and looking into the room with his
round inquisitive eye, would begin to crow loudly. Occasionally, too, a
few hens would flutter as far as the foot of the bed, seeking crumbs on
the floor. Toine's friends soon deserted the drinking room to come and
chat every afternoon beside the invalid's bed. Helpless though he was,
the jovial Toine still provided them with amusement. He would have made
the devil himself laugh. Three men were regular in their attendance at
the bedside: Celestin Maloisel, a tall, thin fellow, somewhat gnarled,
like the trunk of an apple-tree; Prosper Horslaville, a withered little
man with a ferret nose, cunning as a fox; and Cesaire Paumelle, who
never spoke, but who enjoyed Toine's society all the same.

They brought a plank from the yard, propped it upon the edge of the bed,
and played dominoes from two till six.

But Toine's wife soon became insufferable. She could not endure that her
fat, lazy husband should amuse himself at games while lying in his bed;
and whenever she caught him beginning a game she pounced furiously on
the dominoes, overturned the plank, and carried all away into the bar,
declaring that it was quite enough to have to feed that fat, lazy pig
without seeing him amusing himself, as if to annoy poor people who had
to work hard all day long.

Celestin Maloisel and Cesaire Paumelle bent their heads to the storm,
but Prosper Horslaville egged on the old woman, and was only amused at
her wrath.

One day, when she was more angry than usual, he said:

“Do you know what I'd do if I were you?”

She fixed her owl's eyes on him, and waited for his next words.

Prosper went on:

“Your man is as hot as an oven, and he never leaves his bed—well, I'd
make him hatch some eggs.”

She was struck dumb at the suggestion, thinking that Prosper could not
possibly be in earnest. But he continued:

“I'd put five under one arm, and five under the other, the same day that
I set a hen. They'd all come out at the same time; then I'd take your
husband's chickens to the hen to bring up with her own. You'd rear a
fine lot that way.”

“Could it be done?” asked the astonished old woman.

“Could it be done?” echoed the man. “Why not? Since eggs can be hatched
in a warm box why shouldn't they be hatched in a warm bed?”

She was struck by this reasoning, and went away soothed and reflective.

A week later she entered Toine's room with her apron full of eggs, and
said:

“I've just put the yellow hen on ten eggs. Here are ten for you; try not
to break them.”

“What do you want?” asked the amazed Toine.

“I want you to hatch them, you lazy creature!” she answered.

He laughed at first; then, finding she was serious, he got angry, and
refused absolutely to have the eggs put under his great arms, that the
warmth of his body might hatch them.

But the old woman declared wrathfully:

“You'll get no dinner as long as you won't have them. You'll see what'll
happen.”

Tome was uneasy, but answered nothing.

When twelve o'clock struck, he called out:

“Hullo, mother, is the soup ready?”

“There's no soup for you, lazy-bones,” cried the old woman from her
kitchen.

He thought she must be joking, and waited a while. Then he begged,
implored, swore, “tacked to the north” and “tacked to the south,” and
beat on the wall with his fists, but had to consent at last to five eggs
being placed against his left side; after which he had his soup.

When his friends arrived that afternoon they thought he must be ill, he
seemed so constrained and queer.

They started the daily game of dominoes. But Tome appeared to take no
pleasure in it, and reached forth his hand very slowly, and with great
precaution.

“What's wrong with your arm?” asked Horslaville.

“I have a sort of stiffness in the shoulder,” answered Toine.

Suddenly they heard people come into the inn. The players were silent.

It was the mayor with the deputy. They ordered two glasses of Extra-
Special, and began to discuss local affairs. As they were talking in
somewhat low tones Toine wanted to put his ear to the wall, and,
forgetting all about his eggs, he made a sudden “tack to the north,”
which had the effect of plunging him into the midst of an omelette.

At the loud oath he swore his wife came hurrying into the room, and,
guessing what had happened, stripped the bedclothes from him with
lightning rapidity. She stood at first without moving or uttering a
syllable, speechless with indignation at sight of the yellow poultice
sticking to her husband's side.

Then, trembling with fury, she threw herself on the paralytic, showering
on him blows such as those with which she cleaned her linen on the
seashore. Tome's three friends were choking with laughter, coughing,
spluttering and shouting, and the fat innkeeper himself warded his
wife's attacks with all the prudence of which he was capable, that he
might not also break the five eggs at his other side.

Tome was conquered. He had to hatch eggs, he had to give up his games of
dominoes and renounce movement of any sort, for the old woman angrily
deprived him of food whenever he broke an egg.

He lay on his back, with eyes fixed on the ceiling, motionless, his arms
raised like wings, warming against his body the rudimentary chickens
enclosed in their white shells.

He spoke now only in hushed tones; as if he feared a noise as much as
motion, and he took a feverish interest in the yellow hen who was
accomplishing in the poultry-yard the same task as he.

“Has the yellow hen eaten her food all right?” he would ask his wife.

And the old woman went from her fowls to her husband and from her
husband to her fowls, devoured by anxiety as to the welfare of the
little chickens who were maturing in the bed and in the nest.

The country people who knew the story came, agog with curiosity, to ask
news of Toine. They entered his room on tiptoe, as one enters a sick-
chamber, and asked:

“Well! how goes it?”

“All right,” said Toine; “only it keeps me fearfully hot.”

One morning his wife entered in a state of great excitement, and
declared:

“The yellow hen has seven chickens! Three of the eggs were addled.”

Toine's heart beat painfully. How many would he have?

“Will it soon be over?” he asked, with the anguish of a woman who is
about to become a mother.

“It's to be hoped so!” answered the old woman crossly, haunted by fear
of failure.

They waited. Friends of Toine who had got wind that his time was drawing
near arrived, and filled the little room.

Nothing else was talked about in the neighboring cottages. Inquirers
asked one another for news as they stood at their doors.

About three o'clock Toine fell asleep. He slumbered half his time
nowadays. He was suddenly awakened by an unaccustomed tickling under his
right arm. He put his left hand on the spot, and seized a little
creature covered with yellow down, which fluttered in his hand.

His emotion was so great that he cried out, and let go his hold of the
chicken, which ran over his chest. The bar was full of people at the
time. The customers rushed to Toine's room, and made a circle round him
as they would round a travelling showman; while Madame Toine picked up
the chicken, which had taken refuge under her husband's beard.

No one spoke, so great was the tension. It was a warm April day. Outside
the window the yellow hen could be heard calling to her newly-fledged
brood.

Toine, who was perspiring with emotion and anxiety, murmured:

“I have another now—under the left arm.”

His' wife plunged her great bony hand into the bed, and pulled out a
second chicken with all the care of a midwife.

The neighbors wanted to see it. It was passed from one to another, and
examined as if it were a phenomenon.

For twenty minutes no more hatched out, then four emerged at the same
moment from their shells.

There was a great commotion among the lookers-on. And Toine smiled with
satisfaction, beginning to take pride in this unusual sort of paternity.
There were not many like him! Truly, he was a remarkable specimen of
humanity!

“That makes six!” he declared. “Great heavens, what a christening we'll
have!”

And a loud laugh rose from all present. Newcomers filled the bar. They
asked one another:

“How many are there?”

“Six.”

Toine's wife took this new family to the hen, who clucked loudly,
bristled her feathers, and spread her wings wide to shelter her growing
brood of little ones.

“There's one more!” cried Toine.

He was mistaken. There were three! It was an unalloyed triumph! The last
chicken broke through its shell at seven o'clock in the evening. All the
eggs were good! And Toine, beside himself with joy, his brood hatched
out, exultant, kissed the tiny creature on the back, almost suffocating
it. He wanted to keep it in his bed until morning, moved by a mother's
tenderness toward the tiny being which he had brought to life, but the
old woman carried it away like the others, turning a deaf ear to her
husband's entreaties.

The delighted spectators went off to spread the news of the event, and
Horslaville, who was the last to go, asked:

“You'll invite me when the first is cooked, won't you, Toine?”

At this idea a smile overspread the fat man's face, and he answered:

“Certainly I'll invite you, my son-in-law.”





MADAME HUSSON'S “ROSIER”

We had just left Gisors, where I was awakened to hearing the name of the
town called out by the guards, and I was dozing off again when a
terrific shock threw me forward on top of a large lady who sat opposite
me.

One of the wheels of the engine had broken, and the engine itself lay
across the track. The tender and the baggage car were also derailed, and
lay beside this mutilated engine, which rattled, groaned, hissed,
puffed, sputtered, and resembled those horses that fall in the street
with their flanks heaving, their breast palpitating, their nostrils
steaming and their whole body trembling, but incapable of the slightest
effort to rise and start off again.

There were no dead or wounded; only a few with bruises, for the train
was not going at full speed. And we looked with sorrow at the great
crippled iron creature that could not draw us along any more, and that
blocked the track, perhaps for some time, for no doubt they would have
to send to Paris for a special train to come to our aid.

It was then ten o'clock in the morning, and I at once decided to go back
to Gisors for breakfast.

As I was walking along I said to myself:

“Gisors, Gisors—why, I know someone there!

“Who is it? Gisors? Let me see, I have a friend in this town.” A name
suddenly came to my mind, “Albert Marambot.” He was an old school friend
whom I had not seen for at least twelve years, and who was practicing
medicine in Gisors. He had often written, inviting me to come and see
him, and I had always promised to do so, without keeping my word. But at
last I would take advantage of this opportunity.

I asked the first passer-by:

“Do you know where Dr. Marambot lives?”

He replied, without hesitation, and with the drawling accent of the
Normans:

“Rue Dauphine.”

I presently saw, on the door of the house he pointed out, a large brass
plate on which was engraved the name of my old chum. I rang the bell,
but the servant, a yellow-haired girl who moved slowly, said with a
Stupid air:

“He isn't here, he isn't here.”

I heard a sound of forks and of glasses and I cried:

“Hallo, Marambot!”

A door opened and a large man, with whiskers and a cross look on his
face, appeared, carrying a dinner napkin in his hand.

I certainly should not have recognized him. One would have said he was
forty-five at least, and, in a second, all the provincial life which
makes one grow heavy, dull and old came before me. In a single flash of
thought, quicker than the act of extending my hand to him, I could see
his life, his manner of existence, his line of thought and his theories
of things in general. I guessed at the prolonged meals that had rounded
out his stomach, his after-dinner naps from the torpor of a slow
indigestion aided by cognac, and his vague glances cast on the patient
while he thought of the chicken that was roasting before the fire. His
conversations about cooking, about cider, brandy and wine, the way of
preparing certain dishes and of blending certain sauces were revealed to
me at sight of his puffy red cheeks, his heavy lips and his lustreless
eyes.

“You do not recognize me. I am Raoul Aubertin,” I said.

He opened his arms and gave me such a hug that I thought he would choke
me.

“You have not breakfasted, have you?”

“No.”

“How fortunate! I was just sitting down to table and I have an excellent
trout.”

Five minutes later I was sitting opposite him at breakfast. I said:

“Are you a bachelor?”

“Yes, indeed.”

“And do you like it here?”

“Time does not hang heavy; I am busy. I have patients and friends. I eat
well, have good health, enjoy laughing and shooting. I get along.”

“Is not life very monotonous in this little town?”

“No, my dear boy, not when one knows how to fill in the time. A little
town, in fact, is like a large one. The incidents and amusements are
less varied, but one makes more of them; one has fewer acquaintances,
but one meets them more frequently. When you know all the windows in a
street, each one of them interests you and puzzles you more than a whole
street in Paris.

“A little town is very amusing, you know, very amusing, very amusing.
Why, take Gisors. I know it at the tips of my fingers, from its
beginning up to the present time. You have no idea what queer history it
has.”

“Do you belong to Gisors?”

“I? No. I come from Gournay, its neighbor and rival. Gournay is to
Gisors what Lucullus was to Cicero. Here, everything is for glory; they
say 'the proud people of Gisors.' At Gournay, everything is for the
stomach; they say 'the chewers of Gournay.' Gisors despises Gournay, but
Gournay laughs at Gisors. It is a very comical country, this.”

I perceived that I was eating something very delicious, hard-boiled eggs
wrapped in a covering of meat jelly flavored with herbs and put on ice
for a few moments. I said as I smacked my lips to compliment Marambot:

“That is good.”

He smiled.

“Two things are necessary, good jelly, which is hard to get, and good
eggs. Oh, how rare good eggs are, with the yolks slightly reddish, and
with a good flavor! I have two poultry yards, one for eggs and the other
for chickens. I feed my laying hens in a special manner. I have my own
ideas on the subject. In an egg, as in the meat of a chicken, in beef,
or in mutton, in milk, in everything, one perceives, and ought to taste,
the juice, the quintessence of all the food on which the animal has fed.
How much better food we could have if more attention were paid to this!”

I laughed as I said:

“You are a gourmand?”

“Parbleu. It is only imbeciles who are not. One is a gourmand as one is
an artist, as one is learned, as one is a poet. The sense of taste, my
friend, is very delicate, capable of perfection, and quite as worthy of
respect as the eye and the ear. A person who lacks this sense is
deprived of an exquisite faculty, the faculty of discerning the quality
of food, just as one may lack the faculty of discerning the beauties of
a book or of a work of art; it means to be deprived of an essential
organ, of something that belongs to higher humanity; it means to belong
to one of those innumerable classes of the infirm, the unfortunate, and
the fools of which our race is composed; it means to have the mouth of
an animal, in a word, just like the mind of an animal. A man who cannot
distinguish one kind of lobster from another; a herring—that admirable
fish that has all the flavors, all the odors of the sea—from a mackerel
or a whiting; and a Cresane from a Duchess pear, may be compared to a
man who should mistake Balzac for Eugene Sue; a symphony of Beethoven
for a military march composed by the bandmaster of a regiment; and the
Apollo Belvidere for the statue of General de Blaumont.

“Who is General de Blaumont?”

“Oh, that's true, you do not know. It is easy to tell that you do not
belong to Gisors. I told you just now, my dear boy, that they called the
inhabitants of this town 'the proud people of Gisors,' and never was an
epithet better deserved. But let us finish breakfast first, and then I
will tell you about our town and take you to see it.”

He stopped talking every now and then while he slowly drank a glass of
wine which he gazed at affectionately as he replaced the glass on the
table.

It was amusing to see him, with a napkin tied around his neck, his
cheeks flushed, his eyes eager, and his whiskers spreading round his
mouth as it kept working.

He made me eat until I was almost choking. Then, as I was about to
return to the railway station, he seized me by the arm and took me
through the streets. The town, of a pretty, provincial type, commanded
by its citadel, the most curious monument of military architecture of
the seventh century to be found in France, overlooks, in its turn, a
long, green valley, where the large Norman cows graze and ruminate in
the pastures.

The doctor quoted:

“'Gisors, a town of 4,000 inhabitants in the department of Eure,
mentioned in Caesar's Commentaries: Caesaris ostium, then Caesartium,
Caesortium, Gisortium, Gisors.' I shall not take you to visit the old
Roman encampment, the remains of which are still in existence.”

I laughed and replied:

“My dear friend, it seems to me that you are affected with a special
malady that, as a doctor, you ought to study; it is called the spirit of
provincialism.”

He stopped abruptly.

“The spirit of provincialism, my friend, is nothing but natural
patriotism,” he said. “I love my house, my town and my province because
I discover in them the customs of my own village; but if I love my
country, if I become angry when a neighbor sets foot in it, it is
because I feel that my home is in danger, because the frontier that I do
not know is the high road to my province. For instance, I am a Norman, a
true Norman; well, in spite of my hatred of the German and my desire for
revenge, I do not detest them, I do not hate them by instinct as I hate
the English, the real, hereditary natural enemy of the Normans; for the
English traversed this soil inhabited by my ancestors, plundered and
ravaged it twenty times, and my aversion to this perfidious people was
transmitted to me at birth by my father. See, here is the statue of the
general.”

“What general?”

“General Blaumont! We had to have a statue. We are not 'the proud people
of Gisors' for nothing! So we discovered General de Blaumont. Look in
this bookseller's window.”

He drew me towards the bookstore, where about fifteen red, yellow and
blue volumes attracted the eye. As I read the titles, I began to laugh
idiotically. They read:

Gisors, its origin, its future, by M. X. . . ., member of several
learned societies; History of Gisors, by the Abbe A . . .; Gisors from
the time of Caesar to the present day, by M. B. . . ., Landowner; Gisors
and its environs, by Doctor C. D. . . .; The Glories of Gisors, by a
Discoverer.

“My friend,” resumed Marambot, “not a year, not a single year, you
understand, passes without a fresh history of Gisors being published
here; we now have twenty-three.”

“And the glories of Gisors?” I asked.

“Oh, I will not mention them all, only the principal ones. We had first
General de Blaumont, then Baron Davillier, the celebrated ceramist who
explored Spain and the Balearic Isles, and brought to the notice of
collectors the wonderful Hispano-Arabic china. In literature we have a
very clever journalist, now dead, Charles Brainne, and among those who
are living, the very eminent editor of the Nouvelliste de Rouen, Charles
Lapierre . . . and many others, many others.”

We were traversing along street with a gentle incline, with a June sun
beating down on it and driving the residents into their houses.

Suddenly there appeared at the farther end of the street a drunken man
who was staggering along, with his head forward his arms and legs limp.
He would walk forward rapidly three, six, or ten steps and then stop.
When these energetic movements landed him in the middle of the road he
stopped short and swayed on his feet, hesitating between falling and a
fresh start. Then he would dart off in any direction, sometimes falling
against the wall of a house, against which he seemed to be fastened, as
though he were trying to get in through the wall. Then he would suddenly
turn round and look ahead of him, his mouth open and his eyes blinking
in the sunlight, and getting away from the wall by a movement of the
hips, he started off once more.

A little yellow dog, a half-starved cur, followed him, barking; stopping
when he stopped, and starting off when he started.

“Hallo,” said Marambot, “there is Madame Husson's 'Rosier'.

“Madame Husson's 'Rosier',” I exclaimed in astonishment. “What do you
mean?”

The doctor began to laugh.

“Oh, that is what we call drunkards round here. The name comes from an
old story which has now become a legend, although it is true in all
respects.”

“Is it an amusing story?”

“Very amusing.”

“Well, then, tell it to me.”

“I will.”

There lived formerly in this town a very upright old lady who was a
great guardian of morals and was called Mme. Husson. You know, I am
telling you the real names and not imaginary ones. Mme. Husson took a
special interest in good works, in helping the poor and encouraging the
deserving. She was a little woman with a quick walk and wore a black
wig. She was ceremonious, polite, on very good terms with the Almighty
in the person of Abby Malon, and had a profound horror, an inborn horror
of vice, and, in particular, of the vice the Church calls
lasciviousness. Any irregularity before marriage made her furious,
exasperated her till she was beside herself.

Now, this was the period when they presented a prize as a reward of
virtue to any girl in the environs of Paris who was found to be chaste.
She was called a Rosiere, and Mme. Husson got the idea that she would
institute a similar ceremony at Gisors. She spoke about it to Abbe
Malon, who at once made out a list of candidates.

However, Mme. Husson had a servant, an old woman called Francoise, as
upright as her mistress. As soon as the priest had left, madame called
the servant and said:

“Here, Francoise, here are the girls whose names M. le cure has
submitted to me for the prize of virtue; try and find out what
reputation they bear in the district.”

And Francoise set out. She collected all the scandal, all the stories,
all the tattle, all the suspicions. That she might omit nothing, she
wrote it all down together with her memoranda in her housekeeping book,
and handed it each morning to Mme. Husson, who, after adjusting her
spectacles on her thin nose, read as follows:

Bread...........................four sous
Milk............................two sous Butter
.........................eight sous Malvina Levesque got into trouble
last year with Mathurin Poilu. Leg of mutton...................twenty-
five sous Salt............................one sou Rosalie Vatinel was
seen in the Riboudet woods with Cesaire Pienoir, by Mme. Onesime, the
ironer, on July the 20th about dusk. Radishes........................one
sou Vinegar.........................two sous Oxalic
acid.....................two sous

Josephine Durdent, who is not believed to have committed a fault,
although she corresponds with young Oportun, who is in service in Rouen,
and who sent her a present of a cap by diligence.

Not one came out unscathed in this rigorous inquisition. Francoise
inquired of everyone, neighbors, drapers, the principal, the teaching
sisters at school, and gathered the slightest details.

As there is not a girl in the world about whom gossips have not found
something to say, there was not found in all the countryside one young
girl whose name was free from some scandal.

But Mme. Husson desired that the “Rosiere” of Gisors, like Caesar's
wife, should be above suspicion, and she was horrified, saddened and in
despair at the record in her servant's housekeeping account-book.

They then extended their circle of inquiries to the neighboring
villages; but with no satisfaction.

They consulted the mayor. His candidates failed. Those of Dr. Barbesol
were equally unlucky, in spite of the exactness of his scientific
vouchers.

But one morning Francoise, on returning from one of her expeditions,
said to her mistress:

“You see, madame, that if you wish to give a prize to anyone, there is
only Isidore in all the country round.”

Mme. Husson remained thoughtful. She knew him well, this Isidore, the
son of Virginie the greengrocer. His proverbial virtue had been the
delight of Gisors for several years, and served as an entertaining theme
of conversation in the town, and of amusement to the young girls who
loved to tease him. He was past twenty-one, was tall, awkward, slow and
timid; helped his mother in the business, and spent his days picking
over fruit and vegetables, seated on a chair outside the door.

He had an abnormal dread of a petticoat and cast down his eyes whenever
a female customer looked at him smilingly, and this well-known timidity
made him the butt of all the wags in the country.

Bold words, coarse expressions, indecent allusions, brought the color to
his cheeks so quickly that Dr. Barbesol had nicknamed him “the
thermometer of modesty.” Was he as innocent as he looked? ill-natured
people asked themselves. Was it the mere presentiment of unknown and
shameful mysteries or else indignation at the relations ordained as the
concomitant of love that so strongly affected the son of Virginie the
greengrocer? The urchins of the neighborhood as they ran past the shop
would fling disgusting remarks at him just to see him cast down his
eyes. The girls amused themselves by walking up and down before him,
cracking jokes that made him go into the store. The boldest among them
teased him to his face just to have a laugh, to amuse themselves, made
appointments with him and proposed all sorts of things.

So Madame Husson had become thoughtful.

Certainly, Isidore was an exceptional case of notorious, unassailable
virtue. No one, among the most sceptical, most incredulous, would have
been able, would have dared, to suspect Isidore of the slightest
infraction of any law of morality. He had never been seen in a cafe,
never been seen at night on the street. He went to bed at eight o'clock
and rose at four. He was a perfection, a pearl.

But Mme. Husson still hesitated. The idea of substituting a boy for a
girl, a “rosier” for a “rosiere,” troubled her, worried her a little,
and she resolved to consult Abbe Malon.

The abbe responded:

“What do you desire to reward, madame? It is virtue, is it not, and
nothing but virtue? What does it matter to you, therefore, if it is
masculine or feminine? Virtue is eternal; it has neither sex nor
country; it is 'Virtue.'”

Thus encouraged, Mme. Husson went to see the mayor.

He approved heartily.

“We will have a fine ceremony,” he said. “And another year if we can
find a girl as worthy as Isidore we will give the reward to her. It will
even be a good example that we shall set to Nanterre. Let us not be
exclusive; let us welcome all merit.”

Isidore, who had been told about this, blushed deeply and seemed happy.

The ceremony was fixed for the 15th of August, the festival of the
Virgin Mary and of the Emperor Napoleon. The municipality had decided to
make an imposing ceremony and had built the platform on the couronneaux,
a delightful extension of the ramparts of the old citadel where I will
take you presently.

With the natural revulsion of public feeling, the virtue of Isidore,
ridiculed hitherto, had suddenly become respected and envied, as it
would bring him in five hundred francs besides a savings bank book, a
mountain of consideration, and glory enough and to spare. The girls now
regretted their frivolity, their ridicule, their bold manners; and
Isidore, although still modest and timid, had now a little contented air
that bespoke his internal satisfaction.

The evening before the 15th of August the entire Rue Dauphine was
decorated with flags. Oh, I forgot to tell you why this street had been
called Rue Dauphine.

It seems that the wife or mother of the dauphin, I do not remember which
one, while visiting Gisors had been feted so much by the authorities
that during a triumphal procession through the town she stopped before
one of the houses in this street, halting the procession, and exclaimed:

“Oh, the pretty house! How I should like to go through it! To whom does
it belong?”

They told her the name of the owner, who was sent for and brought, proud
and embarrassed, before the princess. She alighted from her carriage,
went into the house, wishing to go over it from top to bottom, and even
shut herself in one of the rooms alone for a few seconds.

When she came out, the people, flattered at this honor paid to a citizen
of Gisors, shouted “Long live the dauphine!” But a rhymester wrote some
words to a refrain, and the street retained the title of her royal
highness, for

“The princess, in a hurry, Without bell, priest, or beadle, But with
some water only, Had baptized it.”


But to come back to Isidore.

They had scattered flowers all along the road as they do for processions
at the Fete-Dieu, and the National Guard was present, acting on the
orders of their chief, Commandant Desbarres, an old soldier of the Grand
Army, who pointed with pride to the beard of a Cossack cut with a single
sword stroke from the chin of its owner by the commandant during the
retreat in Russia, and which hung beside the frame containing the cross
of the Legion of Honor presented to him by the emperor himself.

The regiment that he commanded was, besides, a picked regiment
celebrated all through the province, and the company of grenadiers of
Gisors was called on to attend all important ceremonies for a distance
of fifteen to twenty leagues. The story goes that Louis Philippe, while
reviewing the militia of Eure, stopped in astonishment before the
company from Gisors, exclaiming:

“Oh, who are those splendid grenadiers?”

“The grenadiers of Gisors,” replied the general.

“I might have known it,” murmured the king.

So Commandant Desbarres came at the head of his men, preceded by the
band, to get Isidore in his mother's store.

After a little air had been played by the band beneath the windows, the
“Rosier” himself appeared—on the threshold. He was dressed in white duck
from head to foot and wore a straw hat with a little bunch of orange
blossoms as a cockade.

The question of his clothes had bothered Mme. Husson a good deal, and
she hesitated some time between the black coat of those who make their
first communion and an entire white suit. But Francoise, her counsellor,
induced her to decide on the white suit, pointing out that the Rosier
would look like a swan.

Behind him came his guardian, his godmother, Mme. Husson, in triumph.
She took his arm to go out of the store, and the mayor placed himself on
the other side of the Rosier. The drums beat. Commandant Desbarres gave
the order “Present arms!” The procession resumed its march towards the
church amid an immense crowd of people who has gathered from the
neighboring districts.

After a short mass and an affecting discourse by Abbe Malon, they
continued on their way to the couronneaux, where the banquet was served
in a tent.

Before taking their seats at table, the mayor gave an address. This is
it, word for word. I learned it by heart:

“Young man, a woman of means, beloved by the poor and respected by the
rich, Mme. Husson, whom the whole country is thanking here, through me,
had the idea, the happy and benevolent idea, of founding in this town a
prize for virtue, which should serve as a valuable encouragement to the
inhabitants of this beautiful country.

“You, young man, are the first to be rewarded in this dynasty of
goodness and chastity. Your name will remain at the head of this list of
the most deserving, and your life, understand me, your whole life, must
correspond to this happy commencement. To-day, in presence of this noble
woman, of these soldier-citizens who have taken up their arms in your
honor, in presence of this populace, affected, assembled to applaud you,
or, rather, to applaud virtue, in your person, you make a solemn
contract with the town, with all of us, to continue until your death the
excellent example of your youth.

“Do not forget, young man, that you are the first seed cast into this
field of hope; give us the fruits that we expect of you.”

The mayor advanced three steps, opened his arms and pressed Isidore to
his heart.

The “Rosier” was sobbing without knowing why, from a confused emotion,
from pride and a vague and happy feeling of tenderness.

Then the mayor placed in one hand a silk purse in which gold tingled
—five hundred francs in gold!—and in his other hand a savings bank book.
And he said in a solemn tone:

“Homage, glory and riches to virtue.”

Commandant Desbarres shouted “Bravo!” the grenadiers vociferated, and
the crowd applauded.

Mme. Husson wiped her eyes, in her turn. Then they all sat down at the
table where the banquet was served.

The repast was magnificent and seemed interminable. One course followed
another; yellow cider and red wine in fraternal contact blended in the
stomach of the guests. The rattle of plates, the sound of voices, and of
music softly played, made an incessant deep hum, and was dispersed
abroad in the clear sky where the swallows were flying. Mme. Husson
occasionally readjusted her black wig, which would slip over on one
side, and chatted with Abbe Malon. The mayor, who was excited, talked
politics with Commandant Desbarres, and Isidore ate, drank, as if he had
never eaten or drunk before. He helped himself repeatedly to all the
dishes, becoming aware for the first time of the pleasure of having
one's belly full of good things which tickle the palate in the first
place. He had let out a reef in his belt and, without speaking, and
although he was a little uneasy at a wine stain on his white waistcoat,
he ceased eating in order to take up his glass and hold it to his mouth
as long as possible, to enjoy the taste slowly.

It was time for the toasts. They were many and loudly applauded. Evening
was approaching and they had been at the table since noon. Fine, milky
vapors were already floating in the air in the valley, the light night-
robe of streams and meadows; the sun neared the horizon; the cows were
lowing in the distance amid the mists of the pasture. The feast was
over. They returned to Gisors. The procession, now disbanded, walked in
detachments. Mme. Husson had taken Isidore's arm and was giving him a
quantity of urgent, excellent advice.

They stopped at the door of the fruit store, and the “Rosier” was left
at his mother's house. She had not come home yet. Having been invited by
her family to celebrate her son's triumph, she had taken luncheon with
her sister after having followed the procession as far as the banqueting
tent.

So Isidore remained alone in the store, which was growing dark. He sat
down on a chair, excited by the wine and by pride, and looked about him.
Carrots, cabbages, and onions gave out their strong odor of vegetables
in the closed room, that coarse smell of the garden blended with the
sweet, penetrating odor of strawberries and the delicate, slight,
evanescent fragrance of a basket of peaches.

The “Rosier” took one of these and ate it, although he was as full as an
egg. Then, all at once, wild with joy, he began to dance about the
store, and something rattled in his waistcoat.

He was surprised, and put his hand in his pocket and brought out the
purse containing the five hundred francs, which he had forgotten in his
agitation. Five hundred francs! What a fortune! He poured the gold
pieces out on the counter and spread them out with his big hand with a
slow, caressing touch so as to see them all at the same time. There were
twenty-five, twenty-five round gold pieces, all gold! They glistened on
the wood in the dim light and he counted them over and over, one by one.
Then he put them back in the purse, which he replaced in his pocket.

Who will ever know or who can tell what a terrible conflict took place
in the soul of the “Rosier” between good and evil, the tumultuous attack
of Satan, his artifices, the temptations which he offered to this timid
virgin heart? What suggestions, what imaginations, what desires were not
invented by the evil one to excite and destroy this chosen one? He
seized his hat, Mme. Husson's saint, his hat, which still bore the
little bunch of orange blossoms, and going out through the alley at the
back of the house, he disappeared in the darkness.

Virginie, the fruiterer, on learning that her son had returned, went
home at once, and found the house empty. She waited, without thinking
anything about it at first; but at the end of a quarter of an hour she
made inquiries. The neighbors had seen Isidore come home and had not
seen him go out again. They began to look for him, but could not find
him. His mother, in alarm, went to the mayor. The mayor knew nothing,
except that he had left him at the door of his home. Mme. Husson had
just retired when they informed her that her protege had disappeared.
She immediately put on her wig, dressed herself and went to Virginie's
house. Virginie, whose plebeian soul was readily moved, was weeping
copiously amid her cabbages, carrots and onions.

They feared some accident had befallen him. What could it be? Commandant
Desbarres notified the police, who made a circuit of the town, and on
the high road to Pontoise they found the little bunch of orange
blossoms. It was placed on a table around which the authorities were
deliberating. The “Rosier” must have been the victim of some stratagem,
some trick, some jealousy; but in what way? What means had been employed
to kidnap this innocent creature, and with what object?

Weary of looking for him without any result, Virginie, alone, remained
watching and weeping.

The following evening, when the coach passed by on its return from
Paris, Gisors learned with astonishment that its “Rosier” had stopped
the vehicle at a distance of about two hundred metres from the town, had
climbed up on it and paid his fare, handing over a gold piece and
receiving the change, and that he had quietly alighted in the centre of
the great city.

There was great excitement all through the countryside. Letters passed
between the mayor and the chief of police in Paris, but brought no
result.

The days followed one another, a week passed.

Now, one morning, Dr. Barbesol, who had gone out early, perceived,
sitting on a doorstep, a man dressed in a grimy linen suit, who was
sleeping with his head leaning against the wall. He approached him and
recognized Isidore. He tried to rouse him, but did not succeed in doing
so. The ex-“Rosier” was in that profound, invincible sleep that is
alarming, and the doctor, in surprise, went to seek assistance to help
him in carrying the young man to Boncheval's drugstore. When they lifted
him up they found an empty bottle under him, and when the doctor sniffed
at it, he declared that it had contained brandy. That gave a suggestion
as to what treatment he would require. They succeeded in rousing him.

Isidore was drunk, drunk and degraded by a week of guzzling, drunk and
so disgusting that a ragman would not have touched him. His beautiful
white duck suit was a gray rag, greasy, muddy, torn, and destroyed, and
he smelt of the gutter and of vice.

He was washed, sermonized, shut up, and did not leave the house for four
days. He seemed ashamed and repentant. They could not find on him either
his purse, containing the five hundred francs, or the bankbook, or even
his silver watch, a sacred heirloom left by his father, the fruiterer.

On the fifth day he ventured into the Rue Dauphine, Curious glances
followed him and he walked along with a furtive expression in his eyes
and his head bent down. As he got outside the town towards the valley
they lost sight of him; but two hours later he returned laughing and
rolling against the walls. He was drunk, absolutely drunk.

Nothing could cure him.

Driven from home by his mother, he became a wagon driver, and drove the
charcoal wagons for the Pougrisel firm, which is still in existence.

His reputation as a drunkard became so well known and spread so far that
even at Evreux they talked of Mme. Husson's “Rosier,” and the sots of
the countryside have been given that nickname.

A good deed is never lost.

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

“Did you know the 'Rosier'?”

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

“What did he die of?”

“An attack of delirium tremens, of course.”

We had arrived at the old citadel, a pile of ruined walls dominated by
the enormous tower of St. Thomas of Canterbury and the one called the
Prisoner's Tower.

Marambot told me the story of this prisoner, who, with the aid of a
nail, covered the walls of his dungeon with sculptures, tracing the
reflections of the sun as it glanced through the narrow slit of a
loophole.

I also learned that Clothaire II had given the patrimony of Gisors to
his cousin, Saint Romain, bishop of Rouen; that Gisors ceased to be the
capital of the whole of Vexin after the treaty of Saint-Clair-sur-Epte;
that the town is the chief strategic centre of all that portion of
France, and that in consequence of this advantage she was taken and
retaken over and over again. At the command of William the Red, the
eminent engineer, Robert de Bellesme, constructed there a powerful
fortress that was attacked later by Louis le Gros, then by the Norman
barons, was defended by Robert de Candos, was finally ceded to Louis le
Gros by Geoffry Plantagenet, was retaken by the English in consequence
of the treachery of the Knights-Templars, was contested by Philippe-
Augustus and Richard the Lionhearted, was set on fire by Edward III of
England, who could not take the castle, was again taken by the English
in 1419, restored later to Charles VIII by Richard de Marbury, was taken
by the Duke of Calabria occupied by the League, inhabited by Henry IV,
etc., etc.

And Marambot, eager and almost eloquent, continued:

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

Then, after a silence, stretching out his arm towards the tiny river
that glistened in the meadows, he said:

“Did you know that Henry Monnier was one of the most untiring fishermen
on the banks of the Epte?”

“No, I did not know it.”

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

“You are joking!”

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





THE ADOPTED SON

The two cottages stood beside each other at the foot of a hill near a
little seashore resort. The two peasants labored hard on the
unproductive soil to rear their little ones, and each family had four.

Before the adjoining doors a whole troop of urchins played and tumbled
about from morning till night. The two eldest were six years old, and
the youngest were about fifteen months; the marriages, and afterward the
births, having taken place nearly simultaneously in both families.

The two mothers could hardly distinguish their own offspring among the
lot, and as for the fathers, they were altogether at sea. The eight
names danced in their heads; they were always getting them mixed up; and
when they wished to call one child, the men often called three names
before getting the right one.

The first of the two cottages, as you came up from the bathing beach,
Rolleport, was occupied by the Tuvaches, who had three girls and one
boy; the other house sheltered the Vallins, who had one girl and three
boys.

They all subsisted frugally on soup, potatoes and fresh air. At seven
o'clock in the morning, then at noon, then at six o'clock in the
evening, the housewives got their broods together to give them their
food, as the gooseherds collect their charges. The children were seated,
according to age, before the wooden table, varnished by fifty years of
use; the mouths of the youngest hardly reaching the level of the table.
Before them was placed a bowl filled with bread, soaked in the water in
which the potatoes had been boiled, half a cabbage and three onions; and
the whole line ate until their hunger was appeased. The mother herself
fed the smallest.

A small pot roast on Sunday was a feast for all; and the father on this
day sat longer over the meal, repeating: “I wish we could have this
every day.”

One afternoon, in the month of August, a phaeton stopped suddenly in
front of the cottages, and a young woman, who was driving the horses,
said to the gentleman sitting at her side:

“Oh, look at all those children, Henri! How pretty they are, tumbling
about in the dust, like that!”

The man did not answer, accustomed to these outbursts of admiration,
which were a pain and almost a reproach to him. The young woman
continued:

“I must hug them! Oh, how I should like to have one of them—that one
there—the little tiny one!”

Springing down from the carriage, she ran toward the children, took one
of the two youngest—a Tuvache child—and lifting it up in her arms, she
kissed him passionately on his dirty cheeks, on his tousled hair daubed
with earth, and on his little hands, with which he fought vigorously, to
get away from the caresses which displeased him.

Then she got into the carriage again, and drove off at a lively trot.
But she returned the following week, and seating herself on the ground,
took the youngster in her arms, stuffed him with cakes; gave candies to
all the others, and played with them like a young girl, while the
husband waited patiently in the carriage.

She returned again; made the acquaintance of the parents, and reappeared
every day with her pockets full of dainties and pennies.

Her name was Madame Henri d'Hubieres.

One morning, on arriving, her husband alighted with her, and without
stopping to talk to the children, who now knew her well, she entered the
farmer's cottage.

They were busy chopping wood for the fire. They rose to their feet in
surprise, brought forward chairs, and waited expectantly.

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

“My good people, I have come to see you, because I should like—I should
like to take—your little boy with me—”

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

She recovered her breath, and continued: “We are alone, my husband and
I. We would keep it. Are you willing?”

The peasant woman began to understand. She asked:

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

Then M. d'Hubieres intervened:

“My wife has not made her meaning clear. We wish to adopt him, but he
will come back to see you. If he turns out well, as there is every
reason to expect, he will be our heir. If we, perchance, should have
children, he will share equally with them; but if he should not reward
our care, we should give him, when he comes of age, a sum of twenty
thousand francs, which shall be deposited immediately in his name, with
a lawyer. As we have thought also of you, we should pay you, until your
death, a pension of one hundred francs a month. Do you understand me?”

The woman had arisen, furious.

“You want me to sell you Charlot? Oh, no, that's not the sort of thing
to ask of a mother! Oh, no! That would be an abomination!”

The man, grave and deliberate, said nothing; but approved of what his
wife said by a continued nodding of his head.

Madame d'Hubieres, in dismay, began to weep; turning to her husband,
with a voice full of tears, the voice of a child used to having all its
wishes gratified, she stammered:

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

Then he made a last attempt: “But, my friends, think of the child's
future, of his happiness, of—”

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

“It's all considered! It's all understood! Get out of here, and don't
let me see you again—the idea of wanting to take away a child like
that!”

Madame d'Hubieres remembered that there were two children, quite little,
and she asked, through her tears, with the tenacity of a wilful and
spoiled woman:

“But is the other little one not yours?”

Father Tuvache answered: “No, it is our neighbors'. You can go to them
if you wish.” And he went back into his house, whence resounded the
indignant voice of his wife.

The Vallins were at table, slowly eating slices of bread which they
parsimoniously spread with a little rancid butter on a plate between the
two.

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

The two country people shook their heads, in sign of refusal, but when
they learned that they were to have a hundred francs a month, they
considered the matter, consulting one another by glances, much
disturbed. They kept silent for a long time, tortured, hesitating. At
last the woman asked: “What do you say to it, man?” In a weighty tone he
said: “I say that it's not to be despised.”

Madame d'Hubieres, trembling with anguish, spoke of the future of their
child, of his happiness, and of the money which he could give them
later.

The peasant asked: “This pension of twelve hundred francs, will it be
promised before a lawyer?”

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

The woman, who was thinking it over, continued:

“A hundred francs a month is not enough to pay for depriving us of the
child. That child would be working in a few years; we must have a
hundred and twenty francs.”

Tapping her foot with impatience, Madame d'Hubieres granted it at once,
and, as she wished to carry off the child with her, she gave a hundred
francs extra, as a present, while her husband drew up a paper. And the
young woman, radiant, carried off the howling brat, as one carries away
a wished-for knick-knack from a shop.

The Tuvaches, from their door, watched her departure, silent, serious,
perhaps regretting their refusal.

Nothing more was heard of little Jean Vallin. The parents went to the
lawyer every month to collect their hundred and twenty francs. They had
quarrelled with their neighbors, because Mother Tuvache grossly insulted
them, continually, repeating from door to door that one must be
unnatural to sell one's child; that it was horrible, disgusting,
bribery. Sometimes she would take her Charlot in her arms,
ostentatiously exclaiming, as if he understood:

“I didn't sell you, I didn't! I didn't sell you, my little one! I'm not
rich, but I don't sell my children!”

The Vallins lived comfortably, thanks to the pension. That was the cause
of the unappeasable fury of the Tuvaches, who had remained miserably
poor. Their eldest went away to serve his time in the army; Charlot
alone remained to labor with his old father, to support the mother and
two younger sisters.

He had reached twenty-one years when, one morning, a brilliant carriage
stopped before the two cottages. A young gentleman, with a gold watch-
chain, got out, giving his hand to an aged, white-haired lady. The old
lady said to him: “It is there, my child, at the second house.” And he
entered the house of the Vallins as though at home.

The old mother was washing her aprons; the infirm father slumbered at
the chimney-corner. Both raised their heads, and the young man said:

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

They both stood up, frightened! In a flutter, the peasant woman dropped
her soap into the water, and stammered:

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

He took her in his arms and hugged her, repeating: “Good-morning,
mamma,” while the old man, all a-tremble, said, in his calm tone which
he never lost: “Here you are, back again, Jean,” as if he had just seen
him a month ago.

When they had got to know one another again, the parents wished to take
their boy out in the neighborhood, and show him. They took him to the
mayor, to the deputy, to the cure, and to the schoolmaster.

Charlot, standing on the threshold of his cottage, watched him pass. In
the evening, at supper, he said to the old people: “You must have been
stupid to let the Vallins' boy be taken.”

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

The father remained silent. The son continued:

“It is unfortunate to be sacrificed like that.”

Then Father Tuvache, in an angry tone, said:

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

“Yes, I reproach you for having been such fools. Parents like you make
the misfortune of their children. You deserve that I should leave you.”
The old woman wept over her plate. She moaned, as she swallowed the
spoonfuls of soup, half of which she spilled: “One may kill one's self
to bring up children!”

Then the boy said, roughly: “I'd rather not have been born than be what
I am. When I saw the other, my heart stood still. I said to myself: 'See
what I should have been now!'” He got up: “See here, I feel that I would
do better not to stay here, because I would throw it up to you from
morning till night, and I would make your life miserable. I'll never
forgive you for that!”

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

He continued: “No, the thought of that would be too much. I'd rather
look for a living somewhere else.”

He opened the door. A sound of voices came in at the door. The Vallins
were celebrating the return of their child.





COWARD

In society he was called “Handsome Signoles.” His name was Vicomte
Gontran-Joseph de Signoles.

An orphan, and possessed of an ample fortune, he cut quite a dash, as it
is called. He had an attractive appearance and manner, could talk well,
had a certain inborn elegance, an air of pride and nobility, a good
mustache, and a tender eye, that always finds favor with women.

He was in great request at receptions, waltzed to perfection, and was
regarded by his own sex with that smiling hostility accorded to the
popular society man. He had been suspected of more than one love affair,
calculated to enhance the reputation of a bachelor. He lived a happy,
peaceful life—a life of physical and mental well-being. He had won
considerable fame as a swordsman, and still more as a marksman.

“When the time comes for me to fight a duel,” he said, “I shall choose
pistols. With such a weapon I am sure to kill my man.”

One evening, having accompanied two women friends of his with their
husbands to the theatre, he invited them to take some ice cream at
Tortoni's after the performance. They had been seated a few minutes in
the restaurant when Signoles noticed that a man was staring persistently
at one of the ladies. She seemed annoyed, and lowered her eyes. At last
she said to her husband:

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

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

“No; not in the least.”

His wife continued, half smiling, half angry:

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

The husband shrugged his shoulders.

“Nonsense! Don't take any notice of him. If we were to bother our heads
about all the ill-mannered people we should have no time for anything
else.”

But the vicomte abruptly left his seat. He could not allow this insolent
fellow to spoil an ice for a guest of his. It was for him to take
cognizance of the offence, since it was through him that his friends had
come to the restaurant. He went across to the man and said:

“Sir, you are staring at those ladies in a manner I cannot permit. I
must ask you to desist from your rudeness.”

The other replied:

“Let me alone, will you!”

“Take care, sir,” said the vicomte between his teeth, “or you will force
me to extreme measures.”

The man replied with a single word—a foul word, which could be heard
from one end of the restaurant to the other, and which startled every
one there. All those whose backs were toward the two disputants turned
round; all the others raised their heads; three waiters spun round on
their heels like tops; the two lady cashiers jumped, as if shot, then
turned their bodies simultaneously, like two automata worked by the same
spring.

There was dead silence. Then suddenly a sharp, crisp sound. The vicomte
had slapped his adversary's face. Every one rose to interfere. Cards
were exchanged.

When the vicomte reached home he walked rapidly up and down his room for
some minutes. He was in a state of too great agitation to think
connectedly. One idea alone possessed him: a duel. But this idea aroused
in him as yet no emotion of any kind. He had done what he was bound to
do; he had proved himself to be what he ought to be. He would be talked
about, approved, congratulated. He repeated aloud, speaking as one does
when under the stress of great mental disturbance:

“What a brute of a man!” Then he sat down, and began to reflect. He
would have to find seconds as soon as morning came. Whom should he
choose? He bethought himself of the most influential and best-known men
of his acquaintance. His choice fell at last on the Marquis de la Tour-
Noire and Colonel Bourdin-a nobleman and a soldier. That would be just
the thing. Their names would carry weight in the newspapers. He was
thirsty, and drank three glasses of water, one after another; then he
walked up and down again. If he showed himself brave, determined,
prepared to face a duel in deadly earnest, his adversary would probably
draw back and proffer excuses. He picked up the card he had taken from
his pocket and thrown on a table. He read it again, as he had already
read it, first at a glance in the restaurant, and afterward on the way
home in the light of each gas lamp: “Georges Lamil, 51 Rue Moncey.” That
was all.

He examined closely this collection of letters, which seemed to him
mysterious, fraught with many meanings. Georges Lamil! Who was the man?
What was his profession? Why had he stared so at the woman? Was it not
monstrous that a stranger, an unknown, should thus all at once upset
one's whole life, simply because it had pleased him to stare rudely at a
woman? And the vicomte once more repeated aloud:

“What a brute!”

Then he stood motionless, thinking, his eyes still fixed on the card.
Anger rose in his heart against this scrap of paper—a resentful anger,
mingled with a strange sense of uneasiness. It was a stupid business
altogether! He took up a penknife which lay open within reach, and
deliberately stuck it into the middle of the printed name, as if he were
stabbing some one.

So he would have to fight! Should he choose swords or pistols?—for he
considered himself as the insulted party. With the sword he would risk
less, but with the pistol there was some chance of his adversary backing
out. A duel with swords is rarely fatal, since mutual prudence prevents
the combatants from fighting close enough to each other for a point to
enter very deep. With pistols he would seriously risk his life; but, on
the other hand, he might come out of the affair with flying colors, and
without a duel, after all.

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

The sound of his own voice startled him, and he looked nervously round
the room. He felt unstrung. He drank another glass of water, and then
began undressing, preparatory to going to bed.

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

“I have all day to-morrow,” he reflected, “for setting my affairs in
order. I must sleep now, in order to be calm when the time comes.”

He was very warm in bed, but he could not succeed in losing
consciousness. He tossed and turned, remained for five minutes lying on
his back, then changed to his left side, then rolled over to his right.
He was thirsty again, and rose to drink. Then a qualm seized him:

“Can it be possible that I am afraid?”

Why did his heart beat so uncontrollably at every well-known sound in
his room? When the clock was about to strike, the prefatory grating of
its spring made him start, and for several seconds he panted for breath,
so unnerved was he.

He began to reason with himself on the possibility of such a thing:
“Could I by any chance be afraid?”

No, indeed; he could not be afraid, since he was resolved to proceed to
the last extremity, since he was irrevocably determined to fight without
flinching. And yet he was so perturbed in mind and body that he asked
himself:

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

And this doubt, this fearful question, took possession of him. If an
irresistible power, stronger than his own will, were to quell his
courage, what would happen? He would certainly go to the place
appointed; his will would force him that far. But supposing, when there,
he were to tremble or faint? And he thought of his social standing, his
reputation, his name.

And he suddenly determined to get up and look at himself in the glass.
He lighted his candle. When he saw his face reflected in the mirror he
scarcely recognized it. He seemed to see before him a man whom he did
not know. His eyes looked disproportionately large, and he was very
pale.

He remained standing before the mirror. He put out his tongue, as if to
examine the state of his health, and all at once the thought flashed
into his mind:

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

And his heart throbbed painfully.

“At this time the day after to-morrow I may be dead. This person in
front of me, this 'I' whom I see in the glass, will perhaps be no more.
What! Here I am, I look at myself, I feel myself to be alive—and yet in
twenty-four hours I may be lying on that bed, with closed eyes, dead,
cold, inanimate.”

He turned round, and could see himself distinctly lying on his back on
the couch he had just quitted. He had the hollow face and the limp hands
of death.

Then he became afraid of his bed, and to avoid seeing it went to his
smoking-room. He mechanically took a cigar, lighted it, and began
walking back and forth. He was cold; he took a step toward the bell, to
wake his valet, but stopped with hand raised toward the bell rope.

“He would see that I am afraid!”

And, instead of ringing, he made a fire himself. His hands quivered
nervously as they touched various objects. His head grew dizzy, his
thoughts confused, disjointed, painful; a numbness seized his spirit, as
if he had been drinking.

And all the time he kept on saying:

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

His whole body trembled spasmodically; he rose, and, going to the
window, drew back the curtains.

The day—a summer day-was breaking. The pink sky cast a glow on the city,
its roofs, and its walls. A flush of light enveloped the awakened world,
like a caress from the rising sun, and the glimmer of dawn kindled new
hope in the breast of the vicomte. What a fool he was to let himself
succumb to fear before anything was decided—before his seconds had
interviewed those of Georges Lamil, before he even knew whether he would
have to fight or not!

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

He repeated as he went:

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

His seconds, the marquis and the colonel, placed themselves at his
disposal, and, having shaken him warmly by the hand, began to discuss
details.

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

“Yes—quite serious,” replied the vicomte.

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

“Yes.”

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

With a dry, jerky voice the vicomte answered:

“Twenty paces—at a given signal—the arm to be raised, not lowered—shots
to be exchanged until one or other is seriously wounded.”

“Excellent conditions,” declared the colonel in a satisfied tone. “You
are a good shot; all the chances are in your favor.”

And they parted. The vicomte returned home to wait for them. His
agitation, only temporarily allayed, now increased momentarily. He felt,
in arms, legs and chest, a sort of trembling—a continuous vibration; he
could not stay still, either sitting or standing. His mouth was parched,
and he made every now and then a clicking movement of the tongue, as if
to detach it from his palate.

He attempted, to take luncheon, but could not eat. Then it occurred to
him to seek courage in drink, and he sent for a decanter of rum, of
which he swallowed, one after another, six small glasses.

A burning warmth, followed by a deadening of the mental faculties,
ensued. He said to himself:

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

But at the end of an hour he had emptied the decanter, and his agitation
was worse than ever. A mad longing possessed him to throw himself on the
ground, to bite, to scream. Night fell.

A ring at the bell so unnerved him that he had not the strength to rise
to receive his seconds.

He dared not even to speak to them, wish them good-day, utter a single
word, lest his changed voice should betray him.

“All is arranged as you wished,” said the colonel. “Your adversary
claimed at first the privilege of the offended part; but he yielded
almost at once, and accepted your conditions. His seconds are two
military men.”

“Thank you,” said the vicomte.

The marquis added:

“Please excuse us if we do not stay now, for we have a good deal to see
to yet. We shall want a reliable doctor, since the duel is not to end
until a serious wound has been inflicted; and you know that bullets are
not to be trifled with. We must select a spot near some house to which
the wounded party can be carried if necessary. In fact, the arrangements
will take us another two or three hours at least.”

The vicomte articulated for the second time:

“Thank you.”

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

“Perfectly calm, thank you.”

The two men withdrew.

When he was once more alone he felt as though he should go mad. His
servant having lighted the lamps, he sat down at his table to write some
letters. When he had traced at the top of a sheet of paper the words:
“This is my last will and testament,” he started from his seat, feeling
himself incapable of connected thought, of decision in regard to
anything.

So he was going to fight! He could no longer avoid it. What, then,
possessed him? He wished to fight, he was fully determined to fight, and
yet, in spite of all his mental effort, in spite of the exertion of all
his will power, he felt that he could not even preserve the strength
necessary to carry him through the ordeal. He tried to conjure up a
picture of the duel, his own attitude, and that of his enemy.

Every now and then his teeth chattered audibly. He thought he would
read, and took down Chateauvillard's Rules of Dueling. Then he said:

“Is the other man practiced in the use of the pistol? Is he well known?
How can I find out?”

He remembered Baron de Vaux's book on marksmen, and searched it from end
to end. Georges Lamil was not mentioned. And yet, if he were not an
adept, would he have accepted without demur such a dangerous weapon and
such deadly conditions?

He opened a case of Gastinne Renettes which stood on a small table, and
took from it a pistol. Next he stood in the correct attitude for firing,
and raised his arm. But he was trembling from head to foot, and the
weapon shook in his grasp.

Then he said to himself:

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

He looked at the little black, death-spitting hole at the end of the
pistol; he thought of dishonor, of the whispers at the clubs, the smiles
in his friends' drawing-rooms, the contempt of women, the veiled sneers
of the newspapers, the insults that would be hurled at him by cowards.

He still looked at the weapon, and raising the hammer, saw the glitter
of the priming below it. The pistol had been left loaded by some chance,
some oversight. And the discovery rejoiced him, he knew not why.

If he did not maintain, in presence of his opponent, the steadfast
bearing which was so necessary to his honor, he would be ruined forever.
He would be branded, stigmatized as a coward, hounded out of society!
And he felt, he knew, that he could not maintain that calm, unmoved
demeanor. And yet he was brave, since the thought that followed was not
even rounded to a finish in his mind; but, opening his mouth wide, he
suddenly plunged the barrel of the pistol as far back as his throat, and
pressed the trigger.

When the valet, alarmed at the report, rushed into the room he found his
master lying dead upon his back. A spurt of blood had splashed the white
paper on the table, and had made a great crimson stain beneath the
words:

“This is my last will and testament.”





OLD MONGILET

In the office old Mongilet was considered a type. He was a good old
employee, who had never been outside Paris but once in his life.

It was the end of July, and each of us, every Sunday, went to roll in
the grass, or soak in the water in the country near by. Asnieres,
Argenteuil, Chatou, Borgival, Maisons, Poissy, had their habitues and
their ardent admirers. We argued about the merits and advantages of all
these places, celebrated and delightful to all Parsian employees.

Daddy Mongilet declared:

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

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

“Yes, indeed. I go in an omnibus. When I have had a good luncheon,
without any hurry, at the wine shop down there, I look up my route with
a plan of Paris, and the time table of the lines and connections. And
then I climb up on the box, open my umbrella and off we go. Oh, I see
lots of things, more than you, I bet! I change my surroundings. It is as
though I were taking a journey across the world, the people are so
different in one street and another. I know my Paris better than anyone.
And then, there is nothing more amusing than the entresols. You would
not believe what one sees in there at a glance. One guesses at domestic
scenes simply at sight of the face of a man who is roaring; one is
amused on passing by a barber's shop, to see the barber leave his
customer whose face is covered with lather to look out in the street.
One exchanges heartfelt glances with the milliners just for fun, as one
has no time to alight. Ah, how many things one sees!

“It is the drama, the real, the true, the drama of nature, seen as the
horses trot by. Heavens! I would not give my excursions in the omnibus
for all your stupid excursions in the woods.”

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

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

“Tell us about it, Mongilet.”

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

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

“Yes, perfectly.”

“He was my office chum. The rascal had a house at Colombes and always
invited me to spend Sunday with him. He would say:

“'Come along, Maculotte [he called me Maculotte for fun]. You will see
what a nice excursion we will take.'

“I let myself be entrapped like an animal, and set out, one morning by
the 8 o'clock train. I arrived at a kind of town, a country town where
there is nothing to see, and I at length found my way to an old wooden
door with an iron bell, at the end of an alley between two walls.

“I rang, and waited a long time, and at last the door was opened. What
was it that opened it? I could not tell at the first glance. A woman or
an ape? The creature was old, ugly, covered with old clothes that looked
dirty and wicked. It had chicken's feathers in its hair and looked as
though it would devour me.

“'What do you want?' she said.

“'Mr. Boivin.'

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

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

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

“'Yes,' I stammered, trembling.

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

“'Boivin, here is your man!'

“It was my friend's wife. Little Boivin appeared immediately on the
threshold of a sort of barrack of plaster covered with zinc, that looked
like a foot stove. He wore white duck trousers covered with stains and a
dirty Panama hat.

“After shaking my hands warmly, he took me into what he called his
garden. It was at the end of another alleyway enclosed by high walls and
was a little square the size of a pocket handkerchief, surrounded by
houses that were so high that the sun, could reach it only two or three
hours in the day. Pansies, pinks, wallflowers and a few rose bushes were
languishing in this well without air, and hot as an oven from the
refraction of heat from the roofs.

“'I have no trees,' said Boivin, 'but the neighbors' walls take their
place. I have as much shade as in a wood.'

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

“'You can do me a service. You saw the wife. She is not agreeable, eh?
To-day, as I had invited you, she gave me clean clothes; but if I spot
them all is lost. I counted on you to water my plants.'

“I agreed. I took off my coat, rolled up my sleeves, and began to work
the handle of a kind of pump that wheezed, puffed and rattled like a
consumptive as it emitted a thread of water like a Wallace drinking
fountain. It took me ten minutes to water it and I was in a bath of
perspiration. Boivin directed me:

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

“The watering pot leaked and my feet got more water than the flowers.
The bottoms of my trousers were soaking and covered with mud. And twenty
times running I kept it up, soaking my feet afresh each time, and
perspiring anew as I worked the handle of the pump. And when I was tired
out and wanted to stop, Boivin, in a tone of entreaty, said as he put
his hand on my arm:

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

“To thank me he gave me a rose, a big rose, but hardly had it touched my
button-hole than it fell to pieces, leaving only a hard little green
knot as a decoration. I was surprised, but said nothing.

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

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

“We went toward the foot stove. If the garden was in the shade, the
house, on the other hand, was in the blazing sun, and the sweating room
in the Turkish bath is not as hot as was my friend's dining room.

“Three plates at the side of which were some half-washed forks, were
placed on a table of yellow wood in the middle of which stood an
earthenware dish containing boiled beef and potatoes. We began to eat.

“A large water bottle full of water lightly colored with wine attracted
my attention. Boivin, embarrassed, said to his wife:

“'See here, my dear, just on a special occasion, are you not going to
give us some plain wine?'

“She looked at him furiously.

“'So that you may both get tipsy, is that it, and stay here gabbing all
day? A fig for your special occasion!'

“He said no more. After the stew she brought in another dish of potatoes
cooked with bacon. When this dish was finished, still in silence, she
announced:

“'That is all! Now get out!'

“Boivin looked at her in astonishment.

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

“She put her hands on her hips:

“'Perhaps you have not had enough? Because you bring people here is no
reason why we should devour all that there is in the house. What is
there for me to eat this evening?'

“We rose. Solvin whispered

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

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

“'Give me twenty sous, my dear.'

“'What do you want with twenty sons?'

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

“She yelled so that I should hear:

“'No, I will not give it to you! As the man has had luncheon here, the
least he can do is to pay your expenses for the day.'

“Boivin came back to fetch me. As I wished to be polite I bowed to the
mistress of the house, stammering:

“'Madame—many thanks—kind welcome.'

“'That's all right,' she replied. 'But do not bring him back drunk, for
you will have to answer to me, you know!'

“We set out. We had to cross a perfectly bare plain under the burning
sun. I attempted to gather a flower along the road and gave a cry of
pain. It had hurt my hand frightfully. They call these plants nettles.
And, everywhere, there was a smell of manure, enough to turn your
stomach.

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

“We reached the river. Here there was an odor of mud and dirty water,
and the sun blazed down on the water so that it burned my eyes. I begged
Boivin to go under cover somewhere. He took me into a kind of shanty
filled with men, a river boatmen's tavern.

“He said:

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

“I was hungry. I ordered an omelet. But to and behold, at the second
glass of wine, that beggar, Boivin, lost his head, and I understand why
his wife gave him water diluted.

“He got up, declaimed, wanted to show his strength, interfered in a
quarrel between two drunken men who were fighting, and, but for the
landlord, who came to the rescue, we should both have been killed.

“I dragged him away, holding him up until we reached the first bush
where I deposited him. I lay down beside him and, it seems, I fell
asleep. We must certainly have slept a long time, for it was dark when I
awoke. Boivin was snoring at my side. I shook him; he rose but he was
still drunk, though a little less so.

“We set out through the darkness across the plain. Boivin said he knew
the way. He made me turn to the left, then to the right, then to the
left. We could see neither sky nor earth, and found ourselves lost in
the midst of a kind of forest of wooden stakes, that came as high as our
noses. It was a vineyard and these were the supports. There was not a
single light on the horizon. We wandered about in this vineyard for
about an hour or two, hesitating, reaching out our arms without finding
any limit, for we kept retracing our steps.

“At length Boivin fell against a stake that tore his cheek and he
remained in a sitting posture on the ground, uttering with all his might
long and resounding hallos, while I screamed 'Help! Help!' as loud as I
could, lighting candle-matches to show the way to our rescuers, and also
to keep up my courage.

“At last a belated peasant heard us and put us on our right road. I took
Boivin to his home, but as I was leaving him on the threshold of his
garden, the door opened suddenly and his wife appeared, a candle in her
hand. She frightened me horribly.

“As soon as she saw her husband, whom she must have been waiting for
since dark, she screamed, as she darted toward me:

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

“My, how I made my escape, running all the way to the station, and as I
thought the fury was pursuing me I shut myself in an inner room as the
train was not due for half an hour.

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





MOONLIGHT

Madame Julie Roubere was expecting her elder sister, Madame Henriette
Letore, who had just returned from a trip to Switzerland.

The Letore household had left nearly five weeks before. Madame Henriette
had allowed her husband to return alone to their estate in Calvados,
where some business required his attention, and had come to spend a few
days in Paris with her sister. Night came on. In the quiet parlor Madame
Roubere was reading in the twilight in an absent-minded way, raising
her, eyes whenever she heard a sound.

At last, she heard a ring at the door, and her sister appeared, wrapped
in a travelling cloak. And without any formal greeting, they clasped
each other in an affectionate embrace, only desisting for a moment to
give each other another hug. Then they talked about their health, about
their respective families, and a thousand other things, gossiping,
jerking out hurried, broken sentences as they followed each other about,
while Madame Henriette was removing her hat and veil.

It was now quite dark. Madame Roubere rang for a lamp, and as soon as it
was brought in, she scanned her sister's face, and was on the point of
embracing her once more. But she held back, scared and astonished at the
other's appearance.

On her temples Madame Letore had two large locks of white hair. All the
rest of her hair was of a glossy, raven-black hue; but there alone, at
each side of her head, ran, as it were, two silvery streams which were
immediately lost in the black mass surrounding them. She was,
nevertheless, only twenty-four years old, and this change had come on
suddenly since her departure for Switzerland.

Without moving, Madame Roubere gazed at her in amazement, tears rising
to her eyes, as she thought that some mysterious and terrible calamity
must have befallen her sister. She asked:

“What is the matter with you, Henriette?”

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

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

But Madame Roubere impetuously seized her by the shoulders, and with a
searching glance at her, repeated:

“What is the matter with you? Tell me what is the matter with you. And
if you tell me a falsehood, I'll soon find it out.”

They remained face to face, and Madame Henriette, who looked as if she
were about to faint, had two pearly tears in the corners of her drooping
eyes.

Her sister continued:

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

Then, in a subdued voice, the other murmured:

“I have—I have a lover.”

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

Then, when she had grown a little calmer, when the heaving of her breast
had subsided, she commenced to unbosom herself, as if to cast forth this
secret from herself, to empty this sorrow of hers into a sympathetic
heart.

Thereupon, holding each other's hands tightly clasped, the two women
went over to a sofa in a dark corner of the room, into which they sank,
and the younger sister, passing her arm over the elder one's neck, and
drawing her close to her heart, listened.

“Oh! I know that there was no excuse for me; I do not understand myself,
and since that day I feel as if I were mad. Be careful, my child, about
yourself—be careful! If you only knew how weak we are, how quickly we
yield, and fall. It takes so little, so little, so little, a moment of
tenderness, one of those sudden fits of melancholy which come over you,
one of those longings to open your arms, to love, to cherish something,
which we all have at certain moments.

“You know my husband, and you know how fond I am of him; but he is
mature and sensible, and cannot even comprehend the tender vibrations of
a woman's heart. He is always the same, always good, always smiling,
always kind, always perfect. Oh! how I sometimes have wished that he
would clasp me roughly in his arms, that he would embrace me with those
slow, sweet kisses which make two beings intermingle, which are like
mute confidences! How I have wished that he were foolish, even weak, so
that he should have need of me, of my caresses, of my tears!

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

“And yet the thought of deceiving him never entered my mind. Now it has
happened, without love, without reason, without anything, simply because
the moon shone one night on the Lake of Lucerne.

“During the month when we were travelling together, my husband, with his
calm indifference, paralyzed my enthusiasm, extinguished my poetic
ardor. When we were descending the mountain paths at sunrise, when as
the four horses galloped along with the diligence, we saw, in the
transparent morning haze, valleys, woods, streams, and villages, I
clasped my hands with delight, and said to him: 'How beautiful it is,
dear! Give me a kiss! Kiss me now!' He only answered, with a smile of
chilling kindliness: 'There is no reason why we should kiss each other
because you like the landscape.'

“And his words froze me to the heart. It seems to me that when people
love each other, they ought to feel more moved by love than ever, in the
presence of beautiful scenes.

“In fact, I was brimming over with poetry which he kept me from
expressing. I was almost like a boiler filled with steam and
hermetically sealed.

“One evening (we had for four days been staying in a hotel at Fluelen)
Robert, having one of his sick headaches, went to bed immediately after
dinner, and I went to take a walk all alone along the edge of the lake.

“It was a night such as one reads of in fairy tales. The full moon
showed itself in the middle of the sky; the tall mountains, with their
snowy crests, seemed to wear silver crowns; the waters of the lake
glittered with tiny shining ripples. The air was mild, with that kind of
penetrating warmth which enervates us till we are ready to faint, to be
deeply affected without any apparent cause. But how sensitive, how
vibrating the heart is at such moments! how quickly it beats, and how
intense is its emotion!

“I sat down on the grass, and gazed at that vast, melancholy, and
fascinating lake, and a strange feeling arose in me; I was seized with
an insatiable need of love, a revolt against the gloomy dullness of my
life. What! would it never be my fate to wander, arm in arm, with a man
I loved, along a moon-kissed bank like this? Was I never to feel on my
lips those kisses so deep, delicious, and intoxicating which lovers
exchange on nights that seem to have been made by God for tenderness?
Was I never to know ardent, feverish love in the moonlit shadows of a
summer's night?

“And I burst out weeping like a crazy woman. I heard something stirring
behind me. A man stood there, gazing at me. When I turned my head round,
he recognized me, and, advancing, said:

“'You are weeping, madame?'

“It was a young barrister who was travelling with his mother, and whom
we had often met. His eyes had frequently followed me.

“I was so confused that I did not know what answer to give or what to
think of the situation. I told him I felt ill.

“He walked on by my side in a natural and respectful manner, and began
talking to me about what we had seen during our trip. All that I had
felt he translated into words; everything that made me thrill he
understood perfectly, better than I did myself. And all of a sudden he
repeated some verses of Alfred de Musset. I felt myself choking, seized
with indescribable emotion. It seemed to me that the mountains
themselves, the lake, the moonlight, were singing to me about things
ineffably sweet.

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

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

“He gave me his card!”

And, sinking into her sister's arms, Madame Letore broke into groans
—almost into shrieks.

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

“You see, sister, very often it is not a man that we love, but love
itself. And your real lover that night was the moonlight.”





THE FIRST SNOWFALL

The long promenade of La Croisette winds in a curve along the edge of
the blue water. Yonder, to the right, Esterel juts out into the sea in
the distance, obstructing the view and shutting out the horizon with its
pretty southern outline of pointed summits, numerous and fantastic.

To the left, the isles of Sainte Marguerite and Saint Honorat, almost
level with the water, display their surface, covered with pine trees.

And all along the great gulf, all along the tall mountains that encircle
Cannes, the white villa residences seem to be sleeping in the sunlight.
You can see them from a distance, the white houses, scattered from the
top to the bottom of the mountains, dotting the dark greenery with
specks like snow.

Those near the water have gates opening on the wide promenade which is
washed by the quiet waves. The air is soft and balmy. It is one of those
warm winter days when there is scarcely a breath of cool air. Above the
walls of the gardens may be seen orange trees and lemon trees full of
golden fruit. Ladies are walking slowly across the sand of the avenue,
followed by children rolling hoops, or chatting with gentlemen.

A young woman has just passed out through the door of her coquettish
little house facing La Croisette. She stops for a moment to gaze at the
promenaders, smiles, and with an exhausted air makes her way toward an
empty bench facing the sea. Fatigued after having gone twenty paces, she
sits down out of breath. Her pale face seems that of a dead woman. She
coughs, and raises to her lips her transparent fingers as if to stop
those paroxysms that exhaust her.

She gazes at the sky full of sunshine and swallows, at the zigzag
summits of the Esterel over yonder, and at the sea, the blue, calm,
beautiful sea, close beside her.

She smiles again, and murmurs:

“Oh! how happy I am!”

She knows, however, that she is going to die, that she will never see
the springtime, that in a year, along the same promenade, these same
people who pass before her now will come again to breathe the warm air
of this charming spot, with their children a little bigger, with their
hearts all filled with hopes, with tenderness, with happiness, while at
the bottom of an oak coffin, the poor flesh which is still left to her
to-day will have decomposed, leaving only her bones lying in the silk
robe which she has selected for a shroud.

She will be no more. Everything in life will go on as before for others.
For her, life will be over, over forever. She will be no more. She
smiles, and inhales as well as she can, with her diseased lungs, the
perfumed air of the gardens.

And she sinks into a reverie.

She recalls the past. She had been married, four years ago, to a Norman
gentleman. He was a strong young man, bearded, healthy-looking, with
wide shoulders, narrow mind, and joyous disposition.

They had been united through financial motives which she knew nothing
about. She would willingly have said No. She said Yes, with a movement
of the head, in order not to thwart her father and mother. She was a
Parisian, gay, and full of the joy of living.

Her husband brought her home to his Norman chateau. It was a huge stone
building surrounded by tall trees of great age. A high clump of pine
trees shut out the view in front. On the right, an opening in the trees
presented a view of the plain, which stretched out in an unbroken level
as far as the distant, farmsteads. A cross-road passed before the gate
and led to the high road three kilometres away.

Oh! she recalls everything, her arrival, her first day in her new abode,
and her isolated life afterward.

When she stepped out of the carriage, she glanced at the old building,
and laughingly exclaimed:

“It does not look cheerful!”

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

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

That day they passed their time in embracing each other, and she did not
find it too long. This lasted fully a month. The days passed one after
the other in insignificant yet absorbing occupations. She learned the
value and the importance of the little things of life. She knew that
people can interest themselves in the price of eggs, which cost a few
centimes more or less according to the seasons.

It was summer. She went to the fields to see the men harvesting. The
brightness of the sunshine found an echo in her heart.

The autumn came. Her husband went out shooting. He started in the
morning with his two dogs Medor and Mirza. She remained alone, without
grieving, moreover, at Henry's absence. She was very fond of him, but
she did not miss him. When he returned home, her affection was
especially bestowed on the dogs. She took care of them every evening
with a mother's tenderness, caressed them incessantly, gave them a
thousand charming little names which she had no idea of applying to her
husband.

He invariably told her all about his sport. He described the places
where he found partridges, expressed his astonishment at not having
caught any hares in Joseph Ledentu's clever, or else appeared indignant
at the conduct of M. Lechapelier, of Havre, who always went along the
edge of his property to shoot the game that he, Henry de Parville, had
started.

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

The winter came, the Norman winter, cold and rainy. The endless floods
of rain came down on the slates of the great gabled roof, rising like a
knife blade toward the sky. The roads seemed like rivers of mud, the
country a plain of mud, and no sound could be heard save that of water
falling; no movement could be seen save the whirling flight of crows
that settled down like a cloud on a field and then hurried off again.

About four o'clock, the army of dark, flying creatures came and perched
in the tall beeches at the left of the chateau, emitting deafening
cries. During nearly an hour, they flew from tree top to tree top,
seemed to be fighting, croaked, and made a black disturbance in the gray
branches. She gazed at them each evening with a weight at her heart, so
deeply was she impressed by the lugubrious melancholy of the darkness
falling on the deserted country.

Then she rang for the lamp, and drew near the fire. She burned heaps of
wood without succeeding in warming the spacious apartments reeking with
humidity. She was cold all day long, everywhere, in the drawing-room, at
meals, in her own apartment. It seemed to her she was cold to the marrow
of her bones. Her husband only came in to dinner; he was always out
shooting, or else he was superintending sowing the seed, tilling the
soil, and all the work of the country.

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

“What wretched weather!”

Or else:

“A fire looks comfortable!”

Or sometimes:

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

He was happy, in good health, without desires, thinking of nothing save
this simple, healthy, and quiet life.

About December, when the snow had come, she suffered so much from the
icy-cold air of the chateau which seemed to have become chilled in
passing through the centuries just as human beings become chilled with
years, that she asked her husband one evening:

“Look here, Henry! You ought to have a furnace put into the house; it
would dry the walls. I assure you that I cannot keep warm from morning
till night.”

At first he was stunned at this extravagant idea of introducing a
furnace into his manor-house. It would have seemed more natural to him
to have his dogs fed out of silver dishes. He gave a tremendous laugh
from the bottom of his chest as he exclaimed:

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

She persisted:

“I assure you, dear, I feel frozen; you don't feel it because you are
always moving about; but all the same, I feel frozen.”

He replied, still laughing:

“Pooh! you'll get used to it, and besides it is excellent for the
health. You will only be all the better for it. We are not Parisians,
damn it! to live in hot-houses. And, besides, the spring is quite near.”

About the beginning of January, a great misfortune befell her. Her
father and mother died in a carriage accident. She came to Paris for the
funeral. And her sorrow took entire possession of her mind for about six
months.

The mildness of the beautiful summer days finally roused her, and she
lived along in a state of sad languor until autumn.

When the cold weather returned, she was brought face to face, for the
first time, with the gloomy future. What was she to do? Nothing. What
was going to happen to her henceforth? Nothing. What expectation, what
hope, could revive her heart? None. A doctor who was consulted declared
that she would never have children.

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

She stretched out her shivering hands to the big flames. The glaring
fire burned her face; but icy whiffs seemed to glide down her back and
to penetrate between her skin and her underclothing. And she shivered
from head to foot. Innumerable draughts of air appeared to have taken up
their abode in the apartment, living, crafty currents of air as cruel as
enemies. She encountered them at every moment; they blew on her
incessantly their perfidious and frozen hatred, now on her face, now on
her hands, and now on her back.

Once more she spoke of a furnace; but her husband listened to her
request as if she were asking for the moon. The introduction of such an
apparatus at Parville appeared to him as impossible as the discovery of
the Philosopher's Stone.

Having been at Rouen on business one day, he brought back to his wife a
dainty foot warmer made of copper, which he laughingly called a
“portable furnace”; and he considered that this would prevent her
henceforth from ever being cold.

Toward the end of December she understood that she could not always live
like this, and she said timidly one evening at dinner:

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

He was stupefied.

“In Paris? In Paris? But what are we to do there? Ah! no by Jove! We are
better off here. What odd ideas come into your head sometimes.”

She faltered:

“It might distract us a little.”

He did not understand.

“What is it you want to distract you? Theatres, evening parties, dinners
in town? You knew, however, when you came here, that you ought not to
expect any distractions of this kind!”

She saw a reproach in these words, and in the tone in which they were
uttered. She relapsed into silence. She was timid and gentle, without
resisting power and without strength of will.

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

One evening, as she watched the great black cloud of crows dispersing
among the trees, she began to weep, in spite of herself.

Her husband came in. He asked in great surprise:

“What is the matter with you?”

He was happy, quite happy, never having dreamed of another life or other
pleasures. He had been born and had grown up in this melancholy
district. He felt contented in his own house, at ease in body and mind.

He did not understand that one might desire incidents, have a longing
for changing pleasures; he did not understand that it does not seem
natural to certain beings to remain in the same place during the four
seasons; he seemed not to know that spring, summer, autumn, and winter
have, for multitudes of persons, fresh amusements in new places.

She could say nothing in reply, and she quickly dried her eyes. At last
she murmured in a despairing tone:

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

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

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

This last plea made him angry.

“Ah! yes, still your idea of the furnace. But look here, deuce take it!
you have not had one cold since you came here.”

Night came on. She went up to her room, for she had insisted on having a
separate apartment. She went to bed. Even in bed she felt cold. She
thought:

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

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

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

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

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

She must cough. Then, perhaps, he would take pity on her. Well, she
would cough; he should hear her coughing; the doctor should be called
in; he should see, her husband, he should see.

She got out of bed, her legs and her feet bare, and a childish idea made
her smile:

“I want a furnace, and I must have it. I shall cough so much that he'll
have to put one in the house.”

And she sat down in a chair in her nightdress. She waited an hour, two
hours. She shivered, but she did not catch cold. Then she resolved on a
bold expedient.

She noiselessly left her room, descended the stairs, and opened the gate
into the garden.

The earth, covered with snows seemed dead. She abruptly thrust forward
her bare foot, and plunged it into the icy, fleecy snow. A sensation of
cold, painful as a wound, mounted to her heart. However, she stretched
out the other leg, and began to descend the steps slowly.

Then she advanced through the grass saying to herself:

“I'll go as far as the pine trees.”

She walked with quick steps, out of breath, gasping every time she
plunged her foot into the snow.

She touched the first pine tree with her hand, as if to assure herself
that she had carried out her plan to the end; then she went back into
the house. She thought two or three times that she was going to fall, so
numbed and weak did she feel. Before going in, however, she sat down in
that icy fleece, and even took up several handfuls to rub on her chest.

Then she went in and got into bed. It seemed to her at the end of an
hour that she had a swarm of ants in her throat, and that other ants
were running all over her limbs. She slept, however.

Next day she was coughing and could not get up.

She had inflammation of the lungs. She became delirious, and in her
delirium she asked for a furnace. The doctor insisted on having one put
in. Henry yielded, but with visible annoyance.

She was incurable. Her lungs were seriously affected, and those about
her feared for her life.

“If she remains here, she will not last until the winter,” said the
doctor.

She was sent south. She came to Cannes, made the acquaintance of the
sun, loved the sea, and breathed the perfume of orange blossoms.

Then, in the spring, she returned north.

But she now lived with the fear of being cured, with the fear of the
long winters of Normandy; and as soon as she was better she opened her
window by night and recalled the sweet shores of the Mediterranean.

And now she is going to die. She knows it and she is happy.

She unfolds a newspaper which she has not already opened, and reads this
heading:

“The first snow in Paris.”

She shivers and then smiles. She looks across at the Esterel, which is
becoming rosy in the rays of the setting sun. She looks at the vast blue
sky, so blue, so very blue, and the vast blue sea, so very blue also,
and she rises from her seat.

And then she returned to the house with slow steps, only stopping to
cough, for she had remained out too long and she was cold, a little
cold.

She finds a letter from her husband. She opens it, still smiling, and
she reads:

“MY DEAR LOVE: I hope you are well, and that you do not regret too much
our beautiful country. For some days last we have had a good frost,
which presages snow. For my part, I adore this weather, and you may
believe that I do not light your damned furnace.”


She ceases reading, quite happy at the thought that she had her furnace
put in. Her right hand, which holds the letter, falls slowly on her lap,
while she raises her left hand to her mouth, as if to calm the obstinate
cough which is racking her chest.





SUNDAYS OF A BOURGEOIS

PREPARATIONS FOR THE EXCURSION

M. Patissot, born in Paris, after having failed in his examinations at
the College Henri IV., like many others, had entered the government
service through the influence of one of his aunts, who kept a tobacco
store where the head of one of the departments bought his provisions.

He advanced very slowly, and would, perhaps, have died a fourth-class
clerk without the aid of a kindly Providence, which sometimes watches
over our destiny. He is today fifty-two years old, and it is only at
this age that he is beginning to explore, as a tourist, all that part of
France which lies between the fortifications and the provinces.

The story of his advance might be useful to many employees, just as the
tale of his excursions may be of value to many Parisians who will take
them as a model for their own outings, and will thus, through his
example, avoid certain mishaps which occurred to him.

In 1854 he only enjoyed a salary of 1,800 francs. Through a peculiar
trait of his character he was unpopular with all his superiors, who let
him languish in the eternal and hopeless expectation of the clerk's
ideal, an increase of salary. Nevertheless he worked; but he did not
know how to make himself appreciated. He had too much self-respect, he
claimed. His self-respect consisted in never bowing to his superiors in
a low and servile manner, as did, according to him, certain of his
colleagues, whom he would not mention. He added that his frankness
embarrassed many people, for, like all the rest, he protested against
injustice and the favoritism shown to persons entirely foreign to the
bureaucracy. But his indignant voice never passed beyond the little cage
where he worked.

First as a government clerk, then as a Frenchman and finally as a man
who believed in order he would adhere to whatever government was
established, having an unbounded reverence for authority, except for
that of his chiefs.

Each time that he got the chance he would place himself where he could
see the emperor pass, in order to have the honor of taking his hat off
to him; and he would go away puffed up with pride at having bowed to the
head of the state.

From his habit of observing the sovereign he did as many others do; he
imitated the way he trimmed his beard or arranged his hair, the cut of
his clothes, his walk, his mannerisms. Indeed, how many men in each
country seemed to be the living images of the head of the government!
Perhaps he vaguely resembled Napoleon III., but his hair was black;
therefore he dyed it, and then the likeness was complete; and when he
met another gentleman in the street also imitating the imperial
countenance he was jealous and looked at him disdainfully. This need of
imitation soon became his hobby, and, having heard an usher at the
Tuilleries imitate the voice of the emperor, he also acquired the same
intonations and studied slowness.

He thus became so much like his model that they might easily have been
mistaken for each other, and certain high dignitaries were heard to
remark that they found it unseemly and even vulgar; the matter was
mentioned to the prime minister, who ordered that the employee should
appear before him. But at the sight of him he began to laugh and
repeated two or three times: “That's funny, really funny!” This was
repeated, and the following day Patissot's immediate superior
recommended that his subordinate receive an increase of salary of three
hundred francs. He received it immediately.

From that time on his promotions came regularly, thanks to his ape-like
faculty of imitation. The presentiment that some high honor might come
to him some day caused his chiefs to speak to him with deference.

When the Republic was proclaimed it was a disaster for him. He felt
lost, done for, and, losing his head, he stopped dyeing his hair, shaved
his face clean and had his hair cut short, thus acquiring a paternal and
benevolent expression which could not compromise him in any way.

Then his chiefs took revenge for the long time during which he had
imposed upon them, and, having all turned Republican through an instinct
of self preservation, they cut down his salary and delayed his
promotion. He, too, changed his opinions. But the Republic not being a
palpable and living person whom one can resemble, and the presidents
succeeding each other with rapidity, he found himself plunged in the
greatest embarrassment, in terrible distress, and, after an unsuccessful
imitation of his last ideal, M. Thiers, he felt a check put on all his
attempts at imitation. He needed a new manifestation of his personality.
He searched for a long time; then, one morning, he arrived at the office
wearing a new hat which had on the side a small red, white and blue
rosette. His colleagues were astounded; they laughed all that day, the
next day, all the week, all the month. But the seriousness of his
demeanor at last disconcerted them, and once more his superiors became
anxious. What mystery could be hidden under this sign? Was it a simple
manifestation of patriotism, or an affirmation of his allegiance to the
Republic, or perhaps the badge of some powerful association? But to wear
it so persistently he must surely have some powerful and hidden
protection. It would be well to be on one's guard, especially as he
received all pleasantries with unruffled calmness. After that he was
treated with respect, and his sham courage saved him; he was appointed
head clerk on the first of January, 1880. His whole life had been spent
indoors. He hated noise and bustle, and because of this love of rest and
quiet he had remained a bachelor. He spent his Sundays reading tales of
adventure and ruling guide lines which he afterward offered to his
colleagues. In his whole existence he had only taken three vacations of
a week each, when he was changing his quarters. But sometimes, on a
holiday, he would leave by an excursion train for Dieppe or Havre in
order to elevate his mind by the inspiring sight of the sea.

He was full of that common sense which borders on stupidity. For a long
time he had been living quietly, with economy, temperate through
prudence, chaste by temperament, when suddenly he was assailed by a
terrible apprehension. One evening in the street he suddenly felt an
attack of dizziness which made him fear a stroke of apoplexy. He
hastened to a physician and for five francs obtained the following
prescription:

M. X-, fifty-five years old, bachelor, clerk. Full-blooded, danger of
apoplexy. Cold-water applications, moderate nourishment, plenty of
exercise.    MONTELLIER, M.D.

Patissot was greatly distressed, and for a whole month, in his office,
he kept a wet towel wrapped around his head like a turban while the
water continually dripped on his work, which he would have to do over
again. Every once in a while he would read the prescription over,
probably in the hope of finding some hidden meaning, of penetrating into
the secret thought of the physician, and also of discovering some forms
of exercise which, might perhaps make him immune from apoplexy.

Then he consulted his friends, showing them the fateful paper. One
advised boxing. He immediately hunted up an instructor, and, on the
first day, he received a punch in the nose which immediately took away
all his ambition in this direction. Single-stick made him gasp for
breath, and he grew so stiff from fencing that for two days and two
nights he could not get sleep. Then a bright idea struck him. It was to
walk, every Sunday, to some suburb of Paris and even to certain places
in the capital which he did not know.

For a whole week his mind was occupied with thoughts of the equipment
which you need for these excursions; and on Sunday, the 30th of May, he
began his preparations. After reading all the extraordinary
advertisements which poor, blind and halt beggars distribute on the
street corners, he began to visit the stores with the intention of
looking about him only and of buying later on. First of all, he visited
a so-called American shoe store, where heavy travelling shoes were shown
him. The clerk brought out a kind of ironclad contrivance, studded with
spikes like a harrow, which he claimed to be made from Rocky Mountain
bison skin. He was so carried away with them that he would willingly
have bought two pair, but one was sufficient. He carried them away under
his arm, which soon became numb from the weight. He next invested in a
pair of corduroy trousers, such as carpenters wear, and a pair of oiled
canvas leggings. Then he needed a knapsack for his provisions, a
telescope so as to recognize villages perched on the slope of distant
hills, and finally, a government survey map to enable him to find his
way about without asking the peasants toiling in the fields. Lastly, in
order more comfortably to stand the heat, he decided to purchase a light
alpaca jacket offered by the famous firm of Raminau, according to their
advertisement, for the modest sum of six francs and fifty centimes. He
went to this store and was welcomed by a distinguished-looking young man
with a marvellous head of hair, nails as pink as those of a lady and a
pleasant smile. He showed him the garment. It did not correspond with
the glowing style of the advertisement. Then Patissot hesitatingly
asked, “Well, monsieur, will it wear well?” The young man turned his
eyes away in well-feigned embarrassment, like an honest man who does not
wish to deceive a customer, and, lowering his eyes, he said in a
hesitating manner: “Dear me, monsieur, you understand that for six
francs fifty we cannot turn out an article like this for instance.” And
he showed him a much finer jacket than the first one. Patissot examined
it and asked the price. “Twelve francs fifty.” It was very tempting, but
before deciding, he once more questioned the big young man, who was
observing him attentively. “And—is that good? Do you guarantee it?” “Oh!
certainly, monsieur, it is quite good! But, of course, you must not get
it wet! Yes, it's really quite good, but you understand that there are
goods and goods. It's excellent for the price. Twelve francs fifty, just
think. Why, that's nothing at all. Naturally a twenty-five-franc coat is
much better. For twenty-five francs you get a superior quality, as
strong as linen, and which wears even better. If it gets wet a little
ironing will fix it right up. The color never fades, and it does not
turn red in the sunlight. It is the warmest and lightest material out.”
He unfolded his wares, holding them up, shaking them, crumpling and
stretching them in order to show the excellent quality of the cloth. He
talked on convincingly, dispelling all hesitation by words and gesture.
Patissot was convinced; he bought the coat. The pleasant salesman, still
talking, tied up the bundle and continued praising the value of the
purchase. When it was paid for he was suddenly silent. He bowed with a
superior air, and, holding the door open, he watched his customer
disappear, both arms filled with bundles and vainly trying to reach his
hat to bow.

M. Patissot returned home and carefully studied the map. He wished to
try on his shoes, which were more like skates than shoes, owing to the
spikes. He slipped and fell, promising himself to be more careful in the
future. Then he spread out all his purchases on a chair and looked at
them for a long time. He went to sleep with this thought: “Isn't it
strange that I didn't think before of taking an excursion to the
country?”

During the whole week Patissot worked without ambition. He was dreaming
of the outing which he had planned for the following Sunday, and he was
seized by a sudden longing for the country, a desire of growing tender
over nature, this thirst for rustic scenes which overwhelms the
Parisians in spring time.

Only one person gave him any attention; it was a silent old copying
clerk named Boivin, nicknamed Boileau. He himself lived in the country
and had a little garden which he cultivated carefully; his needs were
small, and he was perfectly happy, so they said. Patissot was now able
to understand his tastes and the similarity of their ideals made them
immediately fast friends. Old man Boivin said to him:

“Do I like fishing, monsieur? Why, it's the delight of my life!”

Then Patissot questioned him with deep interest. Boivin named all the
fish who frolicked under this dirty water—and Patissot thought he could
see them. Boivin told about the different hooks, baits, spots and times
suitable for each kind. And Patissot felt himself more like a fisherman
than Boivin himself. They decided that the following Sunday they would
meet for the opening of the season for the edification of Patissot, who
was delighted to have found such an experienced instructor.

FISHING EXCURSION

The day before the one when he was, for the first time in his life, to
throw a hook into a river, Monsieur Patissot bought, for eighty
centimes, “How to Become a Perfect Fisherman.” In this work he learned
many useful things, but he was especially impressed by the style, and he
retained the following passage:

“In a word, if you wish, without books, without rules, to fish
successfully, to the left or to the right, up or down stream, in the
masterly manner that halts at no difficulty, then fish before, during
and after a storm, when the clouds break and the sky is streaked with
lightning, when the earth shakes with the grumbling thunder; it is then
that, either through hunger or terror, all the fish forget their habits
in a turbulent flight.

“In this confusion follow or neglect all favorable signs, and just go on
fishing; you will march to victory!”

In order to catch fish of all sizes, he bought three well-perfected
poles, made to be used as a cane in the city, which, on the river, could
be transformed into a fishing rod by a simple jerk. He bought some
number fifteen hooks for gudgeon, number twelve for bream, and with his
number seven he expected to fill his basket with carp. He bought no
earth worms because he was sure of finding them everywhere; but he laid
in a provision of sand worms. He had a jar full of them, and in the
evening he watched them with interest. The hideous creatures swarmed in
their bath of bran as they do in putrid meat. Patissot wished to
practice baiting his hook. He took up one with disgust, but he had
hardly placed the curved steel point against it when it split open.
Twenty times he repeated this without success, and he might have
continued all night had he not feared to exhaust his supply of vermin.

He left by the first train. The station was full of people equipped with
fishing lines. Some, like Patissot's, looked like simple bamboo canes;
others, in one piece, pointed their slender ends to the skies. They
looked like a forest of slender sticks, which mingled and clashed like
swords or swayed like masts over an ocean of broad-brimmed straw hats.

When the train started fishing rods could be seen sticking out of all
the windows and doors, giving to the train the appearance of a huge,
bristly caterpillar winding through the fields.

Everybody got off at Courbevoie and rushed for the stage for Bezons. A
crowd of fishermen crowded on top of the coach, holding their rods in
their hands, giving the vehicle the appearance of a porcupine.

All along the road men were travelling in the same direction as though
on a pilgrimage to an unknown Jerusalem. They were carrying those long,
slender sticks resembling those carried by the faithful returning from
Palestine. A tin box on a strap was fastened to their backs. They were
in a hurry.

At Bezons the river appeared. People were lined along bath banks, men in
frock coats, others in duck suits, others in blouses, women, children
and even young girls of marriageable age; all were fishing.

Patissot started for the dam where his friend Boivin was waiting for
him. The latter greeted him rather coolly. He had just made the
acquaintance of a big, fat man of about fifty, who seemed very strong
and whose skin was tanned. All three hired a big boat and lay off almost
under the fall of the dam, where the fish are most plentiful.

Boivin was immediately ready. He baited his line and threw it out, and
then sat motionless, watching the little float with extraordinary
concentration. From time to time he would jerk his line out of the water
and cast it farther out. The fat gentleman threw out his well-baited
hooks, put his line down beside him, filled his pipe, lit it, crossed
his arms, and, without another glance at the cork, he watched the water
flow by. Patissot once more began trying to stick sand worms on his
hooks. After about five minutes of this occupation he called to Boivin;
“Monsieur Boivin, would you be so kind as to help me put these creatures
on my hook? Try as I will, I can't seem to succeed.” Boivin raised his
head: “Please don't disturb me, Monsieur Patissot; we are not here for
pleasure!” However, he baited the line, which Patissot then threw out,
carefully imitating all the motions of his friend.

The boat was tossing wildly, shaken by the waves, and spun round like a
top by the current, although anchored at both ends. Patissot, absorbed
in the sport, felt a vague kind of uneasiness; he was uncomfortably
heavy and somewhat dizzy.

They caught nothing. Little Boivin, very nervous, was gesticulating and
shaking his head in despair. Patissot was as sad as though some disaster
had overtaken him. The fat gentleman alone, still motionless, was
quietly smoking without paying any attention to his line. At last
Patissot, disgusted, turned toward him and said in a mournful voice:

“They are not biting, are they?”

He quietly replied:

“Of course not!”

Patissot surprised, looked at him.

“Do you ever catch many?”

“Never!”

“What! Never?”

The fat man, still smoking like a factory chimney, let out the following
words, which completely upset his neighbor:

“It would bother me a lot if they did bite. I don't come here to fish; I
come because I'm very comfortable here; I get shaken up as though I were
at sea. If I take a line along, it's only to do as others do.”

Monsieur Patissot, on the other hand, did not feel at all well. His
discomfort, at first vague, kept increasing, and finally took on a
definite form. He felt, indeed, as though he were being tossed by the
sea, and he was suffering from seasickness. After the first attack had
calmed down, he proposed leaving, but Boivin grew so furious that they
almost came to blows. The fat man, moved by pity, rowed the boat back,
and, as soon as Patissot had recovered from his seasickness, they
bethought themselves of luncheon.

Two restaurants presented themselves. One of them, very small, looked
like a beer garden, and was patronized by the poorer fishermen. The
other one, which bore the imposing name of “Linden Cottage,” looked like
a middle-class residence and was frequented by the aristocracy of the
rod. The two owners, born enemies, watched each other with hatred across
a large field, which separated them, and where the white house of the
dam keeper and of the inspector of the life-saving department stood out
against the green grass. Moreover, these two officials disagreed, one of
them upholding the beer garden and the other one defending the Elms, and
the internal feuds which arose in these three houses reproduced the
whole history of mankind.

Boivin, who knew the beer garden, wished to go there, exclaiming: “The
food is very good, and it isn't expensive; you'll see. Anyhow, Monsieur
Patissot, you needn't expect to get me tipsy the way you did last
Sunday. My wife was furious, you know; and she has sworn never to
forgive you!”

The fat gentleman declared that he would only eat at the Elms, because
it was an excellent place and the cooking was as good as in the best
restaurants in Paris.

“Do as you wish,” declared Boivin; “I am going where I am accustomed to
go.” He left. Patissot, displeased at his friend's actions, followed the
fat gentleman.

They ate together, exchanged ideas, discussed opinions and found that
they were made for each other.

After the meal everyone started to fish again, but the two new friends
left together. Following along the banks, they stopped near the railroad
bridge and, still talking, they threw their lines in the water. The fish
still refused to bite, but Patissot was now making the best of it.

A family was approaching. The father, whose whiskers stamped him as a
judge, was holding an extraordinarily long rod; three boys of different
sizes were carrying poles of different lengths, according to age; and
the mother, who was very stout, gracefully manoeuvred a charming rod
with a ribbon tied to the handle. The father bowed and asked:

“Is this spot good, gentlemen?” Patissot was going to speak, when his
friend answered: “Fine!” The whole family smiled and settled down beside
the fishermen. The Patissot was seized with a wild desire to catch a
fish, just one, any kind, any size, in order to win the consideration of
these people; so he began to handle his rod as he had seen Boivin do in
the morning. He would let the cork follow the current to the end of the
line, jerk the hooks out of the water, make them describe a large circle
in the air and throw them out again a little higher up. He had even, as
he thought, caught the knack of doing this movement gracefully. He had
just jerked his line out rapidly when he felt it caught in something
behind him. He tugged, and a scream burst from behind him. He perceived,
caught on one of his hooks, and describing in the air a curve like a
meteor, a magnificent hat which he placed right in the middle of the
river.

He turned around, bewildered, dropping his pole, which followed the hat
down the stream, while the fat gentleman, his new friend, lay on his
back and roared with laughter. The lady, hatless and astounded, choked
with anger; her husband was outraged and demanded the price of the hat,
and Patissot paid about three times its value.

Then the family departed in a very dignified manner.

Patissot took another rod, and, until nightfall, he gave baths to sand
worms. His neighbor was sleeping peacefully on the grass. Toward seven
in the evening he awoke.

“Let's go away from here!” he said.

Then Patissot withdrew his line, gave a cry and sat down hard from
astonishment. At the end of the string was a tiny little fish. When they
looked at him more closely they found that he had been hooked through
the stomach; the hook had caught him as it was being drawn out of the
water.

Patissot was filled with a boundless, triumphant joy; he wished to have
the fish fried for himself alone.

During the dinner the friends grew still more intimate. He learned that
the fat gentleman lived at Argenteuil and had been sailing boats for
thirty years without losing interest in the sport. He accepted to take
luncheon with him the following Sunday and to take a sail in his
friend's clipper, Plongeon. He became so interested in the conversation
that he forgot all about his catch. He did not remember it until after
the coffee, and he demanded that it be brought him. It was alone in the
middle of a platter, and looked like a yellow, twisted match, But he ate
it with pride and relish, and at night, on the omnibus, he told his
neighbors that he had caught fourteen pounds of fish during the day.

TWO CELEBRITIES

Monsieur Patissot had promised his friend, the boating man, that he
would spend the following Sunday with him. An unforeseen occurrence
changed his plan. One evening, on the boulevard, he met one of his
cousins whom he saw but very seldom. He was a pleasant journalist, well
received in all classes of society, who offered to show Patissot many
interesting things.

“What are you going to do next Sunday?”

“I'm going boating at Argenteuil.”

“Come on! Boating is an awful bore; there is no variety to it. Listen
—I'll take you along with me. I'll introduce you to two celebrities. We
will visit the homes of two artists.”

“But I have been ordered to go to the country!”

“That's just where we'll go. On the way we'll call on Meissonier, at his
place in Poissy; then we'll walk over to Medan, where Zola lives. I have
been commissioned to obtain his next novel for our newspaper.”

Patissot, wild with joy, accepted the invitation. He even bought a new
frock coat, as his own was too much worn to make a good appearance. He
was terribly afraid of saying something foolish either to the artist or
to the man of letters, as do people who speak of an art which they have
never professed.

He mentioned his fears to his cousin, who laughed and answered: “Pshaw!
Just pay them compliments, nothing but compliments, always compliments;
in that way, if you say anything foolish it will be overlooked. Do you
know Meissonier's paintings?”

“I should say I do.”

“Have you read the Rougon-Macquart series?”

“From first to last.”

“That's enough. Mention a painting from time to time, speak of a novel
here and there and add:

“'Superb! Extraordinary! Delightful technique! Wonderfully powerful!' In
that way you can always get along. I know that those two are very blase
about everything, but admiration always pleases an artist.”

Sunday morning they left for Poissy.

Just a few steps from the station, at the end of the church square, they
found Meissonier's property. After passing through a low door, painted
red, which led into a beautiful alley of vines, the journalist stopped
and, turning toward his companion, asked:

“What is your idea of Meissonier?”

Patissot hesitated. At last he decided: “A little man, well groomed,
clean shaven, a soldierly appearance.” The other smiled: “All right,
come along.” A quaint building in the form of a chalet appeared to the
left; and to the right side, almost opposite, was the main house. It was
a strange-looking building, where there was a mixture of everything, a
mingling of Gothic fortress, manor, villa, hut, residence, cathedral,
mosque, pyramid, a, weird combination of Eastern and Western
architecture. The style was complicated enough to set a classical
architect crazy, and yet there was something whimsical and pretty about
it. It had been invented and built under the direction of the artist.

They went in; a collection of trunks encumbered a little parlor. A
little man appeared, dressed in a jumper. The striking thing about him
was his beard. He bowed to the journalist, and said: “My dear sir, I
hope that you will excuse me; I only returned yesterday, and everything
is all upset here. Please be seated.” The other refused, excusing
himself: “My dear master, I only dropped in to pay my respects while
passing by.” Patissot, very much embarrassed, was bowing at every word
of his friend's, as though moving automatically, and he murmured,
stammering: “What a su—su—superb property!” The artist, flattered,
smiled, and suggested visiting it.

He led them first to a little pavilion of feudal aspect, where his
former studio was. Then they crossed a parlor, a dining-room, a
vestibule full of beautiful works of art, of beautiful Beauvais, Gobelin
and Flanders tapestries. But the strange external luxury of
ornamentation became, inside, a revel of immense stairways. A
magnificent grand stairway, a secret stairway in one tower, a servants'
stairway in another, stairways everywhere! Patissot, by chance, opened a
door and stepped back astonished. It was a veritable temple, this place
of which respectable people only mention the name in English, an
original and charming sanctuary in exquisite taste, fitted up like a
pagoda, and the decoration of which must certainly have caused a great
effort.

They next visited the park, which was complex, varied, with winding
paths and full of old trees. But the journalist insisted on leaving;
and, with many thanks, he took leave of the master: As they left they
met a gardener; Patissot asked him: “Has Monsieur Meissonier owned this
place for a long time?” The man answered: “Oh, monsieur! that needs
explaining. I guess he bought the grounds in 1846. But, as for the
house! he has already torn down and rebuilt that five or six times. It
must have cost him at least two millions!” As Patissot left he was
seized with an immense respect for this man, not on account of his
success, glory or talent, but for putting so much money into a whim,
because the bourgeois deprive themselves of all pleasure in order to
hoard money.

After crossing Poissy, they struck out on foot along the road to Medan.
The road first followed the Seine, which is dotted with charming islands
at this place. Then they went up a hill and crossed the pretty village
of Villaines, went down a little; and finally reached the neighborhood
inhabited by the author of the Rougon-Macquart series.

A pretty old church with two towers appeared on the left. They walked
along a short distance, and a passing farmer directed them to the
writer's dwelling.

Before entering, they examined the house. A large building, square and
new, very high, seemed, as in the fable of the mountain and the mouse,
to have given birth to a tiny little white house, which nestled near it.
This little house was the original dwelling, and had been built by the
former owner. The tower had been erected by Zola.

They rang the bell. An enormous dog, a cross between a Saint Bernard and
a Newfoundland, began to howl so terribly that Patissot felt a vague
desire to retrace his steps. But a servant ran forward, calmed
“Bertrand,” opened the door, and took the journalist's card in order to
carry it to his master.

“I hope that he will receive us!” murmured Patissot. “It would be too
bad if we had come all this distance not to see him.”

His companion smiled and answered: “Never fear, I have a plan for
getting in.”

But the servant, who had returned, simply asked them to follow him.

They entered the new building, and Patissot, who was quite enthusiastic,
was panting as he climbed a stairway of ancient style which led to the
second story.

At the same time he was trying to picture to himself this man whose
glorious name echoes at present in all corners of the earth, amid the
exasperated hatred of some, the real or feigned indignation of society,
the envious scorn of several of his colleagues, the respect of a mass of
readers, and the frenzied admiration of a great number. He expected to
see a kind of bearded giant, of awe-inspiring aspect, with a thundering
voice and an appearance little prepossessing at first.

The door opened on a room of uncommonly large dimensions, broad and
high, lighted by an enormous window looking out over the valley. Old
tapestries covered the walls; on the left, a monumental fireplace,
flanked by two stone men, could have burned a century-old oak in one
day. An immense table littered with books, papers and magazines stood in
the middle of this apartment so vast and grand that it first engrossed
the eye, and the attention was only afterward drawn to the man,
stretched out when they entered on an Oriental divan where twenty
persons could have slept. He took a few steps toward them, bowed,
motioned to two seats, and turned back to his divan, where he sat with
one leg drawn under him. A book lay open beside him, and in his right
hand he held an ivory paper-cutter, the end of which he observed from
time to time with one eye, closing the other with the persistency of a
near-sighted person.

While the journalist explained the purpose of the visit, and the writer
listened to him without yet answering, at times staring at him fixedly,
Patissot, more and more embarrassed, was observing this celebrity.

Hardly forty, he was of medium height, fairly stout, and with a good-
natured look. His head (very similar to those found in many Italian
paintings of the sixteenth century), without being beautiful in the
plastic sense of the word, gave an impression of great strength of
character, power and intelligence. Short hair stood up straight on the
high, well-developed forehead. A straight nose stopped short, as if cut
off suddenly above the upper lip which was covered with a black
mustache; over the whole chin was a closely-cropped beard. The dark,
often ironical look was piercing, one felt that behind it there was a
mind always actively at work observing people, interpreting words,
analyzing gestures, uncovering the heart. This strong, round head was
appropriate to his name, quick and short, with the bounding resonance of
the two vowels.

When the journalist had fully explained his proposition, the writer
answered him that he did not wish to make any definite arrangement, that
he would, however, think the matter over, that his plans were not yet
sufficiently defined. Then he stopped. It was a dismissal, and the two
men, a little confused, arose. A desire seized Patissot; he wished this
well-known person to say something to him, anything, some word which he
could repeat to his colleagues; and, growing bold, he stammered: “Oh,
monsieur! If you knew how I appreciate your works!” The other bowed, but
answered nothing. Patissot became very bold and continued: “It is a
great honor for me to speak to you to-day.” The writer once more bowed,
but with a stiff and impatient look. Patissot noticed it, and,
completely losing his head, he added as he retreated: “What a su—su
—superb property!”

Then, in the heart of the man of letters, the landowner awoke, and,
smiling, he opened the window to show them the immense stretch of view.
An endless horizon broadened out on all sides, giving a view of Triel,
Pisse-Fontaine, Chanteloup, all the heights of Hautrie, and the Seine as
far as the eye could see. The two visitors, delighted, congratulated
him, and the house was opened to them. They saw everything, down to the
dainty kitchen, whose walls and even ceilings were covered with
porcelain tiles ornamented with blue designs, which excited the wonder
of the farmers.

“How did you happen to buy this place?” asked the journalist.

The novelist explained that, while looking for a cottage to hire for the
summer, he had found the little house, which was for sale for several
thousand francs, a song, almost nothing. He immediately bought it.

“But everything that you have added must have cost you a good deal!”

The writer smiled, and answered: “Yes, quite a little.”

The two men left. The journalist, taking Patissot by the arm, was
philosophizing in a low voice:

“Every general has his Waterloo,” he said; “every Balzac has his
Jardies, and every artist living in the country feels like a landed
proprietor.”

They took the train at the station of Villaines, and, on the way home,
Patissot loudly mentioned the names of the famous painter and of the
great novelist as though they were his friends. He even allowed people
to think that he had taken luncheon with one and dinner with the other.

BEFORE THE CELEBRATION

The celebration is approaching and preliminary quivers are already
running through the streets, just as the ripples disturb the water
preparatory to a storm. The shops, draped with flags, display a variety
of gay-colored bunting materials, and the dry-goods people deceive one
about the three colors as grocers do about the weight of candles. Little
by little, hearts warm up to the matter; people speak about it in the
street after dinner; ideas are exchanged:

“What a celebration it will be, my friend; what a celebration!”

“Have you heard the news? All the rulers are coming incognito, as
bourgeois, in order to see it.”

“I hear that the Emperor of Russia has arrived; he expects to go about
everywhere with the Prince of Wales.”

“It certainly will be a fine celebration!”

It is going to a celebration; what Monsieur Patissot, Parisian
bourgeois, calls a celebration; one of these nameless tumults which, for
fifteen hours, roll from one end of the city to the other, every ugly
specimen togged out in its finest, a mob of perspiring bodies, where
side by side are tossed about the stout gossip bedecked in red, white
and blue ribbons, grown fat behind her counter and panting from lack of
breath, the rickety clerk with his wife and brat in tow, the laborer
carrying his youngster astride his neck, the bewildered provincial with
his foolish, dazed expression, the groom, barely shaved and still
spreading the perfume of the stable. And the foreigners dressed like
monkeys, English women like giraffes, the water-carrier, cleaned up for
the occasion, and the innumerable phalanx of little bourgeois,
inoffensive little people, amused at everything. All this crowding and
pressing, the sweat and dust, and the turmoil, all these eddies of human
flesh, trampling of corns beneath the feet of your neighbors, this city
all topsy-turvy, these vile odors, these frantic efforts toward nothing,
the breath of millions of people, all redolent of garlic, give to
Monsieur Patissot all the joy which it is possible for his heart to
hold.

After reading the proclamation of the mayor on the walls of his district
he had made his preparations.

This bit of prose said:

I wish to call your attention particularly to the part of individuals in
this celebration. Decorate your homes, illuminate your windows. Get
together, open up a subscription in order to give to your houses and to
your street a more brilliant and more artistic appearance than the
neighboring houses and streets.

Then Monsieur Patissot tried to imagine how he could give to his home an
artistic appearance.

One serious obstacle stood in the way. His only window looked out on a
courtyard, a narrow, dark shaft, where only the rats could have seen his
three Japanese lanterns.

He needed a public opening. He found it. On the first floor of his house
lived a rich man, a nobleman and a royalist, whose coachman, also a
reactionary, occupied a garret-room on the sixth floor, facing the
street. Monsieur Patissot supposed that by paying (every conscience can
be bought) he could obtain the use of the room for the day. He proposed
five francs to this citizen of the whip for the use of his room from
noon till midnight. The offer was immediately accepted.

Then he began to busy himself with the decorations. Three flags, four
lanterns, was that enough to give to this box an artistic appearance—to
express all the noble feelings of his soul? No; assuredly not! But,
notwithstanding diligent search and nightly meditation, Monsieur
Patissot could think of nothing else. He consulted his neighbors, who
were surprised at the question; he questioned his colleagues—every one
had bought lanterns and flags, some adding, for the occasion, red, white
and blue bunting.

Then he began to rack his brains for some original idea. He frequented
the cafes, questioning the patrons; they lacked imagination. Then one
morning he went out on top of an omnibus. A respectable-looking
gentleman was smoking a cigar beside him, a little farther away a
laborer was smoking his pipe upside down, near the driver two rough
fellows were joking, and clerks of every description were going to
business for three cents.

Before the stores stacks of flags were resplendent under the rising sun.
Patissot turned to his neighbor.

“It is going to be a fine celebration,” he said. The gentleman looked at
him sideways and answered in a haughty manner:

“That makes no difference to me!”

“You are not going to take part in it?” asked the surprised clerk. The
other shook his head disdainfully and declared:

“They make me tired with their celebrations! Whose celebration is it?
The government's? I do not recognize this government, monsieur!”

But Patissot, as government employee, took on his superior manner, and
answered in a stern voice:

“Monsieur, the Republic is the government.”

His neighbor was not in the least disturbed, and, pushing his hands down
in his pockets, he exclaimed:

“Well, and what then? It makes no difference to me. Whether it's for the
Republic or something else, I don't care! What I want, monsieur, is to
know my government. I saw Charles X. and adhered to him, monsieur; I saw
Louis-Philippe and adhered to him, monsieur; I saw Napoleon and adhered
to him; but I have never seen the Republic.”

Patissot, still serious, answered:

“The Republic, monsieur, is represented by its president!”

The other grumbled:

“Well, them, show him to me!”

Patissot shrugged his shoulders.

“Every one can see him; he's not shut up in a closet!”

Suddenly the fat man grew angry.

“Excuse me, monsieur, he cannot be seen. I have personally tried more
than a hundred times, monsieur. I have posted myself near the Elysee; he
did not come out. A passer-by informed me that he was playing billiards
in the cafe opposite; I went to the cafe opposite; he was not there. I
had been promised that he would go to Melun for the convention; I went
to Melun, I did not see him. At last I became weary. I did not even see
Monsieur Gambetta, and I do not know a single deputy.”

He was, growing excited:

“A government, monsieur, is made to be seen; that's what it's there for,
and for nothing else. One must be able to know that on such and such a
day at such an hour the government will pass through such and such a
street. Then one goes there and is satisfied.”

Patissot, now calm, was enjoying his arguments.

“It is true,” he said, “that it is agreeable to know the people by whom
one is governed.”

The gentleman continued more gently:

“Do you know how I would manage the celebration? Well, monsieur, I would
have a procession of gilded cars, like the chariots used at the crowning
of kings; in them I would parade all the members of the government, from
the president to the deputies, throughout Paris all day long. In that
manner, at least, every one would know by sight the personnel of the
state.”

But one of the toughs near the coachman turned around, exclaiming:

“And the fatted ox, where would you put him?”

A laugh ran round the two benches. Patissot understood the objection,
and murmured:

“It might not perhaps be very dignified.”

The gentleman thought the matter over and admitted it.

“Then,” he said, “I would place them in view some place, so that every
one could see them without going out of his way; on the Triumphal Arch
at the Place de l'Etoile, for instance; and I would have the whole
population pass before them. That would be very imposing.”

Once more the tough turned round and said:

“You'd have to take telescopes to see their faces.”

The gentleman did not answer; he continued:

“It's just like the presentation of the flags! There ought to be some
pretext, a mimic war ought to be organized, and the banners would be
awarded to the troops as a reward. I had an idea about which I wrote to
the minister; but he has not deigned to answer me. As the taking of the
Bastille has been chosen for the date of the national celebration, a
reproduction of this event might be made; there would be a pasteboard
Bastille, fixed up by a scene-painter and concealing within its walls
the whole Column of July. Then, monsieur, the troop would attack. That
would be a magnificent spectacle as well as a lesson, to see the army
itself overthrow the ramparts of tyranny. Then this Bastille would be
set fire to and from the midst of the flames would appear the Column
with the genius of Liberty, symbol of a new order and of the freedom of
the people.”

This time every one was listening to him and finding his idea excellent.
An old gentleman exclaimed:

“That is a great idea, monsieur, which does you honor. It is to be
regretted that the government did not adopt it.”

A young man declared that actors ought to recite the “Iambes” of Barbier
through the streets in order to teach the people art and liberty
simultaneously.

These propositions excited general enthusiasm. Each one wished to have
his word; all were wrought up. From a passing hand-organ a few strains
of the Marseillaise were heard; the laborer started the song, and
everybody joined in, roaring the chorus. The exalted nature of the song
and its wild rhythm fired the driver, who lashed his horses to a gallop.
Monsieur Patissot was bawling at the top of his lungs, and the
passengers inside, frightened, were wondering what hurricane had struck
them.

At last they stopped, and Monsieur Patissot, judging his neighbor to be
a man of initiative, consulted him about the preparations which he
expected to make:

“Lanterns and flags are all right,”' said Patissot; “but I prefer
something better.”

The other thought for a long time, but found nothing. Then, in despair,
the clerk bought three flags and four lanterns.

AN EXPERIMENT IN LOVE

Many poets think that nature is incomplete without women, and hence,
doubtless, come all the flowery comparisons which, in their songs, make
our natural companion in turn a rose, a violet, a tulip, or something of
that order. The need of tenderness which seizes us at dusk, when the
evening mist begins to roll in from the hills, and when all the perfumes
of the earth intoxicate us, is but imperfectly satisfied by lyric
invocations. Monsieur Patissot, like all others, was seized with a wild
desire for tenderness, for sweet kisses exchanged along a path where
sunshine steals in at times, for the pressure of a pair of small hands,
for a supple waist bending under his embrace.

He began to look at love as an unbounded pleasure, and, in his hours of
reverie, he thanked the Great Unknown for having put so much charm into
the caresses of human beings. But he needed a companion, and he did not
know where to find one. On the advice of a friend, he went to the
Folies-Bergere. There he saw a complete assortment. He was greatly
perplexed to choose between them, for the desires of his heart were
chiefly composed of poetic impulses, and poetry did not seem to be the
strong point of these young ladies with penciled eyebrows who smiled at
him in such a disturbing manner, showing the enamel of their false
teeth. At last his choice fell on a young beginner who seemed poor and
timid and whose sad look seemed to announce a nature easily influenced
by poetry.

He made an appointment with her for the following day at nine o'clock at
the Saint-Lazare station. She did not come, but she was kind enough to
send a friend in her stead.

She was a tall, red-haired girl, patriotically dressed in three colors,
and covered by an immense tunnel hat, of which her head occupied the
centre. Monsieur Patissot, a little disappointed, nevertheless accepted
this substitute. They left for Maisons-Laffite, where regattas and a
grand Venetian festival had been announced.

As soon as they were in the car, which was already occupied by two
gentlemen who wore the red ribbon and three ladies who must at least
have been duchesses, they were so dignified, the big red-haired girl,
who answered the name of Octavie, announced to Patissot, in a screeching
voice, that she was a fine girl fond of a good time and loving the
country because there she could pick flowers and eat fried fish. She
laughed with a shrillness which almost shattered the windows, familiarly
calling her companion “My big darling.”

Shame overwhelmed Patissot, who as a government employee, had to observe
a certain amount of decorum. But Octavie stopped talking, glancing at
her neighbors, seized with the overpowering desire which haunts all
women of a certain class to make the acquaintance of respectable women.
After about five minutes she thought she had found an opening, and,
drawing from her pocket a Gil-Blas, she politely offered it to one of
the amazed ladies, who declined, shaking her head. Then the big, red-
haired girl began saying things with a double meaning, speaking of women
who are stuck up without being any better than the others; sometimes she
would let out a vulgar word which acted like a bomb exploding amid the
icy dignity of the passengers.

At last they arrived. Patissot immediately wished to gain the shady
nooks of the park, hoping that the melancholy of the forest would quiet
the ruffled temper of his companion. But an entirely different effect
resulted. As soon as she was amid the leaves and grass she began to sing
at the top of her lungs snatches from operas which had stuck in her
frivolous mind, warbling and trilling, passing from “Robert le Diable”
to the “Muette,” lingering especially on a sentimental love-song, whose
last verses she sang in a voice as piercing as a gimlet.

Then suddenly she grew hungry. Patissot, who was still awaiting the
hoped-for tenderness, tried in vain to retain her. Then she grew angry,
exclaiming:

“I am not here for a dull time, am I?”

He had to take her to the Petit-Havre restaurant, which was near the
place where the regatta was to be held.

She ordered an endless luncheon, a succession of dishes substantial
enough to feed a regiment. Then, unable to wait, she called for
relishes. A box of sardines was brought; she started in on it as though
she intended to swallow the box itself. But when she had eaten two or
three of the little oily fish she declared that she was no longer hungry
and that she wished to see the preparations for the race.

Patissot, in despair and in his turn seized with hunger, absolutely
refused to move. She started off alone, promising to return in time for
the dessert. He began to eat in lonely silence, not knowing how to lead
this rebellious nature to the realization of his dreams.

As she did not return he set out in search of her. She had found some
friends, a troop of boatmen, in scanty garb, sunburned to the tips of
their ears, and gesticulating, who were loudly arranging the details of
the race in front of the house of Fourmaise, the builder.

Two respectable-looking gentlemen, probably the judges, were listening
attentively. As soon as she saw Patissot, Octavie, who was leaning on
the tanned arm of a strapping fellow who probably had more muscle than
brains, whispered a few words in his ears. He answered:

“That's an agreement.”

She returned to the clerk full of joy, her eyes sparkling, almost
caressing.

“Let's go for a row,” said she.

Pleased to see her so charming, he gave in to this new whim and procured
a boat. But she obstinately refused to go to the races, notwithstanding
Patissot's wishes.

“I had rather be alone with you, darling.”

His heart thrilled. At last!

He took off his coat and began to row madly.

An old dilapidated mill, whose worm-eaten wheels hung over the water,
stood with its two arches across a little arm of the river. Slowly they
passed beneath it, and, when they were on the other side, they noticed
before them a delightful little stretch of river, shaded by great trees
which formed an arch over their heads. The little stream flowed along,
winding first to the right and then to the left, continually revealing
new scenes, broad fields on one side and on the other side a hill
covered with cottages. They passed before a bathing establishment almost
entirely hidden by the foliage, a charming country spot where gentlemen
in clean gloves and beribboned ladies displayed all the ridiculous
awkwardness of elegant people in the country. She cried joyously:

“Later on we will take a dip there.”

Farther on, in a kind of bay, she wished to stop, coaxing:

“Come here, honey, right close to me.”

She put her arm around his neck and, leaning her head on his shoulder,
she murmured:

“How nice it is! How delightful it is on the water!”

Patissot was reveling in happiness. He was thinking of those foolish
boatmen who, without ever feeling the penetrating charm of the river
banks and the delicate grace of the reeds, row along out of breath,
perspiring and tired out, from the tavern where they take luncheon to
the tavern where they take dinner.

He was so comfortable that he fell asleep. When he awoke, he was alone.
He called, but no one answered. Anxious, he climbed up on the side of
the river, fearing that some accident might have happened.

Then, in the distance, coming in his direction, he saw a long, slender
gig which four oarsmen as black as negroes were driving through the
water like an arrow. It came nearer, skimming over the water; a woman
was holding the tiller. Heavens! It looked—it was she! In order to
regulate the rhythm of the stroke, she was singing in her shrill voice a
boating song, which she interrupted for a minute as she got in front of
Patissot. Then, throwing him a kiss, she cried:

“You big goose!”

A DINNER AND SOME OPINIONS

On the occasion of the national celebration Monsieur Antoine Perdrix,
chief of Monsieur Patissot's department, was made a knight of the Legion
of Honor. He had been in service for thirty years under preceding
governments, and for ten years under the present one. His employees,
although grumbling a little at being thus rewarded in the person of
their chief, thought it wise, nevertheless, to offer him a cross studded
with paste diamonds. The new knight, in turn, not wishing to be outdone,
invited them all to dinner for the following Sunday, at his place at
Asnieres.

The house, decorated with Moorish ornaments, looked like a cafe concert,
but its location gave it value, as the railroad cut through the whole
garden, passing within a hundred and fifty feet of the porch. On the
regulation plot of grass stood a basin of Roman cement, containing
goldfish and a stream of water the size of that which comes from a
syringe, which occasionally made microscopic rainbows at which the
guests marvelled.

The feeding of this irrigator was the constant preoccupation of Monsieur
Perdrix, who would sometimes get up at five o'clock in the morning in
order to fill the tank. Then, in his shirt sleeves, his big stomach
almost bursting from his trousers, he would pump wildly, so that on
returning from the office he could have the satisfaction of letting the
fountain play and of imagining that it was cooling off the garden.

On the night of the official dinner all the guests, one after the other,
went into ecstasies over the surroundings, and each time they heard a
train in the distance, Monsieur Perdrix would announce to them its
destination: Saint-Germain, Le Havre, Cherbourg, or Dieppe, and they
would playfully wave to the passengers leaning from the windows.

The whole office force was there. First came Monsieur Capitaine, the
assistant chief; Monsieur Patissot, chief clerk; then Messieurs de
Sombreterre and Vallin, elegant young employees who only came to the
office when they had to; lastly Monsieur Rade, known throughout the
ministry for the absurd doctrines which he upheld, and the copying
clerk, Monsieur Boivin.

Monsieur Rade passed for a character. Some called him a dreamer or an
idealist, others a revolutionary; every one agreed that he was very
clumsy. Old, thin and small, with bright eyes and long, white hair, he
had all his life professed a profound contempt for administrative work.
A book rummager and a great reader, with a nature continually in revolt
against everything, a seeker of truth and a despiser of popular
prejudices, he had a clear and paradoxical manner of expressing his
opinions which closed the mouths of self-satisfied fools and of those
that were discontented without knowing why. People said: “That old fool
of a Rade,” or else: “That harebrained Rade”; and the slowness, of his
promotion seemed to indicate the reason, according to commonplace minds.
His freedom of speech often made—his colleagues tremble; they asked
themselves with terror how he had been able to keep his place as long as
he had. As soon as they had seated themselves, Monsieur Perdrix thanked
his “collaborators” in a neat little speech, promising them his
protection, the more valuable as his power grew, and he ended with a
stirring peroration in which he thanked and glorified a government so
liberal and just that it knows how to seek out the worthy from among the
humble.

Monsieur Capitaine, the assistant chief, answered in the name of the
office, congratulated, greeted, exalted, sang the praises of all;
frantic applause greeted these two bits of eloquence. After that they
settled down seriously to the business of eating.

Everything went well up to the dessert; lack of conversation went
unnoticed. But after the coffee a discussion arose, and Monsieur Rade
let himself loose and soon began to overstep the bounds of discretion.

They naturally discussed love, and a breath of chivalry intoxicated this
room full of bureaucrats; they praised and exalted the superior beauty
of woman, the delicacy of her soul, her aptitude for exquisite things,
the correctness of her judgment, and the refinement of her sentiments.
Monsieur Rade began to protest, energetically refusing to credit the so-
called “fair” sex with all the qualities they ascribed to it; then,
amidst the general indignation, he quoted some authors:

“Schopenhauer, gentlemen, Schopenhauer, the great philosopher, revered
by all Germany, says: 'Man's intelligence must have been terribly
deadened by love in order to call this sex with the small waist, narrow
shoulders, large hips and crooked legs, the fair sex. All its beauty
lies in the instinct of love. Instead of calling it the fair, it would
have been better to call it the unaesthetic sex. Women have neither the
appreciation nor the knowledge of music, any more than they have of
poetry or of the plastic arts; with them it is merely an apelike
imitation, pure pretence, affectation cultivated from their desire to
please.'”

“The man who said that is an idiot,” exclaimed Monsieur de Sombreterre.

Monsieur Rade smilingly continued:

“And how about Rousseau, gentlemen? Here is his opinion: 'Women, as a
rule, love no art, are skilled in none, and have no talent.'”

Monsieur de Sombreterre disdainfully shrugged his shoulders:

“Then Rousseau is as much of a fool as the other, that's all.”

Monsieur Rade, still smiling, went on:

“And this is what Lord Byron said, who, nevertheless, loved women: 'They
should be well fed and well dressed, but not allowed to mingle with
society. They should also be taught religion, but they should ignore
poetry and politics, only being allowed to read religious works or cook-
books.'”

Monsieur Rade continued:

“You see, gentlemen, all of them study painting and music. But not a
single one of them has ever painted a remarkable picture or composed a
great opera! Why, gentlemen? Because they are the 'sexes sequior', the
secondary sex in every sense of the word, made to be kept apart, in the
background.”

Monsieur Patissot was growing angry, and exclaimed:

“And how about Madame Sand, monsieur?”

“She is the one exception, monsieur, the one exception. I will quote to
you another passage from another great philosopher, this one an
Englishman, Herbert Spencer. Here is what he says: 'Each sex is capable,
under the influence of abnormal stimulation, of manifesting faculties
ordinarily reserved for the other one. Thus, for instance, in extreme
cases a special excitement may cause the breasts of men to give milk;
children deprived of their mothers have often thus been saved in time of
famine. Nevertheless, we do not place this faculty of giving milk among
the male attributes. It is the same with female intelligence, which, in
certain cases, will give superior products, but which is not to be
considered in an estimate of the feminine nature as a social factor.'”

All Monsieur Patissot's chivalric instincts were wounded and he
declared:

“You are not a Frenchman, monsieur. French gallantry is a form of
patriotism.”

Monsieur Rade retorted:

“I have very little patriotism, monsieur, as little as I can get along
with.”

A coolness settled over the company, but he continued quietly:

“Do you admit with me that war is a barbarous thing; that this custom of
killing off people constitutes a condition of savagery; that it is
odious, when life is the only real good, to see governments, whose duty
is to protect the lives of their subjects, persistently looking for
means of destruction? Am I not right? Well, if war is a terrible thing,
what about patriotism, which is the idea at the base of it? When a
murderer kills he has a fixed idea; it is to steal. When a good man
sticks his bayonet through another good man, father of a family, or,
perhaps, a great artist, what idea is he following out?”

Everybody was shocked.

“When one has such thoughts, one should not express them in public.”

M. Patissot continued:

“There are, however, monsieur, principles which all good people
recognize.”

M. Rade asked: “Which ones?”

Then very solemnly, M. Patissot pronounced: “Morality, monsieur.”

M. Rade was beaming; he exclaimed:

“Just let me give you one example, gentlemen, one little example. What
is your opinion of the gentlemen with the silk caps who thrive along the
boulevard's on the delightful traffic which you know, and who make a
living out of it?”

A look of disgust ran round the table:

“Well, gentlemen! only a century ago, when an elegant gentleman, very
ticklish about his honor, had for—friend—a beautiful and rich lady, it
was considered perfectly proper to live at her expense and even to
squander her whole fortune. This game was considered delightful. This
only goes to show that the principles of morality are by no means
settled—and that—”

M. Perdrix, visibly embarrassed, stopped him:

“M. Rade, you are sapping the very foundations of society. One must
always have principles. Thus, in politics, here is M. de Sombreterre,
who is a Legitimist; M. Vallin, an Orleanist; M. Patissot and myself,
Republicans; we all have very different principles, and yet we agree
very well because we have them.”

But M. Rade exclaimed:

“I also have principles, gentlemen, very distinct ones.”

M. Patissot raised his head and coldly asked:

“It would please me greatly to know them, monsieur.”

M. Rade did not need to be coaxed.

“Here they are, monsieur:

“First principle—Government by one person is a monstrosity.

“Second principle—Restricted suffrage is an injustice.

“Third principle—Universal suffrage is idiotic.

“To deliver up millions of men, superior minds, scientists, even
geniuses, to the caprice and will of a being who, in an instant of
gaiety, madness, intoxication or love, would not hesitate to sacrifice
everything for his exalted fancy, would spend the wealth of the country
amassed by others with difficulty, would have thousands of men
slaughtered on the battle-fields, all this appears to me—a simple
logician—a monstrous aberration.

“But, admitting that a country must govern itself, to exclude, on some
always debatable pretext, a part of the citizens from the administration
of affairs is such an injustice that it seems to me unworthy of a
further discussion.

“There remains universal suffrage. I suppose that you will agree with me
that geniuses are a rarity. Let us be liberal and say that there are at
present five in France. Now, let us add, perhaps, two hundred men with a
decided talent, one thousand others possessing various talents, and ten
thousand superior intellects. This is a staff of eleven thousand two
hundred and five minds. After that you have the army of mediocrities
followed by the multitude of fools. As the mediocrities and the fools
always form the immense majority, it is impossible for them to elect an
intelligent government.

“In order to be fair I admit that logically universal suffrage seems to
me the only admissible principle, but it is impracticable. Here are the
reasons why:

“To make all the living forces of the country cooperate in the
government, to represent all the interests, to take into account all the
rights, is an ideal dream, but hardly practicable, because the only
force which can be measured is that very one which should be neglected,
the stupid strength of numbers, According to your method, unintelligent
numbers equal genius, knowledge, learning, wealth and industry. When you
are able to give to a member of the Institute ten thousand votes to a
ragman's one, one hundred votes for a great land-owner as against his
farmer's ten, then you will have approached an equilibrium of forces and
obtained a national representation which will really represent the
strength of the nation. But I challenge you to do it.

“Here are my conclusions:

“Formerly, when a man was a failure at every other profession he turned
photographer; now he has himself elected a deputy. A government thus
composed will always be sadly lacking, incapable of evil as well as of
good. On the other hand, a despot, if he be stupid, can do a lot of
harm, and, if he be intelligent (a thing which is very scarce), he may
do good.

“I cannot decide between these two forms of government; I declare myself
to be an anarchist, that is to say, a partisan of that power which is
the most unassuming, the least felt, the most liberal, in the broadest
sense of the word, and revolutionary at the same time; by that I mean
the everlasting enemy of this same power, which can in no way be
anything but defective. That's all!”

Cries of indignation rose about the table, and all, whether Legitimist,
Orleanist or Republican through force of circumstances, grew red with
anger. M. Patissot especially was choking with rage, and, turning toward
M. Rade, he cried:

“Then, monsieur, you believe in nothing?”

The other answered quietly:

“You're absolutely correct, monsieur.”

The anger felt by all the guests prevented M. Rade from continuing, and
M. Perdrix, as chief, closed the discussion.

“Enough, gentlemen! We each have our opinion, and we have no intention
of changing it.”

All agreed with the wise words. But M. Rade, never satisfied, wished to
have the last word.

“I have, however, one moral,” said he. “It is simple and always
applicable. One sentence embraces the whole thought; here it is: 'Never
do unto another that which you would not have him do unto you.' I defy
you to pick any flaw in it, while I will undertake to demolish your most
sacred principles with three arguments.”

This time there was no answer. But as they were going home at night, by
couples, each one was saying to his companion: “Really, M. Rade goes
much too far. His mind must surely be unbalanced. He ought to be
appointed assistant chief at the Charenton Asylum.”





A RECOLLECTION

How many recollections of youth come to me in the soft sunlight of early
spring! It was an age when all was pleasant, cheerful, charming,
intoxicating. How exquisite are the remembrances of those old
springtimes!

Do you recall, old friends and brothers, those happy years when life was
nothing but a triumph and an occasion for mirth? Do you recall the days
of wanderings around Paris, our jolly poverty, our walks in the fresh,
green woods, our drinks in the wine-shops on the banks of the Seine and
our commonplace and delightful little flirtations?

I will tell you about one of these. It was twelve years ago and already
appears to me so old, so old that it seems now as if it belonged to the
other end of life, before middle age, this dreadful middle age from
which I suddenly perceived the end of the journey.

I was then twenty-five. I had just come to Paris. I was in a government
office, and Sundays were to me like unusual festivals, full of exuberant
happiness, although nothing remarkable occurred.

Now it is Sunday every day, but I regret the time when I had only one
Sunday in the week. How enjoyable it was! I had six francs to spend!

On this particular morning I awoke with that sense of freedom that all
clerks know so well—the sense of emancipation, of rest, of quiet and of
independence.

I opened my window. The weather was charming. A blue sky full of
sunlight and swallows spread above the town.

I dressed quickly and set out, intending to spend the day in the woods
breathing the air of the green trees, for I am originally a rustic,
having been brought up amid the grass and the trees.

Paris was astir and happy in the warmth and the light. The front of the
houses was bathed in sunlight, the janitress' canaries were singing in
their cages and there was an air of gaiety in the streets, in the faces
of the inhabitants, lighting them up with a smile as if all beings and
all things experienced a secret satisfaction at the rising of the
brilliant sun.

I walked towards the Seine to take the Swallow, which would land me at
Saint-Cloud.

How I loved waiting for the boat on the wharf:

It seemed to me that I was about to set out for the ends of the world,
for new and wonderful lands. I saw the boat approaching yonder, yonder
under the second bridge, looking quite small with its plume of smoke,
then growing larger and ever larger, as it drew near, until it looked to
me like a mail steamer.

It came up to the wharf and I went on board. People were there already
in their Sunday clothes, startling toilettes, gaudy ribbons and bright
scarlet designs. I took up a position in the bows, standing up and
looking at the quays, the trees, the houses and the bridges disappearing
behind us. And suddenly I perceived the great viaduct of Point du Jour
which blocked the river. It was the end of Paris, the beginning of the
country, and behind the double row of arches the Seine, suddenly
spreading out as though it had regained space and liberty, became all at
once the peaceful river which flows through the plains, alongside the
wooded hills, amid the meadows, along the edge of the forests.

After passing between two islands the Swallow went round a curved
verdant slope dotted with white houses. A voice called out: “Bas Meudon”
and a little further on, “Sevres,” and still further, “Saint-Cloud.”

I went on shore and walked hurriedly through the little town to the road
leading to the wood.

I had brought with me a map of the environs of Paris, so that I might
not lose my way amid the paths which cross in every direction these
little forests where Parisians take their outings.

As soon as I was unperceived I began to study my guide, which seemed to
be perfectly clear. I was to turn to the right, then to the left, then
again to the left and I should reach Versailles by evening in time for
dinner.

I walked slowly beneath the young leaves, drinking in the air, fragrant
with the odor of young buds and sap. I sauntered along, forgetful of
musty papers, of the offices, of my chief, my colleagues, my documents,
and thinking of the good things that were sure to come to me, of all the
veiled unknown contained in the future. A thousand recollections of
childhood came over me, awakened by these country odors, and I walked
along, permeated with the fragrant, living enchantment, the emotional
enchantment of the woods warmed by the sun of June.

At times I sat down to look at all sorts of little flowers growing on a
bank, with the names of which I was familiar. I recognized them all just
as if they were the ones I had seen long ago in the country. They were
yellow, red, violet, delicate, dainty, perched on long stems or close to
the ground. Insects of all colors and shapes, short, long, of peculiar
form, frightful, and microscopic monsters, climbed quietly up the stalks
of grass which bent beneath their weight.

Then I went to sleep for some hours in a hollow and started off again,
refreshed by my doze.

In front of me lay an enchanting pathway and through its somewhat scanty
foliage the sun poured down drops of light on the marguerites which grew
there. It stretched out interminably, quiet and deserted, save for an
occasional big wasp, who would stop buzzing now and then to sip from a
flower, and then continue his way.

All at once I perceived at the end of the path two persons, a man and a
woman, coming towards me. Annoyed at being disturbed in my quiet walk, I
was about to dive into the thicket, when I thought I heard someone
calling me. The woman was, in fact, shaking her parasol, and the man, in
his shirt sleeves, his coat over one arm, was waving the other as a
signal of distress.

I went towards them. They were walking hurriedly, their faces very red,
she with short, quick steps and he with long strides. They both looked
annoyed and fatigued.

The woman asked:

“Can you tell me, monsieur, where we are? My fool of a husband made us
lose our way, although he pretended he knew the country perfectly.”

I replied confidently:

“Madame, you are going towards Saint-Cloud and turning your back on
Versailles.”

With a look of annoyed pity for her husband, she exclaimed:

“What, we are turning our back on Versailles? Why, that is just where we
want to dine!”

“I am going there also, madame.”

“Mon Dieu, mon Dieu, mon Dieu!” she repeated, shrugging her shoulders,
and in that tone of sovereign contempt assumed by women to express their
exasperation.

She was quite young, pretty, a brunette with a slight shadow on her
upper lip.

As for him, he was perspiring and wiping his forehead. It was assuredly
a little Parisian bourgeois couple. The man seemed cast down, exhausted
and distressed.

“But, my dear friend, it was you—” he murmured.

She did not allow him to finish his sentence.

“It was I! Ah, it is my fault now! Was it I who wanted to go out without
getting any information, pretending that I knew how to find my way? Was
it I who wanted to take the road to the right on top of the hill,
insisting that I recognized the road? Was it I who undertook to take
charge of Cachou—”

She had not finished speaking when her husband, as if he had suddenly
gone crazy, gave a piercing scream, a long, wild cry that could not be
described in any language, but which sounded like 'tuituit'.

The young woman did not appear to be surprised or moved and resumed:

“No, really, some people are so stupid and they pretend they know
everything. Was it I who took the train to Dieppe last year instead of
the train to Havre—tell me, was it I? Was it I who bet that M.
Letourneur lived in Rue des Martyres? Was it I who would not believe
that Celeste was a thief?”

She went on, furious, with a surprising flow of language, accumulating
the most varied, the most unexpected and the most overwhelming
accusations drawn from the intimate relations of their daily life,
reproaching her husband for all his actions, all his ideas, all his
habits, all his enterprises, all his efforts, for his life from the time
of their marriage up to the present time.

He strove to check her, to calm her and stammered:

“But, my dear, it is useless—before monsieur. We are making ourselves
ridiculous. This does not interest monsieur.”

And he cast mournful glances into the thicket as though he sought to
sound its peaceful and mysterious depths, in order to flee thither, to
escape and hide from all eyes, and from time to time he uttered a fresh
scream, a prolonged and shrill “tuituit.” I took this to be a nervous
affection.

The young woman, suddenly turning towards me: and changing her tone with
singular rapidity, said:

“If monsieur will kindly allow us, we will accompany him on the road, so
as not to lose our way again, and be obliged, possibly, to sleep in the
wood.”

I bowed. She took my arm and began to talk about a thousand things
—about herself, her life, her family, her business. They were glovers in
the Rue Saint-Lazare.

Her husband walked beside her, casting wild glances into the thick wood
and screaming “tuituit” every few moments.

At last I inquired:

“Why do you scream like that?”

“I have lost my poor dog,” he replied in a tone of discouragement and
despair.

“How is that—you have lost your dog?”

“Yes. He was just a year old. He had never been outside the shop. I
wanted to take him to have a run in the woods. He had never seen the
grass nor the leaves and he was almost wild. He began to run about and
bark and he disappeared in the wood. I must also add that he was greatly
afraid of the train. That may have driven him mad. I kept on calling
him, but he has not come back. He will die of hunger in there.”

Without turning towards her husband, the young woman said:

“If you had left his chain on, it would not have happened. When people
are as stupid as you are they do not keep a dog.”

“But, my dear, it was you—” he murmured timidly.

She stopped short, and looking into his eyes as if she were going to
tear them out, she began again to cast in his face innumerable
reproaches.

It was growing dark. The cloud of vapor that covers the country at dusk
was slowly rising and there was a poetry in the air, induced by the
peculiar and enchanting freshness of the atmosphere that one feels in
the woods at nightfall.

Suddenly the young man stopped, and feeling his body feverishly,
exclaimed:

“Oh, I think that I—”

She looked at him.

“Well, what?”

“I did not notice that I had my coat on my arm.”

“Well—?”

“I have lost my pocketbook—my money was in it.”

She shook with anger and choked with indignation.

“That was all that was lacking. How stupid you are! how stupid you are!
Is it possible that I could have married such an idiot! Well, go and
look for it, and see that you find it. I am going on to Versailles with
monsieur. I do not want to sleep in the wood.”

“Yes, my dear,” he replied gently. “Where shall I find you?”

A restaurant had been recommended to me. I gave him the address.

He turned back and, stooping down as he searched the ground with anxious
eyes, he moved away, screaming “tuituit” every few moments.

We could see him for some time until the growing darkness concealed all
but his outline, but we heard his mournful “tuituit,” shriller and
shriller as the night grew darker.

As for me, I stepped along quickly and happily in the soft twilight,
with this little unknown woman leaning on my arm. I tried to say pretty
things to her, but could think of nothing. I remained silent, disturbed,
enchanted.

Our path was suddenly crossed by a high road. To the right I perceived a
town lying in a valley.

What was this place? A man was passing. I asked him. He replied:

“Bougival.”

I was dumfounded.

“What, Bougival? Are you sure?”

“Parbleu, I belong there!”

The little woman burst into an idiotic laugh.

I proposed that we should take a carriage and drive to Versailles. She
replied:

“No, indeed. This is very funny and I am very hungry. I am really quite
calm. My husband will find his way all right. It is a treat to me to be
rid of him for a few hours.”

We went into a restaurant beside the water and I ventured to ask for a
private compartment. We had some supper. She sang, drank champagne,
committed all sorts of follies.

That was my first serious flirtation.





OUR LETTERS

Eight hours of railway travel induce sleep for some persons and insomnia
for others; with me, any journey prevents my sleeping on the following
night.

At about five o'clock I arrived at the estate of Abelle, which belongs
to my friends, the Murets d'Artus, to spend three weeks there. It is a
pretty house, built by one of their grandfathers in the style of the
latter half of the last century. Therefore it has that intimate
character of dwellings that have always been inhabited, furnished and
enlivened by the same people. Nothing changes; nothing alters the soul
of the dwelling, from which the furniture has never been taken out, the
tapestries never unnailed, thus becoming worn out, faded, discolored, on
the same walls. None of the old furniture leaves the place; only from
time to time it is moved a little to make room for a new piece, which
enters there like a new-born infant in the midst of brothers and
sisters.

The house is on a hill in the center of a park which slopes down to the
river, where there is a little stone bridge. Beyond the water the fields
stretch out in the distance, and here one can see the cows wandering
around, pasturing on the moist grass; their eyes seem full of the dew,
mist and freshness of the pasture. I love this dwelling, just as one
loves a thing which one ardently desires to possess. I return here every
autumn with infinite delight; I leave with regret.

After I had dined with this friendly family, by whom I was received like
a relative, I asked my friend, Paul Muret: “Which room did you give me
this year?”

“Aunt Rose's room.”

An hour later, followed by her three children, two little girls and a
boy, Madame Muret d'Artus installed me in Aunt Rose's room, where I had
not yet slept.

When I was alone I examined the walls, the furniture, the general aspect
of the room, in order to attune my mind to it. I knew it but little, as
I had entered it only once or twice, and I looked indifferently at a
pastel portrait of Aunt Rose, who gave her name to the room.

This old Aunt Rose, with her curls, looking at me from behind the glass,
made very little impression on my mind. She looked to me like a woman of
former days, with principles and precepts as strong on the maxims of
morality as on cooking recipes, one of these old aunts who are the
bugbear of gaiety and the stern and wrinkled angel of provincial
families.

I never had heard her spoken of; I knew nothing of her life or of her
death. Did she belong to this century or to the preceding one? Had she
left this earth after a calm or a stormy existence? Had she given up to
heaven the pure soul of an old maid, the calm soul of a spouse, the
tender one of a mother, or one moved by love? What difference did it
make? The name alone, “Aunt Rose,” seemed ridiculous, common, ugly.

I picked up a candle and looked at her severe face, hanging far up in an
old gilt frame. Then, as I found it insignificant, disagreeable, even
unsympathetic, I began to examine the furniture. It dated from the
period of Louis XVI, the Revolution and the Directorate. Not a chair,
not a curtain had entered this room since then, and it gave out the
subtle odor of memories, which is the combined odor of wood, cloth,
chairs, hangings, peculiar to places wherein have lived hearts that have
loved and suffered.

I retired but did not sleep. After I had tossed about for an hour or
two, I decided to get up and write some letters.

I opened a little mahogany desk with brass trimmings, which was placed
between the two windows, in hope of finding some ink and paper; but all
I found was a quill-pen, very much worn, and chewed at the end. I was
about to close this piece of furniture, when a shining spot attracted my
attention it looked like the yellow head of a nail. I scratched it with
my finger, and it seemed to move. I seized it between two finger-nails,
and pulled as hard as I could. It came toward me gently. It was a long
gold pin which had been slipped into a hole in the wood and remained
hidden there.

Why? I immediately thought that it must have served to work some spring
which hid a secret, and I looked. It took a long time. After about two
hours of investigation, I discovered another hole opposite the first
one, but at the bottom of a groove. Into this I stuck my pin: a little
shelf sprang toward my face, and I saw two packages of yellow letters,
tied with a blue ribbon.

I read them. Here are two of them:

So you wish me to return to you your letters, my dearest friend. Here
they are, but it pains me to obey. Of what are you afraid? That I might
lose them? But they are under lock and key. Do you fear that they might
be stolen? I guard against that, for they are my dearest treasure.

Yes, it pains me deeply. I wondered whether, perhaps you might not be
feeling some regret! Not regret at having loved me, for I know that you
still do, but the regret of having expressed on white paper this living
love in hours when your heart did not confide in me, but in the pen that
you held in your hand. When we love, we have need of confession, need of
talking or writing, and we either talk or write. Words fly away, those
sweet words made of music, air and tenderness, warm and light, which
escape as soon as they are uttered, which remain in the memory alone,
but which one can neither see, touch nor kiss, as one can with the words
written by your hand.

Your letters? Yes, I am returning them to you! But with what sorrow!

Undoubtedly, you must have had an after thought of delicate shame at
expressions that are ineffaceable. In your sensitive and timid soul you
must have regretted having written to a man that you loved him. You
remembered sentences that called up recollections, and you said to
yourself: “I will make ashes of those words.”

Be satisfied, be calm. Here are your letters. I love you.

MY FRIEND:

No, you have not understood me, you have not guessed. I do not regret,
and I never shall, that I told you of my affection.

I will always write to you, but you must return my letters to me as soon
as you have read them.

I shall shock you, my friend, when I tell you the reason for this
demand. It is not poetic, as you imagined, but practical. I am afraid,
not of you, but of some mischance. I am guilty. I do not wish my fault
to affect others than myself.

Understand me well. You and I may both die. You might fall off your
horse, since you ride every day; you might die from a sudden attack,
from a duel, from heart disease, from a carriage accident, in a thousand
ways. For, if there is only one death, there are more ways of its
reaching us than there are days or us to live.

Then your sisters, your brother, or your sister-in-law might find my
letters! Do you think that they love me? I doubt it. And then, even if
they adored me, is it possible for two women and one man to know a
secret—such a secret!—and not to tell of it?

I seem to be saying very disagreeable things, speaking first of your
death, and then suspecting the discreetness of your relatives.

But don't all of us die sooner or later? And it is almost certain that
one of us will precede the other under the ground. We must therefore
foresee all dangers, even that one.

As for me, I will keep your letters beside mine, in the secret of my
little desk. I will show them to you there, sleeping side by side in
their silken hiding place, full of our love, like lovers in a tomb.

You will say to me: “But if you should die first, my dear, your husband
will find these letters.”

Oh! I fear nothing. First of all, he does not know the secret of my
desk, and then he will not look for it. And even if he finds it after my
death, I fear nothing.

Did you ever stop to think of all the love letters that have been found
after death? I have been thinking of this for a long time, and that is
the reason I decided to ask you for my letters.

Think that never, do you understand, never, does a woman burn, tear or
destroy the letters in which it is told her that she is loved. That is
our whole life, our whole hope, expectation and dream. These little
papers which bear our name in caressing terms are relics which we adore;
they are chapels in which we are the saints. Our love letters are our
titles to beauty, grace, seduction, the intimate vanity of our
womanhood; they are the treasures of our heart. No, a woman does not
destroy these secret and delicious archives of her life.

But, like everybody else, we die, and then—then these letters are found!
Who finds them? The husband. Then what does he do? Nothing. He burns
them.

Oh, I have thought a great deal about that! Just think that every day
women are dying who have been loved; every day the traces and proofs of
their fault fall into the hands of their husbands, and that there is
never a scandal, never a duel.

Think, my dear, of what a man's heart is. He avenges himself on a living
woman; he fights with the man who has dishonored her, kills him while
she lives, because, well, why? I do not know exactly why. But, if, after
her death, he finds similar proofs, he burns them and no one is the
wiser, and he continues to shake hands with the friend of the dead
woman, and feels quite at ease that these letters should not have fallen
into strange hands, and that they are destroyed.

Oh, how many men I know among my friends who must have burned such
proofs, and who pretend to know nothing, and yet who would have fought
madly had they found them when she was still alive! But she is dead.
Honor has changed. The tomb is the boundary of conjugal sinning.

Therefore, I can safely keep our letters, which, in your hands, would be
a menace to both of us. Do you dare to say that I am not right?

I love you and kiss you.

I raised my eyes to the portrait of Aunt Rose, and as I looked at her
severe, wrinkled face, I thought of all those women's souls which we do
not know, and which we suppose to be so different from what they really
are, whose inborn and ingenuous craftiness we never can penetrate, their
quiet duplicity; and a verse of De Vigny returned to my memory:

“Always this comrade whose heart is uncertain.”






THE LOVE OF LONG AGO

The old-fashioned chateau was built on a wooded knoll in the midst of
tall trees with dark-green foliage; the park extended to a great
distance, in one direction to the edge of the forest, in another to the
distant country. A few yards from the front of the house was a huge
stone basin with marble ladies taking a bath; other, basins were seen at
intervals down to the foot of the slope, and a stream of water fell in
cascades from one basin to another.

From the manor house, which preserved the grace of a superannuated
coquette, down to the grottos incrusted with shell-work, where slumbered
the loves of a bygone age, everything in this antique demesne had
retained the physiognomy of former days. Everything seemed to speak
still of ancient customs, of the manners of long ago, of former
gallantries, and of the elegant trivialities so dear to our
grandmothers.

In a parlor in the style of Louis XV, whose walls were covered with
shepherds paying court to shepherdesses, beautiful ladies in hoop-
skirts, and gallant gentlemen in wigs, a very old woman, who seemed dead
as soon as she ceased to move, was almost lying down in a large easy-
chair, at each side of which hung a thin, mummy-like hand.

Her dim eyes were gazing dreamily toward the distant horizon as if they
sought to follow through the park the visions of her youth. Through the
open window every now and then came a breath of air laden with the odor
of grass and the perfume of flowers. It made her white locks flutter
around her wrinkled forehead and old memories float through her brain.

Beside her, on a tapestried stool, a young girl, with long fair hair
hanging in braids down her back, was embroidering an altar-cloth. There
was a pensive expression in her eyes, and it was easy to see that she
was dreaming, while her agile fingers flew over her work.

But the old lady turned round her head, and said:

“Berthe, read me something out of the newspapers, that I may still know
sometimes what is going on in the world.”

The young girl took up a newspaper, and cast a rapid glance over it.

“There is a great deal about politics, grandmamma; shall I pass that
over?”

“Yes, yes, darling. Are there no love stories? Is gallantry, then, dead
in France, that they no longer talk about abductions or adventures as
they did formerly?”

The girl made a long search through the columns of the newspaper.

“Here is one,” she said. “It is entitled 'A Love Drama!'”

The old woman smiled through her wrinkles. “Read that for me,” she said.

And Berthe commenced. It was a case of vitriol throwing. A wife, in
order to avenge herself on her husband's mistress, had burned her face
and eyes. She had left the Court of Assizes acquitted, declared to be
innocent, amid the applause of the crowd.

The grandmother moved about excitedly in her chair, and exclaimed:

“This is horrible—why, it is perfectly horrible!

“See whether you can find anything else to read to me, darling.”

Berthe again made a search; and farther down among the reports of
criminal cases, she read:

“'Gloomy Drama. A shop girl, no longer young, allowed herself to be led
astray by a young man. Then, to avenge herself on her lover, whose heart
proved fickle, she shot him with a revolver. The unhappy man is maimed
for life. The jury, all men of moral character, condoning the illicit
love of the murderess, honorably acquitted her.'”

This time the old grandmother appeared quite shocked, and, in a
trembling voice, she said:

“Why, you people are mad nowadays. You are mad! The good God has given
you love, the only enchantment in life. Man has added to this gallantry
the only distraction of our dull hours, and here you are mixing up with
it vitriol and revolvers, as if one were to put mud into a flagon of
Spanish wine.”

Berthe did not seem to understand her grandmother's indignation.

“But, grandmamma, this woman avenged herself. Remember she was married,
and her husband deceived her.”

The grandmother gave a start.

“What ideas have they been filling your head with, you young girls of
today?”

Berthe replied:

“But marriage is sacred, grandmamma.”

The grandmother's heart, which had its birth in the great age of
gallantry, gave a sudden leap.

“It is love that is sacred,” she said. “Listen, child, to an old woman
who has seen three generations, and who has had a long, long experience
of men and women. Marriage and love have nothing in common. We marry to
found a family, and we form families in order to constitute society.
Society cannot dispense with marriage. If society is a chain, each
family is a link in that chain. In order to weld those links, we always
seek metals of the same order. When we marry, we must bring together
suitable conditions; we must combine fortunes, unite similar races and
aim at the common interest, which is riches and children. We marry only
once my child, because the world requires us to do so, but we may love
twenty times in one lifetime because nature has made us like this.
Marriage, you see, is law, and love is an instinct which impels us,
sometimes along a straight, and sometimes along a devious path. The
world has made laws to combat our instincts—it was necessary to make
them; but our instincts are always stronger, and we ought not to resist
them too much, because they come from God; while the laws only come from
men. If we did not perfume life with love, as much love as possible,
darling, as we put sugar into drugs for children, nobody would care to
take it just as it is.”

Berthe opened her eyes wide in astonishment. She murmured:

“Oh! grandmamma, we can only love once.”

The grandmother raised her trembling hands toward Heaven, as if again to
invoke the defunct god of gallantries. She exclaimed indignantly:

“You have become a race of serfs, a race of common people. Since the
Revolution, it is impossible any longer to recognize society. You have
attached big words to every action, and wearisome duties to every corner
of existence; you believe in equality and eternal passion. People have
written poetry telling you that people have died of love. In my time
poetry was written to teach men to love every woman. And we! when we
liked a gentleman, my child, we sent him a page. And when a fresh
caprice came into our hearts, we were not slow in getting rid of the
last Lover—unless we kept both of them.”

The old woman smiled a keen smile, and a gleam of roguery twinkled in
her gray eye, the intellectual, skeptical roguery of those people who
did not believe that they were made of the same clay as the rest, and
who lived as masters for whom common beliefs were not intended.

The young girl, turning very pale, faltered out:

“So, then, women have no honor?”

The grandmother ceased to smile. If she had kept in her soul some of
Voltaire's irony, she had also a little of Jean Jacques's glowing
philosophy: “No honor! because we loved, and dared to say so, and even
boasted of it? But, my child, if one of us, among the greatest ladies in
France, had lived without a lover, she would have had the entire court
laughing at her. Those who wished to live differently had only to enter
a convent. And you imagine, perhaps, that your husbands will love but
you alone, all their lives. As if, indeed, this could be the case. I
tell you that marriage is a thing necessary in order that society should
exist, but it is not in the nature of our race, do you understand? There
is only one good thing in life, and that is love. And how you
misunderstand it! how you spoil it! You treat it as something solemn
like a sacrament, or something to be bought, like a dress.”

The young girl caught the old woman's trembling hands in her own.

“Hold your tongue, I beg of you, grandmamma!”

And, on her knees, with tears in her eyes, she prayed to Heaven to
bestow on her a great passion, one sole, eternal passion in accordance
with the dream of modern poets, while the grandmother, kissing her on
the forehead, quite imbued still with that charming, healthy reason with
which gallant philosophers tinctured the thought of the eighteenth
century, murmured:

“Take care, my poor darling! If you believe in such folly as that, you
will be very unhappy.”





FRIEND JOSEPH

They had been great friends all winter in Paris. As is always the case,
they had lost sight of each other after leaving school, and had met
again when they were old and gray-haired. One of them had married, but
the other had remained in single blessedness.

M. de Meroul lived for six months in Paris and for six months in his
little chateau at Tourbeville. Having married the daughter of a
neighboring squire, he had lived a good and peaceful life in the
indolence of a man who has nothing to do. Of a calm and quiet
disposition, and not over-intelligent he used to spend his time quietly
regretting the past, grieving over the customs and institutions of the
day and continually repeating to his wife, who would lift her eyes, and
sometimes her hands, to heaven, as a sign of energetic assent: “Good
gracious! What a government!”

Madame de Meroul resembled her husband intellectually as though she had
been his sister. She knew, by tradition, that one should above all
respect the Pope and the King!

And she loved and respected them from the bottom of her heart, without
knowing them, with a poetic fervor, with an hereditary devotion, with
the tenderness of a wellborn woman. She was good to, the marrow of her
bones. She had had no children, and never ceased mourning the fact.

On meeting his old friend, Joseph Mouradour, at a ball, M. de Meroul was
filled with a deep and simple joy, for in their youth they had been
intimate friends.

After the first exclamations of surprise at the changes which time had
wrought in their bodies and countenances, they told each other about
their lives since they had last met.

Joseph Mouradour, who was from the south of France, had become a
government official. His manner was frank; he spoke rapidly and without
restraint, giving his opinions without any tact. He was a Republican,
one of those good fellows who do not believe in standing on ceremony,
and who exercise an almost brutal freedom of speech.

He came to his friend's house and was immediately liked for his easy
cordiality, in spite of his radical ideas. Madame de Meroul would
exclaim:

“What a shame! Such a charming man!”

Monsieur de Meroul would say to his friend in a serious and confidential
tone of voice; “You have no idea the harm that you are doing your
country.” He loved him all the same, for nothing is stronger than the
ties of childhood taken up again at a riper age. Joseph Mouradour
bantered the wife and the husband, calling them “my amiable snails,” and
sometimes he would solemnly declaim against people who were behind the
times, against old prejudices and traditions.

When he was once started on his democratic eloquence, the couple,
somewhat ill at ease, would keep silent from politeness and good-
breeding; then the husband would try to turn the conversation into some
other channel in order to avoid a clash. Joseph Mouradour was only seen
in the intimacy of the family.

Summer came. The Merouls had no greater pleasure than to receive their
friends at their country home at Tourbeville. It was a good, healthy
pleasure, the enjoyments of good people and of country proprietors. They
would meet their friends at the neighboring railroad station and would
bring them back in their carriage, always on the lookout for compliments
on the country, on its natural features, on the condition of the roads,
on the cleanliness of the farm-houses, on the size of the cattle grazing
in the fields, on everything within sight.

They would call attention to the remarkable speed with which their horse
trotted, surprising for an animal that did heavy work part of the year
behind a plow; and they would anxiously await the opinion of the
newcomer on their family domain, sensitive to the least word, and
thankful for the slightest good intention.

Joseph Mouradour was invited, and he accepted the invitation.

Husband and wife had come to the train, delighted to welcome him to
their home. As soon as he saw them, Joseph Mouradour jumped from the
train with a briskness which increased their satisfaction. He shook
their hands, congratulated them, overwhelmed them with compliments.

All the way home he was charming, remarking on the height of the trees,
the goodness of the crops and the speed of the horse.

When he stepped on the porch of the house, Monsieur de Meroul said, with
a certain friendly solemnity:

“Consider yourself at home now.”

Joseph Mouradour answered:

“Thanks, my friend; I expected as much. Anyhow, I never stand on
ceremony with my friends. That's how I understand hospitality.”

Then he went upstairs to dress as a farmer, he said, and he came back
all togged out in blue linen, with a little straw hat and yellow shoes,
a regular Parisian dressed for an outing. He also seemed to become more
vulgar, more jovial, more familiar; having put on with his country
clothes a free and easy manner which he judged suitable to the
surroundings. His new manners shocked Monsieur and Madame de Meroul a
little, for they always remained serious and dignified, even in the
country, as though compelled by the two letters preceding their name to
keep up a certain formality even in the closest intimacy.

After lunch they all went out to visit the farms, and the Parisian
astounded the respectful peasants by his tone of comradeship.

In the evening the priest came to dinner, an old, fat priest, accustomed
to dining there on Sundays, but who had been especially invited this day
in honor of the new guest.

Joseph, on seeing him, made a wry face. Then he observed him with
surprise, as though he were a creature of some peculiar race, which he
had never been able to observe at close quarters. During the meal he
told some rather free stories, allowable in the intimacy of the family,
but which seemed to the Merouls a little out of place in the presence of
a minister of the Church. He did not say, “Monsieur l'abbe,” but simply,
“Monsieur.” He embarrassed the priest greatly by philosophical
discussions about diverse superstitions current all over the world. He
said: “Your God, monsieur, is of those who should be respected, but also
one of those who should be discussed. Mine is called Reason; he has
always been the enemy of yours.”

The Merouls, distressed, tried to turn the trend of the conversation.
The priest left very early.

Then the husband said, very quietly:

“Perhaps you went a little bit too far with the priest.”

But Joseph immediately exclaimed:

“Well, that's pretty good! As if I would be on my guard with a
shaveling! And say, do me the pleasure of not imposing him on me any
more at meals. You can both make use of him as much as you wish, but
don't serve him up to your friends, hang it!”

“But, my friends, think of his holy—”

Joseph Mouradour interrupted him:

“Yes, I know; they have to be treated like 'rosieres.' But let them
respect my convictions, and I will respect theirs!”

That was all for that day.

As soon as Madame de Meroul entered the parlor, the next morning, she
noticed in the middle of the table three newspapers which made her start
the Voltaire, the Republique-Francaise and the Justice. Immediately
Joseph Mouradour, still in blue, appeared on the threshold, attentively
reading the Intransigeant. He cried:

“There's a great article in this by Rochefort. That fellow is a wonder!”

He read it aloud, emphasizing the parts which especially pleased him, so
carried away by enthusiasm that he did not notice his friend's entrance.
Monsieur de Meroul was holding in his hand the Gaulois for himself, the
Clarion for his wife.

The fiery prose of the master writer who overthrew the empire, spouted
with violence, sung in the southern accent, rang throughout the peaceful
parsons seemed to spatter the walls and century-old furniture with a
hail of bold, ironical and destructive words.

The man and the woman, one standing, the other sitting, were listening
with astonishment, so shocked that they could not move.

In a burst of eloquence Mouradour finished the last paragraph, then
exclaimed triumphantly:

“Well! that's pretty strong!”

Then, suddenly, he noticed the two sheets which his friend was carrying,
and he, in turn, stood speechless from surprise. Quickly walking toward
him he demanded angrily:

“What are you doing with those papers?”

Monsieur de Meroul answered hesitatingly:

“Why—those—those are my papers!”

“Your papers! What are you doing—making fun of me? You will do me the
pleasure of reading mine; they will limber up your ideas, and as for
yours—there! that's what I do with them.”

And before his astonished host could stop him, he had seized the two
newspapers and thrown them out of the window. Then he solemnly handed
the Justice to Madame de Meroul, the Voltaire to her husband, while he
sank down into an arm-chair to finish reading the Intransigeant.

The couple, through delicacy, made a pretense of reading a little, they
then handed him back the Republican sheets, which they handled gingerly,
as though they might be poisoned.

He laughed and declared:

“One week of this regime and I will have you converted to my ideas.”

In truth, at the end of a week he ruled the house. He had closed the
door against the priest, whom Madame de Meroul had to visit secretly; he
had forbidden the Gaulois and the Clarion to be brought into the house,
so that a servant had to go mysteriously to the post-office to get them,
and as soon as he entered they would be hidden under sofa cushions; he
arranged everything to suit himself—always charming, always good-
natured, a jovial and all-powerful tyrant.

Other friends were expected, pious and conservative friends. The unhappy
couple saw the impossibility of having them there then, and, not knowing
what to do, one evening they announced to Joseph Mouradour that they
would be obliged to absent themselves for a few days, on business, and
they begged him to stay on alone. He did not appear disturbed, and
answered:

“Very well, I don't mind! I will wait here as long as you wish. I have
already said that there should be no formality between friends. You are
perfectly right-go ahead and attend to your business. It will not offend
me in the least; quite the contrary, it will make me feel much more
completely one of the family. Go ahead, my friends, I will wait for
you!”

Monsieur and Madame de Meroul left the following day.

He is still waiting for them.





THE EFFEMINATES

How often we hear people say, “He is charming, that man, but he is a
girl, a regular girl.” They are alluding to the effeminates, the bane of
our land.

For we are all girl-like men in France—that is, fickle, fanciful,
innocently treacherous, without consistency in our convictions or our
will, violent and weak as women are.

But the most irritating of girl—men is assuredly the Parisian and the
boulevardier, in whom the appearance of intelligence is more marked and
who combines in himself all the attractions and all the faults of those
charming creatures in an exaggerated degree in virtue of his masculine
temperament.

Our Chamber of Deputies is full of girl-men. They form the greater
number of the amiable opportunists whom one might call “The Charmers.”
These are they who control by soft words and deceitful promises, who
know how to shake hands in such a manner as to win hearts, how to say
“My dear friend” in a certain tactful way to people he knows the least,
to change his mind without suspecting it, to be carried away by each new
idea, to be sincere in their weathercock convictions, to let themselves
be deceived as they deceive others, to forget the next morning what he
affirmed the day before.

The newspapers are full of these effeminate men. That is probably where
one finds the most, but it is also where they are most needed. The
Journal des Debats and the Gazette de France are exceptions.

Assuredly, every good journalist must be somewhat effeminate—that is, at
the command of the public, supple in following unconsciously the shades
of public opinion, wavering and varying, sceptical and credulous, wicked
and devout, a braggart and a true man, enthusiastic and ironical, and
always convinced while believing in nothing.

Foreigners, our anti-types, as Mme. Abel called them, the stubborn
English and the heavy Germans, regard us with a certain amazement
mingled with contempt, and will continue to so regard us till the end of
time. They consider us frivolous. It is not that, it is that we are
girls. And that is why people love us in spite of our faults, why they
come back to us despite the evil spoken of us; these are lovers'
quarrels! The effeminate man, as one meets him in this world, is so
charming that he captivates you after five minutes' chat. His smile
seems made for you; one cannot believe that his voice does not assume
specially tender intonations on their account. When he leaves you it
seems as if one had known him for twenty years. One is quite ready to
lend him money if he asks for it. He has enchanted you, like a woman.

If he commits any breach of manners towards you, you cannot bear any
malice, he is so pleasant when you next meet him. If he asks your pardon
you long to ask pardon of him. Does he tell lies? You cannot believe it.
Does he put you off indefinitely with promises that he does not keep?
One lays as much store by his promises as though he had moved heaven and
earth to render them a service.

When he admires anything he goes into such raptures that he convinces
you. He once adored Victor Hugo, whom he now treats as a back number. He
would have fought for Zola, whom he has abandoned for Barbey and
d'Aurevilly. And when he admires, he permits no limitation, he would
slap your face for a word. But when he becomes scornful, his contempt is
unbounded and allows of no protest.

In fact, he understands nothing.

Listen to two girls talking.

“Then you are angry with Julia?” “I slapped her face.” “What had she
done?” “She told Pauline that I had no money thirteen months out of
twelve, and Pauline told Gontran—you understand.” “You were living
together in the Rue Clanzel?” “We lived together four years in the Rue
Breda; we quarrelled about a pair of stockings that she said I had worn
—it wasn't true—silk stockings that she had bought at Mother Martin's.
Then I gave her a pounding and she left me at once. I met her six months
ago and she asked me to come and live with her, as she has rented a flat
that is twice too large.”

One goes on one's way and hears no more. But on the following Sunday as
one is on the way to Saint Germain two young women get into the same
railway carriage. One recognizes one of them at once; it is Julia's
enemy. The other is Julia!

And there are endearments, caresses, plans. “Say, Julia—listen, Julia,”
etc.

The girl-man has his friendships of this kind. For three months he
cannot bear to leave his old Jack, his dear Jack. There is no one but
Jack in the world. He is the only one who has any intelligence, any
sense, any talent. He alone amounts to anything in Paris. One meets them
everywhere together, they dine together, walk about in company, and
every evening walk home with each other back and forth without being
able to part with one another.

Three months later, if Jack is mentioned:

“There is a drinker, a sorry fellow, a scoundrel for you. I know him
well, you may be sure. And he is not even honest, and ill-bred,” etc.,
etc.

Three months later, and they are living together.

But one morning one hears that they have fought a duel, then embraced
each other, amid tears, on the duelling ground.

Just now they are the dearest friends in the world, furious with each
other half the year, abusing and loving each other by turns, squeezing
each other's hands till they almost crush the bones, and ready to run
each other through the body for a misunderstanding.

For the relations of these effeminate men are uncertain. Their temper is
by fits and starts, their delight unexpected, their affection turn-
about-face, their enthusiasm subject to eclipse. One day they love you,
the next day they will hardly look at you, for they have in fact a
girl's nature, a girl's charm, a girl's temperament, and all their
sentiments are like the affections of girls.

They treat their friends as women treat their pet dogs.

It is the dear little Toutou whom they hug, feed with sugar, allow to
sleep on the pillow, but whom they would be just as likely to throw out
of a window in a moment of impatience, whom they turn round like a
sling, holding it by the tail, squeeze in their arms till they almost
strangle it, and plunge, without any reason, in a pail of cold water.

Then, what a strange thing it is when one of these beings falls in love
with a real girl! He beats her, she scratches him, they execrate each
other, cannot bear the sight of each other and yet cannot part, linked
together by no one knows what mysterious psychic bonds. She deceives
him, he knows it, sobs and forgives her. He despises and adores her
without seeing that she would be justified in despising him. They are
both atrociously unhappy and yet cannot separate. They cast invectives,
reproaches and abominable accusations at each other from morning till
night, and when they have reached the climax and are vibrating with rage
and hatred, they fall into each other's arms and kiss each other
ardently.

The girl-man is brave and a coward at the same time. He has, more than
another, the exalted sentiment of honor, but is lacking in the sense of
simple honesty, and, circumstances favoring him, would defalcate and
commit infamies which do not trouble his conscience, for he obeys
without questioning the oscillations of his ideas, which are always
impulsive.

To him it seems permissible and almost right to cheat a haberdasher. He
considers it honorable not to pay his debts, unless they are gambling
debts—that is, somewhat shady. He dupes people whenever the laws of
society admit of his doing so. When he is short of money he borrows in
all ways, not always being scrupulous as to tricking the lenders, but he
would, with sincere indignation, run his sword through anyone who should
suspect him of only lacking in politeness.





OLD AMABLE

PART I

The humid gray sky seemed to weigh down on the vast brown plain. The
odor of autumn, the sad odor of bare, moist lands, of fallen leaves, of
dead grass made the stagnant evening air more thick and heavy. The
peasants were still at work, scattered through the fields, waiting for
the stroke of the Angelus to call them back to the farmhouses, whose
thatched roofs were visible here and there through the branches of the
leafless trees which protected the apple-gardens against the wind.

At the side of the road, on a heap of clothes, a very small boy seated
with his legs apart was playing with a potato, which he now and then let
fall on his dress, whilst five women were bending down planting slips of
colza in the adjoining plain. With a slow, continuous movement, all
along the mounds of earth which the plough had just turned up, they
drove in sharp wooden stakes and in the hole thus formed placed the
plant, already a little withered, which sank on one side; then they
patted down the earth and went on with their work.

A man who was passing, with a whip in his hand, and wearing wooden
shoes, stopped near the child, took it up and kissed it. Then one of the
women rose up and came across to him. She was a big, red haired girl,
with large hips, waist and shoulders, a tall Norman woman, with yellow
hair in which there was a blood-red tint.

She said in a resolute voice:

“Why, here you are, Cesaire—well?”

The man, a thin young fellow with a melancholy air, murmured:

“Well, nothing at all—always the same thing.”

“He won't have it?”

“He won't have it.”

“What are you going to do?”

“What do you say I ought to do?”

“Go see the cure.”

“I will.”

“Go at once!”

“I will.”

And they stared at each other. He held the child in his arms all the
time. He kissed it once more and then put it down again on the woman's
clothes.

In the distance, between two farm-houses, could be seen a plough drawn
by a horse and driven by a man. They moved on very gently, the horse,
the plough and the laborer, in the dim evening twilight.

The woman went on:

“What did your father say?”

“He said he would not have it.”

“Why wouldn't he have it?”

The young man pointed toward the child whom he had just put back on the
ground, then with a glance he drew her attention to the man drawing the
plough yonder there.

And he said emphatically:

“Because 'tis his—this child of yours.”

The girl shrugged her shoulders and in an angry tone said:

“Faith, every one knows it well—that it is Victor's. And what about it
after all? I made a slip. Am I the only woman that did? My mother also
made a slip before me, and then yours did the same before she married
your dad! Who is it that hasn't made a slip in the country? I made a
slip with Victor because he took advantage of me while I was asleep in
the barn, it's true, and afterward it happened between us when I wasn't
asleep. I certainly would have married him if he weren't a servant man.
Am I a worse woman for that?”

The man said simply:

“As for me, I like you just as you are, with or without the child. It's
only my father that opposes me. All the same, I'll see about settling
the business.”

She answered:

“Go to the cure at once.”

“I'm going to him.”

And he set forth with his heavy peasant's tread, while the girl, with
her hands on her hips, turned round to plant her colza.

In fact, the man who thus went off, Cesaire Houlbreque, the son of deaf
old Amable Houlbreque, wanted to marry, in spite of his father, Celeste
Levesque, who had a child by Victor Lecoq, a mere laborer on her
parents' farm, who had been turned out of doors for this act.

The hierarchy of caste, however, does not exist in the country, and if
the laborer is thrifty, he becomes, by taking a farm in his turn, the
equal of his former master.

So Cesaire Houlbieque went off, his whip under his arm, brooding over
his own thoughts and lifting up one after the other his heavy wooden
shoes daubed with clay. Certainly he desired to marry Celeste Levesque.
He wanted her with her child because she was the wife he wanted. He
could not say why, but he knew it, he was sure of it. He had only to
look at her to be convinced of it, to feel quite queer, quite stirred
up, simply stupid with happiness. He even found a pleasure in kissing
the little boy, Victor's little boy, because he belonged to her.

And he gazed, without hate, at the distant outline of the man who was
driving his plough along the horizon.

But old Amable did not want this marriage. He opposed it with the
obstinacy of a deaf man, with a violent obstinacy.

Cesaire in vain shouted in his ear, in that ear which still heard a few
sounds:

“I'll take good care of you, daddy. I tell you she's a good girl and
strong, too, and also thrifty.”

The old man repeated:

“As long as I live I won't see her your wife.”

And nothing could get the better of him, nothing could make him waver.
One hope only was left to Cesaire. Old Amable was afraid of the cure
through the apprehension of death which he felt drawing nigh; he had not
much fear of God, nor of the Devil, nor of Hell, nor of Purgatory, of
which he had no conception, but he dreaded the priest, who represented
to him burial, as one might fear the doctors through horror of diseases.
For the last tight days Celeste, who knew this weakness of the old man,
had been urging Cesaire to go and find the cure, but Cesaire always
hesitated, because he had not much liking for the black robe, which
represented to him hands always stretched out for collections or for
blessed bread.

However, he had made up his mind, and he proceeded toward the
presbytery, thinking in what manner he would speak about his case.

The Abbe Raffin, a lively little priest, thin and never shaved, was
awaiting his dinner-hour while warming his feet at his kitchen fire.

As soon as he saw the peasant entering he asked, merely turning his
head:

“Well, Cesaire, what do you want?”

“I'd like to have a talk with you, M. le Cure.”

The man remained standing, intimidated, holding his cap in one hand and
his whip in the other.

“Well, talk.”

Cesaire looked at the housekeeper, an old woman who dragged her feet
while putting on the cover for her master's dinner at the corner of the
table in front of the window.

He stammered:

“'Tis—'tis a sort of confession.”

Thereupon the Abbe Raffin carefully surveyed his peasant. He saw his
confused countenance, his air of constraint, his wandering eyes, and he
gave orders to the housekeeper in these words:

“Marie, go away for five minutes to your room, while I talk to Cesaire.”

The servant cast on the man an angry glance and went away grumbling.

The clergyman went on:

“Come, now, tell your story.”

The young fellow still hesitated, looked down at his wooden shoes, moved
about his cap, then, all of a sudden, he made up his mind:

“Here it is: I want to marry Celeste Levesque.”

“Well, my boy, what's there to prevent you?”

“The father won't have it.”

“Your father?”

“Yes, my father.”

“What does your father say?”

“He says she has a child.”

“She's not the first to whom that happened, since our Mother Eve.”

“A child by Victor Lecoq, Anthime Loisel's servant man.”

“Ha! ha! So he won't have it?”

“He won't have it.”

“What! not at all?”

“No, no more than an ass that won't budge an inch, saving your
presence.”

“What do you say to him yourself in order to make him decide?”

“I say to him that she's a good girl, and strong, too, and thrifty
also.”

“And this does not make him agree to it. So you want me to speak to
him?”

“Exactly. You speak to him.”

“And what am I to tell your father?”

“Why, what you tell people in your sermons to make them give you sous.”

In the peasant's mind every effort of religion consisted in loosening
the purse strings, in emptying the pockets of men in order to fill the
heavenly coffer. It was a kind of huge commercial establishment, of
which the cures were the clerks; sly, crafty clerks, sharp as any one
must be who does business for the good God at the expense of the country
people.

He knew full well that the priests rendered services, great services to
the poorest, to the sick and dying, that they assisted, consoled,
counselled, sustained, but all this by means of money, in exchange for
white pieces, for beautiful glittering coins, with which they paid for
sacraments and masses, advice and protection, pardon of sins and
indulgences, purgatory and paradise according to the yearly income and
the generosity of the sinner.

The Abbe Raffin, who knew his man and who never lost his temper, burst
out laughing.

“Well, yes, I'll tell your father my little story; but you, my lad,
you'll come to church.”

Houlbreque extended his hand in order to give a solemn assurance:

“On the word of a poor man, if you do this for me, I promise that I
will.”

“Come, that's all right. When do you wish me to go and find your
father?”

“Why, the sooner the better-to-night, if you can.”

“In half an hour, then, after supper.”

“In half an hour.”

“That's understood. So long, my lad.”

“Good-by till we meet again, Monsieur le Cure; many thanks.”

“Not at all, my lad.”

And Cesaire Houlbreque returned home, his heart relieved of a great
weight.

He held on lease a little farm, quite small, for they were not rich, his
father and he. Alone with a female servant, a little girl of fifteen,
who made the soup, looked after the fowls, milked the cows and churned
the butter, they lived frugally, though Cesaire was a good cultivator.
But they did not possess either sufficient lands or sufficient cattle to
earn more than the indispensable.

The old man no longer worked. Sad, like all deaf people, crippled with
pains, bent double, twisted, he went through the fields leaning on his
stick, watching the animals and the men with a hard, distrustful eye.
Sometimes he sat down on the side of the road and remained there without
moving for hours, vaguely pondering over the things that had engrossed
his whole life, the price of eggs, and corn, the sun and the rain which
spoil the crops or make them grow. And, worn out with rheumatism, his
old limbs still drank in the humidity of the soul, as they had drunk in
for the past sixty years, the moisture of the walls of his low house
thatched with damp straw.

He came back at the close of the day, took his place at the end of the
table in the kitchen and when the earthen bowl containing the soup had
been placed before him he placed round it his crooked fingers, which
seemed to have kept the round form of the bowl and, winter and summer,
he warmed his hands, before commencing to eat, so as to lose nothing,
not even a particle of the heat that came from the fire, which costs a
great deal, neither one drop of soup into which fat and salt have to be
put, nor one morsel of bread, which comes from the wheat.

Then he climbed up a ladder into a loft, where he had his straw-bed,
while his son slept below stairs at the end of a kind of niche near the
chimneypiece and the servant shut herself up in a kind of cellar, a
black hole which was formerly used to store the potatoes.

Cesaire and his father scarcely ever talked to each other. From time to
time only, when there was a question of selling a crop or buying a calf,
the young man would ask his father's advice, and, making a speaking-
trumpet of his two hands, he would bawl out his views into his ear, and
old Amable either approved of them or opposed them in a slow, hollow
voice that came from the depths of his stomach.

So one evening Cesaire, approaching him as if about to discuss the
purchase of a horse or a heifer, communicated to him at the top of his
voice his intention to marry Celeste Levesque.

Then the father got angry. Why? On the score of morality? No, certainly.
The virtue of a girl is of slight importance in the country. But his
avarice, his deep, fierce instinct for saving, revolted at the idea that
his son should bring up a child which he had not begotten himself. He
had thought suddenly, in one second, of the soup the little fellow would
swallow before becoming useful on the farm. He had calculated all the
pounds of bread, all the pints of cider that this brat would consume up
to his fourteenth year, and a mad anger broke loose from him against
Cesaire, who had not bestowed a thought on all this.

He replied in an unusually strong voice:

“Have you lost your senses?”

Thereupon Cesaire began to enumerate his reasons, to speak about
Celeste's good qualities, to prove that she would be worth a thousand
times what the child would cost. But the old man doubted these
advantages, while he could have no doubts as to the child's existence;
and he replied with emphatic repetition, without giving any further
explanation:

“I will not have it! I will not have it! As long as I live, this won't
be done!” And at this point they had remained for the last three months
without one or the other giving in, resuming at least once a week the
same discussion, with the same arguments, the same words, the same
gestures and the same fruitlessness.

It was then that Celeste had advised Cesaire to go and ask for the
cure's assistance.

On arriving home the peasant found his father already seated at table,
for he came late through his visit to the presbytery.

They dined in silence, face to face, ate a little bread and butter after
the soup and drank a glass of cider. Then they remained motionless in
their chairs, with scarcely a glimmer of light, the little servant girl
having carried off the candle in order to wash the spoons, wipe the
glasses and cut the crusts of bread to be ready for next morning's
breakfast.

There was a knock, at the door, which was immediately opened, and the
priest appeared. The old man raised toward him an anxious eye full of
suspicion, and, foreseeing danger, he was getting ready to climb up his
ladder when the Abbe Raffin laid his hand on his shoulder and shouted
close to his temple:

“I want to have a talk with you, Father Amable.”

Cesaire had disappeared, taking advantage of the door being open. He did
not want to listen, for he was afraid and did not want his hopes to
crumble slowly with each obstinate refusal of his father. He preferred
to learn the truth at once, good or bad, later on; and he went out into
the night. It was a moonless, starless night, one of those misty nights
when the air seems thick with humidity. A vague odor of apples floated
through the farmyard, for it was the season when the earliest applies
were gathered, the “early ripe,” as they are called in the cider
country. As Cesaire passed along by the cattlesheds the warm smell of
living beasts asleep on manure was exhaled through the narrow windows,
and he heard the stamping of the horses, who were standing at the end of
the stable, and the sound of their jaws tearing and munching the hay on
the racks.

He went straight ahead, thinking about Celeste. In this simple nature,
whose ideas were scarcely more than images generated directly by
objects, thoughts of love only formulated themselves by calling up
before the mind the picture of a big red-haired girl standing in a
hollow road and laughing, with her hands on her hips.

It was thus he saw her on the day when he first took a fancy for her. He
had, however, known her from infancy, but never had he been so struck by
her as on that morning. They had stopped to talk for a few minutes and
then he went away, and as he walked along he kept repeating:

“Faith, she's a fine girl, all the same. 'Tis a pity she made a slip
with Victor.”

Till evening he kept thinking of her and also on the following morning.

When he saw her again he felt something tickling the end of his throat,
as if a cock's feather had been driven through his mouth into his chest,
and since then, every time he found himself near her, he was astonished
at this nervous tickling which always commenced again.

In three months he made up his mind to marry her, so much did she please
him. He could not have said whence came this power over him, but he
explained it in these words:

“I am possessed by her,” as if the desire for this girl within him were
as dominating as one of the powers of hell. He scarcely bothered himself
about her transgression. It was a pity, but, after all, it did her no
harm, and he bore no grudge against Victor Lecoq.

But if the cure should not succeed, what was he to do? He did not dare
to think of it, the anxiety was such a torture to him.

He reached the presbytery and seated himself near the little gateway to
wait for the priest's return.

He was there perhaps half an hour when he heard steps on the road, and
although the night was very dark, he presently distinguished the still
darker shadow of the cassock.

He rose up, his legs giving way under him, not even venturing to speak,
not daring to ask a question.

The clergyman perceived him and said gaily:

“Well, my lad, it's all right.”

Cesaire stammered:

“All right, 'tisn't possible.”

“Yes, my lad, but not without trouble. What an old ass your father is!”

The peasant repeated:

“'Tisn't possible!”

“Why, yes. Come and look me up to-morrow at midday in order to settle
about the publication of the banns.”

The young man seized the cure's hand. He pressed it, shook it, bruised
it as he stammered:

“True-true-true, Monsieur le Cure, on the word of an honest man, you'll
see me to-morrow-at your sermon.”

PART II

The wedding took place in the middle of December. It was simple, the
bridal pair not being rich. Cesaire, attired in new clothes, was ready
since eight o'clock in the morning to go and fetch his betrothed and
bring her to the mayor's office, but it was too early. He seated himself
before the kitchen table and waited for the members of the family and
the friends who were to accompany him.

For the last eight days it had been snowing, and the brown earth, the
earth already fertilized by the autumn sowing, had become a dead white,
sleeping under a great sheet of ice.

It was cold in the thatched houses adorned with white caps, and the
round apples in the trees of the enclosures seemed to be flowering,
covered with white as they had been in the pleasant month of their
blossoming.

This day the big clouds to the north, the big great snow clouds, had
disappeared and the blue sky showed itself above the white earth on
which the rising sun cast silvery reflections.

Cesaire looked straight before him through the window, thinking of
nothing, quite happy.

The door opened, two women entered, peasant women in their Sunday
clothes, the aunt and the cousin of the bridegroom; then three men, his
cousins; then a woman who was a neighbor. They sat down on chairs and
remained, motionless and silent, the women on one side of the kitchen,
the men on the other, suddenly seized with timidity, with that
embarrassed sadness which takes possession of people assembled for a
ceremony. One of the cousins soon asked:

“Is it not the hour?”

Cesaire replied:

“I am much afraid it is.”

“Come on! Let us start,” said another.

Those rose up. Then Cesaire, whom a feeling of uneasiness had taken
possession of, climbed up the ladder of the loft to see whether his
father was ready. The old man, always as a rule an early riser, had not
yet made his appearance. His son found him on his bed of straw, wrapped
up in his blanket, with his eyes open and a malicious gleam in them.

He bawled into his ear: “Come, daddy, get up. It's time for the
wedding.”

The deaf man murmured-in a doleful tone:

“I can't get up. I have a sort of chill over me that freezes my back. I
can't stir.”

The young man, dumbfounded, stared at him, guessing that this was a
dodge.

“Come, daddy; you must make an effort.”

“I can't do it.”

“Look here! I'll help you.”

And he stooped toward the old man, pulled off his blanket, caught him by
the arm and lifted him up. But old Amable began to whine, “Ooh! ooh!
ooh! What suffering! Ooh! I can't. My back is stiffened up. The cold
wind must have rushed in through this cursed roof.”

“Well, you'll get no dinner, as I'm having a spread at Polyte's inn.
This will teach you what comes of acting mulishly.”

And he hurried down the ladder and started out, accompanied by his
relatives and guests.

The men had turned up the bottoms of their trousers so as not to get
them wet in the snow. The women held up their petticoats and showed
their lean ankles with gray woollen stockings and their bony shanks
resembling broomsticks. And they all moved forward with a swinging gait,
one behind the other, without uttering a word, moving cautiously, for
fear of losing the road which was-hidden beneath the flat, uniform,
uninterrupted stretch of snow.

As they approached the farmhouses they saw one or two persons waiting to
join them, and the procession went on without stopping and wound its way
forward, following the invisible outlines of the road, so that it
resembled a living chaplet of black beads undulating through the white
countryside.

In front of the bride's door a large group was stamping up and down the
open space awaiting the bridegroom. When he appeared they gave him a
loud greeting, and presently Celeste came forth from her room, clad in a
blue dress, her shoulders covered with a small red shawl and her head
adorned with orange flowers.

But every one asked Cesaire:

“Where's your father?”

He replied with embarrassment:

“He couldn't move on account of the pains.”

And the farmers tossed their heads with a sly, incredulous air.

They directed their steps toward the mayor's office. Behind the pair
about to be wedded a peasant woman carried Victor's child, as if it were
going to be baptized; and the peasants, in pairs now, with arms linked,
walked through the snow with the movements of a sloop at sea.

After having been united by the mayor in the little municipal house the
pair were made one by the cure, in his turn, in the modest house of God.
He blessed their union by promising them fruitfulness, then he preached
to them on the matrimonial virtues, the simple and healthful virtues of
the country, work, concord and fidelity, while the child, who was cold,
began to fret behind the bride.

As soon as the couple reappeared on the threshold of the church shots
were discharged from the ditch of the cemetery. Only the barrels of the
guns could be seen whence came forth rapid jets of smoke; then a head
could be seen gazing at the procession. It was Victor Lecoq celebrating
the marriage of his old sweetheart, wishing her happiness and sending
her his good wishes with explosions of powder. He had employed some
friends of his, five or six laboring men, for these salvos of musketry.
It was considered a nice attention.

The repast was given in Polyte Cacheprune's inn. Twenty covers were laid
in the great hall where people dined on market days, and the big leg of
mutton turning before the spit, the fowls browned under their own gravy,
the chitterlings sputtering over the bright, clear fire filled the house
with a thick odor of live coal sprinkled with fat—the powerful, heavy
odor of rustic fare.

They sat down to table at midday and the soup was poured at once into
the plates. All faces had already brightened up; mouths opened to utter
loud jokes and eyes were laughing with knowing winks. They were going to
amuse themselves and no mistake.

The door opened, and old Amable appeared. He seemed in a bad humor and
his face wore a scowl as he dragged himself forward on his sticks,
whining at every step to indicate his suffering. As soon as they saw him
they stopped talking, but suddenly his neighbor, Daddy Malivoire, a big
joker, who knew all the little tricks and ways of people, began to yell,
just as Cesaire used to do, by making a speaking-trumpet of his hands.

“Hallo, my cute old boy, you have a good nose on you to be able to smell
Polyte's cookery from your own house!”

A roar of laughter burst forth from the throats of those present.
Malivoire, excited by his success, went on:

“There's nothing for the rheumatics like a chitterling poultice! It
keeps your belly warm, along with a glass of three-six!”

The men uttered shouts, banged the table with their fists, laughed,
bending on one side and raising up their bodies again as if they were
working a pump. The women clucked like hens, while the servants
wriggled, standing against the walls. Old Amable was the only one that
did not laugh, and, without making any reply, waited till they made room
for him.

They found a place for him in the middle of the table, facing his
daughter-in-law, and, as soon as he was seated, he began to eat. It was
his son who was paying, after all; it was right he should take his
share. With each ladleful of soup that went into his stomach, with each
mouthful of bread or meat crushed between his gums, with each glass of
cider or wine that flowed through his gullet he thought he was regaining
something of his own property, getting back a little of his money which
all those gluttons were devouring, saving in fact a portion of his own
means. And he ate in silence with the obstinacy of a miser who hides his
coppers, with the same gloomy persistence with which he formerly
performed his daily labors.

But all of a sudden he noticed at the end of the table Celeste's child
on a woman's lap, and his eye remained fixed on the little boy. He went
on eating, with his glance riveted on the youngster, into whose mouth
the woman who minded him every now and then put a little morsel which he
nibbled at. And the old man suffered more from the few mouthfuls sucked
by this little chap than from all that the others swallowed.

The meal lasted till evening. Then every one went back home.

Cesaire raised up old Amable.

“Come, daddy, we must go home,” said he.

And he put the old man's two sticks in his hands.

Celeste took her child in her arms, and they went on slowly through the
pale night whitened by the snow. The deaf old man, three-fourths tipsy,
and even more malicious under the influence of drink, refused to go
forward. Several times he even sat down with the object of making his
daughter-in-law catch cold, and he kept whining, without uttering a
word, giving vent to a sort of continuous groaning as if he were in
pain.

When they reached home he at once climbed up to his loft, while Cesaire
made a bed for the child near the deep niche where he was going to lie
down with his wife. But as the newly wedded pair could not sleep
immediately, they heard the old man for a long time moving about on his
bed of straw, and he even talked aloud several times, whether it was
that he was dreaming or that he let his thoughts escape through his
mouth, in spite of himself, not being able to keep them back, under the
obsession of a fixed idea.

When he came down his ladder next morning he saw his daughter-in-law
looking after the housekeeping.

She cried out to him:

“Come, daddy, hurry on! Here's some good soup.”

And she placed at the end of the table the round black earthen bowl
filled with steaming liquid. He sat down without giving any answer,
seized the hot bowl, warmed his hands with it in his customary fashion,
and, as it was very cold, even pressed it against his breast to try to
make a little of the living heat of the boiling liquid enter into him,
into his old body stiffened by so many winters.

Then he took his sticks and went out into the fields, covered with ice,
till it was time for dinner, for he had seen Celeste's youngster still
asleep in a big soap-box.

He did not take his place in the household. He lived in the thatched
house, as in bygone days, but he seemed not to belong to it any longer,
to be no longer interested in anything, to look upon those people, his
son, the wife and the child as strangers whom he did not know, to whom
he never spoke.

The winter glided by. It was long and severe.

Then the early spring made the seeds sprout forth again, and the
peasants once more, like laborious ants, passed their days in the
fields, toiling from morning till night, under the wind and under the
rain, along the furrows of brown earth which brought forth the bread of
men.

The year promised well for the newly married pair. The crops grew thick
and strong. There were no late frosts, and the apples bursting into
bloom scattered on the grass their rosy white snow which promised a hail
of fruit for the autumn.

Cesaire toiled hard, rose early and left off work late, in order to save
the expense of a hired man.

His wife said to him sometimes:

“You'll make yourself ill in the long run.”

He replied:

“Certainly not. I'm a good judge.”

Nevertheless one evening he came home so fatigued that he had to get to
bed without supper. He rose up next morning at the usual hour, but he
could not eat, in spite of his fast on the previous night, and he had to
come back to the house in the middle of the afternoon in order to go to
bed again. In the course of the night he began to cough; he turned round
on his straw couch, feverish, with his forehead burning, his tongue dry
and his throat parched by a burning thirst.

However, at daybreak he went toward his grounds, but next morning the
doctor had to be sent for and pronounced him very ill with inflammation
of the lungs.

And he no longer left the dark recess in which he slept. He could be
heard coughing, gasping and tossing about in this hole. In order to see
him, to give his medicine and to apply cupping-glasses they had to-bring
a candle to the entrance. Then one could see his narrow head with his
long matted beard underneath a thick lacework of spiders' webs, which
hung and floated when stirred by the air. And the hands of the sick man
seemed dead under the dingy sheets.

Celeste watched him with restless activity, made him take physic,
applied blisters to him, went back and forth in the house, while old
Amable remained at the edge of his loft, watching at a distance the
gloomy cavern where his son lay dying. He did not come near him, through
hatred of the wife, sulking like an ill-tempered dog.

Six more days passed, then one morning, as Celeste, who now slept on the
ground on two loose bundles of straw, was going to see whether her man
was better, she no longer heard his rapid breathing from the interior of
his recess. Terror stricken, she asked:

“Well Cesaire, what sort of a night had you?”

He did not answer. She put out her hand to touch him, and the flesh on
his face felt cold as ice. She uttered a great cry, the long cry of a
woman overpowered with fright. He was dead.

At this cry the deaf old man appeared at the top of his ladder, and when
he saw Celeste rushing to call for help, he quickly descended, placed
his hand on his son's face, and suddenly realizing what had happened,
went to shut the door from the inside, to prevent the wife from re-
entering and resuming possession of the dwelling, since his son was no
longer living.

Then he sat down on a chair by the dead man's side.

Some of the neighbors arrived, called out and knocked. He did not hear
them. One of them broke the glass of the window and jumped into the
room. Others followed. The door was opened again and Celeste reappeared,
all in tears, with swollen face and bloodshot eyes. Then old Amable,
vanquished, without uttering a word, climbed back to his loft.

The funeral took place next morning. Then, after the ceremony, the
father-in-law and the daughter-in-law found themselves alone in the
farmhouse with the child.

It was the usual dinner hour. She lighted the fire, made some soup and
placed the plates on the table, while the old man sat on the chair
waiting without appearing to look at her. When the meal was ready she
bawled in his ear—

“Come, daddy, you must eat.” He rose up, took his seat at the end of the
table, emptied his soup bowl, masticated his bread and butter, drank his
two glasses of cider and then took himself off.

It was one of those warm days, one of those enjoyable days when life
ferments, pulsates, blooms all over the surface of the soil.

Old Amable pursued a little path across the fields. He looked at the
young wheat and the young oats, thinking that his son was now under the
earth, his poor boy! He walked along wearily, dragging his legs after
him in a limping fashion. And, as he was all alone in the plain, all
alone under the blue sky, in the midst of the growing crops, all alone
with the larks which he saw hovering above his head, without hearing
their light song, he began to weep as he proceeded on his way.

Then he sat down beside a pond and remained there till evening, gazing
at the little birds that came there to drink. Then, as the night was
falling, he returned to the house, supped without saying a word and
climbed up to his loft. And his life went on as in the past. Nothing was
changed, except that his son Cesaire slept in the cemetery.

What could he, an old man, do? He could work no longer; he was now good
for nothing except to swallow the soup prepared by his daughter-in-law.
And he ate it in silence, morning and evening, watching with an eye of
rage the little boy also taking soup, right opposite him, at the other
side of the table. Then he would go out, prowl about the fields after
the fashion of a vagabond, hiding behind the barns where he would sleep
for an hour or two as if he were afraid of being seen and then come back
at the approach of night.

But Celeste's mind began to be occupied by graver anxieties. The farm
needed a man to look after it and cultivate it. Somebody should be there
always to go through the fields, not a mere hired laborer, but a regular
farmer, a master who understood the business and would take an interest
in the farm. A lone woman could not manage the farming, watch the price
of corn and direct the sale and purchase of cattle. Then ideas came into
her head, simple practical ideas, which she had turned over in her head
at night. She could not marry again before the end of the year, and it
was necessary at once to take care of pressing interests, immediate
interests.

Only one man could help her out of her difficulties, Victor Lecoq, the
father of her child. He was strong and understood farming; with a little
money in his pocket he would make an excellent cultivator. She was aware
of his skill, having known him while he was working on her parents'
farm.

So one morning, seeing him passing along the road with a cart of manure,
she went out to meet him. When he perceived her, he drew up his horses
and she said to him as if she had met him the night before:

“Good-morrow, Victor—are you quite well, the same as ever?”

He replied:

“I'm quite well, the same as ever—and how are you?”

“Oh, I'd be all right, only that I'm alone in the house, which bothers
me on account of the farm.”

Then they remained chatting for a long time, leaning against the wheel
of the heavy cart. The man every now and then lifted up his cap to
scratch his forehead and began thinking, while she, with flushed cheeks,
went on talking warmly, told him about her views, her plans; her
projects for the future. At last he said in a low tone:

“Yes, it can be done.”

She opened her hand like a countryman clinching a bargain and asked:

“Is it agreed?”

He pressed her outstretched hand.

“'Tis agreed.”

“It's settled, then, for next Sunday?”

“It's settled for next Sunday”

“Well, good-morning, Victor.”

“Good-morning, Madame Houlbreque.”

PART III

This particular Sunday was the day of the village festival, the annual
festival in honor of the patron saint, which in Normandy is called the
assembly.

For the last eight days quaint-looking vehicles in which live the
families of strolling fair exhibitors, lottery managers, keepers of
shooting galleries and other forms of amusement or exhibitors of
curiosities whom the peasants call “wonder-makers” could be seen coming
along the roads drawn slowly by gray or sorrel horses.

The dirty wagons with their floating curtains, accompanied by a
melancholy-looking dog, who trotted, with his head down, between the
wheels, drew up one after the other on the green in front of the town
hall. Then a tent was erected in front of each ambulant abode, and
inside this tent could be seen, through the holes in the canvas,
glittering things which excited the envy or the curiosity of the village
youngsters.

As soon as the morning of the fete arrived all the booths were opened,
displaying their splendors of glass or porcelain, and the peasants on
their way to mass looked with genuine satisfaction at these modest shops
which they saw again, nevertheless, each succeeding year.

Early in the afternoon there was a crowd on the green. From every
neighboring village the farmers arrived, shaken along with their wives
and children in the two-wheeled open chars-a-bancs, which rattled along,
swaying like cradles. They unharnessed at their friends' houses and the
farmyards were filled with strange-looking traps, gray, high, lean,
crooked, like long-clawed creatures from the depths of the sea. And each
family, with the youngsters in front and the grown-up ones behind, came
to the assembly with tranquil steps, smiling countenances and open
hands, big hands, red and bony, accustomed to work and apparently tired
of their temporary rest.

A clown was blowing a trumpet. The barrel-organ accompanying the
carrousel sent through the air its shrill jerky notes. The lottery-wheel
made a whirring sound like that of cloth tearing, and every moment the
crack of the rifle could be heard. And the slow-moving throng passed on
quietly in front of the booths resembling paste in a fluid condition,
with the motions of a flock of sheep and the awkwardness of heavy
animals who had escaped by chance.

The girls, holding one another's arms in groups of six or eight, were
singing; the youths followed them, making jokes, with their caps over
their ears and their blouses stiffened with starch, swollen out like
blue balloons.

The whole countryside was there—masters, laboring men and women
servants.

Old Amable himself, wearing his old-fashioned green frock coat, had
wished to see the assembly, for he never failed to attend on such an
occasion.

He looked at the lotteries, stopped in front of the shooting galleries
to criticize the shots and interested himself specially in a very simple
game which consisted in throwing a big wooden ball into the open mouth
of a mannikin carved and painted on a board.

Suddenly he felt a tap on his shoulder. It was Daddy Malivoire, who
exclaimed:

“Ha, daddy! Come and have a glass of brandy.”

And they sat down at the table of an open-air restaurant.

They drank one glass of brandy, then two, then three, and old Amable
once more began wandering through the assembly. His thoughts became
slightly confused, he smiled without knowing why, he smiled in front of
the lotteries, in front of the wooden horses and especially in front of
the killing game. He remained there a long time, filled with delight,
when he saw a holiday-maker knocking down the gendarme or the cure, two
authorities whom he instinctively distrusted. Then he went back to the
inn and drank a glass of cider to cool himself. It was late, night came
on. A neighbor came to warn him:

“You'll get back home late for the stew, daddy.”

Then he set out on his way to the farmhouse. A soft shadow, the warm
shadow of a spring night, was slowly descending on the earth.

When he reached the front door he thought he saw through the window
which was lighted up two persons in the house. He stopped, much
surprised, then he went in, and he saw Victor Lecoq seated at the table,
with a plate filled with potatoes before him, taking his supper in the
very same place where his son had sat.

And he turned round suddenly as if he wanted to go away. The night was
very dark now. Celeste started up and shouted at him:

“Come quick, daddy! Here's some good stew to finish off the assembly
with.”

He complied through inertia and sat down, watching in turn the man, the
woman and the child. Then he began to eat quietly as on ordinary days.

Victor Lecoq seemed quite at home, talked from time to time to Celeste,
took up the child in his lap and kissed him. And Celeste again served
him with food, poured out drink for him and appeared happy while
speaking to him. Old Amable's eyes followed them attentively, though he
could not hear what they were saying.

When he had finished supper (and he had scarcely eaten anything, there
was such a weight at his heart) he rose up, and instead of ascending to
his loft as he did every night he opened the gate of the yard and went
out into the open air.

When he had gone, Celeste, a little uneasy, asked:

“What is he going to do?”

Victor replied in an indifferent tone:

“Don't bother yourself. He'll come back when he's tired.”

Then she saw after the house, washed the plates and wiped the table,
while the man quietly took off his clothes. Then he slipped into the
dark and hollow bed in which she had slept with Cesaire.

The yard gate opened and old Amable again appeared. As soon as he
entered the house he looked round on every side with the air of an old
dog on the scent. He was in search of Victor Lecoq. As he did not see
him, he took the candle off the table and approached the dark niche in
which his son had died. In the interior of it he perceived the man lying
under the bed clothes and already asleep. Then the deaf man noiselessly
turned round, put back the candle and went out into the yard.

Celeste had finished her work. She put her son into his bed, arranged
everything and waited for her father-in-law's return before lying down
herself.

She remained sitting on a chair, without moving her hands and with her
eyes fixed on vacancy.

As he did not come back, she murmured in a tone of impatience and
annoyance:

“This good-for-nothing old man will make us burn four sous' worth of
candles.”

Victor answered from under the bed clothes:

“It's over an hour since he went out. We ought to see whether he fell
asleep on the bench outside the door.”

“I'll go and see,” she said.

She rose up, took the light and went out, shading the light with her
hand in order to see through the darkness.

She saw nothing in front of the door, nothing on the bench, nothing on
the dung heap, where the old man used sometimes to sit in hot weather.

But, just as she was on the point of going in again, she chanced to
raise her eyes toward the big apple tree, which sheltered the entrance
to the farmyard, and suddenly she saw two feet—two feet at the height of
her face belonging to a man who was hanging.

She uttered terrible cries:

“Victor! Victor! Victor!”

He ran out in his shirt. She could not utter another word, and turning
aside her head so as not to see, she pointed toward the tree with her
outstretched arm.

Not understanding what she meant, he took the candle in order to find
out, and in the midst of the foliage lit up from below he saw old Amable
hanging high up with a stable-halter round his neck.

A ladder was leaning against the trunk of the apple tree.

Victor ran to fetch a bill-hook, climbed up the tree and cut the halter.
But the old man was already cold and his tongue protruded horribly with
a frightful grimace.





ORIGINAL SHORT STORIES, Vol. 10.

GUY DE MAUPASSANT ORIGINAL SHORT STORIES Translated by ALBERT M. C.
McMASTER, B.A. A. E. HENDERSON, B.A. MME. QUESADA and Others





VOLUME X.





THE CHRISTENING “Well doctor, a little brandy?”

“With pleasure.”

The old ship's surgeon, holding out his glass, watched it as it slowly
filled with the golden liquid. Then, holding it in front of his eyes, he
let the light from the lamp stream through it, smelled it, tasted a few
drops and smacked his lips with relish. Then he said:

“Ah! the charming poison! Or rather the seductive murderer, the
delightful destroyer of peoples!

“You people do not know it the way I do. You may have read that
admirable book entitled L'Assommoir, but you have not, as I have, seen
alcohol exterminate a whole tribe of savages, a little kingdom of
negroes—alcohol calmly unloaded by the barrel by red-bearded English
seamen.

“Right near here, in a little village in Brittany near Pont-l'Abbe, I
once witnessed a strange and terrible tragedy caused by alcohol. I was
spending my vacation in a little country house left me by my father. You
know this flat coast where the wind whistles day and night, where one
sees, standing or prone, these giant rocks which in the olden times were
regarded as guardians, and which still retain something majestic and
imposing about them. I always expect to see them come to life and start
to walk across the country with the slow and ponderous tread of giants,
or to unfold enormous granite wings and fly toward the paradise of the
Druids.

“Everywhere is the sea, always ready on the slightest provocation to
rise in its anger and shake its foamy mane at those bold enough to brave
its wrath.

“And the men who travel on this terrible sea, which, with one motion of
its green back, can overturn and swallow up their frail barks—they go
out in the little boats, day and night, hardy, weary and drunk. They are
often drunk. They have a saying which says: 'When the bottle is full you
see the reef, but when it is empty you see it no more.'

“Go into one of their huts; you will never find the father there. If you
ask the woman what has become of her husband, she will stretch her arms
out over the dark ocean which rumbles and roars along the coast. He
remained, there one night, when he had had too much to drink; so did her
oldest son. She has four more big, strong, fair-haired boys. Soon it
will be their time.

“As I said, I was living in a little house near Pont-l'Abbe. I was there
alone with my servant, an old sailor, and with a native family which
took care of the grounds in my absence. It consisted of three persons,
two sisters and a man, who had married one of them, and who attended to
the garden.

“A short time before Christmas my gardener's wife presented him with a
boy. The husband asked me to stand as god-father. I could hardly deny
the request, and so he borrowed ten francs from me for the cost of the
christening, as he said.

“The second day of January was chosen as the date of the ceremony. For a
week the earth had been covered by an enormous white carpet of snow,
which made this flat, low country seem vast and limitless. The ocean
appeared to be black in contrast with this white plain; one could see it
rolling, raging and tossing its waves as though wishing to annihilate
its pale neighbor, which appeared to be dead, it was so calm, quiet and
cold.

“At nine o'clock the father, Kerandec, came to my door with his sister-
in-law, the big Kermagan, and the nurse, who carried the infant wrapped
up in a blanket. We started for the church. The weather was so cold that
it seemed to dry up the skin and crack it open. I was thinking of the
poor little creature who was being carried on ahead of us, and I said to
myself that this Breton race must surely be of iron, if their children
were able, as soon as they were born, to stand such an outing.

“We came to the church, but the door was closed; the priest was late.

“Then the nurse sat down on one of the steps and began to undress the
child. At first I thought there must have been some slight accident, but
I saw that they were leaving the poor little fellow naked completely
naked, in the icy air. Furious at such imprudence, I protested:

“'Why, you are crazy! You will kill the child!'

“The woman answered quietly: 'Oh, no, sir; he must wait naked before the
Lord.'

“The father and the aunt looked on undisturbed. It was the custom. If it
were not adhered to misfortune was sure to attend the little one.

“I scolded, threatened and pleaded. I used force to try to cover the
frail creature. All was in vain. The nurse ran away from me through the
snow, and the body of the little one turned purple. I was about to leave
these brutes when I saw the priest coming across the country, followed.
by the sexton and a young boy. I ran towards him and gave vent to my
indignation. He showed no surprise nor did he quicken his pace in the
least. He answered:

“'What can you expect, sir? It's the custom. They all do it, and it's of
no use trying to stop them.'

“'But at least hurry up!' I cried.

“He answered: 'But I can't go any faster.'

“He entered the vestry, while we remained outside on the church steps. I
was suffering. But what about the poor little creature who was howling
from the effects of the biting cold.

“At last the door opened. He went into the church. But the poor child
had to remain naked throughout the ceremony. It was interminable. The
priest stammered over the Latin words and mispronounced them horribly.
He walked slowly and with a ponderous tread. His white surplice chilled
my heart. It seemed as though, in the name of a pitiless and barbarous
god, he had wrapped himself in another kind of snow in order to torture
this little piece of humanity that suffered so from the cold.

“Finally the christening was finished according to the rites and I saw
the nurse once more take the frozen, moaning child and wrap it up in the
blanket.

“The priest said to me: 'Do you wish to sign the register?'

“Turning to my gardener, I said: 'Hurry up and get home quickly so that
you can warm that child.' I gave him some advice so as to ward off, if
not too late, a bad attack of pneumonia. He promised to follow my
instructions and left with his sister-in-law and the nurse. I followed
the priest into the vestry, and when I had signed he demanded five
francs for expenses.

“As I had already given the father ten francs, I refused to pay twice.
The priest threatened to destroy the paper and to annul the ceremony. I,
in turn, threatened him with the district attorney. The dispute was
long, and I finally paid five francs.

“As soon as I reached home I went down to Kerandec's to find out whether
everything was all right. Neither father, nor sister-in-law, nor nurse
had yet returned. The mother, who had remained alone, was in bed,
shivering with cold and starving, for she had had nothing to eat since
the day before.

“'Where the deuce can they have gone?' I asked. She answered without
surprise or anger, 'They're going to drink something to celebrate: It
was the custom. Then I thought, of my ten francs which were to pay the
church and would doubtless pay for the alcohol.

“I sent some broth to the mother and ordered a good fire to be built in
the room. I was uneasy and furious and promised myself to drive out
these brutes, wondering with terror what was going to happen to the poor
infant.

“It was already six, and they had not yet returned. I told my servant to
wait for them and I went to bed. I soon fell asleep and slept like a
top. At daybreak I was awakened by my servant, who was bringing me my
hot water.

“As soon as my eyes were open I asked: 'How about Kerandec?'

“The man hesitated and then stammered: 'Oh! he came back, all right,
after midnight, and so drunk that he couldn't walk, and so were Kermagan
and the nurse. I guess they must have slept in a ditch, for the little
one died and they never even noticed it.'

“I jumped up out of bed, crying:

“'What! The child is dead?'

“'Yes, sir. They brought it back to Mother Kerandec. When she saw it she
began to cry, and now they are making her drink to console her.'

“'What's that? They are making her drink!'

“'Yes, sir. I only found it out this morning. As Kerandec had no more
brandy or money, he took some wood alcohol, which monsieur gave him for
the lamp, and all four of them are now drinking that. The mother is
feeling pretty sick now.'

“I had hastily put on some clothes, and seizing a stick, with the
intention of applying it to the backs of these human beasts, I hastened
towards the gardener's house.

“The mother was raving drunk beside the blue body of her dead baby.
Kerandec, the nurse, and the Kermagan woman were snoring on the floor. I
had to take care of the mother, who died towards noon.”

The old doctor was silent. He took up the brandy-bottle and poured out
another glass. He held it up to the lamp, and the light streaming
through it imparted to the liquid the amber color of molten topaz. With
one gulp he swallowed the treacherous drink.





THE FARMER'S WIFE Said the Baron Rene du Treilles to me:

“Will you come and open the hunting season with me at my farm at
Marinville? I shall be delighted if you will, my dear boy. In the first
place, I am all alone. It is rather a difficult ground to get at, and
the place I live in is so primitive that I can invite only my most
intimate friends.”

I accepted his invitation, and on Saturday we set off on the train going
to Normandy. We alighted at a station called Almivare, and Baron Rene,
pointing to a carryall drawn by a timid horse and driven by a big
countryman with white hair, said:

“Here is our equipage, my dear boy.”

The driver extended his hand to his landlord, and the baron pressed it
warmly, asking:

“Well, Maitre Lebrument, how are you?”

“Always the same, M'sieu le Baron.”

We jumped into this swinging hencoop perched on two enormous wheels, and
the young horse, after a violent swerve, started into a gallop, pitching
us into the air like balls. Every fall backward on the wooden bench gave
me the most dreadful pain.

The peasant kept repeating in his calm, monotonous voice:

“There, there! All right all right, Moutard, all right!”

But Moutard scarcely heard, and kept capering along like a goat.

Our two dogs behind us, in the empty part of the hencoop, were standing
up and sniffing the air of the plains, where they scented game.

The baron gazed with a sad eye into the distance at the vast Norman
landscape, undulating and melancholy, like an immense English park,
where the farmyards, surrounded by two or four rows of trees and full of
dwarfed apple trees which hid the houses, gave a vista as far as the eye
could see of forest trees, copses and shrubbery such as landscape
gardeners look for in laying out the boundaries of princely estates.

And Rene du Treilles suddenly exclaimed:

“I love this soil; I have my very roots in it.”

He was a pure Norman, tall and strong, with a slight paunch, and of the
old race of adventurers who went to found kingdoms on the shores of
every ocean. He was about fifty years of age, ten years less perhaps
than the farmer who was driving us.

The latter was a lean peasant, all skin and bone, one of those men who
live a hundred years.

After two hours' travelling over stony roads, across that green and
monotonous plain, the vehicle entered one of those orchard farmyards and
drew up before in old structure falling into decay, where an old maid-
servant stood waiting beside a young fellow, who took charge of the
horse.

We entered the farmhouse. The smoky kitchen was high and spacious. The
copper utensils and the crockery shone in the reflection of the hearth.
A cat lay asleep on a chair, a dog under the table. One perceived an
odor of milk, apples, smoke, that indescribable smell peculiar to old
farmhouses; the odor of the earth, of the walls, of furniture, the odor
of spilled stale soup, of former wash-days and of former inhabitants,
the smell of animals and of human beings combined, of things and of
persons, the odor of time, and of things that have passed away.

I went out to have a look at the farmyard. It was very large, full of
apple trees, dwarfed and crooked, and laden with fruit which fell on the
grass around them. In this farmyard the Norman smell of apples was as
strong as that of the bloom of orange trees on the shores of the south
of France.

Four rows of beeches surrounded this inclosure. They were so tall that
they seemed to touch the clouds at this hour of nightfall, and their
summits, through which the night winds passed, swayed and sang a
mournful, interminable song.

I reentered the house.

The baron was warming his feet at the fire, and was listening to the
farmer's talk about country matters. He talked about marriages, births
and deaths, then about the fall in the price of grain and the latest
news about cattle. The “Veularde” (as he called a cow that had been
bought at the fair of Veules) had calved in the middle of June. The
cider had not been first-class last year. Apricots were almost
disappearing from the country.

Then we had dinner. It was a good rustic meal, simple and abundant, long
and tranquil. And while we were dining I noticed the special kind of
friendly familiarity which had struck me from the start between the
baron and the peasant.

Outside, the beeches continued sighing in the night wind, and our two
dogs, shut up in a shed, were whining and howling in an uncanny fashion.
The fire was dying out in the big fireplace. The maid-servant had gone
to bed. Maitre Lebrument said in his turn:

“If you don't mind, M'sieu le Baron, I'm going to bed. I am not used to
staying up late.”

The baron extended his hand toward him and said: “Go, my friend,” in so
cordial a tone that I said, as soon as the man had disappeared:

“He is devoted to you, this farmer?”

“Better than that, my dear fellow! It is a drama, an old drama, simple
and very sad, that attaches him to me. Here is the story:

“You know that my father was colonel in a cavalry regiment. His orderly
was this young fellow, now an old man, the son of a farmer. When my
father retired from the army he took this former soldier, then about
forty; as his servant. I was at that time about thirty. We were living
in our old chateau of Valrenne, near Caudebec-en-Caux.

“At this period my mother's chambermaid was one of the prettiest girls
you could see, fair-haired, slender and sprightly in manner, a genuine
soubrette of the old type that no longer exists. To-day these creatures
spring up into hussies before their time. Paris, with the aid of the
railways, attracts them, calls them, takes hold of them, as soon as they
are budding into womanhood, these little sluts who in old times remained
simple maid-servants. Every man passing by, as recruiting sergeants did
formerly, looking for recruits, with conscripts, entices and ruins them
—these foolish lassies—and we have now only the scum of the female sex
for servant maids, all that is dull, nasty, common and ill-formed, too
ugly, even for gallantry.

“Well, this girl was charming, and I often gave her a kiss in dark
corners; nothing more, I swear to you! She was virtuous, besides; and I
had some respect for my mother's house, which is more than can be said
of the blackguards of the present day.

“Now, it happened that my man-servant, the ex-soldier, the old farmer
you have just seen, fell madly in love with this girl, perfectly daft.
The first thing we noticed was that he forgot everything, he paid no
attention to anything.

“My father said incessantly:

“'See here, Jean, what's the matter with you? Are you ill?'

“He replied:

“'No, no, M'sieu le Baron. There's nothing the matter with me.'

“He grew thin; he broke glasses and let plates fall when waiting on the
table. We thought he must have been attacked by some nervous affection,
and sent for the doctor, who thought he could detect symptoms of spinal
disease. Then my father, full of anxiety about his faithful man-servant,
decided to place him in a private hospital. When the poor fellow heard
of my father's intentions he made a clean breast of it.

“'M'sieu le Baron'

“'Well, my boy?'

“'You see, the thing I want is not physic.'

“'Ha! what is it, then?'

“'It's marriage!'

“My father turned round and stared at him in astonishment.

“'What's that you say, eh?'

“'It's marriage.”

“'Marriage! So, then, you jackass, you're to love.'

“'That's how it is, M'sieu le Baron.'

“And my father began to laugh so immoderately that my mother called out
through the wall of the next room:

“'What in the world is the matter with you, Gontran?'

“He replied:

“'Come here, Catherine.'

“And when she came in he told her, with tears in his eyes from sheer
laughter, that his idiot of a servant-man was lovesick.

“But my mother, instead of laughing, was deeply affected.

“'Who is it that you have fallen in love with, my poor fellow?' she
asked.

“He answered without hesitation:

“'With Louise, Madame le Baronne.'

“My mother said with the utmost gravity: 'We must try to arrange this
matter the best way we can.'

“So Louise was sent for and questioned by my mother; and she said in
reply that she knew all about Jean's liking for her, that in fact Jean
had spoken to her about it several times, but that she did not want him.
She refused to say why.

“And two months elapsed during which my father and mother never ceased
to urge this girl to marry Jean. As she declared she was not in love
with any other man, she could not give any serious reason for her
refusal. My father at last overcame her resistance by means of a big
present of money, and started the pair of them on a farm—this very farm.
I did not see them for three years, and then I learned that Louise had
died of consumption. But my father and mother died, too, in their turn,
and it was two years more before I found myself face to face with Jean.

“At last one autumn day about the end of October the idea came into my
head to go hunting on this part of my estate, which my father had told
me was full of game.

“So one evening, one wet evening, I arrived at this house. I was shocked
to find my father's old servant with perfectly white hair, though he was
not more than forty-five or forty-six years of age. I made him dine with
me, at the very table where we are now sitting. It was raining hard. We
could hear the rain battering at the roof, the walls, and the windows,
flowing in a perfect deluge into the farmyard; and my dog was howling in
the shed where the other dogs are howling to-night.

“All of a sudden, when the servant-maid had gone to bed, the man said in
a timid voice:

“'M'sieu le Baron.'

“'What is it, my dear Jean?'

“'I have something to tell you.'

“'Tell it, my dear Jean.'

“'You remember Louise, my wife.'

“'Certainly, I remember her.'

“'Well, she left me a message for you.'

“'What was it?'

“'A—a—well, it was what you might call a confession.'

“'Ha—and what was it about?'

“'It was—it was—I'd rather, all the same, tell you nothing about it—but
I must—I must. Well, it's this—it wasn't consumption she died of at all.
It was grief—well, that's the long and short of it. As soon as she came
to live here after we were married, she grew thin; she changed so that
you wouldn't know her, M'sieu le Baron. She was just as I was before I
married her, but it was just the opposite, just the opposite.

“'I sent for the doctor. He said it was her liver that was affected—he
said it was what he called a “hepatic” complaint—I don't know these big
words, M'sieu le Baron. Then I bought medicine for her, heaps on heaps
of bottles that cost about three hundred francs. But she'd take none of
them; she wouldn't have them; she said: “It's no use, my poor Jean; it
wouldn't do me any good.” I saw well that she had some hidden trouble;
and then I found her one time crying, and I didn't know what to do, no,
I didn't know what to do. I bought her caps, and dresses, and hair oil,
and earrings. Nothing did her any good. And I saw that she was going to
die. And so one night at the end of November, one snowy night, after she
had been in bed the whole day, she told me to send for the cure. So I
went for him. As soon as he came—'

“'Jean,' she said, 'I am going to make a confession to you. I owe it to
you, Jean. I have never been false to you, never! never, before or after
you married me. M'sieu le Cure is there, and can tell you so; he knows
my soul. Well, listen, Jean. If I am dying, it is because I was not able
to console myself for leaving the chateau, because I was too fond of the
young Baron Monsieur Rene, too fond of him, mind you, Jean, there was no
harm in it! This is the thing that's killing me. When I could see him no
more I felt that I should die. If I could only have seen him, I might
have lived, only seen him, nothing more. I wish you'd tell him some day,
by and by, when I am no longer here. You will tell him, swear you, will,
Jean—swear it—in the presence of M'sieu le Cure! It will console me to
know that he will know it one day, that this was the cause of my death!
Swear it!'

“'Well, I gave her my promise, M'sieu le Baron, and on the faith of an
honest man I have kept my word.'

“And then he ceased speaking, his eyes filling with tears.

“Good God! my dear boy, you can't form any idea of the emotion that
filled me when I heard this poor devil, whose wife I had killed without
suspecting it, telling me this story on that wet night in this very
kitchen.

“I exclaimed: 'Ah! my poor Jean! my poor Jean!'

“He murmured: 'Well, that's all, M'sieu le Baron. I could not help it,
one way or the other—and now it's all over!'

“I caught his hand across the table, and I began to weep.

“He asked, 'Will you come and see her grave?' I nodded assent, for I
couldn't speak. He rose, lighted a lantern, and we walked through the
blinding rain by the light of the lantern.

“He opened a gate, and I saw some crosses of black wood.

“Suddenly he stopped before a marble slab and said: 'There it is,' and
he flashed the lantern close to it so that I could read the inscription:

“'TO LOUISE HORTENSE MARINET, “'Wife of Jean-Francois Lebrument, Farmer,
“'SHE WAS A FAITHFUL WIFE. GOD REST HER SOUL.'

“We fell on our knees in the damp grass, he and I, with the lantern
between us, and I saw the rain beating on the white marble slab. And I
thought of the heart of her sleeping there in her grave. Ah! poor heart!
poor heart! Since then I come here every year. And I don't know why, but
I feel as if I were guilty of some crime in the presence of this man who
always looks as if he forgave me.”





THE DEVIL

The peasant and the doctor stood on opposite sides of the bed, beside
the old, dying woman. She was calm and resigned and her mind quite clear
as she looked at them and listened to their conversation. She was going
to die, and she did not rebel at it, for her time was come, as she was
ninety-two.

The July sun streamed in at the window and the open door and cast its
hot flames on the uneven brown clay floor, which had been stamped down
by four generations of clodhoppers. The smell of the fields came in
also, driven by the sharp wind and parched by the noontide heat. The
grass-hoppers chirped themselves hoarse, and filled the country with
their shrill noise, which was like that of the wooden toys which are
sold to children at fair time.

The doctor raised his voice and said: “Honore, you cannot leave your
mother in this state; she may die at any moment.” And the peasant, in
great distress, replied: “But I must get in my wheat, for it has been
lying on the ground a long time, and the weather is just right for it;
what do you say about it, mother?” And the dying old woman, still
tormented by her Norman avariciousness, replied yes with her eyes and
her forehead, and thus urged her son to get in his wheat, and to leave
her to die alone.

But the doctor got angry, and, stamping his foot, he said: “You are no
better than a brute, do you hear, and I will not allow you to do it, do
you understand? And if you must get in your wheat today, go and fetch
Rapet's wife and make her look after your mother; I will have it, do you
understand me? And if you do not obey me, I will let you die like a dog,
when you are ill in your turn; do you hear?”

The peasant, a tall, thin fellow with slow movements, who was tormented
by indecision, by his fear of the doctor and his fierce love of saving,
hesitated, calculated, and stammered out: “How much does La Rapet charge
for attending sick people?” “How should I know?” the doctor cried. “That
depends upon how long she is needed. Settle it with her, by Heaven! But
I want her to be here within an hour, do you hear?”

So the man decided. “I will go for her,” he replied; “don't get angry,
doctor.” And the latter left, calling out as he went: “Be careful, be
very careful, you know, for I do not joke when I am angry!” As soon as
they were alone the peasant turned to his mother and said in a resigned
voice: “I will go and fetch La Rapet, as the man will have it. Don't
worry till I get back.”

And he went out in his turn.

La Rapet, old was an old washerwoman, watched the dead and the dying of
the neighborhood, and then, as soon as she had sewn her customers into
that linen cloth from which they would emerge no more, she went and took
up her iron to smooth out the linen of the living. Wrinkled like a last
year's apple, spiteful, envious, avaricious with a phenomenal avarice,
bent double, as if she had been broken in half across the loins by the
constant motion of passing the iron over the linen, one might have said
that she had a kind of abnormal and cynical love of a death struggle.
She never spoke of anything but of the people she had seen die, of the
various kinds of deaths at which she had been present, and she related
with the greatest minuteness details which were always similar, just as
a sportsman recounts his luck.

When Honore Bontemps entered her cottage, he found her preparing the
starch for the collars of the women villagers, and he said: “Good-
evening; I hope you are pretty well, Mother Rapet?”

She turned her head round to look at him, and said: “As usual, as usual,
and you?” “Oh! as for me, I am as well as I could wish, but my mother is
not well.” “Your mother?” “Yes, my mother!” “What is the matter with
her?” “She is going to turn up her toes, that's what's the matter with
her!”

The old woman took her hands out of the water and asked with sudden
sympathy: “Is she as bad as all that?” “The doctor says she will not
last till morning.” “Then she certainly is very bad!” Honore hesitated,
for he wanted to make a few preparatory remarks before coming to his
proposition; but as he could hit upon nothing, he made up his mind
suddenly.

“How much will you ask to stay with her till the end? You know that I am
not rich, and I can not even afford to keep a servant girl. It is just
that which has brought my poor mother to this state—too much worry and
fatigue! She did the work of ten, in spite of her ninety-two years. You
don't find any made of that stuff nowadays!”

La Rapet answered gravely: “There are two prices: Forty sous by day and
three francs by night for the rich, and twenty sous by day and forty by
night for the others. You shall pay me the twenty and forty.” But the,
peasant reflected, for he knew his mother well. He knew how tenacious of
life, how vigorous and unyielding she was, and she might last another
week, in spite of the doctor's opinion; and so he said resolutely: “No,
I would rather you would fix a price for the whole time until the end. I
will take my chance, one way or the other. The doctor says she will die
very soon. If that happens, so much the better for you, and so much the
worse for her, but if she holds out till to-morrow or longer, so much
the better for her and so much the worse for you!”

The nurse looked at the man in astonishment, for she had never treated a
death as a speculation, and she hesitated, tempted by the idea of the
possible gain, but she suspected that he wanted to play her a trick. “I
can say nothing until I have seen your mother,” she replied.

“Then come with me and see her.”

She washed her hands, and went with him immediately.

They did not speak on the road; she walked with short, hasty steps,
while he strode on with his long legs, as if he were crossing a brook at
every step.

The cows lying down in the fields, overcome by the heat, raised their
heads heavily and lowed feebly at the two passers-by, as if to ask them
for some green grass.

When they got near the house, Honore Bontemps murmured: “Suppose it is
all over?” And his unconscious wish that it might be so showed itself in
the sound of his voice.

But the old woman was not dead. She was lying on her back, on her
wretched bed, her hands covered with a purple cotton counterpane,
horribly thin, knotty hands, like the claws of strange animals, like
crabs, half closed by rheumatism, fatigue and the work of nearly a
century which she had accomplished.

La Rapet went up to the bed and looked at the dying woman, felt her
pulse, tapped her on the chest, listened to her breathing, and asked her
questions, so as to hear her speak; and then, having looked at her for
some time, she went out of the room, followed by Honore. Her decided
opinion was that the old woman would not last till night. He asked:
“Well?” And the sick-nurse replied: “Well, she may last two days,
perhaps three. You will have to give me six francs, everything
included.”

“Six francs! six francs!” he shouted. “Are you out of your mind? I tell
you she cannot last more than five or six hours!” And they disputed
angrily for some time, but as the nurse said she must go home, as the
time was going by, and as his wheat would not come to the farmyard of
its own accord, he finally agreed to her terms.

“Very well, then, that is settled; six francs, including everything,
until the corpse is taken out.”

And he went away, with long strides, to his wheat which was lying on the
ground under the hot sun which ripens the grain, while the sick-nurse
went in again to the house.

She had brought some work with her, for she worked without ceasing by
the side of the dead and dying, sometimes for herself, sometimes for the
family which employed her as seamstress and paid her rather more in that
capacity. Suddenly, she asked: “Have you received the last sacraments,
Mother Bontemps?”

The old peasant woman shook her head, and La Rapet, who was very devout,
got up quickly:

“Good heavens, is it possible? I will go and fetch the cure”; and she
rushed off to the parsonage so quickly that the urchins in the street
thought some accident had happened, when they saw her running.

The priest came immediately in his surplice, preceded by a choir boy who
rang a bell to announce the passage of the Host through the parched and
quiet country. Some men who were working at a distance took off their
large hats and remained motionless until the white vestment had
disappeared behind some farm buildings; the women who were making up the
sheaves stood up to make the sign of the cross; the frightened black
hens ran away along the ditch until they reached a well-known hole,
through which they suddenly disappeared, while a foal which was tied in
a meadow took fright at the sight of the surplice and began to gallop
round and round, kicking cut every now and then. The acolyte, in his red
cassock, walked quickly, and the priest, with his head inclined toward
one shoulder and his square biretta on his head, followed him, muttering
some prayers; while last of all came La Rapet, bent almost double as if
she wished to prostrate herself, as she walked with folded hands as they
do in church.

Honore saw them pass in the distance, and he asked: “Where is our priest
going?” His man, who was more intelligent, replied: “He is taking the
sacrament to your mother, of course!”

The peasant was not surprised, and said: “That may be,” and went on with
his work.

Mother Bontemps confessed, received absolution and communion, and the
priest took his departure, leaving the two women alone in the
suffocating room, while La Rapet began to look at the dying woman, and
to ask herself whether it could last much longer.

The day was on the wane, and gusts of cooler air began to blow, causing
a view of Epinal, which was fastened to the wall by two pins, to flap up
and down; the scanty window curtains, which had formerly been white, but
were now yellow and covered with fly-specks, looked as if they were
going to fly off, as if they were struggling to get away, like the old
woman's soul.

Lying motionless, with her eyes open, she seemed to await with
indifference that death which was so near and which yet delayed its
coming. Her short breathing whistled in her constricted throat. It would
stop altogether soon, and there would be one woman less in the world; no
one would regret her.

At nightfall Honore returned, and when he went up to the bed and saw
that his mother was still alive, he asked: “How is she?” just as he had
done formerly when she had been ailing, and then he sent La Rapet away,
saying to her: “To-morrow morning at five o'clock, without fail.” And
she replied: “To-morrow, at five o'clock.”

She came at daybreak, and found Honore eating his soup, which he had
made himself before going to work, and the sick-nurse asked him: “Well,
is your mother dead?” “She is rather better, on the contrary,” he
replied, with a sly look out of the corner of his eyes. And he went out.

La Rapet, seized with anxiety, went up to the dying woman, who remained
in the same state, lethargic and impassive, with her eyes open and her
hands clutching the counterpane. The nurse perceived that this might go
on thus for two days, four days, eight days, and her avaricious mind was
seized with fear, while she was furious at the sly fellow who had
tricked her, and at the woman who would not die.

Nevertheless, she began to work, and waited, looking intently at the
wrinkled face of Mother Bontemps. When Honore returned to breakfast he
seemed quite satisfied and even in a bantering humor. He was decidedly
getting in his wheat under very favorable circumstances.

La Rapet was becoming exasperated; every minute now seemed to her so
much time and money stolen from her. She felt a mad inclination to take
this old woman, this, headstrong old fool, this obstinate old wretch,
and to stop that short, rapid breath, which was robbing her of her time
and money, by squeezing her throat a little. But then she reflected on
the danger of doing so, and other thoughts came into her head; so she
went up to the bed and said: “Have you ever seen the Devil?” Mother
Bontemps murmured: “No.”

Then the sick-nurse began to talk and to tell her tales which were
likely to terrify the weak mind of the dying woman. Some minutes before
one dies the Devil appears, she said, to all who are in the death
throes. He has a broom in his hand, a saucepan on his head, and he
utters loud cries. When anybody sees him, all is over, and that person
has only a few moments longer to live. She then enumerated all those to
whom the Devil had appeared that year: Josephine Loisel, Eulalie Ratier,
Sophie Padaknau, Seraphine Grospied.

Mother Bontemps, who had at last become disturbed in mind, moved about,
wrung her hands, and tried to turn her head to look toward the end of
the room. Suddenly La Rapet disappeared at the foot of the bed. She took
a sheet out of the cupboard and wrapped herself up in it; she put the
iron saucepan on her head, so that its three short bent feet rose up
like horns, and she took a broom in her right hand and a tin pail in her
left, which she threw up suddenly, so that it might fall to the ground
noisily.

When it came down, it certainly made a terrible noise. Then, climbing
upon a chair, the nurse lifted up the curtain which hung at the bottom
of the bed, and showed herself, gesticulating and uttering shrill cries
into the iron saucepan which covered her face, while she menaced the old
peasant woman, who was nearly dead, with her broom.

Terrified, with an insane expression on her face, the dying woman made a
superhuman effort to get up and escape; she even got her shoulders and
chest out of bed; then she fell back with a deep sigh. All was over, and
La Rapet calmly put everything back into its place; the broom into the
corner by the cupboard the sheet inside it, the saucepan on the hearth,
the pail on the floor, and the chair against the wall. Then, with
professional movements, she closed the dead woman's large eyes, put a
plate on the bed and poured some holy water into it, placing in it the
twig of boxwood that had been nailed to the chest of drawers, and
kneeling down, she fervently repeated the prayers for the dead, which
she knew by heart, as a matter of business.

And when Honore returned in the evening he found her praying, and he
calculated immediately that she had made twenty sows out of him, for she
had only spent three days and one night there, which made five francs
altogether, instead of the six which he owed her.





THE SNIPE

Old Baron des Ravots had for forty years been the champion sportsman of
his province. But a stroke of paralysis had kept him in his chair for
the last five or six years. He could now only shoot pigeons from the
window of his drawing-room or from the top of his high doorsteps.

He spent his time in reading.

He was a good-natured business man, who had much of the literary spirit
of a former century. He worshipped anecdotes, those little risque
anecdotes, and also true stories of events that happened in his
neighborhood. As soon as a friend came to see him he asked:

“Well, anything new?”

And he knew how to worm out information like an examining lawyer.

On sunny days he had his large reclining chair, similar to a bed,
wheeled to the hall door. A man servant behind him held his guns, loaded
them and handed them to his master. Another valet, hidden in the bushes,
let fly a pigeon from time to time at irregular intervals, so that the
baron should be unprepared and be always on the watch.

And from morning till night he fired at the birds, much annoyed if he
were taken by surprise and laughing till he cried when the animal fell
straight to the earth or, turned over in some comical and unexpected
manner. He would turn to the man who was loading the gun and say, almost
choking with laughter:

“Did that get him, Joseph? Did you see how he fell?” Joseph invariably
replied:

“Oh, monsieur le baron never misses them.”

In autumn, when the shooting season opened, he invited his friends as he
had done formerly, and loved to hear them firing in the distance. He
counted the shots and was pleased when they followed each other rapidly.
And in the evening he made each guest give a faithful account of his
day. They remained three hours at table telling about their sport.

They were strange and improbable adventures in which the romancing
spirit of the sportsmen delighted. Some of them were memorable stories
and were repeated regularly. The story of a rabbit that little Vicomte
de Bourril had missed in his vestibule convulsed them with laughter each
year anew. Every five minutes a fresh speaker would say:

“I heard 'birr! birr!' and a magnificent covey rose at ten paces from
me. I aimed. Pif! paf! and I saw a shower, a veritable shower of birds.
There were seven of them!”

And they all went into raptures, amazed, but reciprocally credulous.

But there was an old custom in the house called “The Story of the
Snipe.”

Whenever this queen of birds was in season the same ceremony took place
at each dinner. As they worshipped this incomparable bird, each guest
ate one every evening, but the heads were all left in the dish.

Then the baron, acting the part of a bishop, had a plate brought to him
containing a little fat, and he carefully anointed the precious heads,
holding them by the tip of their slender, needle-like beak. A lighted
candle was placed beside him and everyone was silent in an anxiety of
expectation.

Then he took one of the heads thus prepared, stuck a pin through it and
stuck the pin on a cork, keeping the whole contrivance steady by means
of little crossed sticks, and carefully placed this object on the neck
of a bottle in the manner of a tourniquet.

All the guests counted simultaneously in a loud tone—

“One-two-three.”

And the baron with a fillip of the finger made this toy whirl round.

The guest to whom the long beak pointed when the head stopped became the
possessor of all the heads, a feast fit for a king, which made his
neighbors look askance.

He took them one by one and toasted them over the candle. The grease
sputtered, the roasting flesh smoked and the lucky winner ate the head,
holding it by the beak and uttering exclamations of enjoyment.

And at each head the diners, raising their glasses, drank to his health.

When he had finished the last head he was obliged, at the baron's
orders, to tell an anecdote to compensate the disappointed ones.

Here are some of the stories.





THE WILL

I knew that tall young fellow, Rene de Bourneval. He was an agreeable
man, though rather melancholy and seemed prejudiced against everything,
was very skeptical, and he could with a word tear down social hypocrisy.
He would often say:

“There are no honorable men, or, at least, they are only relatively so
when compared with those lower than themselves.”

He had two brothers, whom he never saw, the Messieurs de Courcils. I
always supposed they were by another father, on account of the
difference in the name. I had frequently heard that the family had a
strange history, but did not know the details. As I took a great liking
to Rene we soon became intimate friends, and one evening, when I had
been dining with him alone, I asked him, by chance: “Are you a son of
the first or second marriage?” He grew rather pale, and then flushed,
and did not speak for a few moments; he was visibly embarrassed. Then he
smiled in the melancholy, gentle manner, which was peculiar to him, and
said:

“My dear friend, if it will not weary you, I can give you some very
strange particulars about my life. I know that you are a sensible man,
so I do not fear that our friendship will suffer by my revelations; and
should it suffer, I should not care about having you for my friend any
longer.

“My mother, Madame de Courcils, was a poor little, timid woman, whom her
husband had married for the sake of her fortune, and her whole life was
one of martyrdom. Of a loving, timid, sensitive disposition, she was
constantly being ill-treated by the man who ought to have been my
father, one of those boors called country gentlemen. A month after their
marriage he was living a licentious life and carrying on liaisons with
the wives and daughters of his tenants. This did not prevent him from
having three children by his wife, that is, if you count me in. My
mother said nothing, and lived in that noisy house like a little mouse.
Set aside, unnoticed, nervous, she looked at people with her bright,
uneasy, restless eyes, the eyes of some terrified creature which can
never shake off its fear. And yet she was pretty, very pretty and fair,
a pale blonde, as if her hair had lost its color through her constant
fear.

“Among the friends of Monsieur de Courcils who constantly came to her
chateau, there was an ex-cavalry officer, a widower, a man who was
feared, who was at the same time tender and violent, capable of the most
determined resolves, Monsieur de Bourneval, whose name I bear. He was a
tall, thin man, with a heavy black mustache. I am very like him. He was
a man who had read a great deal, and his ideas were not like those of
most of his class. His great-grandmother had been a friend of J. J.
Rousseau's, and one might have said that he had inherited something of
this ancestral connection. He knew the Contrat Social, and the Nouvelle
Heloise by heart, and all those philosophical books which prepared in
advance the overthrow of our old usages, prejudices, superannuated laws
and imbecile morality.

“It seems that he loved my mother, and she loved him, but their liaison
was carried on so secretly that no one guessed at its existence. The
poor, neglected, unhappy woman must have clung to him in despair, and in
her intimacy with him must have imbibed all his ways of thinking,
theories of free thought, audacious ideas of independent love; but being
so timid she never ventured to speak out, and it was all driven back,
condensed, shut up in her heart.

“My two brothers were very hard towards her, like their father, and
never gave her a caress, and, accustomed to seeing her count for nothing
in the house, they treated her rather like a servant. I was the only one
of her sons who really loved her and whom she loved.

“When she died I was seventeen, and I must add, in order that you may
understand what follows, that a lawsuit between my father and mother had
been decided in my mother's favor, giving her the bulk of the property,
and, thanks to the tricks of the law, and the intelligent devotion of a
lawyer to her interests, the right to make her will in favor of whom she
pleased.

“We were told that there was a will at the lawyer's office and were
invited to be present at the reading of it. I can remember it, as if it
were yesterday. It was an imposing scene, dramatic, burlesque and
surprising, occasioned by the posthumous revolt of that dead woman, by
the cry for liberty, by the demands of that martyred one who had been
crushed by our oppression during her lifetime and who, from her closed
tomb, uttered a despairing appeal for independence.

“The man who believed he was my father, a stout, ruddy-faced man, who
looked like a butcher, and my brothers, two great fellows of twenty and
twenty-two, were waiting quietly in their chairs. Monsieur de Bourneval,
who had been invited to be present, came in and stood behind me. He was
very pale and bit his mustache, which was turning gray. No doubt he was
prepared for what was going to happen. The lawyer double-locked the door
and began to read the will, after having opened, in our presence, the
envelope, sealed with red wax, of the contents of which he was
ignorant.”

My friend stopped talking abruptly, and rising, took from his writing-
table an old paper, unfolded it, kissed it and then continued: “This is
the will of my beloved mother:

“'I, the undersigned, Anne Catherine-Genevieve-Mathilde de Croixluce,
the legitimate wife of Leopold-Joseph Gontran de Councils sound in body
and mind, here express my last wishes.

“I first of all ask God, and then my dear son Rene to pardon me for the
act I am about to commit. I believe that my child's heart is great
enough to understand me, and to forgive me. I have suffered my whole
life long. I was married out of calculation, then despised,
misunderstood, oppressed and constantly deceived by my husband.

“'I forgive him, but I owe him nothing.

“'My elder sons never loved me, never petted me, scarcely treated me as
a mother, but during my whole life I did my duty towards them, and I owe
them nothing more after my death. The ties of blood cannot exist without
daily and constant affection. An ungrateful son is less than a stranger;
he is a culprit, for he has no right to be indifferent towards his
mother.

“'I have always trembled before men, before their unjust laws, their
inhuman customs, their shameful prejudices. Before God, I have no longer
any fear. Dead, I fling aside disgraceful hypocrisy; I dare to speak my
thoughts, and to avow and to sign the secret of my heart.

“'I therefore leave that part of my fortune of which the law allows me
to dispose, in trust to my dear lover, Pierre-Germer-Simon de Bourneval,
to revert afterwards to our dear son Rene.

“'(This bequest is specified more precisely in a deed drawn up by a
notary.)

“'And I declare before the Supreme Judge who hears me, that I should
have cursed heaven and my own existence, if I had not found the deep,
devoted, tender, unshaken affection of my lover; if I had not felt in
his arms that the Creator made His creatures to love, sustain and
console each other, and to weep together in the hours of sadness.

“'Monsieur de Courcils is the father of my two eldest sons; Rene, alone,
owes his life to Monsieur de Bourneval. I pray the Master of men and of
their destinies, to place father and son above social prejudices, to
make them love each other until they die, and to love me also in my
coffin.

“'These are my last thoughts, and my last wish.

“'MATHILDE DE CROIXLUCE.'”


“Monsieur de Courcils had risen and he cried:

“'It is the will of a madwoman.'

“Then Monsieur de Bourneval stepped forward and said in a loud,
penetrating voice: 'I, Simon de Bourneval, solemnly declare that this
writing contains nothing but the strict truth, and I am ready to prove
it by letters which I possess.'

“On hearing that, Monsieur de Courcils went up to him, and I thought
that they were going to attack each other. There they stood, both of
them tall, one stout and the other thin, both trembling. My mother's
husband stammered out: 'You are a worthless wretch!' And the other
replied in a loud, dry voice: 'We will meet elsewhere, monsieur. I
should have already slapped your ugly face and challenged you long since
if I had not, before everything else, thought of the peace of mind
during her lifetime of that poor woman whom you caused to suffer so
greatly.'

“Then, turning to me, he said: 'You are my son; will you come with me? I
have no right to take you away, but I shall assume it, if you are
willing to come with me: I shook his hand without replying, and we went
out together. I was certainly three parts mad.

“Two days later Monsieur de Bourneval killed Monsieur de Courcils in a
duel. My brothers, to avoid a terrible scandal, held their tongues. I
offered them and they accepted half the fortune which my mother had left
me. I took my real father's name, renouncing that which the law gave me,
but which was not really mine. Monsieur de Bourneval died three years
later and I am still inconsolable.”

He rose from his chair, walked up and down the room, and, standing in
front of me, said:

“Well, I say that my mother's will was one of the most beautiful, the
most loyal, as well as one of the grandest acts that a woman could
perform. Do you not think so?”

I held out both hands to him, saying:

“I most certainly do, my friend.”





WALTER SCHNAFFS' ADVENTURE

Ever since he entered France with the invading army Walter Schnaffs had
considered himself the most unfortunate of men. He was large, had
difficulty in walking, was short of breath and suffered frightfully with
his feet, which were very flat and very fat. But he was a peaceful,
benevolent man, not warlike or sanguinary, the father of four children
whom he adored, and married to a little blonde whose little
tendernesses, attentions and kisses he recalled with despair every
evening. He liked to rise late and retire early, to eat good things in a
leisurely manner and to drink beer in the saloon. He reflected, besides,
that all that is sweet in existence vanishes with life, and he
maintained in his heart a fearful hatred, instinctive as well as
logical, for cannon, rifles, revolvers and swords, but especially for
bayonets, feeling that he was unable to dodge this dangerous weapon
rapidly enough to protect his big paunch.

And when night fell and he lay on the ground, wrapped in his cape beside
his comrades who were snoring, he thought long and deeply about those he
had left behind and of the dangers in his path. “If he were killed what
would become of the little ones? Who would provide for them and bring
them up?” Just at present they were not rich, although he had borrowed
when he left so as to leave them some money. And Walter Schnaffs wept
when he thought of all this.

At the beginning of a battle his legs became so weak that he would have
fallen if he had not reflected that the entire army would pass over his
body. The whistling of the bullets gave him gooseflesh.

For months he had lived thus in terror and anguish.

His company was marching on Normandy, and one day he was sent to
reconnoitre with a small detachment, simply to explore a portion of the
territory and to return at once. All seemed quiet in the country;
nothing indicated an armed resistance.

But as the Prussians were quietly descending into a little valley
traversed by deep ravines a sharp fusillade made them halt suddenly,
killing twenty of their men, and a company of sharpshooters, suddenly
emerging from a little wood as large as your hand, darted forward with
bayonets at the end of their rifles.

Walter Schnaffs remained motionless at first, so surprised and
bewildered that he did not even think of making his escape. Then he was
seized with a wild desire to run away, but he remembered at once that he
ran like a tortoise compared with those thin Frenchmen, who came
bounding along like a lot of goats. Perceiving a large ditch full of
brushwood covered with dead leaves about six paces in front of him, he
sprang into it with both feet together, without stopping to think of its
depth, just as one jumps from a bridge into the river.

He fell like an arrow through a thick layer of vines and thorny brambles
that tore his face and hands and landed heavily in a sitting posture on
a bed of stones. Raising his eyes, he saw the sky through the hole he
had made in falling through. This aperture might betray him, and he
crawled along carefully on hands and knees at the bottom of this ditch
beneath the covering of interlacing branches, going as fast as he could
and getting away from the scene of the skirmish. Presently he stopped
and sat down, crouched like a hare amid the tall dry grass.

He heard firing and cries and groans going on for some time. Then the
noise of fighting grew fainter and ceased. All was quiet and silent.

Suddenly something stirred, beside him. He was frightfully startled. It
was a little bird which had perched on a branch and was moving the dead
leaves. For almost an hour Walter Schnaffs' heart beat loud and rapidly.

Night fell, filling the ravine with its shadows. The soldier began to
think. What was he to do? What was to become of him? Should he rejoin
the army? But how? By what road? And he began over again the horrible
life of anguish, of terror, of fatigue and suffering that he had led
since the commencement of the war. No! He no longer had the courage! He
would not have the energy necessary to endure long marches and to face
the dangers to which one was exposed at every moment.

But what should he do? He could not stay in this ravine in concealment
until the end of hostilities. No, indeed! If it were not for having to
eat, this prospect would not have daunted him greatly. But he had to
eat, to eat every day.

And here he was, alone, armed and in uniform, on the enemy's territory,
far from those who would protect him. A shiver ran over him.

All at once he thought: “If I were only a prisoner!” And his heart
quivered with a longing, an intense desire to be taken prisoner by the
French. A prisoner, he would be saved, fed, housed, sheltered from
bullets and swords, without any apprehension whatever, in a good, well-
kept prison. A prisoner! What a dream:

His resolution was formed at once.

“I will constitute myself a prisoner.”

He rose, determined to put this plan into execution without a moment's
delay. But he stood motionless, suddenly a prey to disturbing
reflections and fresh terrors.

Where would he make himself a prisoner and how? In What direction? And
frightful pictures, pictures of death came into his mind.

He would run terrible danger in venturing alone through the country with
his pointed helmet.

Supposing he should meet some peasants. These peasants seeing a Prussian
who had lost his way, an unprotected Prussian, would kill him as if he
were a stray dog! They would murder him with their forks, their picks,
their scythes and their shovels. They would make a stew of him, a pie,
with the frenzy of exasperated, conquered enemies.

If he should meet the sharpshooters! These sharpshooters, madmen without
law or discipline, would shoot him just for amusement to pass an hour;
it would make them laugh to see his head. And he fancied he was already
leaning against a wall in-front of four rifles whose little black
apertures seemed to be gazing at him.

Supposing he should meet the French army itself. The vanguard would take
him for a scout, for some bold and sly trooper who had set off alone to
reconnoitre, and they would fire at him. And he could already hear, in
imagination, the irregular shots of soldiers lying in the brush, while
he himself, standing in the middle of the field, was sinking to the
earth, riddled like a sieve with bullets which he felt piercing his
flesh.

He sat down again in despair. His situation seemed hopeless.

It was quite a dark, black and silent night. He no longer budged,
trembling at all the slight and unfamiliar sounds that occur at night.
The sound of a rabbit crouching at the edge of his burrow almost made
him run. The cry of an owl caused him positive anguish, giving him a
nervous shock that pained like a wound. He opened his big eyes as wide
as possible to try and see through the darkness, and he imagined every
moment that he heard someone walking close beside him.

After interminable hours in which he suffered the tortures of the
damned, he noticed through his leafy cover that the sky was becoming
bright. He at once felt an intense relief. His limbs stretched out,
suddenly relaxed, his heart quieted down, his eyes closed; he fell
asleep.

When he awoke the sun appeared to be almost at the meridian. It must be
noon. No sound disturbed the gloomy silence. Walter Schnaffs noticed
that he was exceedingly hungry.

He yawned, his mouth watering at the thought of sausage, the good
sausage the soldiers have, and he felt a gnawing at his stomach.

He rose from the ground, walked a few steps, found that his legs were
weak and sat down to reflect. For two or three hours he again considered
the pros and cons, changing his mind every moment, baffled, unhappy,
torn by the most conflicting motives.

Finally he had an idea that seemed logical and practical. It was to
watch for a villager passing by alone, unarmed and with no dangerous
tools of his trade, and to run to him and give himself up, making him
understand that he was surrendering.

He took off his helmet, the point of which might betray him, and put his
head out of his hiding place with the utmost caution.

No solitary pedestrian could be perceived on the horizon. Yonder, to the
right, smoke rose from the chimney of a little village, smoke from
kitchen fires! And yonder, to the left, he saw at the end of an avenue
of trees a large turreted chateau. He waited till evening, suffering
frightfully from hunger, seeing nothing but flights of crows, hearing
nothing but the silent expostulation of his empty stomach.

And darkness once more fell on him.

He stretched himself out in his retreat and slept a feverish sleep,
haunted by nightmares, the sleep of a starving man.

Dawn again broke above his head and he began to make his observations.
But the landscape was deserted as on the previous day, and a new fear
came into Walter Schnaffs' mind—the fear of death by hunger! He pictured
himself lying at full length on his back at the bottom of his hiding
place, with his two eyes closed, and animals, little creatures of all
kinds, approached and began to feed on his dead body, attacking it all
over at once, gliding beneath his clothing to bite his cold flesh, and a
big crow pecked out his eyes with its sharp beak.

He almost became crazy, thinking he was going to faint and would not be
able to walk. And he was just preparing to rush off to the village,
determined to dare anything, to brave everything, when he perceived
three peasants walking to the fields with their forks across their
shoulders, and he dived back into his hiding place.

But as soon as it grew dark he slowly emerged from the ditch and started
off, stooping and fearful, with beating heart, towards the distant
chateau, preferring to go there rather than to the village, which seemed
to him as formidable as a den of tigers.

The lower windows were brilliantly lighted. One of them was open and
from it escaped a strong odor of roast meat, an odor which suddenly
penetrated to the olfactories and to the stomach of Walter Schnaffs,
tickling his nerves, making him breathe quickly, attracting him
irresistibly and inspiring his heart with the boldness of desperation.

And abruptly, without reflection, he placed himself, helmet on head, in
front of the window.

Eight servants were at dinner around a large table. But suddenly one of
the maids sat there, her mouth agape, her eyes fixed and letting fall
her glass. They all followed the direction of her gaze.

They saw the enemy!

Good God! The Prussians were attacking the chateau!

There was a shriek, only one shriek made up of eight shrieks uttered in
eight different keys, a terrific screaming of terror, then a tumultuous
rising from their seats, a jostling, a scrimmage and a wild rush to the
door at the farther end. Chairs fell over, the men knocked the women
down and walked over them. In two seconds the room was empty, deserted,
and the table, covered with eatables, stood in front of Walter Schnaffs,
lost in amazement and still standing at the window.

After some moments of hesitation he climbed in at the window and
approached the table. His fierce hunger caused him to tremble as if he
were in a fever, but fear still held him back, numbed him. He listened.
The entire house seemed to shudder. Doors closed, quick steps ran along
the floor above. The uneasy Prussian listened eagerly to these confused
sounds. Then he heard dull sounds, as though bodies were falling to the
ground at the foot of the walls, human beings jumping from the first
floor.

Then all motion, all disturbance ceased, and the great chateau became as
silent as the grave.

Walter Schnaffs sat down before a clean plate and began to eat. He took
great mouthfuls, as if he feared he might be interrupted before he had
swallowed enough. He shovelled the food into his mouth, open like a
trap, with both hands, and chunks of food went into his stomach,
swelling out his throat as it passed down. Now and then he stopped,
almost ready to burst like a stopped-up pipe. Then he would take the
cider jug and wash down his esophagus as one washes out a clogged rain
pipe.

He emptied all the plates, all the dishes and all the bottles. Then,
intoxicated with drink and food, besotted, red in the face, shaken by
hiccoughs, his mind clouded and his speech thick, he unbuttoned his
uniform in order to breathe or he could not have taken a step. His eyes
closed, his mind became torpid; he leaned his heavy forehead on his
folded arms on the table and gradually lost all consciousness of things
and events.

The last quarter of the moon above the trees in the park shed a faint
light on the landscape. It was the chill hour that precedes the dawn.

Numerous silent shadows glided among the trees and occasionally a blade
of steel gleamed in the shadow as a ray of moonlight struck it.

The quiet chateau stood there in dark outline. Only two windows were
still lighted up on the ground floor.

Suddenly a voice thundered:

“Forward! nom d'un nom! To the breach, my lads!”

And in an instant the doors, shutters and window panes fell in beneath a
wave of men who rushed in, breaking, destroying everything, and took the
house by storm. In a moment fifty soldiers, armed to the teeth, bounded
into the kitchen, where Walter Schnaffs was peacefully sleeping, and
placing to his breast fifty loaded rifles, they overturned him, rolled
him on the floor, seized him and tied his head and feet together.

He gasped in amazement, too besotted to understand, perplexed, bruised
and wild with fear.

Suddenly a big soldier, covered with gold lace, put his foot on his
stomach, shouting:

“You are my prisoner. Surrender!”

The Prussian heard only the one word “prisoner” and he sighed, “Ya, ya,
ya.”

He was raised from the floor, tied in a chair and examined with lively
curiosity by his victors, who were blowing like whales. Several of them
sat down, done up with excitement and fatigue.

He smiled, actually smiled, secure now that he was at last a prisoner.

Another officer came into the room and said:

“Colonel, the enemy has escaped; several seem to have been wounded. We
are in possession.”

The big officer, who was wiping his forehead, exclaimed: “Victory!”

And he wrote in a little business memorandum book which he took from his
pocket:

“After a desperate encounter the Prussians were obliged to beat a
retreat, carrying with them their dead and wounded, the number of whom
is estimated at fifty men. Several were taken prisoners.”

The young officer inquired:

“What steps shall I take, colonel?”

“We will retire in good order,” replied the colonel, “to avoid having to
return and make another attack with artillery and a larger force of
men.”

And he gave the command to set out.

The column drew up in line in the darkness beneath the walls of the
chateau and filed out, a guard of six soldiers with revolvers in their
hands surrounding Walter Schnaffs, who was firmly bound.

Scouts were sent ahead to reconnoitre. They advanced cautiously, halting
from time to time.

At daybreak they arrived at the district of La Roche-Oysel, whose
national guard had accomplished this feat of arms.

The uneasy and excited inhabitants were expecting them. When they saw
the prisoner's helmet tremendous shouts arose. The women raised their
arms in wonder, the old people wept. An old grandfather threw his crutch
at the Prussian and struck the nose of one of their own defenders.

The colonel roared:

“See that the prisoner is secure!”

At length they reached the town hall. The prison was opened and Walter
Schnaffs, freed from his bonds, cast into it. Two hundred armed men
mounted guard outside the building.

Then, in spite of the indigestion that had been troubling him for some
time, the Prussian, wild with joy, began to dance about, to dance
frantically, throwing out his arms and legs and uttering wild shouts
until he fell down exhausted beside the wall.

He was a prisoner-saved!

That was how the Chateau de Charnpignet was taken from the enemy after
only six hours of occupation.

Colonel Ratier, a cloth merchant, who had led the assault at the head of
a body of the national guard of La Roche-Oysel, was decorated with an
order.





AT SEA The following paragraphs recently appeared in the papers:

“Boulogne-Sur-Mer, January 22.—Our correspondent writes:

“A fearful accident has thrown our sea-faring population, which has
suffered so much in the last two years, into the greatest consternation.
The fishing smack commanded by Captain Javel, on entering the harbor was
wrecked on the rocks of the harbor breakwater.

“In spite of the efforts of the life boat and the shooting of life lines
from the shore four sailors and the cabin boy were lost.

“The rough weather continues. Fresh disasters are anticipated.”

Who is this Captain Javel? Is he the brother of the one-armed man?

If the poor man tossed about in the waves and dead, perhaps, beneath his
wrecked boat, is the one I am thinking of, he took part, just eighteen
years ago, in another tragedy, terrible and simple as are all these
fearful tragedies of the sea.

Javel, senior, was then master of a trawling smack.

The trawling smack is the ideal fishing boat. So solidly built that it
fears no weather, with a round bottom, tossed about unceasingly on the
waves like a cork, always on top, always thrashed by the harsh salt
winds of the English Channel, it ploughs the sea unweariedly with
bellying sail, dragging along at its side a huge trawling net, which
scours the depths of the ocean, and detaches and gathers in all the
animals asleep in the rocks, the flat fish glued to the sand, the heavy
crabs with their curved claws, and the lobsters with their pointed
mustaches.

When the breeze is fresh and the sea choppy, the boat starts in to
trawl. The net is fastened all along a big log of wood clamped with iron
and is let down by two ropes on pulleys at either end of the boat. And
the boat, driven by the wind and the tide, draws along this apparatus
which ransacks and plunders the depths of the sea.

Javel had on board his younger brother, four sailors and a cabin boy. He
had set sail from Boulogne on a beautiful day to go trawling.

But presently a wind sprang up, and a hurricane obliged the smack to run
to shore. She gained the English coast, but the high sea broke against
the rocks and dashed on the beach, making it impossible to go into port,
filling all the harbor entrances with foam and noise and danger.

The smack started off again, riding on the waves, tossed, shaken,
dripping, buffeted by masses of water, but game in spite of everything;
accustomed to this boisterous weather, which sometimes kept it roving
between the two neighboring countries without its being able to make
port in either.

At length the hurricane calmed down just as they were in the open, and
although the sea was still high the captain gave orders to cast the net.

So it was lifted overboard, and two men in the bows and two in the stern
began to unwind the ropes that held it. It suddenly touched bottom, but
a big wave made the boat heel, and Javel, junior, who was in the bows
directing the lowering of the net, staggered, and his arm was caught in
the rope which the shock had slipped from the pulley for an instant. He
made a desperate effort to raise the rope with the other hand, but the
net was down and the taut rope did not give.

The man cried out in agony. They all ran to his aid. His brother left
the rudder. They all seized the rope, trying to free the arm it was
bruising. But in vain. “We must cut it,” said a sailor, and he took from
his pocket a big knife, which, with two strokes, could save young
Javel's arm.

But if the rope were cut the trawling net would be lost, and this net
was worth money, a great deal of money, fifteen hundred francs. And it
belonged to Javel, senior, who was tenacious of his property.

“No, do not cut, wait, I will luff,” he cried, in great distress. And he
ran to the helm and turned the rudder. But the boat scarcely obeyed it,
being impeded by the net which kept it from going forward, and prevented
also by the force of the tide and the wind.

Javel, junior, had sunk on his knees, his teeth clenched, his eyes
haggard. He did not utter a word. His brother came back to him, in dread
of the sailor's knife.

“Wait, wait,” he said. “We will let down the anchor.”

They cast anchor, and then began to turn the capstan to loosen the
moorings of the net. They loosened them at length and disengaged the
imprisoned arm, in its bloody woolen sleeve.

Young Javel seemed like an idiot. They took off his jersey and saw a
horrible sight, a mass of flesh from which the blood spurted as if from
a pump. Then the young man looked at his arm and murmured: “Foutu” (done
for).

Then, as the blood was making a pool on the deck of the boat, one of the
sailors cried: “He will bleed to death, we must bind the vein.”

So they took a cord, a thick, brown, tarry cord, and twisting it around
the arm above the wound, tightened it with all their might. The blood
ceased to spurt by slow degrees, and, presently, stopped altogether.

Young Javel rose, his arm hanging at his side. He took hold of it with
the other hand, raised it, turned it over, shook it. It was all mashed,
the bones broken, the muscles alone holding it together. He looked at it
sadly, reflectively. Then he sat down on a folded sail and his comrades
advised him to keep wetting the arm constantly to prevent it from
mortifying.

They placed a pail of water beside him, and every few minutes he dipped
a glass into it and bathed the frightful wound, letting the clear water
trickle on to it.

“You would be better in the cabin,” said his brother. He went down, but
came up again in an hour, not caring to be alone. And, besides, he
preferred the fresh air. He sat down again on his sail and began to
bathe his arm.

They made a good haul. The broad fish with their white bellies lay
beside him, quivering in the throes of death; he looked at them as he
continued to bathe his crushed flesh.

As they were about to return to Boulogne the wind sprang up anew, and
the little boat resumed its mad course, bounding and tumbling about,
shaking up the poor wounded man.

Night came on. The sea ran high until dawn. As the sun rose the English
coast was again visible, but, as the weather had abated a little, they
turned back towards the French coast, tacking as they went.

Towards evening Javel, junior, called his comrades and showed them some
black spots, all the horrible tokens of mortification in the portion of
the arm below the broken bones.

The sailors examined it, giving their opinion.

“That might be the 'Black,'” thought one.

“He should put salt water on it,” said another.

They brought some salt water and poured it on the wound. The injured man
became livid, ground his teeth and writhed a little, but did not
exclaim.

Then, as soon as the smarting had abated, he said to his brother:

“Give me your knife.”

The brother handed it to him.

“Hold my arm up, quite straight, and pull it.”

They did as he asked them.

Then he began to cut off his arm. He cut gently, carefully, severing all
the tendons with this blade that was sharp as a razor. And, presently,
there was only a stump left. He gave a deep sigh and said:

“It had to be done. It was done for.”

He seemed relieved and breathed loud. He then began again to pour water
on the stump of arm that remained.

The sea was still rough and they could not make the shore.

When the day broke, Javel, junior, took the severed portion of his arm
and examined it for a long time. Gangrene had set in. His comrades also
examined it and handed it from one to the other, feeling it, turning it
over, and sniffing at it.

“You must throw that into the sea at once,” said his brother.

But Javel, junior, got angry.

“Oh, no! Oh, no! I don't want to. It belongs to me, does it not, as it
is my arm?”

And he took and placed it between his feet.

“It will putrefy, just the same,” said the older brother. Then an idea
came to the injured man. In order to preserve the fish when the boat was
long at sea, they packed it in salt, in barrels. He asked:

“Why can I not put it in pickle?”

“Why, that's a fact,” exclaimed the others.

Then they emptied one of the barrels, which was full from the haul of
the last few days; and right at the bottom of the barrel they laid the
detached arm. They covered it with salt, and then put back the fish one
by one.

One of the sailors said by way of joke:

“I hope we do not sell it at auction.”

And everyone laughed, except the two Javels.

The wind was still boisterous. They tacked within sight of Boulogne
until the following morning at ten o'clock. Young Javel continued to
bathe his wound. From time to time he rose and walked from one end to
the other of the boat.

His brother, who was at the tiller, followed him with glances, and shook
his head.

At last they ran into harbor.

The doctor examined the wound and pronounced it to be in good condition.
He dressed it properly and ordered the patient to rest. But Javel would
not go to bed until he got back his severed arm, and he returned at once
to the dock to look for the barrel which he had marked with a cross.

It was emptied before him and he seized the arm, which was well
preserved in the pickle, had shrunk and was freshened. He wrapped it up
in a towel he had brought for the purpose and took it home.

His wife and children looked for a long time at this fragment of their
father, feeling the fingers, and removing the grains of salt that were
under the nails. Then they sent for a carpenter to make a little coffin.

The next day the entire crew of the trawling smack followed the funeral
of the detached arm. The two brothers, side by side, led the procession;
the parish beadle carried the corpse under his arm.

Javel, junior, gave up the sea. He obtained a small position on the
dock, and when he subsequently talked about his accident, he would say
confidentially to his auditors:

“If my brother had been willing to cut away the net, I should still have
my arm, that is sure. But he was thinking only of his property.”





MINUET

Great misfortunes do not affect me very much, said John Bridelle, an old
bachelor who passed for a sceptic. I have seen war at quite close
quarters; I walked across corpses without any feeling of pity. The great
brutal facts of nature, or of humanity, may call forth cries of horror
or indignation, but do not cause us that tightening of the heart, that
shudder that goes down your spine at sight of certain little
heartrending episodes.

The greatest sorrow that anyone can experience is certainly the loss of
a child, to a mother; and the loss of his mother, to a man. It is
intense, terrible, it rends your heart and upsets your mind; but one is
healed of these shocks, just as large bleeding wounds become healed.
Certain meetings, certain things half perceived, or surmised, certain
secret sorrows, certain tricks of fate which awake in us a whole world
of painful thoughts, which suddenly unclose to us the mysterious door of
moral suffering, complicated, incurable; all the deeper because they
appear benign, all the more bitter because they are intangible, all the
more tenacious because they appear almost factitious, leave in our souls
a sort of trail of sadness, a taste of bitterness, a feeling of
disenchantment, from which it takes a long time to free ourselves.

I have always present to my mind two or three things that others would
surely not have noticed, but which penetrated my being like fine, sharp
incurable stings.

You might not perhaps understand the emotion that I retained from these
hasty impressions. I will tell you one of them. She was very old, but as
lively as a young girl. It may be that my imagination alone is
responsible for my emotion.

I am fifty. I was young then and studying law. I was rather sad,
somewhat of a dreamer, full of a pessimistic philosophy and did not care
much for noisy cafes, boisterous companions, or stupid girls. I rose
early and one of my chief enjoyments was to walk alone about eight
o'clock in the morning in the nursery garden of the Luxembourg.

You people never knew that nursery garden. It was like a forgotten
garden of the last century, as pretty as the gentle smile of an old
lady. Thick hedges divided the narrow regular paths,—peaceful paths
between two walls of carefully trimmed foliage. The gardener's great
shears were pruning unceasingly these leafy partitions, and here and
there one came across beds of flowers, lines of little trees looking
like schoolboys out for a walk, companies of magnificent rose bushes, or
regiments of fruit trees.

An entire corner of this charming spot was in habited by bees. Their
straw hives skillfully arranged at distances on boards had their
entrances—as large as the opening of a thimble—turned towards the sun,
and all along the paths one encountered these humming and gilded flies,
the true masters of this peaceful spot, the real promenaders of these
quiet paths.

I came there almost every morning. I sat down on a bench and read.
Sometimes I let my book fall on my knees, to dream, to listen to the
life of Paris around me, and to enjoy the infinite repose of these old-
fashioned hedges.

But I soon perceived that I was not the only one to frequent this spot
as soon as the gates were opened, and I occasionally met face to face,
at a turn in the path, a strange little old man.

He wore shoes with silver buckles, knee-breeches, a snuff-colored frock
coat, a lace jabot, and an outlandish gray hat with wide brim and long-
haired surface that might have come out of the ark.

He was thin, very thin, angular, grimacing and smiling. His bright eyes
were restless beneath his eyelids which blinked continuously. He always
carried in his hand a superb cane with a gold knob, which must have been
for him some glorious souvenir.

This good man astonished me at first, then caused me the intensest
interest. I watched him through the leafy walls, I followed him at a
distance, stopping at a turn in the hedge so as not to be seen.

And one morning when he thought he was quite alone, he began to make the
most remarkable motions. First he would give some little springs, then
make a bow; then, with his slim legs, he would give a lively spring in
the air, clapping his feet as he did so, and then turn round cleverly,
skipping and frisking about in a comical manner, smiling as if he had an
audience, twisting his poor little puppet-like body, bowing pathetic and
ridiculous little greetings into the empty air. He was dancing.

I stood petrified with amazement, asking myself which of us was crazy,
he or I.

He stopped suddenly, advanced as actors do on the stage, then bowed and
retreated with gracious smiles, and kissing his hand as actors do, his
trembling hand, to the two rows of trimmed bushes.

Then he continued his walk with a solemn demeanor.

After that I never lost sight of him, and each morning he began anew his
outlandish exercises.

I was wildly anxious to speak to him. I decided to risk it, and one day,
after greeting him, I said:

“It is a beautiful day, monsieur.”

He bowed.

“Yes, sir, the weather is just as it used to be.”

A week later we were friends and I knew his history. He had been a
dancing master at the opera, in the time of Louis XV. His beautiful cane
was a present from the Comte de Clermont. And when we spoke about
dancing he never stopping talking.

One day he said to me:

“I married La Castris, monsieur. I will introduce you to her if you wish
it, but she does not get here till later. This garden, you see, is our
delight and our life. It is all that remains of former days. It seems as
though we could not exist if we did not have it. It is old and
distingue, is it not? I seem to breathe an air here that has not changed
since I was young. My wife and I pass all our afternoons here, but I
come in the morning because I get up early.”

As soon as I had finished luncheon I returned to the Luxembourg, and
presently perceived my friend offering his arm ceremoniously to a very
old little lady dressed in black, to whom he introduced me. It was La
Castris, the great dancer, beloved by princes, beloved by the king,
beloved by all that century of gallantry that seems to have left behind
it in the world an atmosphere of love.

We sat down on a bench. It was the month of May. An odor of flowers
floated in the neat paths; a hot sun glided its rays between the
branches and covered us with patches of light. The black dress of La
Castris seemed to be saturated with sunlight.

The garden was empty. We heard the rattling of vehicles in the distance.

“Tell me,” I said to the old dancer, “what was the minuet?”

He gave a start.

“The minuet, monsieur, is the queen of dances, and the dance of queens,
do you understand? Since there is no longer any royalty, there is no
longer any minuet.”

And he began in a pompous manner a long dithyrambic eulogy which I could
not understand. I wanted to have the steps, the movements, the
positions, explained to me. He became confused, was amazed at his
inability to make me understand, became nervous and worried.

Then suddenly, turning to his old companion who had remained silent and
serious, he said:

“Elise, would you like—say—would you like, it would be very nice of you,
would you like to show this gentleman what it was?”

She turned eyes uneasily in all directions, then rose without saying a
word and took her position opposite him.

Then I witnessed an unheard-of thing.

They advanced and retreated with childlike grimaces, smiling, swinging
each other, bowing, skipping about like two automaton dolls moved by
some old mechanical contrivance, somewhat damaged, but made by a clever
workman according to the fashion of his time.

And I looked at them, my heart filled with extraordinary emotions, my
soul touched with an indescribable melancholy. I seemed to see before me
a pathetic and comical apparition, the out-of-date ghost of a former
century.

They suddenly stopped. They had finished all the figures of the dance.
For some seconds they stood opposite each other, smiling in an
astonishing manner. Then they fell on each other's necks sobbing.

I left for the provinces three days later. I never saw them again. When
I returned to Paris, two years later, the nursery had been destroyed.
What became of them, deprived of the dear garden of former days, with
its mazes, its odor of the past, and the graceful windings of its
hedges?

Are they dead? Are they wandering among modern streets like hopeless
exiles? Are they dancing—grotesque spectres—a fantastic minuet in the
moonlight, amid the cypresses of a cemetery, along the pathways bordered
by graves?

Their memory haunts me, obsesses me, torments me, remains with me like a
wound. Why? I do not know.

No doubt you think that very absurd?





THE SON

The two old friends were walking in the garden in bloom, where spring
was bringing everything to life.

One was a senator, the other a member of the French Academy, both
serious men, full of very logical but solemn arguments, men of note and
reputation.

They talked first of politics, exchanging opinions; not on ideas, but on
men, personalities in this regard taking the predominance over ability.
Then they recalled some memories. Then they walked along in silence,
enervated by the warmth of the air.

A large bed of wallflowers breathed out a delicate sweetness. A mass of
flowers of all species and color flung their fragrance to the breeze,
while a cytisus covered with yellow clusters scattered its fine pollen
abroad, a golden cloud, with an odor of honey that bore its balmy seed
across space, similar to the sachet-powders of perfumers.

The senator stopped, breathed in the cloud of floating pollen, looked at
the fertile shrub, yellow as the sun, whose seed was floating in the
air, and said:

“When one considers that these imperceptible fragrant atoms will create
existences at a hundred leagues from here, will send a thrill through
the fibres and sap of female trees and produce beings with roots,
growing from a germ, just as we do, mortal like ourselves, and who will
be replaced by other beings of the same order, like ourselves again!”

And, standing in front of the brilliant cytisus, whose live pollen was
shaken off by each breath of air, the senator added:

“Ah, old fellow, if you had to keep count of all your children you would
be mightily embarrassed. Here is one who generates freely, and then lets
them go without a pang and troubles himself no more about them.”

“We do the same, my friend,” said the academician.

“Yes, I do not deny it; we let them go sometimes,” resumed the senator,
“but we are aware that we do, and that constitutes our superiority.”

“No, that is not what I mean,” said the other, shaking his head. “You
see, my friend, that there is scarcely a man who has not some children
that he does not know, children—'father unknown'—whom he has generated
almost unconsciously, just as this tree reproduces.

“If we had to keep account of our amours, we should be just as
embarrassed as this cytisus which you apostrophized would be in counting
up his descendants, should we not?

“From eighteen to forty years, in fact, counting in every chance cursory
acquaintanceship, we may well say that we have been intimate with two or
three hundred women.

“Well, then, my friend, among this number can you be sure that you have
not had children by at least one of them, and that you have not in the
streets, or in the bagnio, some blackguard of a son who steals from and
murders decent people, i.e., ourselves; or else a daughter in some
disreputable place, or, if she has the good fortune to be deserted by
her mother, as cook in some family?

“Consider, also, that almost all those whom we call 'prostitutes' have
one or two children of whose paternal parentage they are ignorant,
generated by chance at the price of ten or twenty francs. In every
business there is profit and loss. These wildings constitute the 'loss'
in their profession. Who generated them? You—I—we all did, the men
called 'gentlemen'! They are the consequences of our jovial little
dinners, of our gay evenings, of those hours when our comfortable
physical being impels us to chance liaisons.

“Thieves, marauders, all these wretches, in fact, are our children. And
that is better for us than if we were their children, for those
scoundrels generate also!

“I have in my mind a very horrible story that I will relate to you. It
has caused me incessant remorse, and, further than that, a continual
doubt, a disquieting uncertainty, that, at times, torments me
frightfully.

“When I was twenty-five I undertook a walking tour through Brittany with
one of my friends, now a member of the cabinet.

“After walking steadily for fifteen or twenty days and visiting the
Cotes-du-Nord and part of Finistere we reached Douarnenez. From there we
went without halting to the wild promontory of Raz by the bay of Les
Trepaases, and passed the night in a village whose name ends in 'of.'
The next morning a strange lassitude kept my friend in bed; I say bed
from habit, for our couch consisted simply of two bundles of straw.

“It would never do to be ill in this place. So I made him get up, and we
reached Andierne about four or five o'clock in the evening.

“The following day he felt a little better, and we set out again. But on
the road he was seized with intolerable pain, and we could scarcely get
as far as Pont Labbe.

“Here, at least, there was an inn. My friend went to bed, and the
doctor, who had been sent for from Quimper, announced that he had a high
fever, without being able to determine its nature.

“Do you know Pont Labbe? No? Well, then, it is the most Breton of all
this Breton Brittany, which extends from the promontory of Raz to the
Morbihan, of this land which contains the essence of the Breton manners,
legends and customs. Even to-day this corner of the country has scarcely
changed. I say 'even to-day,' for I now go there every year, alas!

“An old chateau laves the walls of its towers in a great melancholy
pond, melancholy and frequented by flights of wild birds. It has an
outlet in a river on which boats can navigate as far as the town. In the
narrow streets with their old-time houses the men wear big hats,
embroidered waistcoats and four coats, one on top of the other; the
inside one, as large as your hand, barely covering the shoulder-blades,
and the outside one coming to just above the seat of the trousers.

“The girls, tall, handsome and fresh have their bosoms crushed in a
cloth bodice which makes an armor, compresses them, not allowing one
even to guess at their robust and tortured neck. They also wear a
strange headdress. On their temples two bands embroidered in colors
frame their face, inclosing the hair, which falls in a shower at the
back of their heads, and is then turned up and gathered on top of the
head under a singular cap, often woven with gold or silver thread.

“The servant at our inn was eighteen at most, with very blue eyes, a
pale blue with two tiny black pupils, short teeth close together, which
she showed continually when she laughed, and which seemed strong enough
to grind granite.

“She did not know a word of French, speaking only Breton, as did most of
her companions.

“As my friend did not improve much, and although he had no definite
malady, the doctor forbade him to continue his journey yet, ordering
complete rest. I spent my days with him, and the little maid would come
in incessantly, bringing either my dinner or some herb tea.

“I teased her a little, which seemed to amuse her, but we did not chat,
of course, as we could not understand each other.

“But one night, after I had stayed quite late with my friend and was
going back to my room, I passed the girl, who was going to her room. It
was just opposite my open door, and, without reflection, and more for
fun than anything else, I abruptly seized her round the waist, and
before she recovered from her astonishment I had thrown her down and
locked her in my room. She looked at me, amazed, excited, terrified, not
daring to cry out for fear of a scandal and of being probably driven
out, first by her employers and then, perhaps, by her father.

“I did it as a joke at first. She defended herself bravely, and at the
first chance she ran to the door, drew back the bolt and fled.

“I scarcely saw her for several days. She would not let me come near
her. But when my friend was cured and we were to get out on our travels
again I saw her coming into my room about midnight the night before our
departure, just after I had retired.

“She threw herself into my arms and embraced me passionately, giving me
all the assurances of tenderness and despair that a woman can give when
she does not know a word of our language.

“A week later I had forgotten this adventure, so common and frequent
when one is travelling, the inn servants being generally destined to
amuse travellers in this way.

“I was thirty before I thought of it again, or returned to Pont Labbe.

“But in 1876 I revisited it by chance during a trip into Brittany, which
I made in order to look up some data for a book and to become permeated
with the atmosphere of the different places.

“Nothing seemed changed. The chateau still laved its gray wall in the
pond outside the little town; the inn was the same, though it had been
repaired, renovated and looked more modern. As I entered it I was
received by two young Breton girls of eighteen, fresh and pretty, bound
up in their tight cloth bodices, with their silver caps and wide
embroidered bands on their ears.

“It was about six o'clock in the evening. I sat down to dinner, and as
the host was assiduous in waiting on me himself, fate, no doubt,
impelled me to say:

“'Did you know the former proprietors of this house? I spent about ten
days here thirty years ago. I am talking old times.'

“'Those were my parents, monsieur,' he replied.

“Then I told him why we had stayed over at that time, how my comrade had
been delayed by illness. He did not let me finish.

“'Oh, I recollect perfectly. I was about fifteen or sixteen. You slept
in the room at the end and your friend in the one I have taken for
myself, overlooking the street.'

“It was only then that the recollection of the little maid came vividly
to my mind. I asked: 'Do you remember a pretty little servant who was
then in your father's employ, and who had, if my memory does not deceive
me, pretty eyes and fresh-looking teeth?'

“'Yes, monsieur; she died in childbirth some time after.'

“And, pointing to the courtyard where a thin, lame man was stirring up
the manure, he added:

“'That is her son.'

“I began to laugh:

“'He is not handsome and does not look much like his mother. No doubt he
looks like his father.'

“'That is very possible,' replied the innkeeper; 'but we never knew
whose child it was. She died without telling any one, and no one here
knew of her having a beau. Every one was hugely astonished when they
heard she was enceinte, and no one would believe it.'

“A sort of unpleasant chill came over me, one of those painful surface
wounds that affect us like the shadow of an impending sorrow. And I
looked at the man in the yard. He had just drawn water for the horses
and was carrying two buckets, limping as he walked, with a painful
effort of his shorter leg. His clothes were ragged, he was hideously
dirty, with long yellow hair, so tangled that it looked like strands of
rope falling down at either side of his face.

“'He is not worth much,' continued the innkeeper; 'we have kept him for
charity's sake. Perhaps he would have turned out better if he had been
brought up like other folks. But what could one do, monsieur? No father,
no mother, no money! My parents took pity on him, but he was not their
child, you understand.'

“I said nothing.

“I slept in my old room, and all night long I thought of this frightful
stableman, saying to myself: 'Supposing it is my own son? Could I have
caused that girl's death and procreated this being? It was quite
possible!'

“I resolved to speak to this man and to find out the exact date of his
birth. A variation of two months would set my doubts at rest.

“I sent for him the next day. But he could not speak French. He looked
as if he could not understand anything, being absolutely ignorant of his
age, which I had inquired of him through one of the maids. He stood
before me like an idiot, twirling his hat in 'his knotted, disgusting
hands, laughing stupidly, with something of his mother's laugh in the
corners of his mouth and of his eyes.

“The landlord, appearing on the scene, went to look for the birth
certificate of this wretched being. He was born eight months and twenty-
six days after my stay at Pont Labbe, for I recollect perfectly that we
reached Lorient on the fifteenth of August. The certificate contained
this description: 'Father unknown.' The mother called herself Jeanne
Kerradec.

“Then my heart began to beat rapidly. I could not utter a word, for I
felt as if I were choking. I looked at this animal whose long yellow
hair reminded me of a straw heap, and the beggar, embarrassed by my
gaze, stopped laughing, turned his head aside, and wanted to get away.

“All day long I wandered beside the little river, giving way to painful
reflections. But what was the use of reflection? I could be sure of
nothing. For hours and hours I weighed all the pros and cons in favor of
or against the probability of my being the father, growing nervous over
inexplicable suppositions, only to return incessantly to the same
horrible uncertainty, then to the still more atrocious conviction that
this man was my son.

“I could eat no dinner, and went to my room.

“I lay awake for a long time, and when I finally fell asleep I was
haunted by horrible visions. I saw this laborer laughing in my face and
calling me 'papa.' Then he changed into a dog and bit the calves of my
legs, and no matter how fast I ran he still followed me, and instead of
barking, talked and reviled me. Then he appeared before my colleagues at
the Academy, who had assembled to decide whether I was really his
father; and one of them cried out: 'There can be no doubt about it! See
how he resembles him.' And, indeed, I could see that this monster looked
like me. And I awoke with this idea fixed in my mind and with an insane
desire to see the man again and assure myself whether or not we had
similar features.

“I joined him as he was going to mass (it was Sunday) and I gave him
five francs as I gazed at him anxiously. He began to laugh in an idiotic
manner, took the money, and then, embarrassed afresh at my gaze, he ran
off, after stammering an almost inarticulate word that, no doubt, meant
'thank you.'

“My day passed in the same distress of mind as on the previous night. I
sent for the landlord, and, with the greatest caution, skill and tact, I
told him that I was interested in this poor creature, so abandoned by
every one and deprived of everything, and I wished to do something for
him.

“But the man replied: 'Oh, do not think of it, monsieur; he is of no
account; you will only cause yourself annoyance. I employ him to clean
out the stable, and that is all he can do. I give him his board and let
him sleep with the horses. He needs nothing more. If you have an old
pair of trousers, you might give them to him, but they will be in rags
in a week.'

“I did not insist, intending to think it over.

“The poor wretch came home that evening frightfully drunk, came near
setting fire to the house, killed a horse by hitting it with a pickaxe,
and ended up by lying down to sleep in the mud in the midst of the
pouring rain, thanks to my donation.

“They begged me next day not to give him any more money. Brandy drove
him crazy, and as soon as he had two sous in his pocket he would spend
it in drink. The landlord added: 'Giving him money is like trying to
kill him.' The man had never, never in his life had more than a few
centimes, thrown to him by travellers, and he knew of no destination for
this metal but the wine shop.

“I spent several hours in my room with an open book before me which I
pretended to read, but in reality looking at this animal, my son! my
son! trying to discover if he looked anything like me. After careful
scrutiny I seemed to recognize a similarity in the lines of the forehead
and the root of the nose, and I was soon convinced that there was a
resemblance, concealed by the difference in garb and the man's hideous
head of hair.

“I could not stay here any longer without arousing suspicion, and I went
away, my heart crushed, leaving with the innkeeper some money to soften
the existence of his servant.

“For six years now I have lived with this idea in my mind, this horrible
uncertainty, this abominable suspicion. And each year an irresistible
force takes me back to Pont Labbe. Every year I condemn myself to the
torture of seeing this animal raking the manure, imagining that he
resembles me, and endeavoring, always vainly, to render him some
assistance. And each year I return more uncertain, more tormented, more
worried.

“I tried to have him taught, but he is a hopeless idiot. I tried to make
his life less hard. He is an irreclaimable drunkard, and spends in drink
all the money one gives him, and knows enough to sell his new clothes in
order to get brandy.

“I tried to awaken his master's sympathy, so that he should look after
him, offering to pay him for doing so. The innkeeper, finally surprised,
said, very wisely: 'All that you do for him, monsieur, will only help to
destroy him. He must be kept like a prisoner. As soon as he has any
spare time, or any comfort, he becomes wicked. If you wish to do good,
there is no lack of abandoned children, but select one who will
appreciate your attention.'

“What could I say?

“If I allowed the slightest suspicion of the doubts that tortured me to
escape, this idiot would assuredly become cunning, in order to blackmail
me, to compromise me and ruin me. He would call out 'papa,' as in my
dream.

“And I said to myself that I had killed the mother and lost this
atrophied creature, this larva of the stable, born and raised amid the
manure, this man who, if brought up like others, would have been like
others.

“And you cannot imagine what a strange, embarrassed and intolerable
feeling comes over me when he stands before me and I reflect that he
came from myself, that he belongs to me through the intimate bond that
links father and son, that, thanks to the terrible law of heredity, he
is my own self in a thousand ways, in his blood and his flesh, and that
he has even the same germs of disease, the same leaven of emotions.

“I have an incessant restless, distressing longing to see him, and the
sight of him causes me intense suffering, as I look down from my window
and watch him for hours removing and carting the horse manure, saying to
myself: 'That is my son.'

“And I sometimes feel an irresistible longing to embrace him. I have
never even touched his dirty hand.”

The academician was silent. His companion, a tactful man, murmured:
“Yes, indeed, we ought to take a closer interest in children who have no
father.”

A gust of wind passing through the tree shook its yellow clusters,
enveloping in a fragrant and delicate mist the two old men, who inhaled
in the fragrance with deep breaths.

The senator added: “It is good to be twenty-five and even to have
children like that.”





THAT PIG OF A MORIN

“Here, 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 his owl-like eyes 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, so 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.”

“Well, 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 to a country shopkeeper; it fires his blood. The theatre
every evening, women's dresses rustling up against you and continual
excitement; one goes almost mad with it. One sees nothing but dancers in
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 them, and one scarcely tastes food. When one leaves the city one's
heart is 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 condition when he took his ticket for La Rochelle by
the eight-forty night express. As he was walking up and down the
waiting-room at the station 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-by' to the old lady she went into the waiting-
room, and Morin followed her; then she went on the platform and Morin
still followed her; then she got into an empty carriage, and he again
followed her. There were very few travellers on 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, with a bold look. She wrapped a railway rug round her 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 suddenly, 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 people's 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 her
mind.'

“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 a
declaration.

“But he could find no opening, had no pretext, and he waited for some
fortunate circumstance, with his heart beating 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. 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 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 toward her, his arms extended, his lips
protruding, and, seizing her in his arms, he kissed her.

“She sprang up immediately with a bound, crying out: 'Help! help!' and
screaming with terror; 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. She threw herself into their arms,
stammering: 'That man wanted—wanted—to—to—' And then she fainted.

“They were at Mauze station, and the gendarme on duty arrested Morin.
When the victim of his indiscreet admiration 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 Cafe 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
scandalized and taking no notice of him. In the end he excited my pity,
and I sent for my colleague, Rivet, a jocular 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 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 Mauze. What made Morin's case all the more
serious was that the uncle had lodged a complaint, but 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 the girl's
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 as I thought best, but as I
did not care to venture to her uncle's house alone, I begged Rivet to go
with me, which he agreed to do on 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 pretty country house. An attractive
girl came and opened the door to us 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 was a
fervent political coreligionist of ours. He 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 subject. I
waved the spectre of scandal before his eyes; I accentuated the
inevitable depreciation which the young lady would suffer if such an
affair became 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 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 in his place without calling for assistance, and merely to change
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 one's self. 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 queer sort of 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 natural 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 an odd
expression to use, although it was not very clear, and I asked abruptly:
'Well, now, suppose I were to kiss you, 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 slyly: '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 the 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 looked at me to see if I was in earnest 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: 'Don't
talk nonsense!'

“We were alone, quite alone, as Rivet and her uncle had disappeared down
a sidewalk, and I made her a real declaration of love, while I squeezed
and kissed her hands, and she listened to it as to 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 arm
round her waist and spoke to her softly, whispering into the little
curls over her ears. She seemed in a trance, 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 cheek with my lips, and suddenly without
seeking them my lips met hers. It was a long, long kiss, and it would
have lasted longer still if I had not heard a hm! hm! just behind me, at
which she made her escape through the bushes, and turning round I saw
Rivet coming toward me, and, standing in the middle of the path, he said
without even smiling: 'So that is the way you settle the affair of that
pig of a 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 tablecloth, my foot touched hers and our
glances met.

“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, while her uncle and Rivet were arguing 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 arouse her emotion, but when she saw the danger she escaped
out of the room, and I retired 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 about 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: 'Suppose I should walk 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 was 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 tiptoe I said:
'I forgot to ask you for something to read, mademoiselle.'

“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 Henriette herself brought me a cup of
chocolate. I never have drunk anything like it, soft, velvety, perfumed,
delicious. I could hardly take away my lips 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 of a Morin's affair, do you hear?'

“Of course I was obliged to leave 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 annoy 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, 'Is it a bit of yourself?' 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 Fousserre, 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:
'Why—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.'”





SAINT ANTHONY

They called him Saint Anthony, because his name was Anthony, and also,
perhaps, because he was a good fellow, jovial, a lover of practical
jokes, a tremendous eater and a heavy drinker and a gay fellow, although
he was sixty years old.

He was a big peasant of the district of Caux, with a red face, large
chest and stomach, and perched on two legs that seemed too slight for
the bulk of his body.

He was a widower and lived alone with his two men servants and a maid on
his farm, which he conducted with shrewd economy. He was careful of his
own interests, understood business and the raising of cattle, and
farming. His two sons and his three daughters, who had married well,
were living in the neighborhood and came to dine with their father once
a month. His vigor of body was famous in all the countryside. “He is as
strong as Saint Anthony,” had become a kind of proverb.

At the time of the Prussian invasion Saint Anthony, at the wine shop,
promised to eat an army, for he was a braggart, like a true Norman, a
bit of a coward and a blusterer. He banged his fist on the wooden table,
making the cups and the brandy glasses dance, and cried with the assumed
wrath of a good fellow, with a flushed face and a sly look in his eye:
“I shall have to eat some of them, nom de Dieu!” He reckoned that the
Prussians would not come as far as Tanneville, but when he heard they
were at Rautot he never went out of the house, and constantly watched
the road from the little window of his kitchen, expecting at any moment
to see the bayonets go by.

One morning as he was eating his luncheon with the servants the door
opened and the mayor of the commune, Maitre Chicot, appeared, followed
by a soldier wearing a black copper-pointed helmet. Saint Anthony
bounded to his feet and his servants all looked at him, expecting to see
him slash the Prussian. But he merely shook hands with the mayor, who
said:

“Here is one for you, Saint Anthony. They came last night. Don't do
anything foolish, above all things, for they talked of shooting and
burning everything if there is the slightest unpleasantness, I have
given you warning. Give him something to eat; he looks like a good
fellow. Good-day. I am going to call on the rest. There are enough for
all.” And he went out.

Father Anthony, who had turned pale, looked at the Prussian. He was a
big, young fellow with plump, white skin, blue eyes, fair hair, unshaven
to his cheek bones, who looked stupid, timid and good. The shrewd Norman
read him at once, and, reassured, he made him a sign to sit down. Then
he said: “Will you take some soup?”

The stranger did not understand. Anthony then became bolder, and pushing
a plateful of soup right under his nose, he said: “Here, swallow that,
big pig!”

The soldier answered “Ya,” and began to eat greedily, while the farmer,
triumphant, feeling he had regained his reputation, winked his eye at
the servants, who were making strange grimaces, what with their terror
and their desire to laugh.

When the Prussian had devoured his soup, Saint Anthony gave him another
plateful, which disappeared in like manner; but he flinched at the third
which the farmer tried to insist on his eating, saying: “Come, put that
into your stomach; 'twill fatten you or it is your own fault, eh, pig!”

The soldier, understanding only that they wanted to make him eat all his
soup, laughed in a contented manner, making a sign to show that he could
not hold any more.

Then Saint Anthony, become quite familiar, tapped him on the stomach,
saying: “My, there is plenty in my pig's belly!” But suddenly he began
to writhe with laughter, unable to speak. An idea had struck him which
made him choke with mirth. “That's it, that's it, Saint Anthony and his
pig. There's my pig!” And the three servants burst out laughing in their
turn.

The old fellow was so pleased that he had the brandy brought in, good
stuff, 'fil en dix', and treated every one. They clinked glasses with
the Prussian, who clacked his tongue by way of flattery to show that he
enjoyed it. And Saint Anthony exclaimed in his face: “Eh, is not that
superfine? You don't get anything like that in your home, pig!”

From that time Father Anthony never went out without his Prussian. He
had got what he wanted. This was his vengeance, the vengeance of an old
rogue. And the whole countryside, which was in terror, laughed to split
its sides at Saint Anthony's joke. Truly, there was no one like him when
it came to humor. No one but he would have thought of a thing like that.
He was a born joker!

He went to see his neighbors every day, arm in arm with his German, whom
he introduced in a jovial manner, tapping him on the shoulder: “See,
here is my pig; look and see if he is not growing fat, the animal!”

And the peasants would beam with smiles. “He is so comical, that
reckless fellow, Antoine!”

“I will sell him to you, Cesaire, for three pistoles” (thirty francs).

“I will take him, Antoine, and I invite you to eat some black pudding.”

“What I want is his feet.”

“Feel his belly; you will see that it is all fat.”

And they all winked at each other, but dared not laugh too loud, for
fear the Prussian might finally suspect they were laughing at him.
Anthony, alone growing bolder every day, pinched his thighs, exclaiming,
“Nothing but fat”; tapped him on the back, shouting, “That is all
bacon”; lifted him up in his arms as an old Colossus that could have
lifted an anvil, declaring, “He weighs six hundred and no waste.”

He had got into the habit of making people offer his “pig” something to
eat wherever they went together. This was the chief pleasure, the great
diversion every day. “Give him whatever you please, he will swallow
everything.” And they offered the man bread and butter, potatoes, cold
meat, chitterlings, which caused the remark, “Some of your own, and
choice ones.”

The soldier, stupid and gentle, ate from politeness, charmed at these
attentions, making himself ill rather than refuse, and he was actually
growing fat and his uniform becoming tight for him. This delighted Saint
Anthony, who said: “You know, my pig, that we shall have to have another
cage made for you.”

They had, however, become the best friends in the world, and when the
old fellow went to attend to his business in the neighborhood the
Prussian accompanied him for the simple pleasure of being with him.

The weather was severe; it was freezing hard. The terrible winter of
1870 seemed to bring all the scourges on France at one time.

Father Antoine, who made provision beforehand, and took advantage of
every opportunity, foreseeing that manure would be scarce for the spring
farming, bought from a neighbor who happened to be in need of money all
that he had, and it was agreed that he should go every evening with his
cart to get a load.

So every day at twilight he set out for the farm of Haules, half a
league distant, always accompanied by his “pig.” And each time it was a
festival, feeding the animal. All the neighbors ran over there as they
would go to high mass on Sunday.

But the soldier began to suspect something, be mistrustful, and when
they laughed too loud he would roll his eyes uneasily, and sometimes
they lighted up with anger.

One evening when he had eaten his fill he refused to swallow another
morsel, and attempted to rise to leave the table. But Saint Anthony
stopped him by a turn of the wrist and, placing his two powerful hands
on his shoulders, he sat him down again so roughly that the chair
smashed under him.

A wild burst of laughter broke forth, and Anthony, beaming, picked up
his pig, acted as though he were dressing his wounds, and exclaimed:
“Since you will not eat, you shall drink, nom de Dieu!” And they went to
the wine shop to get some brandy.

The soldier rolled his eyes, which had a wicked expression, but he
drank, nevertheless; he drank as long as they wanted him, and Saint
Anthony held his head to the great delight of his companions.

The Norman, red as a tomato, his eyes ablaze, filled up the glasses and
clinked, saying: “Here's to you!”. And the Prussian, without speaking a
word, poured down one after another glassfuls of cognac.

It was a contest, a battle, a revenge! Who would drink the most, nom
d'un nom! They could neither of them stand any more when the liter was
emptied. But neither was conquered. They were tied, that was all. They
would have to begin again the next day.

They went out staggering and started for home, walking beside the dung
cart which was drawn along slowly by two horses.

Snow began to fall and the moonless night was sadly lighted by this dead
whiteness on the plain. The men began to feel the cold, and this
aggravated their intoxication. Saint Anthony, annoyed at not being the
victor, amused himself by shoving his companion so as to make him fall
over into the ditch. The other would dodge backwards, and each time he
did he uttered some German expression in an angry tone, which made the
peasant roar with laughter. Finally the Prussian lost his temper, and
just as Anthony was rolling towards him he responded with such a
terrific blow with his fist that the Colossus staggered.

Then, excited by the brandy, the old man seized the pugilist round the
waist, shook him for a few moments as he would have done with a little
child, and pitched him at random to the other side of the road. Then,
satisfied with this piece of work, he crossed his arms and began to
laugh afresh.

But the soldier picked himself up in a hurry, his head bare, his helmet
having rolled off, and drawing his sword he rushed over to Father
Anthony.

When he saw him coming the peasant seized his whip by the top of the
handle, his big holly wood whip, straight, strong and supple as the
sinew of an ox.

The Prussian approached, his head down, making a lunge with his sword,
sure of killing his adversary. But the old fellow, squarely hitting the
blade, the point of which would have pierced his stomach, turned it
aside, and with the butt end of the whip struck the soldier a sharp blow
on the temple and he fell to the ground.

Then he, gazed aghast, stupefied with amazement, at the body, twitching
convulsively at first and then lying prone and motionless. He bent over
it, turned it on its back, and gazed at it for some time. The man's eyes
were closed, and blood trickled from a wound at the side of his
forehead. Although it was dark, Father Anthony could distinguish the
bloodstain on the white snow.

He remained there, at his wit's end, while his cart continued slowly on
its way.

What was he to do? He would be shot! They would burn his farm, ruin his
district! What should he do? What should he do? How could he hide the
body, conceal the fact of his death, deceive the Prussians? He heard
voices in the distance, amid the utter stillness of the snow. All at
once he roused himself, and picking up the helmet he placed it on his
victim's head. Then, seizing him round the body, he lifted him up in his
arms, and thus running with him, he overtook his team, and threw the
body on top of the manure. Once in his own house he would think up some
plan.

He walked slowly, racking his brain, but without result. He saw, he
felt, that he was lost. He entered his courtyard. A light was shining in
one of the attic windows; his maid was not asleep. He hastily backed his
wagon to the edge of the manure hollow. He thought that by overturning
the manure the body lying on top of it would fall into the ditch and be
buried beneath it, and he dumped the cart.

As he had foreseen, the man was buried beneath the manure. Anthony
evened it down with his fork, which he stuck in the ground beside it. He
called his stableman, told him to put up the horses, and went to his
room.

He went to bed, still thinking of what he had best do, but no ideas came
to him. His apprehension increased in the quiet of his room. They would
shoot him! He was bathed in perspiration from fear, his teeth chattered,
he rose shivering, not being able to stay in bed.

He went downstairs to the kitchen, took the bottle of brandy from the
sideboard and carried it upstairs. He drank two large glasses, one after
another, adding a fresh intoxication to the late one, without quieting
his mental anguish. He had done a pretty stroke of work, nom de Dieu,
idiot!

He paced up and down, trying to think of some stratagem, some
explanations, some cunning trick, and from time to time he rinsed his
mouth with a swallow of “fil en dix” to give him courage.

But no ideas came to him, not one.

Towards midnight his watch dog, a kind of cross wolf called “Devorant,”
began to howl frantically. Father Anthony shuddered to the marrow of his
bones, and each time the beast began his long and lugubrious wail the
old man's skin turned to goose flesh.

He had sunk into a chair, his legs weak, stupefied, done up, waiting
anxiously for “Devorant” to set up another howl, and starting
convulsively from nervousness caused by terror.

The clock downstairs struck five. The dog was still howling. The peasant
was almost insane. He rose to go and let the dog loose, so that he
should not hear him. He went downstairs, opened the hall door, and
stepped out into the darkness. The snow was still falling. The earth was
all white, the farm buildings standing out like black patches. He
approached the kennel. The dog was dragging at his chain. He unfastened
it. “Devorant” gave a bound, then stopped short, his hair bristling, his
legs rigid, his muzzle in the air, his nose pointed towards the manure
heap.

Saint Anthony, trembling from head to foot, faltered:

“What's the matter with you, you dirty hound?” and he walked a few steps
forward, gazing at the indistinct outlines, the sombre shadow of the
courtyard.

Then he saw a form, the form of a man sitting on the manure heap!

He gazed at it, paralyzed by fear, and breathing hard. But all at once
he saw, close by, the handle of the manure fork which was sticking in
the ground. He snatched it up and in one of those transports of fear
that will make the greatest coward brave he rushed forward to see what
it was.

It was he, his Prussian, come to life, covered with filth from his bed
of manure which had kept him warm. He had sat down mechanically, and
remained there in the snow which sprinkled down, all covered with dirt
and blood as he was, and still stupid from drinking, dazed by the blow
and exhausted from his wound.

He perceived Anthony, and too sodden to understand anything, he made an
attempt to rise. But the moment the old man recognized him, he foamed
with rage like a wild animal.

“Ah, pig! pig!” he sputtered. “You are not dead! You are going to
denounce me now—wait—wait!”

And rushing on the German with all the strength of leis arms he flung
the raised fork like a lance and buried the four prongs full length in
his breast.

The soldier fell over on his back, uttering a long death moan, while the
old peasant, drawing the fork out of his breast, plunged it over and
over again into his abdomen, his stomach, his throat, like a madman,
piercing the body from head to foot, as it still quivered, and the blood
gushed out in streams.

Finally he stopped, exhausted by his arduous work, swallowing great
mouthfuls of air, calmed down at the completion of the murder.

As the cocks were beginning to crow in the poultry yard and it was near
daybreak, he set to work to bury the man.

He dug a hole in the manure till he reached the earth, dug down further,
working wildly, in a frenzy of strength with frantic motions of his arms
and body.

When the pit was deep enough he rolled the corpse into it with the fork,
covered it with earth, which he stamped down for some time, and then put
back the manure, and he smiled as he saw the thick snow finishing his
work and covering up its traces with a white sheet.

He then stuck the fork in the manure and went into the house. His
bottle, still half full of brandy stood on the table. He emptied it at a
draught, threw himself on his bed and slept heavily.

He woke up sober, his mind calm and clear, capable of judgment and
thought.

At the end of an hour he was going about the country making inquiries
everywhere for his soldier. He went to see the Prussian officer to find
out why they had taken away his man.

As everyone knew what good friends they were, no one suspected him. He
even directed the research, declaring that the Prussian went to see the
girls every evening.

An old retired gendarme who had an inn in the next village, and a pretty
daughter, was arrested and shot.





LASTING LOVE

It was the end of the dinner that opened the shooting season. The
Marquis de Bertrans with his guests sat around a brightly lighted table,
covered with fruit and flowers. The conversation drifted to love.
Immediately there arose an animated discussion, the same eternal
discussion as to whether it were possible to love more than once.
Examples were given of persons who had loved once; these were offset by
those who had loved violently many times. The men agreed that passion,
like sickness, may attack the same person several times, unless it
strikes to kill. This conclusion seemed quite incontestable. The women,
however, who based their opinion on poetry rather than on practical
observation, maintained that love, the great passion, may come only once
to mortals. It resembles lightning, they said, this love. A heart once
touched by it becomes forever such a waste, so ruined, so consumed, that
no other strong sentiment can take root there, not even a dream. The
marquis, who had indulged in many love affairs, disputed this belief.

“I tell you it is possible to love several times with all one's heart
and soul. You quote examples of persons who have killed themselves for
love, to prove the impossibility of a second passion. I wager that if
they had not foolishly committed suicide, and so destroyed the
possibility of a second experience, they would have found a new love,
and still another, and so on till death. It is with love as with drink.
He who has once indulged is forever a slave. It is a thing of
temperament.”

They chose the old doctor as umpire. He thought it was as the marquis
had said, a thing of temperament.

“As for me,” he said, “I once knew of a love which lasted fifty-five
years without one day's respite, and which ended only with death.” The
wife of the marquis clasped her hands.

“That is beautiful! Ah, what a dream to be loved in such a way! What
bliss to live for fifty-five years enveloped in an intense, unwavering
affection! How this happy being must have blessed his life to be so
adored!”

The doctor smiled.

“You are not mistaken, madame, on this point the loved one was a man.
You even know him; it is Monsieur Chouquet, the chemist. As to the
woman, you also know her, the old chair-mender, who came every year to
the chateau.” The enthusiasm of the women fell. Some expressed their
contempt with “Pouah!” for the loves of common people did not interest
them. The doctor continued: “Three months ago I was called to the
deathbed of the old chair-mender. The priest had preceded me. She wished
to make us the executors of her will. In order that we might understand
her conduct, she told us the story of her life. It is most singular and
touching: Her father and mother were both chair-menders. She had never
lived in a house. As a little child she wandered about with them, dirty,
unkempt, hungry. They visited many towns, leaving their horse, wagon and
dog just outside the limits, where the child played in the grass alone
until her parents had repaired all the broken chairs in the place. They
seldom spoke, except to cry, 'Chairs! Chairs! Chair-mender!'

“When the little one strayed too far away, she would be called back by
the harsh, angry voice of her father. She never heard a word of
affection. When she grew older, she fetched and carried the broken
chairs. Then it was she made friends with the children in the street,
but their parents always called them away and scolded them for speaking
to the barefooted child. Often the boys threw stones at her. Once a kind
woman gave her a few pennies. She saved them most carefully.

“One day—she was then eleven years old—as she was walking through a
country town she met, behind the cemetery, little Chouquet, weeping
bitterly, because one of his playmates had stolen two precious liards
(mills). The tears of the small bourgeois, one of those much-envied
mortals, who, she imagined, never knew trouble, completely upset her.
She approached him and, as soon as she learned the cause of his grief,
she put into his hands all her savings. He took them without hesitation
and dried his eyes. Wild with joy, she kissed him. He was busy counting
his money, and did not object. Seeing that she was not repulsed, she
threw her arms round him and gave him a hug—then she ran away.

“What was going on in her poor little head? Was it because she had
sacrificed all her fortune that she became madly fond of this youngster,
or was it because she had given him the first tender kiss? The mystery
is alike for children and for those of riper years. For months she
dreamed of that corner near the cemetery and of the little chap. She
stole a sou here and, there from her parents on the chair money or
groceries she was sent to buy. When she returned to the spot near the
cemetery she had two francs in her pocket, but he was not there. Passing
his father's drug store, she caught sight of him behind the counter. He
was sitting between a large red globe and a blue one. She only loved him
the more, quite carried away at the sight of the brilliant-colored
globes. She cherished the recollection of it forever in her heart. The
following year she met him near the school playing marbles. She rushed
up to him, threw her arms round him, and kissed him so passionately that
he screamed, in fear. To quiet him, she gave him all her money. Three
francs and twenty centimes! A real gold mine, at which he gazed with
staring eyes.

“After this he allowed her to kiss him as much as she wished. During the
next four years she put into his hands all her savings, which he
pocketed conscientiously in exchange for kisses. At one time it was
thirty sous, at another two francs. Again, she only had twelve sous. She
wept with grief and shame, explaining brokenly that it had been a poor
year. The next time she brought five francs, in one whole piece, which
made her laugh with joy. She no longer thought of any one but the boy,
and he watched for her with impatience; sometimes he would run to meet
her. This made her heart thump with joy. Suddenly he disappeared. He had
gone to boarding school. She found this out by careful investigation.
Then she used great diplomacy to persuade her parents to change their
route and pass by this way again during vacation. After a year of
scheming she succeeded. She had not seen him for two years, and scarcely
recognized him, he was so changed, had grown taller, better looking and
was imposing in his uniform, with its brass buttons. He pretended not to
see her, and passed by without a glance. She wept for two days and from
that time loved and suffered unceasingly.

“Every year he came home and she passed him, not daring to lift her
eyes. He never condescended to turn his head toward her. She loved him
madly, hopelessly. She said to me:

“'He is the only man whom I have ever seen. I don't even know if another
exists.' Her parents died. She continued their work.

“One day, on entering the village, where her heart always remained, she
saw Chouquet coming out of his pharmacy with a young lady leaning on his
arm. She was his wife. That night the chair-mender threw herself into
the river. A drunkard passing the spot pulled her out and took her to
the drug store. Young Chouquet came down in his dressing gown to revive
her. Without seeming to know who she was he undressed her and rubbed
her; then he said to her, in a harsh voice:

“'You are mad! People must not do stupid things like that.' His voice
brought her to life again. He had spoken to her! She was happy for a
long time. He refused remuneration for his trouble, although she
insisted.

“All her life passed in this way. She worked, thinking always of him.
She began to buy medicines at his pharmacy; this gave her a chance to
talk to him and to see him closely. In this way, she was still able to
give him money.

“As I said before, she died this spring. When she had closed her
pathetic story she entreated me to take her earnings to the man she
loved. She had worked only that she might leave him something to remind
him of her after her death. I gave the priest fifty francs for her
funeral expenses. The next morning I went to see the Chouquets. They
were finishing breakfast, sitting opposite each other, fat and red,
important and self-satisfied. They welcomed me and offered me some
coffee, which I accepted. Then I began my story in a trembling voice,
sure that they would be softened, even to tears. As soon as Chouquet
understood that he had been loved by 'that vagabond! that chair-mender!
that wanderer!' he swore with indignation as though his reputation had
been sullied, the respect of decent people lost, his personal honor,
something precious and dearer to him than life, gone. His exasperated
wife kept repeating: 'That beggar! That beggar!'

“Seeming unable to find words suitable to the enormity, he stood up and
began striding about. He muttered: 'Can you understand anything so
horrible, doctor? Oh, if I had only known it while she was alive, I
should have had her thrown into prison. I promise you she would not have
escaped.'

“I was dumfounded; I hardly knew what to think or say, but I had to
finish my mission. 'She commissioned me,' I said, 'to give you her
savings, which amount to three thousand five hundred francs. As what I
have just told you seems to be very disagreeable, perhaps you would
prefer to give this money to the poor.'

“They looked at me, that man and woman,' speechless with amazement. I
took the few thousand francs from out of my pocket. Wretched-looking
money from every country. Pennies and gold pieces all mixed together.
Then I asked:

“'What is your decision?'

“Madame Chouquet spoke first. 'Well, since it is the dying woman's wish,
it seems to me impossible to refuse it.'

“Her husband said, in a shamefaced manner: 'We could buy something for
our children with it.'

“I answered dryly: 'As you wish.'

“He replied: 'Well, give it to us anyhow, since she commissioned you to
do so; we will find a way to put it to some good purpose.'

“I gave them the money, bowed and left.

“The next day Chouquet came to me and said brusquely:

“'That woman left her wagon here—what have you done with it?'

“'Nothing; take it if you wish.'

“'It's just what I wanted,' he added, and walked off. I called him back
and said:

“'She also left her old horse and two dogs. Don't you need them?'

“He stared at me surprised: 'Well, no! Really, what would I do with
them?'

“'Dispose of them as you like.'

“He laughed and held out his hand to me. I shook it. What could I do?
The doctor and the druggist in a country village must not be at enmity.
I have kept the dogs. The priest took the old horse. The wagon is useful
to Chouquet, and with the money he has bought railroad stock. That is
the only deep, sincere love that I have ever known in all my life.”

The doctor looked up. The marquise, whose eyes were full of tears,
sighed and said:

“There is no denying the fact, only women know how to love.”





PIERROT

Mme. Lefevre was a country dame, a widow, one of these half peasants,
with ribbons and bonnets with trimming on them, one of those persons who
clipped her words and put on great airs in public, concealing the soul
of a pretentious animal beneath a comical and bedizened exterior, just
as the country-folks hide their coarse red hands in ecru silk gloves.

She had a servant, a good simple peasant, called Rose.

The two women lived in a little house with green shutters by the side of
the high road in Normandy, in the centre of the country of Caux. As they
had a narrow strip of garden in front of the house, they grew some
vegetables.

One night someone stole twelve onions. As soon as Rose became aware of
the theft, she ran to tell madame, who came downstairs in her woolen
petticoat. It was a shame and a disgrace! They had robbed her, Mme.
Lefevre! As there were thieves in the country, they might come back.

And the two frightened women examined the foot tracks, talking, and
supposing all sorts of things.

“See, they went that way! They stepped on the wall, they jumped into the
garden!”

And they became apprehensive for the future. How could they sleep in
peace now!

The news of the theft spread. The neighbors came, making examinations
and discussing the matter in their turn, while the two women explained
to each newcomer what they had observed and their opinion.

A farmer who lived near said to them:

“You ought to have a dog.”

That is true, they ought to have a dog, if it were only to give the
alarm. Not a big dog. Heavens! what would they do with a big dog? He
would eat their heads off. But a little dog (in Normandy they say
“quin”), a little puppy who would bark.

As soon as everyone had left, Mme. Lefevre discussed this idea of a dog
for some time. On reflection she made a thousand objections, terrified
at the idea of a bowl full of soup, for she belonged to that race of
parsimonious country women who always carry centimes in their pocket to
give alms in public to beggars on the road and to put in the Sunday
collection plate.

Rose, who loved animals, gave her opinion and defended it shrewdly. So
it was decided that they should have a dog, a very small dog.

They began to look for one, but could find nothing but big dogs, who
would devour enough soup to make one shudder. The grocer of Rolleville
had one, a tiny one, but he demanded two francs to cover the cost of
sending it. Mme. Lefevre declared that she would feed a “quin,” but
would not buy one.

The baker, who knew all that occurred, brought in his wagon one morning
a strange little yellow animal, almost without paws, with the body of a
crocodile, the head of a fox, and a curly tail—a true cockade, as big as
all the rest of him. Mme. Lefevre thought this common cur that cost
nothing was very handsome. Rose hugged it and asked what its name was.

“Pierrot,” replied the baker.

The dog was installed in an old soap box and they gave it some water
which it drank. They then offered it a piece of bread. He ate it. Mme.
Lefevre, uneasy, had an idea.

“When he is thoroughly accustomed to the house we can let him run. He
can find something to eat, roaming about the country.”

They let him run, in fact, which did not prevent him from being
famished. Also he never barked except to beg for food, and then he
barked furiously.

Anyone might come into the garden, and Pierrot would run up and fawn on
each one in turn and not utter a bark.

Mme. Lefevre, however, had become accustomed to the animal. She even
went so far as to like it and to give it from time to time pieces of
bread soaked in the gravy on her plate.

But she had not once thought of the dog tax, and when they came to
collect eight francs—eight francs, madame—for this puppy who never even
barked, she almost fainted from the shock.

It was immediately decided that they must get rid of Pierrot. No one
wanted him. Every one declined to take him for ten leagues around. Then
they resolved, not knowing what else to do, to make him “piquer du mas.”

“Piquer du mas” means to eat chalk. When one wants to get rid of a dog
they make him “Piquer du mas.”

In the midst of an immense plain one sees a kind of hut, or rather a
very small roof standing above the ground. This is the entrance to the
clay pit. A big perpendicular hole is sunk for twenty metres underground
and ends in a series of long subterranean tunnels.

Once a year they go down into the quarry at the time they fertilize the
ground. The rest of the year it serves as a cemetery for condemned dogs,
and as one passed by this hole plaintive howls, furious or despairing
barks and lamentable appeals reach one's ear.

Sportsmen's dogs and sheep dogs flee in terror from this mournful place,
and when one leans over it one perceives a disgusting odor of
putrefaction.

Frightful dramas are enacted in the darkness.

When an animal has suffered down there for ten or twelve days, nourished
on the foul remains of his predecessors, another animal, larger and more
vigorous, is thrown into the hole. There they are, alone, starving, with
glittering eyes. They watch each other, follow each other, hesitate in
doubt. But hunger impels them; they attack each other, fight desperately
for some time, and the stronger eats the weaker, devours him alive.

When it was decided to make Pierrot “piquer du mas” they looked round
for an executioner. The laborer who mended the road demanded six sous to
take the dog there. That seemed wildly exorbitant to Mme. Lefevre. The
neighbor's hired boy wanted five sous; that was still too much. So Rose
having observed that they had better carry it there themselves, as in
that way it would not be brutally treated on the way and made to suspect
its fate, they resolved to go together at twilight.

They offered the dog that evening a good dish of soup with a piece of
butter in it. He swallowed every morsel of it, and as he wagged his tail
with delight Rose put him in her apron.

They walked quickly, like thieves, across the plain. They soon perceived
the chalk pit and walked up to it. Mme. Lefevre leaned over to hear if
any animal was moaning. No, there were none there; Pierrot would be
alone. Then Rose, who was crying, kissed the dog and threw him into the
chalk pit, and they both leaned over, listening.

First they heard a dull sound, then the sharp, bitter, distracting cry
of an animal in pain, then a succession of little mournful cries, then
despairing appeals, the cries of a dog who is entreating, his head
raised toward the opening of the pit.

He yelped, oh, how he yelped!

They were filled with remorse, with terror, with a wild inexplicable
fear, and ran away from the spot. As Rose went faster Mme. Lefevre
cried: “Wait for me, Rose, wait for me!”

At night they were haunted by frightful nightmares.

Mme. Lefevre dreamed she was sitting down at table to eat her soup, but
when she uncovered the tureen Pierrot was in it. He jumped out and bit
her nose.

She awoke and thought she heard him yelping still. She listened, but she
was mistaken.

She fell asleep again and found herself on a high road, an endless road,
which she followed. Suddenly in the middle of the road she perceived a
basket, a large farmer's basket, lying there, and this basket frightened
her.

She ended by opening it, and Pierrot, concealed in it, seized her hand
and would not let go. She ran away in terror with the dog hanging to the
end of her arm, which he held between his teeth.

At daybreak she arose, almost beside herself, and ran to the chalk pit.

He was yelping, yelping still; he had yelped all night. She began to sob
and called him by all sorts of endearing names. He answered her with all
the tender inflections of his dog's voice.

Then she wanted to see him again, promising herself that she would give
him a good home till he died.

She ran to the chalk digger, whose business it was to excavate for
chalk, and told him the situation. The man listened, but said nothing.
When she had finished he said:

“You want your dog? That will cost four francs.” She gave a jump. All
her grief was at an end at once.

“Four francs!” she said. “You would die of it! Four francs!”

“Do you suppose I am going to bring my ropes, my windlass, and set it
up, and go down there with my boy and let myself be bitten, perhaps, by
your cursed dog for the pleasure of giving it back to you? You should
not have thrown it down there.”

She walked away, indignant. Four francs!

As soon as she entered the house she called Rose and told her of the
quarryman's charges. Rose, always resigned, repeated:

“Four francs! That is a good deal of money, madame.” Then she added: “If
we could throw him something to eat, the poor dog, so he will not die of
hunger.”

Mme. Lefevre approved of this and was quite delighted. So they set out
again with a big piece of bread and butter.

They cut it in mouthfuls, which they threw down one after the other,
speaking by turns to Pierrot. As soon as the dog finished one piece he
yelped for the next.

They returned that evening and the next day and every day. But they made
only one trip.

One morning as they were just letting fall the first mouthful they
suddenly heard a tremendous barking in the pit. There were two dogs
there. Another had been thrown in, a large dog.

“Pierrot!” cried Rose. And Pierrot yelped and yelped. Then they began to
throw down some food. But each time they noticed distinctly a terrible
struggle going on, then plaintive cries from Pierrot, who had been
bitten by his companion, who ate up everything as he was the stronger.

It was in vain that they specified, saying:

“That is for you, Pierrot.” Pierrot evidently got nothing.

The two women, dumfounded, looked at each other and Mme. Lefevre said in
a sour tone:

“I could not feed all the dogs they throw in there! We must give it up.”

And, suffocating at the thought of all the dogs living at her expense,
she went away, even carrying back what remained of the bread, which she
ate as she walked along.

Rose followed her, wiping her eyes on the corner of her blue apron.





A NORMANDY JOKE

It was a wedding procession that was coming along the road between the
tall trees that bounded the farms and cast their shadow on the road. At
the head were the bride and groom, then the family, then the invited
guests, and last of all the poor of the neighborhood. The village
urchins who hovered about the narrow road like flies ran in and out of
the ranks or climbed up the trees 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 take leave of his senses 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
handsome 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.

As they entered the white gateway of the husband's farm, forty shots
resounded without their seeing those who fired, as they were hidden in
the ditches. The noise seemed to please the men, who were slouching
along heavily in their best clothes, and Patu left his wife, and running
up to a farm servant whom he perceived behind a tree, took his gun and
fired a shot himself, as frisky as a young 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 toward 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 loosely on their back, holding 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 open door
and windows and an almost overpowering odor of eatables was exhaled from
the vast building, from all its openings and from its very walls. The
string of guests extended through the yard; but when the foremost of
them reached the house, they broke the chain and dispersed, while those
behind were still coming in at the open gate. The ditches were now lined
with urchins and curious poor people, and the firing did not cease, but
came from every side at once, and a cloud of smoke, and that odor which
has the same intoxicating effect as absinthe, blended 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 down the food and drink 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 a “hole,” the Normandy hole, with a glass of brandy which
inflamed the body and put foolish notions into the head. Low jokes were
exchanged across the table until the whole arsenal of peasant wit was
exhausted. For the last hundred years the same broad stories 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 one end 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 pay much attention to 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.

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. Suddenly, with
a brusque movement, like a man who is about 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 about to refuse; but at last he did as she asked
him, and in a moment she unfastened her petticoat, which slipped down,
fell at her feet and lay on the ground. She left it there, stepped over
it in her loose chemise and slipped into the bed, whose springs creaked
beneath her weight. He immediately went up to the bed, 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
Rapees, as he thought.

He raised himself anxiously, 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 toward him, 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: “Damn it! They will
think I do 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, imploring 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.”

In later years, when he used to tell this story of his wedding night, he
usually 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.





FATHER MATTHEW

We had just left Rouen and were galloping along the road to Jumieges.
The light carriage flew along across the level country. Presently the
horse slackened his pace to walk up the hill of Cantelen.

One sees there one of the most magnificent views in the world. Behind us
lay Rouen, the city of churches, with its Gothic belfries, sculptured
like ivory trinkets; before us Saint Sever, the manufacturing suburb,
whose thousands of smoking chimneys rise amid the expanse of sky,
opposite the thousand sacred steeples of the old city.

On the one hand the spire of the cathedral, the highest of human
monuments, on the other the engine of the power-house, its rival, and
almost as high, and a metre higher than the tallest pyramid in Egypt.

Before us wound the Seine, with its scattered islands and bordered by
white banks, covered with a forest on the right and on the left immense
meadows, bounded by another forest yonder in the distance.

Here and there large ships lay at anchor along the banks of the wide
river. Three enormous steam boats were starting out, one behind the
other, for Havre, and a chain of boats, a bark, two schooners and a
brig, were going upstream to Rouen, drawn by a little tug that emitted a
cloud of black smoke.

My companion, a native of the country, did not glance at this wonderful
landscape, but he smiled continually; he seemed to be amused at his
thoughts. Suddenly he cried:

“Ah, you will soon see something comical—Father Matthew's chapel. That
is a sweet morsel, my boy.”

I looked at him in surprise. He continued:

“I will give you a whiff of Normandy that will stay by you. Father
Matthew is the handsomest Norman in the province and his chapel is one
of the wonders of the world, nothing more nor less. But I will first
give you a few words of explanation.

“Father Matthew, who is also called Father 'La Boisson,' is an old
sergeant-major who has come back to his native land. He combines in
admirable proportions, making a perfect whole, the humbug of the old
soldier and the sly roguery of the Norman. On his return to Normandy,
thanks to influence and incredible cleverness, he was made doorkeeper of
a votive chapel, a chapel dedicated to the Virgin and frequented chiefly
by young women who have gone astray . . . . He composed and had painted
a special prayer to his 'Good Virgin.' This prayer is a masterpiece of
unintentional irony, of Norman wit, in which jest is blended with fear
of the saint and with the superstitious fear of the secret influence of
something. He has not much faith in his protectress, but he believes in
her a little through prudence, and he is considerate of her through
policy.

“This is how this wonderful prayer begins:

“'Our good Madame Virgin Mary, natural protectress of girl mothers in
this land and all over the world, protect your servant who erred in a
moment of forgetfulness . . .'

“It ends thus:

“'Do not forget me, especially when you are with your holy spouse, and
intercede with God the Father that he may grant me a good husband, like
your own.'

“This prayer, which was suppressed by the clergy of the district, is
sold by him privately, and is said to be very efficacious for those who
recite it with unction.

“In fact he talks of the good Virgin as the valet de chambre of a
redoubted prince might talk of his master who confided in him all his
little private secrets. He knows a number of amusing anecdotes at his
expense which he tells confidentially among friends as they sit over
their glasses.

“But you will see for yourself.

“As the fees coming from the Virgin did not appear sufficient to him, he
added to the main figure a little business in saints. He has them all,
or nearly all. There was not room enough in the chapel, so he stored
them in the wood-shed and brings them forth as soon as the faithful ask
for them. He carved these little wooden statues himself—they are comical
in the extreme—and painted them all bright green one year when they were
painting his house. You know that saints cure diseases, but each saint
has his specialty, and you must not confound them or make any blunders.
They are as jealous of each other as mountebanks.

“In order that they may make no mistake, the old women come and consult
Matthew.

“'For diseases of the ear which saint is the best?'

“'Why, Saint Osyme is good and Saint Pamphilius is not bad.' But that is
not all.

“As Matthew has some time to spare, he drinks; but he drinks like a
professional, with conviction, so much so that he is intoxicated
regularly every evening. He is drunk, but he is aware of it. He is so
well aware of it that he notices each day his exact degree of
intoxication. That is his chief occupation; the chapel is a secondary
matter.

“And he has invented—listen and catch on—he has invented the
'Saoulometre.'

“There is no such instrument, but Matthew's observations are as precise
as those of a mathematician. You may hear him repeating incessantly:
'Since Monday I have had more than forty-five,' or else 'I was between
fifty-two and fifty-eight,' or else 'I had at least sixty-six to
seventy,' or 'Hullo, cheat, I thought I was in the fifties and here I
find I had had seventy-five!'

“He never makes a mistake.

“He declares that he never reached his limit, but as he acknowledges
that his observations cease to be exact when he has passed ninety, one
cannot depend absolutely on the truth of that statement.

“When Matthew acknowledges that he has passed ninety, you may rest
assured that he is blind drunk.

“On these occasions his wife, Melie, another marvel, flies into a fury.
She waits for him at the door of the house, and as he enters she roars
at him:

“'So there you are, slut, hog, giggling sot!'

“Then Matthew, who is not laughing any longer, plants himself opposite
her and says in a severe tone:

“'Be still, Melie; this is no time to talk; wait till to-morrow.'

“If she keeps on shouting at him, he goes up to her and says in a shaky
voice:

“'Don't bawl any more. I have had about ninety; I am not counting any
more. Look out, I am going to hit you!'

“Then Melie beats a retreat.

“If, on the following day, she reverts to the subject, he laughs in her
face and says:

“'Come, come! We have said enough. It is past. As long as I have not
reached my limit there is no harm done. But if I go past that, I will
allow you to correct me, my word on it!'”

We had reached the top of the hill. The road entered the delightful
forest of Roumare.

Autumn, marvellous autumn, blended its gold and purple with the
remaining traces of verdure. We passed through Duclair. Then, instead of
going on to Jumieges, my friend turned to the left and, taking a
crosscut, drove in among the trees.

And presently from the top of a high hill we saw again the magnificent
valley of the Seine and the winding river beneath us.

At our right a very small slate-covered building, with a bell tower as
large as a sunshade, adjoined a pretty house with green Venetian blinds,
and all covered with honeysuckle and roses.

“Here are some friends!” cried a big voice, and Matthew appeared on the
threshold. He was a man about sixty, thin and with a goatee and long,
white mustache.

My friend shook him by the hand and introduced me, and Matthew took us
into a clean kitchen, which served also as a dining-room. He said:

“I have no elegant apartment, monsieur. I do not like to get too far
away from the food. The saucepans, you see, keep me company.” Then,
turning to my friend:

“Why did you come on Thursday? You know quite well that this is the day
I consult my Guardian Saint. I cannot go out this afternoon.”

And running to the door, he uttered a terrific roar: “Melie!” which must
have startled the sailors in the ships along the stream in the valley
below.

Melie did not reply.

Then Matthew winked his eye knowingly.

“She is not pleased with me, you see, because yesterday I was in the
nineties.”

My friend began to laugh. “In the nineties, Matthew! How did you manage
it?”

“I will tell you,” said Matthew. “Last year I found only twenty rasieres
(an old dry measure) of apricots. There are no more, but those are the
only things to make cider of. So I made some, and yesterday I tapped the
barrel. Talk of nectar! That was nectar. You shall tell me what you
think of it. Polyte was here, and we sat down and drank a glass and
another without being satisfied (one could go on drinking it until to-
morrow), and at last, with glass after glass, I felt a chill at my
stomach. I said to Polyte: 'Supposing we drink a glass of cognac to warm
ourselves?' He agreed. But this cognac, it sets you on fire, so that we
had to go back to the cider. But by going from chills to heat and heat
to chills, I saw that I was in the nineties. Polyte was not far from his
limit.”

The door opened and Melie appeared. At once, before bidding us good-day,
she cried:

“Great hog, you have both of you reached your limit!”

“Don't say that, Melie; don't say that,” said Matthew, getting angry. “I
have never reached my limit.”

They gave us a delicious luncheon outside beneath two lime trees, beside
the little chapel and overlooking the vast landscape. And Matthew told
us, with a mixture of humor and unexpected credulity, incredible stories
of miracles.

We had drunk a good deal of delicious cider, sparkling and sweet, fresh
and intoxicating, which he preferred to all other drinks, and were
smoking our pipes astride our chairs when two women appeared.

They were old, dried up and bent. After greeting us they asked for Saint
Blanc. Matthew winked at us as he replied:

“I will get him for you.” And he disappeared in his wood shed. He
remained there fully five minutes. Then he came back with an expression
of consternation. He raised his hands.

“I don't know where he is. I cannot find him. I am quite sure that I had
him.” Then making a speaking trumpet of his hands, he roared once more:

“Meli-e-a!”

“What's the matter?” replied his wife from the end of the garden.

“Where's Saint Blanc? I cannot find him in the wood shed.”

Then Melie explained it this way:

“Was not that the one you took last week to stop up a hole in the rabbit
hutch?”

Matthew gave a start.

“By thunder, that may be!” Then turning to the women, he said:

“Follow me.”

They followed him. We did the same, almost choking with suppressed
laughter.

Saint Blanc was indeed stuck into the earth like an ordinary stake,
covered with mud and dirt, and forming a corner for the rabbit hutch.

As soon as they perceived him, the two women fell on their knees,
crossed themselves and began to murmur an “Oremus.” But Matthew darted
toward them.

“Wait,” he said, “you are in the mud; I will get you a bundle of straw.”

He went to fetch the straw and made them a priedieu. Then, looking at
his muddy saint and doubtless afraid of bringing discredit on his
business, he added:

“I will clean him off a little for you.”

He took a pail of water and a brush and began to scrub the wooden image
vigorously, while the two old women kept on praying.

When he had finished he said:

“Now he is all right.” And he took us back to the house to drink another
glass.

As he was carrying the glass to his lips he stopped and said in a rather
confused manner:

“All the same, when I put Saint Blanc out with the rabbits I thought he
would not make any more money. For two years no one had asked for him.
But the saints, you see, they are never out of date.”





ORIGINAL SHORT STORIES, Vol. 11.

GUY DE MAUPASSANT ORIGINAL SHORT STORIES Translated by ALBERT M. C.
McMASTER, B.A. A. E. HENDERSON, B.A. MME. QUESADA and Others





VOLUME XI.





THE UMBRELLA

Mme. Oreille was a very economical woman; she knew the value of a
centime, and possessed a whole storehouse of strict principles with
regard to the multiplication of money, so that her cook found the
greatest difficulty in making what the servants call their market-penny,
and her husband was hardly allowed any pocket money at all. They were,
however, very comfortably off, and had no children; but it really pained
Mme. Oreille to see any money spent; it was like tearing at her
heartstrings when she had to take any of those nice crown-pieces out of
her pocket; and whenever she had to spend anything, no matter how
necessary it might be, she slept badly the next night.

Oreille was continually saying to his wife:

“You really might be more liberal, as we have no children, and never
spend our income.”

“You don't know what may happen,” she used to reply. “It is better to
have too much than too little.”

She was a little woman of about forty, very active, rather hasty,
wrinkled, very neat and tidy, and with a very short temper.

Her husband frequently complained of all the privations she made him
endure; some of them were particularly painful to him, as they touched
his vanity.

He was one of the head clerks in the War Office, and only stayed on
there in obedience to his wife's wish, to increase their income which
they did not nearly spend.

For two years he had always come to the office with the same old patched
umbrella, to the great amusement of his fellow clerks. At last he got
tired of their jokes, and insisted upon his wife buying him a new one.
She bought one for eight francs and a half, one of those cheap articles
which large houses sell as an advertisement. When the men in the office
saw the article, which was being sold in Paris by the thousand, they
began their jokes again, and Oreille had a dreadful time of it. They
even made a song about it, which he heard from morning till night all
over the immense building.

Oreille was very angry, and peremptorily told his wife to get him a new
one, a good silk one, for twenty francs, and to bring him the bill, so
that he might see that it was all right.

She bought him one for eighteen francs, and said, getting red with anger
as she gave it to her husband:

“This will last you for five years at least.”

Oreille felt quite triumphant, and received a small ovation at the
office with his new acquisition.

When he went home in the evening his wife said to him, looking at the
umbrella uneasily:

“You should not leave it fastened up with the elastic; it will very
likely cut the silk. You must take care of it, for I shall not buy you a
new one in a hurry.”

She took it, unfastened it, and remained dumfounded with astonishment
and rage; in the middle of the silk there was a hole as big as a six-
penny-piece; it had been made with the end of a cigar.

“What is that?” she screamed.

Her husband replied quietly, without looking at it:

“What is it? What do you mean?”

She was choking with rage, and could hardly get out a word.

“You—you—have—burned—your umbrella! Why—you must be—mad! Do you wish to
ruin us outright?”

He turned round, and felt that he was growing pale.

“What are you talking about?”

“I say that you have burned your umbrella. Just look here.”

And rushing at him, as if she were going to beat him, she violently
thrust the little circular burned hole under his nose.

He was so utterly struck dumb at the sight of it that he could only
stammer out:

“What-what is it? How should I know? I have done nothing, I will swear.
I don't know what is the matter with the umbrella.”

“You have been playing tricks with it at the office; you have been
playing the fool and opening it, to show it off!” she screamed.

“I only opened it once, to let them see what a nice one it was, that is
all, I swear.”

But she shook with rage, and got up one of those conjugal scenes which
make a peaceable man dread the domestic hearth more than a battlefield
where bullets are raining.

She mended it with a piece of silk cut out of the old umbrella, which
was of a different color, and the next day Oreille went off very humbly
with the mended article in his hand. He put it into a cupboard, and
thought no more of it than of some unpleasant recollection.

But he had scarcely got home that evening when his wife took the
umbrella from him, opened it, and nearly had a fit when she saw what had
befallen it, for the disaster was irreparable. It was covered with small
holes, which evidently proceeded from burns, just as if some one had
emptied the ashes from a lighted pipe on to it. It was done for utterly,
irreparably.

She looked at it without a word, in too great a passion to be able to
say anything. He, also, when he saw the damage, remained almost
dumfounded, in a state of frightened consternation.

They looked at each other, then he looked at the floor; and the next
moment she threw the useless article at his head, screaming out in a
transport of the most violent rage, for she had recovered her voice by
that time:

“Oh! you brute! you brute! You did it on purpose, but I will pay you out
for it. You shall not have another.”

And then the scene began again, and after the storm had raged for an
hour, he at last was able to explain himself. He declared that he could
not understand it at all, and that it could only proceed from malice or
from vengeance.

A ring at the bell saved him; it was a friend whom they were expecting
to dinner.

Mme. Oreille submitted the case to him. As for buying a new umbrella,
that was out of the question; her husband should not have another. The
friend very sensibly said that in that case his clothes would be
spoiled, and they were certainly worth more than the umbrella. But the
little woman, who was still in a rage, replied:

“Very well, then, when it rains he may have the kitchen umbrella, for I
will not give him a new silk one.”

Oreille utterly rebelled at such an idea.

“All right,” he said; “then I shall resign my post. I am not going to
the office with the kitchen umbrella.”

The friend interposed.

“Have this one re-covered; it will not cost much.”

But Mme. Oreille, being in the temper that she was, said:

“It will cost at least eight francs to re-cover it. Eight and eighteen
are twenty-six. Just fancy, twenty-six francs for an umbrella! It is
utter madness!”

The friend, who was only a poor man of the middle classes, had an
inspiration:

“Make your fire assurance pay for it. The companies pay for all articles
that are burned, as long as the damage has been done in your own house.”

On hearing this advice the little woman calmed down immediately, and
then, after a moment's reflection, she said to her husband:

“To-morrow, before going to your office, you will go to the Maternelle
Assurance Company, show them the state your umbrella is in, and make
them pay for the damage.”

M. Oreille fairly jumped, he was so startled at the proposal.

“I would not do it for my life! It is eighteen francs lost, that is all.
It will not ruin us.”

The next morning he took a walking-stick when he went out, and, luckily,
it was a fine day.

Left at home alone, Mme. Oreille could not get over the loss of her
eighteen francs by any means. She had put the umbrella on the dining-
room table, and she looked at it without being able to come to any
determination.

Every moment she thought of the assurance company, but she did not dare
to encounter the quizzical looks of the gentlemen who might receive her,
for she was very timid before people, and blushed at a mere nothing, and
was embarrassed when she had to speak to strangers.

But the regret at the loss of the eighteen francs pained her as if she
had been wounded. She tried not to think of it any more, and yet every
moment the recollection of the loss struck her painfully. What was she
to do, however? Time went on, and she could not decide; but suddenly,
like all cowards, on making a resolve, she became determined.

“I will go, and we will see what will happen.”

But first of all she was obliged to prepare the umbrella so that the
disaster might be complete, and the reason of it quite evident. She took
a match from the mantelpiece, and between the ribs she burned a hole as
big as the palm of her hand; then she delicately rolled it up, fastened
it with the elastic band, put on her bonnet and shawl, and went quickly
toward the Rue de Rivoli, where the assurance office was.

But the nearer she got, the slower she walked. What was she going to
say, and what reply would she get?

She looked at the numbers of the houses; there were still twenty-eight.
That was all right, so she had time to consider, and she walked slower
and slower. Suddenly she saw a door on which was a large brass plate
with “La Maternelle Fire Assurance Office” engraved on it. Already! She
waited a moment, for she felt nervous and almost ashamed; then she
walked past, came back, walked past again, and came back again.

At last she said to herself:

“I must go in, however, so I may as well do it sooner as later.”

She could not help noticing, however, how her heart beat as she entered.
She went into an enormous room with grated doors all round it, and above
them little openings at which a man's head appeared, and as a gentleman
carrying a number of papers passed her, she stopped him and said
timidly: “I beg your pardon, monsieur, but can you tell me where I must
apply for payment for anything that has been accidentally burned?”

He replied in a sonorous voice:

“The first door on the left; that is the department you want.”

This frightened her still more, and she felt inclined to run away, to
put in no claim, to sacrifice her eighteen francs. But the idea of that
sum revived her courage, and she went upstairs, out of breath, stopping
at almost every other step.

She knocked at a door which she saw on the first landing, and a clear
voice said, in answer:

“Come in!”

She obeyed mechanically, and found herself in a large room where three
solemn gentlemen, all with a decoration in their buttonholes, were
standing talking.

One of them asked her: “What do you want, madame?”

She could hardly get out her words, but stammered: “I have come—I have
come on account of an accident, something—“.

He very politely pointed out a seat to her,

“If you will kindly sit down I will attend to you in a moment.”

And, returning to the other two, he went on with the conversation.

“The company, gentlemen, does not consider that it is under any
obligation to you for more than four hundred thousand francs, and we can
pay no attention to your claim to the further sum of a hundred thousand,
which you wish to make us pay. Besides that, the surveyor's valuation—”

One of the others interrupted him:

“That is quite enough, monsieur; the law courts will decide between us,
and we have nothing further to do than to take our leave.” And they went
out after mutual ceremonious bows.

Oh! if she could only have gone away with them, how gladly she would
have done it; she would have run away and given up everything. But it
was too late, for the gentleman came back, and said, bowing:

“What can I do for you, madame?”

She could scarcely speak, but at last she managed to say:

“I have come-for this.”

The manager looked at the object which she held out to him in mute
astonishment.

With trembling fingers she tried to undo the elastic, and succeeding,
after several attempts, she hastily opened the damaged remains of the
umbrella.

“It looks to me to be in a very bad state of health,” he said
compassionately.

“It cost me twenty francs,” she said, with some hesitation.

He seemed astonished. “Really! As much as that?”

“Yes, it was a capital article, and I wanted you to see the condition it
is in.”

“Yes, yes, I see; very well. But I really do not understand what it can
have to do with me.”

She began to feel uncomfortable; perhaps this company did not pay for
such small articles, and she said:

“But—it is burned.”

He could not deny it.

“I see that very well,” he replied.

She remained open-mouthed, not knowing what to say next; then, suddenly
recollecting that she had left out the main thing, she said hastily:

“I am Mme. Oreille; we are assured in La Maternelle, and I have come to
claim the value of this damage.”

“I only want you to have it re-covered,” she added quickly, fearing a
positive refusal.

The manager was rather embarrassed, and said: “But, really, madame, we
do not sell umbrellas; we cannot undertake such kinds of repairs.”

The little woman felt her courage reviving; she was not going to give up
without a struggle; she was not even afraid any more, and said:

“I only want you to pay me the cost of repairing it; I can quite well
get it done myself.”

The gentleman seemed rather confused.

“Really, madame, it is such a very small matter! We are never asked to
give compensation for such trivial losses. You must allow that we cannot
make good pocket-handkerchiefs, gloves, brooms, slippers, all the small
articles which are every day exposed to the chances of being burned.”

She got red in the face, and felt inclined to fly into a rage.

“But, monsieur, last December one of our chimneys caught fire, and
caused at least five hundred francs' damage; M. Oreille made no claim on
the company, and so it is only just that it should pay for my umbrella
now.”

The manager, guessing that she was telling a lie, said, with a smile:

“You must acknowledge, madame, that it is very surprising that M.
Oreille should have asked no compensation for damages amounting to five
hundred francs, and should now claim five or six francs for mending an
umbrella.”

She was not the least put out, and replied:

“I beg your pardon, monsieur, the five hundred francs affected M.
Oreille's pocket, whereas this damage, amounting to eighteen francs,
concerns Mme. Oreille's pocket only, which is a totally different
matter.”

As he saw that he had no chance of getting rid of her, and that he would
only be wasting his time, he said resignedly:

“Will you kindly tell me how the damage was done?”

She felt that she had won the victory, and said:

“This is how it happened, monsieur: In our hall there is a bronze stick
and umbrella stand, and the other day, when I came in, I put my umbrella
into it. I must tell you that just above there is a shelf for the
candlesticks and matches. I put out my hand, took three or four matches,
and struck one, but it missed fire, so I struck another, which ignited,
but went out immediately, and a third did the same.”

The manager interrupted her to make a joke.

“I suppose they were government matches, then?”

She did not understand him, and went on:

“Very likely. At any rate, the fourth caught fire, and I lit my candle,
and went into my room to go to bed; but in a quarter of an hour I
fancied that I smelt something burning, and I have always been terribly
afraid of fire. If ever we have an accident it will not be my fault, I
assure you. I am terribly nervous since our chimney was on fire, as I
told you; so I got up, and hunted about everywhere, sniffing like a dog
after game, and at last I noticed that my umbrella was burning. Most
likely a match had fallen between the folds and burned it. You can see
how it has damaged it.”

The manager had taken his cue, and asked her: “What do you estimate the
damage at?”

She did not know what to say, as she was not certain what value to put
on it, but at last she replied:

“Perhaps you had better get it done yourself. I will leave it to you.”

He, however, naturally refused.

“No, madame, I cannot do that. Tell me the amount of your claim, that is
all I want to know.”

“Well, I think that—Look here, monsieur, I do not want to make any money
out of you, so I will tell you what we will do. I will take my umbrella
to the maker, who will re-cover it in good, durable silk, and I will
bring the bill to you. Will that suit you, monsieur?”

“Perfectly, madame; we will settle it so. Here is a note for the
cashier, who will repay you whatever it costs you.”

He gave Mme. Oreille a slip of paper, who took it, got up and went out,
thanking him, for she was in a hurry to escape lest he should change his
mind.

She went briskly through the streets, looking out for a really good
umbrella maker, and when she found a shop which appeared to be a first-
class one, she went in, and said, confidently:

“I want this umbrella re-covered in silk, good silk. Use the very best
and strongest you have; I don't mind what it costs.”





BELHOMME'S BEAST

The coach for Havre was ready to leave Criquetot, and all the passengers
were waiting for their names to be called out, in the courtyard of the
Commercial Hotel kept by Monsieur Malandain, Jr.

It was a yellow wagon, mounted on wheels which had once been yellow, but
were now almost gray through the accumulation of mud. The front wheels
were very small, the back ones, high and fragile, carried the large body
of the vehicle, which was swollen like the belly of an animal. Three
white horses, with enormous heads and great round knees, were the first
things one noticed. They were harnessed ready to draw this coach, which
had something of the appearance of a monster in its massive structure.
The horses seemed already asleep in front of the strange vehicle.

The driver, Cesaire Horlaville, a little man with a big paunch, supple
nevertheless, through his constant habit of climbing over the wheels to
the top of the wagon, his face all aglow from exposure to the brisk air
of the plains, to rain and storms, and also from the use of brandy, his
eyes twitching from the effect of constant contact with wind and hail,
appeared in the doorway of the hotel, wiping his mouth on the back of
his hand. Large round baskets, full of frightened poultry, were standing
in front of the peasant women. Cesaire Horlaville took them one after
the other and packed them on the top of his coach; then more gently, he
loaded on those containing eggs; finally he tossed up from below several
little bags of grain, small packages wrapped in handkerchiefs, pieces of
cloth, or paper. Then he opened the back door, and drawing a list from
his pocket he called:

“Monsieur le cure de Gorgeville.”

The priest advanced. He was a large, powerful, robust man with a red
face and a genial expression. He hitched up his cassock to lift his
foot, just as the women hold up their skirts, and climbed into the
coach.

“The schoolmaster of Rollebose-les-Grinets.”

The man hastened forward, tall, timid, wearing a long frock coat which
fell to his knees, and he in turn disappeared through the open door.

“Maitre Poiret, two seats.”

Poiret approached, a tall, round-shouldered man, bent by the plow,
emaciated through abstinence, bony, with a skin dried by a sparing use
of water. His wife followed him, small and thin, like a tired animal,
carrying a large green umbrella in her hands.

“Maitre Rabot, two seats.”

Rabot hesitated, being of an undecided nature. He asked:

“You mean me?”

The driver was going to answer with a jest, when Rabot dived head first
towards the door, pushed forward by a vigorous shove from his wife, a
tall, square woman with a large, round stomach like a barrel, and hands
as large as hams.

Rabot slipped into the wagon like a rat entering a hole.

“Maitre Caniveau.”

A large peasant, heavier than an ox, made the springs bend, and was in
turn engulfed in the interior of the yellow chest.

“Maitre Belhomme.”

Belhomme, tall and thin, came forward, his neck bent, his head hanging,
a handkerchief held to his ear as if he were suffering from a terrible
toothache.

All these people wore the blue blouse over quaint and antique coats of a
black or greenish cloth, Sunday clothes which they would only uncover in
the streets of Havre. Their heads were covered by silk caps at high as
towers, the emblem of supreme elegance in the small villages of
Normandy.

Cesaire Horlaville closed the door, climbed up on his box and snapped
his whip.

The three horses awoke and, tossing their heads, shook their bells.

The driver then yelling “Get up!” as loud as he could, whipped up his
horses. They shook themselves, and, with an effort, started off at a
slow, halting gait. And behind them came the coach, rattling its shaky
windows and iron springs, making a terrible clatter of hardware and
glass, while the passengers were tossed hither and thither like so many
rubber balls.

At first all kept silent out of respect for the priest, that they might
not shock him. Being of a loquacious and genial disposition, he started
the conversation.

“Well, Maitre Caniveau,” said he, “how are you getting along?”

The enormous farmer who, on account of his size, girth and stomach, felt
a bond of sympathy for the representative of the Church, answered with a
smile:

“Pretty well, Monsieur le cure, pretty well. And how are you?”

“Oh! I'm always well and healthy.”

“And you, Maitre Poiret?” asked the abbe.

“Oh! I'd be all right only the colzas ain't a-goin' to give much this
year, and times are so hard that they are the only things worth while
raisin'.”

“Well, what can you expect? Times are hard.”

“Hub! I should say they were hard,” sounded the rather virile voice of
Rabot's big consort.

As she was from a neighboring village, the priest only knew her by name.

“Is that you, Blondel?” he said.

“Yes, I'm the one that married Rabot.”

Rabot, slender, timid, and self-satisfied, bowed smilingly, bending his
head forward as though to say: “Yes, I'm the Rabot whom Blondel
married.”

Suddenly Maitre Belhomme, still holding his handkerchief to his ear,
began groaning in a pitiful fashion. He was going “Oh-oh-oh!” and
stamping his foot in order to show his terrible suffering.

“You must have an awful toothache,” said the priest.

The peasant stopped moaning for a minute and answered:

“No, Monsieur le cure, it is not the teeth. It's my ear-away down at the
bottom of my ear.”

“Well, what have you got in your ear? A lump of wax?”

“I don't know whether it's wax; but I know that it is a bug, a big bug,
that crawled in while I was asleep in the haystack.”

“A bug! Are you sure?”

“Am I sure? As sure as I am of heaven, Monsieur le cure! I can feel it
gnawing at the bottom of my ear! It's eating my head for sure! It's
eating my head! Oh-oh-oh!” And he began to stamp his foot again.

Great interest had been aroused among the spectators. Each one gave his
bit of advice. Poiret claimed that it was a spider, the teacher, thought
it might be a caterpillar. He had already seen such a thing once, at
Campemuret, in Orne, where he had been for six years. In this case the
caterpillar had gone through the head and out at the nose. But the man
remained deaf in that ear ever after, the drum having been pierced.

“It's more likely to be a worm,” said the priest.

Maitre Belhomme, his head resting against the door, for he had been the
last one to enter, was still moaning.

“Oh—oh—oh! I think it must be an ant, a big ant—there it is biting
again. Oh, Monsieur le cure, how it hurts! how it hurts!”

“Have you seen the doctor?” asked Caniveau.

“I should say not!”

“Why?”

The fear of the doctor seemed to cure Belhomme. He straightened up
without, however, dropping his handkerchief.

“What! You have money for them, for those loafers? He would have come
once, twice, three times, four times, five times! That means two five-
franc pieces, two five-franc pieces, for sure. And what would he have
done, the loafer, tell me, what would he have done? Can you tell me?”

Caniveau was laughing.

“No, I don't know. Where are you going?”

“I am going to Havre, to see Chambrelan.”

“Who is Chambrelan?”

“The healer, of course.”

“What healer?”

“The healer who cured my father.”

“Your father?”

“Yes, the healer who cured my father years ago.”

“What was the matter with your father?”

“A draught caught him in the back, so that he couldn't move hand or
foot.”

“Well, what did your friend Chambrelan do to him?”

“He kneaded his back with both hands as though he were making bread! And
he was all right in a couple of hours!”

Belhomme thought that Chambrelan must also have used some charm, but he
did not dare say so before the priest. Caniveau replied, laughing:

“Are you sure it isn't a rabbit that you have in your ear? He might have
taken that hole for his home. Wait, I'll make him run away.”

Whereupon Caniveau, making a megaphone of his hands, began to mimic the
barking of hounds. He snapped, howled, growled, barked. And everybody in
the carriage began to roar, even the schoolmaster, who, as a rule, never
ever smiled.

However, as Belhomme seemed angry at their making fun of him, the priest
changed the conversation and turning to Rabot's big wife, said:

“You have a large family, haven't you?”

“Oh, yes, Monsieur le cure—and it's a pretty hard matter to bring them
up!”

Rabot agreed, nodding his head as though to say: “Oh, yes, it's a hard
thing to bring up!”

“How many children?”

She replied authoritatively in a strong, clear voice:

“Sixteen children, Monsieur le cure, fifteen of them by my husband!”

And Rabot smiled broadly, nodding his head. He was responsible for
fifteen, he alone, Rabot! His wife said so! Therefore there could be no
doubt about it. And he was proud!

And whose was the sixteenth? She didn't tell. It was doubtless the
first. Perhaps everybody knew, for no one was surprised. Even Caniveau
kept mum.

But Belhomme began to moan again:

“Oh-oh-oh! It's scratching about in the bottom of my ear! Oh, dear, oh,
dear!”

The coach just then stopped at the Cafe Polyto. The priest said:

“If someone were to pour a little water into your ear, it might perhaps
drive it out. Do you want to try?”

“Sure! I am willing.”

And everybody got out in order to witness the operation. The priest
asked for a bowl, a napkin and a glass of water, then he told the
teacher to hold the patient's head over on one side, and, as soon as the
liquid should have entered the ear, to turn his head over suddenly on
the other side.

But Caniveau, who was already peering into Belhomme's ear to see if he
couldn't discover the beast, shouted:

“Gosh! What a mess! You'll have to clear that out, old man. Your rabbit
could never get through that; his feet would stick.”

The priest in turn examined the passage and saw that it was too narrow
and too congested for him to attempt to expel the animal. It was the
teacher who cleared out this passage by means of a match and a bit of
cloth. Then, in the midst of the general excitement, the priest poured
into the passage half a glass of water, which trickled over the face
through the hair and down the neck of the patient. Then the schoolmaster
quickly twisted the head round over the bowl, as though he were trying
to unscrew it. A couple of drops dripped into the white bowl. All the
passengers rushed forward. No insect had come out.

However, Belhomme exclaimed: “I don't feel anything any more.” The
priest triumphantly exclaimed: “Certainly it has been drowned.”
Everybody was happy and got back into the coach.

But hardly had they started when Belhomme began to cry out again. The
bug had aroused itself and had become furious. He even declared that it
had now entered his head and was eating his brain. He was howling with
such contortions that Poiret's wife, thinking him possessed by the
devil, began to cry and to cross herself. Then, the pain abating a
little, the sick man began to tell how it was running round in his ear.
With his finger he imitated the movements of the body, seeming to see
it, to follow it with his eyes: “There it goes up again! Oh—oh—oh—what
torture!”

Caniveau was getting impatient. “It's the water that is making the bug
angry. It is probably more accustomed to wine.”

Everybody laughed, and he continued: “When we get to the Cafe Bourbeux,
give it some brandy, and it won't bother you any more, I wager.”

But Belhomme could contain himself no longer; he began howling as though
his soul were being torn from his body. The priest was obliged to hold
his head for him. They asked Cesaire Horlaville to stop at the nearest
house. It was a farmhouse at the side of the road. Belhomme was carried
into it and laid on the kitchen table in order to repeat the operation.
Caniveau advised mixing brandy and water in order to benumb and perhaps
kill the insect. But the priest preferred vinegar.

They poured the liquid in drop by drop this time, that it might
penetrate down to the bottom, and they left it several minutes in the
organ that the beast had chosen for its home.

A bowl had once more been brought; Belhomme was turned over bodily by
the priest and Caniveau, while the schoolmaster was tapping on the
healthy ear in order to empty the other.

Cesaire Horlaville himself, whip in hand, had come in to observe the
proceedings.

Suddenly, at the bottom of the bowl appeared a little brown spot, no
bigger than a tiny seed. However, it was moving. It was a flea! First
there were cries of astonishment and then shouts of laughter. A flea!
Well, that was a good joke, a mighty good one! Caniveau was slapping his
thigh, Cesaire Horlaville snapped his whip, the priest laughed like a
braying donkey, the teacher cackled as though he were sneezing, and the
two women were giving little screams of joy, like the clucking of hens.

Belhomme had seated himself on the table and had taken the bowl between
his knees; he was observing, with serious attention and a vengeful anger
in his eye, the conquered insect which was twisting round in the water.
He grunted, “You rotten little beast!” and he spat on it.

The driver, wild with joy, kept repeating: “A flea, a flea, ah! there
you are, damned little flea, damned little flea, damned little flea!”
Then having calmed down a little, he cried: “Well, back to the coach!
We've lost enough time.”





DISCOVERY

The steamer was crowded with people and the crossing promised to be
good. I was going from Havre to Trouville.

The ropes were thrown off, the whistle blew for the last time, the whole
boat started to tremble, and the great wheels began to revolve, slowly
at first, and then with ever-increasing rapidity.

We were gliding along the pier, black with people. Those on board were
waving their handkerchiefs, as though they were leaving for America, and
their friends on shore were answering in the same manner.

The big July sun was shining down on the red parasols, the light
dresses, the joyous faces and on the ocean, barely stirred by a ripple.
When we were out of the harbor, the little vessel swung round the big
curve and pointed her nose toward the distant shore which was barely
visible through the early morning mist. On our left was the broad
estuary of the Seine, her muddy water, which never mingles with that of
the ocean, making large yellow streaks clearly outlined against the
immense sheet of the pure green sea.

As soon as I am on a boat I feel the need of walking to and fro, like a
sailor on watch. Why? I do not know. Therefore I began to thread my way
along the deck through the crowd of travellers. Suddenly I heard my name
called. I turned around. I beheld one of my old friends, Henri Sidoine,
whom I had not seen for ten years.

We shook hands and continued our walk together, talking of one thing or
another. Suddenly Sidoine, who had been observing the crowd of
passengers, cried out angrily:

“It's disgusting, the boat is full of English people!”

It was indeed full of them. The men were standing about, looking over
the ocean with an all-important air, as though to say: “We are the
English, the lords of the sea! Here we are!”

The young girls, formless, with shoes which reminded one of the naval
constructions of their fatherland, wrapped in multi-colored shawls, were
smiling vacantly at the magnificent scenery. Their small heads, planted
at the top of their long bodies, wore English hats of the strangest
build.

And the old maids, thinner yet, opening their characteristic jaws to the
wind, seemed to threaten one with their long, yellow teeth. On passing
them, one could notice the smell of rubber and of tooth wash.

Sidoine repeated, with growing anger:

“Disgusting! Can we never stop their coming to France?”

I asked, smiling:

“What have you got against them? As far as I am concerned, they don't
worry me.”

He snapped out:

“Of course they don't worry you! But I married one of them.”

I stopped and laughed at him.

“Go ahead and tell me about it. Does she make you very unhappy?”

He shrugged his shoulders.

“No, not exactly.”

“Then she—is not true to you?”

“Unfortunately, she is. That would be cause for a divorce, and I could
get rid of her.”

“Then I'm afraid I don't understand!”

“You don't understand? I'm not surprised. Well, she simply learned how
to speak French—that's all! Listen.

“I didn't have the least desire of getting married when I went to spend
the summer at Etretat two years ago. There is nothing more dangerous
than watering-places. You have no idea how it suits young girls. Paris
is the place for women and the country for young girls.

“Donkey rides, surf-bathing, breakfast on the grass, all these things
are traps set for the marriageable man. And, really, there is nothing
prettier than a child about eighteen, running through a field or picking
flowers along the road.

“I made the acquaintance of an English family who were stopping at the
same hotel where I was. The father looked like those men you see over
there, and the mother was like all other Englishwomen.

“They had two sons, the kind of boys who play rough games with balls,
bats or rackets from morning till night; then came two daughters, the
elder a dry, shrivelled-up Englishwoman, the younger a dream of beauty,
a heavenly blonde. When those chits make up their minds to be pretty,
they are divine. This one had blue eyes, the kind of blue which seems to
contain all the poetry, all the dreams, all the hopes and happiness of
the world!

“What an infinity of dreams is caused by two such eyes! How well they
answer the dim, eternal question of our heart!

“It must not be forgotten either that we Frenchmen adore foreign women.
As soon as we meet a Russian, an Italian, a Swede, a Spaniard, or an
Englishwoman with a pretty face, we immediately fall in love with her.
We enthuse over everything which comes from outside—clothes, hats,
gloves, guns and—women. But what a blunder!

“I believe that that which pleases us in foreign women is their accent.
As soon as a woman speaks our language badly we think she is charming,
if she uses the wrong word she is exquisite and if she jabbers in an
entirely unintelligible jargon, she becomes irresistible.

“My little English girl, Kate, spoke a language to be marvelled at. At
the beginning I could understand nothing, she invented so many new
words; then I fell absolutely in love with this queer, amusing dialect.
All maimed, strange, ridiculous terms became delightful in her mouth.
Every evening, on the terrace of the Casino, we had long conversations
which resembled spoken enigmas.

“I married her! I loved her wildly, as one can only love in a dream. For
true lovers only love a dream which has taken the form of a woman.

“Well, my dear fellow, the most foolish thing I ever did was to give my
wife a French teacher. As long as she slaughtered the dictionary and
tortured the grammar I adored her. Our conversations were simple. They
revealed to me her surprising gracefulness and matchless elegance; they
showed her to me as a wonderful speaking jewel, a living doll made to be
kissed, knowing, after a fashion, how to express what she loved. She
reminded me of the pretty little toys which say 'papa' and 'mamma' when
you pull a string.

“Now she talks—badly—very badly. She makes as many mistakes as ever—but
I can understand her.

“I have opened my doll to look inside—and I have seen. And now I have to
talk to her!

“Ah! you don't know, as I do, the opinions, the ideas, the theories of a
well-educated young English girl, whom I can blame in nothing, and who
repeats to me from morning till night sentences from a French reader
prepared in England for the use of young ladies' schools.

“You have seen those cotillon favors, those pretty gilt papers, which
enclose candies with an abominable taste. I have one of them. I tore it
open. I wished to eat what was inside and it disgusted me so that I feel
nauseated at seeing her compatriots.

“I have married a parrot to whom some old English governess might have
taught French. Do you understand?”

The harbor of Trouville was now showing its wooden piers covered with
people.

I said:

“Where is your wife?”

He answered:

“I took her back to Etretat.”

“And you, where are you going?”

“I? Oh, I am going to rest up here at Trouville.”

Then, after a pause, he added:

“You have no idea what a fool a woman can be at times!”





THE ACCURSED BREAD

Daddy Taille had three daughters: Anna, the eldest, who was scarcely
ever mentioned in the family; Rose, the second girl, who was eighteen,
and Clara, the youngest, who was a girl of fifteen.

Old Taille was a widower and a foreman in M. Lebrument's button
manufactory. He was a very upright man, very well thought of,
abstemious; in fact, a sort of model workman. He lived at Havre, in the
Rue d'Angouleme.

When Anna ran away from home the old man flew into a fearful rage. He
threatened to kill the head clerk in a large draper's establishment in
that town, whom he suspected. After a time, when he was told by various
people that she was very steady and investing money in government
securities, that she was no gadabout, but was a great friend of Monsieur
Dubois, who was a judge of the Tribunal of Commerce, the father was
appeased.

He even showed some anxiety as to how she was getting on, and asked some
of her old friends who had been to see her, and when told that she had
her own furniture, and that her mantelpiece was covered with vases and
the walls with pictures, that there were clocks and carpets everywhere,
he gave a broad contented smile. He had been working for thirty years to
get together a wretched five or six thousand francs. This girl was
evidently no fool.

One fine morning the son of Touchard, the cooper, at the other end of
the street, came and asked him for the hand of Rose, the second girl.
The old man's heart began to beat, for the Touchards were rich and in a
good position. He was decidedly lucky with his girls.

The marriage was agreed upon, and it was settled that it should be a
grand affair, and the wedding dinner was to be held at Sainte-Adresse,
at Mother Jusa's restaurant. It would cost a lot certainly, but never
mind, it did not matter just for once in a way.

But one morning, just as the old man was going home to luncheon with his
two daughters, the door opened suddenly, and Anna appeared. She was well
dressed and looked undeniably pretty and nice. She threw her arms round
her father's neck before he could say a word, then fell into her
sisters' arms with many tears and then asked for a plate, so that she
might share the family soup. Taille was moved to tears in his turn and
said several times:

“That is right, dear, that is right.”

Then she told them about herself. She did not wish Rose's wedding to
take place at Sainte-Adresse—certainly not. It should take place at her
house and would cost her father nothing. She had settled everything and
arranged everything, so it was “no good to say any more about it—there!”

“Very well, my dear! very well!” the old man said; “we will leave it
so.” But then he felt some doubt. Would the Touchards consent? But Rose,
the bride-elect, was surprised and asked: “Why should they object, I
should like to know? Just leave that to me; I will talk to Philip about
it.”

She mentioned it to her lover the very same day, and he declared it
would suit him exactly. Father and Mother Touchard were naturally
delighted at the idea of a good dinner which would cost them nothing and
said:

“You may be quite sure that everything will be in first-rate style.”

They asked to be allowed to bring a friend, Madame Florence, the cook on
the first floor, and Anna agreed to everything.

The wedding was fixed for the last Tuesday of the month.

After the civil formalities and the religious ceremony the wedding party
went to Anna's house. Among those whom the Tailles had brought was a
cousin of a certain age, a Monsieur Sauvetanin, a man given to
philosophical reflections, serious, and always very self-possessed, and
Madame Lamondois, an old aunt.

Monsieur Sautevanin had been told off to give Anna his arm, as they were
looked upon as the two most important persons in the company.

As soon as they had arrived at the door of Anna's house she let go her
companion's arm, and ran on ahead, saying: “I will show you the way,”
and ran upstairs while the invited guests followed more slowly; and,
when they got upstairs, she stood on one side to let them pass, and they
rolled their eyes and turned their heads in all directions to admire
this mysterious and luxurious dwelling.

The table was laid in the drawing-room, as the dining-room had been
thought too small. Extra knives, forks and spoons had been hired from a
neighboring restaurant, and decanters stood full of wine under the rays
of the sun which shone in through the window.

The ladies went into the bedroom to take off their shawls and bonnets,
and Father Touchard, who was standing at the door, made funny and
suggestive signs to the men, with many a wink and nod. Daddy Taille, who
thought a great deal of himself, looked with fatherly pride at his
child's well-furnished rooms and went from one to the other, holding his
hat in his hand, making a mental inventory of everything, and walking
like a verger in a church.

Anna went backward and forward, ran about giving orders and hurrying on
the wedding feast. Soon she appeared at the door of the dining-room and
cried: “Come here, all of you, for a moment,” and as the twelve guests
entered the room they saw twelve glasses of Madeira on a small table.

Rose and her husband had their arms round each other's waists and were
kissing each other in every corner. Monsieur Sauvetanin never took his
eyes off Anna.

They sat down, and the wedding breakfast began, the relations sitting at
one end of the table and the young people at the other. Madame Touchard,
the mother, presided on the right and the bride on the left. Anna looked
after everybody, saw that the glasses were kept filled and the plates
well supplied. The guests evidently felt a certain respectful
embarrassment at the sight of all the sumptuousness of the rooms and at
the lavish manner in which they were treated. They all ate heartily of
the good things provided, but there were no jokes such as are prevalent
at weddings of that sort; it was all too grand, and it made them feel
uncomfortable. Old Madame Touchard, who was fond of a bit of fun, tried
to enliven matters a little, and at the beginning of the dessert she
exclaimed: “I say, Philip, do sing us something.” The neighbors in their
street considered that he had the finest voice in all Havre.

The bridegroom got up, smiled, and, turning to his sister-in-law, from
politeness and gallantry, tried to think of something suitable for the
occasion, something serious and correct, to harmonize with the
seriousness of the repast.

Anna had a satisfied look on her face, and leaned back in her chair to
listen, and all assumed looks of attention, though prepared to smile
should smiles be called for.

The singer announced “The Accursed Bread,” and, extending his right arm,
which made his coat ruck up into his neck, he began.

It was decidedly long, three verses of eight lines each, with the last
line and the last but one repeated twice.

All went well for the first two verses; they were the usual commonplaces
about bread gained by honest labor and by dishonesty. The aunt and the
bride wept outright. The cook, who was present, at the end of the first
verse looked at a roll which she held in her hand, with streaming eyes,
as if it applied to her, while all applauded vigorously. At the end of
the second verse the two servants, who were standing with their backs to
the wall, joined loudly in the chorus, and the aunt and the bride wept
outright.

Daddy Taille blew his nose with the noise of a trombone, and old
Touchard brandished a whole loaf half over the table, and the cook shed
silent tears on the crust which she was still holding.

Amid the general emotion Monsieur Sauvetanin said:

“That is the right sort of song; very different from the nasty, risky
things one generally hears at weddings.”

Anna, who was visibly affected, kissed her hand to her sister and
pointed to her husband with an affectionate nod, as if to congratulate
her.

Intoxicated by his success, the young man continued, and unfortunately
the last verse contained words about the “bread of dishonor” gained by
young girls who had been led astray. No one took up the refrain about
this bread, supposed to be eaten with tears, except old Touchard and the
two servants. Anna had grown deadly pale and cast down her eyes, while
the bridegroom looked from one to the other without understanding the
reason for this sudden coldness, and the cook hastily dropped the crust
as if it were poisoned.

Monsieur Sauvetanin said solemnly, in order to save the situation: “That
last couplet is not at all necessary”; and Daddy Taille, who had got red
up to his ears, looked round the table fiercely.

Then Anna, her eyes swimming in tears, told the servants in the
faltering voice of a woman trying to stifle her sobs, to bring the
champagne.

All the guests were suddenly seized with exuberant joy, and all their
faces became radiant again. And when old Touchard, who had seen, felt
and understood nothing of what was going on, and pointing to the guests
so as to emphasize his words, sang the last words of the refrain:

“Children, I warn you all to eat not of that bread,” the whole company,
when they saw the champagne bottles, with their necks covered with gold
foil, appear, burst out singing, as if electrified by the sight:

“Children, I warn you all to eat not of that bread.”





THE DOWRY

The marriage of Maitre Simon Lebrument with Mademoiselle Jeanne Cordier
was a surprise to no one. Maitre Lebrument had bought out the practice
of Maitre Papillon; naturally, he had to have money to pay for it; and
Mademoiselle Jeanne Cordier had three hundred thousand francs clear in
currency, and in bonds payable to bearer.

Maitre Lebrument was a handsome man. He was stylish, although in a
provincial way; but, nevertheless, he was stylish—a rare thing at
Boutigny-le-Rebours.

Mademoiselle Cordier was graceful and fresh-looking, although a trifle
awkward; nevertheless, she was a handsome girl, and one to be desired.

The marriage ceremony turned all Boutigny topsy-turvy. Everybody admired
the young couple, who quickly returned home to domestic felicity, having
decided simply to take a short trip to Paris, after a few days of
retirement.

This tete-a-tete was delightful, Maitre Lebrument having shown just the
proper amount of delicacy. He had taken as his motto: “Everything comes
to him who waits.” He knew how to be at the same time patient and
energetic. His success was rapid and complete.

After four days, Madame Lebrument adored her husband. She could not get
along without him. She would sit on his knees, and taking him by the
ears she would say: “Open your mouth and shut your eyes.” He would open
his mouth wide and partly close his eyes, and he would try to nip her
fingers as she slipped some dainty between his teeth. Then she would
give him a kiss, sweet and long, which would make chills run up and down
his spine. And then, in his turn, he would not have enough caresses to
please his wife from morning to night and from night to morning.

When the first week was over, he said to his young companion:

“If you wish, we will leave for Paris next Tuesday. We will be like two
lovers, we will go to the restaurants, the theatres, the concert halls,
everywhere, everywhere!”

She was ready to dance for joy.

“Oh! yes, yes. Let us go as soon as possible.”

He continued:

“And then, as we must forget nothing, ask your father to have your dowry
ready; I shall pay Maitre Papillon on this trip.”

She answered:

“All right: I will tell him to-morrow morning.”

And he took her in his arms once more, to renew those sweet games of
love which she had so enjoyed for the past week.

The following Tuesday, father-in-law and mother-in-law went to the
station with their daughter and their son-in-law who were leaving for
the capital.

The father-in-law said:

“I tell you it is very imprudent to carry so much money about in a
pocketbook.” And the young lawyer smiled.

“Don't worry; I am accustomed to such things. You understand that, in my
profession, I sometimes have as much as a million about me. In this
manner, at least we avoid a great amount of red tape and delay. You
needn't worry.”

The conductor was crying:

“All aboard for Paris!”

They scrambled into a car, where two old ladies were already seated.

Lebrument whispered into his wife's ear:

“What a bother! I won't be able to smoke.”

She answered in a low voice

“It annoys me too, but not an account of your cigar.”

The whistle blew and the train started. The trip lasted about an hour,
during which time they did not say very much to each other, as the two
old ladies did not go to sleep.

As soon as they were in front of the Saint-Lazare Station, Maitre
Lebrument said to his wife:

“Dearie, let us first go over to the Boulevard and get something to eat;
then we can quietly return and get our trunk and bring it to the hotel.”

She immediately assented.

“Oh! yes. Let's eat at the restaurant. Is it far?”

He answered:

“Yes, it's quite a distance, but we will take the omnibus.”

She was surprised:

“Why don't we take a cab?”

He began to scold her smilingly:

“Is that the way you save money? A cab for a five minutes' ride at six
cents a minute! You would deprive yourself of nothing.”

“That's so,” she said, a little embarrassed.

A big omnibus was passing by, drawn by three big horses, which were
trotting along. Lebrument called out:

“Conductor! Conductor!”

The heavy carriage stopped. And the young lawyer, pushing his wife, said
to her quickly:

“Go inside; I'm going up on top, so that I may smoke at least one
cigarette before lunch.”

She had no time to answer. The conductor, who had seized her by the arm
to help her up the step, pushed her inside, and she fell into a seat,
bewildered, looking through the back window at the feet of her husband
as he climbed up to the top of the vehicle.

And she sat there motionless, between a fat man who smelled of cheap
tobacco and an old woman who smelled of garlic.

All the other passengers were lined up in silence—a grocer's boy, a
young girl, a soldier, a gentleman with gold-rimmed spectacles and a big
silk hat, two ladies with a self-satisfied and crabbed look, which
seemed to say: “We are riding in this thing, but we don't have to,” two
sisters of charity and an undertaker. They looked like a collection of
caricatures.

The jolting of the wagon made them wag their heads and the shaking of
the wheels seemed to stupefy them—they all looked as though they were
asleep.

The young woman remained motionless.

“Why didn't he come inside with me?” she was saying to herself. An
unaccountable sadness seemed to be hanging over her. He really need not
have acted so.

The sisters motioned to the conductor to stop, and they got off one
after the other, leaving in their wake the pungent smell of camphor. The
bus started tip and soon stopped again. And in got a cook, red-faced and
out of breath. She sat down and placed her basket of provisions on her
knees. A strong odor of dish-water filled the vehicle.

“It's further than I imagined,” thought Jeanne.

The undertaker went out, and was replaced by a coachman who seemed to
bring the atmosphere of the stable with him. The young girl had as a
successor a messenger, the odor of whose feet showed that he was
continually walking.

The lawyer's wife began to feel ill at ease, nauseated, ready to cry
without knowing why.

Other persons left and others entered. The stage went on through
interminable streets, stopping at stations and starting again.

“How far it is!” thought Jeanne. “I hope he hasn't gone to sleep! He has
been so tired the last few days.”

Little by little all the passengers left. She was left alone, all alone.
The conductor cried:

“Vaugirard!”

Seeing that she did not move, he repeated:

“Vaugirard!”

She looked at him, understanding that he was speaking to her, as there
was no one else there. For the third time the man said:

“Vaugirard!”

Then she asked:

“Where are we?”

He answered gruffly:

“We're at Vaugirard, of course! I have been yelling it for the last half
hour!”

“Is it far from the Boulevard?” she said.

“Which boulevard?”

“The Boulevard des Italiens.”

“We passed that a long time ago!”

“Would you mind telling my husband?”

“Your husband! Where is he?”

“On the top of the bus.”

“On the top! There hasn't been anybody there for a long time.”

She started, terrified.

“What? That's impossible! He got on with me. Look well! He must be
there.”

The conductor was becoming uncivil:

“Come on, little one, you've talked enough! You can find ten men for
every one that you lose. Now run along. You'll find another one
somewhere.”

Tears were coming to her eyes. She insisted:

“But, monsieur, you are mistaken; I assure you that you must be
mistaken. He had a big portfolio under his arm.”

The man began to laugh:

“A big portfolio! Oh, yes! He got off at the Madeleine. He got rid of
you, all right! Ha! ha! ha!”

The stage had stopped. She got out and, in spite of herself, she looked
up instinctively to the roof of the bus. It was absolutely deserted.

Then she began to cry, and, without thinking that anybody was listening
or watching her, she said out loud:

“What is going to become of me?”

An inspector approached:

“What's the matter?”

The conductor answered, in a bantering tone of voice:

“It's a lady who got left by her husband during the trip.”

The other continued:

“Oh! that's nothing. You go about your business.”

Then he turned on his heels and walked away.

She began to walk straight ahead, too bewildered, too crazed even to
understand what had happened to her. Where was she to go? What could she
do? What could have happened to him? How could he have made such a
mistake? How could he have been so forgetful?

She had two francs in her pocket. To whom could she go? Suddenly she
remembered her cousin Barral, one of the assistants in the offices of
the Ministry of the Navy.

She had just enough to pay for a cab. She drove to his house. He met her
just as he was leaving for his office. He was carrying a large portfolio
under his arm, just like Lebrument.

She jumped out of the carriage.

“Henry!” she cried.

He stopped, astonished:

“Jeanne! Here—all alone! What are you doing? Where have you come from?”

Her eyes full of tears, she stammered:

“My husband has just got lost!”

“Lost! Where?”

“On an omnibus.”

“On an omnibus?”

Weeping, she told him her whole adventure.

He listened, thought, and then asked:

“Was his mind clear this morning?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Did he have much money with him?”

“Yes, he was carrying my dowry.”

“Your dowry! The whole of it?”

“The whole of it—in order to pay for the practice which he bought.”

“Well, my dear cousin, by this time your husband must be well on his way
to Belgium.”

She could not understand. She kept repeating:

“My husband—you say—”

“I say that he has disappeared with your—your capital—that's all!”

She stood there, a prey to conflicting emotions, sobbing.

“Then he is—he is—he is a villain!”

And, faint from excitement, she leaned her head on her cousin's shoulder
and wept.

As people were stopping to look at them, he pushed her gently into the
vestibule of his house, and, supporting her with his arm around her
waist, he led her up the stairs, and as his astonished servant opened
the door, he ordered:

“Sophie, run to the restaurant and get a luncheon for two. I am not
going to the office to-day.”





THE DIARY OF A MADMAN

He was dead—the head of a high tribunal, the upright magistrate whose
irreproachable life was a proverb in all the courts of France.
Advocates, young counsellors, judges had greeted him at sight of his
large, thin, pale face lighted up by two sparkling deep-set eyes, bowing
low in token of respect.

He had passed his life in pursuing crime and in protecting the weak.
Swindlers and murderers had no more redoubtable enemy, for he seemed to
read the most secret thoughts of their minds.

He was dead, now, at the age of eighty-two, honored by the homage and
followed by the regrets of a whole people. Soldiers in red trousers had
escorted him to the tomb and men in white cravats had spoken words and
shed tears that seemed to be sincere beside his grave.

But here is the strange paper found by the dismayed notary in the desk
where he had kept the records of great criminals! It was entitled: WHY?

20th June, 1851. I have just left court. I have condemned Blondel to
death! Now, why did this man kill his five children? Frequently one
meets with people to whom the destruction of life is a pleasure. Yes,
yes, it should be a pleasure, the greatest of all, perhaps, for is not
killing the next thing to creating? To make and to destroy! These two
words contain the history of the universe, all the history of worlds,
all that is, all! Why is it not intoxicating to kill?

25th June. To think that a being is there who lives, who walks, who
runs. A being? What is a being? That animated thing, that bears in it
the principle of motion and a will ruling that motion. It is attached to
nothing, this thing. Its feet do not belong to the ground. It is a grain
of life that moves on the earth, and this grain of life, coming I know
not whence, one can destroy at one's will. Then nothing—nothing more. It
perishes, it is finished.

26th June. Why then is it a crime to kill? Yes, why? On the contrary, it
is the law of nature. The mission of every being is to kill; he kills to
live, and he kills to kill. The beast kills without ceasing, all day,
every instant of his existence. Man kills without ceasing, to nourish
himself; but since he needs, besides, to kill for pleasure, he has
invented hunting! The child kills the insects he finds, the little
birds, all the little animals that come in his way. But this does not
suffice for the irresistible need to massacre that is in us. It is not
enough to kill beasts; we must kill man too. Long ago this need was
satisfied by human sacrifices. Now the requirements of social life have
made murder a crime. We condemn and punish the assassin! But as we
cannot live without yielding to this natural and imperious instinct of
death, we relieve ourselves, from time to time, by wars. Then a whole
nation slaughters another nation. It is a feast of blood, a feast that
maddens armies and that intoxicates civilians, women and children, who
read, by lamplight at night, the feverish story of massacre.

One might suppose that those destined to accomplish these butcheries of
men would be despised! No, they are loaded with honors. They are clad in
gold and in resplendent garments; they wear plumes on their heads and
ornaments on their breasts, and they are given crosses, rewards, titles
of every kind. They are proud, respected, loved by women, cheered by the
crowd, solely because their mission is to shed human blood; They drag
through the streets their instruments of death, that the passer-by, clad
in black, looks on with envy. For to kill is the great law set by nature
in the heart of existence! There is nothing more beautiful and honorable
than killing!

30th June. To kill is the law, because nature loves eternal youth. She
seems to cry in all her unconscious acts: “Quick! quick! quick!” The
more she destroys, the more she renews herself.

2d July. A human being—what is a human being? Through thought it is a
reflection of all that is; through memory and science it is an abridged
edition of the universe whose history it represents, a mirror of things
and of nations, each human being becomes a microcosm in the macrocosm.

3d July. It must be a pleasure, unique and full of zest, to kill; to
have there before one the living, thinking being; to make therein a
little hole, nothing but a little hole, to see that red thing flow which
is the blood, which makes life; and to have before one only a heap of
limp flesh, cold, inert, void of thought!

5th August. I, who have passed my life in judging, condemning, killing
by the spoken word, killing by the guillotine those who had killed by
the knife, I, I, if I should do as all the assassins have done whom I
have smitten, I—I—who would know it?

10th August. Who would ever know? Who would ever suspect me, me, me,
especially if I should choose a being I had no interest in doing away
with?

15th August. The temptation has come to me. It pervades my whole being;
my hands tremble with the desire to kill.

22d August. I could resist no longer. I killed a little creature as an
experiment, for a beginning. Jean, my servant, had a goldfinch in a cage
hung in the office window. I sent him on an errand, and I took the
little bird in my hand, in my hand where I felt its heart beat. It was
warm. I went up to my room. From time to time I squeezed it tighter; its
heart beat faster; this was atrocious and delicious. I was near choking
it. But I could not see the blood.

Then I took scissors, short-nail scissors, and I cut its throat with
three slits, quite gently. It opened its bill, it struggled to escape
me, but I held it, oh! I held it—I could have held a mad dog—and I saw
the blood trickle.

And then I did as assassins do—real ones. I washed the scissors, I
washed my hands. I sprinkled water and took the body, the corpse, to the
garden to hide it. I buried it under a strawberry-plant. It will never
be found. Every day I shall eat a strawberry from that plant. How one
can enjoy life when one knows how!

My servant cried; he thought his bird flown. How could he suspect me?
Ah! ah!

25th August. I must kill a man! I must—

30th August. It is done. But what a little thing! I had gone for a walk
in the forest of Vernes. I was thinking of nothing, literally nothing. A
child was in the road, a little child eating a slice of bread and
butter.

He stops to see me pass and says, “Good-day, Mr. President.”

And the thought enters my head, “Shall I kill him?”

I answer: “You are alone, my boy?”

“Yes, sir.”

“All alone in the wood?”

“Yes, sir.”

The wish to kill him intoxicated me like wine. I approached him quite
softly, persuaded that he was going to run away. And, suddenly, I seized
him by the throat. He looked at me with terror in his eyes—such eyes! He
held my wrists in his little hands and his body writhed like a feather
over the fire. Then he moved no more. I threw the body in the ditch, and
some weeds on top of it. I returned home, and dined well. What a little
thing it was! In the evening I was very gay, light, rejuvenated; I
passed the evening at the Prefect's. They found me witty. But I have not
seen blood! I am tranquil.

31st August. The body has been discovered. They are hunting for the
assassin. Ah! ah!

1st September. Two tramps have been arrested. Proofs are lacking.

2d September. The parents have been to see me. They wept! Ah! ah!

6th October. Nothing has been discovered. Some strolling vagabond must
have done the deed. Ah! ah! If I had seen the blood flow, it seems to me
I should be tranquil now! The desire to kill is in my blood; it is like
the passion of youth at twenty.

20th October. Yet another. I was walking by the river, after breakfast.
And I saw, under a willow, a fisherman asleep. It was noon. A spade was
standing in a potato-field near by, as if expressly, for me.

I took it. I returned; I raised it like a club, and with one blow of the
edge I cleft the fisherman's head. Oh! he bled, this one! Rose-colored
blood. It flowed into the water, quite gently. And I went away with a
grave step. If I had been seen! Ah! ah! I should have made an excellent
assassin.

25th October. The affair of the fisherman makes a great stir. His
nephew, who fished with him, is charged with the murder.

26th October. The examining magistrate affirms that the nephew is
guilty. Everybody in town believes it. Ah! ah!

27th October. The nephew makes a very poor witness. He had gone to the
village to buy bread and cheese, he declared. He swore that his uncle
had been killed in his absence! Who would believe him?

28th October. The nephew has all but confessed, they have badgered him
so. Ah! ah! justice!

15th November. There are overwhelming proofs against the nephew, who was
his uncle's heir. I shall preside at the sessions.

25th January. To death! to death! to death! I have had him condemned to
death! Ah! ah! The advocate-general spoke like an angel! Ah! ah! Yet
another! I shall go to see him executed!

10th March. It is done. They guillotined him this morning. He died very
well! very well! That gave me pleasure! How fine it is to see a man's
head cut off!

Now, I shall wait, I can wait. It would take such a little thing to let
myself be caught.

The manuscript contained yet other pages, but without relating any new
crime.

Alienist physicians to whom the awful story has been submitted declare
that there are in the world many undiscovered madmen as adroit and as
much to be feared as this monstrous lunatic.





THE MASK

There was a masquerade ball at the Elysee-Montmartre that evening. It
was the 'Mi-Careme', and the crowds were pouring into the brightly
lighted passage which leads to the dance ball, like water flowing
through the open lock of a canal. The loud call of the orchestra,
bursting like a storm of sound, shook the rafters, swelled through the
whole neighborhood and awoke, in the streets and in the depths of the
houses, an irresistible desire to jump, to get warm, to have fun, which
slumbers within each human animal.

The patrons came from every quarter of Paris; there were people of all
classes who love noisy pleasures, a little low and tinged with debauch.
There were clerks and girls—girls of every description, some wearing
common cotton, some the finest batiste; rich girls, old and covered with
diamonds, and poor girls of sixteen, full of the desire to revel, to
belong to men, to spend money. Elegant black evening suits, in search of
fresh or faded but appetizing novelty, wandering through the excited
crowds, looking, searching, while the masqueraders seemed moved above
all by the desire for amusement. Already the far-famed quadrilles had
attracted around them a curious crowd. The moving hedge which encircled
the four dancers swayed in and out like a snake, sometimes nearer and
sometimes farther away, according to the motions of the performers. The
two women, whose lower limbs seemed to be attached to their bodies by
rubber springs, were making wonderful and surprising motions with their
legs. Their partners hopped and skipped about, waving their arms about.
One could imagine their panting breath beneath their masks.

One of them, who had taken his place in the most famous quadrille, as
substitute for an absent celebrity, the handsome “Songe-au-Gosse,” was
trying to keep up with the tireless “Arete-de-Veau” and was making
strange fancy steps which aroused the joy and sarcasm of the audience.

He was thin, dressed like a dandy, with a pretty varnished mask on his
face. It had a curly blond mustache and a wavy wig. He looked like a wax
figure from the Musee Grevin, like a strange and fantastic caricature of
the charming young man of fashion plates, and he danced with visible
effort, clumsily, with a comical impetuosity. He appeared rusty beside
the others when he tried to imitate their gambols: he seemed overcome by
rheumatism, as heavy as a great Dane playing with greyhounds. Mocking
bravos encouraged him. And he, carried away with enthusiasm, jigged
about with such frenzy that suddenly, carried away by a wild spurt, he
pitched head foremost into the living wall formed by the audience, which
opened up before him to allow him to pass, then closed around the
inanimate body of the dancer, stretched out on his face.

Some men picked him up and carried him away, calling for a doctor. A
gentleman stepped forward, young and elegant, in well-fitting evening
clothes, with large pearl studs. “I am a professor of the Faculty of
Medicine,” he said in a modest voice. He was allowed to pass, and he
entered a small room full of little cardboard boxes, where the still
lifeless dancer had been stretched out on some chairs. The doctor at
first wished to take off the mask, and he noticed that it was attached
in a complicated manner, with a perfect network of small metal wires
which cleverly bound it to his wig and covered the whole head. Even the
neck was imprisoned in a false skin which continued the chin and was
painted the color of flesh, being attached to the collar of the shirt.

All this had to be cut with strong scissors. When the physician had slit
open this surprising arrangement, from the shoulder to the temple, he
opened this armor and found the face of an old man, worn out, thin and
wrinkled. The surprise among those who had brought in this seemingly
young dancer was so great that no one laughed, no one said a word.

All were watching this sad face as he lay on the straw chairs, his eyes
closed, his face covered with white hair, some long, falling from the
forehead over the face, others short, growing around the face and the
chin, and beside this poor head, that pretty little, neat varnished,
smiling mask.

The man regained consciousness after being inanimate for a long time,
but he still seemed to be so weak and sick that the physician feared
some dangerous complication. He asked: “Where do you live?”

The old dancer seemed to be making an effort to remember, and then he
mentioned the name of the street, which no one knew. He was asked for
more definite information about the neighborhood. He answered with a
great slowness, indecision and difficulty, which revealed his upset
state of mind. The physician continued:

“I will take you home myself.”

Curiosity had overcome him to find out who this strange dancer, this
phenomenal jumper might be. Soon the two rolled away in a cab to the
other side of Montmartre.

They stopped before a high building of poor appearance. They went up a
winding staircase. The doctor held to the banister, which was so grimy
that the hand stuck to it, and he supported the dizzy old man, whose
forces were beginning to return. They stopped at the fourth floor.

The door at which they had knocked was opened by an old woman, neat
looking, with a white nightcap enclosing a thin face with sharp
features, one of those good, rough faces of a hard-working and faithful
woman. She cried out:

“For goodness sake! What's the matter?”

He told her the whole affair in a few words. She became reassured and
even calmed the physician himself by telling him that the same thing had
happened many times. She said: “He must be put to bed, monsieur, that is
all. Let him sleep and tomorrow he will be all right.”

The doctor continued: “But he can hardly speak.”

“Oh! that's just a little drink, nothing more; he has eaten no dinner,
in order to be nimble, and then he took a few absinthes in order to work
himself up to the proper pitch. You see, drink gives strength to his
legs, but it stops his thoughts and words. He is too old to dance as he
does. Really, his lack of common sense is enough to drive one mad!”

The doctor, surprised, insisted:

“But why does he dance like that at his age?”

She shrugged her shoulders and turned red from the anger which was
slowly rising within her and she cried out:

“Ah! yes, why? So that the people will think him young under his mask;
so that the women will still take him for a young dandy and whisper
nasty things into his ears; so that he can rub up against all their
dirty skins, with their perfumes and powders and cosmetics. Ah! it's a
fine business! What a life I have had for the last forty years! But we
must first get him to bed, so that he may have no ill effects. Would you
mind helping me? When he is like that I can't do anything with him
alone.”

The old man was sitting on his bed, with a tipsy look, his long white
hair falling over his face. His companion looked at him with tender yet
indignant eyes. She continued:

“Just see the fine head he has for his age, and yet he has to go and
disguise himself in order to make people think that he is young. It's a
perfect shame! Really, he has a fine head, monsieur! Wait, I'll show it
to you before putting him to bed.”

She went to a table on which stood the washbasin a pitcher of water,
soap and a comb and brush. She took the brush, returned to the bed and
pushed back the drunkard's tangled hair. In a few seconds she made him
look like a model fit for a great painter, with his long white locks
flowing on his neck. Then she stepped back in order to observe him,
saying: “There! Isn't he fine for his age?”

“Very,” agreed the doctor, who was beginning to be highly amused.

She added: “And if you had known him when he was twenty-five! But we
must get him to bed, otherwise the drink will make him sick. Do you mind
drawing off that sleeve? Higher-like that-that's right. Now the
trousers. Wait, I will take his shoes off—that's right. Now, hold him
upright while I open the bed. There—let us put him in. If you think that
he is going to disturb himself when it is time for me to get in you are
mistaken. I have to find a little corner any place I can. That doesn't
bother him! Bah! You old pleasure seeker!”

As soon as he felt himself stretched out in his sheets the old man
closed his eyes, opened them closed them again, and over his whole face
appeared an energetic resolve to sleep. The doctor examined him with an
ever-increasing interest and asked: “Does he go to all the fancy balls
and try to be a young man?” “To all of them, monsieur, and he comes back
to me in the morning in a deplorable condition. You see, it's regret
that leads him on and that makes him put a pasteboard face over his own.
Yes, the regret of no longer being what he was and of no longer making
any conquests!”

He was sleeping now and beginning to snore. She looked at him with a
pitying expression and continued: “Oh! how many conquests that man has
made! More than one could believe, monsieur, more than the finest
gentlemen of the world, than all the tenors and all the generals.”

“Really? What did he do?”

“Oh! it will surprise you at first, as you did not know him in his palmy
days. When I met him it was also at a ball, for he has always frequented
them. As soon as I saw him I was caught—caught like a fish on a hook.
Ah! how pretty he was, monsieur, with his curly raven locks and black
eyes as large as saucers! Indeed, he was good looking! He took me away
that evening and I never have left him since, never, not even for a day,
no matter what he did to me! Oh! he has often made it hard for me!”

The doctor asked: “Are you married?”

She answered simply: “Yes, monsieur, otherwise he would have dropped me
as he did the others. I have been his wife and his servant, everything,
everything that he wished. How he has made me cry—tears which I did not
show him; for he would tell all his adventures to me—to me,
monsieur—without understanding how it hurt me to listen.”

“But what was his business?”

“That's so. I forgot to tell you. He was the foreman at Martel's—a
foreman such as they never had had—an artist who averaged ten francs an
hour.”

“Martel?—who is Martel?”

“The hairdresser, monsieur, the great hairdresser of the Opera, who had
all the actresses for customers. Yes, sir, all the smartest actresses
had their hair dressed by Ambrose and they would give him tips that made
a fortune for him. Ah! monsieur, all the women are alike, yes, all of
them. When a man pleases their fancy they offer themselves to him. It is
so easy—and it hurt me so to hear about it. For he would tell me
everything—he simply could not hold his tongue—it was impossible. Those
things please the men so much! They seem to get even more enjoyment out
of telling than doing.

“When I would see him coming in the evening, a little pale, with a
pleased look and a bright eye, would say to myself: 'One more. I am sure
that he has caught one more.' Then I felt a wild desire to question him
and then, again, not to know, to stop his talking if he should begin.
And we would look at each other.

“I knew that he would not keep still, that he would come to the point. I
could feel that from his manner, which seemed to laugh and say: 'I had a
fine adventure to-day, Madeleine.' I would pretend to notice nothing, to
guess nothing; I would set the table, bring on the soup and sit down
opposite him.

“At those times, monsieur, it was as if my friendship for him had been
crushed in my body as with a stone. It hurt. But he did not understand;
he did not know; he felt a need to tell all those things to some one, to
boast, to show how much he was loved, and I was the only one he had to
whom he could talk-the only one. And I would have to listen and drink it
in, like poison.

“He would begin to take his soup and then he would say: 'One more,
Madeleine.'

“And I would think: 'Here it comes! Goodness! what a man! Why did I ever
meet him?'

“Then he would begin: 'One more! And a beauty, too.' And it would be
some little one from the Vaudeville or else from the Varietes, and some
of the big ones, too, some of the most famous. He would tell me their
names, how their apartments were furnished, everything, everything,
monsieur. Heartbreaking details. And he would go over them and tell his
story over again from beginning to end, so pleased with himself that I
would pretend to laugh so that he would not get angry with me.

“Everything may not have been true! He liked to glorify himself and was
quite capable of inventing such things! They may perhaps also have been
true! On those evenings he would pretend to be tired and wish to go to
bed after supper. We would take supper at eleven, monsieur, for he could
never get back from work earlier.

“When he had finished telling about his adventure he would walk round
the room and smoke cigarettes, and he was so handsome, with his mustache
and curly hair, that I would think: 'It's true, just the same, what he
is telling. Since I myself am crazy about that man, why should not
others be the same?' Then I would feel like crying, shrieking, running
away and jumping out of the window while I was clearing the table and he
was smoking. He would yawn in order to show how tired he was, and he
would say two or three times before going to bed: 'Ah! how well I shall
sleep this evening!'

“I bear him no ill will, because he did not know how he was hurting me.
No, he could not know! He loved to boast about the women just as a
peacock loves to show his feathers. He got to the point where he thought
that all of them looked at him and desired him.

“It was hard when he grew old. Oh, monsieur, when I saw his first white
hair I felt a terrible shock and then a great joy—a wicked joy—but so
great, so great! I said to myself: 'It's the end-it's the end.' It
seemed as if I were about to be released from prison. At last I could
have him to myself, all to myself, when the others would no longer want
him.

“It was one morning in bed. He was still sleeping and I leaned over him
to wake him up with a kiss, when I noticed in his curls, over his
temple, a little thread which shone like silver. What a surprise! I
should not have thought it possible! At first I thought of tearing it
out so that he would not see it, but as I looked carefully I noticed
another farther up. White hair! He was going to have white hair! My
heart began to thump and perspiration stood out all over me, but away
down at the bottom I was happy.

“It was mean to feel thus, but I did my housework with a light heart
that morning, without waking him up, and, as soon as he opened his eyes
of his own accord, I said to him: 'Do you know what I discovered while
you were asleep?'

“'No.'

“'I found white hairs.'

“He started up as if I had tickled him and said angrily: 'It's not
true!'

“'Yes, it is. There are four of them over your left temple.'

“He jumped out of bed and ran over to the mirror. He could not find
them. Then I showed him the first one, the lowest, the little curly one,
and I said: 'It's no wonder, after the life that you have been leading.
In two years all will be over for you.'

“Well, monsieur, I had spoken true; two years later one could not
recognize him. How quickly a man changes! He was still handsome, but he
had lost his freshness, and the women no longer ran after him. Ah! what
a life I led at that time! How he treated me! Nothing suited him. He
left his trade to go into the hat business, in which he ate up all his
money. Then he unsuccessfully tried to be an actor, and finally he began
to frequent public balls. Fortunately, he had had common sense enough to
save a little something on which we now live. It is sufficient, but it
is not enormous. And to think that at one time he had almost a fortune.

“Now you see what he does. This habit holds him like a frenzy. He has to
be young; he has to dance with women who smell of perfume and cosmetics.
You poor old darling!”

She was looking at her old snoring husband fondly, ready to cry. Then,
gently tiptoeing up to him, she kissed his hair. The physician had risen
and was getting ready to leave, finding nothing to say to this strange
couple. Just as he was leaving she asked:

“Would you mind giving me your address? If he should grow worse, I could
go and get you.”





THE PENGUINS' ROCK This is the season for penguins.

From April to the end of May, before the Parisian visitors arrive, one
sees, all at once, on the little beach at Etretat several old gentlemen,
booted and belted in shooting costume. They spend four or five days at
the Hotel Hauville, disappear, and return again three weeks later. Then,
after a fresh sojourn, they go away altogether.

One sees them again the following spring.

These are the last penguin hunters, what remain of the old set. There
were about twenty enthusiasts thirty or forty years ago; now there are
only a few of the enthusiastic sportsmen.

The penguin is a very rare bird of passage, with peculiar habits. It
lives the greater part of the year in the latitude of Newfoundland and
the islands of St. Pierre and Miquelon. But in the breeding season a
flight of emigrants crosses the ocean and comes every year to the same
spot to lay their eggs, to the Penguins' Rock near Etretat. They are
found nowhere else, only there. They have always come there, have always
been chased away, but return again, and will always return. As soon as
the young birds are grown they all fly away, and disappear for a year.

Why do they not go elsewhere? Why not choose some other spot on the long
white, unending cliff that extends from the Pas-de-Calais to Havre? What
force, what invincible instinct, what custom of centuries impels these
birds to come back to this place? What first migration, what tempest,
possibly, once cast their ancestors on this rock? And why do the
children, the grandchildren, all the descendants of the first parents
always return here?

There are not many of them, a hundred at most, as if one single family,
maintaining the tradition, made this annual pilgrimage.

And each spring, as soon as the little wandering tribe has taken up its
abode an the rock, the same sportsmen also reappear in the village. One
knew them formerly when they were young; now they are old, but constant
to the regular appointment which they have kept for thirty or forty
years. They would not miss it for anything in the world.

It was an April evening in one of the later years. Three of the old
sportsmen had arrived; one was missing—M. d'Arnelles.

He had written to no one, given no account of himself. But he was not
dead, like so many of the rest; they would have heard of it. At length,
tired of waiting for him, the other three sat down to table. Dinner was
almost over when a carriage drove into the yard of the hotel, and the
late corner presently entered the dining room.

He sat down, in a good humor, rubbing his hands, and ate with zest. When
one of his comrades remarked with surprise at his being in a frock-coat,
he replied quietly:

“Yes, I had no time to change my clothes.”

They retired on leaving the table, for they had to set out before
daybreak in order to take the birds unawares.

There is nothing so pretty as this sport, this early morning expedition.

At three o'clock in the morning the sailors awoke the sportsmen by
throwing sand against the windows. They were ready in a few minutes and
went down to the beach. Although it was still dark, the stars had paled
a little. The sea ground the shingle on the beach. There was such a
fresh breeze that it made one shiver slightly in spite of one's heavy
clothing.

Presently two boats were pushed down the beach, by the sailors, with a
sound as of tearing cloth, and were floated on the nearest waves. The
brown sail was hoisted, swelled a little, fluttered, hesitated and
swelling out again as round as a paunch, carried the boats towards the
large arched entrance that could be faintly distinguished in the
darkness.

The sky became clearer, the shadows seemed to melt away. The coast still
seemed veiled, the great white coast, perpendicular as a wall.

They passed through the Manne-Porte, an enormous arch beneath which a
ship could sail; they doubled the promontory of La Courtine, passed the
little valley of Antifer and the cape of the same name; and suddenly
caught sight of a beach on which some hundreds of seagulls were perched.

That was the Penguins' Rock. It was just a little protuberance of the
cliff, and on the narrow ledges of rock the birds' heads might be seen
watching the boats.

They remained there, motionless, not venturing to fly off as yet. Some
of them perched on the edges, seated upright, looked almost like
bottles, for their little legs are so short that when they walk they
glide along as if they were on rollers. When they start to fly they
cannot make a spring and let themselves fall like stones almost down to
the very men who are watching them.

They know their limitation and the danger to which it subjects them, and
cannot make up their minds to fly away.

But the boatmen begin to shout, beating the sides of the boat with the
wooden boat pins, and the birds, in affright, fly one by one into space
until they reach the level of the waves. Then, moving their wings
rapidly, they scud, scud along until they reach the open sea; if a
shower of lead does not knock them into the water.

For an hour the firing is kept up, obliging them to give up, one after
another. Sometimes the mother birds will not leave their nests, and are
riddled with shot, causing drops of blood to spurt out on the white
cliff, and the animal dies without having deserted her eggs.

The first day M. d'Arnelles fired at the birds with his habitual zeal;
but when the party returned toward ten o'clock, beneath a brilliant sun,
which cast great triangles of light on the white cliffs along the coast
he appeared a little worried, and absentminded, contrary to his
accustomed manner.

As soon as they got on shore a kind of servant dressed in black came up
to him and said something in a low tone. He seemed to reflect, hesitate,
and then replied:

“No, to-morrow.”

The following day they set out again. This time M, d'Arnelles frequently
missed his aim, although the birds were close by. His friends teased
him, asked him if he were in love, if some secret sorrow was troubling
his mind and heart. At length he confessed.

“Yes, indeed, I have to leave soon, and that annoys me.”

“What, you must leave? And why?”

“Oh, I have some business that calls me back. I cannot stay any longer.”

They then talked of other matters.

As soon as breakfast was over the valet in black appeared. M. d'Arnelles
ordered his carriage, and the man was leaving the room when the three
sportsmen interfered, insisting, begging, and praying their friend to
stay. One of them at last said:

“Come now, this cannot be a matter of such importance, for you have
already waited two days.”

M. d'Arnelles, altogether perplexed, began to think, evidently baffled,
divided between pleasure and duty, unhappy and disturbed.

After reflecting for some time he stammered:

“The fact is—the fact is—I am not alone here. I have my son-in-law.”

There were exclamations and shouts of “Your son-in-law! Where is he?”

He suddenly appeared confused and his face grew red.

“What! do you not know? Why—why—he is in the coach house. He is dead.”

They were all silent in amazement.

M. d'Arnelles continued, more and more disturbed:

“I had the misfortune to lose him; and as I was taking the body to my
house, in Briseville, I came round this way so as not to miss our
appointment. But you can see that I cannot wait any longer.”

Then one of the sportsmen, bolder than the rest said:

“Well, but—since he is dead—it seems to me that he can wait a day
longer.”

The others chimed in:

“That cannot be denied.”

M. d'Arnelles appeared to be relieved of a great weight, but a little
uneasy, nevertheless, he asked:

“But, frankly—do you think—”

The three others, as one man, replied:

“Parbleu! my dear boy, two days more or less can make no difference in
his present condition.”

And, perfectly calmly, the father-in-law turned to the undertaker's
assistant, and said:

“Well, then, my friend, it will be the day after tomorrow.”





A FAMILY

I was to see my old friend, Simon Radevin, of whom I had lost sight for
fifteen years. At one time he was my most intimate friend, the friend
who knows one's thoughts, with whom one passes long, quiet, happy
evenings, to whom one tells one's secret love affairs, and who seems to
draw out those rare, ingenious, delicate thoughts born of that sympathy
that gives a sense of repose.

For years we had scarcely been separated; we had lived, travelled,
thought and dreamed together; had liked the same things, had admired the
same books, understood the same authors, trembled with the same
sensations, and very often laughed at the same individuals, whom we
understood completely by merely exchanging a glance.

Then he married. He married, quite suddenly, a little girl from the
provinces, who had come to Paris in search of a husband. How in the
world could that little thin, insipidly fair girl, with her weak hands,
her light, vacant eyes, and her clear, silly voice, who was exactly like
a hundred thousand marriageable dolls, have picked up that intelligent,
clever young fellow? Can any one understand these things? No doubt he
had hoped for happiness, simple, quiet and long-enduring happiness, in
the arms of a good, tender and faithful woman; he had seen all that in
the transparent looks of that schoolgirl with light hair.

He had not dreamed of the fact that an active, living and vibrating man
grows weary of everything as soon as he understands the stupid reality,
unless, indeed, he becomes so brutalized that he understands nothing
whatever.

What would he be like when I met him again? Still lively, witty, light-
hearted and enthusiastic, or in a state of mental torpor induced by
provincial life? A man may change greatly in the course of fifteen
years!

The train stopped at a small station, and as I got out of the carriage,
a stout, a very stout man with red cheeks and a big stomach rushed up to
me with open arms, exclaiming: “George!” I embraced him, but I had not
recognized him, and then I said, in astonishment: “By Jove! You have not
grown thin!” And he replied with a laugh:

“What did you expect? Good living, a good table and good nights! Eating
and sleeping, that is my existence!”

I looked at him closely, trying to discover in that broad face the
features I held so dear. His eyes alone had not changed, but I no longer
saw the same expression in them, and I said to myself: “If the
expression be the reflection of the mind, the thoughts in that head are
not what they used to be formerly; those thoughts which I knew so well.”

Yet his eyes were bright, full of happiness and friendship, but they had
not that clear, intelligent expression which shows as much as words the
brightness of the intellect. Suddenly he said:

“Here are my two eldest children.” A girl of fourteen, who was almost a
woman, and a boy of thirteen, in the dress of a boy from a Lycee, came
forward in a hesitating and awkward manner, and I said in a low voice:
“Are they yours?” “Of course they are,” he replied, laughing. “How many
have you?” “Five! There are three more at home.”

He said this in a proud, self-satisfied, almost triumphant manner, and I
felt profound pity, mingled with a feeling of vague contempt, for this
vainglorious and simple reproducer of his species.

I got into a carriage which he drove himself, and we set off through the
town, a dull, sleepy, gloomy town where nothing was moving in the
streets except a few dogs and two or three maidservants. Here and there
a shopkeeper, standing at his door, took off his hat, and Simon returned
his salute and told me the man's name; no doubt to show me that he knew
all the inhabitants personally, and the thought struck me that he was
thinking of becoming a candidate for the Chamber of Deputies, that dream
of all those who bury themselves in the provinces.

We were soon out of the town, and the carriage turned into a garden that
was an imitation of a park, and stopped in front of a turreted house,
which tried to look like a chateau.

“That is my den,” said Simon, so that I might compliment him on it. “It
is charming,” I replied.

A lady appeared on the steps, dressed for company, and with company
phrases all ready prepared. She was no longer the light-haired, insipid
girl I had seen in church fifteen years previously, but a stout lady in
curls and flounces, one of those ladies of uncertain age, without
intellect, without any of those things that go to make a woman. In
short, she was a mother, a stout, commonplace mother, a human breeding
machine which procreates without any other preoccupation but her
children and her cook-book.

She welcomed me, and I went into the hall, where three children, ranged
according to their height, seemed set out for review, like firemen
before a mayor, and I said: “Ah! ah! so there are the others?” Simon,
radiant with pleasure, introduced them: “Jean, Sophie and Gontran.”

The door of the drawing-room was open. I went in, and in the depths of
an easy-chair, I saw something trembling, a man, an old, paralyzed man.
Madame Radevin came forward and said: “This is my grandfather, monsieur;
he is eighty-seven.” And then she shouted into the shaking old man's
ears: “This is a friend of Simon's, papa.” The old gentleman tried to
say “good-day” to me, and he muttered: “Oua, oua, oua,” and waved his
hand, and I took a seat saying: “You are very kind, monsieur.”

Simon had just come in, and he said with a laugh: “So! You have made
grandpapa's acquaintance. He is a treasure, that old man; he is the
delight of the children. But he is so greedy that he almost kills
himself at every meal; you have no idea what he would eat if he were
allowed to do as he pleased. But you will see, you will see. He looks at
all the sweets as if they were so many girls. You never saw anything so
funny; you will see presently.”

I was then shown to my room, to change my dress for dinner, and hearing
a great clatter behind me on the stairs, I turned round and saw that all
the children were following me behind their father; to do me honor, no
doubt.

My windows looked out across a dreary, interminable plain, an ocean of
grass, of wheat and of oats, without a clump of trees or any rising
ground, a striking and melancholy picture of the life which they must be
leading in that house.

A bell rang; it was for dinner, and I went downstairs. Madame Radevin
took my arm in a ceremonious manner, and we passed into the dining-room.
A footman wheeled in the old man in his armchair. He gave a greedy and
curious look at the dessert, as he turned his shaking head with
difficulty from one dish to the other.

Simon rubbed his hands: “You will be amused,” he said; and all the
children understanding that I was going to be indulged with the sight of
their greedy grandfather, began to laugh, while their mother merely
smiled and shrugged her shoulders, and Simon, making a speaking trumpet
of his hands, shouted at the old man: “This evening there is sweet
creamed rice!” The wrinkled face of the grandfather brightened, and he
trembled more violently, from head to foot, showing that he had
understood and was very pleased. The dinner began.

“Just look!” Simon whispered. The old man did not like the soup, and
refused to eat it; but he was obliged to do it for the good of his
health, and the footman forced the spoon into his mouth, while the old
man blew so energetically, so as not to swallow the soup, that it was
scattered like a spray all over the table and over his neighbors. The
children writhed with laughter at the spectacle, while their father, who
was also amused, said: “Is not the old man comical?”

During the whole meal they were taken up solely with him. He devoured
the dishes on the table with his eyes, and tried to seize them and pull
them over to him with his trembling hands. They put them almost within
his reach, to see his useless efforts, his trembling clutches at them,
the piteous appeal of his whole nature, of his eyes, of his mouth and of
his nose as he smelt them, and he slobbered on his table napkin with
eagerness, while uttering inarticulate grunts. And the whole family was
highly amused at this horrible and grotesque scene.

Then they put a tiny morsel on his plate, and he ate with feverish
gluttony, in order to get something more as soon as possible, and when
the sweetened rice was brought in, he nearly had a fit, and groaned with
greediness, and Gontran called out to him:

“You have eaten too much already; you can have no more.” And they
pretended not to give him any. Then he began to cry; he cried and
trembled more violently than ever, while all the children laughed. At
last, however, they gave him his helping, a very small piece; and as he
ate the first mouthful, he made a comical noise in his throat, and a
movement with his neck as ducks do when they swallow too large a morsel,
and when he had swallowed it, he began to stamp his feet, so as to get
more.

I was seized with pity for this saddening and ridiculous Tantalus, and
interposed on his behalf:

“Come, give him a little more rice!” But Simon replied: “Oh! no, my dear
fellow, if he were to eat too much, it would harm him, at his age.”

I held my tongue, and thought over those words. Oh, ethics! Oh, logic!
Oh, wisdom! At his age! So they deprived him of his only remaining
pleasure out of regard for his health! His health! What would he do with
it, inert and trembling wreck that he was? They were taking care of his
life, so they said. His life? How many days? Ten, twenty, fifty, or a
hundred? Why? For his own sake? Or to preserve for some time longer the
spectacle of his impotent greediness in the family.

There was nothing left for him to do in this life, nothing whatever. He
had one single wish left, one sole pleasure; why not grant him that last
solace until he died?

After we had played cards for a long time, I went up to my room and to
bed; I was low-spirited and sad, sad, sad! and I sat at my window. Not a
sound could be heard outside but the beautiful warbling of a bird in a
tree, somewhere in the distance. No doubt the bird was singing in a low
voice during the night, to lull his mate, who was asleep on her eggs.
And I thought of my poor friend's five children, and pictured him to
myself, snoring by the side of his ugly wife.





SUICIDES To Georges Legrand.

Hardly a day goes by without our reading a news item like the following
in some newspaper:

“On Wednesday night the people living in No. 40 Rue de——-, were awakened
by two successive shots. The explosions seemed to come from the
apartment occupied by M. X——. The door was broken in and the man was
found bathed in his blood, still holding in one hand the revolver with
which he had taken his life.

“M. X——was fifty-seven years of age, enjoying a comfortable income, and
had everything necessary to make him happy. No cause can be found for
his action.”

What terrible grief, what unknown suffering, hidden despair, secret
wounds drive these presumably happy persons to suicide? We search, we
imagine tragedies of love, we suspect financial troubles, and, as we
never find anything definite, we apply to these deaths the word
“mystery.”

A letter found on the desk of one of these “suicides without cause,” and
written during his last night, beside his loaded revolver, has come into
our hands. We deem it rather interesting. It reveals none of those great
catastrophes which we always expect to find behind these acts of
despair; but it shows us the slow succession of the little vexations of
life, the disintegration of a lonely existence, whose dreams have
disappeared; it gives the reason for these tragic ends, which only
nervous and high-strung people can understand.

Here it is:

“It is midnight. When I have finished this letter I shall kill myself.
Why? I shall attempt to give the reasons, not for those who may read
these lines, but for myself, to kindle my waning courage, to impress
upon myself the fatal necessity of this act which can, at best, be only
deferred.

“I was brought up by simple-minded parents who were unquestioning
believers. And I believed as they did.

“My dream lasted a long time. The last veil has just been torn from my
eyes.

“During the last few years a strange change has been taking place within
me. All the events of Life, which formerly had to me the glow of a
beautiful sunset, are now fading away. The true meaning of things has
appeared to me in its brutal reality; and the true reason for love has
bred in me disgust even for this poetic sentiment: 'We are the eternal
toys of foolish and charming illusions, which are always being renewed.'

“On growing older, I had become partly reconciled to the awful mystery
of life, to the uselessness of effort; when the emptiness of everything
appeared to me in a new light, this evening, after dinner.

“Formerly, I was happy! Everything pleased me: the passing women, the
appearance of the streets, the place where I lived; and I even took an
interest in the cut of my clothes. But the repetition of the same sights
has had the result of filling my heart with weariness and disgust, just
as one would feel were one to go every night to the same theatre.

“For the last thirty years I have been rising at the same hour; and, at
the same restaurant, for thirty years, I have been eating at the same
hours the same dishes brought me by different waiters.

“I have tried travel. The loneliness which one feels in strange places
terrified me. I felt so alone, so small on the earth that I quickly
started on my homeward journey.

“But here the unchanging expression of my furniture, which has stood for
thirty years in the same place, the smell of my apartments (for, with
time, each dwelling takes on a particular odor) each night, these and
other things disgust me and make me sick of living thus.

“Everything repeats itself endlessly. The way in which I put my key in
the lock, the place where I always find my matches, the first object
which meets my eye when I enter the room, make me feel like jumping out
of the window and putting an end to those monotonous events from which
we can never escape.

“Each day, when I shave, I feel an inordinate desire to cut my throat;
and my face, which I see in the little mirror, always the same, with
soap on my cheeks, has several times made me weak from sadness.

“Now I even hate to be with people whom I used to meet with pleasure; I
know them so well, I can tell just what they are going to say and what I
am going to answer. Each brain is like a circus, where the same horse
keeps circling around eternally. We must circle round always, around the
same ideas, the same joys, the same pleasures, the same habits, the same
beliefs, the same sensations of disgust.

“The fog was terrible this evening. It enfolded the boulevard, where the
street lights were dimmed and looked like smoking candles. A heavier
weight than usual oppressed me. Perhaps my digestion was bad.

“For good digestion is everything in life. It gives the inspiration to
the artist, amorous desires to young people, clear ideas to thinkers,
the joy of life to everybody, and it also allows one to eat heartily
(which is one of the greatest pleasures). A sick stomach induces
scepticism unbelief, nightmares and the desire for death. I have often
noticed this fact. Perhaps I would not kill myself, if my digestion had
been good this evening.

“When I sat down in the arm-chair where I have been sitting every day
for thirty years, I glanced around me, and just then I was seized by
such a terrible distress that I thought I must go mad.

“I tried to think of what I could do to run away from myself. Every
occupation struck me as being worse even than inaction. Then I bethought
me of putting my papers in order.

“For a long time I have been thinking of clearing out my drawers; for,
for the last thirty years, I have been throwing my letters and bills
pell-mell into the same desk, and this confusion has often caused me
considerable trouble. But I feel such moral and physical laziness at the
sole idea of putting anything in order that I have never had the courage
to begin this tedious business.

“I therefore opened my desk, intending to choose among my old papers and
destroy the majority of them.

“At first I was bewildered by this array of documents, yellowed by age,
then I chose one.

“Oh! if you cherish life, never disturb the burial place of old letters!

“And if, perchance, you should, take the contents by the handful, close
your eyes that you may not read a word, so that you may not recognize
some forgotten handwriting which may plunge you suddenly into a sea of
memories; carry these papers to the fire; and when they are in ashes,
crush them to an invisible powder, or otherwise you are lost—just as I
have been lost for an hour.

“The first letters which I read did not interest me greatly. They were
recent, and came from living men whom I still meet quite often, and
whose presence does not move me to any great extent. But all at once one
envelope made me start. My name was traced on it in a large, bold
handwriting; and suddenly tears came to my eyes. That letter was from my
dearest friend, the companion of my youth, the confidant of my hopes;
and he appeared before me so clearly, with his pleasant smile and his
hand outstretched, that a cold shiver ran down my back. Yes, yes, the
dead come back, for I saw him! Our memory is a more perfect world than
the universe: it gives back life to those who no longer exist.

“With trembling hand and dimmed eyes I reread everything that he told
me, and in my poor sobbing heart I felt a wound so painful that I began
to groan as a man whose bones are slowly being crushed.

“Then I travelled over my whole life, just as one travels along a river.
I recognized people, so long forgotten that I no longer knew their
names. Their faces alone lived in me. In my mother's letters I saw again
the old servants, the shape of our house and the little insignificant
odds and ends which cling to our minds.

“Yes, I suddenly saw again all my mother's old gowns, the different
styles which she adopted and the several ways in which she dressed her
hair. She haunted me especially in a silk dress, trimmed with old lace;
and I remembered something she said one day when she was wearing this
dress. She said: 'Robert, my child, if you do not stand up straight you
will be round-shouldered all your life.'

“Then, opening another drawer, I found myself face to face with memories
of tender passions: a dancing-pump, a torn handkerchief, even a garter,
locks of hair and dried flowers. Then the sweet romances of my life,
whose living heroines are now white-haired, plunged me into the deep
melancholy of things. Oh, the young brows where blond locks curl, the
caress of the hands, the glance which speaks, the hearts which beat,
that smile which promises the lips, those lips which promise the
embrace! And the first kiss-that endless kiss which makes you close your
eyes, which drowns all thought in the immeasurable joy of approaching
possession!

“Taking these old pledges of former love in both my hands, I covered
them with furious caresses, and in my soul, torn by these memories, I
saw them each again at the hour of surrender; and I suffered a torture
more cruel than all the tortures invented in all the fables about hell.

“One last letter remained. It was written by me and dictated fifty years
ago by my writing teacher. Here it is:

“'MY DEAR LITTLE MAMMA:

“'I am seven years old to-day. It is the age of reason. I take advantage
of it to thank you for having brought me into this world.

“'Your little son, who loves you

“'ROBERT.'

“It is all over. I had gone back to the beginning, and suddenly I turned
my glance on what remained to me of life. I saw hideous and lonely old
age, and approaching infirmities, and everything over and gone. And
nobody near me!

“My revolver is here, on the table. I am loading it . . . . Never reread
your old letters!”

And that is how many men come to kill themselves; and we search in vain
to discover some great sorrow in their lives.





AN ARTIFICE

The old doctor sat by the fireside, talking to his fair patient who was
lying on the lounge. There was nothing much the matter with her, except
that she had one of those little feminine ailments from which pretty
women frequently suffer—slight anaemia, a nervous attack, etc.

“No, doctor,” she said; “I shall never be able to understand a woman
deceiving her husband. Even allowing that she does not love him, that
she pays no heed to her vows and promises, how can she give herself to
another man? How can she conceal the intrigue from other people's eyes?
How can it be possible to love amid lies and treason?”

The doctor smiled, and replied: “It is perfectly easy, and I can assure
you that a woman does not think of all those little subtle details when
she has made up her mind to go astray.

“As for dissimulation, all women have plenty of it on hand for such
occasions, and the simplest of them are wonderful, and extricate
themselves from the greatest dilemmas in a remarkable manner.”

The young woman, however, seemed incredulous.

“No, doctor,” she said; “one never thinks until after it has happened of
what one ought to have done in a critical situation, and women are
certainly more liable than men to lose their head on such occasions:”

The doctor raised his hands. “After it has happened, you say! Now I will
tell you something that happened to one of my female patients, whom I
always considered an immaculate woman.

“It happened in a provincial town, and one night when I was asleep, in
that deep first sleep from which it is so difficult to rouse us, it
seemed to me, in my dreams, as if the bells in the town were sounding a
fire alarm, and I woke up with a start. It was my own bell, which was
ringing wildly, and as my footman did not seem to be answering the door,
I, in turn, pulled the bell at the head of my bed, and soon I heard a
banging, and steps in the silent house, and Jean came into my room, and
handed me a letter which said: 'Madame Lelievre begs Dr. Simeon to come
to her immediately.'

“I thought for a few moments, and then I said to myself: 'A nervous
attack, vapors; nonsense, I am too tired.' And so I replied: 'As Dr.
Simeon is not at all well, he must beg Madame Lelievre to be kind enough
to call in his colleague, Monsieur Bonnet.' I put the note into an
envelope and went to sleep again, but about half an hour later the
street bell rang again, and Jean came to me and said: 'There is somebody
downstairs; I do not quite know whether it is a man or a woman, as the
individual is so wrapped up, but they wish to speak to you immediately.
They say it is a matter of life and death for two people.' Whereupon I
sat up in bed and told him to show the person in.

“A kind of black phantom appeared and raised her veil as soon as Jean
had left the room. It was Madame Berthe Lelievre, quite a young woman,
who had been married for three years to a large merchant in the town,
who was said to have married the prettiest girl in the neighborhood.

“She was terribly pale, her face was contracted as the faces of insane
people are, occasionally, and her hands trembled violently. Twice she
tried to speak without being able to utter a sound, but at last she
stammered out: 'Come—quick—quick, doctor. Come—my—friend has just died
in my bedroom.' She stopped, half suffocated with emotion, and then went
on: 'My husband will be coming home from the club very soon.'

“I jumped out of bed without even considering that I was only in my
nightshirt, and dressed myself in a few moments, and then I said: 'Did
you come a short time ago?' 'No,' she said, standing like a statue
petrified with horror. 'It was my servant—she knows.' And then, after a
short silence, she went on: 'I was there—by his side.' And she uttered a
sort of cry of horror, and after a fit of choking, which made her gasp,
she wept violently, and shook with spasmodic sobs for a minute: or two.
Then her tears suddenly ceased, as if by an internal fire, and with an
air of tragic calmness, she said: 'Let us make haste.'

“I was ready, but exclaimed: 'I quite forgot to order my carriage.' 'I
have one,' she said; 'it is his, which was waiting for him!' She wrapped
herself up, so as to completely conceal her face, and we started.

“When she was by my side in the carriage she suddenly seized my hand,
and crushing it in her delicate fingers, she said, with a shaking voice,
that proceeded from a distracted heart: 'Oh! if you only knew, if you
only knew what I am suffering! I loved him, I have loved him
distractedly, like a madwoman, for the last six months.' 'Is anyone up
in your house?' I asked. 'No, nobody except those, who knows
everything.'

“We stopped at the door, and evidently everybody was asleep. We went in
without making any noise, by means of her latch-key, and walked upstairs
on tiptoe. The frightened servant was sitting on the top of the stairs
with a lighted candle by her side, as she was afraid to remain with the
dead man, and I went into the room, which was in great disorder. Wet
towels, with which they had bathed the young man's temples, were lying
on the floor, by the side of a washbasin and a glass, while a strong
smell of vinegar pervaded the room.

“The dead man's body was lying at full length in the middle of the room,
and I went up to it, looked at it, and touched it. I opened the eyes and
felt the hands, and then, turning to the two women, who were shaking as
if they were freezing, I said to them: 'Help me to lift him on to the
bed.' When we had laid him gently on it, I listened to his heart and put
a looking-glass to his lips, and then said: 'It is all over.' It was a
terrible sight!

“I looked at the man, and said: 'You ought to arrange his hair a
little.' The girl went and brought her mistress' comb and brush, but as
she was trembling, and pulling out his long, matted hair in doing it,
Madame Lelievre took the comb out of her hand, and arranged his hair as
if she were caressing him. She parted it, brushed his beard, rolled his
mustaches gently round her fingers, then, suddenly, letting go of his
hair, she took the dead man's inert head in her hands and looked for a
long time in despair at the dead face, which no longer could smile at
her, and then, throwing herself on him, she clasped him in her arms and
kissed him ardently. Her kisses fell like blows on his closed mouth and
eyes, his forehead and temples; and then, putting her lips to his ear,
as if he could still hear her, and as if she were about to whisper
something to him, she said several times, in a heartrending voice:

“'Good-by, my darling!'

“Just then the clock struck twelve, and I started up. 'Twelve o'clock!'
I exclaimed. 'That is the time when the club closes. Come, madame, we
have not a moment to lose!' She started up, and I said:

“'We must carry him into the drawing-room.' And when we had done this, I
placed him on a sofa, and lit the chandeliers, and just then the front
door was opened and shut noisily. 'Rose, bring me the basin and the
towels, and make the room look tidy. Make haste, for Heaven's sake!
Monsieur Lelievre is coming in.'

“I heard his steps on the stairs, and then his hands feeling along the
walls. 'Come here, my dear fellow,' I said; 'we have had an accident.'

“And the astonished husband appeared in the door with a cigar in his
mouth, and said: 'What is the matter? What is the meaning of this?' 'My
dear friend,' I said, going up to him, 'you find us in great
embarrassment. I had remained late, chatting with your wife and our
friend, who had brought me in his carriage, when he suddenly fainted,
and in spite of all we have done, he has remained unconscious for two
hours. I did not like to call in strangers, and if you will now help me
downstairs with him, I shall be able to attend to him better at his own
house.'

“The husband, who was surprised, but quite unsuspicious, took off his
hat, and then he took his rival, who would be quite inoffensive for the
future, under the arms. I got between his two legs, as if I had been a
horse between the shafts, and we went downstairs, while his wife held a
light for us. When we got outside I stood the body up, so as to deceive
the coachman, and said: 'Come, my friend; it is nothing; you feel better
already I expect. Pluck up your courage, and make an effort. It will
soon be over.' But as I felt that he was slipping out of my hands, I
gave him a slap on the shoulder, which sent him forward and made him
fall into the carriage, and then I got in after him. Monsieur Lelievre,
who was rather alarmed, said to me: 'Do you think it is anything
serious?' To which I replied: 'No,' with a smile, as I looked at his
wife, who had put her arm into that of her husband, and was trying to
see into the carriage.

“I shook hands with them and told my coachman to start, and during the
whole drive the dead man kept falling against me. When we got to his
house I said that he had become unconscious on the way home, and helped
to carry him upstairs, where I certified that he was dead, and acted
another comedy to his distracted family, and at last I got back to bed,
not without swearing at lovers.”

The doctor ceased, though he was still smiling, and the young woman, who
was in a very nervous state, said: “Why have you told me that terrible
story?”

He gave her a gallant bow, and replied:

“So that I may offer you my services if they should be needed.”





DREAMS

They had just dined together, five old friends, a writer, a doctor and
three rich bachelors without any profession.

They had talked about everything, and a feeling of lassitude came over
them, that feeling which precedes and leads to the departure of guests
after festive gatherings. One of those present, who had for the last
five minutes been gazing silently at the surging boulevard dotted with
gas-lamps, with its rattling vehicles, said suddenly:

“When you've nothing to do from morning till night, the days are long.”

“And the nights too,” assented the guest who sat next to him. “I sleep
very little; pleasures fatigue me; conversation is monotonous. Never do
I come across a new idea, and I feel, before talking to any one, a
violent longing to say nothing and to listen to nothing. I don't know
what to do with my evenings.”

The third idler remarked:

“I would pay a great deal for anything that would help me to pass just
two pleasant hours every day.”

The writer, who had just thrown his overcoat across his arm, turned
round to them, and said:

“The man who could discover a new vice and introduce it among his fellow
creatures, even if it were to shorten their lives, would render a
greater service to humanity than the man who found the means of securing
to them eternal salvation and eternal youth.”

The doctor burst out laughing, and, while he chewed his cigar, he said:

“Yes, but it is not so easy to discover it. Men have however crudely,
been seeking for—and working for the object you refer to since the
beginning of the world. The men who came first reached perfection at
once in this way. We are hardly equal to them.”

One of the three idlers murmured:

“What a pity!”

Then, after a minute's pause, he added:

“If we could only sleep, sleep well, without feeling hot or cold, sleep
with that perfect unconsciousness we experience on nights when we are
thoroughly fatigued, sleep without dreams.”

“Why without dreams?” asked the guest sitting next to him.

The other replied:

“Because dreams are not always pleasant; they are always fantastic,
improbable, disconnected; and because when we are asleep we cannot have
the sort of dreams we like. We ought to dream waking.”

“And what's to prevent you?” asked the writer.

The doctor flung away the end of his cigar.

“My dear fellow, in order to dream when you are awake, you need great
power and great exercise of will, and when you try to do it, great
weariness is the result. Now, real dreaming, that journey of our
thoughts through delightful visions, is assuredly the sweetest
experience in the world; but it must come naturally, it must not be
provoked in a painful, manner, and must be accompanied by absolute
bodily comfort. This power of dreaming I can give you, provided you
promise that you will not abuse it.”

The writer shrugged his shoulders:

“Ah! yes, I know—hasheesh, opium, green tea—artificial paradises. I have
read Baudelaire, and I even tasted the famous drug, which made me very
sick.”

But the doctor, without stirring from his seat, said:

“No; ether, nothing but ether; and I would suggest that you literary men
should use it sometimes.”

The three rich bachelors drew closer to the doctor.

One of them said:

“Explain to us the effects of it.”

And the doctor replied:

“Let us put aside big words, shall we not? I am not talking of medicine
or morality; I am talking of pleasure. You give yourselves up every day
to excesses which consume your lives. I want to indicate to you a new
sensation, possible only to intelligent men—let us say even very
intelligent men—dangerous, like everything else that overexcites our
organs, but exquisite. I might add that you would require a certain
preparation, that is to say, practice, to feel in all their completeness
the singular effects of ether.

“They are different from the effects of hasheesh, of opium, or morphia,
and they cease as soon as the absorption of the drug is interrupted,
while the other generators of day dreams continue their action for
hours.

“I am now going to try to analyze these feelings as clearly as possible.
But the thing is not easy, so facile, so delicate, so almost
imperceptible, are these sensations.

“It was when I was attacked by violent neuralgia that I made use of this
remedy, which since then I have, perhaps, slightly abused.

“I had acute pains in my head and neck, and an intolerable heat of the
skin, a feverish restlessness. I took up a large bottle of ether, and,
lying down, I began to inhale it slowly.

“At the end of some minutes I thought I heard a vague murmur, which ere
long became a sort of humming, and it seemed to me that all the interior
of my body had become light, light as air, that it was dissolving into
vapor.

“Then came a sort of torpor, a sleepy sensation of comfort, in spite of
the pains which still continued, but which had ceased to make themselves
felt. It was one of those sensations which we are willing to endure and
not any of those frightful wrenches against which our tortured body
protests.

“Soon the strange and delightful sense of emptiness which I felt in my
chest extended to my limbs, which, in their turn, became light, as light
as if the flesh and the bones had been melted and the skin only were
left, the skin necessary to enable me to realize the sweetness of
living, of bathing in this sensation of well-being. Then I perceived
that I was no longer suffering. The pain had gone, melted away,
evaporated. And I heard voices, four voices, two dialogues, without
understanding what was said. At one time there were only indistinct
sounds, at another time a word reached my ear. But I recognized that
this was only the humming I had heard before, but emphasized. I was not
asleep; I was not awake; I comprehended, I felt, I reasoned with the
utmost clearness and depth, with extraordinary energy and intellectual
pleasure, with a singular intoxication arising from this separation of
my mental faculties.

“It was not like the dreams caused by hasheesh or the somewhat sickly
visions that come from opium; it was an amazing acuteness of reasoning,
a new way of seeing, judging and appreciating the things of life, and
with the certainty, the absolute consciousness that this was the true
way.

“And the old image of the Scriptures suddenly came back to my mind. It
seemed to me that I had tasted of the Tree of Knowledge, that all the
mysteries were unveiled, so much did I find myself under the sway of a
new, strange and irrefutable logic. And arguments, reasonings, proofs
rose up in a heap before my brain only to be immediately displaced by
some stronger proof, reasoning, argument. My head had, in fact, become a
battleground of ideas. I was a superior being, armed with invincible
intelligence, and I experienced a huge delight at the manifestation of
my power.

“It lasted a long, long time. I still kept inhaling the ether from my
flagon. Suddenly I perceived that it was empty.”

The four men exclaimed at the same time:

“Doctor, a prescription at once for a liter of ether!”

But the doctor, putting on his hat, replied:

“As to that, certainly not; go and let some one else poison you!”

And he left them.

Ladies and gentlemen, what is your opinion on the subject?





SIMON'S PAPA

Noon had just struck. The school door opened and the youngsters darted
out, jostling each other in their haste to get out quickly. But instead
of promptly dispersing and going home to dinner as usual, they stopped a
few paces off, broke up into knots, and began whispering.

The fact was that, that morning, Simon, the son of La Blanchotte, had,
for the first time, attended school.

They had all of them in their families heard talk of La Blanchotte; and,
although in public she was welcome enough, the mothers among themselves
treated her with a somewhat disdainful compassion, which the children
had imitated without in the least knowing why.

As for Simon himself, they did not know him, for he never went out, and
did not run about with them in the streets of the village, or along the
banks of the river. And they did not care for him; so it was with a
certain delight, mingled with considerable astonishment, that they met
and repeated to each other what had been said by a lad of fourteen or
fifteen who appeared to know all about it, so sagaciously did he wink.
“You know—Simon—well, he has no papa.”

Just then La Blanchotte's son appeared in the doorway of the school.

He was seven or eight years old, rather pale, very neat, with a timid
and almost awkward manner.

He was starting home to his mother's house when the groups of his
schoolmates, whispering and watching him with the mischievous and
heartless eyes of children bent upon playing a nasty trick, gradually
closed in around him and ended by surrounding him altogether. There he
stood in their midst, surprised and embarrassed, not understanding what
they were going to do with him. But the lad who had brought the news,
puffed up with the success he had met with already, demanded:

“What is your name, you?”

He answered: “Simon.”

“Simon what?” retorted the other.

The child, altogether bewildered, repeated: “Simon.”

The lad shouted at him: “One is named Simon something—that is not a
name—Simon indeed.”

The child, on the brink of tears, replied for the third time:

“My name is Simon.”

The urchins began to laugh. The triumphant tormentor cried: “You can see
plainly that he has no papa.”

A deep silence ensued. The children were dumfounded by this
extraordinary, impossible, monstrous thing—a boy who had not a papa;
they looked upon him as a phenomenon, an unnatural being, and they felt
that hitherto inexplicable contempt of their mothers for La Blanchotte
growing upon them. As for Simon, he had leaned against a tree to avoid
falling, and he remained as if prostrated by an irreparable disaster. He
sought to explain, but could think of nothing-to say to refute this
horrible charge that he had no papa. At last he shouted at them quite
recklessly: “Yes, I have one.”

“Where is he?” demanded the boy.

Simon was silent, he did not know. The children roared, tremendously
excited; and those country boys, little more than animals, experienced
that cruel craving which prompts the fowls of a farmyard to destroy one
of their number as soon as it is wounded. Simon suddenly espied a little
neighbor, the son of a widow, whom he had seen, as he himself was to be
seen, always alone with his mother.

“And no more have you,” he said; “no more have you a papa.”

“Yes,” replied the other, “I have one.”

“Where is he?” rejoined Simon.

“He is dead,” declared the brat, with superb dignity; “he is in the
cemetery, is my papa.”

A murmur of approval rose among the little wretches as if this fact of
possessing a papa dead in a cemetery had caused their comrade to grow
big enough to crush the other one who had no papa at all. And these
boys, whose fathers were for the most part bad men, drunkards, thieves,
and who beat their wives, jostled each other to press closer and closer,
as though they, the legitimate ones, would smother by their pressure one
who was illegitimate.

The boy who chanced to be next Simon suddenly put his tongue out at him
with a mocking air and shouted at him:

“No papa! No papa!”

Simon seized him by the hair with both hands and set to work to disable
his legs with kicks, while he bit his cheek ferociously. A tremendous
struggle ensued between the two combatants, and Simon found himself
beaten, torn, bruised, rolled on the ground in the midst of the ring of
applauding schoolboys. As he arose, mechanically brushing with his hand
his little blouse all covered with dust, some one shouted at him:

“Go and tell your papa.”

Then he felt a great sinking at his heart. They were stronger than he
was, they had beaten him, and he had no answer to give them, for he knew
well that it was true that he had no papa. Full of pride, he attempted
for some moments to struggle against the tears which were choking him.
He had a feeling of suffocation, and then without any sound he commenced
to weep, with great shaking sobs. A ferocious joy broke out among his
enemies, and, with one accord, just like savages in their fearful
festivals, they took each other by the hand and danced round him in a
circle, repeating as a refrain:

“No papa! No papa!”

But suddenly Simon ceased sobbing. He became ferocious. There were
stones under his feet; he picked them up and with all his strength
hurled them at his tormentors. Two or three were struck and rushed off
yelling, and so formidable did he appear that the rest became panic-
stricken. Cowards, as the mob always is in presence of an exasperated
man, they broke up and fled. Left alone, the little fellow without a
father set off running toward the fields, for a recollection had been
awakened in him which determined his soul to a great resolve. He made up
his mind to drown himself in the river.

He remembered, in fact, that eight days before, a poor devil who begged
for his livelihood had thrown himself into the water because he had no
more money. Simon had been there when they fished him out again; and the
wretched man, who usually seemed to him so miserable, and ugly, had then
struck him as being so peaceful with his pale cheeks, his long drenched
beard, and his open eyes full of calm. The bystanders had said:

“He is dead.”

And some one had said:

“He is quite happy now.”

And Simon wished to drown himself also, because he had no father, just
like the wretched being who had no money.

He reached the water and watched it flowing. Some fish were sporting
briskly in the clear stream and occasionally made a little bound and
caught the flies flying on the surface. He stopped crying in order to
watch them, for their maneuvers interested him greatly. But, at
intervals, as in a tempest intervals of calm alternate suddenly with
tremendous gusts of wind, which snap off the trees and then lose
themselves in the horizon, this thought would return to him with intense
pain:

“I am going to drown myself because I have no papa.”

It was very warm, fine weather. The pleasant sunshine warmed the grass.
The water shone like a mirror. And Simon enjoyed some minutes of
happiness, of that languor which follows weeping, and felt inclined to
fall asleep there upon the grass in the warm sunshine.

A little green frog leaped from under his feet. He endeavored to catch
it. It escaped him. He followed it and lost it three times in
succession. At last he caught it by one of its hind legs and began to
laugh as he saw the efforts the creature made to escape. It gathered
itself up on its hind legs and then with a violent spring suddenly
stretched them out as stiff as two bars; while it beat the air with its
front legs as though they were hands, its round eyes staring in their
circle of yellow. It reminded him of a toy made of straight slips of
wood nailed zigzag one on the other; which by a similar movement
regulated the movements of the little soldiers fastened thereon. Then he
thought of his home, and then of his mother, and, overcome by sorrow, he
again began to weep. A shiver passed over him. He knelt down and said
his prayers as before going to bed. But he was unable to finish them,
for tumultuous, violent sobs shook his whole frame. He no longer
thought, he no longer saw anything around him, and was wholly absorbed
in crying.

Suddenly a heavy hand was placed upon his shoulder, and a rough voice
asked him:

“What is it that causes you so much grief, my little man?”

Simon turned round. A tall workman with a beard and black curly hair was
staring at him good-naturedly. He answered with his eyes and throat full
of tears:

“They beat me—because—I—I have no—papa—no papa.”

“What!” said the man, smiling; “why, everybody has one.”

The child answered painfully amid his spasms of grief:

“But I—I—I have none.”

Then the workman became serious. He had recognized La Blanchotte's son,
and, although himself a new arrival in the neighborhood, he had a vague
idea of her history.

“Well,” said he, “console yourself, my boy, and come with me home to
your mother. They will give you—a papa.”

And so they started on the way, the big fellow holding the little fellow
by the hand, and the man smiled, for he was not sorry to see this
Blanchotte, who was, it was said, one of the prettiest girls of the
countryside, and, perhaps, he was saying to himself, at the bottom of
his heart, that a lass who had erred might very well err again.

They arrived in front of a very neat little white house.

“There it is,” exclaimed the child, and he cried, “Mamma!”

A woman appeared, and the workman instantly left off smiling, for he saw
at once that there was no fooling to be done with the tall pale girl who
stood austerely at her door as though to defend from one man the
threshold of that house where she had already been betrayed by another.
Intimidated, his cap in his hand, he stammered out:

“See, madame, I have brought you back your little boy who had lost
himself near the river.”

But Simon flung his arms about his mother's neck and told her, as he
again began to cry:

“No, mamma, I wished to drown myself, because the others had beaten me
—had beaten me—because I have no papa.”

A burning redness covered the young woman's cheeks; and, hurt to the
quick, she embraced her child passionately, while the tears coursed down
her face. The man, much moved, stood there, not knowing how to get away.

But Simon suddenly ran to him and said:

“Will you be my papa?”

A deep silence ensued. La Blanchotte, dumb and tortured with shame,
leaned herself against the wall, both her hands upon her heart. The
child, seeing that no answer was made him, replied:

“If you will not, I shall go back and drown myself.”

The workman took the matter as a jest and answered, laughing:

“Why, yes, certainly I will.”

“What is your name,” went on the child, “so that I may tell the others
when they wish to know your name?”

“Philip,” answered the man:

Simon was silent a moment so that he might get the name well into his
head; then he stretched out his arms, quite consoled, as he said:

“Well, then, Philip, you are my papa.”

The workman, lifting him from the ground, kissed him hastily on both
cheeks, and then walked away very quickly with great strides. When the
child returned to school next day he was received with a spiteful laugh,
and at the end of school, when the lads were on the point of
recommencing, Simon threw these words at their heads as he would have
done a stone: “He is named Philip, my papa.”

Yells of delight burst out from all sides.

“Philip who? Philip what? What on earth is Philip? Where did you pick up
your Philip?”

Simon answered nothing; and, immovable in his faith, he defied them with
his eye, ready to be martyred rather than fly before them. The school
master came to his rescue and he returned home to his mother.

During three months, the tall workman, Philip, frequently passed by La
Blanchotte's house, and sometimes he made bold to speak to her when he
saw her sewing near the window. She answered him civilly, always
sedately, never joking with him, nor permitting him to enter her house.
Notwithstanding, being, like all men, a bit of a coxcomb, he imagined
that she was often rosier than usual when she chatted with him.

But a lost reputation is so difficult to regain and always remains so
fragile that, in spite of the shy reserve of La Blanchotte, they already
gossiped in the neighborhood.

As for Simon he loved his new papa very much, and walked with him nearly
every evening when the day's work was done. He went regularly to school,
and mixed with great dignity with his schoolfellows without ever
answering them back.

One day, however, the lad who had first attacked him said to him:

“You have lied. You have not a papa named Philip.”

“Why do you say that?” demanded Simon, much disturbed.

The youth rubbed his hands. He replied:

“Because if you had one he would be your mamma's husband.”

Simon was confused by the truth of this reasoning; nevertheless, he
retorted:

“He is my papa, all the same.”

“That can very well be,” exclaimed the urchin with a sneer, “but that is
not being your papa altogether.”

La Blanchotte's little one bowed his head and went off dreaming in the
direction of the forge belonging to old Loizon, where Philip worked.
This forge was as though buried beneath trees. It was very dark there;
the red glare of a formidable furnace alone lit up with great flashes
five blacksmiths; who hammered upon their anvils with a terrible din.
They were standing enveloped in flame, like demons, their eyes fixed on
the red-hot iron they were pounding; and their dull ideas rose and fell
with their hammers.

Simon entered without being noticed, and went quietly to pluck his
friend by the sleeve. The latter turned round. All at once the work came
to a standstill, and all the men looked on, very attentive. Then, in the
midst of this unaccustomed silence, rose the slender pipe of Simon:

“Say, Philip, the Michaude boy told me just now that you were not
altogether my papa.”

“Why not?” asked the blacksmith,

The child replied with all innocence:

“Because you are not my mamma's husband.”

No one laughed. Philip remained standing, leaning his forehead upon the
back of his great hands, which supported the handle of his hammer
standing upright upon the anvil. He mused. His four companions watched
him, and Simon, a tiny mite among these giants, anxiously waited.
Suddenly, one of the smiths, answering to the sentiment of all, said to
Philip:

“La Blanchotte is a good, honest girl, and upright and steady in spite
of her misfortune, and would make a worthy wife for an honest man.”

“That is true,” remarked the three others.

The smith continued:

“Is it the girl's fault if she went wrong? She had been promised
marriage; and I know more than one who is much respected to-day, and who
sinned every bit as much.”

“That is true,” responded the three men in chorus.

He resumed:

“How hard she has toiled, poor thing, to bring up her child all alone,
and how she has wept all these years she has never gone out except to
church, God only knows.”

“This is also true,” said the others.

Then nothing was heard but the bellows which fanned the fire of the
furnace. Philip hastily bent himself down to Simon:

“Go and tell your mother that I am coming to speak to her this evening.”
Then he pushed the child out by the shoulders. He returned to his work,
and with a single blow the five hammers again fell upon their anvils.
Thus they wrought the iron until nightfall, strong, powerful, happy,
like contented hammers. But just as the great bell of a cathedral
resounds upon feast days above the jingling of the other bells, so
Philip's hammer, sounding above the rest, clanged second after second
with a deafening uproar. And he stood amid the flying sparks plying his
trade vigorously.

The sky was full of stars as he knocked at La Blanchotte's door. He had
on his Sunday blouse, a clean shirt, and his beard was trimmed. The
young woman showed herself upon the threshold, and said in a grieved
tone:

“It is ill to come thus when night has fallen, Mr. Philip.”

He wished to answer, but stammered and stood confused before her.

She resumed:

“You understand, do you not, that it will not do for me to be talked
about again.”

“What does that matter to me, if you will be my wife!”

No voice replied to him, but he believed that he heard in the shadow of
the room the sound of a falling body. He entered quickly; and Simon, who
had gone to bed, distinguished the sound of a kiss and some words that
his mother murmured softly. Then, all at once, he found himself lifted
up by the hands of his friend, who, holding him at the length of his
herculean arms, exclaimed:

“You will tell them, your schoolmates, that your papa is Philip Remy,
the blacksmith, and that he will pull the ears of all who do you any
harm.”

On the morrow, when the school was full and lessons were about to begin,
little Simon stood up, quite pale with trembling lips:

“My papa,” said he in a clear voice, “is Philip Remy, the blacksmith,
and he has promised to pull the ears of all who does me any harm.”

This time no one laughed, for he was very well known, was Philip Remy,
the blacksmith, and was a papa of whom any one in the world would have
been proud.





ORIGINAL SHORT STORIES, Vol. 12.

GUY DE MAUPASSANT ORIGINAL SHORT STORIES Translated by ALBERT M. C.
McMASTER, B.A. A. E. HENDERSON, B.A. MME. QUESADA and Others





VOLUME XII.





THE CHILD

Lemonnier had remained a widower with one child. He had loved his wife
devotedly, with a tender and exalted love, without a slip, during their
entire married life. He was a good, honest man, perfectly simple,
sincere, without suspicion or malice.

He fell in love with a poor neighbor, proposed and was accepted. He was
making a very comfortable living out of the wholesale cloth business,
and he did not for a minute suspect that the young girl might have
accepted him for anything else but himself.

She made him happy. She was everything to him; he only thought of her,
looked at her continually, with worshiping eyes. During meals he would
make any number of blunders, in order not to have to take his eyes from
the beloved face; he would pour the wine in his plate and the water in
the salt-cellar, then he would laugh like a child, repeating:

“You see, I love you too much; that makes me crazy.”

She would smile with a calm and resigned look; then she would look away,
as though embarrassed by the adoration of her husband, and try to make
him talk about something else; but he would take her hand under the
table and he would hold it in his, whispering:

“My little Jeanne, my darling little Jeanne!”

She sometimes lost patience and said:

“Come, come, be reasonable; eat and let me eat.”

He would sigh and break off a mouthful of bread, which he would then
chew slowly.

For five years they had no children. Then suddenly she announced to him
that this state of affairs would soon cease. He was wild with joy. He no
longer left her for a minute, until his old nurse, who had brought him
up and who often ruled the house, would push him out and close the door
behind him, in order to compel him to go out in the fresh air.

He had grown very intimate with a young man who had known his wife since
childhood, and who was one of the prefect's secretaries. M. Duretour
would dine three times a week with the Lemonniers, bringing flowers to
madame, and sometimes a box at the theater; and often, at the end of the
dinner, Lemonnier, growing tender, turning towards his wife, would
explain: “With a companion like you and a friend like him, a man is
completely happy on earth.”

She died in childbirth. The shock almost killed him. But the sight of
the child, a poor, moaning little creature, gave him courage.

He loved it with a passionate and sorrowful love, with a morbid love in
which stuck the memory of death, but in which lived something of his
worship for the dead mother. It was the flesh of his wife, her being
continued, a sort of quintessence of herself. This child was her very
life transferred to another body; she had disappeared that it might
exist, and the father would smother it in with kisses. But also, this
child had killed her; he had stolen this beloved creature, his life was
at the cost of hers. And M. Lemonnier would place his son in the cradle
and would sit down and watch him. He would sit this way by the hour,
looking at him, dreaming of thousands of things, sweet or sad. Then,
when the little one was asleep, he would bend over him and sob.

The child grew. The father could no longer spend an hour away from him;
he would stay near him, take him out for walks, and himself dress him,
wash him, make him eat. His friend, M. Duretour, also seemed to love the
boy; he would kiss him wildly, in those frenzies of tenderness which are
characteristic of parents. He would toss him in his arms, he would trot
him on his knees, by the hour, and M. Lemonnier, delighted, would
mutter:

“Isn't he a darling? Isn't he a darling?”

And M. Duretour would hug the child in his arms and tickle his neck with
his mustache.

Celeste, the old nurse, alone, seemed to have no tenderness for the
little one. She would grow angry at his pranks, and seemed impatient at
the caresses of the two men. She would exclaim:

“How can you expect to bring a child up like that? You'll make a perfect
monkey out of him.”

Years went by, and Jean was nine years old. He hardly knew how to read;
he had been so spoiled, and only did as he saw fit. He was willful,
stubborn and quick-tempered. The father always gave in to him and let
him have his own way. M. Duretour would always buy him all the toys he
wished, and he fed him on cake and candies. Then Celeste would grow
angry and exclaim:

“It's a shame, monsieur, a shame. You are spoiling this child. But it
will have to stop; yes, sir, I tell you it will have to stop, and before
long, too.”

M. Lemonnier would answer, smiling:

“What can you expect? I love him too much, I can't resist him; you must
get used to it.”

Jean was delicate, rather. The doctor said that he was anaemic,
prescribed iron, rare meat and broth.

But the little fellow loved only cake and refused all other nourishment;
and the father, in despair, stuffed him with cream-puffs and chocolate
eclairs.

One evening, as they were sitting down to supper, Celeste brought on the
soup with an air of authority and an assurance which she did not usually
have. She took off the cover and, dipping the ladle into the dish, she
declared:

“Here is some broth such as I have never made; the young one will have
to take some this time.”

M. Lemonnier, frightened, bent his head. He saw a storm brewing.

Celeste took his plate, filled it herself and placed it in front of him.

He tasted the soup and said:

“It is, indeed, excellent.”

The servant took the boy's plate and poured a spoonful of soup in it.
Then she retreated a few steps and waited.

Jean smelled the food and pushed his plate away with an expression of
disgust. Celeste, suddenly pale, quickly stepped forward and forcibly
poured a spoonful down the child's open mouth.

He choked, coughed, sneezed, spat; howling, he seized his glass and
threw it at his nurse. She received it full in the stomach. Then,
exasperated, she took the young shaver's head under her arm and began
pouring spoonful after spoonful of soup down his throat. He grew as red
as a beet, and he would cough it up, stamping, twisting, choking,
beating the air with his hands.

At first the father was so surprised that he could not move. Then,
suddenly, he rushed forward, wild with rage, seized the servant by the
throat and threw her up against the wall stammering:

“Out! Out! Out! you brute!”

But she shook him off, and, her hair streaming down her back, her eyes
snapping, she cried out:

“What's gettin' hold of you? You're trying to thrash me because I am
making this child eat soup when you are filling him with sweet stuff!”

He kept repeating, trembling from head to foot:

“Out! Get out-get out, you brute!”

Then, wild, she turned to him and, pushing her face up against his, her
voice trembling:

“Ah!—you think-you think that you can treat me like that? Oh! no. And
for whom?—for that brat who is not even yours. No, not yours! No, not
yours—not yours! Everybody knows it, except yourself! Ask the grocer,
the butcher, the baker, all of them, any one of them!”

She was growling and mumbling, choked with passion; then she stopped and
looked at him.

He was motionless livid, his arms hanging by his sides. After a short
pause, he murmured in a faint, shaky voice, instinct with deep feeling:

“You say? you say? What do you say?”

She remained silent, frightened by his appearance. Once more he stepped
forward, repeating:

“You say—what do you say?”

Then in a calm voice, she answered:

“I say what I know, what everybody knows.”

He seized her and, with the fury of a beast, he tried to throw her down.
But, although old, she was strong and nimble. She slipped under his arm,
and running around the table once more furious, she screamed:

“Look at him, just look at him, fool that you are! Isn't he the living
image of M. Durefour? just look at his nose and his eyes! Are yours like
that? And his hair! Is it like his mother's? I tell you that everyone
knows it, everyone except yourself! It's the joke of the town! Look at
him!”

She went to the door, opened it, and disappeared.

Jean, frightened, sat motionless before his plate of soup.

At the end of an hour, she returned gently, to see how matters stood.
The child, after doing away with all the cakes and a pitcher full of
cream and one of syrup, was now emptying the jam-pot with his soup-
spoon.

The father had gone out.

Celeste took the child, kissed him, and gently carried him to his room
and put him to bed. She came back to the dining-room, cleared the table,
put everything in place, feeling very uneasy all the time.

Not a single sound could be heard throughout the house. She put her ear
against her master's door. He seemed to be perfectly still. She put her
eye to the keyhole. He was writing, and seemed very calm.

Then she returned to the kitchen and sat down, ready for any emergency.
She slept on a chair and awoke at daylight.

She did the rooms as she had been accustomed to every morning; she swept
and dusted, and, towards eight o'clock, prepared M. Lemonnier's
breakfast.

But she did not dare bring it to her master, knowing too well how she
would be received; she waited for him to ring. But he did not ring. Nine
o'clock, then ten o'clock went by.

Celeste, not knowing what to think, prepared her tray and started up
with it, her heart beating fast.

She stopped before the door and listened. Everything was still. She
knocked; no answer. Then, gathering up all her courage, she opened the
door and entered. With a wild shriek, she dropped the breakfast tray
which she had been holding in her hand.

In the middle of the room, M. Lemonnier was hanging by a rope from a
ring in the ceiling. His tongue was sticking out horribly. His right
slipper was lying on the ground, his left one still on his foot. An
upturned chair had rolled over to the bed.

Celeste, dazed, ran away shrieking. All the neighbors crowded together.
The physician declared that he had died at about midnight.

A letter addressed to M. Duretdur was found on the table of the suicide.
It contained these words:

“I leave and entrust the child to you!”





A COUNTRY EXCURSION

For five months they had been talking of going to take luncheon in one
of the country suburbs of Paris on Madame Dufour's birthday, and as they
were looking forward very impatiently to the outing, they rose very
early that morning. Monsieur Dufour had borrowed the milkman's wagon and
drove himself. It was a very tidy, two-wheeled conveyance, with a cover
supported by four iron rods, with curtains that had been drawn up,
except the one at the back, which floated out like a sail. Madame
Dufour, resplendent in a wonderful, cherry colored silk dress, sat by
the side of her husband.

The old grandmother and a girl sat behind them on two chairs, and a boy
with yellow hair was lying at the bottom of the wagon, with nothing to
be seen of him except his head.

When they reached the bridge of Neuilly, Monsieur Dufour said: “Here we
are in the country at last!” and at that signal his wife grew
sentimental about the beauties of nature. When they got to the
crossroads at Courbevoie they were seized with admiration for the
distant landscape. On the right was Argenteuil with its bell tower, and
above it rose the hills of Sannois and the mill of Orgemont, while on
the left the aqueduct of Marly stood out against the clear morning sky,
and in the distance they could see the terrace of Saint-Germain; and
opposite them, at the end of a low chain of hills, the new fort of
Cormeilles. Quite in the distance; a very long way off, beyond the
plains and village, one could see the sombre green of the forests.

The sun was beginning to burn their faces, the dust got into their eyes,
and on either side of the road there stretched an interminable tract of
bare, ugly country with an unpleasant odor. One might have thought that
it had been ravaged by a pestilence, which had even attacked the
buildings, for skeletons of dilapidated and deserted houses, or small
cottages, which were left in an unfinished state, because the
contractors had not been paid, reared their four roofless walls on each
side.

Here and there tall factory chimneys rose up from the barren soil. The
only vegetation on that putrid land, where the spring breezes wafted an
odor of petroleum and slate, blended with another odor that was even
less agreeable. At last, however, they crossed the Seine a second time,
and the bridge was a delight. The river sparkled in the sun, and they
had a feeling of quiet enjoyment, felt refreshed as they drank in the
purer air that was not impregnated by the black smoke of factories nor
by the miasma from the deposits of night soil. A man whom they met told
them that the name of the place was Bezons. Monsieur Dufour pulled up
and read the attractive announcement outside an eating house: Restaurant
Poulin, matelottes and fried fish, private rooms, arbors, and swings.

“Well, Madame Dufour, will this suit you? Will you make up your mind at
last?”

She read the announcement in her turn and then looked at the house for
some time.

It was a white country inn, built by the roadside, and through the open
door she could see the bright zinc of the counter, at which sat two
workmen in their Sunday clothes. At last she made up her mind and said:

“Yes, this will do; and, besides, there is a view.”

They drove into a large field behind the inn, separated from the river
by the towing path, and dismounted. The husband sprang out first and
then held out his arms for his wife, and as the step was very high
Madame Dufour, in order to reach him, had to show the lower part of her
limbs, whose former slenderness had disappeared in fat, and Monsieur
Dufour, who was already getting excited by the country air, pinched her
calf, and then, taking her in his arms, he set her on the ground, as if
she had been some enormous bundle. She shook the dust out of the silk
dress and then looked round to see in what sort of a place she was.

She was a stout woman, of about thirty-six, full-blown, and delightful
to look at. She could hardly breathe, as her corsets were laced too
tightly, and their pressure forced her superabundant bosom up to her
double chin. Next the girl placed her hand on her father's shoulder and
jumped down lightly. The boy with the yellow hair had got down by
stepping on the wheel, and he helped Monsieur Dufour to lift his
grandmother out. Then they unharnessed the horse, which they had tied to
a tree, and the carriage fell back, with both shafts in the air. The men
took off their coats and washed their hands in a pail of water and then
went and joined the ladies, who had already taken possession of the
swings.

Mademoiselle Dufour was trying to swing herself standing up, but she
could not succeed in getting a start. She was a pretty girl of about
eighteen, one of those women who suddenly excite your desire when you
meet them in the street and who leave you with a vague feeling of
uneasiness and of excited senses. She was tall, had a small waist and
large hips, with a dark skin, very large eyes and very black hair. Her
dress clearly marked the outlines of her firm, full figure, which was
accentuated by the motion of her hips as she tried to swing herself
higher. Her arms were stretched upward to hold the rope, so that her
bosom rose at every movement she made. Her hat, which a gust of wind had
blown off, was hanging behind her, and as the swing gradually rose
higher and higher, she showed her delicate limbs up to the knees each
time, and the breeze from her flying skirts, which was more heady than
the fumes of wine, blew into the faces of the two men, who were looking
at her and smiling.

Sitting in the other swing, Madame Dufour kept saying in a monotonous
voice:

“Cyprian, come and swing me; do come and swing me, Cyprian!”

At last he went, and turning up his shirt sleeves, as if undertaking a
hard piece of work, with much difficulty he set his wife in motion. She
clutched the two ropes and held her legs out straight, so as not to
touch the ground. She enjoyed feeling dizzy at the motion of the swing,
and her whole figure shook like a jelly on a dish, but as she went
higher and higher; she became too giddy and was frightened. Each time
the swing came down she uttered a piercing scream, which made all the
little urchins in the neighborhood come round, and down below, beneath
the garden hedge, she vaguely saw a row of mischievous heads making
various grimaces as they laughed.

When a servant girl came out they ordered luncheon.

“Some fried fish, a rabbit saute, salad and dessert,” Madame Dufour
said, with an important air.

“Bring two quarts of beer and a bottle of claret,” her husband said.

“We will have lunch on the grass,” the girl added.

The grandmother, who had an affection for cats, had been running after
one that belonged to the house, trying to coax it to come to her for the
last ten minutes. The animal, who was no doubt secretly flattered by her
attentions, kept close to the good woman, but just out of reach of her
hand, and quietly walked round the trees, against which she rubbed
herself, with her tail up, purring with pleasure.

“Hello!” suddenly exclaimed the young man with the yellow hair, who was
wandering about. “Here are two swell boats!” They all went to look at
them and saw two beautiful canoes in a wooden shed; they were as
beautifully finished as if they had been ornamental furniture. They hung
side by side, like two tall, slender girls, in their narrow shining
length, and made one wish to float in them on warm summer mornings and
evenings along the flower-covered banks of the river, where the trees
dip their branches into the water, where the rushes are continually
rustling in the breeze and where the swift kingfishers dart about like
flashes of blue lightning.

The whole family looked at them with great respect.

“Oh, they are indeed swell boats!” Monsieur Dufour repeated gravely, as
he examined them like a connoiseur. He had been in the habit of rowing
in his younger days, he said, and when he had spat in his hands—and he
went through the action of pulling the oars—he did not care a fig for
anybody. He had beaten more than one Englishman formerly at the
Joinville regattas. He grew quite excited at last and offered to make a
bet that in a boat like that he could row six leagues an hour without
exerting himself.

“Luncheon is ready,” the waitress said, appearing at the entrance to the
boathouse, and they all hurried off. But two young men had taken the
very seats that Madame Dufour had selected and were eating their
luncheon. No doubt they were the owners of the sculls, for they were in
boating costume. They were stretched out, almost lying on the chairs;
they were sun-browned and their thin cotton jerseys, with short sleeves,
showed their bare arms, which were as strong as a blacksmith's. They
were two strong, athletic fellows, who showed in all their movements
that elasticity and grace of limb which can only be acquired by exercise
and which is so different to the deformity with which monotonous heavy
work stamps the mechanic.

They exchanged a rapid smile when they saw the mother and then a glance
on seeing the daughter.

“Let us give up our place,” one of them said; “it will make us
acquainted with them.”

The other got up immediately, and holding his black and red boating cap
in his hand, he politely offered the ladies the only shady place in the
garden. With many excuses they accepted, and that it might be more
rural, they sat on the grass, without either tables or chairs.

The two young men took their plates, knives, forks, etc., to a table a
little way off and began to eat again, and their bare arms, which they
showed continually, rather embarrassed the girl. She even pretended to
turn her head aside and not to see them, while Madame Dufour, who was
rather bolder, tempted by feminine curiosity, looked at them every
moment, and, no doubt, compared them with the secret unsightliness of
her husband. She had squatted herself on ground, with her legs tucked
under her, after the manner of tailors, and she kept moving about
restlessly, saying that ants were crawling about her somewhere. Monsieur
Dufour, annoyed at the presence of the polite strangers, was trying to
find a comfortable position which he did not, however, succeed in doing,
and the young man with the yellow hair was eating as silently as an
ogre.

“It is lovely weather, monsieur,” the stout lady said to one of the
boating men. She wished to be friendly because they had given up their
place.

“It is, indeed, madame,” he replied. “Do you often go into the country?”

“Oh, only once or twice a year to get a little fresh air. And you,
monsieur?”

“I come and sleep here every night.”

“Oh, that must be very nice!”

“Certainly it is, madame.” And he gave them such a practical account of
his daily life that it awakened afresh in the hearts of these
shopkeepers who were deprived of the meadows and who longed for country
walks, to that foolish love of nature which they all feel so strongly
the whole year round behind the counter in their shop.

The girl raised her eyes and looked at the oarsman with emotion and
Monsieur Dufour spoke for the first time.

“It is indeed a happy life,” he said. And then he added: “A little more
rabbit, my dear?”

“No, thank you,” she replied, and turning to the young men again, and
pointing to their arms, asked: “Do you never feel cold like that?”

They both began to laugh, and they astonished the family with an account
of the enormous fatigue they could endure, of their bathing while in a
state of tremendous perspiration, of their rowing in the fog at night;
and they struck their chests violently to show how hollow they sounded.

“Ah! You look very strong,” said the husband, who did not talk any more
of the time when he used to beat the English. The girl was looking at
them sideways now, and the young fellow with the yellow hair, who had
swallowed some wine the wrong way, was coughing violently and
bespattering Madame Dufour's cherry-colored silk dress. She got angry
and sent for some water to wash the spots.

Meanwhile it had grown unbearably hot, the sparkling river looked like a
blaze of fire and the fumes of the wine were getting into their heads.
Monsieur Dufour, who had a violent hiccough, had unbuttoned his
waistcoat and the top button of his trousers, while his wife, who felt
choking, was gradually unfastening her dress. The apprentice was shaking
his yellow wig in a happy frame of mind, and kept helping himself to
wine, and the old grandmother, feeling the effects of the wine, was very
stiff and dignified. As for the girl, one noticed only a peculiar
brightness in her eyes, while the brown cheeks became more rosy.

The coffee finished, they suggested singing, and each of them sang or
repeated a couplet, which the others applauded frantically. Then they
got up with some difficulty, and while the two women, who were rather
dizzy, were trying to get a breath of air, the two men, who were
altogether drunk, were attempting gymnastics. Heavy, limp and with
scarlet faces they hung or, awkwardly to the iron rings, without being
able to raise themselves.

Meanwhile the two boating men had got their boats into the water, and
they came back and politely asked the ladies whether they would like a
row.

“Would you like one, Monsieur Dufour?” his wife exclaimed. “Please
come!”

He merely gave her a drunken nod, without understanding what she said.
Then one of the rowers came up with two fishing rods in his hands, and
the hope of catching a gudgeon, that great vision of the Parisian
shopkeeper, made Dufour's dull eyes gleam, and he politely allowed them
to do whatever they liked, while he sat in the shade under the bridge,
with his feet dangling over the river, by the side of the young man with
the yellow hair, who was sleeping soundly.

One of the boating men made a martyr of himself and took the mother.

“Let us go to the little wood on the Ile aux Anglais!” he called out as
he rowed off. The other boat went more slowly, for the rower was looking
at his companion so intently that he thought of nothing else, and his
emotion seemed to paralyze his strength, while the girl, who was sitting
in the bow, gave herself up to the enjoyment of being on the water. She
felt a disinclination to think, a lassitude in her limbs and a total
enervation, as if she were intoxicated, and her face was flushed and her
breathing quickened. The effects of the wine, which were increased by
the extreme heat, made all the trees on the bank seem to bow as she
passed. A vague wish for enjoyment and a fermentation of her blood
seemed to pervade her whole body, which was excited by the heat of the
day, and she was also disturbed at this tete-a-tete on the water, in a
place which seemed depopulated by the heat, with this young man who
thought her pretty, whose ardent looks seemed to caress her skin and
were as penetrating and pervading as the sun's rays.

Their inability to speak increased their emotion, and they looked about
them. At last, however, he made an effort and asked her name.

“Henriette,” she said.

“Why, my name is Henri,” he replied. The sound of their voices had
calmed them, and they looked at the banks. The other boat had passed
them and seemed to be waiting for them, and the rower called out:

“We will meet you in the wood; we are going as far as Robinson's,
because Madame Dufour is thirsty.” Then he bent over his oars again and
rowed off so quickly that he was soon out of sight.

Meanwhile a continual roar, which they had heard for some time, came
nearer, and the river itself seemed to shiver, as if the dull noise were
rising from its depths.

“What is that noise?” she asked. It was the noise of the weir which cut
the river in two at the island, and he was explaining it to her, when,
above the noise of the waterfall, they heard the song of a bird, which
seemed a long way off.

“Listen!” he said; “the nightingales are singing during the day, so the
female birds must be sitting.”

A nightingale! She had never heard one before, and the idea of listening
to one roused visions of poetic tenderness in her heart. A nightingale!
That is to say, the invisible witness of her love trysts which Juliet
invoked on her balcony; that celestial music which it attuned to human
kisses, that eternal inspirer of all those languorous romances which
open an ideal sky to all the poor little tender hearts of sensitive
girls!

She was going to hear a nightingale.

“We must not make a noise,” her companion said, “and then we can go into
the wood, and sit down close beside it.”

The boat seemed to glide. They saw the trees on the island, the banks of
which were so low that they could look into the depths of the thickets.
They stopped, he made the boat fast, Henriette took hold of Henri's arm,
and they went beneath the trees.

“Stoop,” he said, so she stooped down, and they went into an
inextricable thicket of creepers, leaves and reed grass, which formed an
undiscoverable retreat, and which the young man laughingly called “his
private room.”

Just above their heads, perched in one of the trees which hid them, the
bird was still singing. He uttered trills and roulades, and then loud,
vibrating notes that filled the air and seemed to lose themselves on the
horizon, across the level country, through that burning silence which
weighed upon the whole landscape. They did not speak for fear of
frightening it away. They were sitting close together, and, slowly,
Henri's arm stole round the girl's waist and squeezed it gently. She
took that daring hand without any anger, and kept removing it whenever
he put it round her; without, however, feeling at all embarrassed by
this caress, just as if it had been something quite natural, which she
was resisting just as naturally.

She was listening to the bird in ecstasy. She felt an infinite longing
for happiness, for some sudden demonstration of tenderness, for the
revelation of superhuman poetry, and she felt such a softening at her
heart, and relaxation of her nerves, that she began to cry, without
knowing why. The young man was now straining her close to him, yet she
did not remove his arm; she did not think of it. Suddenly the
nightingale stopped, and a voice called out in the distance:

“Henriette!”

“Do not reply,” he said in a low voice; “you will drive the bird away.”

But she had no idea of doing so, and they remained in the same position
for some time. Madame Dufour had sat down somewhere or other, for from
time to time they heard the stout lady break out into little bursts of
laughter.

The girl was still crying; she was filled with strange sensations.
Henri's head was on her shoulder, and suddenly he kissed her on the
lips. She was surprised and angry, and, to avoid him, she stood up.

They were both very pale when they left their grassy retreat. The blue
sky appeared to them clouded and the ardent sun darkened; and they felt
the solitude and the silence. They walked rapidly, side by side, without
speaking or touching each other, for they seemed to have become
irreconcilable enemies, as if disgust and hatred had arisen between
them, and from time to time Henriette called out: “Mamma!”

By and by they heard a noise behind a bush, and the stout lady appeared,
looking rather confused, and her companion's face was wrinkled with
smiles which he could not check.

Madame Dufour took his arm, and they returned to the boats, and Henri,
who was ahead, walked in silence beside the young girl. At last they got
back to Bezons. Monsieur Dufour, who was now sober, was waiting for them
very impatiently, while the young man with the yellow hair was having a
mouthful of something to eat before leaving the inn. The carriage was
waiting in the yard, and the grandmother, who had already got in, was
very frightened at the thought of being overtaken by night before they
reached Paris, as the outskirts were not safe.

They all shook bands, and the Dufour family drove off.

“Good-by, until we meet again!” the oarsmen cried, and the answer they
got was a sigh and a tear.

Two months later, as Henri was going along the Rue des Martyrs, he saw
Dufour, Ironmonger, over a door, and so he went in, and saw the stout
lady sitting at the counter. They recognized each other immediately, and
after an interchange of polite greetings, he asked after them all.

“And how is Mademoiselle Henriette?” he inquired specially.

“Very well, thank you; she is married.”

“Ah!” He felt a certain emotion, but said: “Whom did she marry?”

“That young man who accompanied us, you know; he has joined us in
business.”

“I remember him perfectly.”

He was going out, feeling very unhappy, though scarcely knowing why,
when madame called him back.

“And how is your friend?” she asked rather shyly.

“He is very well, thank you.”

“Please give him our compliments, and beg him to come and call, when he
is in the neighborhood.”

She then added: “Tell him it will give me great pleasure.”

“I will be sure to do so. Adieu!”

“Do not say that; come again very soon.”

The next year, one very hot Sunday, all the details of that adventure,
which Henri had never forgotten, suddenly came back to him so clearly
that he returned alone to their room in the wood, and was overwhelmed
with astonishment when he went in. She was sitting on the grass, looking
very sad, while by her side, still in his shirt sleeves, the young man
with the yellow hair was sleeping soundly, like some animal.

She grew so pale when she saw Henri that at first he thought she was
going to faint; then, however, they began to talk quite naturally. But
when he told her that he was very fond of that spot, and went there
frequently on Sundays to indulge in memories, she looked into his eyes
for a long time.

“I too, think of it,” she replied.

“Come, my dear,” her husband said, with a yawn. “I think it is time for
us to be going.”





ROSE

The two young women appear to be buried under a blanket of flowers. They
are alone in the immense landau, which is filled with flowers like a
giant basket. On the front seat are two small hampers of white satin
filled with violets, and on the bearskin by which their knees are
covered there is a mass of roses, mimosas, pinks, daisies, tuberoses and
orange blossoms, interwoven with silk ribbons; the two frail bodies seem
buried under this beautiful perfumed bed, which hides everything but the
shoulders and arms and a little of the dainty waists.

The coachman's whip is wound with a garland of anemones, the horses'
traces are dotted with carnations, the spokes of the wheels are clothed
in mignonette, and where the lanterns ought to be are two enormous round
bouquets which look as though they were the eyes of this strange,
rolling, flower-bedecked creature.

The landau drives rapidly along the road, through the Rue d'Antibes,
preceded, followed, accompanied, by a crowd of other carriages covered
with flowers, full of women almost hidden by a sea of violets. It is the
flower carnival at Cannes.

The carriage reaches the Boulevard de la Fonciere, where the battle is
waged. All along the immense avenue a double row of flower-bedecked
vehicles are going and coming like an endless ribbon. Flowers are thrown
from one to the other. They pass through the air like balls, striking
fresh faces, bouncing and falling into the dust, where an army of
youngsters pick them up.

A thick crowd is standing on the sidewalks looking on and held in check
by the mounted police, who pass brutally along pushing back the curious
pedestrians as though to prevent the common people from mingling with
the rich.

In the carriages, people call to each other, recognize each other and
bombard each other with roses. A chariot full of pretty women, dressed
in red, like devils, attracts the eyes of all. A gentleman, who looks
like the portraits of Henry IV., is throwing an immense bouquet which is
held back by an elastic. Fearing the shock, the women hide their eyes
and the men lower their heads, but the graceful, rapid and obedient
missile describes a curve and returns to its master, who immediately
throws it at some new face.

The two young women begin to throw their stock of flowers by handfuls,
and receive a perfect hail of bouquets; then, after an hour of warfare,
a little tired, they tell the coachman to drive along the road which
follows the seashore.

The sun disappears behind Esterel, outlining the dark, rugged mountain
against the sunset sky. The clear blue sea, as calm as a mill-pond,
stretches out as far as the horizon, where it blends with the sky; and
the fleet, anchored in the middle of the bay, looks like a herd of
enormous beasts, motionless on the water, apocalyptic animals, armored
and hump-backed, their frail masts looking like feathers, and with eyes
which light up when evening approaches.

The two young women, leaning back under the heavy robes, look out lazily
over the blue expanse of water. At last one of them says:

“How delightful the evenings are! How good everything seems! Don't you
think so, Margot?”

“Yes, it is good. But there is always something lacking.”

“What is lacking? I feel perfectly happy. I don't need anything else.”

“Yes, you do. You are not thinking of it. No matter how contented we may
be, physically, we always long for something more—for the heart.”

The other asked with a smile:

“A little love?”

“Yes.”

They stopped talking, their eyes fastened on the distant horizon, then
the one called Marguerite murmured: “Life without that seems to me
unbearable. I need to be loved, if only by a dog. But we are all alike,
no matter what you may say, Simone.”

“Not at all, my dear. I had rather not be loved at all than to be loved
by the first comer. Do you think, for instance, that it would be
pleasant to be loved by—by—”

She was thinking by whom she might possibly be loved, glancing across
the wide landscape. Her eyes, after traveling around the horizon, fell
on the two bright buttons which were shining on the back of the
coachman's livery, and she continued, laughing: “by my coachman?”

Madame Margot barely smiled, and said in a low tone of voice:

“I assure you that it is very amusing to be loved by a servant. It has
happened to me two or three times. They roll their eyes in such a funny
manner—it's enough to make you die laughing! Naturally, the more in love
they are, the more severe one must be with them, and then, some day, for
some reason, you dismiss them, because, if anyone should notice it, you
would appear so ridiculous.”

Madame Simone was listening, staring straight ahead of her, then she
remarked:

“No, I'm afraid that my footman's heart would not satisfy me. Tell me
how you noticed that they loved you.”

“I noticed it the same way that I do with other men—when they get
stupid.”

“The others don't seem stupid to me, when they love me.”

“They are idiots, my dear, unable to talk, to answer, to understand
anything.”

“But how did you feel when you were loved by a servant? Were
you—moved—flattered?”

“Moved? no, flattered—yes a little. One is always flattered to be loved
by a man, no matter who he may be.”

“Oh, Margot!”

“Yes, indeed, my dear! For instance, I will tell you of a peculiar
incident which happened to me. You will see how curious and complex our
emotions are, in such cases.

“About four years ago I happened to be without a maid. I had tried five
or six, one right after the other, and I was about ready to give up in
despair, when I saw an advertisement in a newspaper of a young girl
knowing how to cook, embroider, dress hair, who was looking for a
position and who could furnish the best of references. Besides all these
accomplishments, she could speak English.

“I wrote to the given address, and the next day the person in question
presented herself. She was tall, slender, pale, shy-looking. She had
beautiful black eyes and a charming complexion; she pleased me
immediately. I asked for her certificates; she gave me one in English,
for she came, as she said, from Lady Rymwell's, where she had been for
ten years.

“The certificate showed that the young girl had left of her own free
will, in order to return to France, and the only thing which they had
had to find fault in her during her long period of service was a little
French coquettishness.

“This prudish English phrase even made me smile, and I immediately
engaged this maid.

“She came to me the same day. Her name was Rose.

“At the end of a month I would have been helpless without her. She was a
treasure, a pearl, a phenomenon.

“She could dress my hair with infinite taste; she could trim a hat
better than most milliners, and she could even make my dresses.

“I was astonished at her accomplishments. I had never before been waited
on in such a manner.

“She dressed me rapidly and with a surprisingly light touch. I never
felt her fingers on my skin, and nothing is so disagreeable to me as
contact with a servant's hand. I soon became excessively lazy; it was so
pleasant to be dressed from head to foot, and from lingerie to gloves,
by this tall, timid girl, always blushing a little, and never saying a
word. After my bath she would rub and massage me while I dozed a little
on my couch; I almost considered her more of a friend than a servant.

“One morning the janitor asked, mysteriously, to speak to me. I was
surprised, and told him to come in. He was a good, faithful man, an old
soldier, one of my husband's former orderlies.

“He seemed to be embarrassed by what he had to say to me. At last he
managed to mumble:

“'Madame, the superintendent of police is downstairs.'

“I asked quickly:

“'What does he wish?'

“'He wishes to search the house.'

“Of course the police are useful, but I hate them. I do not think that
it is a noble profession. I answered, angered and hurt:

“'Why this search? For what reason? He shall not come in.'

“The janitor continued:

“'He says that there is a criminal hidden in the house.'

“This time I was frightened and I told him to bring the inspector to me,
so that I might get some explanation. He was a man with good manners and
decorated with the Legion of Honor. He begged my pardon for disturbing
me, and then informed me that I had, among my domestics, a convict.

“I was shocked; and I answered that I could guarantee every servant in
the house, and I began to enumerate them.

“'The janitor, Pierre Courtin, an old soldier.'

“'It's not he.'

“'A stable-boy, son of farmers whom I know, and a groom whom you have
just seen.'

“'It's not he.'

“'Then, monsieur, you see that you must be mistaken.'

“'Excuse me, madame, but I am positive that I am not making a mistake.

“As the conviction of a notable criminal is at stake, would you be so
kind as to send for all your servants?”

“At first I refused, but I finally gave in, and sent downstairs for
everybody, men and women.

“The inspector glanced at them and then declared:

“'This isn't all.'

“'Excuse me, monsieur, there is no one left but my maid, a young girl
whom you could not possibly mistake for a convict.'

“He asked:

“'May I also see her?'

“'Certainly.'

“I rang for Rose, who immediately appeared. She had hardly entered the
room, when the inspector made a motion, and two men whom I had not seen,
hidden behind the door, sprang forward, seized her and tied her hands
behind her back.

“I cried out in anger and tried to rush forward to defend her. The
inspector stopped me:

“'This girl, madame, is a man whose name is Jean Nicolas Lecapet,
condemned to death in 1879 for assaulting a woman and injuring her so
that death resulted. His sentence was commuted to imprisonment for life.
He escaped four months ago. We have been looking for him ever since.'

“I was terrified, bewildered. I did not believe him. The commissioner
continued, laughing:

“'I can prove it to you. His right arm is tattooed.'

“'The sleeve was rolled up. It was true. The inspector added, with bad
taste:

“'You can trust us for the other proofs.'

“And they led my maid away!

“Well, would you believe me, the thing that moved me most was not anger
at having thus been played upon, deceived and made ridiculous, it was
not the shame of having thus been dressed and undressed, handled and
touched by this man—but a deep humiliation—a woman's humiliation. Do you
understand?”

“I am afraid I don't.”

“Just think—this man had been condemned for—for assaulting a woman.
Well! I thought of the one whom he had assaulted—and—and I felt
humiliated—There! Do you understand now?”

Madame Margot did not answer. She was looking straight ahead, her eyes
fastened on the two shining buttons of the livery, with that sphinx-like
smile which women sometimes have.





ROSALIE PRUDENT

There was a real mystery in this affair which neither the jury, nor the
president, nor the public prosecutor himself could understand.

The girl Prudent (Rosalie), servant at the Varambots', of Nantes, having
become enceinte without the knowledge of her masters, had, during the
night, killed and buried her child in the garden.

It was the usual story of the infanticides committed by servant girls.
But there was one inexplicable circumstance about this one. When the
police searched the girl Prudent's room they discovered a complete
infant's outfit, made by Rosalie herself, who had spent her nights for
the last three months in cutting and sewing it. The grocer from whom she
had bought her candles, out of her own wages, for this long piece of
work had come to testify. It came out, moreover, that the sage-femme of
the district, informed by Rosalie of her condition, had given her all
necessary instructions and counsel in case the event should happen at a
time when it might not be possible to get help. She had also procured a
place at Poissy for the girl Prudent, who foresaw that her present
employers would discharge her, for the Varambot couple did not trifle
with morality.

There were present at the trial both the man and the woman, a middle-
class pair from the provinces, living on their income. They were so
exasperated against this girl, who had sullied their house, that they
would have liked to see her guillotined on the spot without a trial. The
spiteful depositions they made against her became accusations in their
mouths.

The defendant, a large, handsome girl of Lower Normandy, well educated
for her station in life, wept continuously and would not answer to
anything.

The court and the spectators were forced to the opinion that she had
committed this barbarous act in a moment of despair and madness, since
there was every indication that she had expected to keep and bring up
her child.

The president tried for the last time to make her speak, to get some
confession, and, having urged her with much gentleness, he finally made
her understand that all these men gathered here to pass judgment upon
her were not anxious for her death and might even have pity on her.

Then she made up her mind to speak.

“Come, now, tell us, first, who is the father of this child?” he asked.

Until then she had obstinately refused to give his name.

But she replied suddenly, looking at her masters who had so cruelly
calumniated her:

“It is Monsieur Joseph, Monsieur Varambot's nephew.”

The couple started in their seats and cried with one voice—“That's not
true! She lies! This is infamous!”

The president had them silenced and continued, “Go on, please, and tell
us how it all happened.”

Then she suddenly began to talk freely, relieving her pent-up heart,
that poor, solitary, crushed heart—laying bare her sorrow, her whole
sorrow, before those severe men whom she had until now taken for enemies
and inflexible judges.

“Yes, it was Monsieur Joseph Varambot, when he came on leave last year.”

“What does Mr. Joseph Varambot do?”

“He is a non-commissioned officer in the artillery, monsieur. Well, he
stayed two months at the house, two months of the summer. I thought
nothing about it when he began to look at me, and then flatter me, and
make love to me all day long. And I let myself be taken in, monsieur. He
kept saying to me that I was a handsome girl, that I was good company,
that I just suited him—and I, I liked him well enough. What could I do?
One listens to these things when one is alone—all alone—as I was. I am
alone in the world, monsieur. I have no one to talk to—no one to tell my
troubles to. I have no father, no mother, no brother, no sister, nobody.
And when he began to talk to me it was as if I had a brother who had
come back. And then he asked me to go with him to the river one evening,
so that we might talk without disturbing any one. I went—I don't know—I
don't know how it happened. He had his arm around me. Really I didn't
want to—no—no—I could not—I felt like crying, the air was so soft —the
moon was shining. No, I swear to you—I could not—he did what he wanted.
That went on three weeks, as long as he stayed. I could have followed
him to the ends of the world. He went away. I did not know that I was
enceinte. I did not know it until the month after—”

She began to cry so bitterly that they had to give her time to collect
herself.

Then the president resumed with the tone of a priest at the
confessional: “Come, now, go on.”

She began to talk again: “When I realized my condition I went to see
Madame Boudin, who is there to tell you, and I asked her how it would
be, in case it should come if she were not there. Then I made the
outfit, sewing night after night, every evening until one o'clock in the
morning; and then I looked for another place, for I knew very well that
I should be sent away, but I wanted to stay in the house until the very
last, so as to save my pennies, for I have not got very much and I
should need my money for the little one.”

“Then you did not intend to kill him?”

“Oh, certainly not, monsieur!”

“Why did you kill him, then?”

“It happened this way. It came sooner than I expected. It came upon me
in the kitchen, while I was doing the dishes. Monsieur and Madame
Varambot were already asleep, so I went up, not without difficulty,
dragging myself up by the banister, and I lay down on the bare floor. It
lasted perhaps one hour, or two, or three; I don't know, I had such
pain; and then I pushed him out with all my strength. I felt that he
came out and I picked him up.

“Ah! but I was glad, I assure you! I did all that Madame Boudin told me
to do. And then I laid him on my bed. And then such a pain griped me
again that I thought I should die. If you knew what it meant, you there,
you would not do so much of this. I fell on my knees, and then toppled
over backward on the floor; and it griped me again, perhaps one hour,
perhaps two. I lay there all alone—and then another one comes—another
little one—two, yes, two, like this. I took him up as I did the first
one, and then I put him on the bed, the two side by side. Is it
possible, tell me, two children, and I who get only twenty francs a
month? Say, is it possible? One, yes, that can be managed by going
without things, but not two. That turned my head. What do I know about
it? Had I any choice, tell me?

“What could I do? I felt as if my last hour had come. I put the pillow
over them, without knowing why. I could not keep them both; and then I
threw myself down, and I lay there, rolling over and over and crying
until I saw the daylight come into the window. Both of them were quite
dead under the pillow. Then I took them under my arms and went down the
stairs out in the vegetable garden. I took the gardener's spade and I
buried them under the earth, digging as deep a hole as I could, one here
and the other one there, not together, so that they might not talk of
their mother if these little dead bodies can talk. What do I know about
it?

“And then, back in my bed, I felt so sick that I could not get up. They
sent for the doctor and he understood it all. I'm telling you the truth,
Your Honor. Do what you like with me; I'm ready.”

Half of the jury were blowing their noses violently to keep from crying.
The women in the courtroom were sobbing.

The president asked her:

“Where did you bury the other one?”

“The one that you have?” she asked.

“Why, this one—this one was in the artichokes.”

“Oh, then the other one is among the strawberries, by the well.”

And she began to sob so piteously that no one could hear her unmoved.

The girl Rosalie Prudent was acquitted.





REGRET

Monsieur Saval, who was called in Mantes “Father Saval,” had just risen
from bed. He was weeping. It was a dull autumn day; the leaves were
falling. They fell slowly in the rain, like a heavier and slower rain.
M. Saval was not in good spirits. He walked from the fireplace to the
window, and from the window to the fireplace. Life has its sombre days.
It would no longer have any but sombre days for him, for he had reached
the age of sixty-two. He is alone, an old bachelor, with nobody about
him. How sad it is to die alone, all alone, without any one who is
devoted to you!

He pondered over his life, so barren, so empty. He recalled former days,
the days of his childhood, the home, the house of his parents; his
college days, his follies; the time he studied law in Paris, his
father's illness, his death. He then returned to live with his mother.
They lived together very quietly, and desired nothing more. At last the
mother died. How sad life is! He lived alone since then, and now, in his
turn, he, too, will soon be dead. He will disappear, and that will be
the end. There will be no more of Paul Saval upon the earth. What a
frightful thing! Other people will love, will laugh. Yes, people will go
on amusing themselves, and he will no longer exist! Is it not strange
that people can laugh, amuse themselves, be joyful under that eternal
certainty of death? If this death were only probable, one could then
have hope; but no, it is inevitable, as inevitable as that night follows
the day.

If, however, his life had been full! If he had done something; if he had
had adventures, great pleasures, success, satisfaction of some kind or
another. But no, nothing. He had done nothing, nothing but rise from
bed, eat, at the same hours, and go to bed again. And he had gone on
like that to the age of sixty-two years. He had not even taken unto
himself a wife, as other men do. Why? Yes, why was it that he had not
married? He might have done so, for he possessed considerable means. Had
he lacked an opportunity? Perhaps! But one can create opportunities. He
was indifferent; that was all. Indifference had been his greatest
drawback, his defect, his vice. How many men wreck their lives through
indifference! It is so difficult for some natures to get out of bed, to
move about, to take long walks, to speak, to study any question.

He had not even been loved. No woman had reposed on his bosom, in a
complete abandon of love. He knew nothing of the delicious anguish of
expectation, the divine vibration of a hand in yours, of the ecstasy of
triumphant passion.

What superhuman happiness must overflow your heart, when lips encounter
lips for the first time, when the grasp of four arms makes one being of
you, a being unutterably happy, two beings infatuated with one another.

M. Saval was sitting before the fire, his feet on the fender, in his
dressing gown. Assuredly his life had been spoiled, completely spoiled.
He had, however, loved. He had loved secretly, sadly, and indifferently,
in a manner characteristic of him in everything. Yes, he had loved his
old friend, Madame Sandres, the wife of his old companion, Sandres. Ah!
if he had known her as a young girl! But he had met her too late; she
was already married. Unquestionably, he would have asked her hand! How
he had loved her, nevertheless, without respite, since the first day he
set eyes on her!

He recalled his emotion every time he saw her, his grief on leaving her,
the many nights that he could not sleep, because he was thinking of her.

On rising in the morning he was somewhat more rational than on the
previous evening.

Why?

How pretty she was formerly, so dainty, with fair curly hair, and always
laughing. Sandres was not the man she should have chosen. She was now
fifty-two years of age. She seemed happy. Ah! if she had only loved him
in days gone by; yes, if she had only loved him! And why should she not
have loved him, he, Saval, seeing that he loved her so much, yes, she,
Madame Sandres!

If only she could have guessed. Had she not guessed anything, seen
anything, comprehended anything? What would she have thought? If he had
spoken, what would she have answered?

And Saval asked himself a thousand other things. He reviewed his whole
life, seeking to recall a multitude of details.

He recalled all the long evenings spent at the house of Sandres, when
the latter's wife was young, and so charming.

He recalled many things that she had said to him, the intonations of her
voice, the little significant smiles that meant so much.

He recalled their walks, the three of them together, along the banks of
the Seine, their luncheon on the grass on Sundays, for Sandres was
employed at the sub-prefecture. And all at once the distinct
recollection came to him of an afternoon spent with her in a little wood
on the banks of the river.

They had set out in the morning, carrying their provisions in baskets.
It was a bright spring morning, one of those days which intoxicate one.
Everything smells fresh, everything seems happy. The voices of the birds
sound more joyous, and they fly more swiftly. They had luncheon on the
grass, under the willow trees, quite close to the water, which glittered
in the sun's rays. The air was balmy, charged with the odors of fresh
vegetation; they drank it in with delight. How pleasant everything was
on that day!

After lunch, Sandres went to sleep on the broad of his back. “The best
nap he had in his life,” said he, when he woke up.

Madame Sandres had taken the arm of Saval, and they started to walk
along the river bank.

She leaned tenderly on his arm. She laughed and said to him: “I am
intoxicated, my friend, I am quite intoxicated.” He looked at her, his
heart going pit-a-pat. He felt himself grow pale, fearful that he might
have looked too boldly at her, and that the trembling of his hand had
revealed his passion.

She had made a wreath of wild flowers and water-lilies, and she asked
him: “Do I look pretty like that?”

As he did not answer—for he could find nothing to say, he would have
liked to go down on his knees—she burst out laughing, a sort of annoyed,
displeased laugh, as she said: “Great goose, what ails you? You might at
least say something.”

He felt like crying, but could not even yet find a word to say.

All these things came back to him now, as vividly as on the day when
they took place. Why had she said this to him, “Great goose, what ails
you? You might at least say something!”

And he recalled how tenderly she had leaned on his arm. And in passing
under a shady tree he had felt her ear brushing his cheek, and he had
moved his head abruptly, lest she should suppose he was too familiar.

When he had said to her: “Is it not time to return?” she darted a
singular look at him. “Certainly,” she said, “certainly,” regarding him
at the same time in a curious manner. He had not thought of it at the
time, but now the whole thing appeared to him quite plain.

“Just as you like, my friend. If you are tired let us go back.”

And he had answered: “I am not fatigued; but Sandres may be awake now.”

And she had said: “If you are afraid of my husband's being awake, that
is another thing. Let us return.”

On their way back she remained silent, and leaned no longer on his arm.
Why?

At that time it had never occurred to him, to ask himself “why.” Now he
seemed to apprehend something that he had not then understood.

Could it?

M. Saval felt himself blush, and he got up at a bound, as if he were
thirty years younger and had heard Madame Sandres say, “I love you.”

Was it possible? That idea which had just entered his mind tortured him.
Was it possible that he had not seen, had not guessed?

Oh! if that were true, if he had let this opportunity of happiness pass
without taking advantage of it!

He said to himself: “I must know. I cannot remain in this state of
doubt. I must know!” He thought: “I am sixty-two years of age, she is
fifty-eight; I may ask her that now without giving offense.”

He started out.

The Sandres' house was situated on the other side of the street, almost
directly opposite his own. He went across and knocked at the door, and a
little servant opened it.

“You here at this hour, Saval! Has some accident happened to you?”

“No, my girl,” he replied; “but go and tell your mistress that I want to
speak to her at once.”

“The fact is madame is preserving pears for the winter, and she is in
the preserving room. She is not dressed, you understand.”

“Yes, but go and tell her that I wish to see her on a very important
matter.”

The little servant went away, and Saval began to walk, with long,
nervous strides, up and down the drawing-room. He did not feel in the
least embarrassed, however. Oh! he was merely going to ask her
something, as he would have asked her about some cooking recipe. He was
sixty-two years of age!

The door opened and madame appeared. She was now a large woman, fat and
round, with full cheeks and a sonorous laugh. She walked with her arms
away from her sides and her sleeves tucked up, her bare arms all covered
with fruit juice. She asked anxiously:

“What is the matter with you, my friend? You are not ill, are you?”

“No, my dear friend; but I wish to ask you one thing, which to me is of
the first importance, something which is torturing my heart, and I want
you to promise that you will answer me frankly.”

She laughed, “I am always frank. Say on.”

“Well, then. I have loved you from the first day I ever saw you. Can you
have any doubt of this?”

She responded, laughing, with something of her former tone of voice.

“Great goose! what ails you? I knew it from the very first day!”

Saval began to tremble. He stammered out: “You knew it? Then . . .”

He stopped.

She asked:

“Then?”

He answered:

“Then—what did you think? What—what—what would you have answered?”

She broke into a peal of laughter. Some of the juice ran off the tips of
her fingers on to the carpet.

“What?”

“I? Why, you did not ask me anything. It was not for me to declare
myself!”

He then advanced a step toward her.

“Tell me—tell me . . . . You remember the day when Sandres went to sleep
on the grass after lunch . . . when we had walked together as far as the
bend of the river, below . . .”

He waited, expectantly. She had ceased to laugh, and looked at him,
straight in the eyes.

“Yes, certainly, I remember it.”

He answered, trembling all over:

“Well—that day—if I had been—if I had been—venturesome—what would you
have done?”

She began to laugh as only a happy woman can laugh, who has nothing to
regret, and responded frankly, in a clear voice tinged with irony:

“I would have yielded, my friend.”

She then turned on her heels and went back to her jam-making.

Saval rushed into the street, cast down, as though he had met with some
disaster. He walked with giant strides through the rain, straight on,
until he reached the river bank, without thinking where he was going. He
then turned to the right and followed the river. He walked a long time,
as if urged on by some instinct. His clothes were running with water,
his hat was out of shape, as soft as a rag, and dripping like a roof. He
walked on, straight in front of him. At last, he came to the place where
they had lunched on that day so long ago, the recollection of which
tortured his heart. He sat down under the leafless trees, and wept.





A SISTER'S CONFESSION

Marguerite de Therelles was dying. Although she was only fifty-six years
old she looked at least seventy-five. She gasped for breath, her face
whiter than the sheets, and had spasms of violent shivering, with her
face convulsed and her eyes haggard as though she saw a frightful
vision.

Her elder sister, Suzanne, six years older than herself, was sobbing on
her knees beside the bed. A small table close to the dying woman's couch
bore, on a white cloth, two lighted candles, for the priest was expected
at any moment to administer extreme unction and the last communion.

The apartment wore that melancholy aspect common to death chambers; a
look of despairing farewell. Medicine bottles littered the furniture;
linen lay in the corners into which it had been kicked or swept. The
very chairs looked, in their disarray, as if they were terrified and had
run in all directions. Death—terrible Death—was in the room, hidden,
awaiting his prey.

This history of the two sisters was an affecting one. It was spoken of
far and wide; it had drawn tears from many eyes.

Suzanne, the elder, had once been passionately loved by a young man,
whose affection she returned. They were engaged to be married, and the
wedding day was at hand, when Henry de Sampierre suddenly died.

The young girl's despair was terrible, and she took an oath never to
marry. She faithfully kept her vow and adopted widow's weeds for the
remainder of her life.

But one morning her sister, her little sister Marguerite, then only
twelve years old, threw herself into Suzanne's arms, sobbing: “Sister, I
don't want you to be unhappy. I don't want you to mourn all your life.
I'll never leave you—never, never, never! I shall never marry, either.
I'll stay with you always—always!”

Suzanne kissed her, touched by the child's devotion, though not putting
any faith in her promise.

But the little one kept her word, and, despite her parents'
remonstrances, despite her elder sister's prayers, never married. She
was remarkably pretty and refused many offers. She never left her
sister.

They spent their whole life together, without a single day's separation.
They went everywhere together and were inseparable. But Marguerite was
pensive, melancholy, sadder than her sister, as if her sublime sacrifice
had undermined her spirits. She grew older more quickly; her hair was
white at thirty; and she was often ill, apparently stricken with some
unknown, wasting malady.

And now she would be the first to die.

She had not spoken for twenty-four hours, except to whisper at daybreak:

“Send at once for the priest.”

And she had since remained lying on her back, convulsed with agony, her
lips moving as if unable to utter the dreadful words that rose in her
heart, her face expressive of a terror distressing to witness.

Suzanne, distracted with grief, her brow pressed against the bed, wept
bitterly, repeating over and over again the words:

“Margot, my poor Margot, my little one!”

She had always called her “my little one,” while Marguerite's name for
the elder was invariably “sister.”

A footstep sounded on the stairs. The door opened. An acolyte appeared,
followed by the aged priest in his surplice. As soon as she saw him the
dying woman sat up suddenly in bed, opened her lips, stammered a few
words and began to scratch the bed-clothes, as if she would have made
hole in them.

Father Simon approached, took her hand, kissed her on the forehead and
said in a gentle voice:

“May God pardon your sins, my daughter. Be of good courage. Now is the
moment to confess them—speak!”

Then Marguerite, shuddering from head to foot, so that the very bed
shook with her nervous movements, gasped:

“Sit down, sister, and listen.”

The priest stooped toward the prostrate Suzanne, raised her to her feet,
placed her in a chair, and, taking a hand of each of the sisters,
pronounced:

“Lord God! Send them strength! Shed Thy mercy upon them.”

And Marguerite began to speak. The words issued from her lips one by
one—hoarse, jerky, tremulous.

“Pardon, pardon, sister! pardon me! Oh, if only you knew how I have
dreaded this moment all my life!”

Suzanne faltered through her tears:

“But what have I to pardon, little one? You have given me everything,
sacrificed all to me. You are an angel.”

But Marguerite interrupted her:

“Be silent, be silent! Let me speak! Don't stop me! It is terrible. Let
me tell all, to the very end, without interruption. Listen. You
remember—you remember—Henry—”

Suzanne trembled and looked at her sister. The younger one went on:

“In order to understand you must hear everything. I was twelve years
old—only twelve—you remember, don't you? And I was spoilt; I did just as
I pleased. You remember how everybody spoilt me? Listen. The first time
he came he had on his riding boots; he dismounted, saying that he had a
message for father. You remember, don't you? Don't speak. Listen. When I
saw him I was struck with admiration. I thought him so handsome, and I
stayed in a corner of the drawing-room all the time he was talking.
Children are strange—and terrible. Yes, indeed, I dreamt of him.

“He came again—many times. I looked at him with all my eyes, all my
heart. I was large for my age and much more precocious than—any one
suspected. He came often. I thought only of him. I often whispered to
myself:

“'Henry-Henry de Sampierre!'

“Then I was told that he was going to marry you. That was a blow! Oh,
sister, a terrible blow—terrible! I wept all through three sleepless
nights.

“He came every afternoon after lunch. You remember, don't you? Don't
answer. Listen. You used to make cakes that he was very fond of—with
flour, butter and milk. Oh, I know how to make them. I could make them
still, if necessary. He would swallow them at one mouthful and wash them
down with a glass of wine, saying: 'Delicious!' Do you remember the way
he said it?

“I was jealous—jealous! Your wedding day was drawing near. It was only a
fortnight distant. I was distracted. I said to myself: 'He shall not
marry Suzanne—no, he shall not! He shall marry me when I am old enough!
I shall never love any one half so much.' But one evening, ten days
before the wedding, you went for a stroll with him in the moonlight
before the house—and yonder—under the pine tree, the big pine tree—he
kissed you—kissed you—and held you in his arms so long—so long! You
remember, don't you? It was probably the first time. You were so pale
when you came back to the drawing-room!

“I saw you. I was there in the shrubbery. I was mad with rage! I would
have killed you both if I could!

“I said to myself: 'He shall never marry Suzanne—never! He shall marry
no one! I could not bear it.' And all at once I began to hate him
intensely.

“Then do you know what I did? Listen. I had seen the gardener prepare
pellets for killing stray dogs. He would crush a bottle into small
pieces with a stone and put the ground glass into a ball of meat.

“I stole a small medicine bottle from mother's room. I ground it fine
with a hammer and hid the glass in my pocket. It was a glistening
powder. The next day, when you had made your little cakes; I opened them
with a knife and inserted the glass. He ate three. I ate one myself. I
threw the six others into the pond. The two swans died three days later.
You remember? Oh, don't speak! Listen, listen. I, I alone did not die.
But I have always been ill. Listen—he died—you know—listen—that was not
the worst. It was afterward, later—always—the most terrible—listen.

“My life, all my life—such torture! I said to myself: 'I will never
leave my sister. And on my deathbed I will tell her all.' And now I have
told. And I have always thought of this moment—the moment when all would
be told. Now it has come. It is terrible—oh!—sister—

“I have always thought, morning and evening, day and night: 'I shall
have to tell her some day!' I waited. The horror of it! It is done. Say
nothing. Now I am afraid—I am afraid! Oh! Supposing I should see him
again, by and by, when I am dead! See him again! Only to think of it! I
dare not—yet I must. I am going to die. I want you to forgive me. I
insist on it. I cannot meet him without your forgiveness. Oh, tell her
to forgive me, Father! Tell her. I implore you! I cannot die without
it.”

She was silent and lay back, gasping for breath, still plucking at the
sheets with her fingers.

Suzanne had hidden her face in her hands and did not move. She was
thinking of him whom she had loved so long. What a life of happiness
they might have had together! She saw him again in the dim and distant
past-that past forever lost. Beloved dead! how the thought of them rends
the heart! Oh! that kiss, his only kiss! She had retained the memory of
it in her soul. And, after that, nothing, nothing more throughout her
whole existence!

The priest rose suddenly and in a firm, compelling voice said:

“Mademoiselle Suzanne, your sister is dying!”

Then Suzanne, raising her tear-stained face, put her arms round her
sister, and kissing her fervently, exclaimed:

“I forgive you, I forgive you, little one!”





COCO

Throughout the whole countryside the Lucas farn, was known as “the
Manor.” No one knew why. The peasants doubtless attached to this word,
“Manor,” a meaning of wealth and of splendor, for this farm was
undoubtedly the largest, richest and the best managed in the whole
neighborhood.

The immense court, surrounded by five rows of magnificent trees, which
sheltered the delicate apple trees from the harsh wind of the plain,
inclosed in its confines long brick buildings used for storing fodder
and grain, beautiful stables built of hard stone and made to accommodate
thirty horses, and a red brick residence which looked like a little
chateau.

Thanks for the good care taken, the manure heaps were as little
offensive as such things can be; the watch-dogs lived in kennels, and
countless poultry paraded through the tall grass.

Every day, at noon, fifteen persons, masters, farmhands and the women
folks, seated themselves around the long kitchen table where the soup
was brought in steaming in a large, blue-flowered bowl.

The beasts-horses, cows, pigs and sheep-were fat, well fed and clean.
Maitre Lucas, a tall man who was getting stout, would go round three
times a day, overseeing everything and thinking of everything.

A very old white horse, which the mistress wished to keep until its
natural death, because she had brought it up and had always used it, and
also because it recalled many happy memories, was housed, through sheer
kindness of heart, at the end of the stable.

A young scamp about fifteen years old, Isidore Duval by name, and
called, for convenience, Zidore, took care of this pensioner, gave him
his measure of oats and fodder in winter, and in summer was supposed to
change his pasturing place four times a day, so that he might have
plenty of fresh grass.

The animal, almost crippled, lifted with difficulty his legs, large at
the knees and swollen above the hoofs. His coat, which was no longer
curried, looked like white hair, and his long eyelashes gave to his eyes
a sad expression.

When Zidore took the animal to pasture, he had to pull on the rope with
all his might, because it walked so slowly; and the youth, bent over and
out of breath, would swear at it, exasperated at having to care for this
old nag.

The farmhands, noticing the young rascal's anger against Coco, were
amused and would continually talk of the horse to Zidore, in order to
exasperate him. His comrades would make sport with him. In the village
he was called Coco-Zidore.

The boy would fume, feeling an unholy desire to revenge himself on the
horse. He was a thin, long-legged, dirty child, with thick, coarse,
bristly red hair. He seemed only half-witted, and stuttered as though
ideas were unable to form in his thick, brute-like mind.

For a long time he had been unable to understand why Coco should be
kept, indignant at seeing things wasted on this useless beast. Since the
horse could no longer work, it seemed to him unjust that he should be
fed; he revolted at the idea of wasting oats, oats which were so
expensive, on this paralyzed old plug. And often, in spite of the orders
of Maitre Lucas, he would economize on the nag's food, only giving him
half measure. Hatred grew in his confused, childlike mind, the hatred of
a stingy, mean, fierce, brutal and cowardly peasant.

When summer came he had to move the animal about in the pasture. It was
some distance away. The rascal, angrier every morning, would start, with
his dragging step, across the wheat fields. The men working in the
fields would shout to him, jokingly:

“Hey, Zidore, remember me to Coco.”

He would not answer; but on the way he would break off a switch, and, as
soon as he had moved the old horse, he would let it begin grazing; then,
treacherously sneaking up behind it, he would slash its legs. The animal
would try to escape, to kick, to get away from the blows, and run around
in a circle about its rope, as though it had been inclosed in a circus
ring. And the boy would slash away furiously, running along behind, his
teeth clenched in anger.

Then he would go away slowly, without turning round, while the horse
watched him disappear, his ribs sticking out, panting as a result of his
unusual exertions. Not until the blue blouse of the young peasant was
out of sight would he lower his thin white head to the grass.

As the nights were now warm, Coco was allowed to sleep out of doors, in
the field behind the little wood. Zidore alone went to see him. The boy
threw stones at him to amuse himself. He would sit down on an embankment
about ten feet away and would stay there about half an hour, from time
to time throwing a sharp stone at the old horse, which remained standing
tied before his enemy, watching him continually and not daring to eat
before he was gone.

This one thought persisted in the mind of the young scamp: “Why feed
this horse, which is no longer good for anything?” It seemed to him that
this old nag was stealing the food of the others, the goods of man and
God, that he was even robbing him, Zidore, who was working.

Then, little by little, each day, the boy began to shorten the length of
rope which allowed the horse to graze.

The hungry animal was growing thinner, and starving. Too feeble to break
his bonds, he would stretch his head out toward the tall, green,
tempting grass, so near that he could smell, and yet so far that he
could not touch it.

But one morning Zidore had an idea: it was, not to move Coco any more.
He was tired of walking so far for that old skeleton. He came, however,
in order to enjoy his vengeance. The beast watched him anxiously. He did
not beat him that day. He walked around him with his hands in his
pockets. He even pretended to change his place, but he sank the stake in
exactly the same hole, and went away overjoyed with his invention.

The horse, seeing him leave, neighed to call him back; but the rascal
began to run, leaving him alone, entirely alone in his field, well tied
down and without a blade of grass within reach.

Starving, he tried to reach the grass which he could touch with the end
of his nose. He got on his knees, stretching out his neck and his long,
drooling lips. All in vain. The old animal spent the whole day in
useless, terrible efforts. The sight of all that green food, which
stretched out on all sides of him, served to increase the gnawing pangs
of hunger.

The scamp did not return that day. He wandered through the woods in
search of nests.

The next day he appeared upon the scene again. Coco, exhausted, had lain
down. When he saw the boy, he got up, expecting at last to have his
place changed.

But the little peasant did not even touch the mallet, which was lying on
the ground. He came nearer, looked at the animal, threw at his head a
clump of earth which flattened out against the white hair, and he
started off again, whistling.

The horse remained standing as long as he could see him; then, knowing
that his attempts to reach the near-by grass would be hopeless, he once
more lay down on his side and closed his eyes.

The following day Zidore did not come.

When he did come at last, he found Coco still stretched out; he saw that
he was dead.

Then he remained standing, looking at him, pleased with what he had
done, surprised that it should already be all over. He touched him with
his foot, lifted one of his legs and then let it drop, sat on him and
remained there, his eyes fixed on the grass, thinking of nothing. He
returned to the farm, but did not mention the accident, because he
wished to wander about at the hours when he used to change the horse's
pasture. He went to see him the next day. At his approach some crows
flew away. Countless flies were walking over the body and were buzzing
around it. When he returned home, he announced the event. The animal was
so old that nobody was surprised. The master said to two of the men:

“Take your shovels and dig a hole right where he is.”

The men buried the horse at the place where he had died of hunger. And
the grass grew thick, green and vigorous, fed by the poor body.





DEAD WOMAN'S SECRET

The woman had died without pain, quietly, as a woman should whose life
had been blameless. Now she was resting in her bed, lying on her back,
her eyes closed, her features calm, her long white hair carefully
arranged as though she had done it up ten minutes before dying. The
whole pale countenance of the dead woman was so collected, so calm, so
resigned that one could feel what a sweet soul had lived in that body,
what a quiet existence this old soul had led, how easy and pure the
death of this parent had been.

Kneeling beside the bed, her son, a magistrate with inflexible
principles, and her daughter, Marguerite, known as Sister Eulalie, were
weeping as though their hearts would break. She had, from childhood up,
armed them with a strict moral code, teaching them religion, without
weakness, and duty, without compromise. He, the man, had become a judge
and handled the law as a weapon with which he smote the weak ones
without pity. She, the girl, influenced by the virtue which had bathed
her in this austere family, had become the bride of the Church through
her loathing for man.

They had hardly known their father, knowing only that he had made their
mother most unhappy, without being told any other details.

The nun was wildly-kissing the dead woman's hand, an ivory hand as white
as the large crucifix lying across the bed. On the other side of the
long body the other hand seemed still to be holding the sheet in the
death grasp; and the sheet had preserved the little creases as a memory
of those last movements which precede eternal immobility.

A few light taps on the door caused the two sobbing heads to look up,
and the priest, who had just come from dinner, returned. He was red and
out of breath from his interrupted digestion, for he had made himself a
strong mixture of coffee and brandy in order to combat the fatigue of
the last few nights and of the wake which was beginning.

He looked sad, with that assumed sadness of the priest for whom death is
a bread winner. He crossed himself and approaching with his professional
gesture: “Well, my poor children! I have come to help you pass these
last sad hours.” But Sister Eulalie suddenly arose. “Thank you, father,
but my brother and I prefer to remain alone with her. This is our last
chance to see her, and we wish to be together, all three of us, as
we—we—used to be when we were small and our poor mo—mother——”

Grief and tears stopped her; she could not continue.

Once more serene, the priest bowed, thinking of his bed. “As you wish,
my children.” He kneeled, crossed himself, prayed, arose and went out
quietly, murmuring: “She was a saint!”

They remained alone, the dead woman and her children. The ticking of the
clock, hidden in the shadow, could be heard distinctly, and through the
open window drifted in the sweet smell of hay and of woods, together
with the soft moonlight. No other noise could be heard over the land
except the occasional croaking of the frog or the chirping of some
belated insect. An infinite peace, a divine melancholy, a silent
serenity surrounded this dead woman, seemed to be breathed out from her
and to appease nature itself.

Then the judge, still kneeling, his head buried in the bed clothes,
cried in a voice altered by grief and deadened by the sheets and
blankets: “Mamma, mamma, mamma!” And his sister, frantically striking
her forehead against the woodwork, convulsed, twitching and trembling as
in an epileptic fit, moaned: “Jesus, Jesus, mamma, Jesus!” And both of
them, shaken by a storm of grief, gasped and choked.

The crisis slowly calmed down and they began to weep quietly, just as on
the sea when a calm follows a squall.

A rather long time passed and they arose and looked at their dead. And
the memories, those distant memories, yesterday so dear, to-day so
torturing, came to their minds with all the little forgotten details,
those little intimate familiar details which bring back to life the one
who has left. They recalled to each other circumstances, words, smiles,
intonations of the mother who was no longer to speak to them. They saw
her again happy and calm. They remembered things which she had said, and
a little motion of the hand, like beating time, which she often used
when emphasizing something important.

And they loved her as they never had loved her before. They measured the
depth of their grief, and thus they discovered how lonely they would
find themselves.

It was their prop, their guide, their whole youth, all the best part of
their lives which was disappearing. It was their bond with life, their
mother, their mamma, the connecting link with their forefathers which
they would thenceforth miss. They now became solitary, lonely beings;
they could no longer look back.

The nun said to her brother: “You remember how mamma used always to read
her old letters; they are all there in that drawer. Let us, in turn,
read them; let us live her whole life through tonight beside her! It
would be like a road to the cross, like making the acquaintance of her
mother, of our grandparents, whom we never knew, but whose letters are
there and of whom she so often spoke, do you remember?”

Out of the drawer they took about ten little packages of yellow paper,
tied with care and arranged one beside the other. They threw these
relics on the bed and chose one of them on which the word “Father” was
written. They opened and read it.

It was one of those old-fashioned letters which one finds in old family
desk drawers, those epistles which smell of another century. The first
one started: “My dear,” another one: “My beautiful little girl,” others:
“My dear child,” or: “My dear (laughter).” And suddenly the nun began to
read aloud, to read over to the dead woman her whole history, all her
tender memories. The judge, resting his elbow on the bed, was listening
with his eyes fastened on his mother. The motionless body seemed happy.

Sister Eulalie, interrupting herself, said suddenly:

“These ought to be put in the grave with her; they ought to be used as a
shroud and she ought to be buried in it.” She took another package, on
which no name was written. She began to read in a firm voice: “My adored
one, I love you wildly. Since yesterday I have been suffering the
tortures of the damned, haunted by our memory. I feel your lips against
mine, your eyes in mine, your breast against mine. I love you, I love
you! You have driven me mad. My arms open, I gasp, moved by a wild
desire to hold you again. My whole soul and body cries out for you,
wants you. I have kept in my mouth the taste of your kisses—”

The judge had straightened himself up. The nun stopped reading. He
snatched the letter from her and looked for the signature. There was
none, but only under the words, “The man who adores you,” the name
“Henry.” Their father's name was Rene. Therefore this was not from him.
The son then quickly rummaged through the package of letters, took one
out and read: “I can no longer live without your caresses.” Standing
erect, severe as when sitting on the bench, he looked unmoved at the
dead woman. The nun, straight as a statue, tears trembling in the
corners of her eyes, was watching her brother, waiting. Then he crossed
the room slowly, went to the window and stood there, gazing out into the
dark night.

When he turned around again Sister Eulalie, her eyes dry now, was still
standing near the bed, her head bent down.

He stepped forward, quickly picked up the letters and threw them pell-
mell back into the drawer. Then he closed the curtains of the bed.

When daylight made the candles on the table turn pale the son slowly
left his armchair, and without looking again at the mother upon whom he
had passed sentence, severing the tie that united her to son and
daughter, he said slowly: “Let us now retire, sister.”





A HUMBLE DRAMA

Meetings that are unexpected constitute the charm of traveling. Who has
not experienced the joy of suddenly coming across a Parisian, a college
friend, or a neighbor, five hundred miles from home? Who has not passed
a night awake in one of those small, rattling country stage-coaches, in
regions where steam is still a thing unknown, beside a strange young
woman, of whom one has caught only a glimpse in the dim light of the
lantern, as she entered the carriage in front of a white house in some
small country town?

And the next morning, when one's head and ears feel numb with the
continuous tinkling of the bells and the loud rattling of the windows,
what a charming sensation it is to see your pretty neighbor open her
eyes, startled, glance around her, arrange her rebellious hair with her
slender fingers, adjust her hat, feel with sure hand whether her corset
is still in place, her waist straight, and her skirt not too wrinkled.

She glances at you coldly and curiously. Then she leans back and no
longer seems interested in anything but the country.

In spite of yourself, you watch her; and in spite of yourself you keep
on thinking of her. Who is she? Whence does she come? Where is she
going? In spite of yourself you spin a little romance around her. She is
pretty; she seems charming! Happy he who . . . Life might be delightful
with her. Who knows? She is perhaps the woman of our dreams, the one
suited to our disposition, the one for whom our heart calls.

And how delicious even the disappointment at seeing her get out at the
gate of a country house! A man stands there, who is awaiting her, with
two children and two maids. He takes her in his arms and kisses as he
lifts her out. Then she stoops over the little ones, who hold up their
hands to her; she kisses them tenderly; and then they all go away
together, down a path, while the maids catch the packages which the
driver throws down to them from the coach.

Adieu! It is all over. You never will see her again! Adieu to the young
woman who has passed the night by your side. You know her no more, you
have not spoken to her; all the same, you feel a little sad to see her
go. Adieu!

I have had many of these souvenirs of travel, some joyous and some sad.

Once I was in Auvergne, tramping through those delightful French
mountains, that are not too high, not too steep, but friendly and
familiar. I had climbed the Sancy, and entered a little inn, near a
pilgrim's chapel called Notre-Dame de Vassiviere, when I saw a queer,
ridiculous-looking old woman breakfasting alone at the end table.

She was at least seventy years old, tall, skinny, and angular, and her
white hair was puffed around her temples in the old-fashioned style. She
was dressed like a traveling Englishwoman, in awkward, queer clothing,
like a person who is indifferent to dress. She was eating an omelet and
drinking water.

Her face was peculiar, with restless eyes and the expression of one with
whom fate has dealt unkindly. I watched her, in spite of myself,
thinking: “Who is she? What is the life of this woman? Why is she
wandering alone through these mountains?”

She paid and rose to leave, drawing up over her shoulders an astonishing
little shawl, the two ends of which hung over her arms. From a corner of
the room she took an alpenstock, which was covered with names traced
with a hot iron; then she went out, straight, erect, with the long steps
of a letter-carrier who is setting out on his route.

A guide was waiting for her at the door, and both went away. I watched
them go down the valley, along the road marked by a line of high wooden
crosses. She was taller than her companion, and seemed to walk faster
than he.

Two hours later I was climbing the edge of the deep funnel that incloses
Lake Pavin in a marvelous and enormous basin of verdure, full of trees,
bushes, rocks, and flowers. This lake is so round that it seems as if
the outline had been drawn with a pair of compasses, so clear and blue
that one might deem it a flood of azure come down from the sky, so
charming that one would like to live in a hut on the wooded slope which
dominates this crater, where the cold, still water is sleeping. The
Englishwoman was standing there like a statue, gazing upon the
transparent sheet down in the dead volcano. She was straining her eyes
to penetrate below the surface down to the unknown depths, where
monstrous trout which have devoured all the other fish are said to live.
As I was passing close by her, it seemed to me that two big tears were
brimming her eyes. But she departed at a great pace, to rejoin her
guide, who had stayed behind in an inn at the foot of the path leading
to the lake.

I did not see her again that day.

The next day, at nightfall, I came to the chateau of Murol. The old
fortress, an enormous tower standing on a peak in the midst of a large
valley, where three valleys intersect, rears its brown, uneven, cracked
surface into the sky; it is round, from its large circular base to the
crumbling turrets on its pinnacles.

It astonishes the eye more than any other ruin by its simple mass, its
majesty, its grave and imposing air of antiquity. It stands there,
alone, high as a mountain, a dead queen, but still the queen of the
valleys stretched out beneath it. You go up by a slope planted with
firs, then you enter a narrow gate, and stop at the foot of the walls,
in the first inclosure, in full view of the entire country.

Inside there are ruined halls, crumbling stairways, unknown cavities,
dungeons, walls cut through in the middle, vaulted roofs held up one
knows not how, and a mass of stones and crevices, overgrown with grass,
where animals glide in and out.

I was exploring this ruin alone.

Suddenly I perceived behind a bit of wall a being, a kind of phantom,
like the spirit of this ancient and crumbling habitation.

I was taken aback with surprise, almost with fear, when I recognized the
old lady whom I had seen twice.

She was weeping, with big tears in her eyes, and held her handkerchief
in her hand.

I turned around to go away, when she spoke to me, apparently ashamed to
have been surprised in her grief.

“Yes, monsieur, I am crying. That does not happen often to me.”

“Pardon me, madame, for having disturbed you,” I stammered, confused,
not knowing what to say. “Some misfortune has doubtless come to you.”

“Yes. No—I am like a lost dog,” she murmured, and began to sob, with her
handkerchief over her eyes.

Moved by these contagious tears, I took her hand, trying to calm her.
Then brusquely she told me her history, as if no longer ably to bear her
grief alone.

“Oh! Oh! Monsieur—if you knew—the sorrow in which I live—in what sorrow.

“Once I was happy. I have a house down there—a home. I cannot go back to
it any more; I shall never go back to it again, it is too hard to bear.

“I have a son. It is he! it is he! Children don't know. Oh, one has such
a short time to live! If I should see him now I should perhaps not
recognize him. How I loved him? How I loved him! Even before he was
born, when I felt him move. And after that! How I have kissed and
caressed and cherished him! If you knew how many nights I have passed in
watching him sleep, and how many in thinking of him. I was crazy about
him. When he was eight years old his father sent him to boarding-school.
That was the end. He no longer belonged to me. Oh, heavens! He came to
see me every Sunday. That was all!

“He went to college in Paris. Then he came only four times a year, and
every time I was astonished to see how he had changed, to find him
taller without having seen him grow. They stole his childhood from me,
his confidence, and his love which otherwise would not have gone away
from me; they stole my joy in seeing him grow, in seeing him become a
little man.

“I saw him four times a year. Think of it! And at every one of his
visits his body, his eye, his movements, his voice his laugh, were no
longer the same, were no longer mine. All these things change so quickly
in a child; and it is so sad if one is not there to see them change; one
no longer recognizes him.

“One year he came with down on his cheek! He! my son! I was dumfounded
—would you believe it? I hardly dared to kiss him. Was it really he, my
little, little curly head of old, my dear; dear child, whom I had held
in his diapers or my knee, and who had nursed at my breast with his
little greedy lips—was it he, this tall, brown boy, who no longer knew
how to kiss me, who seemed to love me as a matter of duty, who called me
'mother' for the sake of politeness, and who kissed me on the forehead,
when I felt like crushing him in my arms?

“My husband died. Then my parents, and then my two sisters. When Death
enters a house it seems as if he were hurrying to do his utmost, so as
not to have to return for a long time after that. He spares only one or
two to mourn the others.

“I remained alone. My tall son was then studying law. I was hoping to
live and die near him, and I went to him so that we could live together.
But he had fallen into the ways of young men, and he gave me to
understand that I was in his way. So I left. I was wrong in doing so,
but I suffered too much in feeling myself in his way, I, his mother! And
I came back home.

“I hardly ever saw him again.

“He married. What a joy! At last we should be together for good. I
should have grandchildren. His wife was an Englishwoman, who took a
dislike to me. Why? Perhaps she thought that I loved him too much.

“Again I was obliged to go away. And I was alone. Yes, monsieur.

“Then he went to England, to live with them, with his wife's parents. Do
you understand? They have him—they have my son for themselves. They have
stolen him from me. He writes to me once a month. At first he came to
see me. But now he no longer comes.

“It is now four years since I saw him last. His face then was wrinkled
and his hair white. Was that possible? This man, my son, almost an old
man? My little rosy child of old? No doubt I shall never see him again.

“And so I travel about all the year. I go east and west, as you see,
with no companion.

“I am like a lost dog. Adieu, monsieur! don't stay here with me for it
hurts me to have told you all this.”

I went down the hill, and on turning round to glance back, I saw the old
woman standing on a broken wall, looking out upon the mountains, the
long valley and Lake Chambon in the distance.

And her skirt and the queer little shawl which she wore around her thin
shoulders were fluttering tike a flag in the wind.





MADEMOISELLE COCOTTE

We were just leaving the asylum when I saw a tall, thin man in a corner
of the court who kept on calling an imaginary dog. He was crying in a
soft, tender voice: “Cocotte! Come here, Cocotte, my beauty!” and
slapping his thigh as one does when calling an animal. I asked the
physician, “Who is that man?” He answered: “Oh! he is not at all
interesting. He is a coachman named Francois, who became insane after
drowning his dog.”

I insisted: “Tell me his story. The most simple and humble things are
sometimes those which touch our hearts most deeply.”

Here is this man's adventure, which was obtained from a friend of his, a
groom:

There was a family of rich bourgeois who lived in a suburb of Paris.
They had a villa in the middle of a park, at the edge of the Seine.
Their coachman was this Francois, a country fellow, somewhat dull, kind-
hearted, simple and easy to deceive.

One evening, as he was returning home, a dog began to follow him. At
first he paid no attention to it, but the creature's obstinacy at last
made him turn round. He looked to see if he knew this dog. No, he had
never seen it. It was a female dog and frightfully thin. She was
trotting behind him with a mournful and famished look, her tail between
her legs, her ears flattened against her head and stopping and starting
whenever he did.

He tried to chase this skeleton away and cried:

“Run along! Get out! Kss! kss!” She retreated a few steps, then sat down
and waited. And when the coachman started to walk again she followed
along behind him.

He pretended to pick up some stones. The animal ran a little farther
away, but came back again as soon as the man's back was turned.

Then the coachman Francois took pity on the beast and called her. The
dog approached timidly. The man patted her protruding ribs, moved by the
beast's misery, and he cried: “Come! come here!” Immediately she began
to wag her tail, and, feeling herself taken in, adopted, she began to
run along ahead of her new master.

He made her a bed on the straw in the stable, then he ran to the kitchen
for some bread. When she had eaten all she could she curled up and went
to sleep.

When his employers heard of this the next day they allowed the coachman
to keep the animal. It was a good beast, caressing and faithful,
intelligent and gentle.

Nevertheless Francois adored Cocotte, and he kept repeating: “That beast
is human. She only lacks speech.”

He had a magnificent red leather collar made for her which bore these
words engraved on a copper plate: “Mademoiselle Cocotte, belonging to
the coachman Francois.”

She was remarkably prolific and four times a year would give birth to a
batch of little animals belonging to every variety of the canine race.
Francois would pick out one which he would leave her and then he would
unmercifully throw the others into the river. But soon the cook joined
her complaints to those of the gardener. She would find dogs under the
stove, in the ice box, in the coal bin, and they would steal everything
they came across.

Finally the master, tired of complaints, impatiently ordered Francois to
get rid of Cocotte. In despair the man tried to give her away. Nobody
wanted her. Then he decided to lose her, and he gave her to a teamster,
who was to drop her on the other side of Paris, near Joinville-le-Pont.

Cocotte returned the same day. Some decision had to be taken. Five
francs was given to a train conductor to take her to Havre. He was to
drop her there.

Three days later she returned to the stable, thin, footsore and tired
out.

The master took pity on her and let her stay. But other dogs were
attracted as before, and one evening, when a big dinner party was on, a
stuffed turkey was carried away by one of them right under the cook's
nose, and she did not dare to stop him.

This time the master completely lost his temper and said angrily to
Francois: “If you don't throw this beast into the water before—to-morrow
morning, I'll put you out, do you hear?”

The man was dumbfounded, and he returned to his room to pack his trunk,
preferring to leave the place. Then he bethought himself that he could
find no other situation as long as he dragged this animal about with
him. He thought of his good position, where he was well paid and well
fed, and he decided that a dog was really not worth all that. At last he
decided to rid himself of Cocotte at daybreak.

He slept badly. He rose at dawn, and taking a strong rope, went to get
the dog. She stood up slowly, shook herself, stretched and came to
welcome her master.

Then his courage forsook him, and he began to pet her affectionately,
stroking her long ears, kissing her muzzle and calling her tender names.

But a neighboring clock struck six. He could no longer hesitate. He
opened the door, calling: “Come!” The beast wagged her tail,
understanding that she was to be taken out.

They reached the beach, and he chose a place where the water seemed
deep. Then he knotted the rope round the leather collar and tied a heavy
stone to the other end. He seized Cocotte in his arms and kissed her
madly, as though he were taking leave of some human being. He held her
to his breast, rocked her and called her “my dear little Cocotte, my
sweet little Cocotte,” and she grunted with pleasure.

Ten times he tried to throw her into the water and each time he lost
courage.

But suddenly he made up his mind and threw her as far from him as he
could. At first she tried to swim, as she did when he gave her a bath,
but her head, dragged down by the stone, kept going under, and she
looked at her master with wild, human glances as she struggled like a
drowning person. Then the front part of her body sank, while her hind
legs waved wildly out of the water. Finally those also disappeared.

Then, for five minutes, bubbles rose to the surface as though the river
were boiling, and Francois, haggard, his heart beating, thought that he
saw Cocotte struggling in the mud, and, with the simplicity of a
peasant, he kept saying to himself: “What does the poor beast think of
me now?”

He almost lost his mind. He was ill for a month and every night he
dreamed of his dog. He could feel her licking his hands and hear her
barking. It was necessary to call in a physician. At last he recovered,
and toward the 2nd of June his employers took him to their estate at
Biesard, near Rouen.

There again he was near the Seine. He began to take baths. Each morning
he would go down with the groom and they would swim across the river.

One day, as they were disporting themselves in the water, Francois
suddenly cried to his companion: “Look what's coming! I'm going to give
you a chop!”

It was an enormous, swollen corpse that was floating down with its feet
sticking straight up in the air.

Francois swam up to it, still joking: “Whew! it's not fresh. What a
catch, old man! It isn't thin, either!” He kept swimming about at a
distance from the animal that was in a state of decomposition. Then,
suddenly, he was silent and looked at it: attentively. This time he came
near enough to touch, it. He looked fixedly at the collar, then he
stretched out his arm, seized the neck, swung the corpse round and drew
it up close to him and read on the copper which had turned green and
which still stuck to the discolored leather: “Mademoiselle Cocotte,
belonging to the coachman Francois.”

The dead dog had come more than a hundred miles to find its master.

He let out a frightful shriek and began to swim for the beach with all
his might, still howling; and as soon as he touched land he ran away
wildly, stark naked, through the country. He was insane!





THE CORSICAN BANDIT

The road ascended gently through the forest of Aitone. The large pines
formed a solemn dome above our heads, and that mysterious sound made by
the wind in the trees sounded like the notes of an organ.

After walking for three hours, there was a clearing, and then at
intervals an enormous pine umbrella, and then we suddenly came to the
edge of the forest, some hundred meters below, the pass leading to the
wild valley of Niolo.

On the two projecting heights which commanded a view of this pass, some
old trees, grotesquely twisted, seemed to have mounted with painful
efforts, like scouts sent in advance of the multitude in the rear. When
we turned round, we saw the entire forest stretched beneath our feet,
like a gigantic basin of verdure, inclosed by bare rocks whose summits
seemed to reach the sky.

We resumed our walk, and, ten minutes later, found ourselves in the
pass.

Then I beheld a remarkable landscape. Beyond another forest stretched a
valley, but a valley such as I had never seen before; a solitude of
stone, ten leagues long, hollowed out between two high mountains,
without a field or a tree to be seen. This was the Niolo valley, the
fatherland of Corsican liberty, the inaccessible citadel, from which the
invaders had never been able to drive out the mountaineers.

My companion said to me: “This is where all our bandits have taken
refuge?”

Ere long we were at the further end of this gorge, so wild, so
inconceivably beautiful.

Not a blade of grass, not a plant-nothing but granite. As far as our
eyes could reach, we saw in front of us a desert of glittering stone,
heated like an oven by a burning sun, which seemed to hang for that very
purpose right above the gorge. When we raised our eyes towards the
crests, we stood dazzled and stupefied by what we saw. They looked like
a festoon of coral; all the summits are of porphyry; and the sky
overhead was violet, purple, tinged with the coloring of these strange
mountains. Lower down, the granite was of scintillating gray, and seemed
ground to powder beneath our feet. At our right, along a long and
irregular course, roared a tumultuous torrent. And we staggered along
under this heat, in this light, in this burning, arid, desolate valley
cut by this torrent of turbulent water which seemed to be ever hurrying
onward, without fertilizing the rocks, lost in this furnace which
greedily drank it up without being saturated or refreshed by it.

But, suddenly, there was visible at our right a little wooden cross sunk
in a little heap of stones. A man had been killed there; and I said to
my companion.

“Tell me about your bandits.”

He replied:

“I knew the most celebrated of them, the terrible St. Lucia. I will tell
you his history.

“His father was killed in a quarrel by a young man of the district, it
is said; and St. Lucia was left alone with his sister. He was a weak,
timid youth, small, often ill, without any energy. He did not proclaim
vengeance against the assassin of his father. All his relatives came to
see him, and implored of him to avenge his death; he remained deaf to
their menaces and their supplications.

“Then, following the old Corsican custom, his sister, in her indignation
carried away his black clothes, in order that he might not wear mourning
for a dead man who had not been avenged. He was insensible to even this
affront, and rather than take down from the rack his father's gun, which
was still loaded, he shut himself up, not daring to brave the looks of
the young men of the district.

“He seemed to have even forgotten the crime, and lived with his sister
in the seclusion of their dwelling.

“But, one day, the man who was suspected of having committed the murder,
was about to get married. St. Lucia did not appear to be moved by this
news, but, out of sheer bravado, doubtless, the bridegroom, on his way
to the church, passed before the house of the two orphans.

“The brother and the sister, at their window, were eating frijoles, when
the young man saw the bridal procession going by. Suddenly he began to
tremble, rose to his feet without uttering a word, made the sign of the
cross, took the gun which was hanging over the fireplace, and went out.

“When he spoke of this later on, he said: 'I don't know what was the
matter with me; it was like fire in my blood; I felt that I must do it,
that, in spite of everything, I could not resist, and I concealed the
gun in a cave on the road to Corte.

“An hour later, he came back, with nothing in his hand, and with his
habitual air of sad weariness. His sister believed that there was
nothing further in his thoughts.

“But when night fell he disappeared.

“His enemy had, the same evening, to repair to Corte on foot,
accompanied by his two groomsmen.

“He was walking along, singing as he went, when St. Lucia stood before
him, and looking straight in the murderer's face, exclaimed: 'Now is the
time!' and shot him point-blank in the chest.

“One of the men fled; the other stared at, the young man, saying:

“'What have you done, St. Lucia?' and he was about to hasten to Corte
for help, when St. Lucia said in a stern tone:

“'If you move another step, I'll shoot you in the leg.'

“The other, aware of his timidity hitherto, replied: 'You would not dare
to do it!' and was hurrying off when he fell instantaneously, his thigh
shattered by a bullet.

“And St. Lucia, coming over to where he lay, said:

“'I am going to look at your wound; if it is not serious, I'll leave you
there; if it is mortal I'll finish you off.”

“He inspected the wound, considered it mortal, and slowly reloading his
gun, told the wounded man to say a prayer, and shot him through the
head.

“Next day he was in the mountains.

“And do you know what this St. Lucia did after this?

“All his family were arrested by the gendarmes. His uncle, the cure, who
was suspected of having incited him to this deed of vengeance, was
himself put in prison, and accused by the dead man's relatives. But he
escaped, took a gun in his turn, and went to join his nephew in the
brush.

“Next, St. Lucia killed, one after the other, his uncle's accusers, and
tore out their eyes to teach the others never to state what they had
seen with their eyes.

“He killed all the relatives, all the connections of his enemy's family.
He slew during his life fourteen gendarmes, burned down the houses of
his adversaries, and was, up to the day of his death, the most terrible
of all the bandits whose memory we have preserved.”

The sun disappeared behind Monte Cinto and the tall shadow of the
granite mountain went to sleep on the granite of the valley. We
quickened our pace in order to reach before night the little village of
Albertaccio, nothing but a pile of stones welded into the stone flanks
of a wild gorge. And I said as I thought of the bandit:

“What a terrible custom your vendetta is!”

My companion answered with an air of resignation:

“What would you have? A man must do his duty!”





THE GRAVE

The seventeenth of July, one thousand eight hundred and eighty-three, at
half-past two in the morning, the watchman in the cemetery of Besiers,
who lived in a small cottage on the edge of this field of the dead, was
awakened by the barking of his dog, which was shut up in the kitchen.

Going down quickly, he saw the animal sniffing at the crack of the door
and barking furiously, as if some tramp had been sneaking about the
house. The keeper, Vincent, therefore took his gun and went out.

His dog, preceding him, at once ran in the direction of the Avenue
General Bonnet, stopping short at the monument of Madame Tomoiseau.

The keeper, advancing cautiously, soon saw a faint light on the side of
the Avenue Malenvers, and stealing in among the graves, he came upon a
horrible act of profanation.

A man had dug up the coffin of a young woman who had been buried the
evening before and was dragging the corpse out of it.

A small dark lantern, standing on a pile of earth, lighted up this
hideous scene.

Vincent sprang upon the wretch, threw him to the ground, bound his hands
and took him to the police station.

It was a young, wealthy and respected lawyer in town, named
Courbataille.

He was brought into court. The public prosecutor opened the case by
referring to the monstrous deeds of the Sergeant Bertrand.

A wave of indignation swept over the courtroom. When the magistrate sat
down the crowd assembled cried: “Death! death!” With difficulty the
presiding judge established silence.

Then he said gravely:

“Defendant, what have you to say in your defense?”

Courbataille, who had refused counsel, rose. He was a handsome fellow,
tall, brown, with a frank face, energetic manner and a fearless eye.

Paying no attention to the whistlings in the room, he began to speak in
a voice that was low and veiled at first, but that grew more firm as he
proceeded.

“Monsieur le President, gentlemen of the jury: I have very little to
say. The woman whose grave I violated was my sweetheart. I loved her.

“I loved her, not with a sensual love and not with mere tenderness of
heart and soul, but with an absolute, complete love, with an
overpowering passion.

“Hear me:

“When I met her for the first time I felt a strange sensation. It was
not astonishment nor admiration, nor yet that which is called love at
first sight, but a feeling of delicious well-being, as if I had been
plunged into a warm bath. Her gestures seduced me, her voice enchanted
me, and it was with infinite pleasure that I looked upon her person. It
seemed to me as if I had seen her before and as if I had known her a
long time. She had within her something of my spirit.

“She seemed to me like an answer to a cry uttered by my soul, to that
vague and unceasing cry with which we call upon Hope during our whole
life.

“When I knew her a little better, the mere thought of seeing her again
filled me with exquisite and profound uneasiness; the touch of her hand
in mine was more delightful to me than anything that I had imagined; her
smile filled me with a mad joy, with the desire to run, to dance, to
fling myself upon the ground.

“So we became lovers.

“Yes, more than that: she was my very life. I looked for nothing further
on earth, and had no further desires. I longed for nothing further.

“One evening, when we had gone on a somewhat long walk by the river, we
were overtaken by the rain, and she caught cold. It developed into
pneumonia the next day, and a week later she was dead.

“During the hours of her suffering astonishment and consternation
prevented my understanding and reflecting upon it, but when she was dead
I was so overwhelmed by blank despair that I had no thoughts left. I
wept.

“During all the horrible details of the interment my keen and wild grief
was like a madness, a kind of sensual, physical grief.

“Then when she was gone, when she was under the earth, my mind at once
found itself again, and I passed through a series of moral sufferings so
terrible that even the love she had vouchsafed to me was dear at that
price.

“Then the fixed idea came to me: I shall not see her again.

“When one dwells on this thought for a whole day one feels as if he were
going mad. Just think of it! There is a woman whom you adore, a unique
woman, for in the whole universe there is not a second one like her.
This woman has given herself to you and has created with you the
mysterious union that is called Love. Her eye seems to you more vast
than space, more charming than the world, that clear eye smiling with
her tenderness. This woman loves you. When she speaks to you her voice
floods you with joy.

“And suddenly she disappears! Think of it! She disappears, not only for
you, but forever. She is dead. Do you understand what that means? Never,
never, never, not anywhere will she exist any more. Nevermore will that
eye look upon anything again; nevermore will that voice, nor any voice
like it, utter a word in the same way as she uttered it.

“Nevermore will a face be born that is like hers. Never, never! The
molds of statues are kept; casts are kept by which one can make objects
with the same outlines and forms. But that one body and that one face
will never more be born again upon the earth. And yet millions and
millions of creatures will be born, and more than that, and this one
woman will not reappear among all the women of the future. Is it
possible? It drives one mad to think of it.

“She lived for twenty years, not more, and she has disappeared forever,
forever, forever! She thought, she smiled, she loved me. And now
nothing! The flies that die in the autumn are as much as we are in this
world. And now nothing! And I thought that her body, her fresh body, so
warm, so sweet, so white, so lovely, would rot down there in that box
under the earth. And her soul, her thought, her love—where is it?

“Not to see her again! The idea of this decomposing body, that I might
yet recognize, haunted me. I wanted to look at it once more.

“I went out with a spade, a lantern and a hammer; I jumped over the
cemetery wall and I found the grave, which had not yet been closed
entirely; I uncovered the coffin and took up a board. An abominable
odor, the stench of putrefaction, greeted my nostrils. Oh, her bed
perfumed with orris!

“Yet I opened the coffin, and, holding my lighted lantern down into it I
saw her. Her face was blue, swollen, frightful. A black liquid had oozed
out of her mouth.

“She! That was she! Horror seized me. But I stretched out my arm to draw
this monstrous face toward me. And then I was caught.

“All night I have retained the foul odor of this putrid body, the odor
of my well beloved, as one retains the perfume of a woman after a love
embrace.

“Do with me what you will.”

A strange silence seemed to oppress the room. They seemed to be waiting
for something more. The jury retired to deliberate.

When they came back a few minutes later the accused showed no fear and
did not even seem to think.

The president announced with the usual formalities that his judges
declared him to be not guilty.

He did not move and the room applauded.

The Grave appeared in Gil Blas, July 29, 1883, under the signature of
“Maufrigneuse.”






ORIGINAL SHORT STORIES, Vol. 13.

GUY DE MAUPASSANT ORIGINAL SHORT STORIES Translated by ALBERT M. C.
McMASTER, B.A. A. E. HENDERSON, B.A. MME. QUESADA and Others





VOLUME XIII.





OLD JUDAS

This entire stretch of country was amazing; it was characterized by a
grandeur that was almost religious, and yet it had an air of sinister
desolation.

A great, wild lake, filled with stagnant, black water, in which
thousands of reeds were waving to and fro, lay in the midst of a vast
circle of naked hills, where nothing grew but broom, or here and there
an oak curiously twisted by the wind.

Just one house stood on the banks of that dark lake, a small, low house
inhabited by Uncle Joseph, an old boatman, who lived on what he could
make by his fishing. Once a week he carried the fish he caught into the
surrounding villages, returning with the few provisions that he needed
for his sustenance.

I went to see this old hermit, who offered to take me with him to his
nets, and I accepted.

His boat was old, worm-eaten and clumsy, and the skinny old man rowed
with a gentle and monotonous stroke that was soothing to the soul,
already oppressed by the sadness of the land round about.

It seemed to me as if I were transported to olden times, in the midst of
that ancient country, in that primitive boat, which was propelled by a
man of another age.

He took up his nets and threw the fish into the bottom of the boat, as
the fishermen of the Bible might have done. Then he took me down to the
end of the lake, where I suddenly perceived a ruin on the other side of
the bank a dilapidated hut, with an enormous red cross on the wall that
looked as if it might have been traced with blood, as it gleamed in the
last rays of the setting sun.

“What is that?” I asked.

“That is where Judas died,” the man replied, crossing himself.

I was not surprised, being almost prepared for this strange answer.

Still I asked:

“Judas? What Judas?”

“The Wandering Jew, monsieur,” he added.

I asked him to tell me this legend.

But it was better than a legend, being a true story, and quite a recent
one, since Uncle Joseph had known the man.

This hut had formerly been occupied by a large woman, a kind of beggar,
who lived on public charity.

Uncle Joseph did not remember from whom she had this hut. One evening an
old man with a white beard, who seemed to be at least two hundred years
old, and who could hardly drag himself along, asked alms of this forlorn
woman, as he passed her dwelling.

“Sit down, father,” she replied; “everything here belongs to all the
world, since it comes from all the world.”

He sat down on a stone before the door. He shared the woman's bread, her
bed of leaves, and her house.

He did not leave her again, for he had come to the end of his travels.

“It was Our Lady the Virgin who permitted this, monsieur,” Joseph added,
“it being a woman who had opened her door to a Judas, for this old
vagabond was the Wandering Jew. It was not known at first in the
country, but the people suspected it very soon, because he was always
walking; it had become a sort of second nature to him.”

And suspicion had been aroused by still another thing. This woman, who
kept that stranger with her, was thought to be a Jewess, for no one had
ever seen her at church. For ten miles around no one ever called her
anything else but the Jewess.

When the little country children saw her come to beg they cried out:
“Mamma, mamma, here is the Jewess!”

The old man and she began to go out together into the neighboring
districts, holding out their hands at all the doors, stammering
supplications into the ears of all the passers. They could be seen at
all hours of the day, on by-paths, in the villages, or again eating
bread, sitting in the noon heat under the shadow of some solitary tree.
And the country people began to call the beggar Old Judas.

One day he brought home in his sack two little live pigs, which a farmer
had given him after he had cured the farmer of some sickness.

Soon he stopped begging, and devoted himself entirely to his pigs. He
took them out to feed by the lake, or under isolated oaks, or in the
near-by valleys. The woman, however, went about all day begging, but she
always came back to him in the evening.

He also did not go to church, and no one ever had seen him cross himself
before the wayside crucifixes. All this gave rise to much gossip:

One night his companion was attacked by a fever and began to tremble
like a leaf in the wind. He went to the nearest town to get some
medicine, and then he shut himself up with her, and was not seen for six
days.

The priest, having heard that the “Jewess” was about to die, came to
offer the consolation of his religion and administer the last sacrament.
Was she a Jewess? He did not know. But in any case, he wished to try to
save her soul.

Hardly had he knocked at the door when old Judas appeared on the
threshold, breathing hard, his eyes aflame, his long beard agitated,
like rippling water, and he hurled blasphemies in an unknown language,
extending his skinny arms in order to prevent the priest from entering.

The priest attempted to speak, offered his purse and his aid, but the
old man kept on abusing him, making gestures with his hands as if
throwing; stones at him.

Then the priest retired, followed by the curses of the beggar.

The companion of old Judas died the following day. He buried her
himself, in front of her door. They were people of so little account
that no one took any interest in them.

Then they saw the man take his pigs out again to the lake and up the
hillsides. And he also began begging again to get food. But the people
gave him hardly anything, as there was so much gossip about him. Every
one knew, moreover, how he had treated the priest.

Then he disappeared. That was during Holy Week, but no one paid any
attention to him.

But on Easter Sunday the boys and girls who had gone walking out to the
lake heard a great noise in the hut. The door was locked; but the boys
broke it in, and the two pigs ran out, jumping like gnats. No one ever
saw them again.

The whole crowd went in; they saw some old rags on the floor, the
beggar's hat, some bones, clots of dried blood and bits of flesh in the
hollows of the skull.

His pigs had devoured him.

“This happened on Good Friday, monsieur.” Joseph concluded his story,
“three hours after noon.”

“How do you know that?” I asked him.

“There is no doubt about that,” he replied.

I did not attempt to make him understand that it could easily happen
that the famished animals had eaten their master, after he had died
suddenly in his hut.

As for the cross on the wall, it had appeared one morning, and no one
knew what hand traced it in that strange color.

Since then no one doubted any longer that the Wandering Jew had died on
this spot.

I myself believed it for one hour.





THE LITTLE CASK

He was a tall man of forty or thereabout, this Jules Chicot, the
innkeeper of Spreville, with a red face and a round stomach, and said by
those who knew him to be a smart business man. He stopped his buggy in
front of Mother Magloire's farmhouse, and, hitching the horse to the
gatepost, went in at the gate.

Chicot owned some land adjoining that of the old woman, which he had
been coveting for a long while, and had tried in vain to buy a score of
times, but she had always obstinately refused to part with it.

“I was born here, and here I mean to die,” was all she said.

He found her peeling potatoes outside the farmhouse door. She was a
woman of about seventy-two, very thin, shriveled and wrinkled, almost
dried up in fact and much bent but as active and untiring as a girl.
Chicot patted her on the back in a friendly fashion and then sat down by
her on a stool.

“Well mother, you are always pretty well and hearty, I am glad to see.”

“Nothing to complain of, considering, thank you. And how are you,
Monsieur Chicot?”

“Oh, pretty well, thank you, except a few rheumatic pains occasionally;
otherwise I have nothing to complain of.”

“So much the better.”

And she said no more, while Chicot watched her going on with her work.
Her crooked, knotted fingers, hard as a lobster's claws, seized the
tubers, which were lying in a pail, as if they had been a pair of
pincers, and she peeled them rapidly, cutting off long strips of skin
with an old knife which she held in the other hand, throwing the
potatoes into the water as they were done. Three daring fowls jumped one
after the other into her lap, seized a bit of peel and then ran away as
fast as their legs would carry them with it in their beak.

Chicot seemed embarrassed, anxious, with something on the tip of his
tongue which he could not say. At last he said hurriedly:

“Listen, Mother Magloire—”

“Well, what is it?”

“You are quite sure that you do not want to sell your land?”

“Certainly not; you may make up your mind to that. What I have said I
have said, so don't refer to it again.”

“Very well; only I think I know of an arrangement that might suit us
both very well.”

“What is it?”

“Just this. You shall sell it to me and keep it all the same. You don't
understand? Very well, then follow me in what I am going to say.”

The old woman left off peeling potatoes and looked at the innkeeper
attentively from under her heavy eyebrows, and he went on:

“Let me explain myself. Every month I will give you a hundred and fifty
francs. You understand me! suppose! Every month I will come and bring
you thirty crowns, and it will not make the slightest difference in your
life—not the very slightest. You will have your own home just as you
have now, need not trouble yourself about me, and will owe me nothing;
all you will have to do will be to take my money. Will that arrangement
suit you?”

He looked at her good-humoredly, one might almost have said
benevolently, and the old woman returned his looks distrustfully, as if
she suspected a trap, and said:

“It seems all right as far as I am concerned, but it will not give you
the farm.”

“Never mind about that,” he said; “you may remain here as long as it
pleases God Almighty to let you live; it will be your home. Only you
will sign a deed before a lawyer making it over to me; after your death.
You have no children, only nephews and nieces for whom you don't care a
straw. Will that suit you? You will keep everything during your life,
and I will give you the thirty crowns a month. It is pure gain as far as
you are concerned.”

The old woman was surprised, rather uneasy, but, nevertheless, very much
tempted to agree, and answered:

“I don't say that I will not agree to it, but I must think about it.
Come back in a week, and we will talk it over again, and I will then
give you my definite answer.”

And Chicot went off as happy as a king who had conquered an empire.

Mother Magloire was thoughtful, and did not sleep at all that night; in
fact, for four days she was in a fever of hesitation. She suspected that
there was something underneath the offer which was not to her advantage;
but then the thought of thirty crowns a month, of all those coins
clinking in her apron, falling to her, as it were, from the skies,
without her doing anything for it, aroused her covetousness.

She went to the notary and told him about it. He advised her to accept
Chicot's offer, but said she ought to ask for an annuity of fifty
instead of thirty, as her farm was worth sixty thousand francs at the
lowest calculation.

“If you live for fifteen years longer,” he said, “even then he will only
have paid forty-five thousand francs for it.”

The old woman trembled with joy at this prospect of getting fifty crowns
a month, but she was still suspicious, fearing some trick, and she
remained a long time with the lawyer asking questions without being able
to make up her mind to go. At last she gave him instructions to draw up
the deed and returned home with her head in a whirl, just as if she had
drunk four jugs of new cider.

When Chicot came again to receive her answer she declared, after a lot
of persuading, that she could not make up her mind to agree to his
proposal, though she was all the time trembling lest he should not
consent to give the fifty crowns, but at last, when he grew urgent, she
told him what she expected for her farm.

He looked surprised and disappointed and refused.

Then, in order to convince him, she began to talk about the probable
duration of her life.

“I am certainly not likely to live more than five or six years longer. I
am nearly seventy-three, and far from strong, even considering my age.
The other evening I thought I was going to die, and could hardly manage
to crawl into bed.”

But Chicot was not going to be taken in.

“Come, come, old lady, you are as strong as the church tower, and will
live till you are a hundred at least; you will no doubt see me put under
ground first.”

The whole day was spent in discussing the money, and as the old woman
would not give in, the innkeeper consented to give the fifty crowns, and
she insisted upon having ten crowns over and above to strike the
bargain.

Three years passed and the old dame did not seem to have grown a day
older. Chicot was in despair, and it seemed to him as if he had been
paying that annuity for fifty years, that he had been taken in, done,
ruined. From time to time he went to see the old lady, just as one goes
in July to see when the harvest is likely to begin. She always met him
with a cunning look, and one might have supposed that she was
congratulating herself on the trick she had played him. Seeing how well
and hearty she seemed he very soon got into his buggy again, growling to
himself:

“Will you never die, you old hag?”

He did not know what to do, and he felt inclined to strangle her when he
saw her. He hated her with a ferocious, cunning hatred, the hatred of a
peasant who has been robbed, and began to cast about for some means of
getting rid of her.

One day he came to see her again, rubbing his hands as he did the first
time he proposed the bargain, and, after having chatted for a few
minutes, he said:

“Why do you never come and have a bit of dinner at my place when you are
in Spreville? The people are talking about it, and saying we are not on
friendly terms, and that pains me. You know it will cost you nothing if
you come, for I don't look at the price of a dinner. Come whenever you
feel inclined; I shall be very glad to see you.”

Old Mother Magloire did not need to be asked twice, and the next day but
one, as she had to go to the town in any case, it being market day, she
let her man drive her to Chicot's place, where the buggy was put in the
barn while she went into the house to get her dinner.

The innkeeper was delighted and treated her like a lady, giving her
roast fowl, black pudding, leg of mutton and bacon and cabbage. But she
ate next to nothing. She had always been a small eater, and had
generally lived on a little soup and a crust of bread and butter.

Chicot was disappointed and pressed her to eat more, but she refused,
and she would drink little, and declined coffee, so he asked her:

“But surely you will take a little drop of brandy or liqueur?”

“Well, as to that, I don't know that I will refuse.” Whereupon he
shouted out:

“Rosalie, bring the superfine brandy—the special—you know.”

The servant appeared, carrying a long bottle ornamented with a paper
vine-leaf, and he filled two liqueur glasses.

“Just try that; you will find it first rate.”

The good woman drank it slowly in sips, so as to make the pleasure last
all the longer, and when she had finished her glass, she said:

“Yes, that is first rate!”

Almost before she had said it Chicot had poured her out another
glassful. She wished to refuse, but it was too late, and she drank it
very slowly, as she had done the first, and he asked her to have a
third. She objected, but he persisted.

“It is as mild as milk, you know; I can drink ten or a dozen glasses
without any ill effects; it goes down like sugar and does not go to the
head; one would think that it evaporated on the tongue: It is the most
wholesome thing you can drink.”

She took it, for she really enjoyed it, but she left half the glass.

Then Chicot, in an excess of generosity, said:

“Look here, as it is so much to your taste, I will give you a small keg
of it, just to show that you and I are still excellent friends.” So she
took one away with her, feeling slightly overcome by the effects of what
she had drunk.

The next day the innkeeper drove into her yard and took a little iron-
hooped keg out of his gig. He insisted on her tasting the contents, to
make sure it was the same delicious article, and, when they had each of
them drunk three more glasses, he said as he was going away:

“Well, you know when it is all gone there is more left; don't be modest,
for I shall not mind. The sooner it is finished the better pleased I
shall be.”

Four days later he came again. The old woman was outside her door
cutting up the bread for her soup.

He went up to her and put his face close to hers, so that he might smell
her breath; and when he smelt the alcohol he felt pleased.

“I suppose you will give me a glass of the Special?” he said. And they
had three glasses each.

Soon, however, it began to be whispered abroad that Mother Magloire was
in the habit of getting drunk all by herself. She was picked up in her
kitchen, then in her yard, then in the roads in the neighborhood, and
she was often brought home like a log.

The innkeeper did not go near her any more, and, when people spoke to
him about her, he used to say, putting on a distressed look:

“It is a great pity that she should have taken to drink at her age, but
when people get old there is no remedy. It will be the death of her in
the long run.”

And it certainly was the death of her. She died the next winter. About
Christmas time she fell down, unconscious, in the snow, and was found
dead the next morning.

And when Chicot came in for the farm, he said:

“It was very stupid of her; if she had not taken to drink she would
probably have lived ten years longer.”





BOITELLE

Father Boitelle (Antoine) made a specialty of undertaking dirty jobs all
through the countryside. Whenever there was a ditch or a cesspool to be
cleaned out, a dunghill removed, a sewer cleansed, or any dirt hole
whatever, he way always employed to do it.

He would come with the instruments of his trade, his sabots covered with
dirt, and set to work, complaining incessantly about his occupation.
When people asked him then why he did this loathsome work, he would
reply resignedly:

“Faith, 'tis for my children, whom I must support. This brings me in
more than anything else.”

He had, indeed, fourteen children. If any one asked him what had become
of them, he would say with an air of indifference:

“There are only eight of them left in the house. One is out at service
and five are married.”

When the questioner wanted to know whether they were well married, he
replied vivaciously:

“I did not oppose them. I opposed them in nothing. They married just as
they pleased. We shouldn't go against people's likings, it turns out
badly. I am a night scavenger because my parents went against my
likings. But for that I would have become a workman like the others.”

Here is the way his parents had thwarted him in his likings:

He was at the time a soldier stationed at Havre, not more stupid than
another, or sharper either, a rather simple fellow, however. When he was
not on duty, his greatest pleasure was to walk along the quay, where the
bird dealers congregate. Sometimes alone, sometimes with a soldier from
his own part of the country, he would slowly saunter along by cages
containing parrots with green backs and yellow heads from the banks of
the Amazon, or parrots with gray backs and red heads from Senegal, or
enormous macaws, which look like birds reared in hot-houses, with their
flower-like feathers, their plumes and their tufts. Parrots of every
size, who seem painted with minute care by the miniaturist, God
Almighty, and the little birds, all the smaller birds hopped about,
yellow, blue and variegated, mingling their cries with the noise of the
quay; and adding to the din caused by unloading the vessels, as well as
by passengers and vehicles, a violent clamor, loud, shrill and
deafening, as if from some distant forest of monsters.

Boitelle would pause, with wondering eyes, wide-open mouth, laughing and
enraptured, showing his teeth to the captive cockatoos, who kept nodding
their white or yellow topknots toward the glaring red of his breeches
and the copper buckle of his belt. When he found a bird that could talk
he put questions to it, and if it happened at the time to be disposed to
reply and to hold a conversation with him he would carry away enough
amusement to last him till evening. He also found heaps of amusement in
looking at the monkeys, and could conceive no greater luxury for a rich
man than to own these animals as one owns cats and dogs. This kind of
taste for the exotic he had in his blood, as people have a taste for the
chase, or for medicine, or for the priesthood. He could not help
returning to the quay every time the gates of the barracks opened, drawn
toward it by an irresistible longing.

On one occasion, having stopped almost in ecstasy before an enormous
macaw, which was swelling out its plumes, bending forward and bridling
up again as if making the court curtseys of parrot-land, he saw the door
of a little cafe adjoining the bird dealer's shop open, and a young
negress appeared, wearing on her head a red silk handkerchief. She was
sweeping into the street the corks and sand of the establishment.

Boitelle's attention was soon divided between the bird and the woman,
and he really could not tell which of these two beings he contemplated
with the greater astonishment and delight.

The negress, having swept the rubbish into the street, raised her eyes,
and, in her turn, was dazzled by the soldier's uniform. There she stood
facing him with her broom in her hands as if she were bringing him a
rifle, while the macaw continued bowing. But at the end of a few seconds
the soldier began to feel embarrassed at this attention, and he walked
away quietly so as not to look as if he were beating a retreat.

But he came back. Almost every day he passed before the Cafe des
Colonies, and often he could distinguish through the window the figure
of the little black-skinned maid serving “bocks” or glasses of brandy to
the sailors of the port. Frequently, too, she would come out to the door
on seeing him; soon, without even having exchanged a word, they smiled
at one another like acquaintances; and Boitelle felt his heart touched
when he suddenly saw, glittering between the dark lips of the girl, a
shining row of white teeth. At length, one day he ventured to enter, and
was quite surprised to find that she could speak French like every one
else. The bottle of lemonade, of which she was good enough to accept a
glassful, remained in the soldier's recollection memorably delicious,
and it became a custom with him to come and absorb in this little tavern
on the quay all the agreeable drinks which he could afford.

For him it was a treat, a happiness, on which his thoughts dwelt
constantly, to watch the black hand of the little maid pouring something
into his glass while her teeth laughed more than her eyes. At the end of
two months they became fast friends, and Boitelle, after his first
astonishment at discovering that this negress had as good principles as
honest French girls, that she exhibited a regard for economy, industry,
religion and good conduct, loved her more on that account, and was so
charmed with her that he wanted to marry her.

He told her his intentions, which made her dance with joy. She had also
a little money, left her by a female oyster dealer, who had picked her
up when she had been left on the quay at Havre by an American captain.
This captain had found her, when she was only about six years old, lying
on bales of cotton in the hold of his ship, some hours after his
departure from New York. On his arrival in Havre he abandoned to the
care of this compassionate oyster dealer the little black creature, who
had been hidden on board his vessel, he knew not why or by whom.

The oyster woman having died, the young negress became a servant at the
Colonial Tavern.

Antoine Boitelle added: “This will be all right if my parents don't
oppose it. I will never go against them, you understand, never! I'm
going to say a word or two to them the first time I go back to the
country.”

On the following week, in fact, having obtained twenty-four hours'
leave, he went to see his family, who cultivated a little farm at
Tourteville, near Yvetot.

He waited till the meal was finished, the hour when the coffee baptized
with brandy makes people more open-hearted, before informing his parents
that he had found a girl who satisfied his tastes, all his tastes, so
completely that there could not exist any other in all the world so
perfectly suited to him.

The old people, on hearing this, immediately assumed a cautious manner
and wanted explanations. He had concealed nothing from them except the
color of her skin.

She was a servant, without much means, but strong, thrifty, clean, well-
conducted and sensible. All these things were better than money would be
in the hands of a bad housewife. Moreover, she had a few sous, left her
by a woman who had reared her, a good number of sous, almost a little
dowry, fifteen hundred francs in the savings bank. The old people,
persuaded by his talk, and relying also on their own judgment, were
gradually weakening, when he came to the delicate point. Laughing in
rather a constrained fashion, he said:

“There's only one thing you may not like. She is not a white slip.”

They did not understand, and he had to explain at some length and very
cautiously, to avoid shocking them, that she belonged to the dusky race
of which they had only seen samples in pictures at Epinal. Then they
became restless, perplexed, alarmed, as if he had proposed a union with
the devil.

The mother said: “Black? How much of her is black? Is the whole of her?”

He replied: “Certainly. Everywhere, just as you are white everywhere.”

The father interposed: “Black? Is it as black as the pot?”

The son answered: “Perhaps a little less than that. She is black, but
not disgustingly black. The cure's cassock is black, but it is not
uglier than a surplice which is white.”

The father said: “Are there more black people besides her in her
country?”

And the son, with an air of conviction, exclaimed: “Certainly!”

But the old man shook his head.

“That must be unpleasant.”

And the son:

“It isn't more disagreeable than anything else when you get accustomed
to it.”

The mother asked:

“It doesn't soil the underwear more than other skins, this black skin?”

“Not more than your own, as it is her proper color.”

Then, after many other questions, it was agreed that the parents should
see this girl before coming; to any decision, and that the young fellow,
whose, term of military service would be over in a month, should bring
her to the house in order that they might examine her and decide by
talking the matter over whether or not she was too dark to enter the
Boitelle family.

Antoine accordingly announced that on Sunday, the 22d of May, the day of
his discharge, he would start for Tourteville with his sweetheart.

She had put on, for this journey to the house of her lover's parents,
her most beautiful and most gaudy clothes, in which yellow, red and blue
were the prevailing colors, so that she looked as if she were adorned
for a national festival.

At the terminus, as they were leaving Havre, people stared at her, and
Boitelle was proud of giving his arm to a person who commanded so much
attention. Then, in the third-class carriage, in which she took a seat
by his side, she aroused so much astonishment among the country folks
that the people in the adjoining compartments stood up on their benches
to look at her over the wooden partition which divides the compartments.
A child, at sight of her, began to cry with terror, another concealed
his face in his mother's apron. Everything went off well, however, up to
their arrival at their destination. But when the train slackened its
rate of motion as they drew near Yvetot, Antoine felt ill at ease, as he
would have done at a review when; he did not know his drill practice.
Then, as he; leaned his head out, he recognized in the distance: his
father, holding the bridle of the horse harnessed to a carryall, and his
mother, who had come forward to the grating, behind which stood those
who were expecting friends.

He alighted first, gave his hand to his sweetheart, and holding himself
erect, as if he were escorting a general, he went to meet his family.

The mother, on seeing this black lady in variegated costume in her son's
company, remained so stupefied that she could not open her mouth; and
the father found it hard to hold the horse, which the engine or the
negress caused to rear continuously. But Antoine, suddenly filled with
unmixed joy at seeing once more the old people, rushed forward with open
arms, embraced his mother, embraced his father, in spite of the nag's
fright, and then turning toward his companion, at whom the passengers on
the platform stopped to stare with amazement, he proceeded to explain:

“Here she is! I told you that, at first sight, she is not attractive;
but as soon as you know her, I can assure you there's not a better sort
in the whole world. Say good-morning to her so that she may not feel
badly.”

Thereupon Mere Boitelle, almost frightened out of her wits, made a sort
of curtsy, while the father took off his cap, murmuring:

“I wish you good luck!”

Then, without further delay, they climbed into the carryall, the two
women at the back, on seats which made them jump up and down as the
vehicle went jolting along the road, and the two men in front on the
front seat.

Nobody spoke. Antoine, ill at ease, whistled a barrack-room air; his
father whipped the nag; and his mother, from where she sat in the
corner, kept casting sly glances at the negress, whose forehead and
cheekbones shone in the sunlight like well-polished shoes.

Wishing to break the ice, Antoine turned round.

“Well,” said he, “we don't seem inclined to talk.”

“We must have time,” replied the old woman.

He went on:

“Come! Tell us the little story about that hen of yours that laid eight
eggs.”

It was a funny anecdote of long standing in the family. But, as his
mother still remained silent, paralyzed by her emotion, he undertook
himself to tell the story, laughing as he did so at the memorable
incident. The father, who knew it by heart brightened at the opening
words of the narrative; his wife soon followed his example; and the
negress herself, when he reached the drollest part of it, suddenly gave
vent to a laugh, such a loud, rolling torrent of laughter that the
horse, becoming excited, broke into a gallop for a while.

This served to cement their acquaintance. They all began to chat.

They had scarcely reached the house and had all alighted, when Antoine
conducted his sweetheart to a room, so that she might take off her
dress, to avoid staining it, as she was going to prepare a nice dish,
intended to win the old people's affections through their stomachs. He
drew his parents outside the house, and, with beating heart, asked:

“Well, what do you say now?”

The father said nothing. The mother, less timid, exclaimed:

“She is too black. No, indeed, this is too much for me. It turns my
blood.”

“You will get used to it,” said Antoine.

“Perhaps so, but not at first.”

They went into the house, where the good woman was somewhat affected at
the spectacle of the negress engaged in cooking. She at once proceeded
to assist her, with petticoats tucked up, active in spite of her age.

The meal was an excellent one, very long, very enjoyable. When they were
taking a turn after dinner, Antoine took his father aside.

“Well, dad, what do you say about it?”

The peasant took care never to compromise himself.

“I have no opinion about it. Ask your mother.”

So Antoine went back to his mother, and, detaining her behind the rest,
said:

“Well, mother, what do you think of her?”

“My poor lad, she is really too black. If she were only a little less
black, I would not go against you, but this is too much. One would think
it was Satan!”

He did not press her, knowing how obstinate the old woman had always
been, but he felt a tempest of disappointment sweeping over his heart.
He was turning over in his mind what he ought to do, what plan he could
devise, surprised, moreover, that she had not conquered them already as
she had captivated himself. And they, all four, walked along through the
wheat fields, having gradually relapsed into silence. Whenever they
passed a fence they saw a countryman sitting on the stile, and a group
of brats climbed up to stare at them, and every one rushed out into the
road to see the “black” whore young Boitelle had brought home with him.
At a distance they noticed people scampering across the fields just as
when the drum beats to draw public attention to some living phenomenon.
Pere and Mere Boitelle, alarmed at this curiosity, which was exhibited
everywhere through the country at their approach, quickened their pace,
walking side by side, and leaving their son far behind. His dark
companion asked what his parents thought of her.

He hesitatingly replied that they had not yet made up their minds.

But on the village green people rushed out of all the houses in a
flutter of excitement; and, at the sight of the gathering crowd, old
Boitelle took to his heels, and regained his abode, while Antoine;
swelling with rage, his sweetheart on his arm, advanced majestically
under the staring eyes, which opened wide in amazement.

He understood that it was at an end, and there was no hope for him, that
he could not marry his negress. She also understood it; and as they drew
near the farmhouse they both began to weep. As soon as they had got back
to the house, she once more took off her dress to aid the mother in the
household duties, and followed her everywhere, to the dairy, to the
stable, to the hen house, taking on herself the hardest part of the
work, repeating always: “Let me do it, Madame Boitelle,” so that, when
night came on, the old woman, touched but inexorable, said to her son:
“She is a good girl, all the same. It's a pity she is so black; but
indeed she is too black. I could not get used to it. She must go back
again. She is too, too black!”

And young Boitelle said to his sweetheart:

“She will not consent. She thinks you are too black. You must go back
again. I will go with you to the train. No matter—don't fret. I am going
to talk to them after you have started.”

He then took her to the railway station, still cheering her with hope,
and, when he had kissed her, he put her into the train, which he watched
as it passed out of sight, his eyes swollen with tears.

In vain did he appeal to the old people. They would never give their
consent.

And when he had told this story, which was known all over the country,
Antoine Boitelle would always add:

“From that time forward I have had no heart for anything—for anything at
all. No trade suited me any longer, and so I became what I am—a night
scavenger.”

People would say to him:

“Yet you got married.”

“Yes, and I can't say that my wife didn't please me, seeing that I have
fourteen children; but she is not the other one, oh, no—certainly not!
The other one, mark you, my negress, she had only to give me one glance,
and I felt as if I were in Heaven.”





A WIDOW

This story was told during the hunting season at the Chateau Baneville.
The autumn had been rainy and sad. The red leaves, instead of rustling
under the feet, were rotting under the heavy downfalls.

The forest was as damp as it could be. From it came an odor of must, of
rain, of soaked grass and wet earth; and the sportsmen, their backs
hunched under the downpour, mournful dogs, with tails between their legs
and hairs sticking to their sides, and the young women, with their
clothes drenched, returned every evening, tired in body and in mind.

After dinner, in the large drawing-room, everybody played lotto, without
enjoyment, while the wind whistled madly around the house. Then they
tried telling stories like those they read in books, but no one was able
to invent anything amusing. The hunters told tales of wonderful shots
and of the butchery of rabbits; and the women racked their brains for
ideas without revealing the imagination of Scheherezade. They were about
to give up this diversion when a young woman, who was idly caressing the
hand of an old maiden aunt, noticed a little ring made of blond hair,
which she had often seen, without paying any attention to it.

She fingered it gently and asked, “Auntie, what is this ring? It looks
as if it were made from the hair of a child.”

The old lady blushed, grew pale, then answered in a trembling voice: “It
is sad, so sad that I never wish to speak of it. All the unhappiness of
my life comes from that. I was very young then, and the memory has
remained so painful that I weep every time I think of it.”

Immediately everybody wished to know the story, but the old lady refused
to tell it. Finally, after they had coaxed her for a long time, she
yielded. Here is the story:

“You have often heard me speak of the Santeze family, now extinct. I
knew the last three male members of this family. They all died in the
same manner; this hair belongs to the last one. He was thirteen when he
killed himself for me. That seems strange to you, doesn't it?

“Oh! it was a strange family—mad, if you will, but a charming madness,
the madness of love. From father to son, all had violent passions which
filled their whole being, which impelled them to do wild things, drove
them to frantic enthusiasm, even to crime. This was born in them, just
as burning devotion is in certain souls. Trappers have not the same
nature as minions of the drawing-room. There was a saying: 'As
passionate as a Santeze.' This could be noticed by looking at them. They
all had wavy hair, falling over their brows, curly beards and large eyes
whose glance pierced and moved one, though one could not say why.

“The grandfather of the owner of this hair, of whom it is the last
souvenir, after many adventures, duels and elopements, at about sixty-
five fell madly in love with his farmer's daughter. I knew them both.
She was blond, pale, distinguished-looking, with a slow manner of
talking, a quiet voice and a look so gentle that one might have taken
her for a Madonna. The old nobleman took her to his home and was soon so
captivated with her that he could not live without her for a minute. His
daughter and daughter-in-law, who lived in the chateau, found this
perfectly natural, love was such a tradition in the family. Nothing in
regard to a passion surprised them, and if one spoke before them of
parted lovers, even of vengeance after treachery, both said in the same
sad tone: 'Oh, how he must have suffered to come to that point!' That
was all. They grew sad over tragedies of love, but never indignant, even
when they were criminal.

“Now, one day a young man named Monsieur de Gradelle, who had been
invited for the shooting, eloped with the young girl.

“Monsieur de Santeze remained calm as if nothing had happened, but one
morning he was found hanging in the kennels, among his dogs.

“His son died in the same manner in a hotel in Paris during a journey
which he made there in 1841, after being deceived by a singer from the
opera.

“He left a twelve-year-old child and a widow, my mother's sister. She
came to my father's house with the boy, while we were living at
Bertillon. I was then seventeen.

“You have no idea how wonderful and precocious this Santeze child was.
One might have thought that all the tenderness and exaltation of the
whole race had been stored up in this last one. He was always dreaming
and walking about alone in a great alley of elms leading from the
chateau to the forest. I watched from my window this sentimental boy,
who walked with thoughtful steps, his hands behind his back, his head
bent, and at times stopping to raise his eyes as if he could see and
understand things that were not comprehensible at his age.

“Often, after dinner on clear evenings, he would say to me: 'Let us go
outside and dream, cousin.' And we would go outside together in the
park. He would stop quickly before a clearing where the white vapor of
the moon lights the woods, and he would press my hand, saying: 'Look!
look! but you don't understand me; I feel it. If you understood me, we
should be happy. One must love to know! I would laugh and then kiss this
child, who loved me madly.

“Often, after dinner, he would sit on my mother's knees. 'Come, auntie,'
he would say, 'tell me some love-stories.' And my mother, as a joke,
would tell him all the old legends of the family, all the passionate
adventures of his forefathers, for thousands of them were current, some
true and some false. It was their reputation for love and gallantry
which was the ruin of every one of these men; they gloried in it and
then thought that they had to live up to the renown of their house.

“The little fellow became exalted by these tender or terrible stories,
and at times he would clap his hands, crying: 'I, too, I, too, know how
to love, better than all of them!'

“Then, he began to court me in a timid and tender manner, at which every
one laughed, it was, so amusing. Every morning I had some flowers picked
by him, and every evening before going to his room he would kiss my hand
and murmur: 'I love you!'

“I was guilty, very guilty, and I grieved continually about it, and I
have been doing penance all my life; I have remained an old maid—or,
rather, I have lived as a widowed fiancee, his widow.

“I was amused at this childish tenderness, and I even encouraged him. I
was coquettish, as charming as with a man, alternately caressing and
severe. I maddened this child. It was a game for me and a joyous
diversion for his mother and mine. He was twelve! think of it! Who would
have taken this atom's passion seriously? I kissed him as often as he
wished; I even wrote him little notes, which were read by our respective
mothers; and he answered me by passionate letters, which I have kept.
Judging himself as a man, he thought that our loving intimacy was
secret. We had forgotten that he was a Santeze.

“This lasted for about a year. One evening in the park he fell at my
feet and, as he madly kissed the hem of my dress, he kept repeating: 'I
love you! I love you! I love you! If ever you deceive me, if ever you
leave me for another, I'll do as my father did.' And he added in a
hoarse voice, which gave me a shiver: 'You know what he did!'

“I stood there astonished. He arose, and standing on the tips of his
toes in order to reach my ear, for I was taller than he, he pronounced
my first name: 'Genevieve!' in such a gentle, sweet, tender tone that I
trembled all over. I stammered: 'Let us return! let us return!' He said
no more and followed me; but as we were going up the steps of the porch,
he stopped me, saying: 'You know, if ever you leave me, I'll kill
myself.'

“This time I understood that I had gone too far, and I became quite
reserved. One day, as he was reproaching me for this, I answered: 'You
are now too old for jesting and too young for serious love. I'll wait.'

“I thought that this would end the matter. In the autumn he was sent to
a boarding-school. When he returned the following summer I was engaged
to be married. He understood immediately, and for a week he became so
pensive that I was quite anxious.

“On the morning of the ninth day I saw a little paper under my door as I
got up. I seized it, opened it and read: 'You have deserted me and you
know what I said. It is death to which you have condemned me. As I do
not wish to be found by another than you, come to the park just where I
told you last year that I loved you and look in the air.'

“I thought that I should go mad. I dressed as quickly as I could and ran
wildly to the place that he had mentioned. His little cap was on the
ground in the mud. It had been raining all night. I raised my eyes and
saw something swinging among the leaves, for the wind was blowing a
gale.

“I don't know what I did after that. I must have screamed at first, then
fainted and fallen, and finally have run to the chateau. The next thing
that I remember I was in bed, with my mother sitting beside me.

“I thought that I had dreamed all this in a frightful nightmare. I
stammered: 'And what of him, what of him, Gontran?' There was no answer.
It was true!

“I did not dare see him again, but I asked for a lock of his blond hair.
Here—here it is!”

And the old maid stretched out her trembling hand in a despairing
gesture. Then she blew her nose several times, wiped her eyes and
continued:

“I broke off my marriage—without saying why. And I—I always have
remained the—the widow of this thirteen-year-old boy.” Then her head
fell on her breast and she wept for a long time.

As the guests were retiring for the night a large man, whose quiet she
had disturbed, whispered in his neighbor's ear: “Isn't it unfortunate
to, be so sentimental?”





THE ENGLISHMAN OF ETRETAT

A great English poet has just crossed over to France in order to greet
Victor Hugo. All the newspapers are full of his name and he is the great
topic of conversation in all drawing-rooms. Fifteen years ago I had
occasion several times to meet Algernon Charles Swinburne. I will
attempt to show him just as I saw him and to give an idea of the strange
impression he made on me, which will remain with me throughout time.

I believe it was in 1867 or in 1868 that an unknown young Englishman
came to Etretat and bought a little hut hidden under great trees. It was
said that he lived there, always alone, in a strange manner; and he
aroused the inimical surprise of the natives, for the inhabitants were
sullen and foolishly malicious, as they always are in little towns.

They declared that this whimsical Englishman ate nothing but boiled,
roasted or stewed monkey; that he would see no one; that he talked to
himself hours at a time and many other surprising things that made
people think that he was different from other men. They were surprised
that he should live alone with a monkey. Had it been a cat or a dog they
would have said nothing. But a monkey! Was that not frightful? What
savage tastes the man must have!

I knew this young man only from seeing him in the streets. He was short,
plump, without being fat, mild-looking, and he wore a little blond
mustache, which was almost invisible.

Chance brought us together. This savage had amiable and pleasing
manners, but he was one of those strange Englishmen that one meets here
and there throughout the world.

Endowed with remarkable intelligence, he seemed to live in a fantastic
dream, as Edgar Poe must have lived. He had translated into English a
volume of strange Icelandic legends, which I ardently desired to see
translated into French. He loved the supernatural, the dismal and
grewsome, but he spoke of the most marvellous things with a calmness
that was typically English, to which his gentle and quiet voice gave a
semblance of reality that was maddening.

Full of a haughty disdain for the world, with its conventions,
prejudices and code of morality, he had nailed to his house a name that
was boldly impudent. The keeper of a lonely inn who should write on his
door: “Travellers murdered here!” could not make a more sinister jest. I
never had entered his dwelling, when one day I received an invitation to
luncheon, following an accident that had occurred to one of his friends,
who had been almost drowned and whom I had attempted to rescue.

Although I was unable to reach the man until he had already been
rescued, I received the hearty thanks of the two Englishmen, and the
following day I called upon them.

The friend was a man about thirty years old. He bore an enormous head on
a child's body—a body without chest or shoulders. An immense forehead,
which seemed to have engulfed the rest of the man, expanded like a dome
above a thin face which ended in a little pointed beard. Two sharp eyes
and a peculiar mouth gave one the impression of the head of a reptile,
while the magnificent brow suggested a genius.

A nervous twitching shook this peculiar being, who walked, moved, acted
by jerks like a broken spring.

This was Algernon Charles Swinburne, son of an English admiral and
grandson, on the maternal side, of the Earl of Ashburnham.

He strange countenance was transfigured when he spoke. I have seldom
seen a man more impressive, more eloquent, incisive or charming in
conversation. His rapid, clear, piercing and fantastic imagination
seemed to creep into his voice and to lend life to his words. His
brusque gestures enlivened his speech, which penetrated one like a
dagger, and he had bursts of thought, just as lighthouses throw out
flashes of fire, great, genial lights that seemed to illuminate a whole
world of ideas.

The home of the two friends was pretty and by no means commonplace.
Everywhere were paintings, some superb, some strange, representing
different conceptions of insanity. Unless I am mistaken, there was a
water-color which represented the head of a dead man floating in a rose-
colored shell on a boundless ocean, under a moon with a human face.

Here and there I came across bones. I clearly remember a flayed hand on
which was hanging some dried skin and black muscles, and on the snow-
white bones could be seen the traces of dried blood.

The food was a riddle which I could not solve. Was it good? Was it bad?
I could not say. Some roast monkey took away all desire to make a steady
diet of this animal, and the great monkey who roamed about among us at
large and playfully pushed his head into my glass when I wished to drink
cured me of any desire I might have to take one of his brothers as a
companion for the rest of my days.

As for the two men, they gave me the impression of two strange,
original, remarkable minds, belonging to that peculiar race of talented
madmen from among whom have arisen Poe, Hoffmann and many others.

If genius is, as is commonly believed, a sort of aberration of great
minds, then Algernon Charles Swinburne is undoubtedly a genius.

Great minds that are healthy are never considered geniuses, while this
sublime qualification is lavished on brains that are often inferior but
are slightly touched by madness.

At any rate, this poet remains one of the first of his time, through his
originality and polished form. He is an exalted lyrical singer who
seldom bothers about the good and humble truth, which French poets are
now seeking so persistently and patiently. He strives to set down
dreams, subtle thoughts, sometimes great, sometimes visibly forced, but
sometimes magnificent.

Two years later I found the house closed and its tenants gone. The
furniture was being sold. In memory of them I bought the hideous flayed
hand. On the grass an enormous square block of granite bore this simple
word: “Nip.” Above this a hollow stone offered water to the birds. It
was the grave of the monkey, who had been hanged by a young, vindictive
negro servant. It was said that this violent domestic had been forced to
flee at the point of his exasperated master's revolver. After wandering
about without home or food for several days, he returned and began to
peddle barley-sugar in the streets. He was expelled from the country
after he had almost strangled a displeased customer.

The world would be gayer if one could often meet homes like that.

This story appeared in the “Gaulois,” November 29, 1882. It was the
original sketch for the introductory study of Swinburne, written by
Maupassant for the French translation by Gabriel Mourey of “Poems and
Ballads.”






MAGNETISM

It was a men's dinner party, and they were sitting over their cigars and
brandy and discussing magnetism. Donato's tricks and Charcot's
experiments. Presently, the sceptical, easy-going men, who cared nothing
for religion of any sort, began telling stories of strange occurrences,
incredible things which, nevertheless, had really occurred, so they
said, falling back into superstitious beliefs, clinging to these last
remnants of the marvellous, becoming devotees of this mystery of
magnetism, defending it in the name of science. There was only one
person who smiled, a vigorous young fellow, a great ladies' man who was
so incredulous that he would not even enter upon a discussion of such
matters.

He repeated with a sneer:

“Humbug! humbug! humbug! We need not discuss Donato, who is merely a
very smart juggler. As for M. Charcot, who is said to be a remarkable
man of science, he produces on me the effect of those story-tellers of
the school of Edgar Poe, who end by going mad through constantly
reflecting on queer cases of insanity. He has authenticated some cases
of unexplained and inexplicable nervous phenomena; he makes his way into
that unknown region which men are exploring every day, and unable always
to understand what he sees, he recalls, perhaps, the ecclesiastical
interpretation of these mysteries. I should like to hear what he says
himself.”

The words of the unbeliever were listened to with a kind of pity, as if
he had blasphemed in an assembly of monks.

One of these gentlemen exclaimed:

“And yet miracles were performed in olden times.”

“I deny it,” replied the other: “Why cannot they be performed now?”

Then, each mentioned some fact, some fantastic presentiment some
instance of souls communicating with each other across space, or some
case of the secret influence of one being over another. They asserted
and maintained that these things had actually occurred, while the
sceptic angrily repeated:

“Humbug! humbug! humbug!”

At last he rose, threw away his cigar, and with his hands in his
pockets, said: “Well, I also have two stories to tell you, which I will
afterwards explain. Here they are:

“In the little village of Etretat, the men, who are all seafaring folk,
go every year to Newfoundland to fish for cod. One night the little son
of one of these fishermen woke up with a start, crying out that his
father was dead. The child was quieted, and again he woke up exclaiming
that his father was drowned. A month later the news came that his father
had, in fact, been swept off the deck of his smack by a billow. The
widow then remembered how her son had woke up and spoken of his father's
death. Everyone said it was a miracle, and the affair caused a great
sensation. The dates were compared, and it was found that the accident
and the dream were almost coincident, whence they concluded that they
had happened on the same night and at the same hour. And there is a
mystery of magnetism.”

The story-teller stopped suddenly.

Thereupon, one of those who had heard him, much affected by the
narrative, asked:

“And can you explain this?”

“Perfectly, monsieur. I have discovered the secret. The circumstance
surprised me and even perplexed me very much; but you see, I do not
believe on principle. Just as others begin by believing, I begin by
doubting; and when I cannot understand, I continue to deny that there
can be any telepathic communication between souls; certain that my own
intelligence will be able to explain it. Well, I kept on inquiring into
the matter, and by dint of questioning all the wives of the absent
seamen, I was convinced that not a week passed without one of them, or
one of their children dreaming and declaring when they woke up that the
father was drowned. The horrible and continual fear of this accident
makes them always talk about it. Now, if one of these frequent
predictions coincides, by a very simple chance, with the death of the
person referred to, people at once declare it to be a miracle; for they
suddenly lose sight of all the other predictions of misfortune that have
remained unfulfilled. I have myself known fifty cases where the persons
who made the prediction forgot all about it a week afterwards. But, if,
then one happens to die, then the recollection of the thing is
immediately revived, and people are ready to believe in the intervention
of God, according to some, and magnetism, according to others.”

One of the smokers remarked:

“What you say is right enough; but what about your second story?”

“Oh! my second story is a very delicate matter to relate. It happened to
myself, and so I don't place any great value on my own view of the
matter. An interested party can never give an impartial opinion.
However, here it is:

“Among my acquaintances was a young woman on whom I had never bestowed a
thought, whom I had never even looked at attentively, never taken any
notice of.

“I classed her among the women of no importance, though she was not bad-
looking; she appeared, in fact, to possess eyes, a nose, a mouth, some
sort of hair—just a colorless type of countenance. She was one of those
beings who awaken only a chance, passing thought, but no special
interest, no desire.

“Well, one night, as I was writing some letters by my fireside before
going to bed, I was conscious, in the midst of that train of sensuous
visions that sometimes pass through one's brain in moments of idle
reverie, of a kind of slight influence, passing over me, a little
flutter of the heart, and immediately, without any cause, without any
logical connection of thought, I saw distinctly, as if I were touching
her, saw from head to foot, and disrobed, this young woman to whom I had
never given more than three seconds' thought at a time. I suddenly
discovered in her a number of qualities which I had never before
observed, a sweet charm, a languorous fascination; she awakened in me
that sort of restless emotion that causes one to pursue a woman. But I
did not think of her long. I went to bed and was soon asleep. And I
dreamed.

“You have all had these strange dreams which make you overcome the
impossible, which open to you double-locked doors, unexpected joys,
tightly folded arms?

“Which of us in these troubled, excising, breathless slumbers, has not
held, clasped, embraced with rapture, the woman who occupied his
thoughts? And have you ever noticed what superhuman delight these happy
dreams give us? Into what mad intoxication they cast you! with what
passionate spasms they shake you! and with what infinite, caressing,
penetrating tenderness they fill your heart for her whom you hold
clasped in your arms in that adorable illusion that is so like reality!

“All this I felt with unforgettable violence. This woman was mine, so
much mine that the pleasant warmth of her skin remained in my fingers,
the odor of her skin, in my brain, the taste of her kisses, on my lips,
the sound of her voice lingered in my ears, the touch of her clasp still
clung to me, and the burning charm of her tenderness still gratified my
senses long after the delight but disillusion of my awakening.

“And three times that night I had the same dream.

“When the day dawned she haunted me, possessed me, filled my senses to
such an extent that I was not one second without thinking of her.

“At last, not knowing what to do, I dressed myself and went to call on
her. As I went upstairs to her apartment, I was so overcome by emotion
that I trembled, and my heart beat rapidly.

“I entered the apartment. She rose the moment she heard my name
mentioned; and suddenly our eyes met in a peculiar fixed gaze.

“I sat down. I stammered out some commonplaces which she seemed not to
hear. I did not know what to say or do. Then, abruptly, clasping my arms
round her, my dream was realized so suddenly that I began to doubt
whether I was really awake. We were friends after this for two years.”

“What conclusion do you draw from it?” said a voice.

The story-teller seemed to hesitate.

“The conclusion I draw from it—well, by Jove, the conclusion is that it
was just a coincidence! And then—who can tell? Perhaps it was some
glance of hers which I had not noticed and which came back that night to
me through one of those mysterious and unconscious —recollections that
often bring before us things ignored by our own consciousness,
unperceived by our minds!”

“Call it whatever you like,” said one of his table companions, when the
story was finished; “but if you don't believe in magnetism after that,
my dear boy, you are an ungrateful fellow!”





A FATHER'S CONFESSION

All Veziers-le-Rethel had followed the funeral procession of M. Badon-
Leremince to the grave, and the last words of the funeral oration
pronounced by the delegate of the district remained in the minds of all:
“He was an honest man, at least!”

An honest man he had been in all the known acts of his life, in his
words, in his examples, his attitude, his behavior, his enterprises, in
the cut of his beard and the shape of his hats. He never had said a word
that did not set an example, never had given an alms without adding a
word of advice, never had extended his hand without appearing to bestow
a benediction.

He left two children, a boy and a girl. His son was counselor general,
and his daughter, having married a lawyer, M. Poirel de la Voulte, moved
in the best society of Veziers.

They were inconsolable at the death of their father, for they loved him
sincerely.

As soon as the ceremony was over, the son, daughter and son-in-law
returned to the house of mourning, and, shutting themselves in the
library, they opened the will, the seals of which were to be broken by
them alone and only after the coffin had been placed in the ground. This
wish was expressed by a notice on the envelope.

M. Poirel de la Voulte tore open the envelope, in his character of a
lawyer used to such operations, and having adjusted his spectacles, he
read in a monotonous voice, made for reading the details of contracts:

My children, my dear children, I could not sleep the eternal sleep in
peace if I did not make to you from the tomb a confession, the
confession of a crime, remorse for which has ruined my life. Yes, I
committed a crime, a frightful, abominable crime.

I was twenty-six years old, and I had just been called to the bar in
Paris, and was living the life off young men from the provinces who are
stranded in this town without acquaintances, relatives, or friends.

I took a sweetheart. There are beings who cannot live alone. I was one
of those. Solitude fills me with horrible anguish, the solitude of my
room beside my fire in the evening. I feel then as if I were alone on
earth, alone, but surrounded by vague dangers, unknown and terrible
things; and the partition that separates me from my neighbor, my
neighbor whom I do not know, keeps me at as great a distance from him as
the stars that I see through my window. A sort of fever pervades me, a
fever of impatience and of fear, and the silence of the walls terrifies
me. The silence of a room where one lives alone is so intense and so
melancholy. It is not only a silence of the mind; when a piece of
furniture cracks a shudder goes through you for you expect no noise in
this melancholy abode.

How many times, nervous and timid from this motionless silence, I have
begun to talk, to repeat words without rhyme or reason, only to make
some sound. My voice at those times sounds so strange that I am afraid
of that, too. Is there anything more dreadful than talking to one's self
in an empty house? One's voice sounds like that of another, an unknown
voice talking aimlessly, to no one, into the empty air, with no ear to
listen to it, for one knows before they escape into the solitude of the
room exactly what words will be uttered. And when they resound
lugubriously in the silence, they seem no more than an echo, the
peculiar echo of words whispered by ones thought.

My sweetheart was a young girl like other young girls who live in Paris
on wages that are insufficient to keep them. She was gentle, good,
simple. Her parents lived at Poissy. She went to spend several days with
them from time to time.

For a year I lived quietly with her, fully decided to leave her when I
should find some one whom I liked well enough to marry. I would make a
little provision for this one, for it is an understood thing in our
social set that a woman's love should be paid for, in money if she is
poor, in presents if she is rich.

But one day she told me she was enceinte. I was thunderstruck, and saw
in a second that my life would be ruined. I saw the fetter that I should
wear until my death, everywhere, in my future family life, in my old
age, forever; the fetter of a woman bound to my life through a child;
the fetter of the child whom I must bring up, watch over, protect, while
keeping myself unknown to him, and keeping him hidden from the world.

I was greatly disturbed at this news, and a confused longing, a criminal
desire, surged through my mind; I did not formulate it, but I felt it in
my heart, ready to come to the surface, as if some one hidden behind a
portiere should await the signal to come out. If some accident might
only happen! So many of these little beings die before they are born!

Oh! I did not wish my sweetheart to die! The poor girl, I loved her very
much! But I wished, possibly, that the child might die before I saw it.

He was born. I set up housekeeping in my little bachelor apartment, an
imitation home, with a horrible child. He looked like all children; I
did not care for him. Fathers, you see, do not show affection until
later. They have not the instinctive and passionate tenderness of
mothers; their affection has to be awakened gradually, their mind must
become attached by bonds formed each day between beings that live in
each other's society.

A year passed. I now avoided my home, which was too small, where soiled
linen, baby-clothes and stockings the size of gloves were lying round,
where a thousand articles of all descriptions lay on the furniture, on
the arm of an easy-chair, everywhere. I went out chiefly that I might
not hear the child cry, for he cried on the slightest pretext, when he
was bathed, when he was touched, when he was put to bed, when he was
taken up in the morning, incessantly.

I had made a few acquaintances, and I met at a reception the woman who
was to be your mother. I fell in love with her and became desirous to
marry her. I courted her; I asked her parents' consent to our marriage
and it was granted.

I found myself in this dilemma: I must either marry this young girl whom
I adored, having a child already, or else tell the truth and renounce
her, and happiness, my future, everything; for her parents, who were
people of rigid principles, would not give her to me if they knew.

I passed a month of horrible anguish, of mortal torture, a month haunted
by a thousand frightful thoughts; and I felt developing in me a hatred
toward my son, toward that little morsel of living, screaming flesh, who
blocked my path, interrupted my life, condemned me to an existence
without hope, without all those vague expectations that make the charm
of youth.

But just then my companion's mother became ill, and I was left alone
with the child.

It was in December, and the weather was terribly cold. What a night!

My companion had just left. I had dined alone in my little dining-room
and I went gently into the room where the little one was asleep.

I sat down in an armchair before the fire. The wind was blowing, making
the windows rattle, a dry, frosty wind; and I saw trough the window the
stars shining with that piercing brightness that they have on frosty
nights.

Then the idea that had obsessed me for a month rose again to the
surface. As soon as I was quiet it came to me and harassed me. It ate
into my mind like a fixed idea, just as cancers must eat into the flesh.
It was there, in my head, in my heart, in my whole body, it seemed to
me; and it swallowed me up as a wild beast might have. I endeavored to
drive it away, to repulse it, to open my mind to other thoughts, as one
opens a window to the fresh morning breeze to drive out the vitiated
air; but I could not drive it from my brain, not even for a second. I do
not know how to express this torture. It gnawed at my soul, and I felt a
frightful pain, a real physical and moral pain.

My life was ruined! How could I escape from this situation? How could I
draw back, and how could I confess?

And I loved the one who was to become your mother with a mad passion,
which this insurmountable obstacle only aggravated.

A terrible rage was taking possession of me, choking me, a rage that
verged on madness! Surely I was crazy that evening!

The child was sleeping. I got up and looked at it as it slept. It was
he, this abortion, this spawn, this nothing, that condemned me to
irremediable unhappiness!

He was asleep, his mouth open, wrapped in his bed-clothes in a crib
beside my bed, where I could not sleep.

How did I ever do what I did? How do I know? What force urged me on?
What malevolent power took possession of me? Oh! the temptation to crime
came to me without any forewarning. All I recall is that my heart beat
tumultuously. It beat so hard that I could hear it, as one hears the
strokes of a hammer behind a partition. That is all I can recall—the
beating of my heart! In my head there was a strange confusion, a tumult,
a senseless disorder, a lack of presence of mind. It was one of those
hours of bewilderment and hallucination when a man is neither conscious
of his actions nor able to guide his will.

I gently raised the coverings from the body of the child; I turned them
down to the foot of the crib, and he lay there uncovered and naked.

He did not wake. Then I went toward the window, softly, quite softly,
and I opened it.

A breath of icy air glided in like an assassin; it was so cold that I
drew aside, and the two candles flickered. I remained standing near the
window, not daring to turn round, as if for fear of seeing what was
doing on behind me, and feeling the icy air continually across my
forehead, my cheeks, my hands, the deadly air which kept streaming in. I
stood there a long time.

I was not thinking, I was not reflecting. All at once a little cough
caused me to shudder frightfully from head to foot, a shudder that I
feel still to the roots of my hair. And with a frantic movement I
abruptly closed both sides of the window and, turning round, ran over to
the crib.

He was still asleep, his mouth open, quite naked. I touched his legs;
they were icy cold and I covered them up.

My heart was suddenly touched, grieved, filled with pity, tenderness,
love for this poor innocent being that I had wished to kill. I kissed
his fine, soft hair long and tenderly; then I went and sat down before
the fire.

I reflected with amazement with horror on what I had done, asking myself
whence come those tempests of the soul in which a man loses all
perspective of things, all command over himself and acts as in a
condition of mad intoxication, not knowing whither he is going—like a
vessel in a hurricane.

The child coughed again, and it gave my heart a wrench. Suppose it
should die! O God! O God! What would become of me?

I rose from my chair to go and look at him, and with a candle in my hand
I leaned over him. Seeing him breathing quietly I felt reassured, when
he coughed a third time. It gave me such a shock tat I started backward,
just as one does at sight of something horrible, and let my candle fall.

As I stood erect after picking it up, I noticed that my temples were
bathed in perspiration, that cold sweat which is the result of anguish
of soul. And I remained until daylight bending over my son, becoming
calm when he remained quiet for some time, and filled with atrocious
pain when a weak cough came from his mouth.

He awoke with his eyes red, his throat choked, and with an air of
suffering.

When the woman came in to arrange my room I sent her at once for a
doctor. He came at the end of an hour, and said, after examining the
child:

“Did he not catch cold?”

I began to tremble like a person with palsy, and I faltered:

“No, I do not think so.”

And then I said:

“What is the matter? Is it serious?”

“I do not know yet,” he replied. “I will come again this evening.”

He came that evening. My son had remained almost all day in a condition
of drowsiness, coughing from time to time. During the night inflammation
of the lungs set in.

That lasted ten days. I cannot express what I suffered in those
interminable hours that divide morning from night, right from morning.

He died.

And since—since that moment, I have not passed one hour, not a single
hour, without the frightful burning recollection, a gnawing
recollection, a memory that seems to wring my heart, awaking in me like
a savage beast imprisoned in the depth of my soul.

Oh! if I could have gone mad!

M. Poirel de la Voulte raised his spectacles with a motion that was
peculiar to him whenever he finished reading a contract; and the three
heirs of the defunct looked at one another without speaking, pale and
motionless.

At the end of a minute the lawyer resumed:

“That must be destroyed.”

The other two bent their heads in sign of assent. He lighted a candle,
carefully separated the pages containing the damaging confession from
those relating to the disposition of money, then he held them over the
candle and threw them into the fireplace.

And they watched the white sheets as they burned, till they were
presently reduced to little crumbling black heaps. And as some words
were still visible in white tracing, the daughter, with little strokes
of the toe of her shoe, crushed the burning paper, mixing it with the
old ashes in the fireplace.

Then all three stood there watching it for some time, as if they feared
that the destroyed secret might escape from the fireplace.





A MOTHER OF MONSTERS

I recalled this horrible story, the events of which occurred long ago,
and this horrible woman, the other day at a fashionable seaside resort,
where I saw on the beach a well-known young, elegant and charming
Parisienne, adored and respected by everyone.

I had been invited by a friend to pay him a visit in a little provincial
town. He took me about in all directions to do the honors of the place,
showed me noted scenes, chateaux, industries, ruins. He pointed out
monuments, churches, old carved doorways, enormous or distorted trees,
the oak of St. Andrew, and the yew tree of Roqueboise.

When I had exhausted my admiration and enthusiasm over all the sights,
my friend said with a distressed expression on his face, that there was
nothing left to look at. I breathed freely. I would now be able to rest
under the shade of the trees. But, all at once, he uttered an
exclamation:

“Oh, yes! We have the 'Mother of Monsters'; I must take you to see her.”

“Who is that, the 'Mother of Monsters'?” I asked.

“She is an abominable woman,” he replied, “a regular demon, a being who
voluntarily brings into the world deformed, hideous, frightful children,
monstrosities, in fact, and then sells them to showmen who exhibit such
things.

“These exploiters of freaks come from time to time to find out if she
has any fresh monstrosity, and if it meets with their approval they
carry it away with them, paying the mother a compensation.

“She has eleven of this description. She is rich.

“You think I am joking, romancing, exaggerating. No, my friend; I am
telling you the truth, the exact truth.

“Let us go and see this woman. Then I will tell you her history.”

He took me into one of the suburbs. The woman lived in a pretty little
house by the side of the road. It was attractive and well kept. The
garden was filled with fragrant flowers. One might have supposed it to
be the residence of a retired lawyer.

A maid ushered us into a sort of little country parlor, and the wretch
appeared. She was about forty. She was a tall, big woman with hard
features, but well formed, vigorous and healthy, the true type of a
robust peasant woman, half animal, and half woman.

She was aware of her reputation and received everyone with a humility
that smacked of hatred.

“What do the gentlemen wish?” she asked.

“They tell me that your last child is just like an ordinary child, that
he does not resemble his brothers at all,” replied my friend. “I wanted
to be sure of that. Is it true?”

She cast on us a malicious and furious look as she said:

“Oh, no, oh, no, my poor sir! He is perhaps even uglier than the rest. I
have no luck, no luck!

“They are all like that, it is heartbreaking! How can the good God be so
hard on a poor woman who is all alone in the world, how can He?” She
spoke hurriedly, her eyes cast down, with a deprecating air as of a wild
beast who is afraid. Her harsh voice became soft, and it seemed strange
to hear those tearful falsetto tones issuing from that big, bony frame,
of unusual strength and with coarse outlines, which seemed fitted for
violent action, and made to utter howls like a wolf.

“We should like to see your little one,” said my friend.

I fancied she colored up. I may have been deceived. After a few moments
of silence, she said in a louder tone:

“What good will that do you?”

“Why do you not wish to show it to us?” replied my friend. “There are
many people to whom you will show it; you know whom I mean.”

She gave a start, and resuming her natural voice, and giving free play
to her anger, she screamed:

“Was that why you came here? To insult me? Because my children are like
animals, tell me? You shall not see him, no, no, you shall not see him!
Go away, go away! I do not know why you all try to torment me like
that.”

She walked over toward us, her hands on her hips. At the brutal tone of
her voice, a sort of moaning, or rather a mewing, the lamentable cry of
an idiot, came from the adjoining room. I shivered to the marrow of my
bones. We retreated before her.

“Take care, Devil” (they called her the Devil); said my friend, “take
care; some day you will get yourself into trouble through this.”

She began to tremble, beside herself with fury, shaking her fist and
roaring:

“Be off with you! What will get me into trouble? Be off with you,
miscreants!”

She was about to attack us, but we fled, saddened at what we had seen.
When we got outside, my friend said:

“Well, you have seen her, what do you think of her?”

“Tell me the story of this brute,” I replied.

And this is what he told me as we walked along the white high road, with
ripe crops on either side of it which rippled like the sea in the light
breeze that passed over them.

“This woman was once a servant on a farm. She was an honest girl, steady
and economical. She was never known to have an admirer, and never
suspected of any frailty. But she went astray, as so many do.

“She soon found herself in trouble, and was tortured with fear and
shame. Wishing to conceal her misfortune, she bound her body tightly
with a corset of her own invention, made of boards and cord. The more
she developed, the more she bound herself with this instrument of
torture, suffering martyrdom, but brave in her sorrow, not allowing
anyone to see, or suspect, anything. She maimed the little unborn being,
cramping it with that frightful corset, and made a monster of it. Its
head was squeezed and elongated to a point, and its large eyes seemed
popping out of its head. Its limbs, exaggeratedly long, and twisted like
the stalk of a vine, terminated in fingers like the claws of a spider.
Its trunk was tiny, and round as a nut.

“The child was born in an open field, and when the weeders saw it, they
fled away, screaming, and the report spread that she had given birth to
a demon. From that time on, she was called 'the Devil.'

“She was driven from the farm, and lived on charity, under a cloud. She
brought up the monster, whom she hated with a savage hatred, and would
have strangled, perhaps, if the priest had not threatened her with
arrest.

“One day some travelling showmen heard about the frightful creature, and
asked to see it, so that if it pleased them they might take it away.
They were pleased, and counted out five hundred francs to the mother. At
first, she had refused to let them see the little animal, as she was
ashamed; but when she discovered it had a money value, and that these
people were anxious to get it, she began to haggle with them, raising
her price with all a peasant's persistence.

“She made them draw up a paper, in which they promised to pay her four
hundred francs a year besides, as though they had taken this deformity
into their employ.

“Incited by the greed of gain, she continued to produce these phenomena,
so as to have an assured income like a bourgeoise.

“Some of them were long, some short, some like crabs-all bodies-others
like lizards. Several died, and she was heartbroken.

“The law tried to interfere, but as they had no proof they let her
continue to produce her freaks.

“She has at this moment eleven alive, and they bring in, on an average,
counting good and bad years, from five to six thousand francs a year.
One, alone, is not placed, the one she was unwilling to show us. But she
will not keep it long, for she is known to all the showmen in the world,
who come from time to time to see if she has anything new.

“She even gets bids from them when the monster is valuable.”

My friend was silent. A profound disgust stirred my heart, and a feeling
of rage, of regret, to think that I had not strangled this brute when I
had the opportunity.

I had forgotten this story, when I saw on the beach of a fashionable
resort the other day, an elegant, charming, dainty woman, surrounded by
men who paid her respect as well as admiration.

I was walking along the beach, arm in arm with a friend, the resident
physician. Ten minutes later, I saw a nursemaid with three children, who
were rolling in the sand. A pair of little crutches lay on the ground,
and touched my sympathy. I then noticed that these three children were
all deformed, humpbacked, or crooked; and hideous.

“Those are the offspring of that charming woman you saw just now,” said
the doctor.

I was filled with pity for her, as well as for them, and exclaimed: “Oh,
the poor mother! How can she ever laugh!”

“Do not pity her, my friend. Pity the poor children,” replied the
doctor. “This is the consequence of preserving a slender figure up to
the last. These little deformities were made by the corset. She knows
very well that she is risking her life at this game. But what does she
care, as long as he can be beautiful and have admirers!”

And then I recalled that other woman, the peasant, the “Devil,” who sold
her children, her monsters.





AN UNCOMFORTABLE BED

One autumn I went to spend the hunting season with some friends in a
chateau in Picardy.

My friends were fond of practical jokes. I do not care to know people
who are not.

When I arrived, they gave me a princely reception, which at once
awakened suspicion in my mind. They fired off rifles, embraced me, made
much of me, as if they expected to have great fun at my expense.

I said to myself:

“Look out, old ferret! They have something in store for you.”

During the dinner the mirth was excessive, exaggerated, in fact. I
thought: “Here are people who have more than their share of amusement,
and apparently without reason. They must have planned some good joke.
Assuredly I am to be the victim of the joke. Attention!”

During the entire evening every one laughed in an exaggerated fashion. I
scented a practical joke in the air, as a dog scents game. But what was
it? I was watchful, restless. I did not let a word, or a meaning, or a
gesture escape me. Every one seemed to me an object of suspicion, and I
even looked distrustfully at the faces of the servants.

The hour struck for retiring; and the whole household came to escort me
to my room. Why?

They called to me: “Good-night.” I entered the apartment, shut the door,
and remained standing, without moving a single step, holding the wax
candle in my hand.

I heard laughter and whispering in the corridor. Without doubt they were
spying on me. I cast a glance round the walls, the furniture, the
ceiling, the hangings, the floor. I saw nothing to justify suspicion. I
heard persons moving about outside my door. I had no doubt they were
looking through the keyhole.

An idea came into my head: “My candle may suddenly go out and leave me
in darkness.”

Then I went across to the mantelpiece and lighted all the wax candles
that were on it. After that I cast another glance around me without
discovering anything. I advanced with short steps, carefully examining
the apartment. Nothing. I inspected every article, one after the other.
Still nothing. I went over to the window. The shutters, large wooden
shutters, were open. I shut them with great care, and then drew the
curtains, enormous velvet curtains, and placed a chair in front of them,
so as to have nothing to fear from outside.

Then I cautiously sat down. The armchair was solid. I did not venture to
get into the bed. However, the night was advancing; and I ended by
coming to the conclusion that I was foolish. If they were spying on me,
as I supposed, they must, while waiting for the success of the joke they
had been preparing for me, have been laughing immoderately at my terror.
So I made up my mind to go to bed. But the bed was particularly
suspicious-looking. I pulled at the curtains. They seemed to be secure.

All the same, there was danger. I was going perhaps to receive a cold
shower both from overhead, or perhaps, the moment I stretched myself
out, to find myself sinking to the floor with my mattress. I searched in
my memory for all the practical jokes of which I ever had experience.
And I did not want to be caught. Ah! certainly not! certainly not! Then
I suddenly bethought myself of a precaution which I considered insured
safety. I caught hold of the side of the mattress gingerly, and very
slowly drew it toward me. It came away, followed by the sheet and the
rest of the bedclothes. I dragged all these objects into the very middle
of the room, facing the entrance door. I made my bed over again as best
I could at some distance from the suspected bedstead and the corner
which had filled me with such anxiety. Then I extinguished all the
candles, and, groping my way, I slipped under the bed clothes.

For at least another hour I remained awake, starting at the slightest
sound. Everything seemed quiet in the chateau. I fell asleep.

I must have been in a deep sleep for a long time, but all of a sudden I
was awakened with a start by the fall of a heavy body tumbling right on
top of my own, and, at the same time, I received on my face, on my neck,
and on my chest a burning liquid which made me utter a howl of pain. And
a dreadful noise, as if a sideboard laden with plates and dishes had
fallen down, almost deafened me.

I was smothering beneath the weight that was crushing me and preventing
me from moving. I stretched out my hand to find out what was the nature
of this object. I felt a face, a nose, and whiskers. Then, with all my
strength, I launched out a blow at this face. But I immediately received
a hail of cuffings which made me jump straight out of the soaked sheets,
and rush in my nightshirt into the corridor, the door of which I found
open.

Oh, heavens! it was broad daylight. The noise brought my friends
hurrying into my apartment, and we found, sprawling over my improvised
bed, the dismayed valet, who, while bringing me my morning cup of tea,
had tripped over this obstacle in the middle of the floor and fallen on
his stomach, spilling my breakfast over my face in spite of himself.

The precautions I had taken in closing the shutters and going to sleep
in the middle of the room had only brought about the practical joke I
had been trying to avoid.

Oh, how they all laughed that day!





A PORTRAIT

“Hello! there's Milial!” said somebody near me. I looked at the man who
had been pointed out as I had been wishing for a long time to meet this
Don Juan.

He was no longer young. His gray hair looked a little like those fur
bonnets worn by certain Northern peoples, and his long beard, which fell
down over his chest, had also somewhat the appearance of fur. He was
talking to a lady, leaning toward her, speaking in a low voice and
looking at her with an expression full of respect and tenderness.

I knew his life, or at least as much as was known of it. He had loved
madly several times, and there had been certain tragedies with which his
name had been connected. When I spoke to women who were the loudest in
his praise, and asked them whence came this power, they always answered,
after thinking for a while: “I don't know—he has a certain charm about
him.”

He was certainly not handsome. He had none of the elegance that we
ascribe to conquerors of feminine hearts. I wondered what might be his
hidden charm. Was it mental? I never had heard of a clever saying of
his. In his glance? Perhaps. Or in his voice? The voices of some beings
have a certain irresistible attraction, almost suggesting the flavor of
things good to eat. One is hungry for them, and the sound of their words
penetrates us like a dainty morsel. A friend was passing. I asked him:
“Do you know Monsieur Milial?”

“Yes.”

“Introduce us.”

A minute later we were shaking hands and talking in the doorway. What he
said was correct, agreeable to hear; it contained no irritable thought.
The voice was sweet, soft, caressing, musical; but I had heard others
much more attractive, much more moving. One listened to him with
pleasure, just as one would look at a pretty little brook. No tension of
the mind was necessary in order to follow him, no hidden meaning aroused
curiosity, no expectation awoke interest. His conversation was rather
restful, but it did not awaken in one either a desire to answer, to
contradict or to approve, and it was as easy to answer him as it was to
listen to him. The response came to the lips of its own accord, as soon
as he had finished talking, and phrases turned toward him as if he had
naturally aroused them.

One thought soon struck me. I had known him for a quarter of an hour,
and it seemed as if he were already one of my old friends, that I had
known all about him for a long time; his face, his gestures, his voice,
his ideas. Suddenly, after a few minutes of conversation, he seemed
already to be installed in my intimacy. All constraint disappeared
between us, and, had he so desired, I might have confided in him as one
confides only in old friends.

Certainly there was some mystery about him. Those barriers that are
closed between most people and that are lowered with time when sympathy,
similar tastes, equal intellectual culture and constant intercourse
remove constraint—those barriers seemed not to exist between him and me,
and no doubt this was the case between him and all people, both men and
women, whom fate threw in his path.

After half an hour we parted, promising to see each other often, and he
gave me his address after inviting me to take luncheon with him in two
days.

I forgot what hour he had stated, and I arrived too soon; he was not yet
home. A correct and silent domestic showed me into a beautiful, quiet,
softly lighted parlor. I felt comfortable there, at home. How often I
have noticed the influence of apartments on the character and on the
mind! There are some which make one feel foolish; in others, on the
contrary, one always feels lively. Some make us sad, although well
lighted and decorated in light-colored furniture; others cheer us up,
although hung with sombre material. Our eye, like our heart, has its
likes and dislikes, of which it does not inform us, and which it
secretly imposes on our temperament. The harmony of furniture, walls,
the style of an ensemble, act immediately on our mental state, just as
the air from the woods, the sea or the mountains modifies our physical
natures.

I sat down on a cushion-covered divan and felt myself suddenly carried
and supported by these little silk bags of feathers, as if the outline
of my body had been marked out beforehand on this couch.

Then I looked about. There was nothing striking about the room; every-
where were beautiful and modest things, simple and rare furniture,
Oriental curtains which did not seem to come from a department store but
from the interior of a harem; and exactly opposite me hung the portrait
of a woman. It was a portrait of medium size, showing the head and the
upper part of the body, and the hands, which were holding a book. She
was young, bareheaded; ribbons were woven in her hair; she was smiling
sadly. Was it because she was bareheaded, was it merely her natural
expression? I never have seen a portrait of a lady which seemed so much
in its place as that one in that dwelling. Of all those I knew I have
seen nothing like that one. All those that I know are on exhibition,
whether the lady be dressed in her gaudiest gown, with an attractive
headdress and a look which shows that she is posing first of all before
the artist and then before those who will look at her or whether they
have taken a comfortable attitude in an ordinary gown. Some are standing
majestically in all their beauty, which is not at all natural to them in
life. All of them have something, a flower or, a jewel, a crease in the
dress or a curve of the lip, which one feels to have been placed there
for effect by the artist. Whether they wear a hat or merely their hair
one can immediately notice that they are not entirely natural. Why? One
cannot say without knowing them, but the effect is there. They seem to
be calling somewhere, on people whom they wish to please and to whom
they wish to appear at their best advantage; and they have studied their
attitudes, sometimes modest, Sometimes haughty.

What could one say about this one? She was at home and alone. Yes, she
was alone, for she was smiling as one smiles when thinking in solitude
of something sad or sweet, and not as one smiles when one is being
watched. She seemed so much alone and so much at home that she made the
whole large apartment seem absolutely empty. She alone lived in it,
filled it, gave it life. Many people might come in and converse, laugh,
even sing; she would still be alone with a solitary smile, and she alone
would give it life with her pictured gaze.

That look also was unique. It fell directly on me, fixed and caressing,
without seeing me. All portraits know that they are being watched, and
they answer with their eyes, which see, think, follow us without leaving
us, from the very moment we enter the apartment they inhabit. This one
did not see me; it saw nothing, although its look was fixed directly on
me. I remembered the surprising verse of Baudelaire:

And your eyes, attractive as those of a portrait.

They did indeed attract me in an irresistible manner; those painted eyes
which had lived, or which were perhaps still living, threw over me a
strange, powerful spell. Oh, what an infinite and tender charm, like a
passing breeze, like a dying sunset of lilac rose and blue, a little sad
like the approaching night, which comes behind the sombre frame and out
of those impenetrable eyes! Those eyes, created by a few strokes from a
brush, hide behind them the mystery of that which seems to be and which
does not exist, which can appear in the eyes of a woman, which can make
love blossom within us.

The door opened and M. Milial entered. He excused himself for being
late. I excused myself for being ahead of time. Then I said: “Might I
ask you who is this lady?”

He answered: “That is my mother. She died very young.”

Then I understood whence came the inexplicable attraction of this man.





THE DRUNKARD

The north wind was blowing a hurricane, driving through the sky big,
black, heavy clouds from which the rain poured down on the earth with
terrific violence.

A high sea was raging and dashing its huge, slow, foamy waves along the
coast with the rumbling sound of thunder. The waves followed each other
close, rolling in as high as mountains, scattering the foam as they
broke.

The storm engulfed itself in the little valley of Yport, whistling and
moaning, tearing the shingles from the roofs, smashing the shutters,
knocking down the chimneys, rushing through the narrow streets in such
gusts that one could walk only by holding on to the walls, and children
would have been lifted up like leaves and carried over the houses into
the fields.

The fishing smacks had been hauled high up on land, because at high tide
the sea would sweep the beach. Several sailors, sheltered behind the
curved bottoms of their boats, were watching this battle of the sky and
the sea.

Then, one by one, they went away, for night was falling on the storm,
wrapping in shadows the raging ocean and all the battling elements.

Just two men remained, their hands plunged deep into their pockets,
bending their backs beneath the squall, their woolen caps pulled down
over their ears; two big Normandy fishermen, bearded, their skin tanned
through exposure, with the piercing black eyes of the sailor who looks
over the horizon like a bird of prey.

One of them was saying:

“Come on, Jeremie, let's go play dominoes. It's my treat.”

The other hesitated a while, tempted on one hand by the game and the
thought of brandy, knowing well that, if he went to Paumelle's, he would
return home drunk; held back, on the other hand, by the idea of his wife
remaining alone in the house.

He asked:

“Any one might think that you had made a bet to get me drunk every
night. Say, what good is it doing you, since it's always you that's
treating?”

Nevertheless he was smiling at the idea of all this brandy drunk at the
expense of another. He was smiling the contented smirk of an avaricious
Norman.

Mathurin, his friend, kept pulling him by the sleeve.

“Come on, Jeremie. This isn't the kind of a night to go home without
anything to warm you up. What are you afraid of? Isn't your wife going
to warm your bed for you?”

Jeremie answered:

“The other night I couldn't find the door—I had to be fished out of the
ditch in front of the house!”

He was still laughing at this drunkard's recollection, and he was
unconsciously going toward Paumelle's Cafe, where a light was shining in
the window; he was going, pulled by Mathurin and pushed by the wind,
unable to resist these combined forces.

The low room was full of sailors, smoke and noise. All these men, clad
in woolens, their elbows on the tables, were shouting to make themselves
heard. The more people came in, the more one had to shout in order to
overcome the noise of voices and the rattling of dominoes on the marble
tables.

Jeremie and Mathurin sat down in a corner and began a game, and the
glasses were emptied in rapid succession into their thirsty throats.

Then they played more games and drank more glasses. Mathurin kept
pouring and winking to the saloon keeper, a big, red-faced man, who
chuckled as though at the thought of some fine joke; and Jeremie kept
absorbing alcohol and wagging his head, giving vent to a roar of
laughter and looking at his comrade with a stupid and contented
expression.

All the customers were going away. Every time that one of them would
open the door to leave a gust of wind would blow into the cafe, making
the tobacco smoke swirl around, swinging the lamps at the end of their
chains and making their flames flicker, and suddenly one could hear the
deep booming of a breaking wave and the moaning of the wind.

Jeremie, his collar unbuttoned, was taking drunkard's poses, one leg
outstretched, one arm hanging down and in the other hand holding a
domino.

They were alone now with the owner, who had come up to them, interested.

He asked:

“Well, Jeremie, how goes it inside? Feel less thirsty after wetting your
throat?”

Jeremie muttered:

“The more I wet it, the drier it gets inside.”

The innkeeper cast a sly glance at Mathurin. He said:

“And your brother, Mathurin, where's he now?”

The sailor laughed silently:

“Don't worry; he's warm, all right.”

And both of them looked toward Jeremie, who was triumphantly putting
down the double six and announcing:

“Game!”

Then the owner declared:

“Well, boys, I'm goin' to bed. I will leave you the lamp and the bottle;
there's twenty cents' worth in it. Lock the door when you go, Mathurin,
and slip the key under the mat the way you did the other night.”

Mathurin answered:

“Don't worry; it'll be all right.”

Paumelle shook hands with his two customers and slowly went up the
wooden stairs. For several minutes his heavy step echoed through the
little house. Then a loud creaking announced that he had got into bed.

The two men continued to play. From time to time a more violent gust of
wind would shake the whole house, and the two drinkers would look up, as
though some one were about to enter. Then Mathurin would take the bottle
and fill Jeremie's glass. But suddenly the clock over the bar struck
twelve. Its hoarse clang sounded like the rattling of saucepans. Then
Mathurin got up like a sailor whose watch is over.

“Come on, Jeremie, we've got to get out.”

The other man rose to his feet with difficulty, got his balance by
leaning on the table, reached the door and opened it while his companion
was putting out the light.

As soon as they were in the street Mathurin locked the door and then
said:

“Well, so long. See you to-morrow night!”

And he disappeared in the darkness.

Jeremie took a few steps, staggered, stretched out his hands, met a wall
which supported him and began to stumble along. From time to time a gust
of wind would sweep through the street, pushing him forward, making him
run for a few steps; then, when the wind would die down, he would stop
short, having lost his impetus, and once more he would begin to stagger
on his unsteady drunkard's legs.

He went instinctively toward his home, just as birds go to their nests.
Finally he recognized his door, and began to feel about for the keyhole
and tried to put the key in it. Not finding the hole, he began to swear.
Then he began to beat on the door with his fists, calling for his wife
to come and help him:

“Melina! Oh, Melina!”

As he leaned against the door for support, it gave way and opened, and
Jeremie, losing his prop, fell inside, rolling on his face into the
middle of his room, and he felt something heavy pass over him and escape
in the night.

He was no longer moving, dazed by fright, bewildered, fearing the devil,
ghosts, all the mysterious beings of darkness, and he waited a long time
without daring to move. But when he found out that nothing else was
moving, a little reason returned to him, the reason of a drunkard.

Gently he sat up. Again he waited a long time, and at last, growing
bolder, he called:

“Melina!”

His wife did not answer.

Then, suddenly, a suspicion crossed his darkened mind, an indistinct,
vague suspicion. He was not moving; he was sitting there in the dark,
trying to gather together his scattered wits, his mind stumbling over
incomplete ideas, just as his feet stumbled along.

Once more he asked:

“Who was it, Melina? Tell me who it was. I won't hurt you!”

He waited, no voice was raised in the darkness. He was now reasoning
with himself out loud.

“I'm drunk, all right! I'm drunk! And he filled me up, the dog; he did
it, to stop my goin' home. I'm drunk!”

And he would continue:

“Tell me who it was, Melina, or somethin'll happen to you.”

After having waited again, he went on with the slow and obstinate logic
of a drunkard:

“He's been keeping me at that loafer Paumelle's place every night, so as
to stop my going home. It's some trick. Oh, you damned carrion!”

Slowly he got on his knees. A blind fury was gaining possession of him,
mingling with the fumes of alcohol.

He continued:

“Tell me who it was, Melina, or you'll get a licking—I warn you!”

He was now standing, trembling with a wild fury, as though the alcohol
had set his blood on fire. He took a step, knocked against a chair,
seized it, went on, reached the bed, ran his hands over it and felt the
warm body of his wife.

Then, maddened, he roared:

“So! You were there, you piece of dirt, and you wouldn't answer!”

And, lifting the chair, which he was holding in his strong sailor's
grip, he swung it down before him with an exasperated fury. A cry burst
from the bed, an agonizing, piercing cry. Then he began to thrash around
like a thresher in a barn. And soon nothing more moved. The chair was
broken to pieces, but he still held one leg and beat away with it,
panting.

At last he stopped to ask:

“Well, are you ready to tell me who it was?”

Melina did not answer.

Then tired out, stupefied from his exertion, he stretched himself out on
the ground and slept.

When day came a neighbor, seeing the door open, entered. He saw Jeremie
snoring on the floor, amid the broken pieces of a chair, and on the bed
a pulp of flesh and blood.





THE WARDROBE

As we sat chatting after dinner, a party of men, the conversation turned
on women, for lack of something else.

One of us said:

“Here's a funny thing that happened to me on, that very subject.” And he
told us the following story:

One evening last winter I suddenly felt overcome by that overpowering
sense of misery and languor that takes possession of one from time to
time. I was in my own apartment, all alone, and I was convinced that if
I gave in to my feelings I should have a terrible attack of melancholia,
one of those attacks that lead to suicide when they recur too often.

I put on my overcoat and went out without the slightest idea of what I
was going to do. Having gone as far as the boulevards, I began to wander
along by the almost empty cafes. It was raining, a fine rain that
affects your mind as it does your clothing, not one of those good
downpours which come down in torrents, driving breathless passers-by
into doorways, but a rain without drops that deposits on your clothing
an imperceptible spray and soon covers you with a sort of iced foam that
chills you through.

What should I do? I walked in one direction and then came back, looking
for some place where I could spend two hours, and discovering for the
first time that there is no place of amusement in Paris in the evening.
At last I decided to go to the Folies-Bergere, that entertaining resort
for gay women.

There were very few people in the main hall. In the long horseshoe curve
there were only a few ordinary looking people, whose plebeian origin was
apparent in their manners, their clothes, the cut of their hair and
beard, their hats, their complexion. It was rarely that one saw from
time to time a man whom you suspected of having washed himself
thoroughly, and his whole make-up seemed to match. As for the women,
they were always the same, those frightful women you all know, ugly,
tired looking, drooping, and walking along in their lackadaisical
manner, with that air of foolish superciliousness which they assume, I
do not know why.

I thought to myself that, in truth, not one of those languid creatures,
greasy rather than fat, puffed out here and thin there, with the contour
of a monk and the lower extremities of a bow-legged snipe, was worth the
louis that they would get with great difficulty after asking five.

But all at once I saw a little creature whom I thought attractive, not
in her first youth, but fresh, comical and tantalizing. I stopped her,
and stupidly, without thinking, I made an appointment with her for that
night. I did not want to go back to my own home alone, all alone; I
preferred the company and the caresses of this hussy.

And I followed her. She lived in a great big house in the Rue des
Martyrs. The gas was already extinguished on the stairway. I ascended
the steps slowly, lighting a candle match every few seconds, stubbing my
foot against the steps, stumbling and angry as I followed the rustle of
the skirt ahead of me.

She stopped on the fourth floor, and having closed the outer door she
said:

“Then you will stay till to-morrow?”

“Why, yes. You know that that was the agreement.”

“All right, my dear, I just wanted to know. Wait for me here a minute, I
will be right back.”

And she left me in the darkness. I heard her shutting two doors and then
I thought I heard her talking. I was surprised and uneasy. The thought
that she had a protector staggered me. But I have good fists and a solid
back. “We shall see,” I said to myself.

I listened attentively with ear and mind. Some one was stirring about,
walking quietly and very carefully. Then another door was opened and I
thought I again heard some one talking, but in a very low tone.

She came back carrying a lighted candle.

“You may come in,” she said.

She said “thou” in speaking to me, which was an indication of
possession. I went in and after passing through a dining room in which
it was very evident that no one ever ate, I entered a typical room of
all these women, a furnished room with red curtains and a soiled
eiderdown bed covering.

“Make yourself at home, 'mon chat',” she said.

I gave a suspicious glance at the room, but there seemed no reason for
uneasiness.

As she took off her wraps she began to laugh.

“Well, what ails you? Are you changed into a pillar of salt? Come, hurry
up.”

I did as she suggested.

Five minutes later I longed to put on my things and get away. But this
terrible languor that had overcome me at home took possession of me
again, and deprived me of energy enough to move and I stayed in spite of
the disgust that I felt for this association. The unusual attractiveness
that I supposed I had discovered in this creature over there under the
chandeliers of the theater had altogether vanished on closer
acquaintance, and she was nothing more to me now than a common woman,
like all the others, whose indifferent and complaisant kiss smacked of
garlic.

I thought I would say something.

“Have you lived here long?” I asked.

“Over six months on the fifteenth of January.”

“Where were you before that?”

“In the Rue Clauzel. But the janitor made me very uncomfortable and I
left.”

And she began to tell me an interminable story of a janitor who had
talked scandal about her.

But, suddenly, I heard something moving quite close to us. First there
was a sigh, then a slight, but distinct, sound as if some one had turned
round on a chair.

I sat up abruptly and asked.

“What was that noise?”

She answered quietly and confidently:

“Do not be uneasy, my dear boy, it is my neighbor. The partition is so
thin that one can hear everything as if it were in the room. These are
wretched rooms, just like pasteboard.”

I felt so lazy that I paid no further attention to it. We resumed our
conversation. Driven by the stupid curiosity that prompts all men to
question these creatures about their first experiences, to attempt to
lift the veil of their first folly, as though to find in them a trace of
pristine innocence, to love them, possibly, in a fleeting memory of
their candor and modesty of former days, evoked by a word, I insistently
asked her about her earlier lovers.

I knew she was telling me lies. What did it matter? Among all these lies
I might, perhaps, discover something sincere and pathetic.

“Come,” said I, “tell me who he was.”

“He was a boating man, my dear.”

“Ah! Tell me about it. Where were you?”

“I was at Argenteuil.”

“What were you doing?”

“I was waitress in a restaurant.”

“What restaurant?”

“'The Freshwater Sailor.' Do you know it?”

“I should say so, kept by Bonanfan.”

“Yes, that's it.”

“And how did he make love to you, this boating man?”

“While I was doing his room. He took advantage of me.”

But I suddenly recalled the theory of a friend of mine, an observant and
philosophical physician whom constant attendance in hospitals has
brought into daily contact with girl-mothers and prostitutes, with all
the shame and all the misery of women, of those poor women who have
become the frightful prey of the wandering male with money in his
pocket.

“A woman,” he said, “is always debauched by a man of her own class and
position. I have volumes of statistics on that subject. We accuse the
rich of plucking the flower of innocence among the girls of the people.
This is not correct. The rich pay for what they want. They may gather
some, but never for the first time.”

Then, turning to my companion, I began to laugh.

“You know that I am aware of your history. The boating man was not the
first.”

“Oh, yes, my dear, I swear it:”

“You are lying, my dear.”

“Oh, no, I assure you.”

“You are lying; come, tell me all.”

She seemed to hesitate in astonishment. I continued:

“I am a sorcerer, my dear girl, I am a clairvoyant. If you do not tell
me the truth, I will go into a trance sleep and then I can find out.”

She was afraid, being as stupid as all her kind. She faltered:

“How did you guess?”

“Come, go on telling me,” I said.

“Oh, the first time didn't amount to anything.

“There was a festival in the country. They had sent for a special chef,
M. Alexandre. As soon as he came he did just as he pleased in the house.
He bossed every one, even the proprietor and his wife, as if he had been
a king. He was a big handsome man, who did not seem fitted to stand
beside a kitchen range. He was always calling out, 'Come, some butter
—some eggs—some Madeira!' And it had to be brought to him at once in a
hurry, or he would get cross and say things that would make us blush all
over.

“When the day was over he would smoke a pipe outside the door. And as I
was passing by him with a pile of plates he said to me, like that:
'Come, girlie, come down to the water with me and show me the country.'
I went with him like a fool, and we had hardly got down to the bank of
the river when he took advantage of me so suddenly that I did not even
know what he was doing. And then he went away on the nine o'clock train.
I never saw him again.”

“Is that all?” I asked.

She hesitated.

“Oh, I think Florentin belongs to him.”

“Who is Florentin?”

“My little boy.”

“Oh! Well, then, you made the boating man believe that he was the
father, did you not?”

“You bet!”

“Did he have any money, this boating man?”

“Yes, he left me an income of three hundred francs, settled on
Florentin.”

I was beginning to be amused and resumed:

“All right, my girl, all right. You are all of you less stupid than one
would imagine, all the same. And how old is he now, Florentin?”

She replied:

“He is now twelve. He will make his first communion in the spring.”

“That is splendid. And since then you have carried on your business
conscientiously?”

She sighed in a resigned manner.

“I must do what I can.”

But a loud noise just then coming from the room itself made me start up
with a bound. It sounded like some one falling and picking themselves up
again by feeling along the wall with their hands.

I had seized the candle and was looking about me, terrified and furious.
She had risen also and was trying to hold me back to stop me, murmuring:

“That's nothing, my dear, I assure you it's nothing.”

But I had discovered what direction the strange noise came from. I
walked straight towards a door hidden at the head of the bed and I
opened it abruptly and saw before me, trembling, his bright, terrified
eyes opened wide at sight of me, a little pale, thin boy seated beside a
large wicker chair off which he had fallen.

As soon as he saw me he began to cry. Stretching out his arms to his
mother, he cried:

“It was not my fault, mamma, it was not my fault. I was asleep, and I
fell off. Do not scold me, it was not my fault.”

I turned to the woman and said:

“What does this mean?”

She seemed confused and worried, and said in a broken voice:

“What do you want me to do? I do not earn enough to put him to school! I
have to keep him with me, and I cannot afford to pay for another room,
by heavens! He sleeps with me when I am alone. If any one comes for one
hour or two he can stay in the wardrobe; he keeps quiet, he understands
it. But when people stay all night, as you have done, it tires the poor
child to sleep on a chair.

“It is not his fault. I should like to see you sleep all night on a
chair—you would have something to say.”

She was getting angry and excited and was talking loud.

The child was still crying. A poor delicate timid little fellow, a
veritable child of the wardrobe, of the cold, dark closet, a child who
from time to time was allowed to get a little warmth in the bed if it
chanced to be unoccupied.

I also felt inclined to cry.

And I went home to my own bed.





THE MOUNTAIN POOL

Saint Agnes, May 6. MY DEAR FRIEND: You asked me to write to you often
and to tell you in particular about the things I might see. You also
begged me to rummage among my recollections of travels for some of those
little anecdotes gathered from a chance peasant, from an innkeeper, from
some strange traveling acquaintance, which remain as landmarks in the
memory. With a landscape depicted in a few lines, and a little story
told in a few sentences you think one can give the true characteristics
of a country, make it living, visible, dramatic. I will try to do as you
wish. I will, therefore, send you from time to time letters in which I
will mention neither you nor myself, but only the landscape and the
people who move about in it. And now I will begin.

Spring is a season in which one ought, it seems to me, to drink and eat
the landscape. It is the season of chills, just as autumn is the season
of reflection. In spring the country rouses the physical senses, in
autumn it enters into the soul.

I desired this year to breathe the odor of orange blossoms and I set out
for the South of France just at the time that every one else was
returning home. I visited Monaco, the shrine of pilgrims, rival of Mecca
and Jerusalem, without leaving any gold in any one else's pockets, and I
climbed the high mountain beneath a covering of lemon, orange and olive
branches.

Have you ever slept, my friend, in a grove of orange trees in flower?
The air that one inhales with delight is a quintessence of perfumes. The
strong yet sweet odor, delicious as some dainty, seems to blend with our
being, to saturate us, to intoxicate us, to enervate us, to plunge us
into a sleepy, dreamy torpor. As though it were an opium prepared by the
hands of fairies and not by those of druggists.

This is a country of ravines. The surface of the mountains is cleft,
hollowed out in all directions, and in these sinuous crevices grow
veritable forests of lemon trees. Here and there where the steep gorge
is interrupted by a sort of step, a kind of reservoir has been built
which holds the water of the rain storms.

They are large holes with slippery walls with nothing for any one to
grasp hold of should they fall in.

I was walking slowly in one of these ascending valleys or gorges,
glancing through the foliage at the vivid-hued fruit that remained on
the branches. The narrow gorge made the heavy odor of the flowers still
more penetrating; the air seemed to be dense with it. A feeling of
lassitude came over me and I looked for a place to sit down. A few drops
of water glistened in the grass. I thought that there was a spring near
by and I climbed a little further to look for it. But I only reached the
edge of one of these large, deep reservoirs.

I sat down tailor fashion, with my legs crossed under me, and remained
there in a reverie before this hole, which looked as if it were filled
with ink, so black and stagnant was the liquid it contained. Down
yonder, through the branches, I saw, like patches, bits of the
Mediterranean gleaming so that they fairly dazzled my eyes. But my
glance always returned to the immense somber well that appeared to be
inhabited by no aquatic animals, so motionless was its surface. Suddenly
a voice made me tremble. An old gentleman who was picking flowers—this
country is the richest in Europe for herbalists—asked me:

“Are you a relation of those poor children, monsieur?”

I looked at him in astonishment.

“What children, monsieur?”

He seemed embarrassed and answered with a bow:

“I beg your pardon. On seeing you sitting thus absorbed in front of this
reservoir I thought you were recalling the frightful tragedy that
occurred here.”

Now I wanted to know about it, and I begged him to tell me the story.

It is very dismal and very heart-rending, my dear friend, and very
trivial at the same time. It is a simple news item. I do not know
whether to attribute my emotion to the dramatic manner in which the
story was told to me, to the setting of the mountains, to the contrast
between the joy of the sunlight and the flowers and this black,
murderous hole, but my heart was wrung, all my nerves unstrung by this
tale which, perhaps, may not appear so terribly harrowing to you as you
read it in your room without having the scene of the tragedy before your
eyes.

It was one spring in recent years. Two little boys frequently came to
play on the edge of this cistern while their tutor lay under a tree
reading a book. One warm afternoon a piercing cry awoke the tutor who
was dozing and the sound of splashing caused by something falling into
the water made him jump to his feet abruptly. The younger of the
children, eight years of age, was shouting, as he stood beside the
reservoir, the surface of which was stirred and eddying at the spot
where the older boy had fallen in as he ran along the stone coping.

Distracted, without waiting or stopping to think what was best to do,
the tutor jumped into the black water and did not rise again, having
struck his head at the bottom of the cistern.

At the same moment the young boy who had risen to the surface was waving
his stretched-out arms toward his brother. The little fellow on land lay
down full length, while the other tried to swim, to approach the wall,
and presently the four little hands clasped each other, tightened in
each other's grasp, contracted as though they were fastened together.
They both felt the intense joy of an escape from death, a shudder at the
danger past.

The older boy tried to climb up to the edge, but could not manage it, as
the wall was perpendicular, and his brother, who was too weak, was
sliding slowly towards the hole.

Then they remained motionless, filled anew with terror. And they waited.

The little fellow squeezed his brother's hands with all his might and
wept from nervousness as he repeated: “I cannot drag you out, I cannot
drag you out.” And all at once he began to shout, “Help! Help!” But his
light voice scarcely penetrated beyond the dome of foliage above their
heads.

They remained thus a long time, hours and hours, facing each other,
these two children, with one thought, one anguish of heart and the
horrible dread that one of them, exhausted, might let go the hands of
the other. And they kept on calling, but all in vain.

At length the older boy, who was shivering with cold, said to the little
one: “I cannot hold out any longer. I am going to fall. Good-by, little
brother.” And the other, gasping, replied: “Not yet, not yet, wait.”

Evening came on, the still evening with its stars mirrored in the water.
The older lad, his endurance giving out, said: “Let go my hand, I am
going to give you my watch.” He had received it as a present a few days
before, and ever since it had been his chief amusement. He was able to
get hold of it, and held it out to the little fellow who was sobbing and
who laid it down on the grass beside him.

It was night now. The two unhappy beings, exhausted, had almost loosened
their grasp. The elder, at last, feeling that he was lost, murmured once
more: “Good-by, little brother, kiss mamma and papa.” And his numbed
fingers relaxed their hold. He sank and did not rise again . . . . The
little fellow, left alone, began to shout wildly: “Paul! Paul!” But the
other did not come to the surface.

Then he darted across the mountain, falling among the stones, overcome
by the most frightful anguish that can wring a child's heart, and with a
face like death reached the sitting-room, where his parents were
waiting. He became bewildered again as he led them to the gloomy
reservoir. He could not find his way. At last he reached the spot. “It
is there; yes, it is there!”

But the cistern had to be emptied, and the proprietor would not permit
it as he needed the water for his lemon trees.

The two bodies were found, however, but not until the next day.

You see, my dear friend, that this is a simple news item. But if you had
seen the hole itself your heart would have been wrung, as mine was, at
the thought of the agony of that child hanging to his brother's hands,
of the long suspense of those little chaps who were accustomed only to
laugh and to play, and at the simple incident of the giving of the
watch.

I said to myself: “May Fate preserve me from ever receiving a similar
relic!” I know of nothing more terrible than such a recollection
connected with a familiar object that one cannot dispose of. Only think
of it; each time that he handles this sacred watch the survivor will
picture once more the horrible scene; the pool, the wall, the still
water, and the distracted face of his brother-alive, and yet as lost as
though he were already dead. And all through his life, at any moment,
the vision will be there, awakened the instant even the tip of his
finger touches his watch pocket.

And I was sad until evening. I left the spot and kept on climbing,
leaving the region of orange trees for the region of olive trees, and
the region of olive trees for the region of pines; then I came to a
valley of stones, and finally reached the ruins of an ancient castle,
built, they say, in the tenth century by a Saracen chief, a good man,
who was baptized a Christian through love for a young girl. Everywhere
around me were mountains, and before me the sea, the sea with an almost
imperceptible patch on it: Corsica, or, rather, the shadow of Corsica.
But on the mountain summits, blood-red in the glow of the sunset, in the
boundless sky and on the sea, in all this superb landscape that I had
come here to admire I saw only two poor children, one lying prone on the
edge of a hole filled with black water, the other submerged to his neck,
their hands intertwined, weeping opposite each other, in despair. And it
seemed as though I continually heard a weak, exhausted voice saying:
“Good-by, little brother, I am going to give you my watch.”

This letter may seem rather melancholy, dear friend. I will try to be
more cheerful some other day.





A CREMATION

Last Monday an Indian prince died at Etretat, Bapu Sahib Khanderao
Ghatay, a relation of His Highness, the Maharajah Gaikwar, prince of
Baroda, in the province of Guzerat, Presidency of Bombay.

For about three weeks there had been seen walking in the streets about
ten young East Indians, small, lithe, with dark skins, dressed all in
gray and wearing on their heads caps such as English grooms wear. They
were men of high rank who had come to Europe to study the military
institutions of the principal Western nations. The little band consisted
of three princes, a nobleman, an interpreter and three servants.

The head of the commission had just died, an old man of forty-two and
father-in-law of Sampatro Kashivao Gaikwar, brother of His Highness, the
Gaikwar of Baroda.

The son-in-law accompanied his father-in-law.

The other East Indians were called Ganpatrao Shravanrao Gaikwar, cousin
of His Highness Khasherao Gadhav; Vasudev Madhav Samarth, interpreter
and secretary; the slaves: Ramchandra Bajaji, Ganu bin Pukiram Kokate,
Rhambhaji bin Fabji.

On leaving his native land the one who died recently was overcome with
terrible grief, and feeling convinced that he would never return he
wished to give up the journey, but he had to obey the wishes of his
noble relative, the Prince of Baroda, and he set out.

They came to spend the latter part of the summer at Etretat, and people
would go out of curiosity every morning to see them taking their bath at
the Etablissment des Roches-Blanches.

Five or six days ago Bapu Sahib Khanderao Ghatay was taken with pains in
his gums; then the inflammation spread to the throat and became
ulceration. Gangrene set in and, on Monday, the doctors told his young
friends that their relative was dying. The final struggle was already
beginning, and the breath had almost left the unfortunate man's body
when his friends seized him, snatched him from his bed and laid him on
the stone floor of the room, so that, stretched out on the earth, our
mother, he should yield up his soul, according to the command of Brahma.

They then sent to ask the mayor, M. Boissaye, for a permit to burn the
body that very day so as to fulfill the prescribed ceremonial of the
Hindoo religion. The mayor hesitated, telegraphed to the prefecture to
demand instructions, at the same time sending word that a failure to
reply would be considered by him tantamount to a consent. As he had
received no reply at 9 o'clock that evening, he decided, in view of the
infectious character of the disease of which the East Indian had died,
that the cremation of the body should take place that very night,
beneath the cliff, on the beach, at ebb tide.

The mayor is being criticized now for this decision, though he acted as
an intelligent, liberal and determined man, and was upheld and advised
by the three physicians who had watched the case and reported the death.

They were dancing at the Casino that evening. It was an early autumn
evening, rather chilly. A pretty strong wind was blowing from the ocean,
although as yet there was no sea on, and swift, light, ragged clouds
were driving across the sky. They came from the edge of the horizon,
looking dark against the background of the sky, but as they approached
the moon they grew whiter and passed hurriedly across her face, veiling
it for a few seconds without completely hiding it.

The tall straight cliffs that inclose the rounded beach of Etretat and
terminate in two celebrated arches, called “the Gates,” lay in shadow,
and made two great black patches in the softly lighted landscape.

It had rained all day.

The Casino orchestra was playing waltzes, polkas and quadrilles. A rumor
was presently circulated among the groups of dancers. It was said that
an East Indian prince had just died at the Hotel des Bains and that the
ministry had been approached for permission to burn the body. No one
believed it, or at least no one supposed that such a thing could occur
so foreign was the custom as yet to our customs, and as the night was
far advanced every one went home.

At midnight, the lamplighter, running from street to street,
extinguished, one after another, the yellow jets of flame that lighted
up the sleeping houses, the mud and the puddles of water. We waited,
watching for the hour when the little town should be quiet and deserted.

Ever since noon a carpenter had been cutting up wood and asking himself
with amazement what was going to be done with all these planks sawn up
into little bits, and why one should destroy so much good merchandise.
This wood was piled up in a cart which went along through side streets
as far as the beach, without arousing the suspicion of belated persons
who might meet it. It went along on the shingle at the foot of the
cliff, and having dumped its contents on the beach the three Indian
servants began to build a funeral pile, a little longer than it was
wide. They worked alone, for no profane hand must aid in this solemn
duty.

It was one o'clock in the morning when the relations of the deceased
were informed that they might accomplish their part of the work.

The door of the little house they occupied was open, and we perceived,
lying on a stretcher in the small, dimly lighted vestibule the corpse
covered with white silk. We could see him plainly as he lay stretched
out on his back, his outline clearly defined beneath this white veil.

The East Indians, standing at his feet, remained motionless, while one
of them performed the prescribed rites, murmuring unfamiliar words in a
low, monotonous tone. He walked round and round the corpse; touching it
occasionally, then, taking an urn suspended from three slender chains,
he sprinkled it for some time with the sacred water of the Ganges, that
East Indians must always carry with them wherever they go.

Then the stretcher was lifted by four of them who started off at a slow
march. The moon had gone down, leaving the muddy, deserted streets in
darkness, but the body on the stretcher appeared to be luminous, so
dazzlingly white was the silk, and it was a weird sight to see, passing
along through the night, the semi-luminous form of this corpse, borne by
those men, the dusky skin of whose faces and hands could scarcely be
distinguished from their clothing in the darkness.

Behind the corpse came three Indians, and then, a full head taller than
themselves and wrapped in an ample traveling coat of a soft gray color,
appeared the outline of an Englishman, a kind and superior man, a friend
of theirs, who was their guide and counselor in their European travels.

Beneath the cold, misty sky of this little northern beach I felt as if I
were taking part in a sort of symbolical drama. It seemed to me that
they were carrying there, before me, the conquered genius of India,
followed, as in a funeral procession, by the victorious genius of
England robed in a gray ulster.

On the shingly beach the four bearers halted a few moments to take
breath, and then proceeded on their way. They now walked quickly,
bending beneath the weight of their burden. At length they reached the
funeral pile. It was erected in an indentation, at the very foot of the
cliff, which rose above it perpendicularly a hundred meters high,
perfectly white but looking gray in the night.

The funeral pile was about three and a half feet high. The corpse was
placed on it and then one of the Indians asked to have the pole star
pointed out to him. This was done, and the dead Rajah was laid with his
feet turned towards his native country. Then twelve bottles of kerosene
were poured over him and he was covered completely with thin slabs of
pine wood. For almost another hour the relations and servants kept
piling up the funeral pyre which looked like one of those piles of wood
that carpenters keep in their yards. Then on top of this was poured the
contents of twenty bottles of oil, and on top of all they emptied a bag
of fine shavings. A few steps further on, a flame was glimmering in a
little bronze brazier, which had remained lighted since the arrival of
the corpse.

The moment had arrived. The relations went to fetch the fire. As it was
barely alight, some oil was poured on it, and suddenly a flame arose
lighting up the great wall of rock from summit to base. An Indian who
was leaning over the brazier rose upright, his two hands in the air, his
elbows bent, and all at once we saw arising, all black on the immense
white cliff, a colossal shadow, the shadow of Buddha in his hieratic
posture. And the little pointed toque that the man wore on his head even
looked like the head-dress of the god.

The effect was so striking and unexpected that I felt my heart beat as
though some supernatural apparition had risen up before me.

That was just what it was—the ancient and sacred image, come from the
heart of the East to the ends of Europe, and watching over its son whom
they were going to cremate there.

It vanished. They brought fire. The shavings on top of the pyre were
lighted and then the wood caught fire and a brilliant light illumined
the cliff, the shingle and the foam of the waves as they broke on the
beach.

It grew brighter from second to second, lighting up on the sea in the
distance the dancing crest of the waves.

The breeze from the ocean blew in gusts, increasing the heat of the
flame which flattened down, twisted, then shot up again, throwing out
millions of sparks. They mounted with wild rapidity along the cliff and
were lost in the sky, mingling with the stars, increasing their number.
Some sea birds who had awakened uttered their plaintive cry, and,
describing long curves, flew, with their white wings extended, through
the gleam from the funeral pyre and then disappeared in the night.

Before long the pile of wood was nothing but a mass of flame, not red
but yellow, a blinding yellow, a furnace lashed by the wind. And,
suddenly, beneath a stronger gust, it tottered, partially crumbling as
it leaned towards the sea, and the corpse came to view, full length,
blackened on his couch of flame and burning with long blue flames:

The pile of wood having crumbled further on the right the corpse turned
over as a man does in bed. They immediately covered him with fresh wood
and the fire started up again more furiously than ever.

The East Indians, seated in a semi-circle on the shingle, looked out
with sad, serious faces. And the rest of us, as it was very cold, had
drawn nearer to the fire until the smoke and sparks came in our faces.
There was no odor save that of burning pine and petroleum.

Hours passed; day began to break. Toward five o'clock in the morning
nothing remained but a heap of ashes. The relations gathered them up,
cast some of them to the winds, some in the sea, and kept some in a
brass vase that they had brought from India. They then retired to their
home to give utterance to lamentations.

These young princes and their servants, by the employment of the most
inadequate appliances succeeded in carrying out the cremation of their
relation in the most perfect manner, with singular skill and remarkable
dignity. Everything was done according to ritual, according to the rigid
ordinances of their religion. Their dead one rests in peace.

The following morning at daybreak there was an indescribable commotion
in Etretat. Some insisted that they had burned a man alive, others that
they were trying to hide a crime, some that the mayor would be put in
jail, others that the Indian prince had succumbed to an attack of
cholera.

The men were amazed, the women indignant. A crowd of people spent the
day on the site of the funeral pile, looking for fragments of bone in
the shingle that was still warm. They found enough bones to reconstruct
ten skeletons, for the farmers on shore frequently throw their dead
sheep into the sea. The finders carefully placed these various fragments
in their pocketbooks. But not one of them possesses a true particle of
the Indian prince.

That very night a deputy sent by the government came to hold an inquest.
He, however, formed an estimate of this singular case like a man of
intelligence and good sense. But what should he say in his report?

The East Indians declared that if they had been prevented in France from
cremating their dead they would have taken him to a freer country where
they could have carried out their customs.

Thus, I have seen a man cremated on a funeral pile, and it has given me
a wish to disappear in the same manner.

In this way everything ends at once. Man expedites the slow work of
nature, instead of delaying it by the hideous coffin in which one
decomposes for months. The flesh is dead, the spirit has fled. Fire
which purifies disperses in a few hours all that was a human being; it
casts it to the winds, converting it into air and ashes, and not into
ignominious corruption.

This is clean and hygienic. Putrefaction beneath the ground in a closed
box where the body becomes like pap, a blackened, stinking pap, has
about it something repugnant and disgusting. The sight of the coffin as
it descends into this muddy hole wrings one's heart with anguish. But
the funeral pyre which flames up beneath the sky has about it something
grand, beautiful and solemn.





MISTI

I was very much interested at that time in a droll little woman. She was
married, of course, as I have a horror of unmarried flirts. What
enjoyment is there in making love to a woman who belongs to nobody and
yet belongs to any one? And, besides, morality aside, I do not
understand love as a trade. That disgusts me somewhat.

The especial attraction in a married woman to a bachelor is that she
gives him a home, a sweet, pleasant home where every one takes care of
you and spoils you, from the husband to the servants. One finds
everything combined there, love, friendship, even fatherly interest, bed
and board, all, in fact, that constitutes the happiness of life, with
this incalculable advantage, that one can change one's family from time
to time, take up one's abode in all kinds of society in turn: in summer,
in the country with the workman who rents you a room in his house; in
winter with the townsfolk, or even with the nobility, if one is
ambitious.

I have another weakness; it is that I become attached to the husband as
well as the wife. I acknowledge even that some husbands, ordinary or
coarse as they may be, give me a feeling of disgust for their wives,
however charming they may be. But when the husband is intellectual or
charming I invariably become very much attached to him. I am careful if
I quarrel with the wife not to quarrel with the husband. In this way I
have made some of my best friends, and have also proved in many cases
the incontestable superiority of the male over the female in the human
species. The latter makes all sorts of trouble-scenes, reproaches, etc.;
while the former, who has just as good a right to complain, treats you,
on the contrary, as though you were the special Providence of his
hearth.

Well, my friend was a quaint little woman, a brunette, fanciful,
capricious, pious, superstitious, credulous as a monk, but charming. She
had a way of kissing one that I never saw in any one else—but that was
not the attraction—and such a soft skin! It gave me intense delight
merely to hold her hands. And an eye—her glance was like a slow caress,
delicious and unending. Sometimes I would lean my head on her knee and
we would remain motionless, she leaning over me with that subtle,
enigmatic, disturbing smile that women have, while my eyes would be
raised to hers, drinking sweetly and deliciously into my heart, like a
form of intoxication, the glance of her limpid blue eyes, limpid as
though they were full of thoughts of love, and blue as though they were
a heaven of delights.

Her husband, inspector of some large public works, was frequently away
from home and left us our evenings free. Sometimes I spent them with her
lounging on the divan with my forehead on one of her knees; while on the
other lay an enormous black cat called “Misti,” whom she adored. Our
fingers would meet on the cat's back and would intertwine in her soft
silky fur. I felt its warm body against my cheek, trembling with its
eternal purring, and occasionally a paw would reach out and place on my
mouth, or my eyelid, five unsheathed claws which would prick my eyelids,
and then be immediately withdrawn.

Sometimes we would go out on what we called our escapades. They were
very innocent, however. They consisted in taking supper at some inn in
the suburbs, or else, after dining at her house or at mine, in making
the round of the cheap cafes, like students out for a lark.

We would go into the common drinking places and take our seats at the
end of the smoky den on two rickety chairs, at an old wooden table. A
cloud of pungent smoke, with which blended an odor of fried fish from
dinner, filled the room. Men in smocks were talking in loud tones as
they drank their petits verres, and the astonished waiter placed before
us two cherry brandies.

She, trembling, charmingly afraid, would raise her double black veil as
far as her nose, and then take up her glass with the enjoyment that one
feels at doing something delightfully naughty. Each cherry she swallowed
made her feel as if she had done something wrong, each swallow of the
burning liquor had on her the affect of a delicate and forbidden
enjoyment.

Then she would say to me in a low tone: “Let us go.” And we would leave,
she walking quickly with lowered head between the drinkers who watched
her going by with a look of displeasure. And as soon as we got into the
street she would give a great sigh of relief, as if we had escaped some
terrible danger.

Sometimes she would ask me with a shudder:

“Suppose they, should say something rude to me in those places, what
would you do?” “Why, I would defend you, parbleu!” I would reply in a
resolute manner. And she would squeeze my arm for happiness, perhaps
with a vague wish that she might be insulted and protected, that she
might see men fight on her account, even those men, with me!

One evening as we sat at a table in a tavern at Montmartre, we saw an
old woman in tattered garments come in, holding in her hand a pack of
dirty cards. Perceiving a lady, the old woman at once approached us and
offered to tell my friend's fortune. Emma, who in her heart believed in
everything, was trembling with longing and anxiety, and she made a place
beside her for the old woman.

The latter, old, wrinkled, her eyes with red inflamed rings round them,
and her mouth without a single tooth in it, began to deal her dirty
cards on the table. She dealt them in piles, then gathered them up, and
then dealt them out again, murmuring indistinguishable words. Emma,
turning pale, listened with bated breath, gasping with anxiety and
curiosity.

The fortune-teller broke silence. She predicted vague happenings:
happiness and children, a fair young man, a voyage, money, a lawsuit, a
dark man, the return of some one, success, a death. The mention of this
death attracted the younger woman's attention. “Whose death? When? In
what manner?”

The old woman replied: “Oh, as to that, these cards are not certain
enough. You must come to my place to-morrow; I will tell you about it
with coffee grounds which never make a mistake.”

Emma turned anxiously to me:

“Say, let us go there to-morrow. Oh, please say yes. If not, you cannot
imagine how worried I shall be.”

I began to laugh.

“We will go if you wish it, dearie.”

The old woman gave us her address. She lived on the sixth floor, in a
wretched house behind the Buttes-Chaumont. We went there the following
day.

Her room, an attic containing two chairs and a bed, was filled with
strange objects, bunches of herbs hanging from nails, skins of animals,
flasks and phials containing liquids of various colors. On the table a
stuffed black cat looked out of eyes of glass. He seemed like the demon
of this sinister dwelling.

Emma, almost fainting with emotion, sat down on a chair and exclaimed:

“Oh, dear, look at that cat; how like it is to Misti.”

And she explained to the old woman that she had a cat “exactly like
that, exactly like that!”

The old woman replied gravely:

“If you are in love with a man, you must not keep it.”

Emma, suddenly filled with fear, asked:

“Why not?”

The old woman sat down familiarly beside her and took her hand.

“It was the undoing of my life,” she said.

My friend wanted to hear about it. She leaned against the old woman,
questioned her, begged her to tell. At length the woman agreed to do so.

“I loved that cat,” she said, “as one would love a brother. I was young
then and all alone, a seamstress. I had only him, Mouton. One of the
tenants had given it to me. He was as intelligent as a child, and gentle
as well, and he worshiped me, my dear lady, he worshiped me more than
one does a fetish. All day long he would sit on my lap purring, and all
night long on my pillow; I could feel his heart beating, in fact.

“Well, I happened to make an acquaintance, a fine young man who was
working in a white-goods house. That went on for about three months on a
footing of mere friendship. But you know one is liable to weaken, it may
happen to any one, and, besides, I had really begun to love him. He was
so nice, so nice, and so good. He wanted us to live together, for
economy's sake. I finally allowed him to come and see me one evening. I
had not made up my mind to anything definite; oh, no! But I was pleased
at the idea that we should spend an hour together.

“At first he behaved very well, said nice things to me that made my
heart go pit-a-pat. And then he kissed me, madame, kissed me as one does
when they love. I remained motionless, my eyes closed, in a paroxysm of
happiness. But, suddenly, I felt him start violently and he gave a
scream, a scream that I shall never forget. I opened my eyes and saw
that Mouton had sprung at his face and was tearing the skin with his
claws as if it had been a linen rag. And the blood was streaming down
like rain, madame.

“I tried to take the cat away, but he held on tight, scratching all the
time; and he bit me, he was so crazy. I finally got him and threw him
out of the window, which was open, for it was summer.

“When I began to bathe my poor friend's face, I noticed that his eyes
were destroyed, both his eyes!

“He had to go to the hospital. He died of grief at the end of a year. I
wanted to keep him with me and provide for him, but he would not agree
to it. One would have supposed that he hated me after the occurrence.

“As for Mouton, his back was broken by the fall, The janitor picked up
his body. I had him stuffed, for in spite of all I was fond of him. If
he acted as he did it was because he loved me, was it not?”

The old woman was silent and began to stroke the lifeless animal whose
body trembled on its iron framework.

Emma, with sorrowful heart, had forgotten about the predicted death—or,
at least, she did not allude to it again, and she left, giving the woman
five francs.

As her husband was to return the following day, I did not go to the
house for several days. When I did go I was surprised at not seeing
Misti. I asked where he was.

She blushed and replied:

“I gave him away. I was uneasy.”

I was astonished.

“Uneasy? Uneasy? What about?”

She gave me a long kiss and said in a low tone:

“I was uneasy about your eyes, my dear.”

Misti appeared in. Gil Blas of January 22, 1884, over the signature of
“MAUFRIGNEUSE.”






MADAME HERMET

Crazy people attract me. They live in a mysterious land of weird dreams,
in that impenetrable cloud of dementia where all that they have
witnessed in their previous life, all they have loved, is reproduced for
them in an imaginary existence, outside of all laws that govern the
things of this life and control human thought.

For them there is no such thing as the impossible, nothing is
improbable; fairyland is a constant quantity and the supernatural quite
familiar. The old rampart, logic; the old wall, reason; the old main
stay of thought, good sense, break down, fall and crumble before their
imagination, set free and escaped into the limitless realm of fancy, and
advancing with fabulous bounds, and nothing can check it. For them
everything happens, and anything may happen. They make no effort to
conquer events, to overcome resistance, to overturn obstacles. By a
sudden caprice of their flighty imagination they become princes,
emperors, or gods, are possessed of all the wealth of the world, all the
delightful things of life, enjoy all pleasures, are always strong,
always beautiful, always young, always beloved! They, alone, can be
happy in this world; for, as far as they are concerned, reality does not
exist. I love to look into their wandering intelligence as one leans
over an abyss at the bottom of which seethes a foaming torrent whose
source and destination are both unknown.

But it is in vain that we lean over these abysses, for we shall never
discover the source nor the destination of this water. After all, it is
only water, just like what is flowing in the sunlight, and we shall
learn nothing by looking at it.

It is likewise of no use to ponder over the intelligence of crazy
people, for their most weird notions are, in fact, only ideas that are
already known, which appear strange simply because they are no longer
under the restraint of reason. Their whimsical source surprises us
because we do not see it bubbling up. Doubtless the dropping of a little
stone into the current was sufficient to cause these ebullitions.
Nevertheless crazy people attract me and I always return to them, drawn
in spite of myself by this trivial mystery of dementia.

One day as I was visiting one of the asylums the physician who was my
guide said:

“Come, I will show you an interesting case.”

And he opened the door of a cell where a woman of about forty, still
handsome, was seated in a large armchair, looking persistently at her
face in a little hand mirror.

As soon as she saw us she rose to her feet, ran to the other end of the
room, picked up a veil that lay on a chair, wrapped it carefully round
her face, then came back, nodding her head in reply to our greeting.

“Well,” said the doctor, “how are you this morning?”

She gave a deep sigh.

“Oh, ill, monsieur, very ill. The marks are increasing every day.”

He replied in a tone of conviction:

“Oh, no; oh, no; I assure you that you are mistaken.”

She drew near to him and murmured:

“No. I am certain of it. I counted ten pittings more this morning, three
on the right cheek, four on the left cheek, and three on the forehead.
It is frightful, frightful! I shall never dare to let any one see me,
not even my son; no, not even him! I am lost, I am disfigured forever.”

She fell back in her armchair and began to sob.

The doctor took a chair, sat down beside her, and said soothingly in a
gentle tone:

“Come, let me see; I assure you it is nothing. With a slight
cauterization I will make it all disappear.”

She shook her head in denial, without speaking. He tried to touch her
veil, but she seized it with both hands so violently that her fingers
went through it.

He continued to reason with her and reassure her.

“Come, you know very well that I remove those horrid pits every time and
that there is no trace of them after I have treated them. If you do not
let me see them I cannot cure you.”

“I do not mind your seeing them,” she murmured, “but I do not know that
gentleman who is with you.”

“He is a doctor also, who can give you better care than I can.”

She then allowed her face to be uncovered, but her dread, her emotion,
her shame at being seen brought a rosy flush to her face and her neck,
down to the collar of her dress. She cast down her eyes, turned her face
aside, first to the right; then to the left, to avoid our gaze and
stammered out:

“Oh, it is torture to me to let myself be seen like this! It is
horrible, is it not? Is it not horrible?”

I looked at her in much surprise, for there was nothing on her face, not
a mark, not a spot, not a sign of one, nor a scar.

She turned towards me, her eyes still lowered, and said:

“It was while taking care of my son that I caught this fearful disease,
monsieur. I saved him, but I am disfigured. I sacrificed my beauty to
him, to my poor child. However, I did my duty, my conscience is at rest.
If I suffer it is known only to God.”

The doctor had drawn from his coat pocket a fine water-color paint
brush.

“Let me attend to it,” he said, “I will put it all right.”

She held out her right cheek, and he began by touching it lightly with
the brush here and there, as though he were putting little points of
paint on it. He did the same with the left cheek, then with the chin,
and the forehead, and then exclaimed:

“See, there is nothing there now, nothing at all!”

She took up the mirror, gazed at her reflection with profound, eager
attention, with a strong mental effort to discover something, then she
sighed:

“No. It hardly shows at all. I am infinitely obliged to you.”

The doctor had risen. He bowed to her, ushered me out and followed me,
and, as soon as he had locked the door, said:

“Here is the history of this unhappy woman.”

Her name is Mme. Hermet. She was once very beautiful, a great coquette,
very much beloved and very much in-love with life.

She was one of those women who have nothing but their beauty and their
love of admiration to sustain, guide or comfort them in this life. The
constant anxiety to retain her freshness, the care of her complexion, of
her hands, her teeth, of every portion of body that was visible,
occupied all her time and all her attention.

She became a widow, with one son. The boy was brought up as are all
children of society beauties. She was, however, very fond of him.

He grew up, and she grew older. Whether she saw the fatal crisis
approaching, I cannot say. Did she, like so many others, gaze for hours
and hours at her skin, once so fine, so transparent and free from
blemish, now beginning to shrivel slightly, to be crossed with a
thousand little lines, as yet imperceptible, that will grow deeper day
by day, month by month? Did she also see slowly, but surely, increasing
traces of those long wrinkles on the forehead, those slender serpents
that nothing can check? Did she suffer the torture, the abominable
torture of the mirror, the little mirror with the silver handle which
one cannot make up one's mind to lay down on the table, but then throws
down in disgust only to take it up again in order to look more closely,
and still more closely at the hateful and insidious approaches of old
age? Did she shut herself up ten times, twenty times a day, leaving her
friends chatting in the drawing-room, and go up to her room where, under
the protection of bolts and bars, she would again contemplate the work
of time on her ripe beauty, now beginning to wither, and recognize with
despair the gradual progress of the process which no one else had as yet
seemed to perceive, but of which she, herself, was well aware. She knows
where to seek the most serious, the gravest traces of age. And the
mirror, the little round hand-glass in its carved silver frame, tells
her horrible things; for it speaks, it seems to laugh, it jeers and
tells her all that is going to occur, all the physical discomforts and
the atrocious mental anguish she will suffer until the day of her death,
which will be the day of her deliverance.

Did she weep, distractedly, on her knees, her forehead to the ground,
and pray, pray, pray to Him who thus slays his creatures and gives them
youth only that he may render old age more unendurable, and lends them
beauty only that he may withdraw it almost immediately? Did she pray to
Him, imploring Him to do for her what He has never yet done for any one,
to let her retain until her last day her charm, her freshness and her
gracefulness? Then, finding that she was imploring in vain an inflexible
Unknown who drives on the years, one after another, did she roll on the
carpet in her room, knocking her head against the furniture and stifling
in her throat shrieks of despair?

Doubtless she suffered these tortures, for this is what occurred:

One day (she was then thirty-five) her son aged fifteen, fell ill.

He took to his bed without any one being able to determine the cause or
nature of his illness.

His tutor, a priest, watched beside him and hardly ever left him, while
Mme. Hermet came morning and evening to inquire how he was.

She would come into the room in the morning in her night wrapper,
smiling, all powdered and perfumed, and would ask as she entered the
door:

“Well, George, are you better?”

The big boy, his face red, swollen and showing the ravages of fever,
would reply:

“Yes, little mother, a little better.”

She would stay in the room a few seconds, look at the bottles of
medicine, and purse her lips as if she were saying “phew,” and then
would suddenly exclaim: “Oh, I forgot something very important,” and
would run out of the room leaving behind her a fragrance of choice
toilet perfumes.

In the evening she would appear in a decollete dress, in a still greater
hurry, for she was always late, and she had just time to inquire:

“Well, what does the doctor say?”

The priest would reply:

“He has not yet given an opinion, madame.”

But one evening the abbe replied: “Madame, your son has got the small-
pox.”

She uttered a scream of terror and fled from the room.

When her maid came to her room the following morning she noticed at once
a strong odor of burnt sugar, and she found her mistress, with wide-open
eyes, her face pale from lack of sleep, and shivering with terror in her
bed.

As soon as the shutters were opened Mme. Herrnet asked:

“How is George?”

“Oh, not at all well to-day, madame.”

She did not rise until noon, when she ate two eggs with a cup of tea, as
if she herself had been ill, and then she went out to a druggist's to
inquire about prophylactic measures against the contagion of small-pox.

She did not come home until dinner time, laden with medicine bottles,
and shut herself up at once in her room, where she saturated herself
with disinfectants.

The priest was waiting for her in the dining-room. As soon as she saw
him she exclaimed in a voice full of emotion:

“Well?”

“No improvement. The doctor is very anxious:”

She began to cry and could eat nothing, she was so worried.

The next day, as soon as it was light, she sent to inquire for her son,
but there was no improvement and she spent the whole day in her room,
where little braziers were giving out pungent odors. Her maid said also
that you could hear her sighing all the evening.

She spent a whole week in this manner, only going out for an hour or two
during the afternoon to breathe the air.

She now sent to make inquiries every hour, and would sob when the
reports were unfavorable.

On the morning of the eleventh day the priest, having been announced,
entered her room, his face grave and pale, and said, without taking the
chair she offered him:

“Madame, your son is very ill and wishes to see you.”

She fell on her knees, exclaiming:

“Oh, my God! Oh, my God! I would never dare! My God! My God! Help me!”

The priest continued:

“The doctor holds out little hope, madame, and George is expecting you!”

And he left the room.

Two hours later as the young lad, feeling himself dying, again asked for
his mother, the abbe went to her again and found her still on her knees,
still weeping and repeating:

“I will not . . . . I will not. . . . I am too much afraid . . . . I
will not. . . .”

He tried to persuade her, to strengthen her, to lead her. He only
succeeded in bringing on an attack of “nerves” that lasted some time and
caused her to shriek.

The doctor when he came in the evening was told of this cowardice and
declared that he would bring her in himself, of her own volition, or by
force. But after trying all manner of argument and just as he seized her
round the waist to carry her into her son's room, she caught hold of the
door and clung to it so firmly that they could not drag her away. Then
when they let go of her she fell at the feet of the doctor, begging his
forgiveness and acknowledging that she was a wretched creature. And then
she exclaimed: “Oh, he is not going to die; tell me that he is not going
to die, I beg of you; tell him that I love him, that I worship him. . .”

The young lad was dying. Feeling that he had only a few moments more to
live, he entreated that his mother be persuaded to come and bid him a
last farewell. With that sort of presentiment that the dying sometimes
have, he had understood, had guessed all, and he said: “If she is afraid
to come into the room, beg her just to come on the balcony as far as my
window so that I may see her, at least, so that I may take a farewell
look at her, as I cannot kiss her.”

The doctor and the abbe, once more, went together to this woman and
assured her: “You will run no risk, for there will be a pane of glass
between you and him.”

She consented, covered up her head, and took with her a bottle of
smelling salts. She took three steps on the balcony; then, all at once,
hiding her face in her hands, she moaned: “No . . . no . . . I would
never dare to look at him . . . never. . . . I am too much ashamed . . .
too much afraid . . . . No . . . I cannot.”

They endeavored to drag her along, but she held on with both hands to
the railings and uttered such plaints that the passers-by in the street
raised their heads. And the dying boy waited, his eyes turned towards
that window, waited to die until he could see for the last time the
sweet, beloved face, the worshiped face of his mother.

He waited long, and night came on. Then he turned over with his face to
the wall and was silent.

When day broke he was dead. The day following she was crazy.





THE MAGIC COUCH

The Seine flowed past my house, without a ripple on its surface, and
gleaming in the bright morning sunlight. It was a beautiful, broad,
indolent silver stream, with crimson lights here and there; and on the
opposite side of the river were rows of tall trees that covered all the
bank with an immense wall of verdure.

The sensation of life which is renewed each day, of fresh, happy, loving
life trembled in the leaves, palpitated in the air, was mirrored in the
water.

The postman had just brought my papers, which were handed to me, and I
walked slowly to the river bank in order to read them.

In the first paper I opened I noticed this headline, “Statistics of
Suicides,” and I read that more than 8,500 persons had killed themselves
in that year.

In a moment I seemed to see them! I saw this voluntary and hideous
massacre of the despairing who were weary of life. I saw men bleeding,
their jaws fractured, their skulls cloven, their breasts pierced by a
bullet, slowly dying, alone in a little room in a hotel, giving no
thought to their wound, but thinking only of their misfortunes.

I saw others seated before a tumbler in which some matches were soaking,
or before a little bottle with a red label.

They would look at it fixedly without moving; then they would drink and
await the result; then a spasm would convulse their cheeks and draw
their lips together; their eyes would grow wild with terror, for they
did not know that the end would be preceded by so much suffering.

They rose to their feet, paused, fell over and with their hands pressed
to their stomachs they felt their internal organs on fire, their
entrails devoured by the fiery liquid, before their minds began to grow
dim.

I saw others hanging from a nail in the wall, from the fastening of the
window, from a hook in the ceiling, from a beam in the garret, from a
branch of a tree amid the evening rain. And I surmised all that had
happened before they hung there motionless, their tongues hanging out of
their mouths. I imagined the anguish of their heart, their final
hesitation, their attempts to fasten the rope, to determine that it was
secure, then to pass the noose round their neck and to let themselves
fall.

I saw others lying on wretched beds, mothers with their little children,
old men dying of hunger, young girls dying for love, all rigid,
suffocated, asphyxiated, while in the center of the room the brasier
still gave forth the fumes of charcoal.

And I saw others walking at night along the deserted bridges. These were
the most sinister. The water flowed under the arches with a low sound.
They did not see it . . . they guessed at it from its cool breath! They
longed for it and they feared it. They dared not do it! And yet, they
must. A distant clock sounded the hour and, suddenly, in the vast
silence of the night, there was heard the splash of a body falling into
the river, a scream or two, the sound of hands beating the water, and
all was still. Sometimes, even, there was only the sound of the falling
body when they had tied their arms down or fastened a stone to their
feet. Oh, the poor things, the poor things, the poor things, how I felt
their anguish, how I died in their death! I went through all their
wretchedness; I endured in one hour all their tortures. I knew all the
sorrows that had led them to this, for I know the deceitful infamy of
life, and no one has felt it more than I have.

How I understood them, these who weak, harassed by misfortune, having
lost those they loved, awakened from the dream of a tardy compensation,
from the illusion of another existence where God will finally be just,
after having been ferocious, and their minds disabused of the mirages of
happiness, have given up the fight and desire to put an end to this
ceaseless tragedy, or this shameful comedy.

Suicide! Why, it is the strength of those whose strength is exhausted,
the hope of those who no longer believe, the sublime courage of the
conquered! Yes, there is at least one door to this life we can always
open and pass through to the other side. Nature had an impulse of pity;
she did not shut us up in prison. Mercy for the despairing!

As for those who are simply disillusioned, let them march ahead with
free soul and quiet heart. They have nothing to fear since they may take
their leave; for behind them there is always this door that the gods of
our illusions cannot even lock.

I thought of this crowd of suicides: more than eight thousand five
hundred in one year. And it seemed to me that they had combined to send
to the world a prayer, to utter a cry of appeal, to demand something
that should come into effect later when we understood things better. It
seemed to me that all these victims, their throats cut, poisoned, hung,
asphyxiated, or drowned, all came together, a frightful horde, like
citizens to the polls, to say to society:

“Grant us, at least, a gentle death! Help us to die, you who will not
help us to live! See, we are numerous, we have the right to speak in
these days of freedom, of philosophic independence and of popular
suffrage. Give to those who renounce life the charity of a death that
will not be repugnant nor terrible.”

I began to dream, allowing my fancy to roam at will in weird and
mysterious fashion on this subject.

I seemed to be all at once in a beautiful city. It was Paris; but at
what period? I walked about the streets, looking at the houses, the
theaters, the public buildings, and presently found myself in a square
where I remarked a large building; very handsome, dainty and attractive.
I was surprised on reading on the facade this inscription in letters of
gold, “Suicide Bureau.”

Oh, the weirdness of waking dreams where the spirit soars into a world
of unrealities and possibilities! Nothing astonishes one, nothing shocks
one; and the unbridled fancy makes no distinction between the comic and
the tragic.

I approached the building where footmen in knee-breeches were seated in
the vestibule in front of a cloak-room as they do at the entrance of a
club.

I entered out of curiosity. One of the men rose and said:

“What does monsieur wish?”

“I wish to know what building this is.”

“Nothing more?”

“Why, no.”

“Then would monsieur like me to take him to the Secretary of the
Bureau?”

I hesitated, and asked:

“But will not that disturb him?”

“Oh, no, monsieur, he is here to receive those who desire information.”

“Well, lead the way.”

He took me through corridors where old gentlemen were chatting, and
finally led me into a beautiful office, somewhat somber, furnished
throughout in black wood. A stout young man with a corporation was
writing a letter as he smoked a cigar, the fragrance of which gave
evidence of its quality.

He rose. We bowed to each other, and as soon as the footman had retired
he asked:

“What can I do for you?”

“Monsieur,” I replied, “pardon my curiosity. I had never seen this
establishment. The few words inscribed on the facade filled me with
astonishment, and I wanted to know what was going on here.”

He smiled before replying, then said in a low tone with a complacent
air:

“Mon Dieu, monsieur, we put to death in a cleanly and gentle—I do not
venture to say agreeable manner those persons who desire to die.”

I did not feel very shocked, for it really seemed to me natural and
right. What particularly surprised me was that on this planet, with its
low, utilitarian, humanitarian ideals, selfish and coercive of all true
freedom, any one should venture on a similar enterprise, worthy of an
emancipated humanity.

“How did you get the idea?” I asked.

“Monsieur,” he replied, “the number of suicides increased so enormously
during the five years succeeding the world exposition of 1889 that some
measures were urgently needed. People killed themselves in the streets,
at fetes, in restaurants, at the theater, in railway carriages, at the
receptions held by the President of the Republic, everywhere. It was not
only a horrid sight for those who love life, as I do, but also a bad
example for children. Hence it became necessary to centralize suicides.”

“What caused this suicidal epidemic?”

“I do not know. The fact is, I believe, the world is growing old. People
begin to see things clearly and they are getting disgruntled. It is the
same to-day with destiny as with the government, we have found out what
it is; people find that they are swindled in every direction, and they
just get out of it all. When one discovers that Providence lies, cheats,
robs, deceives human beings just as a plain Deputy deceives his
constituents, one gets angry, and as one cannot nominate a fresh
Providence every three months as we do with our privileged
representatives, one just gets out of the whole thing, which is
decidedly bad.”

“Really!”

“Oh, as for me, I am not complaining.”

“Will you inform me how you carry on this establishment?”

“With pleasure. You may become a member when you please. It is a club.”

“A club!”

“Yes, monsieur, founded by the most eminent men in the country, by men
of the highest intellect and brightest intelligence. And,” he added,
laughing heartily, “I swear to you that every one gets a great deal of
enjoyment out of it.”

“In this place?”

“Yes, in this place.”

“You surprise me.”

“Mon Dieu, they enjoy themselves because they have not that fear of
death which is the great killjoy in all our earthly pleasures.”

“But why should they be members of this club if they do not kill
themselves?”

“One may be a member of the club without being obliged for that reason
to commit suicide.”

“But then?”

“I will explain. In view of the enormous increase in suicides, and of
the hideous spectacle they presented, a purely benevolent society was
formed for the protection of those in despair, which placed at their
disposal the facilities for a peaceful, painless, if not unforeseen
death.”

“Who can have authorized such an institution?”

“General Boulanger during his brief tenure of power. He could never
refuse anything. However, that was the only good thing he did. Hence, a
society was formed of clear-sighted, disillusioned skeptics who desired
to erect in the heart of Paris a kind of temple dedicated to the
contempt for death. This place was formerly a dreaded spot that no one
ventured to approach. Then its founders, who met together here, gave a
grand inaugural entertainment with Mmes. Sarah Bernhardt, Judic, Theo,
Granier, and twenty others, and Mme. de Reske, Coquelin, Mounet-Sully,
Paulus, etc., present, followed by concerts, the comedies of Dumas, of
Meilhac, Halevy and Sardon. We had only one thing to mar it, one drama
by Becque which seemed sad, but which subsequently had a great success
at the Comedie-Francaise. In fact all Paris came. The enterprise was
launched.”

“In the midst of the festivities! What a funereal joke!”

“Not at all. Death need not be sad, it should be a matter of
indifference. We made death cheerful, crowned it with flowers, covered
it with perfume, made it easy. One learns to aid others through example;
one can see that it is nothing.”

“I can well understand that they should come to the entertainments; but
did they come to . . . Death?”

“Not at first; they were afraid.”

“And later?”

“They came.”

“Many of them?”

“In crowds. We have had more than forty in a day. One finds hardly any
more drowned bodies in the Seine.”

“Who was the first?”

“A club member.”

“As a sacrifice to the cause?”

“I don't think so. A man who was sick of everything, a 'down and out'
who had lost heavily at baccarat for three months.”

“Indeed?”

“The second was an Englishman, an eccentric. We then advertised in the
papers, we gave an account of our methods, we invented some attractive
instances. But the great impetus was given by poor people.”

“How do you go to work?”

“Would you like to see? I can explain at the same time.”

“Yes, indeed.”

He took his hat, opened the door, allowed me to precede him, and we
entered a card room, where men sat playing as they, play in all gambling
places. They were chatting cheerfully, eagerly. I have seldom seen such
a jolly, lively, mirthful club.

As I seemed surprised, the secretary said:

“Oh, the establishment has an unheard of prestige. All the smart people
all over the world belong to it so as to appear as though they held
death in scorn. Then, once they get here, they feel obliged to be
cheerful that they may not appear to be afraid. So they joke and laugh
and talk flippantly, they are witty and they become so. At present it is
certainly the most frequented and the most entertaining place in Paris.
The women are even thinking of building an annex for themselves.”

“And, in spite of all this, you have many suicides in the house?”

“As I said, about forty or fifty a day. Society people are rare, but
poor devils abound. The middle class has also a large contingent.

“And how . . . do they do?”

“They are asphyxiated . . . very slowly.”

“In what manner?”

“A gas of our own invention. We have the patent. On the other side of
the building are the public entrances—three little doors opening on
small streets. When a man or a woman present themselves they are
interrogated. Then they are offered assistance, aid, protection. If a
client accepts, inquiries are made; and sometimes we have saved their
lives.”

“Where do you get your money?”

“We have a great deal. There are a large number of shareholders. Besides
it is fashionable to contribute to the establishment. The names of the
donors are published in Figaro. Then the suicide of every rich man costs
a thousand francs. And they look as if they were lying in state. It
costs the poor nothing.”

“How can you tell who is poor?”

“Oh, oh, monsieur, we can guess! And, besides, they must bring a
certificate of indigency from the commissary of police of their
district. If you knew how distressing it is to see them come in! I
visited their part of our building once only, and I will never go again.
The place itself is almost as good as this part, almost as luxurious and
comfortable; but they themselves . . . they themselves!!! If you could
see them arriving, the old men in rags coming to die; persons who have
been dying of misery for months, picking up their food at the edges of
the curbstone like dogs in the street; women in rags, emaciated, sick,
paralyzed, incapable of making a living, who say to us after they have
told us their story: 'You see that things cannot go on like that, as I
cannot work any longer or earn anything.' I saw one woman of eighty-
seven who had lost all her children and grandchildren, and who for the
last six weeks had been sleeping out of doors. It made me ill to hear of
it. Then we have so many different cases, without counting those who say
nothing, but simply ask: 'Where is it?' These are admitted at once and
it is all over in a minute.”

With a pang at my heart I repeated:

“And . . . where is it?”

“Here,” and he opened a door, adding:

“Go in; this is the part specially reserved for club members, and the
one least used. We have so far had only eleven annihilations here.”

“Ah! You call that an . . . annihilation!”

“Yes, monsieur. Go in.”

I hesitated. At length I went in. It was a wide corridor, a sort of
greenhouse in which panes of glass of pale blue, tender pink and
delicate green gave the poetic charm of landscapes to the inclosing
walls. In this pretty salon there were divans, magnificent palms,
flowers, especially roses of balmy fragrance, books on the tables, the
Revue des Deuxmondes, cigars in government boxes, and, what surprised
me, Vichy pastilles in a bonbonniere.

As I expressed my surprise, my guide said:

“Oh, they often come here to chat.” He continued: “The public corridors
are similar, but more simply furnished.”

In reply to a question of mine, he pointed to a couch covered with
creamy crepe de Chine with white embroidery, beneath a large shrub of
unknown variety at the foot of which was a circular bed of mignonette.

The secretary added in a lower tone:

“We change the flower and the perfume at will, for our gas, which is
quite imperceptible, gives death the fragrance of the suicide's favorite
flower. It is volatilized with essences. Would you like to inhale it for
a second?”

“'No, thank you,” I said hastily, “not yet . . . .”

He began to laugh.

“Oh, monsieur, there is no danger. I have tried it myself several
times.”

I was afraid he would think me a coward, and I said:

“Well, I'll try it.”

“Stretch yourself out on the 'endormeuse.”'

A little uneasy I seated myself on the low couch covered with crepe de
Chine and stretched myself full length, and was at once bathed in a
delicious odor of mignonette. I opened my mouth in order to breathe it
in, for my mind had already become stupefied and forgetful of the past
and was a prey, in the first stages of asphyxia, to the enchanting
intoxication of a destroying and magic opium.

Some one shook me by the arm.

“Oh, oh, monsieur,” said the secretary, laughing, “it looks to me as if
you were almost caught.”

But a voice, a real voice, and no longer a dream voice, greeted me with
the peasant intonation:

“Good morning, m'sieu. How goes it?”

My dream was over. I saw the Seine distinctly in the sunlight, and,
coming along a path, the garde champetre of the district, who with his
right hand touched his kepi braided in silver. I replied:

“Good morning, Marinel. Where are you going?”

“I am going to look at a drowned man whom they fished up near the
Morillons. Another who has thrown himself into the soup. He even took
off his trousers in order to tie his legs together with them.” his
trousers in order to tie his legs together with them.”