The Masterpieces of George Sand




Amandine Lucille Aurore Dupin, Baroness
Dudevant, _NOW FOR THE FIRST
TIME COMPLETELY TRANSLATED
INTO ENGLISH SHE AND HE, AND LAVINIA
BY G. BURNHAM IVES;
WITH MEMOIR BY J. ALFRED
BURGAN_




_WITH SIX PHOTOGRAVURES AFTER PAINTINGS BY J. B. GRAFF,
AND PORTRAIT AFTER THE DRAWING BY COUTURE_




IN ONE VOLUME




_PRINTED ONLY FOR SUBSCRIBERS BY
GEORGE BARRIE & SON
PHILADELPHIA_


[Illustration: _A CORNER AT THE OPERA BALL._

_Thérèse was about to retire, when she heard her
name mentioned in a corner. She turned and saw
the man she had loved so well, seated between two
masked damsels._]




CONTENTS
MEMOIR
SHE AND HE
TO MADEMOISELLE JACQUES
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII
CHAPTER XIII
CHAPTER XIV
LAVINIA




LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

MEMOIR
SHE AND HE
LAVINIA

A CORNER AT THE OPERA BALL.
PORTRAIT OF GEORGE SAND.
LAURENT PAINTS PALMER'S PORTRAIT.
THEIR FIRST SUPPER.
A FANTASTIC VISION.
THE SEPARATION.
LIONEL SURPRISES LAVINIA.




[Illustration: GEORGE SAND.

_After the Crayon Portrait by Couture, in the Musée
Carnavalet, Paris._]




GEORGE SAND



MEMOIR


There is a natural desire to know something of the parentage and birth
of renowned authors, and to learn something that may throw light on the
formative influences which have operated in producing the works that
have rendered them famous. In the case of George Sand, whose nature
offers contrasts as striking as were the social conditions of her
parents, this desire is particularly strong; therefore, although the
limits prescribed to this sketch prevent either an exhaustive review of
her life being undertaken, or a psychological study being entered upon,
such details may be given as will prove useful and not without interest
to readers of this famous writer.

Amandine Lucille Aurore Dupin, who adopted the literary name of _George
Sand_, was born in Paris on July 5, 1804. Her father, Maurice Dupin de
Francueil, was of aristocratic birth, being the son of Monsieur Dupin de
Francueil and Marie Aurore de Saxe, daughter of Marshal Saxe, a natural
son of Augustus II, Elector of Saxony, who was allied to the Bourbons by
the marriage of his sister to the Dauphin, the father of Louis XVI.
Marie Aurore de Saxe, previous to her marriage with Monsieur Dupin de
Francueil, had been the wife of Comte de Horn, a natural son of Louis
XV. The author's mother, Antoinette Victoire Sophie Delaborde, was the
daughter of a bird-fancier in Paris.

These facts concerning her parentage show the association of the
aristocratic with the plebeian in the blood of the author.

Her grandfather was a provincial gentleman of moderate fortune, who died
within a few years of his marriage to Comtesse de Horn, who had imbibed
all the aristocratic prejudices of her family. Her father, Maurice Dupin
(his father had abandoned the suffix De Francueil), was the object of
Madame Dupin's tenderest affection and warmest hopes; but, although of a
most amiable disposition, he was somewhat reckless and, as his marriage
proved, independent in his views. The disturbed condition of France
under the Directory left him little choice as to a profession, so he
entered the army. He became a lieutenant as the reward of his services
at the battle of Marengo in 1800. It was during his sojourn in Italy
that he made the acquaintance of Antoinette Delaborde, whose devoted
care and nursing during a severe illness resulted in his becoming deeply
attached to her. The lieutenant was only twenty-six years old, and his
mistress was four years his senior. The _liaison_ was suspected by
Madame Dupin, and evoked great opposition on her part; but, in spite of
her wounded sentiments, and notwithstanding the fact that Mademoiselle
Delaborde was already the mother of two children, the lovers were
married in June, 1804. On July 5, 1804, as has been stated, Amandine
Lucille Aurore Dupin was born.

Time lightened the weight of the blow to Madame Dupin, who at last
consented to recognize her son's wife; but the two women rarely met for
some years. The elder Madame Dupin resided at Nohant (a spot which
George Sand's writings have made famous), a secluded estate in the
centre of France, near La Châtre, in the Department of the Indre.
Maurice, who had now become a captain, made his home in Paris, and, when
not on duty, spent his time there with his wife and their little
daughter in quiet happiness. The good judgment of the younger Madame
Dupin, and her kindly disposition and sincere and faithful affection for
her husband and child, seem to have found a counterpart in Captain
Dupin, and thus, within their own household, they enjoyed all that was
essential to their mutual inclinations.

The infant life of George Sand was passed in the unpretentious home in
Rue Grange-Batelière, her mother's good sense materially aiding the
development of the child's intelligence. This peaceful life, however,
was not long to be undisturbed; for the prolonged absence of Captain
Dupin, who was serving in Madrid as aide-de-camp to Murat, induced
Madame Dupin to journey thither with her child to join him. After a stay
of several weeks, the captain escorted his wife and little daughter to
France, where they went to the home of the elder Madame Dupin. They had
not long enjoyed the restful recreation of this quiet spot, when Captain
Dupin was killed by being thrown from his horse one night on returning
from La Châtre.

Aurore was only four years old at the time of this tragic event, which
was to be of such momentous consequence to her. Although the feelings of
the elder Madame Dupin lost some of their bitterness after the death of
her son, there was still too wide a gap between the grandmother, with
her class prejudices, and the simple-natured, plebeian daughter-in-law
to admit of concord between them, or of a mutual understanding as to the
education of the young girl, upon whom, after Captain Dupin's death, the
grandmother seemed to centre all her affection. The child became the
source of constant conflict, and, although she was permitted all freedom
in physical exercise and enjoyment, and even in the matter of education,
she suffered bitter sorrow because of the disputes and quarrels of which
she was the unwitting cause. Notwithstanding the heart-sorrow the little
one endured, she was already cultivating her vivid imagination and
developing her contemplative disposition, which were, even thus early,
marked characteristics. We learn that on the occasion of her father's
death, when she was but four years old, she fell into a long reverie,
during which she seemed to realize the meaning of death as she mused in
silent and seemingly apathetic abstraction. These dreamy periods were so
frequent that she soon acquired a _stupid_ look, speaking of which she
says: "It has been always applied to me, and, consequently, it must be
true."

Her _Histoire de ma Vie_ throws some very interesting light on these
earlier years. Aurore was able to read well at four years of age. She
studied grammar under old Deschartres, a very pedantic personage, who
had formerly acted as secretary to her grandfather, and later as tutor
to her father, and who formed part of the household at Nohant. Her
grandmother instructed her in music, and sought to impress her with the
aristocratic principles which should govern her conduct. Her religious
training was formed--if it can be said that she possessed any very clear
idea on this subject--on the principles of Voltaire and Rousseau,
expounded by the elder Madame Dupin, offset by the simple but devout
Christian teaching of Aurore's mother, whose sincere faith better suited
the mind of her daughter than did the cold and analytical reasoning of
her grandmother.

From the irksome routine of lessons, however, the child turned to the
freedom and wild enjoyment of outdoor life. She had as companions in her
games a boy and girl who were inmates of the home, the former her
half-brother, and the latter Ursule, who in later years was her faithful
servant. With these and the peasant children of the neighborhood, she
was able to pass numberless hours face to face with Nature, in whose
manifold forms she took unbounded delight. Gathered about the fires they
kindled in the meadows, they would romp and dance, or vary the pleasure
by story-telling. When the hemp-dressers assembled at the farm of an
evening, Aurore took the lead in the stories that were told; but she
tells us that she could never succeed in evoking one of the visions with
which the peasants were familiar. The _great beast_ had appeared to them
all, at least once; but she experienced only the excitement of disturbed
nerves.

When eight years old, the child had acquired a fair knowledge of her
native language, and composition and the cultivation of style were now
being taught her, added to which were such subjects as Greek, prosody,
and botany; the natural result of which was a brain taxed with details,
but lacking in a clear perception of the ideas and principles sought to
be established. Yet the imaginative mind was alert; it was storing up a
fund of fancy that the future could draw upon almost limitlessly. The
conflict between her mother and her grandmother was also exerting a
formative influence on the child's mind in cooperation with her
tenderness of heart. She could ill bear the grandmother's calm but
dignified reproaches, though she entertained for her no little
affection.

Constantly reminded of her aristocratic claims, and conscious of the
hardly veiled contempt in which her mother was held by the elder Madame
Dupin, she grew to despise the pretensions of caste, and her leanings
became thoroughly democratic, as if the spontaneous germination of her
sorrows. Her mother's angry outbreaks caused her not a tithe of the
sorrow that she endured at the cold reproofs of her grandmother; hence,
it was apparent to the latter that Aurore's love for her mother was
greater than that for herself. She was, however, bent on securing the
full love of her granddaughter and on obtaining sole guardianship. To
her she looked as her heir, on whom it was incumbent to espouse the
prejudices of the aristocracy.

The frequent disputes that arose resulted at length in a separation. The
mother was, after much persuasion, brought to the belief that her
daughter's future would be best assured by her child's remaining at
Nohant in the care of her grandmother; while she retired to Paris,
supported by the slender income from her late husband's estate. It was
arranged that Aurore should accompany her grandmother to Paris, where
she had a house for the winter, when the child could spend whole days in
the company of her beloved mother, while, during the summer, the latter
would come to Nohant. The grandmother, finding that the child's
affection for her mother showed no diminution, but rather the reverse,
and that her own share in her granddaughter's affection was rather that
inspired by respect and veneration, became more jealous than ever, and
sought to make the separation a real one. Hence, after a few years, the
visits to Paris ceased.

During all this time, Aurore had been reading promiscuously, but there
had been no definite method in her education, and her religious
tendencies were left almost free to her own impulses. She had conversed
with Nature; she despised conventionality; she had given free rein to
her fancy; she had defined little. Her heart was not satisfied, and her
mind was reaching out to an ideal.

Aurore still continued, for a long time, to hope that her mother and
grandmother would be brought together again and her happiness
consummated; but this hope was cruelly shattered. One day, she was
startled by some disclosures her grandmother made respecting the past
life of Aurore's mother, and which, in the narrator's opinion, rendered
it of the first importance that the mother and the daughter should live
apart. The moment was badly chosen, in a fit of anger and jealousy, and
the loving girl resented her guardian's imprudence most bitterly, while
suffering intensely. Her affection for her grandmother was thereby
lessened, while her despised mother became dearer to her. She resolved
to abandon all those material advantages that were promised by remaining
with her grandmother, to neglect instruction, and to renounce
accomplishments. She rebelled against the lessons of Deschartres, and,
indeed, became a thorough mutineer. This was the situation when Aurore
approached her fourteenth year; her grandmother, in view of the
circumstances, decided to send her to a convent to complete an education
befitting her social position. The Couvent des Anglaises was selected,
as being the best institution for girls of aristocratic families.

The young girl entered the convent, weary at heart, wounded in her
dearest affections: she found it a place of rest. She tells, in the
story of her life, of the sisters and pupils, the routine of
instruction, the petty quarrels, the pastimes, and the discipline; of
the quest of imaginary captives whose release was undertaken; of the
wanderings in vaults and passages. Though Aurore was of a dreamy nature,
yet her disposition manifested extremes; for at times she abandoned
herself to boisterous enjoyment. So in the convent she became resigned
to her lot, yet, yielding to her spirit of independence, she joined in
the pranks of the mischievous scholars. Of the two classes into which
the girls were divided,--_sages_ and _diables_,--Aurore made choice of
the latter. This life continued for nearly two years, the girl rarely
leaving the convent even for a single day, being deprived of her summer
vacations by her grandmother, who wished to bring her to a realization
of the pleasure and freedom of the Nohant home, which she would be the
better capable of by reason of her prolonged absence.

The routine of somewhat indifferent and desultory study and the
enjoyment of the _diables_' pranks were soon to give way to a new
impulse. Hitherto, Aurore had felt no attachment to the religious
exercises of the convent; but one day she was seated in an obscure
corner of the convent chapel, when a spiritual enthusiasm awoke in her
mind. She writes of this circumstance: "In an instant, it broke forth,
like some passion quickened in a soul that knows not its own force....
All her needs were of the heart, and that was exhausted." The fervent
religious emotion which she experienced at once transformed her. With
her whole-natured devotion, she yields to the impulse; faith finds her
soul unresisting, and she bends to the divine grace that appeals to her.
Yet the transformation swayed her soul with its consequences; she shed
the scalding tears of the pious, she experienced the exhaustion of
feverish exaltation and protracted meditation, but she found a personal
faith; and, through all the emotions and changes of the turbulent years
that followed, the pure faith that she imbibed in the silent convent
cloisters was never wholly obscured. This change wrought wonders in the
young girl's conduct; she was no longer a hoyden, but kept herself
strictly within the rules of the convent, and devoted herself with
regularity to its prescribed studies, yet with no more real interest
than before.

In the early part of 1820, Madame Dupin the elder fell seriously ill,
and, believing that her life would soon close, she desired her
granddaughter's return to Nohant. The lapse of time and the more serious
disposition of the latter were calculated to help Aurore in the cares of
the household that now devolved upon her, and in the nursing of her
grandmother, to whom she devoted herself assiduously during the ten
months that remained of her life. Her religious enthusiasm underwent
some abatement after her return, and the temporary absences from Madame
Dupin's bedside were spent in melancholy reverie, interrupted by active
exercise. At the convent, she had been counselled by her spiritual
adviser not to entertain the idea of a nun's life, for which she had
expressed a desire, but to yield to temporal and physical diversions. At
home, she adopted a middle course, neglecting neither her religious nor
her temporal duties, while still bent on taking the veil at a later
period. It was at this time that she was taught horseback riding by her
half-brother Hippolyte, who had become a cavalryman. This exercise
became her favorite pastime, and by it she was able to break the
monotony of her life and enjoy the beauties of the surrounding country,
which, in its peaceful charm and its succession of gentle scenes, was in
harmony with her contemplative mind, and evoked the spirit of poetry
within her.

The consciousness of the insufficiency of the education she had hitherto
received now became apparent to Aurore, and she determined to effect her
own instruction. She therefore read eagerly, her convent teaching and
experience inclining her first to study works of Christian doctrine and
practice, though she pursued her reading with great indefiniteness of
plan. The perusal and comparison of the _Imitation of Christ_ with that
of Chateaubriand's _Génie du Christianisme_ involved her in serious
doubts and apprehensions; her faith in Catholicism was at least sincere,
but the reasonings and discrepancies she found in these works were such
as to appeal to her intelligence while puzzling her faith in the
doctrines. In the orderly obedience to the teachings of the Romish
church rendered in the quiet convent, there was nothing to weaken the
faith in the system; but face to face with the practice of its tenets,
and in view of its inconsequence, apparently, in the lives of the
country people by whom she was surrounded, formidable difficulties arose
in her conscience. The same wholeness of character and independence of
judgment that had hitherto marked her conduct forbade her to give
adhesion to principles which were at variance with her reason and
conscience. To her, the practice of the confession and the doctrine that
salvation could be obtained only by those within the pale of the
orthodox Catholic communion were absolutely unacceptable. In her eager
search for the truth, she studied the works of the
philosophers--Aristotle, Montaigne, Bacon, Pascal, Bossuet, Locke,
Leibnitz, Montesquieu, Mably, Condillac. Of these, she preferred
Leibnitz, and, speaking of her study of this author, she says: "In
reading Leibnitz, I unconsciously became a Protestant." She could not
conceive of that being right which denied the liberty of conscience. So
far, the result, however, was, as might have been expected, much
knowledge of opinions, yet no very definite conviction, or clear
establishment of principles; but the desire to arrive at a true ideal
faith was intensified.

After the philosophers, came the moralists and poets: La Bruyère,
Virgil, Dante, Shakespeare, Milton, Byron, Pope. These writers were read
by the young girl with insatiable delight; but, as in the case of the
philosophers, without system. Thought piled on thought, principle
jostled against principle; all rapidly mastered and sympathetically
appreciated. The master was yet to be found, but he was at hand.
Jean-Jacques Rousseau's charm of eloquence and powerful logic gave her a
halting-point for her reason, and pointed the way to her. Her already
relaxed hold on Catholicism was now released.

The mental strain and emotional conflict of such studies resulted,
naturally enough, in a complete nervous exhaustion, and her will was
incompetent to enable her to formulate the truth, to comprehend the
doctrines, or even to fix her choice. Her intellect did not fail her, or
her memory betray her; but, in the confusion of her ideas, she lapsed
into a deep melancholy, which resulted in a disgust of life. She mused
on death, and, she says, often contemplated it, rarely seeing the river
without mentally expressing: "How easy it would be! Only one step to
take!" To the oft-recurring question _yes_, or _no_? as to the plunge
into the limpid stream whose waters would forever still the tumult of
her mind, she one day answered _yes_; but, happily, the mare she rode
into the deep water to carry out her purpose, by a magnificent bound
frustrated its rider's intent and saved the life of the woman who was to
thrill so many readers with her passionate prose-poems.

During this period, Aurore Dupin manifested, in her intrepidity in
horsemanship and in her independence of conventionality in respect of
her exercises and costume, the same spirit that so often brought her
under the ban of heedless criticism. It was her custom to don boys'
clothes on her expeditions, that she might with perfect freedom enjoy
the riding and shooting which were now her favorite pastimes. But this
course brought upon her the condemnation of her strict neighbors at La
Châtre, who regarded such departures from the prevailing customs as
evidences of eccentricity and ill-manners.

The death of her grandmother, in December, 1821, opened a new phase in
Aurore's life. The efforts which Madame Dupin the elder had made during
life to withdraw the girl from the influence of her mother were
perpetuated in her will, by which she appointed her nephew, Comte René
de Villeneuve, the guardian of her granddaughter, to whom she had left
her property. On the reading of the will, the relations between Aurore's
paternal and maternal families were completely severed. Madame Dupin was
not ignorant of the clause of the will which sought to deprive her of
the guardianship of her daughter, and which was not valid in law, and
she resisted its application. As the result of discussion, it was agreed
that Deschartres, the trusted adviser of the late Madame Dupin, should
be appointed as co-guardian with Aurore's mother. Deschartres was left
in charge of Nohant, and Madame Dupin took her daughter with her to
Paris. Here her life was by no means happy; the mother she idolized
seems to have suffered in temper from the troubles and checks she had
undergone, and her capricious outbursts of anger were only exasperated
by her daughter's gracious and yielding way. In her mother, Aurore
failed to find the guide that her nature required, and to a certain
extent she was neglected by her. It is not surprising to find,
therefore, that the young girl was ready to welcome any change that
would relieve the irritation she endured.

The opportunity presented itself in a visit to the country home of some
friends whose acquaintance Madame Dupin had recently made. In the lovely
home of the Duplessis family, Aurore was cheered by the companionship of
young people and the bright society found at the house. Madame Dupin
left her daughter with her friends, promising that she would come for
her "next week," but she was persuaded to permit the stay to continue
for five months. Here Aurore met the man whom she deliberately chose for
her husband. He was a friend of her hosts, Lieutenant Casimir Dudevant,
twenty-seven years old, and the natural son of Colonel Dudevant, a
Gascon landowner, who had been created a Baron of the Empire for his
services under Napoleon. The marriage of the colonel having proved
childless, he had acknowledged Casimir, and provided for his succession
to his property.

On seeing Mademoiselle Dupin, the lieutenant at once took a liking to
her, and this feeling was soon reciprocated by the young girl. The
officer does not appear to have been a very romantic suitor, but at
least he seems to have been sincere; and the fortunes of the parties
being equal, a reasonable prospect of happiness presented itself in a
marriage between them. The lieutenant ere long proposed marriage to
Aurore, adding: "It is not customary, I know, to propose marriage to the
intended affianced; but, mademoiselle, I love you. I am unable to resist
telling you of my sentiments, and if you find my appearance not too
displeasing--in a word, if you are willing to accept me as your husband,
I will make my intentions known to Madame Dupin; if, however, you reject
me, I should deem it useless to trouble your mother."

This frank but blunt proposal rather pleased Aurore; it was entirely
unconventional. Madame Dupin added her persuasion, as she considered the
offer a suitable one, and, the consent of Colonel Dudevant having been
obtained, the marriage was solemnized in September, 1822. An incident
involved in the preliminaries to the marriage is worthy of notice, as
evidence of the generous feelings and tender regard of Aurore for her
old and pedantic tutor, Deschartres. Being called upon to render the
accounts of his management of his ward's estate, he could not explain a
deficit of eighteen thousand francs, for the expenditure of which he
could not produce receipts. He was dumfounded; Madame Dupin threatened
to cause his arrest; but her daughter, moved to pity at the old man's
distress, insisted on taking the blame on herself, explaining that the
sum represented money paid to her by Deschartres, for which she had
neglected to give him receipts. This generous course saved the old man
from disgrace, and perhaps ruin, for he was proposing to sell his own
pitiful estate to make good the deficit due to his mismanagement.

Soon after the marriage, Monsieur and Madame Dudevant took up their
residence on the bride's estate at Nohant. The life there for some time
was tranquil, if not entirely happy. The young wife seems to have
abandoned the life of the intellect, and soon her whole dream was of
maternity. Matrimony had already failed as the ideal life she may have
contemplated. The companionship of her husband was not that living force
she had pictured. Probably she had trusted too much to reason and
common-sense, and certainly she had married in ignorance of her
husband's character and tastes, and, it may be, in ignorance of her own.
At any rate, she was not yet unhappy.

In July, 1823, Maurice was born, her beloved son, he who was to be the
comfort and joy of her life in all its troubles, and in whom the mother
was to find a compensation for the sorrows of the wife. From the time
his son was born, Monsieur Dudevant seems to have neglected his wife; he
was of a rather interfering disposition, and, moreover, given to the
pleasures of hunting, in pursuit of which he frequently left his wife as
early as two or three o'clock in the morning. The young wife, whose
health was not robust, and whose disposition led her to desire the
society of her husband, at first mildly reproached him for his absence,
but the effect was only momentary; happily, the joys of motherhood
consoled her, at least for a time, and matters progressed placidly.

The seclusion of the life at Nohant was first interrupted in 1824, when
a visit was made to Paris and to the home of the Duplessises. Later, in
1825, a journey was taken to some of the watering-places in the
Pyrenees, where it was hoped Madame Dudevant's health would be
reëstablished, and by means of which the young wife also hoped to bring
about a change in her husband's habits. To this trip, which was to be
made more entertaining by the company of two friends of her convent
life, Madame Dudevant looked with eager interest; for, in a letter to
Madame Dupin, written in June, 1825, she says: "I shall be most happy at
once more seeing the Pyrenees, which I scarcely remember, but which
everybody describes as offering incomparably lovely scenery."

The stay of a few months among the mountains proved of great physical
benefit to Madame Dudevant. In her letters to her mother, she describes
with almost childish glee the excursions she made, the daring feats she
undertook, and the beauty of the scenery. But the hope of changed
manners on the part of her husband was not realized; his treatment on
their return continued as before; when not engaged in his favorite
pastime of hunting, he indulged in the pleasures of the table.

The duties of a mother and a housewife now seemed to absorb Madame
Dudevant's thoughts; yet, while outwardly calm and dignified, the
experience she was gaining of conjugal life, which had destroyed all her
illusions, was establishing her views on the relations of husband and
wife and formulating her ideal of satisfied love. It cannot be doubted
that her earlier works, especially _Indiana_, are the pathetic and
passionate voice of her soul, long silenced by her obligations as wife
and mother; for in a letter to Madame Dupin, written in May, 1831,
Madame Dudevant writes: "I cannot bear even the shadow of coercion; that
is my principal defect. All that is imposed on me as a duty grows
detestable to me; what I can do without any interference, I do
whole-heartedly."

For a long time, the bitterness of her disappointment found no
confidant; and Monsieur Dudevant's interfering methods, and his
indifference to his wife's society, must have hourly wounded her
sensitive nature. In the letter last quoted, we read: "I hold liberty of
thought and freedom of action as the chief blessings in this world. If
to these are joined the cares of a family, then how immeasurably sweeter
life is; but where is one to find such a felicitous combination?" But
during the years in which her sorrows were accumulating, her letters to
those outside bear no sign of bitterness or anger. She endured her grief
and disappointment silently, so far as her friends were concerned. The
breach between the husband and the wife was, however, opening wider day
by day. In 1826, a letter to Madame Dupin tells of the life at Nohant
during the Carnival, and of the rustic wedding of two of her domestics,
in a cheerful and merry strain. Matters proceeded in this superficial
tranquillity, with no remarkable change, until the fall of 1828, when
the birth of her daughter, Solange, afforded a new interest and added
duties.

We glean from her letters that Madame Dudevant's health had given her
serious cause for anxiety; but plenty of outdoor life, and the duties of
the home, combined with her constitutional soundness, enabled her to
overcome this drawback; she writes to her mother, about this period, in
the same strain as before, describing her occupations and condition,
and, speaking of her husband, says: "Dear papa is very busy with his
harvest.... Dressed in a blouse, he is up at dawn, rake in hand....
As for us women, all day long we sit on corn-sheaves, that fill the
yard. We read and work much, hardly ever thinking of going out. We enjoy
a plenty of music." According to her own account, Madame Dudevant had
become a settled countrywoman.

In 1829, Monsieur and Madame Dudevant passed two months in Bordeaux and
at the home of her husband's mother; and on her return to Nohant in July
she resumed her quiet home life, restricting the circle of her friends
in conformity with her retired tastes. Here they enjoyed the society of
her half-brother and his wife. But the period of outward calm and
resignation to her condition was fast nearing its term. The relations
between the husband and the wife were rapidly growing worse. Among the
wife's occupations and diversions of this period were painting and
composition. Of the former, Madame Dudevant speaks with enthusiasm
later; already, in 1827, she had tried her hand at portrait-painting,
for in a letter to her mother she writes: "I send you a profile drawing
done from imagination; it is a regular daub. It is well that I should
tell you that it is intended as a representation of Caroline. I am the
only one who sees a likeness in it.... I also drew my own portrait.... Yet
I did not succeed better than with Caroline's.... I laugh in
its face on recognizing how pitiable it makes me look, so I dare not
send it." And again, early in February, 1830, she sends a portrait of
her son to her mother. It is well, as we shall soon see, that Madame
Dudevant was so little encouraged by her efforts. Yet of her literary
proclivities, which she also indulged by attempts at novel-writing, she
was certainly not convinced, and of her ability in this direction still
less so.

The education of her son Maurice had now become a matter of extreme 
importance to Madame Dudevant. The boy was six years old, and she was 
fortunate enough to secure as his tutor Monsieur Jules Boucoiran, of 
Paris, who later became her trusted friend and the wise counsellor of 
her son. How carefully Madame Dudevant still concealed her marital 
wretchedness from even her mother is evidenced in a letter written in 
December, 1829, in which she says: "What are you doing with my husband? 
Does he take you to the theatre? Is he cheerful? Is he good-tempered?...
Make use of his arm while you can; make him laugh, for he is always 
as gloomy as an owl while he is in Paris." The crisis which finally 
separated the husband and wife was brought about by a discovery that 
wounded the already stricken heart beyond endurance. Monsieur Dudevant 
had become even brutal in his conduct; he had gone so far as actually to 
strike his wife. 

One day, Madame Dudevant, while looking for something in her husband's
desk, chanced upon a package addressed to herself, and bearing the
direction: _To be opened only on my death_. Deeming that her health did
not promise her survival of her husband, and seeing that the package was
addressed to her, Madame Dudevant, anxious to know the estimation in
which her husband held her, opened the package. Her letter to Monsieur
Boucoiran, dated December 3, 1830, best tells the revelation. She
writes: "Good God! what a will! For me nothing but maledictions. He had
heaped up therein all his violence of temper and ill-will against me,
all his reflections concerning my perversity, all his contempt for my
character. And that was what he had bequeathed me as his token of
affection! I believed that I was dreaming, I, who hitherto had been
obstinately shutting my eyes and refusing to see that I was scorned. The
reading of that will at last aroused me from my slumber.... My
decision was taken, and, I dare declare, irrevocably."

Madame Dudevant at once informed her husband of her decision to leave
him, and of the motives thereof. The explanations that followed led to
an arrangement whereby Madame Dudevant was to receive from her husband
an income of about three thousand francs, and to spend one-half of the
year at Nohant and the other half in Paris. The care she took to keep
the secret of her troubles from the world, for the sake of her children,
may be understood from her letters. She desired that it should be
supposed that she was leading a "separate life," hoping that, by her
alternate residence in Paris and at Nohant, her husband would "learn
circumspection." She writes to Monsieur Boucoiran, on December 8, 1830:
"I must confess I am distressed at the thought that the secret of my
domestic affairs may become known to others besides you.... The good
understanding which, notwithstanding my separation from my husband, I
desire to maintain in all that concerns my son, will compel me to act
with as much caution when absent as when with him." The momentous step
which was to result in Madame Dudevant's entire liberty of action, and,
above all, in her giving to the world the masterpieces which soon
rendered her famous, was taken in the early days of January, 1831, when,
leaving her children, and her home at Nohant, with its cherished
associations, she set out for Paris, armed with letters of introduction
to one or two literary men, given her by friends at La Châtre.

But there was yet a wide chasm to be gulfed. Her equipment for the life
of independence she contemplated was, in a material sense, very limited.
Her income was insufficient to secure her the luxuries she had enjoyed
at Nohant, and to which her tastes inclined. Her stout heart and
indomitable will were, however, not to be shaken. She had cast the die.
She would not face the humiliation of failure and a retreat from the
position she had created. But live she must, and in her endeavors to
secure a livelihood she sought to employ the accomplishments she had
acquired. At first, she attempted translating, believing that her
knowledge of English, obtained at the convent, would provide her the
necessary income; but in this she was doomed to disappointment. Then,
too, millinery and dressmaking proved profitless, in spite of long hours
of daily toil. Somewhat better results attended her efforts to gain a
sufficient subsistence by art. The pastime at Nohant now stood her in
stead to some degree. She made a limited success in miniature paintings
for fancy articles, such as cigar-cases, snuff-boxes, and tea-caddies.
But she still failed in her purpose. So nearly, however, had she adopted
art as a profession, that it appears that, had she not been discouraged
by the price secured on one occasion, her energies would have been
directed away from the field in which she attained her glory!

It is curious to find Madame Dudevant hesitating in her choice between
literature and art. The decision was not long before being reached,
happily for the world of literature, though it cannot be claimed that
the choice was quite voluntary, if we may judge by her letters. Writing
to Monsieur Boucoiran on January 13, 1831, she says: "I am embarking on
the stormy sea of literature. For one must live," and, later, to
Monsieur Duvernet she says that only the "profits of writing tempt my
material and positive mind." That a dominant inclination for letters
possessed her, however, is surely indicated in her early attempts at
composition; even during the previous autumn, while at Nohant, she had
wrought out a kind of romance in her grandmother's boudoir, with her
children at her side, of which she says: "Having penned it, I was
convinced that it was of no value, but that I might do less badly."

The decisive first step in her literary career was due probably more to
the advice of Jules Sandeau than to any other cause; for, spite of the
rare qualities she possessed, Madame Dudevant was diffident as to her
powers. Jules Sandeau was, like herself, a native of Berry; they had
formed each other's acquaintance at Nohant some time before the
separation between Monsieur and Madame Dudevant. On receiving her
confidences as to her straitened circumstances, Sandeau advised Madame
Dudevant to adopt the literary career. It was soon arranged that the two
should collaborate in writing an article for the _Figaro_, which was
accepted with so much encouragement that others soon followed. Writing
of this arrangement to Monsieur Duvernet, Madame Dudevant says: "I have
resolved to associate him with my labors, or myself with his, as you may
please to put it. Be it as it may, he lends me his name, as I do not
wish mine to appear."

But the way to fame, though rapid, was not without discouragement. A
novelette had been accepted by the _Revue de Paris_, but its publication
was delayed in favor of known authors, and, meantime, the future
favorite was scribbling articles for the _Figaro_, at the price of seven
francs a column, which, she remarks, "enables me to eat and drink, and
even attend the play." The drawbacks and discouragements she suffered
were many; she writes to Monsieur Duvernet, in February, 1831: "Had I
foreseen half the difficulties I encounter, I should never have entered
on the career. But, the more the obstacles I meet with, the greater is
my determination to go forward.... We must have a passion in life."

But, spite of this "passion," our author began her lifework under
circumstances that might well have intimidated a less ardent and
determined person. Her imperfect and fragmentary education; her crude
and ill-digested ideas of social life; the bitter memories and smarts of
domestic life; the disillusionment she had suffered in her hopes of
marriage,--all these were sore obstacles; but she still had unbounded
faith, a sympathetic mind and heart; and her poetic nature cast a lustre
over all her thoughts. If she had no precise ideal, no well-matured
method, if she lacked experience of the under-currents that swayed
social and political circles, she was endowed with keen perceptive
faculties and a rapid insight into character. She loved Nature
passionately, and to the cry of human sorrow her heart was quickly
responsive.

During these first struggles in the literary path, Madame Dudevant's
letters to her son and his tutor manifest her constant anxiety as to the
welfare of those she had left behind, and of her longing for the time
when, in accordance with her arrangements with Monsieur Dudevant, she
could be with her children again. There is no touch of pride or
vainglory in her naïve confessions, nor does she claim for herself any
but an amateur's position in the world of letters. She writes to
Monsieur Duvernet: "I nevertheless long to go back to Berry; for my
children are dearer than all else. But for the hope of some day being
more useful to them with the pen of the scribe than with the needle of
the housewife, I should not be away from them so long. In spite,
however, of the innumerable difficulties I encounter, I am resolved to
take the first steps in this thorny career."

Soon after the appearance of the articles in the _Figaro_, the two
fellow-provincials produced a novel entitled _Rose et Blanche, ou la
Comédienne et la Religieuse_ (Rose and Blanche, or the Actress and the
Nun), which, through the good offices of Monsieur de Latouche, the
director of the _Figaro_, also a native of Berry, to whom Madame
Dudevant had been recommended by the Duvernets of La Châtre, realized
four hundred francs. A difficulty arose touching the name of the author,
which must be published with the work. Sandeau was in a quandary, for he
risked incurring the reprobation of his relatives, who were averse to
his entering upon literature to the prejudice of his law studies, should
his name appear; while Madame Dudevant dreaded a scandal, if she were
named as the author. As a result, a compromise was effected, and the
book appeared as the work of _Jules Sand_.

The freedom required by Madame Dudevant in her new profession she soon
found was greatly hampered by her sex; it was almost indispensable to
visit many places from which women were generally barred; consequently,
she adopted male attire, apparently at the suggestion of Madame Dupin,
to whom such disguise was not infrequent in the course of her travels
with her husband. For this shocking procedure she has been unnecessarily
condemned; but her own explanation of the causes, and its advantages,
seem to justify the singular course. Madame Dudevant was a singular
woman; moreover, she found herself shackled in the execution of her
new-found aims. The obstacles had to be overcome, and without fuss or
parade she brushed the difficulty aside by the most direct means
available. Under her disguise, she was free to enter cafés, theatres,
lounge about the boulevard, visit picture-galleries, come and go at all
hours, attended or otherwise--in a word, mix with all sorts and
conditions, to gather the raw material which her rare skill enabled her
to spin into such charming and provoking articles as she was at the time
writing. But hardly had Madame Dudevant made her début as a journalist,
when she found herself within measurable distance of La Force (a prison
to which political offenders were consigned), in consequence of an
article in the _Figaro_; for on March 9, 1831, she says in a letter to
Monsieur Boucoiran: "You must know that I began with a scandal, a tilt
at the National Guards. The issue of the _Figaro_ of the day before
yesterday was pounced upon by the police. I was making my preparations
to spend six months at La Force, for I had decided that I would shoulder
the responsibility for my article. Monsieur Vivien, however, foresaw how
ridiculous such a prosecution would be, and caused the proceedings to be
abandoned. All the worse for me! My reputation and fortune might have
been made by a political conviction."

While the choice of literature as a career seems not to have aroused any
opposition on the part of her own kin, the case was different as to her
husband's. Baroness Dudevant dreaded the possibility of the name she
bore appearing in printed books; but such a circumstance was not
contemplated, and the baroness's dignity was saved.

The success of _Rose et Blanche_, in spite of its defects, was such as
to pave the way for further novels. It was arranged between its joint
authors that a new novel, entitled _Indiana_, should be prepared by
them. On Madame Dudevant's return to Nohant for three months, she set
about her part, and on reaching Paris in July, 1831, she called upon
Sandeau, to submit her contribution; her collaborator had not even
written a line of his share. Reading her work, he deemed it a
masterpiece, and, notwithstanding the objections of Madame Dudevant,
insisted on its publication as her sole production. A new difficulty
here presented itself, but at the suggestion of Monsieur de Latouche it
was solved by the use of their common literary name _Sand_, with the
prefix _George_. This incident gave to the world the name which was soon
to acquire such fame. Henceforward we shall speak of Madame Dudevant as
_George Sand_.

During her early struggles in Paris, the mother and friend is never lost
in the enthusiastic and impulsive writer; her letters to her son, to his
tutor, and to other friends, present a very intelligible reflex of her
mind. She is not to be turned back because she does not meet with
success at once. A close observer of all that is going on about her, she
is a lively critic, and an equally enthusiastic supporter; she finds
enjoyment anywhere "where hatred, suspicion, injustice, and bitterness
do not poison the atmosphere." Her children's welfare is the burden of
her mind. Her letters are full of tenderness and a complete entering
into their joys and pleasures, and are charged with wise and interesting
counsel.

With the publication of _Indiana_, George Sand's renown was established.
In a letter to Monsieur Duvernet, written July 6, 1832, she says: "The
success of _Indiana_ makes me feel nervous. I never looked for anything
like it; but hoped that I might labor without attracting notice, or
deserving attention. But the Fates have willed otherwise. It is my part
to justify the unmerited favor shown to me." While the authorship of
this book was an enigma to many critics, the public seized on the work
with avidity. Its success was beyond all cavil. People recognized in it
a master hand tracing a new path in romance-writing. We are forbidden by
George Sand to consider the book as a romance history of herself, for
she always protested against her works being interpreted as
autobiographical; still, we might almost say that _Indiana_ came into
the world ready-made. Its conception at least was, as it were, the
burden of her musings in the quiet hours at Nohant. Her ideal was formed
of a loving, tender woman, a woman with a heart that beat only for
chaste and profound love, love controlling all, pure in itself, and
believing all else to be pure. Unquestionably, the work was the
spontaneous outburst of the long-indulged dreams of the disappointed
woman. All the accessories to her central idea were not far to seek, and
her marvellous imaginative power and poetic fancy sufficed to clothe her
ideas with an artistic mantle that would obscure the individuality. Of
course, Colonel Delmare is not Maurice Dudevant. Nor is Ralph found in
the life about her: he is the creature of her idea.

With the success of _Indiana_, George Sand found publishers seeking her
work, both the _Revue de Paris_ and the _Revue des Deux Mondes_ engaging
her services. The irritation of compulsion to work was now largely
removed; even in the early part of February, 1832, she writes to her
mother: "I can now take it quietly, without worrying myself. If I
sometimes work by night, it is simply because I cannot leave a thing
half finished." On her return to Paris in April of the same year, she
was accompanied by her little daughter, Solange, who was then between
three and four years old, and the mother's letters to her son tell of
the doings of his little sister, and show how good is the distraction
thus afforded to the mother. The visits to the Luxembourg, the Jardin
des Plantes, the circus, all the little talk that could please and
comfort her boy, the fond mother pours out in child-like, easy prattle
that bespeaks her entire sympathy with her children.

Again at Nohant for the summer, George Sand applied herself strenuously
to the composition of _Valentine_; so closely, indeed, that, if she is
to be taken seriously as to a letter written in August, 1832, she was
rather weary of her work. At any rate, its early issue was marked by so
brilliant a success, that the labor and weariness of her task may well
have been forgotten. This book, like its predecessor, was severely
criticised by those who saw in it an outspoken challenge to recognized
social decrees. With what wealth of poetry, what beauty of imagery, and
what force, is told the story of a girl sacrificed by a marriage of
expediency! The crime is not the author's; she strikes at the system
which destroys a pure heart and substitutes misery and shame for
happiness and dignity. The author would trace the fault, to have it
remedied.

Though the subject of _Valentine_ is, like that of _Indiana_, unhappy
marriage, the former, in arrangement, plan, and style, gave further
convincing evidence of the author's artistic skill and promise of rich
literary treasures of diverse and widely varying style and conception.
Valentine, the heroine, has been brought up according to the prejudices
and decrees of the aristocratic class. She marries in accordance with
the dictates of her family. Her heart is not involved; she is passive in
the matter. Later, the abandonment she suffers, and the passion of her
own soul, lead her into a false position, of which the man who is
entitled to call her his wife takes advantage. The climax is dishonor,
death.

The winter of 1832 finds George Sand again in Paris, where she is
comfortably settled; she finds herself bothered with visitors, but out
of the clutches of poverty. In her apartments, she seeks her pleasure in
her work and the society of her little Solange, of whom she writes at
this time: "She brings me more happiness than all the rest." In a letter
to her son's tutor, written December 20, 1832, she says: "I am making
lots of money; I am receiving propositions from all quarters. The _Revue
de Paris_ and the _Revue des Deux Mondes_ are fighting for my work. I
finally bound myself to the latter." _La Marquise_ had just been
published, the novel having been received with great favor. Thus, within
two years from the time she came to Paris to seek liberty of action and
thought, wounded in her faith and affection, and her hopes entirely
shattered of realizing any joy in her husband's society, George Sand had
overthrown all obstacles in the path before her, and had become a
distinguished personality in the world of letters.

In her next work, _Lélia_, written in 1833, the author's riotous
imagination produced a poem--for such it is--which was regarded as
another manifestation of the wide range of her faculties. The book,
however, is now regarded as important chiefly from the fact that George
Sand confessedly pictures herself more closely therein than in any other
of her works. She writes to Monsieur François Rollinat: "This book will
enable you to know the depth of my soul, and also that of your own."
Again she says later, in 1836, in a letter to Mademoiselle de Chantepie:
"_Lélia_ ... contains more of my inmost self than any other book."
Again, writing in 1842, she says: "Lélia is not offered as an example
to be followed, but as a martyr who may arouse thoughts in his judges
and executioners, those who pronounce the law, and those who execute it....
I have never preached a doctrine; I do not feel that I am
intelligent enough to do so."

It was after the publication of _Lélia_ that George Sand first became
personally acquainted with Alfred de Musset, then a young man of
twenty-three, but already of established fame as a dramatist and poet.
That this acquaintance should have rapidly matured into a close
friendship is not surprising. On her part, George Sand felt that she had
encountered a soul that understood her own, while De Musset was equally
enchanted with her. Before the year 1833 had closed, the two attached
friends had started for Italy, full of the hope of continued mutual
happiness. It is unnecessary here to trace the history of their
friendship in detail; it is certain that the mental sufferings and the
unsatisfied heart-cravings of George Sand had rendered her morbid. Her
letters to friends, written before her journey to Italy, show that she
realized too well the hollowness of society to lean upon it for
guidance, or even distraction. She says, writing in July: "Of the things
I hate or contemn, society is the least." To her, therefore, the
companionship of De Musset must have seemed as refreshing as rain to a
parched land. In speaking of the separation that followed in April,
1834, when De Musset, still very weak from a sickness, left Venice for
Paris, accompanied by a Venetian physician, she writes: "We have parted,
perhaps only for a few months; perhaps for ever. Only God knows what
will become of my poor head and heart. I feel that I possess strength
enough to live, toil, and endure." The story of this painful effort of
genius to lead and ennoble genius is told with much interest in _Elle et
Lui_ (She and He), which appeared more than twenty-five years later.

The Italian journey was of immense influence on the future literary
labors of the novelist. While in Venice, she worked hard in order to pay
off the debt due to her publishers for the money advanced for the
journey. Here she wrote _André_, _Jacques_, _Mattea_, and the first
_Lettres d'un Voyageur_. Here she toiled while suffering from
disappointment and consumed with longing to be with her children again.
Of these works, _Jacques_ presents her ideal of a true, loving man;
whose passion is deep and exalted, whose soul faints at the prospect of
faithlessness; whose self-devotion leads to abandonment of every right,
even to self-destruction by suicide in order to shield the beloved woman
from the disgrace of an unlawful joy and the consequences of a
dishonored happiness. Of the other tales mentioned, it may be said that
_André_ offers a style quite distinct from all the author's previous
works. The burden of the tale still is love, but love in a weak and
docile nature, which yields to its elevating influence, only to be
crushed. The early _Lettres d'un Voyageur_ have a charm that none of the
later ones possess; they tell of the journeys in the Alps and in the
vicinity of the Tyrol; of the author's lonely musings in Venice; of the
sorrow that weighed on her heart.

In August, George Sand was once more back in Paris, making her
arrangements to visit Nohant again, which she reached before the close
of the month. In describing her journey through Switzerland, she relates
that she had walked three hundred and fifty leagues; yet, with all the
change of scene and novelty of surroundings, a deep melancholy settled
in her heart. She writes to Monsieur Boucoiran on August 31, 1834, from
Nohant: "I felt that I had come to bid adieu to my birthplace, to all
the memories of my youth and childhood; for you must have perceived and
divined that life is hereafter hateful, even impossible, for me, and
that I have seriously made up my mind to end it before long." Again, in
the same letter: "I am very desirous of having a long chat with you, and
of confiding to you the fulfilment of my last and sacred wishes." But
the presence of friends of sympathetic natures and the care of her
children served to dissipate the cloud that had settled on her mind; as
she says shortly after, she was "cured, ... because, having become
accustomed and resigned to my sorrows, my judgment is no longer led
astray by my grief."

Affairs at Nohant for some time after her return from Italy must have
added greatly to her unusual mental disturbance; she continued to reside
alternately at Paris and Nohant, in accordance with the agreement made
in 1830, but the arrangement was becoming irksome. Monsieur Dudevant's
management of the estate that his wife had relinquished to him was
anything but satisfactory, and, moreover, with the growth of her
children, George Sand became increasingly anxious as to their control
and care. The complete rupture between herself and De Musset, which was
attended with very painful and stormy incidents, augmented her anxiety
and grief during the winter of 1834-1835.

By this time, George Sand's fame had surrounded her with a large circle
of friends, which included the most eminent men of the day; among them
were the leaders of the various schools that contended for the mastery
in matters of social progress. To them the eloquent author appeared as a
much-to-be-desired ally; their theories would enjoy greater popularity
if they could be presented in the entertaining and passionate language
and clothed with the poetic imagery of the highly talented author of
_Indiana_ and _Valentine_. In the spring of the year 1835, she became
acquainted with Monsieur de Lamennais whose freedom of thought and
humanitarian Christianity were well suited to George Sand's
predilections, and secured the approval of her intelligence, which had
rebelled against the bigoted teachings of the Roman Catholic Church.
Hence, for a time, her genius was directed by the philosophy of this
eminent teacher, and she wrote for his journal, _Le Monde_, an
unfinished series styled _Lettres à Marcie_. It is not surprising that
George Sand's enthusiasm should have been aroused by the liberal
doctrines set forth by this liberal-minded advocate of religious and
social progress. Her natural generosity, the whole experience of her
life, led her to espouse his views with the fervor of a devotee; and it
seems certain from her letters that her troubled mind was soothed by the
righteous and humane principles which she conceived the new movement to
embody. She says in her letter to Monsieur Adolphe Guéroult, dated May
6, 1835: "You are in error if you consider me more _fretful_ now than in
the past. Just the reverse, I am less so. Great men and great thoughts
are constantly before me." The same correspondent appears to have taken
George Sand mildly to task for her custom of appearing in men's clothes;
and it may not be uninteresting to quote from her reply, as the best
indication of her position as to this question. She writes: "It is
better that you should not trouble yourself concerning my garments. It
is a very small matter what kind of costume I wear in my study, and my
friends will, I trust, respect me equally whether I wear a vest or a
shift. I never appear out of doors in men's clothes without taking a
stick with me; so do not feel alarmed. My fancy for wearing a frock-coat
occasionally, and under certain circumstances, will not accomplish a
revolution in my life."

About the same time, she made the acquaintance of the advocate Michel,
of Bourges, whose advanced views on politics, enunciated so eloquently,
had acquired for him great renown. A third person also subjected her
generous instincts to his philosophical teachings--Pierre Leroux, whose
acquaintance she made at this period. George Sand's emotional nature was
easily captivated by the eloquent pleadings and close reasonings of
these men. She spoke from her heart; she says of herself: "I easily
relapse into a wholly sentimental and poetical existence without
doctrines and systems." The influence of these leaders is found stamped
on the novels of this period, as well as in the _Lettres d'un Voyageur_.

It is clear that at this time the relations of the husband and the wife
were undergoing a strain that threatened an early further change. In
May, 1835, Monsieur Dudevant prepared and signed an agreement which was
forwarded to his wife for her signature, but which she returned torn up.
Explaining this incident, she writes to Monsieur Duteil, of La Châtre:
"I also perceive that grief and bad feeling on his part would attend the
division of our home and means.... I therefore return to you the
agreements that he signed; moreover, I return them torn up, so that he
may have only the trouble of burning them, in case he should in the
least degree regret the arrangement prepared and set out by himself."
This matter dragged on until the fall, and it is not difficult to
realize how much the situation in which George Sand was placed grieved
and chafed her. Some evidence is found in her own words, written in
June, 1835: "Our society is still completely hostile to those who run
counter to its institutions and prejudices, and women who realize the
need of freedom, but are not yet ripe for it, are wanting both in
strength and power to maintain the combat against an entire society
which has, to say the least, decreed for them abandonment and misery."

Her chief anxiety in this domestic misfortune was as to her children's
welfare and control. She was jealous of their affection for her. Her
letters to her son at this period are full of the tender solicitude she
feels; she puts before him a high standard for his life's guidance, and
strives to inculcate unselfish love as a consoling virtue. She betrays
her anxiety lest her children should be separated from her. Finally, in
the autumn of 1835, she applied to the courts for a legal decision that
should give her the definite and valid settlement which Monsieur
Dudevant had previously voluntarily agreed to, but had since avoided.
George Sand proposed to pay her husband a yearly income of three
thousand eight hundred francs, which, in addition to the small remnant
of the income from his own fortune, would make a total revenue of five
thousand francs. She was to undertake the charge of her children's
education, and to have possession of Nohant. Even in this crisis, the
wife's respect for the father of her children is in clear evidence. She
writes to her mother in October: "If my husband will be amenable to
propriety and duty, neither of my children will love one of their
parents at the expense of the other." This suit was delayed, and a final
issue was not obtained till the middle of 1836, a decision rendered in
February in her favor, by default, having been appealed against. During
this period of unrest, George Sand actually contemplated, in case she
failed, running away to America with her children.

The months that had passed, however, were not without literary fruit.
The works of the first period or style, besides those already mentioned,
include _Leone Leoni_, 1835; _Simon_, _Lavinia_, and _Metella_, 1836.
She also rewrote _Lélia_ (of which she says: "Lélia is not myself ... but
she is my ideal."), modifying her first production of anger so
that it should "harmonize with that of gentleness." _Leone Leoni_ is a
tale of a woman's incurable love. The heroine is a bourgeoise, who has
been ensnared by the wiles of a Venetian nobleman. She endures manifold
sufferings and base indignities, yet her heart triumphs over her mind.
While she rebels against the thrall in which she is held, she cannot
break from it; and even when rescue is offered her by marriage with a
man of heart, and all has been arranged to this end, she forsakes him in
favor of the rascal who has wronged her. This morbid love, while
alluring enough, does not offer us the type of woman whom we find
attractive in the characters drawn by our author. In _Simon_, a new tone
is dominant; there is light in the mind, hope in the heart. Herein she
shows social prejudice overcome by deep and patient love.

The term of uncertainty due to the protracted legal proceedings had not
been an idle one, nor does it seem to have deadened George Sand's
appreciation of the external beauties of nature, or her enjoyment of
physical exercise; for she writes cheerfully of her horseback rides at
night, of the pleasure she takes in her surroundings at La Châtre,
where she is entertained by friends near her own home during the
pendency of the trial. She tells of the delight she experienced in
watching the transition from night to day, which she speaks of as a
"revolution apparently so uniform, but possessing a different character
every day." Those evening rides, how much inspiration they furnished for
the poet-novelist as she wandered along alone! how much of influence on
her marvellous creative mind! In that breaking dawn, indistinct and
fanciful, did she not see the image of society in its obscurity, and
dream of the dawn of its hoped-for emancipation from the gloom of
inequality and prejudice? She was once more face to face with nature,
her back was turned upon the vanities of the proud and the machinations
of the perverse. She was musing over the new teachings that had been
given her. She sought "to believe in no other God than he who preaches
justice and equality to men." How calming to her mind her communion with
nature was at this time, and how refreshing to her fancy, may be
inferred from her own words: "There is not a meadow, not a clump of
trees, which, bathed in a lovely and brilliant sun, does not seem
entirely Arcadian in my eyes. I teach you all the secrets of my
happiness." In the woods, the streams, the sky, and the stars, George
Sand found so many religious teachers. All her former spiritual
tendencies reawakened, she tells us that through her prayers, few and
poor though they were, she experienced a "foretaste of infinite
ecstasies and exaltations like those of my youth, when I used to believe
that I saw the Virgin, like a white spot on a sun which moved about me.
Now my visions are all about stars; but I begin to have strange dreams."

In September, 1836, after reëntering into possession of Nohant, George
Sand took her two children with her on a visit to her friend, the
Comtesse d'Agoult, at Geneva. In November, she was in Paris again, but
not in her old _poet's attic_, for she occupied a suite of apartments in
the Hôtel de France. Her son's health now occasioned her profound
trouble. Symptoms of consumption were apparent. In her distress, she
begs Monsieur Dudevant to aid her in her anxiety, and entreats him to
share her care in effecting their son's recovery. We are able to
understand her feelings and the rule of her conduct toward her children
in respect of their father by her letter to Monsieur Dudevant. She
pleads that their child's health stands before everything else; that, as
she encourages the boy's affection for his father, the latter should
abstain from thwarting his affection for his mother. She invites him to
come to her house as often as he pleases, and volunteers to keep out of
his way if her presence should be distasteful to Monsieur Dudevant. She
concludes: "What interest could there now be for us to attack each other
through the affection of a poor child who is all meekness and love?" A
short time later, the boy had recovered his health in the Berry home.

In the following year, George Sand wrote _Mauprat_. In this book is
traced the power of love over an impulsive heart that no culture of the
mind has influenced. A gentle woman, pure and gracious, bred in
accordance with the dictates of an aristocratic class, gives her love to
a boor, and, ignoring all conventional decrees, deliberately chooses to
drive the savage out of the nature of her lover, and by his very love
raise him to a level at which he stands her fellow and almost an
exemplar for even the best of men. George Sand's faith in the
transforming power of love is eloquently expressed in this work, in
which also she shows the influence of Jean-Jacques Rousseau.

In her letters of this period, we find her imbued with strong Republican
theories, insisting on the liberty and dignity of the individual, and
inveighing against monarchical principles. In the same year, _Les
Maîtres Mosaïstes_ appeared in the _Revue_. It was a short story,
written for her son, telling of the adventures of the Venetian
mosaic-workers. The character of Valerio, she says, was penned while she
had in mind her friend Calamatta, the artist, who painted one of George
Sand's portraits. Here we may give a word-picture of our author by
Heine, who was a frequent visitor with her in the Comtesse d'Agoult's
salon, and who saw much of George Sand at this period. "Her face might
perhaps be described as more beautiful than interesting, yet the cast of
her features is not severely antique, for it is softened by modern
sentiment, which enwraps them with a veil of sadness. Her forehead is
not lofty, and a wealth of most beautiful auburn hair falls on each side
of her head to her shoulders. Her nose is not aquiline and decided, nor
is it an intelligent little snub-nose. It is merely a straight and
ordinary one. A most good-humored, though not very attractive, smile
generally plays around her mouth; her lower lip, which is slightly
inclined to droop, seems to suggest fatigue. Her chin is plump, but very
beautifully formed, as are her shoulders, which are magnificent." So
much for her physical traits. From the same source we learn that her
voice was dull and muffled, with no sonorous tones, but sweet and
pleasant. Her conversation he describes as not being brilliant; that she
possessed absolutely none of the sparkling wit that distinguishes her
countrywomen; nor had she their inexhaustible power of chattering.

In the summer of 1837, the illness of Madame Dupin disturbed the
peaceful and pleasurable life that George Sand was enjoying at Nohant.
Hurrying to Paris, she remained with her mother during her last days,
but was not present at the moment of her death; for having received a
false alarm that her son had been abducted from Nohant, she had sent a
messenger there, and had herself gone to Fontainebleau to receive her
son, and during the night of her absence her mother had died. At
Fontainebleau, George Sand remained with her son for some weeks, riding
in the forest, gathering flowers, and chasing butterflies during the
daytime, and writing closely at night. It was here that she wrote _La
Dernière Aldini_, a novel reminiscent of Italy, and remarkable for its
brilliant style and exquisite descriptions. The patrician lady, her
daughter, and Lelio,--how distinct are the characters, how subtle the
scenes, and with what ease the current of the romance flows amid the
charming pictures that dazzle with their beauty!

_Le Secrétaire Intime_, _Lavinia_, and some others, also belong to this
period, which was one of constant labor; for the obligation now resting
on George Sand of maintaining her old home and providing for the
education and future of her children was a heavy burden. By the legal
decision of 1836, certain details of the arrangements between Monsieur
Dudevant and his wife had been left to private settlement, a
circumstance which brought about renewed conflict. The mother was in
constant dread lest her son should be kidnapped; indeed, in the case of
her daughter Solange, this actually appears to have been undertaken
during the mother's stay at Fontainebleau. Another arrangement was
effected, by which all future friction was avoided, and the charge and
education of Maurice, over whom his father had previously held joint
control, was henceforward to rest solely with Madame Sand.

In the winter following, in consequence of the unsatisfactory condition
of Maurice's health, a trip to Majorca was determined on, where it was
hoped that the climate and a few months' change would reinvigorate him.
The family was accompanied by the eminent composer, Chopin, who was
suffering from phthisis. The stay in the island, however, was attended
by the greatest inconveniences. Here George Sand devoted herself to the
education of her children, to the household cooking and cleaning, to the
care of her friend, and, lastly, to her literary labors. But the
discomfort and extortion were such as to render the visit unendurable,
and she left Spain with feelings of thankfulness for her departure, and
with her son's health reëstablished. The literary result of this stay
is _Un Hiver à Majorque_, of whose scenery she says: "It is the
promised land;" but of whose people she writes in the severest terms:
"They are devout, that is to say, fanatical and bigoted, as in the days
of the Inquisition. Friendship, loyalty, honor, exist here only in name.
The wretches! oh, how I detest and despise them!"

In the cells of Valdemosa, an old and deserted Carthusian monastery,
situated in a wild and noble landscape, George Sand found poetic
surroundings and associations that were so congenial that she says: "Had
I written there that part of _Lélia_ which has a monastery for its
scene, I should have produced a finer and more real picture." The
occupation of rooms in this lonely old retreat was perhaps the only
pleasurable feature of the stay in Majorca. It was here that _Spiridion_
was finished: a tale of a young monk who is filled with the fervor of
divine love, but who later strays from his simple faith as the result of
the agitations and doubts which philosophic teachings impart. This book
probably reflects the experience of the author, more particularly that
of her exaltation at the convent, and it also portrays her own spiritual
conflicts and the calm of a sincere, broad faith that rises above dogma
and rests secure in the divine love. After a short stay at Marseilles
and a trip to Italy, George Sand returned to her home at Nohant.

We have now approached a period when Madame Sand's literary work was to
show a change from the subjective lyricism of her previous works, which
are the voice of her long-repressed early emotions, to a series of works
in which she drew her inspiration largely from the religious,
philosophic, and socialistic doctrines that her impressionable mind had
espoused as expounding the true principles by which society and the
individual should govern themselves. But, in yielding her art to the
services of the reformers, George Sand had little thought for aught but
the goodness of the principles, as they appeared to her, or, at any
rate, had not taken measure of the practical difficulties within the
circle of the reformers and those which passive resistance on the part
of the great masses offered.

Before, however, the first of her books of the quasi-philosophical style
appeared, our author made an essay as a playwright, and _Cosima_, a
drama in five acts, was produced at the Théâtre Français. It was
received with hisses and hooting.--George Sand writes of it, on May 1,
1840: "The whole audience condemned the play as being immoral, and I am
not sure that the Government will not prohibit it.... It was played
through, being much attacked by some, and equally defended by
others, ... and I will not alter a single word for the subsequent
representations." The scene was laid in Florence, and the period was the
Middle Ages, both time and place being unsuited to the wholly French
sentiment of the play.

Madame Sand had for some time been a regular contributor to the _Revue
des Deux Mondes_, but the novel _Horace_, written for its pages, was
rejected by the editor as being of subversive tendencies; it was,
therefore, published in the _Revue Indépendante_, a very advanced
journal founded in 1840 by Pierre Leroux and Louis Viardot, to which
George Sand gave her coöperation. This work portrays in its study of
the titular character a sort of moral mountebank; the analysis is very
clever and interesting of the weak, selfish man who for a time imposes
with his claims for distinction, but who appears in his true light at
last. Next came the _Compagnon du Tour de France_, in which socialist
doctrines are the animating spirit. Though the freedom of the author's
fancy clothes the subject and the characters with great interest and
portrays many charming situations, yet there is a strained and not
seldom unwelcome contrast presented by the necessity of keeping the
individuals in line with the political purpose of the novel. Speaking of
her writing, about this time, George Sand says: "Happily, I do not need
to seek ideas; they are clearly fixed in my brain. I have no longer to
struggle with doubts; these vanished like clouds in the light of
conviction. I no longer have to examine my sentiments; their voice
sounds aloud from the depths of my heart, and puts to silence all
hesitation, literary pride, and fear of ridicule. So much has philosophy
done for me."

In 1842, the beginning of _Consuelo_ appeared in the _Revue
Indépendante_, and its opening was so auspicious that the scope
originally planned was considerably enlarged. The author tells us that
she felt she had before her a grand subject and powerful types of
character, with time, place, and historic incidents of deep interest, in
great profusion awaiting the explorer. The heroine of the work is a
lovely portraiture: lofty in mind, noble in heart, and chaste in
thought. _Consuelo_ must ever remain one of George Sand's finest
creations. The work abounds in interesting situations; the exuberant
fancy and poetic spirit of the author find full play in a series of
marvellous and fascinating adventures; and the characters are portrayed
with subtle skill and vigor. Nor can the prolixity and gloomy
meditations of Comte Albert check the reader's interest. The meeting of
Consuelo and Haydn and the wonderful musical performances of these
wayfarers present lovely and by no means impossible pictures. The
influence of George Sand's friendship with Liszt, who stayed at Nohant
during the summer of 1837, and with Chopin, with whom she was on equally
close terms, is seen in this work. The _Comtesse de Rudolstadt_ is
perhaps less likely to arouse enthusiasm and sustained interest;
Consuelo has become the Comtesse de Rudolstadt, and with the change not
a little of the charm disappears in the mystifying allegory and
humanitarian theories which obscure the artist's poetic fancy and
brilliant description. This work likewise appeared in the _Revue
Indépendante_, in 1843.

In 1845, George Sand wrote the _Meunier d'Angibault_, a work also
written under the influence of Leroux's teachings. The socialist idea is
presented in the person of an artisan, Lémor, who refuses to marry a
rich widow because she is rich, and, consequently, such a union would do
violence to his principles. Finally, a fire destroys the widow's
château, and she rejoices at her deprivation, inasmuch as she is now no
longer separated by the possession of her property from the man who
adores her. While this and similar works created for their author much
enmity, their characters presented nothing but virtuous, if
unrealizable, ideas. Following this, in 1846, appeared _La Mare au
Diable_, an exquisite idyl, a gem of rural poetry. We can well imagine
with what delight George Sand penned this touching and beautiful poem.
The construction is of the simplest form. A ploughman, a widower, is
about to seek a wife, as a prudential step; he undertakes the charge of
a young peasant girl who is going to fill a place as shepherdess a few
miles from her home. The way is lost, and they camp for the night under
great oaks. Here, Marie chats till overcome by sleep, but Germain
indulges in dreams which result in cooling his interest in his proposed
marriage venture. The rest is easily understood; Germain and Marie
become husband and wife. The incidents are all natural and the
dénouement quite expected. The reader cannot forget the charming story.

During the years since her final arrangement with Monsieur Dudevant, the
home life of George Sand had been one of tranquillity and ease. We find
her generally at Nohant, enjoying the society of her chosen friends; an
entertaining hostess, retiring in disposition, and giving of her means
with a liberal hand to those in need about her; caring with the
tenderest solicitude for the present happiness and future welfare of her
children; despising glory, and devoting herself to her literary work
with assiduity. In May, 1847, a domestic event of unusual importance
transpired. Madame Sand's daughter, Solange, was married to Monsieur
Clésinger, respecting which she writes to the famous Italian patriot,
Mazzini: "I have just married my daughter, and, as I believe,
satisfactorily, to an artist of great talent and purpose. My only
ambition for the dear creature was that she should love and be loved in
return; my wish is gratified."

In this same year, _Lucrezia Floriani_ appeared. The titular heroine is
a cantatrice of fame, which, however, she despises, and early in life
she retires from the world. Her noble character, which her experiences
had failed to mar, attracts the devoted attachment of a prince. His
protestations lead Lucrezia to think that each will find in the other
the happiness desired. But Prince Karol soon entertains jealous
sentiments concerning events of the earlier years of Lucrezia's life.
The misery consequent on the prince's despotism year by year crushes
Lucrezia's life. The chief interest in this work is, perhaps, due to the
persistent determination to read therein an attack on Chopin, whose
long-continued friendship with George Sand was broken at this time. The
evidences of such an attack certainly appear very unsubstantial, nor
does it seem that the eminent composer himself recognized it, at least
until he had been influenced to do so by others. She says of it herself
that it is "entirely an analytical and meditative work." It is a
masterful presentment of the inception, development, and destructive
culmination of jealousy.

In 1847, also, _Le Péché de Monsieur Antoine_ appeared, in which the
sentiments of Michel, of Bourges, find expression, and we cannot but
sympathize with the victims of the social and political systems that
George Sand depicts with so much energy and denunciatory style. We miss,
however, once more the spontaneous poetry, the vivid imagination, that
are natural to the writer, or, rather, it would be more correct to say
that the beauty of such is obscured by the dissertations that are
essential to the corrective aims in view. This vein of literary wealth
was happily interrupted by _Il Piccinino_, an engrossing novel of
Sicilian life. A family, owing to secret enmity, has been obliged to
seek refuge in Rome. After a time, the father and the daughter return to
Sicily, leaving the son and brother in Rome to pursue his art study. The
latter returns later, having been unable to make his way. He later sees
Princesse Agathe Palmarosa, whose kindly attentions to him have a
mysterious appearance, and he becomes deeply enamored of her. He finds
a terrible rival in Il Piccinino, a bandit, but the power of the
princess suffices to control the bandit, and it is discovered that the
young painter is the son of the princess. The style of the work, with
its romantic situations and fascinating adventures, and the strongly
accented characters make it remarkable.

_François le Champi_ next appeared, in the feuilleton of the _Journal
des Débats_. It is a simple pastoral of Berry, a centre sacred to
George Sand by her lifelong associations. She was familiar with every
detail of the landscape about her. Every nook and corner was filled with
eloquent voices that her ear understood. In this book she adopts the
dialect of the province. Madelon, a childless wife, is moved to pity for
the poor foundling, François; she supplies almost the place of a mother
to him, while he returns her affection as a son. Later, however, this
relation of love changes, and they become husband and wife. There is
little of intricacy in this rustic poem, but it exactly suits the genius
of the author. As to her choice of this dialect, it is not without
interest to read her own views thereon, which are expressed in her
letter to Mazzini of July 28, 1847: "I entertain great respect and
liking for the language of the peasants; in my judgment, it is the more
correct."

At this time, Madame Sand had undertaken to write the _Histoire de ma
Vie_, the source of many details given in this notice; and as a
commentary on the spirit of its author, we may quote some of her
remarks: "Our own lives are a part of our environments, and we can never
exonerate ourselves without being obliged to accuse somebody; sometimes
our best friend. But it is my desire to avoid accusing or wounding
anybody. That would be hateful to me, and I should suffer more than my
victims." An event was approaching which threw into the shade the
_Histoire_ and all work in hand: the Revolution of 1848.

This was the hour when George Sand's fervent nature was to carry her
into the vortex of politics, and for months the power of her energy was
directed on a series of _Lettres au Peuple_ and _Bulletins du Ministère
de l'Intérieur_. The spirit that animated her may be illustrated by her
own words, written from Paris in March, 1848: "Situated as we now are,
we must show not merely devotion and loyalty, but also, if required,
fanaticism. We must rise above ourselves, forswear all weakness, and
even brush aside our affections if they should run counter to the onward
course of a power elected by the people." She is sincere in her
convictions, fearless of the consequences of doing what she believes to
be right, and always full of faith in the people. She both twits and
tries to strengthen Lamartine and other leaders. But she is optimistic,
for, before very long, she finds strange omens of the destruction of the
Republic. Her letters during the stormy period of its existence are most
interesting from a historical point of view, but it is unnecessary here
to follow our author in her political career. Alternately hopeful and
despairing in face of _ententes_ and conspiracies, she continued her
active interest and eloquent support to the Republic by her articles in
the _Bulletin de la République_, the _Cause du Peuple_, and other
journals. The excitements and disappointments of this period were the
cause of many disillusionments, not, however, as to principle, but as to
persons and methods. She bids adieu to politics, with a bruised heart.
In a letter to Mazzini in September, 1850, she describes her feelings
thus: "Hope has not revived in me, and I am not one to sing songs that
do not spring from my soul.... I return to fiction.... I make
popular types such as I no longer see, but such as they should and might
be. In art, it is still feasible to substitute dreaming for reality; in
politics, all poetry is a lie, which conscience rejects."

So, on the closing of her connection with politics, we find her at
Nohant taking up her interrupted work and finishing _François le
Champi_, followed by _La Petite Fadette_, in which her own genius shone
forth with undimmed lustre. What interest she arouses in the reader in
Fanchon and the twin brothers, and how graceful and alluring are the
moral pictures she draws! We can fancy that the writing of these tales
must have been a balm to the soul wearied by its struggles for a lost
cause.

During a year previous to September, 1850, George Sand had been giving
her attention once more to dramatic art, which, she writes: "Being novel
to me, has restored me of late somewhat, and it is the only work to
which I have been able to apply myself for an entire year." Her
experience of the reception of _Cosima_ in no way seems to have
discouraged her. Indeed, we know that she expressed herself as
satisfied. _François le Champi_, a pastoral comedy adapted from her
novel of the same title, was produced in 1849 at the Odéon. Its success
was genuine, and was followed by _Claudie_, in 1851, which was likewise
received with public favor; their simple rural qualities were a novelty
which was heartily appreciated. This period of labor was interrupted by
the political situation in 1851, which had become turbulent: numberless
arrests had been made; among others, of many of her oldest comrades and
friends, and Madame Sand emerged from her retirement, not as a
passionate writer, but as a pleader with President Louis Napoléon in
behalf of the unfortunates involved, in which she was successful in a
number of individual cases. The drama _Maître Favilla_, produced at the
Odéon, was also written at this period; it had been performed
previously at the private theatre at Nohant, which had for years been
one of the delightful pastimes of the home circle.

In the same year, she wrote _Le Mariage de Victorine_, a society comedy,
which met with deserved success; and in 1852, _Les Vacances de
Pandolphe_, a piece written, she says, "while anguish was gnawing my
soul." In 1853, another drama appeared: _Le Pressoir_; it is a story of
rural life, and, like its predecessors of the same kind, it enjoyed a
very favorable reception. This series of excursions into bucolic scenes
carried George Sand's popularity to the point of enthusiastic
appreciation. The novel _Les Maîtres Sonneurs_ was also written in
1853; it deals with rustic life of the century before, and is a
delightful specimen of the author's imaginative work.

We must, however, pass over many of the minor works that go to make up
the imperishable monument to the fame of this great writer. In 1855, the
_Histoire de ma Vie_ was published, which consists of a series of
narratives of particular circumstances of her life rather than a close
or connected autobiography. We have already seen that George Sand was
constrained, in the preparation of this work, to sacrifice much to her
sensitiveness on the score of others.

In the early part of this year, 1855, a great calamity befell Madame
Sand. Her much-loved granddaughter, Jeanne Clésinger, to whom she was
devoted, died; she of whom she writes, in December, 1852: "I have a
charming little girl (my daughter's), on whom I bestow great care and
much time." This event rendered her very despondent, and, not long
after, she made a journey to Italy, which restored her health; for, she
writes, she came back "cured." The impressions of this journey were
embodied in _La Daniella_, a novel that appeared shortly after. These
impressions were not wholly pleasing, certainly not as to Rome, which,
in a letter, George Sand describes as "horribly ugly and filthy."

But, despite her fancy for the drama, George Sand did not forsake
romances; she soon produced some works of a semi-historic kind. Of
these, _Les Beaux Messieurs de Bois-Doré_ was published in 1857; it
relates to the period of Louis XIII, and is a powerfully romantic work
that appeals by its exciting incidents and rich descriptive quality.
This was later dramatized and produced in 1862, and proved a great
triumph for the author. Two years later, _Elle et Lui_ was given to the
world, and the public was for the first time taken into George Sand's
confidence as to the brief intimacy between herself and Alfred de
Musset, broken more than a quarter of a century before. The novel was
published in the _Revue des Deux Mondes_, and although many details are,
of course, largely artistic fictions, yet it is recognized that the
author is speaking of herself in the person of the heroine, Thérèse,
and of De Musset in that of the strangely whimsical painter, Laurent.
Whatever may be said of the wisdom of parading the miseries of the two
quondam friends, it must not be forgotten that De Musset had long before
railed at her in his writings, and the publication of _Elle et Lui_ by
Madame Sand is not without strong justification.

In 1859, also, appeared _L'Homme de Neige_, a most fantastic work of
imagination whose scene is laid in Sweden. It abounds in enchanting
details and excellent character sketches; the period is the eighteenth
century. The use of the marionette player and his performances are
noteworthy as showing the interest the author took in such exhibitions,
and of how great use they may be made artistically. At Nohant, the
puppet-show had long been a favorite; we learn that more than twenty
plays were prepared for it, and that the little puppet-actors numbered
more than a hundred.

_Pierre qui Roule_ was written at this time. The Rolling Stone is a law
student in Paris, who becomes enamored of a genuinely talented and
virtuous young actress, for love of whom he abandons his hopes of bar
and bench and joins a theatrical company. The delineation of character
and the wealth of incident and adventure in this book render it one of
the most attractive of George Sand's works. The story was later
continued as _Le Beau Laurence_, which will be mentioned further on.

The next important work was the _Marquis de Villemer_, a society
romance, in which the analysis of character is extremely fine, and the
variety of incidents amazing. The aristocratic marquise, her two sons,
and Caroline de Saint-Geneix keep the reader's interest throughout. They
seem real persons, as we read the pages, so clearly and distinctly are
their individualities maintained. This popular novel was dramatized in
1864, and performed successfully. The qualities of the drama are
manifestly superior to most of the author's work as a playwright,
whether due to the aid given her by Alexandre Dumas the Younger, as is
reasonably supposed, or not. This drama and _Le Mariage de Victorine_
are generally regarded as the two plays on which George Sand's
reputation as a dramatist mainly rests. The latter was admittedly
inspired by Sedaine's _Le Philosophe sans le Savoir_. Her contributions
as a playwright number more than a score, but of most of them it may be
said that they demonstrate that the author's true vocation was not found
in writing for the stage.

_Jean de la Roche_ is a work of this period, the ripened period when
experience, both of life and the art of her craft, had furnished the
author with the keenest perception of the forces of the one and the
requisites of the other. The phase of love that is used as the
controlling influence in the development of the subject of the work is
that of the heroine for her little brother, whose jealousy of her lover
prevents the marriage of the happy and favored pair. The skill employed
in depicting the incidents which lead to the removal of this obstacle is
beyond praise.

Late in 1860, Madame Sand was at work on the opening of _La Famille de
Germandre_, when she was stricken down by typhoid fever; but its
completion was delayed until the spring of 1861, when she had regained
her health after a stay at Tamaris. In this year also appeared
_Antonia_. In 1862, Madame Sand saw the fulfilment of a cherished
design: her son Maurice was married to Mademoiselle Calamatta, an event
which was a source of great joy to Madame Sand, for the husband and wife
settled at Nohant, and thus kept the home circle intact.

The following year, _Mademoiselle de La Quintinie_ appeared, but its
chief interest is that it was so strong in controversy that it aroused
the anger of the clergy. That it had seized upon the popular sympathy
seems to be indicated by George Sand's remarks in a letter to her son,
from Paris, March 1, 1864, wherein she says: "I have just returned [she
had been witnessing the first performance of _Villemer_], attended by
the students, who shouted: 'George Sand for ever! _Mademoiselle de La
Quintinie_ for ever!'" This work can hardly be ranked among the author's
important works.

Of her later works, it may be said that _L'Autre_, the latest of her
plays that were quite successful, was adapted with considerable
modification from the author's novel _La Confession d'une jeune Fille_,
which had been published six years earlier. Madame Sarah Bernhardt
played the heroine's part, and it is interesting to read George Sand's
opinion of this talented actress, of whom she writes in October, 1871:
"Sarah does not give more consolation [than another leading actress
whose foibles had greatly worried Madame Sand], unless her ways have
been considerably modified. She is an excellent girl, but she does not
study, and is concerned only about enjoying herself. When acting her
rôle, she improvises it, which, though sometimes effective, is not
always accurate." _Le Beau Laurence_ is the sequel to _Pierre qui
Roule_, and both works are tales of actors and stage adventures. The
incidents are full of variety, and the descriptions picturesque and
daring. The heroine of the story, Impéria, is a pure and lovely
character, who is delineated with consummate skill; while the other
characters, such as would be found in a strolling troupe, are cleverly
drawn and handled. Love is, of course, the pivotal force, and here again
Madame Sand has shown her wonderful powers of imagination and artistic
excellence by unravelling her plot in the most attractive and artistic
fashion.

_Le Chateau de Pictordu_, _La Tour de Percemont_, _Le Chêne Parlant_,
_Les Dames Vertes_, _Le Diable au Champ_, as well, of course, as the
_Contes d'une Grand'mère_, were written for the pleasure and
instruction of her grandchildren. They not merely discover fresh
treasures of imagination, but take us back to the impressions of the
author's early childhood days at Nohant. In the _Journal d'un Voyageur
pendant le Siège_, we have the impressions of a close observer, a
record of events and conditions which escape the formal historian, and
the reflections of a matured mind directed by an active participation in
the public affairs of her time. _Nanon_ is a tale of the Revolutionary
period, and is a very picturesque work, full of spirit and touching
incidents. The rustic heroine is another of the sweet women characters
that George Sand has known so well how to depict; the signs of old age
are certainly not discoverable in this fresh and entertaining work.

Besides these, the last ten years of her life produced _Malgré Tout_,
_Francia_, _un Bienfait n'est jamais perdu_, _Impressions et Souvenirs_,
_Ma Sœur Jeanne_, _La Laitière et le Pot au Lait_, _Les deux Frères_,
_Flamarande_, _Marianne_, _Dernières Pages_, _Légendes Rustiques_,
_Fanchette_, _Nouvelles Lettres d'un Voyageur_. The last work of the
great author was a critique on Renan's _Dialogues et Fragments
Philosophiques_; it is dated May 6, 1876.

During the same month, Madame Sand had manifested to her anxious family
the evidences of an illness of which she still ignored the importance;
but at the close of the month, she yielded to their wish that medical
treatment should be resorted to. The hold of internal paralysis was,
however, too secure, and on June 8th she glided quietly, imperceptibly,
over the borderland of life.

Such, in brief, is the life of this extraordinarily gifted woman. We are
amazed when we consider the stupendous work she accomplished: the whole
list of her writings forms a monumental undertaking. Only the possession
of a singularly rare genius could have produced such results. We know
from her letters that Madame Sand's literary work was almost a
spontaneous creation; her real work consisted in her maternal cares and
her vast correspondence. She has said that she sometimes forgot the
titles of her works, and that she could not recall the names of her
characters or the method by which she worked out her subject. We cannot
fail to see that she wrote from the impulse or fulness of her heart, and
that her unhewed thoughts were enriched by a golden eloquence with a
charm of grace that far excels the results of more carefully wrought-out
works.

As a flower unconsciously takes its tints and scents from the elements
by which it is surrounded, so George Sand drew from her environments the
tone and character of her works. We see throughout, a lack of system, of
coordination; it is manifest, of course, that there was artistic
modification and development, but there is no strong evidence that the
education of the artist counts for much in the success of our author.
Among the finest of her works are those which early appeared,--the
impulsive outpouring of her heart. She is at her best when unfolding the
picture of nature treasured in her mind; when giving free rein to the
development of the rôle of the characters conceived by her ardent and
poetic imagination; then there is a sweet music in her language and a
fervor in her descriptions that wholly fascinate. Like her love of
nature, was her fondness for the marvellous. We are told that she
vividly remembered her first doubt as to the existence of Father
Christmas. This moment was a sorrowful one for the tiny child. How
marked this characteristic was, we see in her enjoyment of the
fairy-tales and folk-lore which she shared with her child-companions and
the peasants at Nohant, and later at the convent; again it finds voice
in _Consuelo_, _The Snow Man_, and the plays and stories written for her
children and grandchildren.

George Sand's imagination was never at rest. To it her greatness and
much of her suffering are alike traceable. In her friendships, she
conceived too lofty an ideal; few persons could bear the test of her
standard: her mother, her grandmother, her husband, political and social
guides--all suffered from the discrepancy between her estimate of what
they should be and what they were. To this fact it seems not altogether
unreasonable to attribute the succession of reproaches, embroilments,
and separations that attended the career of this marvellous woman. She
is glad to escape from the distress she suffers from her mother's angry
outbreaks and find relief with the Duplessis family; she finds life
intolerable with her husband; again, there is evidence that the same
exacting ideal was responsible for the differences with De Musset,
Pagello, Chopin, Michel, Lammenais, and even Mazzini. Once a principle
was believed to be right, she could not fetter its application by any
considerations of expediency. At least, this is generally so as to the
early years; later, it underwent some modification. Conscious of her own
rectitude, Madame Sand fearlessly gave utterance to the decisions of her
energetic mind. With her, a sentiment speedily becomes a feeling, and
the feeling calls for expression. "My calling is to abhor evil, to love
good, and to bend the knee to the beautiful," is her conviction in 1836,
as she states it.

As in her novels, so in her political writings George Sand pursued an
ideal. In a letter to her friend Mazzini, written in 1850, she says: "My
Communism supposes men to be quite different from what they are, but
such as I feel they should be. The ideal, the dream of my social
happiness, is in the sentiments I feel in myself." She acted from the
heart more than from the mind; she could not reduce her principles to a
formula, of which, she says, if she had one: "I would part with it very
cheaply." And again: "My whole heart is in what I say to you; when you
are fully acquainted with me, you will know that you can blindly trust
in the instinct of my heart."

It has been asserted that George Sand's works, or many of them, are
repugnant to the sense of morality. Before saying anything in
refutation, let us present the creed of the author in her own words,
written to her friend, the Comtesse d'Agoult, in 1836: "To rush into the
bosom of Mother Nature, to consider her really as a _mother_ and a
_sister_; to resist with all obstinacy the proud and wicked; to be meek
and lowly with the wretched ones; to weep over the poor man's misery,
and hope for the fall of the rich as my only consolation; to believe in
no other God than He who preaches justice and equality to men; to
venerate what is _good_; to judge severely what is only _strong_; to
live on nearly nothing; to give almost everything, in order to
reëstablish primitive equality and to restore divine institutions--such
is the religion I would proclaim in my humble retreat." Nor was this
creed belied, even to the giving "almost everything"; for we find Madame
Sand writing to Monsieur Ulbach, in November, 1869: "I have earned by my
writings about a million, but I have not laid aside a single _sou_. I
gave away all, except twenty thousand francs, which I invested two years
ago, so that if I fall ill my children will not be put to too much
expense; and yet I am not sure that I shall be able to keep even that
little fund, for I may meet with people who may need it more
imperatively than myself."

But to return to the charge we have mentioned, which is still made in
some quarters, and which, at the most, will apply less to matter than to
manner. Let each individual test the question by his own sentiment and
judgment. Who has put down one of George Sand's books and felt himself
less pure from the reading? Nay, more, who has gone from its perusal
without a quickened admiration of virtue and a corresponding dislike of
vice? If our sympathies are frequently aroused for the transgressor, is
this something of which to be ashamed in itself? If we look at the
offences laid to the charge of the author, is there not found a manifest
purpose on her part to present a victim who will arouse interest enough
to give force to the author's denunciations of the system she would
overthrow, and to whose charge she would ascribe the offence of her
victim? Are these victims impure of heart and vicious of purpose? The
charge in question is mainly directed at _Indiana_, _Valentine_, and
_Lélia_. Let us see what Madame Sand says in a letter in 1842: "I find
society abandoned to the most dreadful disorder, and in the front rank
of the iniquities to which I see it given over are the relations of the
sexes, which I regard as being regulated in the most unjust and
ridiculous manner.... Love, fidelity, and motherhood are,
notwithstanding, the most necessary, the most important, and the most
sacred things in a woman's life." Her attacks were directed, be it
understood, not against marriage, but against the debasing and unjust
conditions under which, in her judgment, a woman's marriage placed her,
and against which Madame Sand revolted, and gloried in her revolt. Her
fault, if it must be called such, is that her sentiment was aroused, and
the exuberance of her eloquence and the vividness of her imagination
impelled her to a directness of attack that spared nothing. Nor were the
conditions of society confronting the author such as to suggest
concession on her part, and it is difficult to see how the prevailing
taste should have been shocked, at least by her matter. But there was
another powerful opposition--a religious one.

To certain practices and duties of the Roman Catholic Church, George
Sand could not bend her conscience, and her conviction thereon is found
in a letter to a curé, written in 1844, in which she says: "Since the
spirit of liberty has been suppressed in the Church, since in Catholic
doctrine there is no longer a place for discussions, counsels, progress,
or light, I regard that doctrine as a dead letter set as a political
check under thrones and above peoples. It is for me a dark veil
obscuring the word of Christ--a false interpretation of the sublime
Gospels, and an insurmountable obstacle to the sacred equality that God
promises, which God will grant to men, on earth as in Heaven." Hence it
was that our author found herself at variance with the ecclesiastical
teaching; but it seems somewhat difficult to find in her works an
anti-Christ belief; she is full of faith in the divine love and mercy;
hers is a broad, tolerant creed. A great stride has been made toward
liberality in religious belief since George Sand wrote the works that
were attacked, and it is not likely that on this score they would arouse
any serious outcry against their author had they been written in these
days.

But to the two points we have indicated--for the pardonable
eccentricities of the woman scarcely deserve notice--is due the
denunciation of George Sand's works. What, then, must be the power, the
rare qualities, which made them triumph over powerful opposition and
acquired for the author a world-wide fame, and which during her life
secured her the homage and esteem of her nation? Monsieur de Latouche,
her first literary mentor, said: "Your qualities transcend your
defects." These qualities are a vivid poetic imagination, a passionate
love of nature, a sincere and loyal purpose, a tender sympathy for the
weak and oppressed, an innate hatred of injustice, a keenly observant
mind, a prompt and vigorous power of analysis of the human heart and
mind, and an eloquence that is irresistible. It is almost useless to
compare George Sand with any other writer. She stands alone; her mind
and her energy are virile, her heart is a woman's. When all allowance is
made for defects of style, for the family likeness perceived in many of
her characters, for the discursive tendency that is at times marked, and
for the weakness of the dramatic element--we are conscious of a charm
that enchants, an interest that entrains, and a skill that engrosses.
She sought no model, looked to no teachers; but presented an ideal. She
wrote as she believed; her individuality is inseparable from her works;
hence, no little of their charm. To use her own words, the reader "feels
he has to do with a living soul, not with a mere instrument."

Of the woman, it is less easy to speak. She was early placed in a
singular position; lacking the prudent and consistent training that
might have produced more settled views and different tendencies, she was
left to form her own opinions out of the chaotic instruction she had
obtained. Contradictory elements were at work about and within her. Her
heart was loving and tender, her impulses affectionate and good; but
before her judgment could be formed, her affections were bruised, her
tenderness was slighted.

Buffeted by the storms of passion and grief, George Sand's true life as
a woman can hardly be said to have commenced till she settled down at
Nohant in the full repossession of her children and her home. In the
unrestrained enjoyment of her duties as a mother, we find the woman. How
peaceful, how lovely, was that life with her family and friends about
her! All the treasures of her soul were lavishly bestowed on her
children; their present enjoyment and their future welfare her happiness
and care; and, as the years roll on, the same tenderness is bestowed on
her grandchildren. Madame Sand's letters throw a brilliant light on this
heart-satisfying life, during which her literary work was carried on
unceasingly, or only interrupted by occasional visits to Paris on
business, or to seek clemency at the hand of the Emperor on behalf of
some political victims, or by trips for health.

We find her bestowing of her earnings in charity to those in need about
her, and helping modestly to alleviate the sufferings of those with whom
she is brought in contact; helping with advice and encouragement those
who seek her counsel in literary matters; coming forth from her solitude
when national peril threatens, and stirring with the fervor of her
eloquence as she had appealed to her countrymen on political and social
questions. Happily, these latter wanderings from her true vocation,
brilliant as they were, were not for long periods; but it is interesting
to note that from first to last she espoused the cause of the people
without wavering. Her instincts were wholly democratic, nor, although
time and careful observation later imposed restraint on the former
impetuous journalist, did she at any time sacrifice an iota of her
principles; only, she came to recognize that it was impossible to change
the course of society by a theoretical exposition of principles, and
abandoned the idea of curing social ills by mere strenuous declamation.

In 1870, when the darkest hours were gathering over her beloved country,
and its future government was at stake, her invincible faith in humanity
was reiterated. She writes: "Let us believe in humanity, for he who
doubts it, doubts himself." She had learned by experience that patient
waiting is a virtue, that events cannot be forced to an untimely issue
with good results. "I have seen revolutions," she writes in 1872, "and
closely observed the actors in them; I sounded the depths of their
souls,--I should perhaps say, of their bags: lack of principles!"

In reviewing her life, in 1872, George Sand writes to Gustave Flaubert:
"Do not laugh at the principles of a very candid child, principles which
I held throughout life, through _Lélia_ and the romantic period,
through love and doubt, through enthusiasm and disappointment. Love,
self-sacrifice, the repossession of my own self only in cases where my
sacrifice was hurtful to the objects of it, and further abnegation with
the hope of serving some true cause,--such has been my life, such my
conception of love." Madame Sand is not here speaking of personal
passion, but of the love of the species, of the extension of the
sentiment of self-love, of the horror of _self only_.

In the literary beginnings of younger authors George Sand took the
warmest interest, and unsparingly and judiciously advised and encouraged
them. Her counsel and tender solicitude in the case of Flaubert and many
others show how large was her heart and how untiring her aid. Concerning
her views on her art, her opinion is well expressed in a letter written
in the last year of her life: "Art should be the seeking for truth, and
the latter consists in something more than representing evil or good.
The _artiste_ who notices but the blemishes is as incomplete as he who
brings forth only good qualities." The imaginative played in Madame Sand
a greater part than the real. Love was the force out of which all that
is good or just should spring; she says: "He who abstains from love,
abstains from justice."

This great writer, whose works have triumphed over prejudice and secured
her a homage that rarely falls to the lot of authors, was as unassuming
as she was brilliant and fearless. She disliked all parade, and while
ever ready and prompt to come to the front when circumstances rendered
her prominence necessary or desirable, she preferred retirement. Of her
literary claims she says, in her calm old age: "I have never entertained
the pretension of being a first-rate writer. My object has been to react
on my contemporaries, even were they only a few, and to induce them to
partake of my ideal of meekness and poetry."

After an interval of usual reaction from great popularity, which George
Sand's works have not escaped, a reawakened interest has come. Time has
removed many prejudices, and her aim and intent are better understood.
Of the multitude of works she has contributed, it is not too venturesome
to assert that posterity will cherish many of her romances as classic
treasures. As long as the human heart feels the burden of the real life,
so long will men and women take delight and comfort in the ideal life;
in wandering amid scenes that will shed a cheering ray to lighten the
gloom and brighten the sadness of our real world. Nor will it be found
that George Sand takes us so out of the reality that we shall experience
only a mere wondering diversion. She indeed pictures life as it should,
and might, be; but she also describes it as she sees it; she feels what
she writes; she reads and interprets the "never-changing language of
nature"; she recognizes that the romance must be human before all else,
and assumes that true reality consists in a mixture of good and evil.
Her writings are too interestingly human for humanity to lose its
appreciation of those of them that are not precluded by special reasons
from enjoying lasting fame.

                             J. A. B.

Philadelphia, 1902.




SHE AND HE



TO MADEMOISELLE JACQUES


"MY DEAR THÉRÈSE:

"Since you permit me not to call you mademoiselle, let me tell you an
important piece of news in _the world of art_, as our friend Bernard
says. Ah! there's a rhyme;[1] but what I am going to tell you has
neither rhyme nor reason.

"Fancy that yesterday, after boring you with my visit, I found, on
returning to my rooms, an English milord (by the way, perhaps he isn't a
milord; but he surely is an Englishman), who said to me in his dialect:

"'Are you a painter?'

"'Yes, milord.'

"'You paint faces?'

"'Yes, milord.'

"'And the hands?'

"'Yes, milord; also the feet.'

"'Good!'

"'Very good!'

"'Oh! I am sure of it! well, would you like to paint my portrait?'

"'Yours?'

"'Why not?'

"The _why not_ was said with so much good humor, that I ceased to take
him for an idiot, especially as this son of Albion is a magnificent man.
He has the head of an Antinous on the shoulders of--well, of an
Englishman; he is a Greek type of the best epoch on the bust, somewhat
strangely dressed and cravatted, of a perfect specimen of Britannic
_fashion_.

"'Faith!' said I, 'you are a fine model, that is sure, and I should like
to make a study of you for my own benefit; but I cannot paint your
portrait.'

"'Why not, pray?'

"'Because I am not a portrait-painter.'

"'Oh! Do you pay here in France for a license to practise this or that
specialty in art?'

"'No; but the public doesn't permit us to follow more than one branch.
They insist upon knowing what to expect, especially when we are young;
and if I who am speaking, and who am very young, should have the
ill-luck to paint a good portrait of you, I should find it very
difficult to succeed at the next Exposition with anything but portraits;
and, in like manner, if I made only a moderately good one, I should be
forbidden ever to try another: the public would pass judgment to the
effect that I had not the essential qualities of a portrait-painter, and
that I was a presumptuous fellow to make the attempt.'

"I told my Englishman much more nonsense, which I spare you, and which
made him open his eyes; after which he began to laugh, and I saw clearly
that my arguments inspired in him the most profound contempt for France,
if not for your humble servant.

"'Let us say the word,' he said. 'You do not like portrait-painting.'

"'What! what sort of a clown do you take me for? Say, rather, that I do
not as yet dare to paint portraits, and that I could not do it, since it
must be one of two things: either a specialty, which admits no rivals,
or perfection, and, as one might say, the crown of talent. Certain
painters, incapable of inventing anything, are able to copy faithfully
and agreeably the living model. These are sure of success, provided that
they have the knack of presenting the model in its most favorable
aspect, and of costuming it becomingly while costuming it according to
the fashion; but, when one is only a poor historical painter, very much
of a novice, and of disputed talent, as I have the honor to be, one
cannot contend against the people who make it a business. I confess that
I have never studied conscientiously the folds of a black coat and the
peculiar idiosyncrasies of a given face. I am unfortunate as an inventor
of attitudes, types, and expressions. All these must yield to my
subject, my idea, my dream, if you choose. If you would permit me to
costume you to suit myself, and to place you in a picture of my own
invention---- But no, that would be good for nothing, it wouldn't be
you. It would not be a portrait to give your mistress--much less your
lawful wife. Neither of them would recognize you. So do not ask me now
to do what I may perhaps be able to do some day, if I ever happen to
become a Rubens or a Titian, because then I can remain a poet and
creator, while grasping, without effort and without fear, the potent and
majestic reality. Unfortunately, it is not likely that I shall ever
become anything more than a madman or a fool. Read Messieurs So-and-So
and So-and-So, who have said as much in their criticisms.'

"You can imagine, Thérèse, that I did not say to my Englishman a word
of what I have said to you; one can always arrange one's thoughts better
when talking to one's self; but of all that I could say to excuse myself
for not painting his portrait, nothing had any effect but these few
words: 'Why the devil don't you apply to Mademoiselle Jacques?'

"He said _Oh_! three times, after which he asked me for your address,
and off he went without the slightest comment, leaving me exceedingly
confused and irritated because I could not finish my dissertation on
portrait-painting; for, after all, my dear Thérèse, if that handsome
brute of an Englishman comes to see you to-day, as I believe he is
capable of doing, and repeats to you all I have written you, that is to
say, all that I did not say to him, about the _faiseurs_ and the great
masters, what will you think of your ungrateful friend? May he place you
among the first, and judge you incapable of painting anything else than
pretty portraits which please everybody! Ah! my dear friend, if you had
heard all that I said to him about you--after he had gone! You know what
it was; you know that in my eyes you are not Mademoiselle Jacques, who
paints excellent portraits that are much in vogue, but a superior man
disguised as a woman, who, although he has never made the Academy,
divines and has the art of making others divine a whole body and a whole
soul from a bust, after the manner of the great sculptors of antiquity
and the great painters of the Renaissance. But I say no more; you are
not fond of having people tell you what they think of you. You pretend
to take such talk for mere compliments. You are very proud, Thérèse.

"I am altogether down in the mouth to-day, I don't know why. I
breakfasted so poorly this morning--I have never eaten with so little
satisfaction since I have had a cook. And then one cannot get any good
tobacco nowadays. The government monopoly poisons you. And then I have a
pair of new boots which don't fit at all. And then it rains. And
then--and then--I don't know what. The days have been as long as days
without bread, for some time past, don't you find them so? No, you
don't, of course. You know nothing of this feeling of gloom, the
pleasure that bores, the boredom that intoxicates, the nameless disease
of which I spoke to you the other evening in the little lilac salon
where I would like to be now; for I have a horrible light for painting,
and not being able to paint, it would please me to bore you to death by
my conversation.

"So I shall not see you to-day! You have an insupportable family who
steal you from your most delightful friends! In that case I shall be
driven to do some foolish thing this evening! Such is the effect of your
kindness to me, my dear, tall comrade. It makes me so stupid and so good
for nothing when I do not see you, that I absolutely must divert myself
at the risk of shocking you. But never fear, I will not tell you how I
employ my evening.

               "Your friend and servant,

                              "LAURENT.

"May 11, 183--."


[Footnote 1: Dans le monde des arts, comme dit our friend Bernard.]


TO M. LAURENT DE FAUVEL


"First of all, my dear Laurent, I entreat you, if you have any
friendship for me, not to indulge too often in foolish things which
injure your health. I will wink at all others. You may ask me to mention
one such, and I should be sadly embarrassed to do it; for I know very
few foolish things which are not injurious. So I must needs find out
what you call by that name. If you mean one of those long suppers you
spoke about the other day, I think that they are killing you, and I am
in despair. What are you thinking of, in God's name, to ruin thus, with
a smile on your lips, an existence so precious and beautiful? But you
want no sermons; I confine myself to prayers.

"As for your Englishman, who is an American, I have seen him, and as I
shall not see you to-night or to-morrow, to my great regret, I must tell
you that you were altogether wrong not to consent to do his portrait. He
would have offered you the eyes out of his head, and with an American
like Dick Palmer, the eyes out of his head means a goodly number of
bank-notes, of which you stand in need to prevent you from doing foolish
things, that is to say, from haunting gambling-houses in the hope of a
stroke of fortune which never comes to people of imagination, because
people of imagination do not know how to play cards, because they always
lose, and because they must thereupon appeal to their imagination for
the wherewithal to pay their debts--a trade to which that princess does
not feel adapted, and to which she cannot adapt herself except by
setting fire to the poor body she inhabits.

"You find me very outspoken, do you not? That does not matter to me.
Moreover, if we approach the subject from a more exalted standpoint, all
the reasons that you gave to your American and me are not worth two
sous. That you do not know how to paint portraits is possible, nay, it
is certain, if it must be done under the conditions which attend vulgar
success in that art; but Monsieur Palmer did not stipulate that it
should be so. You took him for a green-grocer, and you made a mistake.
He is a man of judgment and taste, who knows what he is talking about,
and who has an enthusiastic admiration for you. Judge whether I gave him
a warm welcome! He came to me as a makeshift; I saw it plainly enough,
and I was grateful to him for it. So I consoled him by promising to do
all that I possibly could to induce you to paint him. We will talk about
it the day after to-morrow, for I have made an appointment with the said
Palmer for that evening, so that he may assist me to plead his own
cause, and may carry away your promise.

"And now, my dear Laurent, console yourself as best you can for not
seeing me for two days. It will not be difficult for you: you know many
bright people, and you have a footing in the best society. For my part,
I am only an old sermonizer who is very fond of you, who implores you
not to go to bed late every night, and who advises you to carry nothing
to excess or abuse. You have no right to do it: genius imposes
obligations.

              "Your comrade,

                             "THÉRÈSE JACQUES."


TO MADEMOISELLE JACQUES


MY DEAR THÉRÈSE:

"I start in two hours for the country, with the Comte de S---- and
Prince D----. There will be youth and beauty in the party, so I am
assured. I promise and swear to you to do nothing foolish and to drink
no champagne--without reproaching myself bitterly therefor! What can you
expect? I should certainly have preferred to lounge in your great
studio, and talk nonsense in your little lilac salon; but since you are
in retirement with your thirty-six provincial cousins, you will
certainly not notice my absence the day after to-morrow; you will have
the delicious music of the Anglo-American accent throughout the evening.
Ah! so the excellent Monsieur Palmer's name is Dick? I thought that Dick
was the familiar diminutive of Richard! To be sure, in the matter of
languages, French is the only one I can claim to know.

"As for the portrait, let us say no more about it. You are a thousand
times too motherly, my dear Thérèse, to think of my interests to the
detriment of your own. Although you have a fine clientèle, I know that
your generosity does not permit you to save money, and that a few
bank-notes will be much more suitably placed in your hands than in mine.
You will employ them in making others happy, and I should toss them on a
card-table, as you say.

"Moreover, I have never been less in the mood for painting. One needs
for that two things which you have, reflection and inspiration; I shall
never have the first, and I _have had_ the second. So I am disgusted
with it, as with an old witch who has exhausted me by galloping me
across fields on the skinny back of her horse Apocalypse. I see clearly
enough what I lack; with all respect to your good sense, I have not yet
lived hard enough, and I am going away for three days or a week with
Madame Reality, in the guise of divers nymphs of the Opéra _corps de
ballet_. I hope, on my return, to be a most accomplished, that is to
say, a most blasé and most reasonable man of the world.

              "Your friend,

                             "LAURENT."




I


Thérèse understood perfectly, at first sight, the spleen and jealousy
which dictated this letter.

"And yet," she said to herself, "he is not in love with me. Oh! no; he
certainly will never be in love with any one, with me least of all."

But as she read and reread the letter and mused upon it, Thérèse
feared lest she might deceive herself in seeking to convince herself
that Laurent incurred no danger with her.

"But what danger?" she said to herself; "the danger of suffering for an
unsatisfied caprice? Does one suffer much for a caprice? I have no idea
myself. I never had one."

But the clock marked half-past five in the afternoon; and Thérèse,
having put the key in her pocket, called for her hat, gave her servant
leave of absence for twenty-four hours, laid several special injunctions
upon her faithful old Catherine, and took a cab. Two hours later, she
returned accompanied by a short, slender woman, slightly bent and
closely veiled, whose face the driver did not see. She closeted herself
with this mysterious individual, and Catherine served them a dainty
little dinner. Thérèse waited upon and was most attentive to her
guest, who gazed at her with such agitation and ecstasy that she could
not eat.

Laurent, for his part, made his preparations for the projected trip to
the country; but when Prince D---- called for him with his carriage,
Laurent informed him that unexpected business would detain him two or
three hours, and that he would join him in the country during the
evening.

Laurent had no business, however. He had dressed himself in feverish
haste. He had caused his hair to be arranged with special care. Then he
had tossed his coat on a chair, and run his fingers through his too
symmetrical curls, heedless of the effect he might thus produce. He
paced the floor of his studio, now rapidly, now slowly. When Prince
D---- had gone, making him promise ten times over that he would soon
follow, he ran out to the stairs to ask him to wait and to say that he
would throw over his business and go with him; but he did not recall
him, but returned to his room, and threw himself on the bed.

"Why does she close her door to me for two days? There is something
behind it! And when she makes an appointment with me for the third day,
it is to make me meet an American or an Englishman whom I don't know!
But she must certainly know this Palmer whom she calls by his
diminutive! In that case, why in the deuce did he ask me for her
address? Is it a feint? Why should she feign with me? I am not
Thérèse's lover, I have no rights over her! Thérèse's lover! that I
certainly shall never be. God preserve me from it! A woman who is five
years older than I, perhaps more! Who can tell a woman's age, especially
this woman's, of whom nobody knows anything? So mysterious a past must
cover some monumental folly, perhaps a fully-matured disgrace. And for
all that, she is a prude, a devotee, or a philosopher perhaps, who
knows? She talks on every subject with such impartiality, or tolerance,
or indifference---- Does any one know what she believes, what she
doesn't believe, what she wants, what she loves, or even if she is
capable of loving?"

Mercourt, a young critic and friend of Laurent, entered the studio.

"I know," he said, "that you are going to Montmorency. So I have simply
looked in to ask you for an address, Mademoiselle Jacques's."

Laurent started.

"What the devil do you want of Mademoiselle Jacques?" he rejoined,
pretending to be looking for cigarette-papers.

"I? nothing--that is to say, yes, I would like to know her; but I know
her only by sight and reputation. I want her address for a person who is
anxious to be painted."

"You know Mademoiselle Jacques by sight, you say?"

"_Parbleu_! she is altogether famous now, and who has not noticed her?
She is made to be noticed!"

"You think so?"

"To be sure, and you?"

"I? I know nothing about it. I am very fond of her, so I am not a
competent judge."

"You are very fond of her?"

"Yes, I admit it, you see; which proves that I am not paying court to
her."

"Do you see her often?"

"Sometimes."

"Then you are her friend--seriously?"

"Well, yes, to some extent. Why do you laugh?"

"Because I don't believe a word of it; at twenty-four, one is not the
serious friend of a--young and beautiful woman!"

"Bah! she is neither so young nor so beautiful as you say. She is a good
comrade, not unpleasant to look at, that's all. But she belongs to a
type that I don't like, and I am obliged to forgive her for being a
blonde. I don't like blondes, except in painting."

"She is not so very light after all! her eyes are of a soft black, her
hair is neither light nor dark, and she arranges it in a peculiar way.
However, it's becoming to her: she has the look of an amiable sphinx."

"A very pretty comparison; but--you like tall women, it seems!"

"She is not very tall, and she has small feet and small hands. She is a
true woman. I have examined her very carefully, being in love with her."

"I say, what are you thinking about?"

"It makes no difference to you, since, viewed as a woman simply, she
doesn't attract you."

"My dear fellow, if she did attract me, it would be all the same. In
that case, I should try to be on a more intimate footing with her than I
am; but I should not be in love with her, that being a profession which
I do not practise; consequently, I should not be jealous. So press your
suit, if you think best."

"I shall, if I find the opportunity; but I have no time to seek it, and,
at heart, I am like you, Laurent, perfectly disposed to be patient,
since I am of an age and a society in which there is no lack of
pleasure. But, as we are speaking of that woman, and as you know her,
tell me--it is pure curiosity on my part--whether she is a widow or----"

"Or what?"

"I meant to say whether she is the widow of a lover or a husband."

"I have no idea."

"That isn't possible."

"On my word of honor, I never asked her. It makes no difference to me!"

"Do you know what people say?"

"No, I don't care at all. What is it that people say?"

"You see that you do care! They say that she was married to a rich man
with a title."

"Married----"

"Married as much as one can be, before the mayor and the priest."

"What nonsense! she would bear her husband's name and title."

"Ah! there you are! There's a mystery about her. When I have time, I
propose to investigate it, and I will tell you what I learn. They say
that she has no known lover, although she leads a very independent life.
But of course you know how that is, don't you?"

"I don't know the first thing about it. Come, come! do you suppose I
pass my life watching and questioning women? I am not an idler like you.
I find life hardly long enough to live and work."

"As to living, I don't say that you are not right. You seem to live hard
enough, my boy. But as to working,--they say that you don't work enough.
Let us see, what have you there? Let me look!"

"No, it's nothing; I have nothing started here."

"Yes, you have: that head--that is very fine, deuce take me! Let me
look, I say, or I'll give you the devil in my next _salon_."

"You are quite capable of it."

"Yes, when you deserve it; but as to that head, it is superb, and one
cannot help admiring it. What is it to be?"

"Do you suppose I know?"

"Do you want me to tell you?"

"You will confer a favor on me."

"Make a sibyl of it. Then you can arrange the hair as you please, it
doesn't make any difference."

"Stay! that's an idea."

"And then you don't compromise the person it resembles."

"Does it resemble any one?"

"_Parbleu_! wretched joker, do you think that I don't recognize it?
Come, come, my dear fellow, you must have meant to laugh at me, since
you deny everything, even the simplest things. You are the lover of that
face!"

"And to prove it, I am going to Montmorency!" said Laurent, coldly,
taking his hat.

"That doesn't prove anything!" replied Mercourt.

They went out together, and Mercourt saw Laurent enter a cab; but
Laurent went no farther than the Bois de Boulogne, where he dined all
alone at a small café, and returned at night-fall, on foot and lost in
his thoughts.

The Bois de Boulogne of that time was not what it is to-day. It was
smaller, more neglected, poorer, more mysterious, and more like the
country; one could reflect there.

On the Champs-Elysées, less splendid and less thickly settled than
to-day, were tracts of land newly thrown open to building, where one
could hire at a reasonable price small houses with gardens, where
perfect privacy was attainable. One could live quietly there and work.

It was in one of those neat white cottages, amid flowering lilacs, and
behind a tall hedge of hawthorn with a green gate, that Thérèse lived.
It was May. The weather was magnificent. How Laurent found himself, at
nine o'clock, behind that hedge, in the lonely, unfinished street where
no lanterns had as yet been placed, and where nettles and weeds still
flourished along the sides, he himself would have been embarrassed to
explain.

The hedge was very thick, and Laurent skirted it noiselessly on all
sides, but could see nothing save the golden reflection on the foliage
of a light which he supposed to be placed on a small table in the garden
by which he was accustomed to sit and smoke when he passed the evening
with Thérèse. Was somebody smoking in the garden, or were they taking
tea there, as sometimes happened? But Thérèse had informed Laurent
that she expected a whole family from the provinces, and he could hear
only two voices whispering mysteriously together, one of which seemed to
belong to Thérèse. The other voice spoke very low; was it a man's?

Laurent listened until he had a ringing in his ears, and at last he
heard, or thought he heard, Thérèse say:

"What does all this matter? I have but one love on earth, and that is
you!"

"Now," said Laurent to himself, hastily leaving the narrow, deserted
street, and returning to the noisy roadway of the Champs-Elysées, "now
my mind is at rest. She has a lover! After all, she was under no
obligation to tell me of it! But she needn't have talked to me on all
occasions in a way to make me think that she did not and never intended
to belong to any man. She is like all women: the longing to lie
supersedes all else. What difference does it make to me? And yet I would
never have believed it. Indeed, I must have been a little cracked over
her without realizing it, since I went there and played the spy, the
most dastardly of all trades, except when one is driven to it by
jealousy! I cannot regret it very much; it saves me from great
unhappiness and from a great imposition: that of desiring a woman who
has nothing that makes her desirable above other women, not even
sincerity."

Laurent stopped an empty cab that was passing, and went to Montmorency.
He proposed to pass a week there, and not to darken Thérèse's door for
a fortnight. But he remained in the country only forty-eight hours, and
arrived at Thérèse's cottage on the evening of the third day,
simultaneously with Monsieur Richard Palmer.

"Ah!" said the American, offering him his hand, "I am very glad to see
you!"

Laurent could not avoid taking the proffered hand; but he could not
refrain from asking Monsieur Palmer why he was so glad to see him.

The foreigner paid no heed to the artist's somewhat impertinent tone.

"I am glad because I am fond of you," he replied, with irresistible
cordiality, "and I am fond of you because I have a great admiration for
you!"

"What! are you here?" said Thérèse, surprised to see Laurent. "I had
given you up for this evening."

And it seemed to the young man that there was an unfamiliar coolness in
the tone in which those simple words were spoken.

"Indeed!" he replied in an undertone, "you had become reconciled to it
very readily, and I fear that I am disturbing a delightful
tête-à-tête."

"That is the more cruel of you," she rejoined in the same playful tone,
"because you seemed disposed to arrange it for me."

"You evidently counted upon it, as you did not cancel his appointment.
Shall I go?"

"No, stay. I will resign myself to endure your presence."

The American, after saluting Thérèse, had opened his portfolio and
taken from it a letter which had been given him to hand to her.
Thérèse read it with an unmoved air, and made no comment whatever upon
it.

"If you wish to answer," said Palmer, "I have an opportunity to forward
a letter to Havana."

"Thanks," Thérèse replied, opening the drawer of a little table by her
side, "I shall not answer it."

Laurent, who watched all her movements, saw that she put the letter with
several others, one of which he recognized by its shape and
superscription. It was the note he had written her two days before. For
some reason, I know not what, it vexed him to see that letter in company
with the one Monsieur Palmer had just handed her.

"She tosses me in there," he said to himself, "pellmell with her
cast-off lovers. And yet I have no claim to that honor. I have never
spoken to her of love."

Thérèse began to talk about Monsieur Palmer's portrait. Laurent was
deaf to their entreaties, keeping a close watch upon their every glance,
upon the slightest inflection of their voices, and imagining every
moment that he could detect a secret dread, on their part, of his
yielding; but their persistence was so manifestly sincere, that he
became calmer, and reproved himself for his suspicions. If Thérèse had
relations with this stranger, living alone and perfectly independent as
she did, apparently owing nothing to any one, and never seeming to pay
any heed to what people might say of her, had she any need of the
pretext of a portrait to receive the object of her love or her caprice
as often and for as long a time as she chose?

And as soon as he felt perfectly at ease, Laurent was no longer
restrained by a sense of shame from gratifying his curiosity.

"Are you an American, pray?" he asked Thérèse, who from time to time
repeated in English for Monsieur Palmer's benefit the remarks that he
did not clearly understand.

"An American?" replied Thérèse; "have I not told you that I have the
honor of being a compatriot of yours?"

"But you speak English so well!"

"You do not know whether I speak it well or ill, as you do not
understand it. But I see what is in the wind, for I know that you are an
inquisitive fellow. You are wondering whether Dick Palmer and I are
acquaintances of yesterday or of long standing. Well, ask him."

Palmer did not wait for a question which Laurent could not readily have
made up his mind to ask. He said that this was not his first visit to
France, and that he had known Thérèse when she was very young, at the
house of some relations of hers. He did not say what relations.
Thérèse was accustomed to say that she had never known either father
or mother.

Mademoiselle Jacques's past was an impenetrable mystery to the people of
fashion who went to her to have their portraits painted, and to the
small number of artists whom she received in private. She had come to
Paris, whence no one knew, when no one knew, with whom no one knew. She
had been known two or three years only, a portrait she had painted
having attracted the attention of connoisseurs and been suddenly lauded
as the work of a master. Thus, from the patronage of the humble and an
unknown existence, she had passed without transition to a reputation of
the first rank and to the enjoyment of an ample income; but she had
changed not a whit in her simple tastes, her love of independence, and
the playful austerity of her manners. She never posed, and never spoke
of herself except to declare her sentiments and opinions with much
frankness and courage. As for the facts of her life, she had a way of
evading questions and going off in another direction which saved her the
necessity of replying. If any one chose to insist, she was accustomed to
say, after some vague words:

"We are not talking about me. I have nothing interesting to tell, and if
I have had sorrows, I have forgotten all about them, as I have no time
to think of them. I am very happy now, for I have plenty of work, and I
love work above everything."

It was by pure chance, and as a result of being thrown together in an
assemblage of artists, that Laurent had made Mademoiselle Jacques's
acquaintance. Having been launched as a gentleman and an eminent artist
in two different social circles. Monsieur Fauvel possessed, at
twenty-four, an amount of experience which all men have not acquired at
forty. He prided himself upon it, and mourned over it by turns: but he
had no experience in matters of the heart, for that is not acquired in a
life of dissipation. Thanks to the scepticism which he affected, he had
begun by passing judgment in his own mind that all those whom Thérèse
treated as friends must be lovers, and not until he had heard them
affirm and demonstrate the purity of their relations with her, did he
reach the point of looking upon her as a young woman who might have had
passions, but not vulgar intrigues.

Thereupon, he had become intensely curious to ascertain the cause of the
anomaly: a young, intelligent, and lovely woman, absolutely free and
living alone of her own free will. He had begun to see her more
frequently, and of late almost every day; at first on all sorts of
pretexts, latterly representing himself as a friend of no consequence,
too fond of pleasure to care to talk with a serious-minded woman, but
too idealistic, after all, not to feel the craving for affection and the
value of disinterested friendship.

In theory that was quite true; but love had stolen into the young man's
heart, and we have seen that Laurent was struggling against the invasion
of a sentiment which he still desired to disguise from Thérèse and
from himself, especially as he felt it for the first time in his life.

"But, after all," he said, when he had promised Monsieur Palmer to
undertake his portrait, "why in the devil are you so bent on having a
thing that may not be good, when you know Mademoiselle Jacques, who
certainly will not refuse to paint a portrait of you that is sure to be
excellent?"

"She does refuse," replied Palmer, with much candor, "and I don't know
why. I promised my mother, who is weak enough to think me very handsome,
a portrait by a master, and she won't consider it a good likeness if it
is too true to life. That is why I have applied to you as being an
idealist. If you refuse me, I shall have either the grief of not
gratifying my mother, or the bother of looking farther."

"That will not take long; there are so many people more capable than I
am!"

"I do not think it; but, assuming it to be true, it doesn't follow that
they will have the time at once, and I am in a hurry to send the
portrait away. It should arrive for my birthday, four months hence, and
the transportation will take about two months."

"That is to say, Laurent," added Thérèse, "that you must finish the
portrait in six weeks at the outside; and as I know how much time you
will need, you must begin to-morrow. Come, it is understood, you
promise, don't you?"

Monsieur Palmer held out his hand to Laurent, saying:

"The bargain is made. I say nothing about money; Mademoiselle Jacques is
to arrange the terms, I shall not interfere. At what hour to-morrow?"

The hour being fixed, Palmer took his hat, and Laurent felt bound to do
the same out of respect to Thérèse; but Palmer paid no heed to him and
took his leave, after pressing Mademoiselle Jacques's hand without
kissing it.

"Shall I go, too?" said Laurent.

"It isn't necessary," she replied; "everybody whom I receive in the
evening, knows me well. But you must go at ten o'clock to-night; for
several times lately I have forgotten myself so far as to chatter with
you till nearly midnight, and as I can't sleep after five in the
morning, I have felt very tired."

"And yet you didn't turn me out!"

"No, it didn't occur to me."

"If I were a conceited donkey, I should be very proud of that!"

"But you are not conceited, thank God! you leave that to the fools. But,
despite the compliment, Master Laurent, I have a bone to pick with you.
They say you are not working."

"And it was for the purpose of forcing me to work that you held Palmer's
head at my throat like a pistol?"

"Well, why not?"

"You are kind, Thérèse, I know; you mean to make me earn my living in
spite of myself."

"I don't interfere with your means of existence, I have no right to do
it. I have not the good or ill fortune to be your mother; but I am your
sister,--_in Apollo_, as our classic Bernard says,--and it is impossible
for me not to be grieved by your spasms of indolence."

"But what difference can it make to you?" cried Laurent, with a mingling
of irritation and pleasure which Thérèse felt, and which impelled her
to reply frankly.

"Listen, my dear Laurent," she said, "we must have an understanding. I
have a very great friendship for you."

"I am very proud of it, but I do not know why! Indeed, I am of no use as
a friend, Thérèse. I have no more belief in friendship than in love
between a man and woman."

"You have told me that before, and it makes no difference to me what you
do or do not believe. For my own part, I believe in what I feel, and I
feel both interest and affection for you. I am like that: I cannot
endure to have any person whatsoever about me without becoming attached
to him and wishing that he might be happy. I am accustomed to do my
utmost in that direction, without caring whether the person in question
is grateful to me or not. Now you are not any person whatsoever, you are
a man of genius, and, what is more, a man of heart, I trust."

"I, a man of heart? Yes, if you use the term in the ordinary worldly
meaning. I know how to fight a duel, pay my debts, and defend the woman
to whom I offer my arm, whoever she may be. But if you consider me
tender-hearted, loving, artless----"

"I know that you affect to be old, blasé and corrupt. But your
affectation produces no effect on me. It is a very popular fashion at
the present time. In your case, it is a disease, genuine it may be and
painful, but it will pass away when you choose. You are a man of heart,
for the very reason that you suffer because of the emptiness of your
heart; a woman will come along who will fill it, if she knows how to go
about it and if you will let her. But this is outside of my subject; I
am speaking to the artist; the man in you is unhappy, only because the
artist is not satisfied with himself."

"Ah! you are wrong, Thérèse," rejoined Laurent earnestly. "The
opposite of what you say is true: it is the man who suffers in the
artist and stifles him. I do not know what to do with myself, you see.
Ennui is killing me. Ennui because of what? you will ask. Because of
everything! I cannot, like you, be tranquil and attentive during six
hours of work, take a turn in the garden and toss bread to the sparrows,
then go back to work again for four hours, and in the evening smile on
two or three tiresome creatures, like myself for example, until it is
time to go to sleep. My sleep is broken, my work is feverish, my walks
are agitated. Invention bewilders me and makes me tremble; execution,
always too slow to suit me, makes my heart beat violently, and I weep
and have to exert myself not to shriek when I give birth to an idea
which intoxicates me, but which I am mortally ashamed of and disgusted
with the next morning. If I change it, it is worse, for it leaves me; it
is much better to forget it and wait for another; but that arrives in
such confusion and of such enormous proportions, that my poor frame
cannot hold it. It weighs upon me and tortures me until it has assumed
measurable proportions and the other pain returns, the pain of
childbirth, a real physical suffering which I cannot describe. And that
is how my life goes when I allow myself to be vanquished by this giant
of an artist who is within me, and from whom the poor devil who is
speaking to you removes one by one, by the forceps of his will, meagre,
half-dead mice! So it is much better, Thérèse, that I should live as I
have chosen to live, that I should commit excesses of all sorts, and
kill this gnawing worm which my fellows modestly call their inspiration,
but which I call my infirmity, pure and simple."

"It is decided then," said Thérèse, smiling; "the die is cast, and you
are trying to drive your intelligence to suicide? Well, I do not believe
a word of it. If some one should propose to you to-morrow to change
places with Prince D---- or Comte de S----, with the millions of the
first and the fine horses of the other, you would say, referring to your
poor despised palette: _Give me back my love_!"

"My despised palette? You do not understand me, Thérèse! It is an
instrument of glory, I know that perfectly well; and what people call
glory is the esteem accorded to talent, purer and more delicious than
that accorded to titles and wealth. Therefore it is a very great
privilege and a very great pleasure for me to say to myself: 'I am only
a poor, penniless gentleman, and my equals, who do not derogate from
their station, lead the lives of gamekeepers and foregather with
gleaners of dead wood, whom they pay in fire-wood. But I have derogated,
I have adopted a profession, and the result is that when I, at
twenty-four years of age, ride a hired horse among the richest and
noblest of Paris, mounted on horses worth ten thousand francs, if there
happens to be a man of taste or a woman of intelligence among the idlers
seated along the Champs-Elysées, I am stared at and pointed out, and
not the others----' You laugh! do you think me very vain?"

"No, but very like a child, thank God! You won't kill yourself."

"Why, I have not the slightest inclination to kill myself. I love myself
as much as other men love themselves; indeed, I love myself with all my
heart, I swear! But I say that my palette, the instrument of my glory,
is the instrument of my torture, since I cannot work without suffering.
Thereupon I seek in dissipation, not death of body or mind, but to
fatigue and tranquillize my nerves. This is the whole of it, Thérèse.
What is there in that that is not reasonable? I cannot work decently
except when I am ready to drop with fatigue."

"That is true," said Thérèse, "I have noticed it, and I wonder at it
as an anomaly; but I am very much afraid that method of working will
kill you; indeed, I cannot imagine how it can be otherwise. Stay, answer
one question: did you begin life by hard work and abstinence, and did
you feel the necessity of seeking distraction for the sake of rest?"

"No; just the opposite. When I left school, I was very fond of painting,
but did not expect that I should ever be compelled to paint. I believed
that I was rich. My father died leaving only about thirty thousand
francs, which I made haste to devour, in order to have at least one year
of luxury in my life. When I found that I was stranded, I took to the
brush; I have been pulled to pieces, and lauded to the clouds, which, in
our day, constitutes the greatest possible success, and now I lead a
life of luxury and pleasure from time to time, for a few months or a few
weeks, so long as the money lasts. When it is all gone, I have no fault
to find, for I am always at the end of my strength and my desires alike.
Thereupon I go back to my work, frantically, with mingled sorrow and
ecstasy, and when the work is finished, idleness and extravagance begin
again."

"Have you been leading this life long?"

"Nothing can be long at my age! About three years."

"Ah! but that is long for your age, I tell you! And then you began
badly; you set fire to your vital spirits before they had taken their
flight; you drank vinegar to stunt your growth. Your head continued to
grow none the less, and genius developed in it in spite of everything;
but perhaps your heart has atrophied, perhaps you will never be complete
either as man or as artist."

These words, spoken with tranquil melancholy, irritated Laurent.

"So you despise me, do you?" he said, rising.

"No," she replied, holding out her hand, "I pity you!"

And he saw two great tears roll slowly down her cheeks.

Those tears produced a violent reaction in him; his own face was bathed
in tears as he threw himself at Thérèse's feet, not like a lover
declaring his passion, but like a child making his confession.

"Ah! my poor dear friend!" he cried, taking her hands, "you are quite
right to pity me, for I need it! I am unhappy, so unhappy that I am
ashamed to tell you! This indescribable something that I have in my
breast in place of a heart is crying incessantly for I know not what,
nor do I know what to give it to appease it. I love God, and I do not
believe in Him. I love all women, and I despise them all! I can say this
to you, who are my comrade and my friend! I surprise myself sometimes on
the point of idolizing a courtesan, whereas beside an angel I should
probably be colder than a marble statue. Everything is turned
topsy-turvy in my notions; it may be that everything has gone wrong in
my instincts. Suppose I should tell you that the time has already passed
when I can find cheerful ideas in wine! Yes, I am depressed when I am
drunk, it seems, and they told me that the day before yesterday, in that
debauch at Montmorency, I declaimed tragic things with a vehemence as
ghastly as it was absurd. What do you suppose will become of me,
Thérèse, if you do not have pity for me?"

"To be sure, I have pity for you, my poor child," said Thérèse, wiping
his eyes with her handkerchief; "but what good can that do you?"

"Ah! but if you should love me, Thérèse! Do not take your hands away!
Have you not given me leave to be a sort of friend to you?"

"I have told you that I was fond of you; you replied that you could not
believe in a woman's friendship."

"I might, perhaps, believe in yours; you must have a man's heart, since
you have a man's strength and talent. Give it to me."

"I have not taken yours, and I propose to try to be a man for you," she
replied; "but I don't quite know how to go about it. A man's friendship
should be more outspoken and authoritative than I feel capable of being.
In spite of myself, I shall pity you more than I shall scold you, as you
see already! I had made up my mind to humiliate you to-day, to make you
angry with me and yourself; instead of which, here I am weeping with
you, and that doesn't advance matters at all."

"Yes, it does! yes, it does!" cried Laurent. "These tears do me good,
they have watered the parched place; perhaps my heart will grow again
there! Ah! Thérèse, you told me once, when I boasted before you of
things that I should have blushed for, that I was a prison-wall. You
forgot only one thing: that there is a prisoner behind that wall! If I
could open the door, you would see him; but the door is closed, the wall
is of bronze, and not my will, nor my faith, nor my affection, nor even
my voice can penetrate it. Must I then live and die thus? What will it
avail me, I ask you, to have daubed the walls of my dungeon with a few
fanciful pictures, if the word _love_ is written nowhere there?"

"If I understand you," said Thérèse dreamily, "you think that your
work needs to be enlivened by sentiment."

"Do not you think so, too? Is not that what all your reproaches say?"

"Not precisely. There is only too much fire in your execution; the
critics blame you for it. For my part, I have always felt deep respect
for that youthful exuberance which makes great artists, and the beauties
of which prevent any one who has true enthusiasm from harping upon its
defects. Far from considering your work cold and positive, it seems to
me burning and impassioned; but I have tried to make out where the seat
of that passion was; I see now: it is in the craving of the heart. Yes,"
she added, still musing, as if she were seeking to pierce the veil of
her own thought, "desire certainly may be a passion."

"Well, what are you thinking about?" said Laurent, following her
absorbed glance.

"I am wondering if I ought to declare war on this power that is in you,
and if, by persuading you to be happy and tranquil, I should not quench
the sacred fire. And yet--I fancy that aspiration cannot be a durable
condition of the mind, and that, when it has been earnestly expressed
during its feverish stage, it must either subside of itself or overpower
us. What do you say? Has not each age its special force and
manifestation? Are not what we call the different _manners_ of a master,
simply the expression of the successive transformations of his being? At
thirty, will it be possible for you to have aspired to everything
without attaining anything? Will you not be compelled to adopt some
fixed theory touching some point or other? You are at the age of
caprice; but soon will come the age of light. Do you not wish to make
progress?"

"Does it depend upon me to do it?"

"Yes, if you do not attempt to disturb the equilibrium of your
faculties. You cannot persuade me that exhaustion is the proper remedy
for fever: it is simply its fatal result."

"What febrifuge do you suggest, then?"

"I don't know; marriage, perhaps."

"Horror!" cried Laurent, bursting with laughter.

And he added, still laughing, and without any very clear idea of the
source of that corrective:

"Unless I marry you, Thérèse. Ah! that is an idea, on my word!"

"Charming," she rejoined, "but altogether impossible."

This reply impressed Laurent by its conclusive tranquillity, and what he
had just said by way of jest suddenly assumed the guise of a buried
dream, as if the operation had taken place in his mind. That powerful
and ill-fated mind was so constituted that the word _impossible_ was all
that was necessary to make him desire a thing, and that was just the
word Thérèse had uttered.

Instantly his inclination to fall in love with her reawoke, and with it
his suspicions, his jealousy, and his anger. Hitherto the spell of
friendship had lulled and, as it were, intoxicated him; of a sudden he
became bitter, and cold as ice.

"Ah! yes, of course," he said, taking his hat to go, "that is the
key-word of my life, which constantly turns up on every occasion, at the
end of a jest, as well as at the end of every serious subject:
_impossible_! You do not know that foe, Thérèse; your love is tranquil
and undisturbed. You have a _lover_, or a _friend_, who is not jealous,
because he knows you to be cold or reasonable! That reminds me that it
is getting late, and that your _thirty-seven cousins_ are probably here,
waiting for me to go."

"What is that you are saying?" demanded Thérèse in utter amazement;
"what ideas have come into your head? Are you subject to attacks of
insanity?"

"Sometimes," he added, taking his leave. "You must excuse them."




II


The next day, Thérèse received the following letter from Laurent:


"MY DEAR GOOD FRIEND:

"How did I leave you last night? If I said some horrible thing to you,
forget it, I had no consciousness of it. I had an attack of vertigo
which did not leave me at your door; for I found myself at my own door,
in a cab, with no idea how I got there.

"It often happens with me, my dear friend, that my mouth says one thing
when my brain is saying another. Pity me and forgive me. I am ill, and
you were right in saying that the life I lead is detestable.

"By what right do I put questions to you? Do me the justice to admit
that this is the first time I have ever questioned you, in the three
months that I have known you intimately. What does it matter to me
whether you are engaged, married, or a widow? You do not choose that
anybody shall know, and have I tried to find out? Have I asked you? Ah!
Thérèse, my head is still in confusion this morning, and yet I feel
that I am lying, and I do not intend to lie to you. Friday evening I had
my first attack of curiosity with regard to you, and yesterday's was the
second; but it shall be the last, I swear, and to have done with the
subject once and for all, I propose to make a clean breast of
everything. I was at your door the other evening, that is to say, at
your garden gate. I looked, and saw nothing; I listened and I heard!
Even so, what does it matter to you? I do not know his name, I did not
see his face; but I know that you are my sister, my consolation, my
confidante, my mainstay. I know that I wept at your feet last night, and
that you wiped my eyes with your handkerchief, and said: 'What are we to
do, what are we to do, my poor boy?' I know that you, wise,
hard-working, placid, respected creature that you are, since you are
free and beloved, since you are happy, find time and charity to remember
that I exist, to pity me, and to try to make my life better. Dear
Thérèse, the man who would not bless you would be an ingrate, and,
although I am a miserable wretch, I do not know ingratitude. When will
you receive me, Thérèse? It seems to me that I insulted you? That only
was lacking! Shall I come to you this evening? If you say no, on my
word, I shall go to the devil!"


Laurent's servant brought back Thérèse's reply. It was very short:
_Come this evening_. Laurent was neither a _roué_ nor a puppy, although
he often thought of being, or was tempted to be, one or the other. He
was, as we have seen, a creature full of contrasts, whom we describe
without trying to explain, for that would not be possible; certain
characters elude logical analysis.

Thérèse's reply made him tremble like a child. She had never written
him in that tone. Was it meant as a command to him to come to receive
his dismissal upon stated grounds? or was she summoning him to a
love-meeting? Had those three words, cold or ardent as it happened, been
dictated by indignation or by passion?


[Illustration: _LAURENT PAINTS PALMER'S PORTRAIT._

_Laurent succeeded, therefore, in calming himself
sufficiently to study the American's regular, placid
features._]


Monsieur Palmer arrived, and Laurent, agitated and preoccupied as he
was, must needs begin his portrait. He had made up his mind to question
him with consummate art, and to extort all Thérèse's secrets from him.
He could devise no way of broaching the subject, and as the American
posed conscientiously, as motionless and dumb as a statue, hardly a word
was spoken on either side during the sitting.

Laurent succeeded, therefore, in calming himself sufficiently to study
the American's regular, placid features. His beauty was without a
blemish, a fact that imparted to his face at first sight the inanimate
air peculiar to absolutely regular faces. But, on examining him more
closely, you could detect a certain shrewdness in his smile and fire in
his glance. At the same time that Laurent made these observations, he
was trying to determine his model's age.

"I beg your pardon," he said abruptly, "but it would be well for me to
know whether you are a young man somewhat overworked, or a middle-aged
man wonderfully well preserved. It is of no use for me to look at you, I
do not understand what I see."

"I am forty years old," replied Monsieur Palmer simply.

"God save us!" exclaimed Laurent; "then you must enjoy robust health?"

"Excellent!" said Palmer.

And he resumed his graceful pose and his tranquil smile.

"It's the face of a happy lover," said the artist to himself, "or else
of a man who has never cared for anything but roast beef."

He could not resist the temptation to ask:

"So you knew Mademoiselle Jacques when she was very young?"

"She was fifteen years old when I first saw her."

Laurent had not the courage to ask him in what year that was. It seemed
to him that the blood rushed to his face when he mentioned Thérèse.
What did her age matter to him? It was her story that he would have
liked to hear. Thérèse did not appear thirty; Palmer might have been
no more than her friend. And then his voice was loud and penetrating. If
it had been he to whom Thérèse had said: _I love no one but you_, he
would have made some sort of a reply that Laurent would have heard.

At last, the evening came, and the artist, who was not in the habit of
being punctual, arrived before the time at which Thérèse usually
received him. He found her in her garden, unoccupied, contrary to her
custom, and walking back and forth in evident agitation. As soon as she
spied him, she went to meet him, and said, taking his hand with an air
of authority rather than affection:

"If you are a man of honor, you will tell me all that you heard through
this shrubbery. Come, speak; I am listening."

She sat down on a bench, and Laurent, irritated by this unusual
reception, tried to worry her by making evasive replies; but she cowed
him by her manifest displeasure, and by an expression of the face which
was entirely strange to him. The dread of a definitive rupture with her
led him to tell her the simple truth.

"So that was all you heard?" she said. "I said to a person whom you did
not even see: 'You are now my only love on earth?'"

"Did I dream it, Thérèse? I am ready to believe it, if you bid me."

"No, you did not dream it. I may have said it, nay, I probably did say
it. And what was the answer?"

"None that I heard," replied Laurent, upon whom Thérèse's admission
had the effect of a cold shower-bath; "I didn't even hear the sound of
his voice. Is your mind at rest?"

"No, I have other questions to ask you. To whom do you suppose that I
said that?"

"I suppose nothing. I know no one but Monsieur Palmer, with whom the
nature of your relations is not known."

"Ah!" cried Thérèse, with a strange air of satisfaction, "so you think
it was Monsieur Palmer?"

"Why should it not be he? Do I insult you by supposing the possibility
of an old liaison recently renewed? I know that your relations with all
those whom I have seen here for the past three months are as
disinterested on their part and as indifferent on yours as my own
relations with you. Monsieur Palmer is very handsome, and he has the
manners of a gallant man. I like him very much. I have neither the right
nor the presumption to examine you touching your private sentiments.
But--you will say that I have been watching you."

"I shall, indeed," rejoined Thérèse, who did not seem to think of
denying anything whatsoever; "why do you watch me? It seems to me a
wretched thing to do, although I don't understand it at all. Tell me how
you came to do it."

"Thérèse!" replied the young man eagerly, determined to rid himself of
all that he had on his mind, "tell me that you have a lover, and that
Palmer is the man, and I will love you truly, I will talk to you with
absolute frankness. I will ask your pardon for an outbreak of madness,
and you shall never have any reason to reproach me. Come, do you wish me
to be your friend? Despite all my boasting, I feel that I need your
friendship and that I am capable of being your friend. Be frank with me,
that is all that I ask of you!"

"My dear fellow," Thérèse replied, "you talk to me as if I were a
coquette who was trying to keep you by her side, and who had some
confession to make. I cannot accept that situation; it is in no respect
suited to me. Monsieur Palmer is not and never will be to me anything
more than a highly valued friend, with whom I am not even on intimate
terms, and whom I had lost sight of for a long time until recently. So
much I may say to you, but nothing more. My secrets, if I have any, do
not require a confidant, and I beg you to take no more interest in them
than I desire you to do. It is not for you to question me, therefore,
but to answer my questions. What were you doing here four days ago? Why
were you watching me? What is the _outbreak of madness_ which I am to
know about and pass judgment upon?"

"The tone in which you speak to me is not encouraging. Why should I
confess, when you no longer deign to treat me as a comrade and to have
confidence in me?"

"Do not confess then," said Thérèse, rising. "That will prove to me
that you did not deserve the esteem I felt for you, and that you did not
reciprocate it in the least, since you tried to find out my secrets."

"So you turn me out," said Laurent, "and it is all over between us?"

"It is all over, adieu!" replied Thérèse in a severe tone.

Laurent left the house in a rage which made it impossible for him to say
a word; but he had not taken thirty steps in the street, when he
returned, telling Catherine that he had forgotten to deliver a message
which somebody had given him for her mistress. He found Thérèse
sitting in a small salon; the garden door was still open; she seemed to
have gone so far, and to have paused there, grieved and downcast,
absorbed in her reflections. She received him frigidly.

"So you have come back?" she said; "what is it that you forgot?"

"I forgot to tell you the truth."

"I no longer care to hear it."

"But you asked me for it?"

"I thought that you might tell it spontaneously."

"And I might have, I should have; I was wrong not to do it. Look you,
Thérèse, do you think it possible for a man of my age to see you
without falling in love with you?"

"In love?" said Thérèse, with a frown. "So you were making sport of
me, were you, when you told me that you could not fall in love with any
woman?"

"No, indeed; I said what I thought."

"Then you were mistaken, and you are really in love! are you quite sure
of it?"

"Oh! don't be angry; great Heaven! I am not sure enough for that.
Thoughts of love have passed through my head, through my senses, if you
choose. Have you so little experience that you considered it
impossible?"

"I am old enough to have had experience," she replied; "but I have lived
alone for a long while. I have had no experience of certain situations.
Does that surprise you? It is true, none the less. I am very
simple-minded, although I have been deceived, like everybody else! You
have told me a hundred times that you respected me too much to look upon
me as a woman, for the reason that your love for women was altogether
gross. So I believed that I was in no danger from the outrage of your
desires; and of all that I esteemed in you, your sincerity upon that
point was what I esteemed most highly. I allowed myself to become
interested in your destiny with the greater freedom, because, you
remember, we said to each other, laughing, but with serious meaning:
'Between two persons, of whom one is an idealist and the other a
materialist, there is the Baltic Sea.'"

"I said it in all sincerity, and I walked confidently along the shore on
my side, without an idea of crossing; but it happened that the ice would
not bear. Is it my fault that I am twenty-four, and that you are
beautiful?"

"Am I still beautiful? I hoped not."

"I cannot say; I did not think so at first, and then, one fine day, you
seemed beautiful to me. So far as you are concerned, it is involuntary,
I know that perfectly well; but it was involuntary on my part, too, my
feeling this fascination, so involuntary that I fought against it and
tried to divert my mind from it. I rendered unto Satan what belongs to
Satan, that is to say, my poor soul, and I brought here unto Cæsar only
what belongs to Cæsar,--my respect and my silence. But for eight or ten
days this accursed emotion has reappeared in my dreams. It vanishes as
soon as I am with you. On my word of honor, Thérèse, when I see you,
when you speak to me, I am calm, I no longer remember that I cried out
for you in a moment of frenzy, which I cannot understand myself. When I
speak of you, I say that you are not young, or that I don't like the
color of your hair. I declare that you are my comrade, that is to say,
my brother, and I feel when I say it that I am perfectly loyal. And then
a few puffs of spring surprise the winter in my idiotic heart, and I
fancy that it is you who blow them. And it is you, in truth, Thérèse,
with your adoration of what you call real love! That sets me thinking,
whatever kind of love one may have!"

"I think that you are mistaken, I never speak of love."

"No, I know it. You follow a rigid rule in that respect. You have read
somewhere that even to speak of love was to give it or take it; but your
silence is most eloquent, your reticence gives one the fever, and your
excessive prudence has a diabolical fascination."

"In that case, let us meet no more," said Thérèse.

"Why not? what is it to you that I have had a few sleepless nights,
since it depends solely upon you to make me as tranquil as I used to
be."

"What must I do to bring that about?"

"What I told you: tell me that you belong to some one. I shall look upon
that as final, and as I am very proud, I shall be cured as by a fairy's
wand."

"And suppose I tell you that I belong to no one, because I no longer
care to love any one, will not that suffice?"

"No; I shall be conceited enough to think that you may change your
mind."

Thérèse could not help laughing at the adroitness with which Laurent
manœuvred.

"Very well," said she, "be cured, and give me back a friendship of which
I was proud, instead of a life for which I should have to blush. I love
some one."

"That is not enough, Thérèse: you must tell me that you belong to
him."

"Otherwise you would think that some one was yourself, eh? Well, so be
it, I have a lover. Are you satisfied?"

"Perfectly. As you see, I kiss your hand to thank you for your
frankness. Come, be a good girl, tell me that it is Palmer."

"I cannot do that: it would be false."

"Then--I don't know what to think!"

"It is no one whom you know; it is a person who is absent from Paris."

"But who comes sometimes?"

"Apparently, since you overheard an outpouring of sentiment."

"Thanks, thanks, Thérèse. Now I am fairly on my feet again; I know who
you are and who I am, and, if I must tell you the whole truth, I believe
that I love you better so, for you are a woman now, and not a sphinx.
Ah! why didn't you speak sooner?"

"Has this passion made such terrible ravages?" said Thérèse,
mockingly.

"Why, yes, perhaps! Ten years hence I will tell you about it, Thérèse,
and we will laugh together over it."

"Agreed; good-night."

Laurent went to bed in a very tranquil frame of mind and altogether
undeceived. He had really suffered on Thérèse's account. He had
passionately desired her, but had never dared to let her suspect it.
Certainly it was not a meritorious passion. There was as much vanity as
curiosity in it. That woman of whom all her friends said: "Whom does she
love? I wish it were I, but it is no one," had appeared to him in the
guise of a beautiful ideal to be grasped. His imagination had taken
fire, his pride had bled with the dread, the almost certainty, of
failure.

But this young man was not exclusively given over to pride. He had at
times a dazzling and dominating vision of the right, the good, and the
true.

He was an angel, gone astray and diseased, if not absolutely fallen like
so many others. The craving for love devoured his heart, and a hundred
times a day he asked himself in dismay if he had not abused life too
much already, and if he still had strength to be happy.

He awoke calm and depressed. He already regretted his chimera, his
beautiful sphinx, who read his thoughts with good-natured attention, who
admired him, scolded him, pitied him, and encouraged him by turns,
without ever revealing a corner of her own destiny, but affording a
foretaste of treasures of affection, devotion, perhaps of sensual
pleasure! At all events, it was in this way that it pleased Laurent to
interpret Thérèse's silence touching herself, and a certain smile, as
mysterious as Joconda's, which played about her lips and in the corner
of her eye, when he blasphemed in her presence. At such times, she
seemed to say to herself: "I could, if I chose, describe the paradise in
contrast with that villainous hell; but the poor fool would not
understand me."

When the mystery of her heart was once unveiled, Thérèse lost her
prestige in Laurent's eyes at first. She was no longer anything more
than a woman like other women. He was even tempted to degrade her in her
own esteem, and, although she had never allowed him to question her, to
accuse her of hypocrisy and prudery. But, from the moment that he knew
that she belonged to some one, he ceased to regret that he had respected
her, and he no longer desired anything of her, not even her friendship,
which, he thought, he would have no difficulty in supplying elsewhere.

This state of affairs lasted two or three days, during which Laurent
prepared several explanations, in the event that Thérèse should ask
him, to account for the time that had passed without his calling upon
her. On the fourth day, Laurent found himself in the clutches of a
savage attack of _spleen_. Harlots and courtesans made him ill; he found
in none of his friends the patient and delicate kindliness with which
Thérèse would detect his ennui, try to divert his mind, help him to
seek its cause and remedy, in a word, give her whole mind to him. She
alone knew what ought to be said to him, and seemed to understand that
the fate of an artist like him was not a matter of trifling importance,
as to which a more exalted mind had the right to declare that, if he
were unfortunate, it was so much the worse for him.

He ran to her house in such hot haste, that he forgot what he intended
to say by way of apology; but Thérèse showed neither displeasure nor
surprise because of his neglect, and spared him the necessity of lying
by asking him no questions. He was stung by her indifference, and
discovered that he was more jealous of her than before.

"She has probably seen her lover," he thought; "she has forgotten me."

However, he did not manifest his irritation, and kept such close watch
upon himself thereafter, that Thérèse was deceived.

Several weeks passed in alternations of frenzy, coldness, and affection.
Nothing else on earth was so necessary to him and so beneficent as that
woman's friendship, nothing so bitter and so galling as to be unable to
seek her love. The confession he had demanded, far from curing him as he
had flattered himself that it would, had intensified his suffering. It
was jealousy, which he could no longer conceal from himself, since it
had a definite and admitted cause. How, in Heaven's name, could he ever
have fancied that as soon as he knew that cause, he would scorn the idea
of striving to destroy it?

And yet he made no effort to supplant the invisible and happy rival. His
pride, which was excessive when he was with Thérèse, would not allow
him to do it. When he was alone, he hated him, decried him to himself,
attributing all sorts of absurdities to that phantom, insulting him and
challenging him ten times a day.

Then he would become disgusted with suffering, seek comfort in
debauchery, forget himself for a moment, but instantly relapse into
profound depression, and go to pass an hour or two with Thérèse,
overjoyed to see her, to breathe the air that she breathed, and to
contradict her in order to have the pleasure of listening to her voice,
scolding and caressing by turns.

Finally he detested her for not divining his torments; he despised her
for remaining faithful to that lover of hers, who could not be a man of
more than ordinary talent, since she did not feel the need of talking
about him; he would leave her, swearing that he would not go near her
again for a long while, and he would have returned an hour later if he
had had any hope that she would receive him.

Thérèse, who had caught a glimpse of his love for a moment, no longer
suspected it, so well did he play his part. She was sincerely attached
to the unhappy youth. Being an enthusiastic artist beneath her calm and
thoughtful exterior, she had set up a sort of altar, she said, _to what
he might have been_, and she still felt for him an indulgent pity,
blended with genuine respect for genius diseased and gone astray. If she
had been very certain of not arousing any evil desire, she would have
fondled him like a son, and there were times when she checked herself as
she was on the point of using the familiar form of address to him.

Was there a touch of love in that maternal sentiment? There surely was,
unknown to Thérèse; but a truly chaste woman, who has lived longer by
work than by passion, can keep from herself for a long while the secret
of a love which she has resolved to fight against. Thérèse believed
that she was certain of having no thought of her own satisfaction in
that attachment of which she bore all the burden; as soon as it was
evident that Laurent found tranquillity and contentment with her, she
found tranquillity and contentment to give him. She was well aware that
he was incapable of loving as she understood the word; so that she had
been hurt and alarmed at the momentary caprice which he had confessed.
That paroxysm past, she congratulated herself upon having found in a
harmless fib a means of preventing its recurrence; and, as on all
occasions, whenever he felt at all excited, Laurent hastened to proclaim
the impassable barrier of ice _of the Baltic Sea_, she was no longer
afraid, and accustomed herself to live amid flames without being burned.

All these sufferings and perils of the two friends were concealed and,
as it were, incubated beneath a habitual satirical gaiety, which is the
natural mood, the indelible seal, as it were, of French artists. It is a
sort of second nature, for which the people of more northern countries
blame us severely, and for which the serious English, above all, look
down upon us. Yet it is that which constitutes the charm of refined
liaisons, and often preserves us from many a mad or foolish step. To
seek the absurd side of things is to discover the weak and illogical
side. To laugh at the perils by which the heart is encompassed, is to
practise defying them, like our soldiers, who go into fire laughing and
singing. To make fun of a friend is often to save him from some weakness
in which our pity would have led him to gratify himself. And, finally,
to make fun of one's self is to rescue one's self from the foolish
intoxication of overweening self-esteem. I have noticed that people who
never jest are generally endowed with puerile and intolerable vanity.

Laurent's gaiety, like his talent, was dazzling with color and wit, and
was the more natural because it was original. Thérèse had less wit
than he, in the sense that she was naturally given to musing, and was an
indolent talker; but what she needed was a playful spirit in others;
then her own would gradually wake, and her quiet merriment was not
without charm.

The result of this habitual good humor was that love, a subject upon
which Thérèse never jested and did not like to have others jest in her
presence, found no opportunity to slip in a word, to utter a note.

One fine morning, Monsieur Palmer's portrait was finished, and Thérèse
handed to Laurent, in her friend's name, a snug little sum which the
young man promised to put aside, to be used in case of illness or of
some unforeseen and unavoidable expense.

Laurent had become intimate with Palmer while painting his portrait. He
had found him what he was: upright, just, generous, intelligent, and
well-informed. Palmer was a wealthy American of the middle class, whose
patrimonial fortune was derived from trade. He had been in business
himself and had travelled extensively in his younger days. At thirty, he
had had the excellent sense to consider himself rich enough, and to
determine to live for his own enjoyment. So he no longer travelled
except for pleasure, and after he had seen, as he said, many curious
things and extraordinary countries, he took delight in the sight of
beautiful things and in studying countries which were really interesting
by reason of their civilization.

Although he was not a very enlightened student of art, his judgment was
reasonably reliable, and on all subjects his ideas were as healthy as
his instincts. His French showed the effect of his timidity, to such a
degree that it was almost unintelligible and absurdly incorrect at the
beginning of a conversation; but when he felt at ease, one could see
that he knew the language, and that all he lacked was longer practice or
greater confidence to speak it very well.

Laurent had studied him with much curiosity and perturbation at the
outset. When it was proved by affirmative evidence that he was not
Mademoiselle Jacques's lover, he estimated his character more fairly,
and conceived a sort of friendship for him which resembled, albeit at a
long distance, his sentiment for Thérèse. Palmer was a tolerant
philosopher, strict enough in his dealings with himself and very
charitable to others. In his ideas, if not in his character, he
resembled Thérèse, and he was almost always in accord with her on all
points. Now and then Laurent still felt jealous of what he called, in
musical parlance, their imperturbable _unison_; and, as it was simply an
intellectual jealousy, he ventured to complain of it to Thérèse.

"Your definition amounts to nothing," she said. "Palmer is too placid
and too perfect for me. I have a little more fire, and I sing a little
louder than he does. Compared with him, I am the high note in the major
third."

"In that case, I am only a false note," said Laurent.

"No," said Thérèse, "with you I am modified and go down the scale to
form the minor third."

"Then with me you descend half a tone?"

"And I am half an interval nearer to you than to Palmer."




III


One day, at Palmer's request, Laurent went to the Hôtel Meurice, where
the American lived, to see that the portrait was suitably framed and
packed. The lid was nailed on in their presence, and Palmer himself
wrote his mother's name and address thereon with a brush; then, as the
porters carried the box away to dispatch it on its long journey, Palmer
grasped the artist's hand, and said:

"I owe it to you that my dear mother is soon to have a very great
pleasure, and I thank you again. Now will you allow me to talk with you
a few moments? I have something to say to you."

They went into a salon where Laurent saw several trunks.

"I start to-morrow for Italy," said the American, offering him some
excellent cigars and a taper, although he did not smoke himself; "and I
do not choose to part with you without a few words touching a delicate
matter, so delicate that, if you interrupt me, I shall not be able to
find the proper French words for what I want to say."

"I swear that I will be as mute as the tomb," said Laurent, with a
smile, surprised and considerably disturbed by this preamble.

"You love Mademoiselle Jacques," continued Palmer, "and I think that she
loves you. Perhaps you are her lover; if you are not, I feel certain
that you will be sooner or later. Ah! you promised not to speak! Say
nothing, for I ask you nothing. I consider you worthy of the honor I
attribute to you; but I am afraid that you are not well enough
acquainted with Thérèse to know that, if your love is an honor to her,
hers is no less an honor to you. I am afraid of that because of the
questions you asked me about her, and of certain remarks that have been
made about her before us two, by which I saw that you were more moved
than I was. That proves that you know nothing about her; now I, who know
the whole story, propose to tell you the whole story, so that your
attachment to Mademoiselle Jacques may be founded on the esteem and
respect which she deserves."

"Wait a moment, Palmer," cried Laurent, who was burning to hear what was
coming, but was restrained by an honorable scruple. "Do you propose to
tell me this with Mademoiselle Jacques's permission, or by her command?"

"Neither," replied Palmer. "Thérèse will never tell you the story of
her life."

"Then say no more! I do not wish to know anything except what she wishes
me to know."

"Good, very good!" rejoined Palmer, shaking his hand; "but suppose that
what I have to tell you clears her from all suspicion?"

"Then why does she conceal it?"

"From consideration for others."

"Well, go on," said Laurent, unable to resist the temptation.

"I shall mention no names," said Palmer. "I will simply tell you that,
in one of the large cities of France, there was once a rich banker who
seduced a charming girl, his own daughter's governess. He had by her a
female child who was born twenty-eight years ago on Saint Jacques's Day,
was entered on the municipal register as born of unknown parents, and
received no other family name than Jacques. Thérèse is that child.

"The governess received a sum of money from the banker, and, five years
later, married one of his clerks, an honest fellow who had no suspicion
of anything wrong, the whole affair having been kept very secret. The
child was brought up in the country. Her father had taken charge of her.
She was afterward placed in a convent, where she received a very fine
education and was the object of much care and affection. Her mother saw
her constantly during the first years; but after she was married, her
husband became suspicious, and, resigning his position with the banker,
took his wife to Belgium, where he went into business on his own account
and made a fortune. The poor mother had to force back her tears and
obey.

"That mother still lives a long way from her daughter; she has other
children, and her conduct since her marriage has been beyond reproach;
but she has never been happy. Her husband, who loves her dearly, keeps
her almost under lock and key, and has never ceased to be jealous of
her; which is in her eyes the merited penalty of her sin and her
falsehood.

"It would seem that age should have brought confession on the one hand
and forgiveness on the other. It would have been arranged so in a novel;
but there is nothing less logical than real life, and that household is
as disturbed as on the first day, the husband deep in love, uneasy and
rough, the wife penitent, but silent and down-trodden.

"And so, under the difficult circumstances in which Thérèse was
placed, she was deprived of the support, the assistance, the advice, and
the consolation of her mother. But the mother loves her all the more
dearly for being obliged to see her in secret, by stealth, when she
succeeds in coming to Paris alone for two or three days, as has happened
recently. But it is only within a few years that she has been able to
devise pretexts of one sort or another, and obtain these occasional
leaves of absence. Thérèse adores her mother, and will never make any
admission that can possibly compromise her. That is why she will never
endure a word of blame concerning the conduct of other women. You may
well have thought that at such times she was indirectly claiming
indulgence for herself. Nothing of the sort. Thérèse has nothing for
which to seek forgiveness; but she has forgiven her mother everything;
such is the story of their relations.

"I now have to tell you the story of the Comtesse de ---- _three stars_.
That is what you say in French, I believe, when you do not wish to call
people by name. This countess, who bears neither her title nor her
husband's name, is Thérèse again."

"So she is married? she is not a widow?"

"Patience! she is married, and she is not. You will see in a moment.
Thérèse was fifteen years old when her father, the banker, became a
widower and a free man; for his lawful children were all settled in
life. He was an excellent man, and, despite the misstep of which I have
told you and which I do not justify, it was impossible not to love him,
he was so entertaining and generous. I was very intimate with him. He
had told me in confidence the story of Thérèse's birth, and on several
occasions he took me with him when he went to see her at the convent
where she was. She was beautiful, intelligent, lovable, high-spirited.
He would have been glad, I think, to have me make up my mind to ask her
hand in marriage; but my heart was not free at that time; otherwise----
But I could not think of it.

"He then asked me some questions about a young Portuguese nobleman who
was a frequent visitor at his house, who had very large interests in
Havana, and who was very handsome. I had met this Portuguese in Paris,
but I did not really know him, and I abstained from giving any opinion
about him. He was very fascinating; but, for my part, I would never have
placed any confidence in his face. He was the Comte de ----, to whom
Thérèse was married a year later.

"I was obliged to go to Russia; when I returned, the banker had died of
apoplexy, and Thérèse was married, married to that foreigner, that
madman, I will not say that villain, because he was able to retain her
love, even after she discovered his crime: that man already had a wife
in the colonies when he had the incredible audacity to seek Thérèse's
hand and to marry her.

"Do not ask me how Thérèse's father, a man of sense and experience,
had allowed himself to be so deceived. I could but repeat to you what my
own experience has taught me, to wit: that in this world, the things
that happen are at least half of the time the direct opposite of what
seemed likely to happen.

"In the later years of his life the banker had done divers other foolish
things which would lead one to think that his reason was slightly
clouded. He had left Thérèse a legacy instead of giving her a
marriage-portion outright in his life-time. This legacy was of no effect
as against the lawful heirs, and Thérèse, who adored her father, would
not have applied to the courts even if there had been any chance of
success. She was left penniless, therefore, just as she became a mother,
and, at the same time, a frantic woman made a descent upon her,
demanding her rights and threatening to make a scandal: it was her
husband's first and only lawful wife.

"Thérèse had an extraordinary amount of courage: she pacified the
unfortunate creature, and persuaded her not to apply to the courts; she
induced the count to take back his wife and start for Havana with her.
Because of Thérèse's birth and the secrecy with which her father had
chosen to encompass the manifestations of his affection, her marriage
had taken place secretly, abroad, and the young couple had lived abroad
ever since. Indeed, their life had been most mysterious. The count,
unquestionably afraid of being unmasked if he should reappear in the
world, made Thérèse believe that he had a passion for living in
solitude with her, and the trustful young wife, in love with her husband
and naturally romantic, considered it altogether natural that her
husband should travel with her under a false name, to avoid meeting
people who were indifferent to him.

"Thus when Thérèse awoke to the horror of her situation, it was not
impossible that everything might be shrouded in silence. She consulted a
discreet lawyer, and, having acquired the certainty that her marriage
was null and void, but that it required a judgment to quash it, if she
wished ever to make use of her liberty, she instantly and irrevocably
made up her mind to be neither free nor married, rather than besmirch
her child's father with a degrading scandal and conviction. That made
the child a bastard beyond recall; but it was better that he should have
no name and should remain forever in ignorance of his birth, than that
he should claim a tarnished name and bring dishonor upon his father.

"Thérèse still loved the wretch! she confessed as much to me, and he
loved her with a diabolical passion. There were heart-rending struggles,
indescribable scenes, in which Thérèse fought with an energy beyond
her years, I will not say beyond her sex; a woman, when she is heroic,
is not heroic by halves.

"At last, she carried the day; she kept her child, expelled the culprit
from her arms, and saw him depart with her rival, who, although consumed
by jealousy, was so far overcome by her magnanimity that she kissed her
feet when they parted.

"Thérèse changed her abode and her name, passed as a widow, having
resolved to be forgotten by the few people who had known her, and began
to live for her child, with pitiful energy. The child was so dear to
her, that she thought that she could find consolation with him; but this
last joy was destined not to be of long duration.

"As the count was wealthy, and had no children by his first wife,
Thérèse had been persuaded, at her rival's earnest entreaty, to accept
a reasonable allowance, in order to enable her to give her son a
suitable education; but the count had no sooner taken his wife back to
Havana than he abandoned her again, made his escape, returned to Europe,
and threw himself at Thérèse's feet, imploring her to fly with him and
the child to the other side of the world.

"Thérèse was inexorable; she had reflected and prayed. Her heart had
become strong, she no longer loved the count. On her son's account, she
did not propose that such a man as the count should become the master of
her life. She had lost the right to be happy, but not the right to
respect herself; she repulsed him, without reproaches, but without
weakness. The count threatened to leave her penniless; she replied that
she was not afraid to work for a living.

"The wretched madman thereupon devised an execrable scheme, to place
Thérèse at his mercy, or to be revenged for her resistance. He
kidnapped the child and disappeared. Thérèse hurried after him; but he
had taken his measures so carefully that she went astray and did not
overtake him. It was at that crisis that I met her in England, dying of
despair and fatigue at an inn, almost insane, and so changed by
unhappiness that I hardly recognized her.

"I persuaded her to rest, and let me act for her. My investigations were
lamentably successful. The count had returned to America. The child had
died of fatigue on arriving there.

"When I was obliged to convey that horrible news to the unhappy
creature, I was terrified myself at the calmness she displayed. At last,
she wept, and I saw that she was saved. I was forced to leave her; she
told me that she proposed to settle where she was. I was distressed by
her destitution; she deceived me by telling me that her mother would not
allow her to lack anything. I learned later that her poor mother would
have been powerless to help her; she had not a centime at her disposal
for which she had not to account. Moreover, she was entirely ignorant of
all her daughter's misfortunes. Thérèse, who wrote to her in secret,
had concealed them in order not to drive her to desperation.

"Thérèse lived on in England, giving lessons in French, drawing, and
music, for she possessed talents which she had the courage to turn to
account, that she might not have to accept compassion from any one.

"After a year, she returned to France, and settled in Paris, where she
had never been, and where no one knew her. She was then but twenty years
old; she was married at sixteen. She was no longer at all pretty, and it
required eight years of repose and resignation to restore her health and
her gentle gaiety of long ago.

"During all that time, I saw her only at rare intervals, for I am always
travelling; but I always found her dignified and proud, working with
invincible courage, and concealing her poverty behind miraculous
neatness and cleanliness, never complaining of God, or of any mortal,
refusing to talk of the past, sometimes caressing children by stealth
and leaving them as soon as one looked at her, fearing, doubtless, that
she might betray some emotion.

"I had not seen her for three years, when I came to ask you to paint my
portrait, and I was trying to find her address, which I was on the point
of asking you for when you mentioned her to me. Having arrived only the
night before, I did not know that she had at last attained success,
celebrity, and a comfortable income.

"It was only on finding her under such conditions, that it occurred to
me that that heart, so long crushed, might live again, and suffer--or be
happy. Try to make her happy, my dear Laurent, she has well earned it!
And, if you are not sure that you will not make her suffer, blow out
your brains to-night rather than return to her. That is all that I had
to say to you."

"Stay," said Laurent, deeply moved; "this Comte de ----, is he still
alive?"

"Unfortunately, yes. These men who drive other people to despair are
always in good health and escape all dangers. They never hand in their
resignations; why, this fellow recently had the presumption to send me a
letter for Thérèse, which I handed to her in your presence, which she
treated as it deserved."

Laurent had thought of marrying Thérèse as he listened to Monsieur
Palmer's narrative. That narrative had produced a revolution in him. The
monotonous tone, the pronounced accent, and a few curious grammatical
lapses which we have not thought it worth our while to reproduce, had
imparted to it, in his auditor's vivid imagination, an indefinable
something as strange and terrible as Thérèse's destiny. That girl
without kindred, that mother without children, that wife without a
husband, was surely doomed to an exceptionally cruel fate! What
depressing notions of love and life she must have retained! The sphinx
reappeared before Laurent's dazzled eyes. Thérèse unveiled seemed to
him more mysterious than ever; had she ever been consoled? could she be
for a single instant?

He embraced Palmer effusively, swore to him that he loved Thérèse, and
that, if he ever succeeded in winning her love, he would remember every
hour of his life the hour that had just passed and the story he had just
heard. Then, having promised not to betray his knowledge of Mademoiselle
Jacques's history, he went home and wrote:


"THÉRÈSE:

"Do not believe a word of all I have been saying to you these last two
months. Do not believe either what I said to you when you were afraid
that I would fall in love with you. I am not amorous, it is not that; I
love you madly. It is absurd, it is insane, it is wretched; but I, who
thought that I never should or could say or write to a woman the words
_I love you!_ find them too cold and constrained to-day to express my
feeling for you. I can live no longer with this secret which is choking
me, and which you will not guess. I have tried a hundred times to leave
you, to go to the end of the world, to forget you. In an hour I am at
your door, and very often, at night, consumed with jealousy and almost
frantic with rage against myself, I pray God to deliver me from my
torment by summoning this unknown lover in whom I do not believe, and
whom you invented to disgust me with the thought of you. Show me that
man in your arms, or love me, Thérèse! Failing these alternatives, I
can conceive but one other, and that is to kill myself and have done
with it. This is cowardly, stupid, the commonplace threat worn
threadbare by all despairing lovers; but is it my fault if there is a
despair which makes all those who undergo it utter the same shriek, and
am I mad because I happen to be a man like other men?

"Of what avail has been all that I have invented to protect myself from
it, and to render my poor personality as harmless as it wished to be
free?

"Have you anything to reproach me for in my dealings with you,
Thérèse? Am I a conceited ass, a rake, I who prided myself upon making
myself stupid so as to give you confidence in my friendship? But why do
you wish that I should die without having loved, you who alone can teach
me what love is, and who know it well? You have a treasure in your
heart, and you smile as you sit beside a poor devil who is dying of
hunger and thirst. You toss him a small coin from time to time; that
means friendship in your eyes; it is not even pity, for you must know
that the drop of water increases the thirst.

"And why do you not love me? You may have loved some one who was a worse
man than I. I am not worth much, to be sure, but I love you, and is not
that everything?

"You will not believe it; you will say again that I am mistaken, as you
said before! No, you cannot say so, unless you lie to God and to
yourself. You see that my torment gets the better of me, and that I am
making an absurd declaration, I who dread nothing on earth so much as
being laughed at by you!

"Thérèse, do not think me corrupt. You know very well that the bottom
of my heart has never been sullied, and that from the abysses into which
I have cast myself I have always, in spite of myself, raised my voice to
Heaven. You know that with you I am as chaste as an infant, and you have
not feared to take my head in your hands sometimes, as if you were about
to kiss me on the forehead. And you would say: 'Bad head! you deserve to
be broken.'--And yet, instead of crushing it like the head of a snake,
you would try to make the pure and burning breath of your mind penetrate
it. Ah! well, you have succeeded only too well; and, now that you have
kindled the fire on the altar, you turn away and say to me: 'Place it in
somebody's else care! Marry; love some sweet, devoted, lovely girl; have
children, be ambitious for them, live a virtuous life, have a happy
home--have everything, except me!'

"But, Thérèse, it is you whom I love passionately, not myself. Since I
have known you, you have been striving to make me believe in happiness
and to cultivate my taste for it. It is not your fault if I have not
become as selfish as a spoiled child. But I am worthy of a better fate.
I do not ask if your love would mean happiness to me. I simply know that
it would be life, and that, good or bad, it is that life, or death, that
I must have."




IV


Thérèse was deeply distressed by this letter. She was, as it were,
struck by lightning. Her love bore so little resemblance to Laurent's,
that she fancied that she did not love him with love, especially when
she reread the expressions used by him. There was no delirium in
Thérèse's heart, or, if there were, it had entered there, drop by
drop, so slowly that she did not notice it, and believed that she was as
thoroughly mistress of herself as on the first day. The word _passion_
offended her.

"Passions! I?" she said to herself. "In Heaven's name, does he think
that I don't know what passion is, and that I want any more of that
poisoned draught? What have I done to him, I who have given him so much
affection and thought, that he should propose to me, by way of thanks,
despair, madness, and death?--After all," she thought, "it is not his
fault, poor creature! He doesn't know what he wants, nor what he asks
for. He seeks love like the philosopher's stone, in which one strives
all the more earnestly to believe because he cannot grasp it. He thinks
that I have it, and that I amuse myself by refusing to give it to him!
There is always a touch of frenzy in whatever he thinks. How can I
appease him, and turn him aside from a fancy that is rapidly making him
unhappy?

"It is my fault; he has some right to say so. While trying to wean him
from debauchery, I familiarized him too much with a virtuous attachment;
but he is a man, and he deems our affection incomplete. Why did he
deceive me? why did he make me believe that he was tranquil when he was
with me? What shall I do to repair the idiocy of my inexperience? I have
not been enough of a woman in the matter of presumption. I did not know
that a woman, however lukewarm and weary of life she may be, can still
disturb a man's brain. I ought to have believed that I was fascinating
and dangerous, as he once told me, and to have guessed that he afterward
contradicted himself on that point only to quiet my fears. So it is a
misfortune, then,--for it certainly cannot be a sin,--not to have the
instinct of coquetry?"

Thereupon, Thérèse, searching her memory, remembered that she had
instinctively been reserved and distrustful to defend herself from the
desires of other men who were not attractive to her; with Laurent she
felt no such instinct, because she esteemed him in his friendship for
her, because she could not believe that he would seek to deceive her,
and also, it must be admitted, because she cared more for him than for
any other. Alone in her studio, she paced the floor, oppressed by a
painful sense of discomfort, sometimes glancing at the fatal letter
which she had placed on a table as if she knew not what to do with it
and could neither decide to read it again nor to destroy it, and
sometimes looking at her unfinished work on the easel. She was working
with enthusiasm and pleasure when they brought her that letter, that is
to say, that doubt, that anxiety, that amazement, and that dread. It was
like a mirage which caused all the spectres of her former miseries to
reappear upon her unclouded, peaceful horizon. Every word written on
that paper was like a hymn of death which she had heard in the past, a
prophecy of fresh misfortunes to come.

She tried to recover her serenity by resuming her painting. That was her
great remedy for all the petty ills of external life; but it was
powerless that day; the terror which that passion aroused in her
assailed her in the purest and most private sanctuary of her present
life.

"Two pleasures disturbed or destroyed," she said to herself, throwing
away her brush and taking up the letter: "work and friendship."

She passed the rest of the day without making up her mind to anything.
But one point was perfectly clear in her mind, the determination to say
no; but she proposed that it should be no in reality, and was not bent
upon announcing her decision in hot haste, with the timorous abruptness
of the woman who is afraid of succumbing unless she makes haste to
barricade the door. How to say that no from which there should be no
appeal, which should leave no hope behind, yet should not be like a
red-hot iron on the sweet memory of friendship, was a hard and bitter
problem for her to solve. That memory was her own love; when one has the
body of a dearly loved one to bury, one cannot decide, without bitter
sorrow, to place a white cloth over the face and bestow the body in the
common grave. You would fain embalm it in a grave of its own, which you
could look upon from time to time, praying for the soul of him whose
dust it contains.

Darkness came upon her before she had hit upon any expedient for denying
herself without inflicting too much pain. Catherine, seeing that she
dined with little appetite, asked her anxiously if she were ill.

"No," she replied, "I have something on my mind."

"Ah! you work too hard," said the good old woman, "you do not think
about taking care of yourself."

Thérèse raised her finger; it was a gesture with which Catherine was
familiar, and which signified: "Don't speak of that."

The hour at which Thérèse received her few friends had, for some time
past, been taken advantage of by Laurent only. Although the door stood
open for whoever chose to come, he alone came, whether because the
others were away from Paris--it was the season for going into the
country or remaining there--or because they had detected in Thérèse a
certain preoccupation, an involuntary and poorly concealed desire to
talk exclusively with Monsieur de Fauvel.

Laurent usually arrived at eight, and Thérèse said to herself as she
glanced at the clock:

"I did not answer his letter; he won't come to-day."

There was a horrible void in her heart as she added:

"He must never come again."

How was she to pass that endless evening, which she was accustomed to
pass in conversation with her young friend, while she worked at some
little sketch or some fancy-work, and he smoked his cigar,
half-reclining lazily on the cushions of the couch? It occurred to her
to escape the impending ennui by calling upon a friend in Faubourg
Saint-Germain, with whom she sometimes went to the play; but her friend
always retired early, and it would be too late when she arrived. It was
such a long way, and the cabs moved so slowly! Then, too, she would have
to dress, and Thérèse, who lived in slippers, like all artists who
work with enthusiasm and cannot bear to be incommoded by their clothes,
was very indolent in the matter of arraying herself in visiting costume.
Suppose she should put on a veil and a shawl, send for a cab, and drive
slowly through the deserted avenues of the Bois de Boulogne? Thérèse
had sometimes taken such a drive with Laurent, when the evening heat was
so stifling that they sought a breath of fresh air under the trees. Such
excursions with anybody else would have compromised her seriously; but
Laurent guarded religiously the secret of her confidence, and they both
took delight in the unconventionality of those mysterious
tête-à-têtes, which concealed no mystery. She remembered them as if
they were already far away, and said to herself, sighing at the thought
that they would never return:

"Those were happy times! They can never come again for him who suffers,
or for me who am no longer in ignorance of it."

At nine o'clock, she at last attempted to answer Laurent's letter, but a
peal of the bell made her heart beat fast. It was he! She rose to tell
Catherine to say that she had gone out. Catherine returned: it was only
a letter from him. Thérèse had an involuntary thrill of regret that it
was not himself.

There were only these few words in the letter:


"Adieu, Thérèse! you do not love me, and I love you like a child!"


These two lines made Thérèse tremble from head to foot. The only
passion that she had never striven to extinguish in her heart was
maternal love. That wound, although apparently healed, was still
bleeding like unsatisfied love.

"Like a child!" she repeated, crumpling the letter in her quivering
hands. "He loves me like a child! _Mon Dieu_! what does he mean by that?
does he know how he hurts me? _Adieu_! My boy had learned to say
_adieu_! but he did not say it when they carried him away. I should have
heard him! and I shall never hear him again!"

Thérèse was overexcited, and, as her emotion seized upon the most
painful of pretexts for manifesting itself, she burst into tears.

"Did you call me?" said Catherine, entering the room. "_Mon Dieu_! what
is the matter? You are weeping as you used to in the old days!"

"Nothing, nothing, leave me," replied Thérèse. "If any one comes to
see me, say that I have gone to the theatre. I want to be alone. I am
ill."

Catherine left the room, but went into the garden. She had seen Laurent
creeping stealthily along the hedge.

"Do not sulk like this," she said. "I don't know why my mistress is
crying; but it must be your fault, you make her unhappy. She doesn't
want to see you. Go, ask her pardon!"

Catherine, despite all her respect for Thérèse and devotion to her,
was satisfied that Laurent was her lover.

"She is weeping?" he cried. "Oh! _mon Dieu_! why is she weeping?"

And he rushed across the little garden and threw himself at Thérèse's
feet, who was sobbing in the small salon, with her face in her hands.

Laurent would have been overjoyed to see her thus if he had been the
rake that he sometimes sought to appear; but in reality he was
wonderfully tender-hearted, and Thérèse possessed the secret power of
arousing his real nature. The tears with which her face was bathed
caused him genuine and profound grief. On his knees he implored her to
forget his madness, and to restore him to reason by her gentleness and
good sense.

"I wish only what you wish," he said, "and since you weep for our dead
and gone friendship, I swear that I will bring it to life again rather
than cause you fresh sorrow. But let us be frank with each other, my
sweet, kind Thérèse, my dearest sister, for I no longer feel the
strength to deceive you! do you summon the courage to accept my love as
a deplorable discovery that you have made, and as a disease of which you
propose to cure me by patience and pity. I will do my utmost in that
direction, I swear to you! I will not ask you for so much as a kiss, and
I think that will not cost me so much as you might fear, for I do not
yet know whether my senses are involved in all this. No, really I do not
think it. How could it be so, after the life I have led and am at
liberty to lead still? What I feel is a thirst of the heart; why should
it frighten you? Give me a little of your heart, and take all of mine.
Consent to be loved by me, and do not tell me again that it is an insult
to you, for what drives me to despair is to see that you despise me too
much to permit me, even in a dream, to aspire to you. That lowers me so
in my own eyes that it makes me long to kill the miserable devil who so
offends your moral sense. Raise me, rather, from the slough into which I
have fallen, and bid me expiate my evil life and become worthy of you.
Yes, leave me a ray of hope! however faint it may be, it will make
another man of me. You will see, you will see, Thérèse! The mere idea
of striving to seem a better man to you gives me strength already; I can
feel it! do not take it from me. What will become of me if you spurn me?
I shall descend again all the steps I have climbed up since I have known
you. All the fruit of our sacred friendship will be lost, so far as I am
concerned. You will have tried to cure a sick man, and will have killed
him instead! And then, too, will you yourself, who are so noble and so
good, be content with your work? will you not reproach yourself for not
having conducted it to a better end? Be to me a Sister of Charity, who
does not confine herself to dressing the hurts of a wounded man, but who
strives to reconcile his soul with Heaven. Come, Thérèse, do not
withdraw your faithful hands from mine, do not turn away your face, so
lovely in sorrow. I will not leave your feet until you have at least
forgiven me for loving you, if you have not authorized me to love you!"

Thérèse could but accept this effusion as serious, for Laurent was
perfectly honest. To hold him off with distrust would have been
equivalent to an avowal of the too warm affection which she had for him;
a woman who shows fear is already vanquished. So she assumed a brave
face, and perhaps it was not mere affectation, for she believed that her
strength was still equal to the task. Indeed, she was not ill-advised by
her very weakness.

To break with him at that moment would have been to arouse terrible
emotions which it was much better to appease, reserving the right to
relax the bond gently, with skill and prudence. That might be a matter
of some days. Laurent was so impressionable, and rushed so abruptly from
one extreme to the other!

So they both calmed down, assisting each other to forget the storm, and
even exerting themselves to laugh at it, in order to afford each other
mutual encouragement touching the future; but, do what they would, their
position was essentially changed, and their intimacy had taken a giant's
stride. The fear of losing each other had brought them nearer together,
and, while vowing that there had been no change in their friendship,
there was in all their words and thoughts a sort of languor of the
heart, a sort of rapturous fatigue, which was in effect the
enfranchisement of love!


Catherine, when she brought the tea, put them completely at their ease
by her artless, maternal solicitude.

"You would do much better," she said to Thérèse, "to eat the wing of a
chicken instead of making a hole in your stomach with this tea!--Do you
know," she said to Laurent, pointing at her mistress, "that she never
touched her dinner?"

"Then let her sup at once!" cried Laurent. "Don't say no, Thérèse; you
must do it! What in Heaven's name would become of me if you should be
taken sick?"

And as Thérèse refused to eat, for she really was not hungry, he
declared, at a sign from Catherine urging him to insist, that he was
hungry himself; and that was quite true, for he had forgotten to dine.
Thereupon Thérèse was delighted to give him some supper; and they ate
together for the first time, which was no trivial occurrence in
Thérèse's lonely and modest life. To eat together is one of the
greatest promoters of intimacy. It is the satisfaction in common of a
material necessity of existence, and if you seek a loftier meaning in
it, it is a communion, as the word indicates.

Laurent, whose ideas naturally took a poetic turn, even in the midst of
merriment, laughingly compared himself to the Prodigal Son, for whom
Catherine made haste to kill the fatted calf. This fatted calf, which
presented itself in the guise of a meagre chicken, naturally added to
the gaiety of the two friends. It was so little for the young man's
appetite to feed upon, that Thérèse was distressed. The quarter was
sadly lacking in resources, and Laurent insisted that Catherine should
not put herself out for him. In the depths of a closet they unearthed a
huge jar of guava jelly. It was a present from Palmer, which Thérèse
had forgotten to open, but which Laurent opened and attacked with great
zest, talking meanwhile with the utmost warmth of the excellent Dick, of
whom he had been foolish enough to be jealous, and whom he should love
thenceforth with all his heart.

"You see, Thérèse," he said, "how unjust disappointment makes us!
Believe me, children should be spoiled. Only those who are treated
gently, turn out well. So give me plenty of guavas, now and always!
Harshness is not simply a bitter gall, it is a deadly poison!"

When the tea arrived, Laurent discovered that he had devoured the
chicken like a selfish glutton, and that Thérèse had eaten nothing at
all. He rebuked himself for his heedlessness and confessed it; then he
dismissed Catherine, and insisted upon making the tea himself and
waiting on Thérèse. It was the first time in his life that he had ever
waited on any one, and he found therein an exquisite enjoyment which he
recognized with ingenuous surprise.


[Illustration: _THEIR FIRST SUPPER._

"_Now", said Laurent to Thérèse, as he knelt to
offer her her cup, "I can understand how one can be
a servant and enjoy his profession._"]


"Now," he said to Thérèse, as he knelt to offer her her cup, "I can
understand how one can be a servant and enjoy his profession."

From certain people, even the most trivial attentions have an
extraordinary value. There was in Laurent's manners, and even in his
attitudes, a certain stiffness which he never laid aside, even with
society women. He offered them attentions with the ceremonious coldness
of the most rigid etiquette. With Thérèse, who did the honors of her
little home like the excellent woman and good-humored artist that she
was, he had always been cared for and coddled without having to
reciprocate. He would have shown a lack of taste and of tact in assuming
to act as the man of the house. Suddenly, as a result of those tears and
mutual outpourings of the heart, he found himself, without in the least
understanding how it happened, invested with rights which did not belong
to him, but which he seized upon as if by inspiration, without
opposition on the part of the surprised and deeply moved Thérèse. It
seemed to him that he was under his own roof, and that he had won the
privilege of looking after the mistress of the house, like a loving
brother or an old friend. And Thérèse, without a thought of the danger
of this taking possession, watched him with wide-open, wondering eyes,
asking herself if she had not been radically mistaken hitherto in
regarding that affectionate and devoted child as a reserved and gloomy
man.

However, Thérèse reflected during the night; but, in the morning,
Laurent, who, although he had no premeditated plan, did not propose to
give her time to breathe,--for he had ceased to breathe himself,--sent
her magnificent flowers, rare sweetmeats, and a note so loving, so
gentle and respectful, that she could not fail to be touched by it. He
said that he was the happiest of men, that he desired nothing more
except her forgiveness, and that, as soon as he had obtained that, he
should be the king of the world. He would accept any deprivation, any
harsh decree, provided only that he was not forbidden to see and talk
with his friend. That alone would be beyond his strength; all the rest
was as nothing. He was well aware that Thérèse could have no love for
him; which fact did not deter him from saying, ten lines lower down: "Is
not our sanctified love indissoluble?"

And stating thus the pros and the con's, the false and the true, a
hundred times a day, with a candor by which he was unquestionably
deceived himself, encompassing Thérèse with delicate attentions,
striving with all his heart to give her confidence in the chastity of
their relations, and at every instant talking to her in a lofty strain
of his adoration for her, seeking to divert her when she was disturbed
in mind, to cheer her when she was sad, to melt her toward himself when
she was stern, he led her insensibly to the point where she had no other
will and no other existence than his.

Nothing is so perilous as those intimacies in which the parties have
exchanged a promise not to attack each other, when neither of the two
inspires a secret physical repulsion in the other. Artists, because of
their independent life and the nature of their occupations, which oblige
them often to depart from social conventions, are more exposed to these
perils than they who live by rule and whose imaginations are less
active. We should forgive them, therefore, for more sudden impressions
and more feverish impulses. Public opinion realizes this duty, for it is
generally more indulgent to those who go astray, perforce, in the
tempest than those whose lives are passed in a flat calm. And then the
world demands from artists the fire of inspiration, and that fire, which
overflows for the enjoyment and enthusiasm of the public, must
inevitably consume themselves in time. Then we pity them; and the honest
bourgeois, returning to his family at night, after learning of their
misfortunes and downfall, says to his excellent and gentle helpmeet:

"You remember that poor girl who sang so well? she is dead of a broken
heart. And that famous poet who wrote such fine verses has killed
himself. It's a great pity, wife. All those people end badly. We, the
simple creatures, are the happy ones."

And the honest bourgeois is right.

Thérèse had lived a long while, however, if not as an honest
bourgeois,--for one must have a family for that, and God had denied her
a family,--at all events as a hard-working young woman, working from
early morning, and not regaling herself with pleasure or sloth at the
end of her day's work. She constantly aspired to the joys of a regular,
domestic life; she loved order, and, far from displaying the childish
contempt which certain artists lavished upon what they called, in those
days, the grocer class, she bitterly regretted that she had not married
in that safe and modest social circle where she would have found
affection and security instead of talent and renown. But we do not
choose our own destinies, for fools and ambitious mortals are not the
only imprudent wights whom destiny overwhelms.




V


Thérèse had no weakness for Laurent in the ironical, libertine sense
in which that word is commonly used in love. It was by an effort of her
will that she said to him, after many nights of painful meditation:

"I wish what you wish, because we have reached the point where the sin
still to be committed is the inevitable reparation of a succession of
sins already committed. I have been culpable toward you, in not having
had the selfish prudence to fly from you; it is better that I should be
culpable toward myself by remaining your companion and your consolation,
at the price of my peace of mind and my pride.--Listen," she added,
grasping his hand with all the strength of which she was capable, "do
not withdraw this hand, and, whatever happens, always retain enough
honor and courage to remember that before being your mistress I was
_your friend_. I said it to myself on the first day of your passion: we
loved each other too well thus, not to love each other less well under
other circumstances; but that happiness could not last for me, because
you no longer share it, and pain has taken the upper hand in that
liaison, in which for you pain and pleasure are mingled. I simply ask
you, if you become weary of my love, as you become weary of my
friendship, to remember that it is not an instant of frenzy that has
driven me into your arms, but an impulse of my heart and a more loving
and lasting sentiment than voluptuous intoxication. I am not superior to
other women, and I do not assume the right to deem myself invulnerable;
but I love you so ardently and so purely that I should never have
transgressed with you, if you could have been saved by my strength.
After I had believed that strength was beneficial to you, that it would
teach you to discover your own strength and to purge yourself of an evil
past, I found that you were convinced of the contrary, so convinced that
to-day the contrary has actually happened: you are becoming bitter, and
it seems that, if I resist, you are ready to hate me and to return to
your life of debauchery, blaspheming even our poor friendship. And so I
offer to God the sacrifice of my life for you. If I am destined to
suffer because of your nature or your past, so be it. I shall be amply
repaid if I rescue you from the suicide you were in a fair way to commit
when I first knew you. If I do not succeed, I shall at least have made
the trial, and God, who knows how sincere my devotion is, will pardon me
if it is of no avail!"

In the early days of this union, Laurent's enthusiasm, gratitude, and
faith were admirable to see. He rose superior to himself, he had
outbursts of religious fervor, he blessed his dear mistress for having
made known to him at last the true, chaste, and noble love of which he
had dreamed so much, and of which he had thought that he was to be
deprived forever by his own fault. She dipped him anew, he said, in the
waters of his baptism, she wiped out even the memory of his evil days.
It was adoration, worship, ecstatic contemplation.

Thérèse ingenuously believed in him. She abandoned herself to the joy
of having caused all that happiness and restored all that grandeur of
soul to one of God's elect. She forgot all her apprehensions, or smiled
at them as meaningless dreams which she had mistaken for arguments. They
laughed at them together; they reproached themselves for having
misunderstood each other and for not having thrown themselves on each
other's neck the very first day, they were so perfectly adapted to
understand, appreciate, and cherish each other. There was no more talk
of prudence, no more sermons. Thérèse had grown ten years younger. She
was a child, more childish than Laurent himself; she devoted all her
energies to the task of arranging his existence so that he would not
feel the fold of a rose-leaf.

Poor Thérèse! Her intoxication did not last eight whole days.

Whence comes that terrible chastisement inflicted on those who have
abused the forces of youth, a chastisement which consists in making them
incapable of appreciating the joys of a harmonious and logical
existence? Is the young man a very great criminal who, being launched in
the world without a curb and with boundless aspirations, deems himself
capable of exterminating all the phantoms that pass, of mastering all
the pleasures that beckon to him? Is his sin anything else than
ignorance, and could he have learned in his cradle that life should be a
constant battle with one's self? There are some of these young men who
are really to be pitied, and whom it is difficult to condemn, some who
may have been without a guide, a careful mother, a judicious friend, a
sincere first mistress. Vertigo has seized them at the outset;
corruption has hurled itself upon them as upon its lawful prey, to make
brutes of those who have more senses than heart, to make madmen of those
who struggle, as Laurent did, between the mire of reality and the ideal
of their dreams.

That is what Thérèse said to herself in order to keep on loving that
suffering soul, and why she endured the outrages we are about to
describe.

The seventh day of their happiness was irrevocably the last. That
ill-fated figure was never absent from Thérèse's mind. Fortuitous
circumstances combined to prolong that eternity of joy throughout a
whole week; no one with whom she was intimate had come to see Thérèse,
she had no work that was urgent; Laurent promised to set to work afresh
as soon as he could resume possession of his studio, then in the hands
of workmen who were making certain repairs. The heat in Paris was most
oppressive; he proposed to Thérèse that they should pass forty-eight
hours in the country, in the woods. It was the seventh day.

They set off by boat, and arrived at night-fall at a hotel. After
dinner, they went out to ride in the forest in the lovely moonlight.
They hired horses and a guide, who soon wearied them by his boastful
loquacity. They had ridden about two leagues when they came to the foot
of a cliff with which Laurent was familiar. He proposed to dismiss the
horses and the guide, and to return on foot, even if it were a little
late.

"I am sure," said Thérèse, "I don't know why we should not pass the
whole night in the forest. There are no wolves or thieves here. Let us
stay as long as you choose, and never go back, if you say so."

They were left alone; and thereupon a strange, almost impossible scene
occurred, which we must describe just as it happened. They had climbed
to the top of the cliff, and were sitting on the thick moss, which was
burned and withered by the intense heat. Laurent was gazing at the
magnificent spectacle of the sky, where the moon dimmed the brilliancy
of the stars. Only two or three of the largest could be distinguished in
the zenith. Laurent, lying on his back, gazed at them.

"I would like to know," he said, "the name of this one almost over my
head; it seems to be looking at me."

"That is Vega," said Thérèse.

"So you know the names of all the stars, do you, my learned lady?"

"Of almost all. It isn't difficult, and in fifteen minutes you shall
know as many as I do, if you choose."

"No, thanks; I much prefer not to know them; I prefer to give them names
of my own."

"And you are right."

"I prefer to roam at random among those lines up yonder, and arrange
combinations of groups according to my own ideas, rather than walk
according to the whims of other people. After all, perhaps I am wrong,
Thérèse! You prefer the beaten paths, don't you?"

"They are softer for tender feet. I haven't seven-league boots like
you!"

"What sarcasm! you know very well that you are a stronger and better
walker than I!"

"That is easily understood: it is because I have no wings to fly."

"See to it that you don't get hold of any and leave me behind! But let
us not talk about parting: that word would make the heavens weep!"

"What! who has any idea of such a thing? Don't say that ghastly word
again!"

"No, no! let's not think of it!" he cried, springing suddenly to his
feet.

"What's the matter, and where are you going?" she said.

"I don't know," he replied. "Ah! by the way----There's an extraordinary
echo here, and the last time I came here with little--you don't care to
know her name, do you? I enjoyed listening to it here, while she sang on
yonder little hillock, just opposite us."

Thérèse made no reply. He saw that this unseasonable evocation of one
of his undesirable acquaintances was not a very delicate contribution to
the joys of a romantic midnight expedition with the queen of his heart.
Why had it come into his head? how was it that the name of some foolish
virgin or other had come to his lips? He was mortified by his blunder;
but, instead of ingenuously blaming himself for it and wooing oblivion
by torrents of loving words which he was quite capable of pouring forth
when passion inspired his heart, he determined to brazen it out, and
asked Thérèse if she would sing for him.

"I could not do it," she replied, gently. "It is a long while since I
have ridden, and it has made me a little oppressed."

"If it is only a little, make an effort, Thérèse; it will give me so
much pleasure!"

Thérèse was too proud to be angry, she was only grieved. She turned
her face away, and pretended to cough.

"Well, well," said he, laughingly, "you are only a poor weak woman! And
then you don't believe in my echo, I can see that. I propose that you
shall hear it. Stay here. I will climb up to the top of the hill. You
are not afraid to remain alone for five minutes, I trust?"

"No," replied Thérèse, "I am not at all afraid."

To climb to the other height, he had to go down into the little ravine
which separated it from that on which they were; but the ravine was
deeper than it seemed. When Laurent, having gone down half-way, saw how
far he still had to go, he stopped, reluctant to leave Thérèse alone
so long, and called to her, asking if she had called him.

"No, indeed I did not!" she shouted, not wishing to thwart his caprice.

It is impossible to describe what took place in Laurent's brain; he took
that _indeed I did not_ for a rebuke, and continued to descend, but less
quickly, and musing as he walked.

"I have wounded her," he said, "and now she is sulky, as in the days
when we played at being brother and sister. Is she going to continue to
have these moody fits, now that she is my mistress? But why did I wound
her? I was wrong, certainly, but it was unintentional. It is impossible
that some scrap of my past should not come to my mind now and then. Is
it to be an insult to her and a mortification to me every time? What
does my past matter to her, since she has accepted me as I am? And yet I
was wrong! yes, I was wrong; but will she never happen to mention the
wretch whom she loved and thought she had married? In spite of herself,
Thérèse when she is with me will remember the days she lived without
me, and shall I twist it into a crime?"

He instantly answered his own question:

"Oh! yes, it would be intolerable! So I have done very wrong, and I
ought to have asked her pardon at once."

But he had already reached that stage of mental fatigue when the mind is
sated with enthusiasm, and when the weak and shrinking creature that
every one of us is, to a greater or less extent, feels that he must
resume possession of himself.

"Must humble myself again, promise again, persuade again, shed tears
again?" he said to himself. "Great God! can't she be happy and trustful
for a single week? It's my fault, I agree, but it's hers still more for
making so much out of so little, and spoiling this lovely poetic night
which I had planned to pass with her in one of the loveliest spots on
earth. I have been here before with rakes and wantons, it is true; but
to what corner of the outskirts of Paris could I have taken her where I
was not likely to run against some such unpleasant reminiscence? Surely
they can hardly be said to enchant me, and it is almost cruel to
reproach me with them."

As he replied thus in his heart to the reproaches with which Thérèse
was probably upbraiding him in hers, he reached the bottom of the
ravine, where he felt disturbed and fatigued as after a quarrel, and
threw himself on the grass in a fit of annoyance and weariness. For
seven whole days he had not belonged to himself; he was conscious of a
longing to reconquer his liberty, and to fancy himself alone and
unsubdued for a moment.

Thérèse, for her part, was heart-broken and terrified at the same
time. Why had the word _parting_ been suddenly hurled at her like a
shrill cry amid that tranquil atmosphere that they were breathing
together? what was the occasion of it? how had she provoked it? She
tried in vain to determine. Laurent himself could not have explained it
to her. All that had followed was grossly cruel, and how angry he must
have been, that man of exquisite breeding, to have said it! But what was
the cause of his anger? Had he a serpent within him that gnawed his
heart and extorted from him wild and blasphemous words?

She had followed him with her eyes down the slope until he had entered
the dark shadow of the ravine. Then she saw him no more, and was
surprised at the time that elapsed before he appeared on the slope of
the other hill. She was frightened at last--he might have fallen over
some precipice. In vain did her eager glances question the grass-grown
depths, bristling with huge, dark rocks. She rose, intending to call to
him, when an indescribable cry of distress reached her ears, a hoarse,
ghastly, desperate shriek, which made her hair stand on end.

She darted away like an arrow in the direction of the voice. If there
had really been a precipice, she would have rushed over the edge without
reflection; but there was only a steep incline, where she slipped
several times on the moss and tore her dress on the bushes. Nothing
stopped her; she reached Laurent's side, how, she knew not, and found
him on his feet, with haggard eyes and trembling convulsively.

"Ah! here you are," he said, grasping her arm; "you did well to come! I
should have died!"

And, like Don Juan after the reply of the statue, he added in a sharp,
abrupt tone: "_Let us go away from here_!"

He led her to the road, walking at random, and unable to tell what had
happened to him.

He became calmer at last, after ten or fifteen minutes, and sat down
beside her in a clearing. They had no idea where they were; the ground
was strewn with flat rocks which resembled tombs, and among them grew
juniper-trees, which one might well have mistaken at night for
cypresses.

"_Mon Dieu_!" said Laurent, suddenly, "are we in a cemetery? Why did you
bring me here?"

"It is simply a tract of untilled land," she replied. "We passed through
many similar ones this evening. If you don't like it, let's not stop
here, but go back under the large trees."

"No, let us stay here," he rejoined. "Since chance or destiny brings
these thoughts of death into my mind, I may as well face them and
exhaust their horror. They have their charm, like everything else, have
they not, Thérèse? Everything that moves the imagination powerfully,
affords us enjoyment, more or less painful. When a head is to fall on
the scaffold, the multitude goes to see, and it is altogether natural.
We cannot live upon mild emotions alone; we need terrible emotions to
make us realize the intensity of life."

He spoke thus, as if at random, for some moments. Thérèse dared not
question him, and strove to divert his thoughts; she saw that he had had
an attack of delirium. At last, he recovered sufficiently to desire and
to be able to describe it to her.

He had had an hallucination. As he lay on the grass, in the ravine, his
brain had become confused. He had heard the echo sing all by itself, and
its song was an obscene refrain. Then, as he raised himself on his elbow
to seek an explanation of the phenomenon, he had seen a man rush toward
him over the grass, a pale-faced man, with torn garments, and his hair
flying in the wind.

"I saw him so plainly," he said, "that I had time to say to myself that
he was some belated citizen who had been surprised and pursued by
robbers, and I even looked for my cane to go to his assistance, but my
cane was lost in the grass, and the man was still running toward me.
When he was close to me, I saw that he was drunk and that no one was
chasing him. As he passed me, he cast a stupid, hideous glance at me,
and made a fiendish grimace of hatred and contempt. Then I was afraid,
and threw myself face downward on the ground, for that man--was
myself!--Yes, it was my ghost, Thérèse. Don't be frightened, don't
think me mad, it was a vision. I realized it when I found myself alone
in the darkness. I could not have distinguished the features of any
human face, I had seen that one only in my imagination; but how
distinct, how ghastly, how horrible it was. It was myself twenty years
older, with features wasted by debauchery or disease, wild eyes, a
brutalized mouth, and, despite the total wiping out of my vitality,
there was enough energy remaining in that phantom to insult and defy the
creature that I am now. Thereupon, I said to myself: 'O my God! is that
what I shall be in my mature years?' This evening, there came into my
mind the memory of some miserable past experiences of mine, and I
blurted them out involuntarily; is it because I still bear within me
that old man from whom I believed that I was free? The spectre of
debauchery will not release his victims, and even in Thérèse's arms he
will mock at me and cry: '_It is too late_!'

"Then I rose to go back to you, my poor Thérèse. I intended to ask
your pardon for my vileness and to beg you to save me; but I don't know
how many minutes or centuries I should have turned round and round,
unable to take a step forward, if you had not come to me at last. I
recognized you instantly, Thérèse; I was not afraid of you, and I felt
that I was saved."

It was difficult to determine, when Laurent talked thus, whether he was
telling of something that had really happened, or whether he had
confused in his brain an allegory born of his bitter reflections and a
vision which he had seen indistinctly in a sort of half-sleep. He swore,
however, that he did not fall asleep on the grass, and that he had not
once lost consciousness of the place where he was or of the passage of
time; but even that was difficult to decide. Thérèse had lost sight of
him, and to her the time had seemed mortally long.

She asked him if he were subject to these hallucinations.

"Yes," he said, "when I am drunk; but I have been drunk with love only,
in the fortnight that you have been mine."

"The fortnight!" echoed Thérèse in amazement.

"No, less than that," he replied; "don't split hairs with me about
dates; you see that I have not my wits as yet. Let us walk, that will
fix me all right."

"But you need rest; we must think of returning to the hotel."

"Well, what are we doing?"

"We are not going in the right direction; our backs are turned to our
starting-point."

"Do you want me to go back over that infernal rock?"

"No, but let us go to the right."

"That is just the wrong direction."

Thérèse insisted that she was not mistaken. Laurent refused to yield;
he even lost his temper, and spoke in an irritated tone, as if that were
a subject for quarrelling. Thérèse yielded at last, and followed where
he chose to go. She was completely crushed by emotion and sadness.
Laurent had spoken to her in a tone which she had never dreamed of
assuming with Catherine, even when the old servant angered her. She
forgave him because she felt that he was ill; but his state of painful
excitement alarmed her so much the more.

Thanks to Laurent's obstinacy, they lost themselves in the forest,
walked about four hours, and did not return to the hotel until daybreak.
The walking in the fine, heavy sand of the forest is very fatiguing.
Thérèse could hardly drag herself along, and Laurent, revivified by
that violent exercise, did not think of slackening his pace out of
regard for her. He walked ahead, constantly asserting that he had found
the right path, asking her from time to time if she were tired, and
never suspecting that, when she answered no, her purpose was to spare
him any regret for having caused the misadventure.

The next day, Laurent had forgotten all about it; he had suffered a
severe shock, however, from that strange attack, but it is a peculiarity
of excessively nervous temperaments that they recover from such shocks
as if by magic. Indeed, Thérèse had occasion to notice, that on the
day following that lamentable experience it was she who was utterly
exhausted, while he seemed to have acquired fresh strength.

She had not slept, expecting to find him suffering from some serious
illness; but he took a bath, and felt quite disposed to repeat the
excursion. He seemed to have forgotten how disastrous that nocturnal
experience had been to the honeymoon! The melancholy impression soon
wore away, so far as Thérèse was concerned. When they returned to
Paris, she imagined that nothing had changed between them; but that same
evening Laurent chose to draw a caricature of Thérèse and himself
wandering through the forest by moonlight, he with his wild, distraught
look, she with her torn gown and her fatigue-stricken body. Artists are
so accustomed to make caricatures of one another, that Thérèse was
amused by this one; but, although she, too, had plenty of facility and
humor at the end of her pencil, she would not have caricatured Laurent
for anything in the world; and when she saw him sketch from a comical
standpoint that nocturnal scene which had so tortured her, she was
deeply grieved. It seemed to her that there are certain sorrows of the
heart which can never have a ridiculous side.

Laurent, instead of understanding her feeling, became still more
satirical. He wrote under his own figure: _Lost in the forest and in his
mistress's heart_; and under Thérèse's: _Her heart is as sadly rent as
her gown_. The picture was entitled: _Honeymoon in a Cemetery_.
Thérèse forced herself to smile; she praised the drawing, which,
despite its buffoonery, revealed the hand of the master, and she made no
reflection on the unfortunate choice of a subject. She made a mistake:
she would have done better to demand at the outset that Laurent should
not let his hilarity run about at random in long boots. She allowed him
to tread on her toes because she was still afraid that he might be ill
and might be seized with delirium in the midst of his dismal jesting.

Two or three other incidents of this nature having put her on her guard,
she began to wonder whether the unexciting, regular life which she
sought to give her friend was the regimen best adapted to that
exceptional nature. She had said to him:

"Perhaps you will be bored sometimes; but ennui is a welcome rest from
vertigo, and when your mental health has fully returned, you will be
amused by trifles and will know what real cheerfulness is."

But matters turned out differently. Laurent did not admit his ennui, but
it was impossible for him to endure it, and he vented it in strange and
bitter caprices. He lived a life of constant ups and downs. Abrupt
transitions from reverie to wild excitement, and from absolute
indifference to noisy extravagance, became with him a normal condition,
and he could not live without them. The happiness that he had found so
delicious for a few days, began to irritate him like the sight of the
sea during a flat calm.

"You are lucky," he said to Thérèse, "to wake every morning with your
heart in the same place. You see, I lose mine while I am asleep. It is
like the night-cap my nurse used to put on my head when I was a baby;
sometimes she found it at my feet and sometimes on the floor."

Thérèse said to herself that it was impossible that serenity could
come to that troubled soul all at once, and that it must become
accustomed to it by degrees. To that end, he must not be prevented from
returning sometimes to active life; but how could she arrange it so that
activity would not be a blemish, a deadly blow dealt at their ideal?
Thérèse could not be jealous of the mistresses Laurent had had
previously; but she could not understand how she could kiss his brow on
the morrow of a debauch. She must, therefore, since the work, which he
had resumed with great ardor, excited him instead of calming him, seek
with him a vent for that surplus energy. The natural vent would have
been the enthusiasm of love; but that was an additional source of
excitement, after which Laurent would fain have scaled the third heaven;
lacking the strength for that, he turned his eyes in the direction of
hell, and his brain, sometimes his very face, received a diabolical
reflection therefrom.

Thérèse studied his tastes and his caprices, and was surprised to find
them easy to satisfy. Laurent was greedy of diversion and of surprises;
it was not necessary to take him among scenes of enchantment that could
never exist in real life; it was enough to take him no matter where, and
provide some amusement for him which he did not expect. If, instead of
giving him a dinner at home, Thérèse informed him, putting on her hat
the while, that they were to dine together at a restaurant, and if she
suddenly asked him to take her to an entirely different sort of play
from the one to which she had previously asked him to take her, he was
overjoyed by that unexpected diversion and took the keenest pleasure in
it; whereas, if they simply carried out a plan marked out beforehand, he
was certain to feel an insurmountable distaste for it and a disposition
to sneer at everything. So Thérèse treated him as a convalescent
child, to whom one refuses nothing, and she chose to pay no heed to the
resultant inconveniences to which she was subjected.

The first and most serious was the danger of compromising her
reputation. She was commonly said to be, and known to be, virtuous.
Everybody was not convinced that she had never had any other lover than
Laurent; indeed, some person having reported that she had been seen in
Italy years before with the Comte de ----, who had a wife in America,
she was supposed to have been kept by the man whom she had actually
married, and we have seen that Thérèse preferred to endure that blot
upon her fame rather than engage in a scandalous contest with the
miserable wretch whom she had loved; but every one was agreed in
considering her a prudent and sensible woman.

"She keeps up appearances," people said; "there is never any rivalry or
scandal about her; all her friends respect her and speak well of her.
She is a clever woman, and seeks nothing more than to pass unnoticed;
which fact adds to her merit."

When she was seen away from home, on Laurent's arm, people began to be
surprised, and the blame was all the more severe because she had kept
clear of it so long. Laurent's talent was highly esteemed by artists
generally, but he had very few real friends among them. They took it ill
of him that he played the gentleman with fashionable young men of
another class, and, on the other hand, his friends in that other class
could not understand his conversion and did not believe in it. So that
Thérèse's fond and devoted love was regarded as a frenzied caprice.
Would a chaste woman have chosen for her lover, in preference to all the
serious men of her acquaintance, the only one who had led a dissolute
life with all the vilest harlots in Paris? And, in the eyes of those who
did not choose to condemn Thérèse, Laurent's violent passion seemed to
be simply a successful piece of lechery, of which he was shrewd enough
to shake himself clear when he was weary of it.

Thus on all sides Mademoiselle Jacques lost caste on account of the
choice which she had made and which she seemed desirous to advertise.

Such, unquestionably, was not Thérèse's purpose; but with Laurent,
although he had resolved to encompass her with respect, it was hardly
possible to conceal her mode of life. He could not renounce the outside
world, and she must either let him return thither alone to his
destruction or go with him to preserve him from destruction. He was
accustomed to see the crowd and to be seen by it. When he had lived in
retirement a single day, he fancied that he had fallen into a cellar,
and shouted lustily for gas and sunlight.

In addition to this loss of consideration, Thérèse was called upon to
make another sacrifice: she was no longer sure of her footing
pecuniarily. Hitherto she had earned enough money by her work to live
comfortably, but only by observing strict regularity in her habits, by
looking carefully after her expenses, and by working faithfully and
regularly. Laurent's passion for the unexpected soon straitened her. She
concealed her position from him, being unwilling to refuse to sacrifice
to him that priceless time which constitutes the larger part of the
artist's capital.

But all this was simply the frame of a much gloomier picture, over which
Thérèse threw a veil so thick that no one suspected her unhappiness,
and her friends, scandalized or distressed by her situation, held aloof
from her, saying:

"She is intoxicated. Let us wait until she opens her eyes; that will
come very soon."

It had already come. Thérèse acquired more and more thoroughly every
day the sad certainty that Laurent no longer loved her, or loved her so
little that there was no further hope of happiness, either for him or
for her, in their union. It was in Italy that they both became
absolutely certain of the fact, and we are now to describe their journey
thither.




VI


Laurent had long wanted to see Italy; it had been his dream from
childhood, and the unhoped-for sale of certain of his paintings made it
possible at last for him to realize that dream. He offered to take
Thérèse, proudly displaying his little fortune, and swearing by all he
held dear that, if she would not go with him, he would abandon the trip.
Thérèse knew well that he would not abandon it without regret and
without bitterly reproaching her. So she exerted her utmost ingenuity to
obtain some money herself. She succeeded by pledging her future work;
and they set out late in the autumn.

Laurent had formed some very erroneous ideas concerning Italy, and
expected to find spring in December as soon as he caught sight of the
Mediterranean. He had to acknowledge his error, and to suffer from a
very sharp attack of frosty weather on the trip from Marseille to Genoa.
Genoa pleased him immensely, and as there were many pictures to see
there, as it was the principal object of the journey so far as he was
concerned, he readily agreed to stay there one or two months, and hired
furnished apartments.

After a week, Laurent had seen everything, and Thérèse was just
beginning to settle down to painting; for it should be said here that
she was obliged to work. In order to obtain a few thousand-franc notes,
she had made an agreement with a dealer in pictures to bring him copies
of several unpublished portraits, which he proposed to have engraved. It
was not an unpleasant task; the dealer, being a man of taste, had
specified a number of portraits by Van Dyck, one at Genoa, one at
Florence, etc. The copying of that master required a special gift, by
virtue of which Thérèse had developed her own talent and earned a
livelihood before she undertook to paint portraits on her own account;
but she must needs begin by obtaining permission from the owners of
those masterpieces; and, although she exerted herself to the utmost, a
whole week passed before she was able to begin to copy the portrait at
Genoa.

Laurent felt in nowise disposed to copy anything under heaven. His
individuality was too pronounced and too fiery for that sort of work. He
was benefited in other ways by the sight of great works. That was his
right. And yet, many a great master, having so excellent an opportunity,
would have been likely to take advantage of it. Laurent was not yet
twenty-five years of age, and might still learn. That was Thérèse's
opinion, who also saw an opportunity for him to increase his pecuniary
resources. If he would have condescended to copy a Titian,--who was his
favorite among the masters,--there was no doubt that the same dealer who
had commissioned Thérèse would have bought it or found a purchaser for
it. Laurent considered that an absurd idea. So long as he had money in
his pocket, he could not conceive how one could descend from the lofty
realms of art so far as to think of gain. He left Thérèse absorbed in
contemplation of her model, joking her a little in anticipation on the
Van Dyck she was going to paint, and trying to dishearten her with the
terrible task she had the courage to undertake. Then he roamed about the
city, sorely perplexed as to how he should employ the six weeks which
Thérèse had asked for the completion of her work.

Certainly, she had no time to spare with the short, dark, December days,
and facilities for working not to be compared with those of her own
studio in Paris: a wretched light, an enormous room heated very slightly
or not at all, and swarms of chattering tourists who, on the pretext of
looking at her work, planted themselves in front of her, or annoyed her
with their absurd or impertinent reflections. Ill with a severe cold,
depressed, and, above all, alarmed by the traces of ennui which she
spied in Laurent's eyes, she returned to their apartments at night to
find him out of temper, or to wait for him until hunger drove him home.
Two days did not pass without his reproaching her for having accepted a
degrading task, and urging her to abandon it. Had not he money enough
for both, and why should his mistress refuse to share it with him?

Thérèse held firm; she knew that money would not last in Laurent's
hands, and that he very likely would not have enough to return home when
he was tired of Italy. She begged him to let her work, and to work
himself according to his own ideas, but as every artist can and should
work when he has his future to build.

He agreed that she was right, and resolved to set to work. He unpacked
his boxes, found a studio, and made several sketches; but, whether
because of the change of air and of habits, or because of the too recent
sight of so many chefs-d'œuvres which had moved him deeply and which he
required time to digest, he was conscious of a temporary impotence, and
fell into one of those fits of the blues which he could not throw off
alone. It would have required some excitement coming from without,
superb music descending from the ceiling, an Arabian steed coming
through the key-hole, an unfamiliar literary masterpiece at his hand,
or, still better, a naval engagement in the harbor of Genoa, an
earthquake, or any other exciting event, pleasurable or terrible, which
would take him out of himself, and under the spell of which he would
feel lifted up and revivified.

Suddenly, amid his vague and confused aspirations, an evil idea sought
him out in spite of himself.

"When I think," he reflected, "that _formerly_" (that was the way he
referred to the time when he did not love Thérèse) "the slightest
pleasure was enough to restore me to life! I have to-day many things of
which I used to dream--money, that is to say, six months of leisure and
liberty, Italy under my feet, the sea at my door, a mistress as loving
as a mother, and at the same time a serious and intelligent friend; and
all these are not enough to rekindle my energy! Whose fault is it? Not
mine, surely. I was not spoiled, and formerly it did not require so much
to divert me. When I think that the lightest wine used to go to my head
as quickly as the most generous vintage; that any saucy minx, with a
provoking glance and a problematical costume, was enough to raise my
spirits and to persuade me that such a conquest made me like one of the
heroes of the Regency! Did I need an ideal creature like Thérèse? How
in the devil did I ever persuade myself that both moral and physical
beauty were necessary to me in love? I used to be able to content myself
with the _least_; therefore the _most_ was certain to crush me, since
better is the enemy of good. And then, too, is there such a thing as
true beauty to the passions? The true is that which pleases. That with
which one is sated is as if it had never been. And then there is the
pleasure of changing, and therein, perhaps, lies the whole secret of
life. To change is to renew one's self; to be able to change is to be
free. Is the artist born to be a slave, and is it not slavery to remain
faithful, or simply to pledge one's faith?"

Laurent allowed himself to be persuaded by these old sophistries, always
new to minds that are adrift. He soon felt that he must express them to
some one, and that some one was Thérèse. So much the worse for her,
since Laurent saw no one else.

The evening conversation always began in about the same way:

"What a frightfully stupid place this is!"

One evening, he added:

"It must be a ghastly bore to be in a picture. I shouldn't like to be
that model you are copying. That poor lovely countess in the black and
gold dress, who has been hanging there two hundred years, must have
damned herself in heaven--if her soft eyes didn't damn her here--to see
her image buried in this dismal country."

"And yet," Thérèse replied, "she still has the privilege of beauty,
the triumph which survives death and which the hand of a master
perpetuates. Although she has crumbled to dust in her grave, she still
has lovers; every day I see young men, utterly insensible to the merits
of the painting, stand in ecstatic contemplation before that beauty
which seems to breathe and smile with triumphant tranquillity."

"She resembles you, Thérèse, do you know it? She has a little of the
sphinx, and I am not surprised at your admiration of her mysterious
smile. They say that artists always create after their own nature; it
was perfectly natural that you should select Van Dyck's portraits for
your apprenticeship. He made women tall and slender and elegant and
proud, like your figure."

"You have reached the stage of compliment! Stop there, for I know that
mockery will come next."

"No, I am in no mood for jesting. You know well enough that I no longer
jest. With you one must take everything seriously, and I follow the
prescription. I simply have one depressing remark to make. It is that
your dead and gone countess must be tired of being beautiful always in
the same way.--An idea, Thérèse! a fantastic vision suggested by what
you said just now. Listen."


[Illustration: _A FANTASTIC VISION._

"_A young man, who presumably had some idea
of sculpture, conceived a passion for a marble statue
on a tomb. He went mad over it, and one day the
poor devil raised the stone to see what was left of
that lovely creature in the sarcophagus._"]


"A young man, who presumably had some idea of sculpture, conceived a
passion for a marble statue on a tomb. He went mad over it, and one day
the poor devil raised the stone to see what was left of that lovely
creature in the sarcophagus. He found there--what he was certain to find
there, the idiot!--a mummy! Thereupon, his reason returned, and he
kissed the mummy, saying: 'I love you better so; at least, you are
something that has lived, while I was enamored of a stone that has never
been aware of its own existence.'"

"I don't understand," said Thérèse.

"Nor do I; but it may be that in love the statue is what one builds in
his head, and the mummy what he takes into his heart."

Another day, he sketched Thérèse, in a pensive, melancholy attitude,
in an album which she then looked through, finding there a dozen
sketches of women whose insolent attitudes and shameless expressions
made her blush. They were phantoms of the past which had passed through
Laurent's memory, and had clung to those white pages, perhaps, in spite
of him. Thérèse, without a word, tore out the leaf upon which she was
given a place in that vile company, threw it into the fire, closed the
album, and placed it on the table; then she sat down by the fire, put
her foot on the andiron, and attempted to talk of something else.

Laurent did not reply, but said to her:

"You are too proud, my dear! If you had burned all the leaves that
offended you and left only your own image in the album, I should have
understood, and I should have said: 'You do well;' but to withdraw and
leave the others there, signifies that you will never dispute possession
of me with any one."

"I disputed possession of you with debauchery," Thérèse replied; "I
shall never do so much with any of those creatures."

"Well, that is pride, I say again; it is not love. Now, I disputed
possession of you with Virtue, and I would do the same with any one of
her monks."

"Why should you? Aren't you tired of loving the statue? is not the mummy
in your heart?"

"Ah! you have a marvellous memory! Great God! what does a word amount
to? Every one interprets it as he pleases. An innocent man may be hanged
for a word. I see that I must be careful what I say with you; perhaps
the most prudent way would be never to talk together."

"_Mon Dieu_! have we reached that point?" said Thérèse, bursting into
tears.

They had reached that point. To no purpose did Laurent melt with her
tears and beg her pardon for having caused them to flow: the trouble
broke out afresh the next day.

"What do you suppose will become of me in this detestable city?" he said
to her. "You want me to work; I have tried it and I can't do it. I was
not born like you, with a little steel spring in my brain, so that I
have only to press the button to set the will at work. I am a creator!
Great or small, weak or powerful, a creator is a machine which obeys
nobody and which God sets in motion, when it seems good to Him, with His
breath or with the passing breeze. I am incapable of doing anything
whatsoever when I am bored, or when I do not like my surroundings."

"How is it possible for an intellectual man to be bored," said
Thérèse, "unless he is in a dungeon, deprived of light and air? Are
there no beautiful things to see in this city which enchanted you so the
first day, no interesting excursions to take in the neighborhood, no
good book to consult, no intelligent people to talk with?"

"I have been buried in beautiful things up to my eyes; I don't like to
drive alone; the best books irritate me when they tell me what I am not
in the mood to believe. As for making acquaintances--I have letters of
recommendation which you know very well that I can't use!"

"No, I don't know it; why not?"

"Because my friends in society naturally gave me letters to society
people here; but society people don't live shut up within four walls,
without ever thinking of amusing themselves; and as you are not in
society, Thérèse, you can't go with me, so I should have to go alone!"

"Why not in the day-time, as I have to work all day in that old palace?"

"In the day-time, people make calls, and form plans for the evening. The
evening is the time for amusement in all countries; don't you know
that?"

"Very well, go out sometimes in the evening, since it must be so: go to
balls and _conversazioni_. Don't gamble, that is all I ask."

"And that is just what I cannot promise. In society, one must devote
one's self to play or to the ladies."

"So that all men in society either ruin themselves at play, or are
involved in love-affairs?"

"Those who don't do one or the other are terribly bored in society, or
bore other people terribly. I am not a salon conversationalist myself. I
am not yet so hollow that I can procure a hearing without saying
anything. Tell me, Thérèse, do you want me to take a plunge into
society at our risk?"

"Not yet," said Thérèse; "be patient a little longer. Alas! I was not
prepared to lose you so soon!"

The sorrowful accent and heart-broken glance irritated Laurent more than
usual.

"You know," he said, "that you always bring me around to your wishes
with the slightest complaint, and you abuse your power, my poor
Thérèse. Don't you think you will be sorry for it some day, when you
find me ill and exasperated?"

"I am sorry for it already, since I weary you," she replied. "So do what
you choose!"

"Then you abandon me to my fate? Are you already weary of the struggle?
Look you, my dear, it is you who no longer love me!"

"From the tone in which you say that, it seems to me that you wish that
it should be so!"

He answered _no_, but, a moment later, his every word said _yes_.
Thérèse was too serious, too proud, too modest. She was unwilling to
descend with him from the heights of the empyrean. A hasty word seemed
to her an insult, a trivial reminiscence incurred her censure. She was
sober in everything, and had no comprehension of capricious appetites,
of extravagant fancies. She was the better of the two, unquestionably,
and if compliments were what she must have, he was ready with them; but
was it a matter of compliments between them? Was not the important thing
to devise some means of living together? Formerly, she was more
cheerfully inclined, she had been _coquettish_ with him, and she was no
longer willing to be; now, she was like a sick bird on its perch, with
feathers rumpled, head between its shoulders, and lifeless eye. Her
pale, dismal face was enough to frighten one sometimes. In that huge,
dark room, made depressing by the remains of former splendor, she
produced the effect of a ghost upon him. At times, he was really afraid
of her. Could she not fill that gloomy void with strange songs and
joyous peals of laughter?

"Come; what shall we do to shake off this deathly chill that freezes
one's shoulders? Sit down at the piano and play me a waltz. I will waltz
all by myself. Do you know how to waltz? I'll wager that you don't. You
don't know anything that isn't lugubrious!"

"Come," said Thérèse, rising, "let us leave this place at once, let
come what may! You will go mad here. It may be worse elsewhere; but I
will go through with my task to the end."

At that, Laurent lost his temper. So it was a task that she had imposed
on herself? So she was simply performing a duty in cold blood? Perhaps
she had taken a vow to the Virgin to consecrate her lover to her! All
that she lacked now was to turn nun!

He took his hat with that air of supreme disdain and of a definitive
rupture of relations which was natural to him. He went out without
saying where he was going. It was ten o'clock at night. Thérèse passed
the night in horrible distress of mind. He returned at daylight, and
locked himself into his room, closing the doors noisily. She dared not
show herself for fear of irritating him, and went softly to her own
room. It was the first time that they had gone to sleep without a word
of affection or pardon.

The next day, instead of returning to her work, she packed her boxes and
made all her preparations for departure. He woke at three in the
afternoon, and asked her laughingly what she was thinking about. He had
recovered his senses, and made up his mind what to do. He had walked
alone by the seashore during the night; he had reflected, and had become
calm once more.

"That great, roaring, monotonous sea irritated me," he said, gaily.
"First of all, I wrote some poetry. I compared myself to it. I was
tempted to throw myself into its greenish bosom! Then it seemed to me
tiresome and absurd on the part of the waves to be forever complaining
because there are cliffs along the shore. If they are not strong enough
to destroy them, let them hold their peace! Let them do like me, who do
not propose to complain any more. See how charming I am this morning; I
have determined to work, I shall remain here. I have shaved with great
care. Kiss me, Thérèse, and let us not refer again to that idiotic
last evening. Unpack these trunks and take them away quickly! don't let
me see them again! They seem like a reproach, and I no longer deserve
it."

There was a long interval between this off-hand way of making peace with
himself and the time when an anxious glance from Thérèse was enough to
make him bend both knees, and yet it was no more than three months.

Their thoughts were diverted by a surprise. Monsieur Palmer, who had
arrived in Genoa that morning, came to ask them to dine with him.
Laurent was enchanted by this diversion. Although he was always cold in
his manners toward other men, he leaped on the American's neck, saying
that he was sent by Heaven. Palmer was more surprised than flattered by
this cordial welcome. A single glance at Thérèse had sufficed to show
him that it was not the effusion of happiness. However, Laurent said
nothing of his ennui, and Thérèse was surprised to hear him praise the
city and the country. He even declared that the women were charming. How
did he know them?

At eight o'clock, he called for his overcoat and went out. Palmer would
have taken his leave at the same time.

"Why don't you stay a little longer with Thérèse?" said Laurent. "It
will please her. We are altogether alone here. I am going out for an
hour. Wait till I return before you have your tea."

At eleven, Laurent had not returned. Thérèse was very much depressed.
She made vain efforts to conceal her despair. She was no longer anxious
simply, she felt that she was lost. Palmer saw it all, and pretended to
see nothing; he talked constantly to her to try to distract her
thoughts; but, as Laurent did not come, and it was not proper to wait
for him after midnight, he took his leave after pressing Thérèse's
hand. Involuntarily he told her by that pressure that he was not
deceived by her courage, and that he realized the extent of her
disaster.

Laurent arrived at that moment, and saw Thérèse's emotion. He was no
sooner alone with her, than he began to jest with her in a tone which
affected not to descend to jealousy.

"Come," said she, "do not impose unnecessary pain upon me. Do you think
that Palmer is paying court to me? Let us go, I have already suggested
it."

"No, my dear, I am not so absurd as that. Now that you have somebody for
company, and allow me to go out a little on my own account, everything
is all right, and I feel just in the mood to work."

"God grant it!" said Thérèse. "I will do whatever you wish; but, if
you rejoice because I have somebody to talk with, have the good taste
not to refer to it as you did just now; for I cannot stand it."

"What the devil are you angry about now? what did I say that hurt you
so, pray tell me? You are becoming far too sensitive and suspicious, my
dear friend! What harm would be done if the excellent Palmer should fall
in love with you?"

"It would be very wrong in you to leave me alone with him, if you think
what you say."

"Ah! it would be wrong--to expose you to danger? You see that there is
danger, according to your own story, and that I was not mistaken!"

"Very good! then let us pass our evenings together and receive no one. I
am perfectly content. Is it a bargain?"

"You are very good, my dear Thérèse. Forgive me. I will stay with you,
and we will see whomever you choose; that will be the best and
pleasantest arrangement."

In truth, Laurent seemed to have come to his senses. He began a serious
study in his studio, and invited Thérèse to come to see it. Several
days passed without a storm. Palmer had not reappeared. But Laurent soon
wearied of that regular life and went in search of him, reproaching him
for his desertion of his friends. No sooner did he come to pass the
evening with them than Laurent invented a pretext for going out, and
remained away until midnight.

One week passed in this way, then another. Laurent gave Thérèse one
evening out of three or four, and such an evening! she would have
preferred solitude.

Where did he go? She never knew. He did not appear in society: the damp,
cold weather precluded the idea that he went on the water for pleasure.
However, he often said that he had been on a boat, and his clothes smelt
of tar. He was learning to row, taking lessons of a fisherman in the
harbor. He pretended that the fatigue calmed the excitement of his
nerves, and put him in good condition for the next day's labor.
Thérèse no longer dared to go to his studio. He seemed annoyed when
she expressed a wish to see his work. He did not want her reflections
when he was working out his own idea, nor did he wish to have her come
there and say nothing, which would make him feel as if she were inclined
to find fault. She was not to see his work until he deemed it worthy to
be seen. Formerly, he never began anything without explaining his idea
to her; now, he treated her like _the public_.

Two or three times he passed the whole night abroad. Thérèse did not
become accustomed to the anxiety these prolonged absences caused her.
She would have exasperated him by giving any sign that she noticed them;
but, as may be imagined, she watched him and tried to learn the truth.
It was impossible for her to follow him herself at night in a city full
of sailors and adventurers of all nations. Not for anything in the world
would she have stooped to have him followed by any one. She stole
noiselessly into his room and looked at him as he lay asleep. He seemed
utterly exhausted. Perhaps he had, in reality, undertaken a desperate
struggle against himself, to deaden by physical exercise the excessive
activity of his thought.

One night she noticed that his clothes were muddy and torn, as if he had
actually been in a fight, or as if he had had a fall. Alarmed beyond
measure, she approached him, and discovered blood on his pillow; he had
a slight wound on the forehead. He was sleeping so soundly that she
thought that she could, without rousing him, partly uncover his breast
to see if there was any other wound; but he woke, and flew into a rage
which was the _coup de grâce_ to her. She tried to fly, but he detained
her by force, put on a dressing-gown, locked the door, and then,
striding excitedly up and down the room which was dimly lighted by a
small night-lamp, he poured forth at last all the suffering that was
heaped up in his heart.

"Enough of this," he said; "let us be frank with each other. We no
longer love each other, we have never loved each other! We have deceived
each other; you meant to take a lover; perhaps I was not the first nor
the second, but no matter! you wanted a servant, a slave; you thought
that my unhappy disposition, my debts, my ennui, my weariness of a life
of debauchery, my illusions concerning true love, would put me at your
mercy, and that I could never recover possession of myself. To carry
such an enterprise to a successful issue, you needed to have a happier
disposition yourself, and more patience, more flexibility, and, above
all, more spirit! You have no spirit at all, Thérèse, be it said
without offence. You are all of a piece, monotonous, pig-headed, and
excessively vain of your pretended moderation, which is simply the
philosophy of short-sighted people with limited faculties. As for
myself, I am a madman, fickle, ungrateful, whatever you choose; but I am
sincere, I am no selfish schemer; I give myself, heart and soul, without
reservation: that is why I resume possession of myself in the same way.
My moral liberty is a sacred thing, and I allow no one to seize it. I
simply entrusted it, not gave it to you; it was for you to make a good
use of it and to succeed in making me happy. Oh! do not try to say that
you did not want me! I know all about these tricks of modesty and these
evolutions of the female conscience. On the day that you yielded to me,
I realized that you thought you had conquered me, and that all that
feigned resistance, those tears of distress, and that constant pardoning
of my temerity were simply the old commonplace way of throwing a line,
and luring the poor fish, dazzled by the artificial fly, to nibble at
the hook. I deceived you, Thérèse, by pretending to be deceived by
that fly; it was my privilege. You wished adoration: I lavished it upon
you without effort and without hypocrisy; you are beautiful, and I
desired you! But a woman is only a woman, and the lowest of them all
affords us as much pleasure as the greatest queen. You were simple
enough not to know it, and now you must depend upon yourself. You must
understand that monotony does not suit me, you must leave me to my
instincts, which are not always sublime, but which I cannot destroy
without destroying myself with them. Where is the harm, and why should
we tear our hair? We have been partners, and we separate, that is the
whole of it. There is no need of our hating and abusing each other just
for that. Avenge yourself by granting the prayers of the excellent
Palmer, who is languishing for love of you; I shall rejoice in his joy,
and we three will continue to be the best friends in the world. You will
recover your charms of other days, which you have lost, and the
brilliancy of your lovely eyes, which are growing haggard and dull by
dint of spying upon my acts. I shall become once more the jolly fellow
that I used to be, and we will forget this nightmare that we are passing
through together. Is it a bargain? You don't answer. Do you prefer
hatred? Beware! I have never hated, but I can learn how; I learn
quickly, you know! See, I clinched to-night with a drunken sailor twice
as tall and strong as I; I thrashed him soundly, and received only a
scratch. Beware lest I prove to be as strong mentally as physically on
occasion, and lest, in a contest of hatred and vengeance, I crush the
devil in person without leaving one of my hairs in his claws!"

Laurent, pale-faced and bitter, by turns ironical and frantic, with his
hair in disorder, his shirt torn, and his forehead smeared with blood,
was so ghastly to look at and to hear, that Thérèse felt all her love
change into disgust. She was in such despair at that moment that it did
not occur to her to be afraid. Silent and motionless in the chair in
which she had seated herself, she allowed this torrent of blasphemous
words to roll forth unchecked, and, saying to herself that that madman
was quite capable of killing her, she awaited with frigid disdain and
absolute indifference the climax of his frenzy.

He held his peace when he no longer had the strength to speak.
Thereupon, she rose and left the room, without answering him by a single
syllable, without casting a single glance at him.




VII


Laurent was not so contemptible as his words implied; he did not really
believe a syllable of all the atrocious things he said to Thérèse
during that horrible night. He believed them at the moment, or, rather,
he spoke without heeding what he said. He remembered nothing of it after
sleeping upon it, and if he had been reminded of it, would have denied
every word.

But one fact was undeniably true, that he was weary, for the moment, of
dignified love, and craved, with his whole heart, the degrading
excitements of the past. It was his punishment for following the evil
path he had chosen early in life,--a very harsh punishment, no doubt, of
which we can readily imagine that he complained bitterly, since he had
not sinned with premeditation, but had plunged laughingly into an abyss
from which he supposed that he could easily escape when he chose. But
love is regulated by a code which seems to rest, like all social codes,
upon that terrible formula: _No one is supposed to be ignorant of the
law_! So much the worse for those who are ignorant of it! Let the child
go within reach of the claws of the panther, thinking to pat it: the
panther will make no allowance for such ignorance; it will devour the
child because it is not in its nature to spare him. And so with poison,
with the lightning and with vice, blind agents of the fatal law which
man must study, or take the consequences.

On the morrow of that explosion, naught remained in Laurent's memory
save a vague idea that he had had a decisive explanation with Thérèse,
and that she had seemed resigned.

"Perhaps everything is for the best," he thought, finding her as calm as
when he had parted from her.

And yet he was terrified by her pallor.

"That is nothing," she said, tranquilly; "this cold tires me a good
deal, but it is nothing more than a cold. It will have to run its
course."

"Well, Thérèse," he said, "what is the present state of our relations?
Have you reflected? It is for you to decide. Are we to part in anger, or
remain on the footing of friendship as _formerly_?"

"I am not angry," she replied; "let us remain friends. Remain here, if
you please. I propose to finish my work and return to France in about a
fortnight."

"But should I not go and live in some other house for the next
fortnight? aren't you afraid that people will talk?"

"Do whatever you think best. We have our own apartments here, entirely
independent of each other; we use nothing but the salon in common; I
have no use for it, and I give it up to you."

"No: on the other hand, I beg you to keep it. You will not hear me go
out and come in; I will never put my foot inside it if you forbid me."

"I forbid you nothing," replied Thérèse, "unless it be to think for a
single instant that your mistress can forgive you. As for your friend,
she is superior to a certain order of disappointment. She hopes that she
can still be useful to you, and you will always find her when you need
any proof of friendship."

She offered him her hand, and went away to her work. Laurent did not
understand her. Such perfect self-control was something which he could
not comprehend, unfamiliar as he was with passive courage and silent
resolution. He believed that she expected to resume her influence over
him, and that she proposed to bring him back to love through friendship.
He promised to yield to no attack of weakness, and, in order to be more
certain of himself, he resolved to call some one to witness the fact of
the rupture. He went to Palmer, confided to him the wretched story of
his love, and added:

"If you love Thérèse, as I think you do, my dear friend, make
Thérèse love you. I cannot be jealous of you, far from it. As I have
made her unhappy enough, and as I am convinced that you will be
exceedingly kind to her, you will relieve me of a subject of remorse
which I am most anxious not to retain."

Laurent was surprised that Palmer made no reply.

"Do I offend you by speaking as I do?" he said. "Such is not my purpose.
I entertain friendship and esteem for you, yes, and respect, if you
choose. If you blame my conduct in this matter, tell me so; that will be
preferable to this air of indifference or disdain."

"I am indifferent neither to Thérèse's sorrows nor to yours," replied
Palmer. "But I spare you advice or reproaches which come too late. I
believed that you were made for each other; I am persuaded, now, that
the greatest, yes, the only happiness that you can confer upon each
other is to part. As to my personal feelings for Thérèse, I do not
admit your right to question me, and as for those sentiments which, in
your judgment, I might succeed in arousing in her, you no longer have
the right, after what you have said, to express such a supposition in my
presence, much less in hers."

"That is true," rejoined Laurent, nonchalantly, "and I understand very
well what it means. I see that I shall be in the way here now, and I
think that I shall do as well to leave Genoa, in order not to embarrass
any one."

He did, in fact, carry out his threat, after a very cold farewell to
Thérèse, and went straight to Florence, with the intention of plunging
into society or work, according to his caprice. It was exceedingly
pleasant to him to say to himself:

"I will do whatever comes into my head, and there will be no one to
suffer and be anxious about me. It is the worst of tortures, when a man
is no more evilly disposed than I am, to have a victim constantly before
one's eyes. Come, I am free at last, and the evil that I may do will
fall on myself alone!"

Doubtless, Thérèse was wrong not to let him see the depth of the wound
he had inflicted on her. She was too brave and too proud. Since she had
undertaken the cure of a desperately diseased nature, she should not
have recoiled from heroic remedies and painful operations. She should
have made that frenzied heart bleed freely, have overwhelmed him with
reproaches, and repaid insult with insult and stab with stab. If he had
seen the suffering he had caused, perhaps Laurent would have done
justice to himself. Perhaps shame and repentance would have saved his
soul from the crime of murdering love in cold blood.

But, after three months of fruitless efforts, Thérèse was
disheartened. Did she owe such absolute devotion to a man whom she had
never desired to enslave, who had forced himself upon her despite her
grief and her melancholy forebodings, who had clung to her steps like an
abandoned child, and had cried to her: "Take me under your wing, protect
me, or I shall die here by the roadside!"

And now that child cursed her for yielding to his outcries and his
tears. He accused her of having taken advantage of his weakness to
deprive him of the joys of liberty. He turned his back upon her, drawing
a long breath, and exclaiming: "At last, at last!"

"Since he is incurable," she thought, "what is the use of making him
suffer? Have I not proved that I could do nothing? Has he not told me,
and, alas! almost proved it to me, that I was stifling his genius by
seeking to cure his fever? When I thought that I had succeeded in
disgusting him with dissipation, did I not discover that he was more
greedy of it than ever? When I said to him: 'Go back into the world,' he
dreaded my jealousy, and plunged into mysterious and degrading
debauchery; he returned home drunk, with torn clothes, and blood on his
face!"

On the day of Laurent's departure, Palmer asked Thérèse:

"Well, my friend, what do you propose to do? Shall I go after him?"

"No, certainly not!" she replied.

"Perhaps I could bring him back."

"I should be in despair if you did."

"Then you no longer love him?"

"No, not in the least."

There was a pause, after which Palmer continued in a thoughtful tone:

"Thérèse, I have some very important news for you. I hesitate, because
I fear to cause you additional emotion, and you are hardly in
condition----"

"I beg your pardon, my friend. I am horribly depressed, but I am
absolutely calm, and prepared for anything."

"Very well, Thérèse; in that case, I will tell you that you are free:
the Comte de ---- is no more."

"I know it," replied Thérèse. "I have known it a week."

"And you haven't told Laurent?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because some sort of reaction would have taken place in him instantly.
You know how anything unexpected upsets and excites him. One of two
things would have happened: either he would have imagined that my
purpose in informing him of the change in my position was to induce him
to marry me, and the horror of being bound to me would have intensified
his aversion, or he would have turned suddenly, of his own motion, to
the idea of marriage, in one of those paroxysms of devotion which
sometimes seize him and which last--just a quarter of an hour, to be
succeeded by profound despair or frantic wrath. The unfortunate creature
is guilty enough toward me; it was not necessary to offer fresh bait to
his caprice, and an additional motive for him to perjure himself."

"Then you no longer esteem him?"

"I do not say that, my dear Palmer. I pity him, and do not accuse him.
Perhaps some other woman will make him happy and good. I have been
unable to do either. It is probably as much my fault as his. However
that may be, it is proved to my satisfaction that we never should have
loved each other, and that we should not make any further effort to do
so."

"And now, Thérèse, will you not think of taking advantage of the
liberty you have recovered?"

"What advantage can I take of it?"

"You can marry again, and become acquainted with the joys of a happy
home."

"My dear Dick, I have loved twice in my life, and you see where I am
now. It is not in my destiny to be happy. It is too late to seek what
has thus far eluded me. I am thirty years old."

"It is just because you are thirty years old that you cannot do without
love. You have undergone the enthusiasm of passion, and that is just the
age at which women cannot escape it. It is because you have suffered,
because you have been inadequately loved, that the inextinguishable
thirst for happiness is bound to awake in you, and, it may be, to lead
you from disappointment to disappointment, into deeper abysses than that
from which you are now emerging."

"I trust not."

"Yes, of course, you trust not; but you are mistaken, Thérèse;
everything is to be feared from your time of life, your overstrained
sensitiveness and the deceitful tranquillity due to a moment of
weariness and prostration. Love will seek you out, do not doubt it, and
you will be pursued and beset the moment that you have recovered your
liberty. Formerly, your isolation held in abeyance the hopes of those
who surrounded you; but now that Laurent has lowered you in their
esteem, all those who claimed to be your friends will seek to be your
lovers. You will inspire violent passions, and some there will be
sufficiently clever to persuade you. In a word----"

"In a word, Palmer, you consider me lost because I am unhappy! That is
very cruel of you, and you make me feel very keenly how debased I am!"

Thérèse put her hands over her face, and wept bitterly.

Palmer let her weep on; seeing that tears would be beneficial to her, he
had purposely provoked that outburst. When he saw that she was calmer,
he knelt before her.

"Thérèse," he said, "I have caused you bitter pain, but you must give
me credit for kindly intentions. I love you, Thérèse, I have always
loved you, not with a blind passion, but with all the faith and all the
devotion of which I am capable. I can see more plainly than ever that in
your case a noble life has been ruined and shattered by the fault of
others. You are, in truth, debased in the eyes of the world, but not in
mine. On the contrary, your love for Laurent has proved to me that you
are a woman, and I love you better so than armed at all points against
every human frailty, as I once believed you to be. Listen to me,
Thérèse. I am a philosopher; that is to say, I consult common-sense
and tolerant ideas rather than the prejudices of society and the
romantic subtleties of sentiment. Though you were to plunge into the
most deplorable disorders, I should not cease to love you and esteem
you, because you are one of those women who cannot be led astray except
by the heart. But why should you fall into such a plight? It is
perfectly clear to my mind, that if you should meet to-day a devoted,
tranquil, and faithful heart, exempt from those mental maladies which
sometimes make great artists and often bad husbands--a father, a
brother, a friend, in a word, a husband, you would be forever secure
against danger and misfortune in the future. Well, Thérèse, I venture
to say that I am such a man. There is nothing brilliant about me to
dazzle you, but I have a stout heart to love you. My confidence in you
is absolute. As soon as you are happy, you will be grateful, and once
grateful, you will be loyal and rehabilitated forever. Say yes,
Thérèse; consent to marry me and consent at once, without alarm,
without scruples, without false delicacy, without distrust of yourself.
I give you my life, and ask nothing of you except to believe in me. I
feel that I am strong enough not to suffer from the tears which
another's ingratitude may still cause you to shed. I shall never
reproach you with the past, and I undertake to make the future so
pleasant and so secure that no storm will ever tear you from my bosom."

Palmer talked for a long while in this strain, with a heartfelt
earnestness for which Thérèse was unprepared. She tried to repel his
confidence; but this resistance was, in Palmer's eyes, a last remnant of
mental disease which she must stamp out herself. She felt that Palmer
spoke the truth, but she felt also that he proposed to assume a terrible
task.

"No," she said, "I am not afraid of myself. I do not love Laurent, and I
can never love him again; but what about society, your mother, your
country, your social standing, the honor of your name? I am debased, as
you have said; I am conscious of it. Ah! Palmer, do not urge me so! I am
too dismayed by the thought of what you will have to defy for my sake!"

On the next day, and every day thereafter, Palmer pressed his suit
vigorously. He gave Thérèse no time to breathe. He was alone with her
from morning till night, and redoubled the force of his will to persuade
her. Palmer was a man of heart and of impulse; we shall see later
whether Thérèse was justified in hesitating. What disturbed her was
the precipitation with which Palmer acted, and sought to force her to
act by pledging herself to him by a promise.

"You are afraid of my reflections," she said; "therefore you have not so
much confidence in me as you boast of having."

"I believe in your word," he replied. "Do I not prove that by asking you
for it? But I am not obliged to believe that you love me, for you give
me no answer on that point, and you are right. You do not know as yet
what name to give to your friendly feeling. For my own part, I know that
what I feel is love, and I am not one of those who hesitate to read
their own hearts. Love with me is very logical. It fervently craves its
object. Therefore it seeks to avoid the ill-fortune to which you may
expose it by indulging in reflections or reveries, wherein, mentally
diseased as you are, you may not distinguish your real interests."

Thérèse felt almost hurt when Palmer spoke of her interests. He seemed
to her altogether too self-sacrificing, and she could not bear to have
him think her capable of accepting so much from him without seeking to
reciprocate. She suddenly felt ashamed of herself in that contest of
generosity in which Palmer placed himself absolutely at her discretion,
demanding only that she should accept his name, his fortune, his
protection, and the affection of his whole life. He gave everything,
and, as his only recompense, begged her to think of herself.

Thereupon, hope returned to Thérèse's heart. This man, whom she had
always considered a practical, matter-of-fact mortal, and who still
artlessly affected that character, revealed himself to her in so utterly
unexpected a light, that her mind was vividly impressed, and as it were,
revivified, in the midst of its death-agony. It was like a ray of
sunlight bursting in upon darkness which she thought was destined to be
everlasting. At the very moment when, rendered unjust by her despair,
she was on the point of cursing love, he forced her to believe in love,
and to look upon her misfortune as an accident for which Heaven was
prepared to compensate her. Palmer, who was a handsome man of a cold and
regular type of beauty, became more and more transfigured every moment
in the astonished, uncertain, melting eyes of the woman he loved. His
shyness, which imparted to his first advances a touch of roughness, gave
place to effusive warmth, and, although he expressed himself less
poetically than Laurent, he was none the less persuasive on that
account.

Thérèse discovered genuine enthusiasm beneath that somewhat rough
shell of obstinacy, and she could not refrain from smiling with emotion
when she saw the vehemence with which he _coolly_ pursued his project of
saving her. She felt deeply touched, and allowed him to extort the
promise he demanded.

Suddenly she received a letter in a handwriting that she did not
recognize, it was so changed. Indeed, she had difficulty in deciphering
the signature. She succeeded, however, with Palmer's help, in reading
these words:


"I have played and lost; I had a mistress, she deceived me, and I killed
her. I have taken poison. I am dying. Adieu, Thérèse.


                             "LAURENT."


"Let us go!" said Palmer.

"Ah! my friend, I do love you!" cried Thérèse, throwing her arms about
his neck. "I realize now how well you deserve to be loved."

They started instantly. In one night they reached Livorno by water, and
were at Florence that evening. They found Laurent at an inn, not dying,
but suffering from an attack of brain fever of such violence that four
men could hardly hold him. When he saw Thérèse, he recognized her and
clung to her, crying that they intended to bury him alive. He held her
so tightly that she fell to the floor, suffocated. Palmer had to carry
her from the room in a swoon; but she came to herself in a moment; and,
with a courage and perseverance bordering on the marvellous, she passed
twenty days and nights at the bedside of that man whom she no longer
loved. He recognized her only to heap the grossest insults upon her,
and, as soon as she left him for an instant, he recalled her, saying
that without her he should die.

Luckily, he had not killed any woman, nor taken any poison, nor, in all
probability, lost his money at play, nor done anything of what he had
written to Thérèse under the influence of delirium and disease. He
never mentioned that letter, which she dared not mention to him; he was
terrified enough by the derangement of his mind when he became conscious
that it had been deranged. He had many other bad dreams while his fever
lasted. Sometimes he imagined that Thérèse was administering poison to
him, sometimes that Palmer was putting fetters on him. The most frequent
and most agonizing of his hallucinations was one in which he saw
Thérèse take a long gold pin from her hair and force it slowly into
his skull. She had such a pin with which she kept her hair in place in
the Italian fashion. She ceased to wear it, but he still saw and felt
it.

As her presence seemed, as a general rule, to excite him, Thérèse
usually stationed herself behind his bed, with the curtain between them;
but, as soon as there was occasion to give him any medicine, he would
lose his temper, and declare that he would take nothing from any hand
but Thérèse's.

"She alone has the right to kill me," he would say; "I have injured her
so deeply! She hates me, let her take her revenge! Don't I see her every
moment, at the foot of my bed, in her new lover's arms? Come, Thérèse,
come, I say; I am thirsty; pour out the poison for me."

Thérèse would, thereupon, pour out for him tranquillity and slumber.
After several days of continued frantic excitement, which the doctors
thought that he could not endure, and which they took note of as an
abnormal fact, Laurent suddenly became calm and lay inert, prostrated,
in a sort of stupor, but saved.

He was so weak that they had to feed him, without his knowledge, and in
such infinitesimal quantities in order to relieve his stomach of all
labor of digestion, that Thérèse felt that she ought not to leave him
for an instant. Palmer tried to induce her to take some rest by giving
her his word of honor to take her place by the invalid's side; but she
refused, feeling that no human power was secure against the surprise of
sleep, and that, since by a sort of miracle she was always on the alert
when the time came to put the spoon to the patient's lips, and was never
overcome by fatigue, God had entrusted to her, and to no other, the duty
of saving that fragile existence.

And so it was, in truth, and she saved him.

If medical science, however enlightened it may be, proves inadequate in
desperate cases, it is very often because it is impossible to carry out
the treatment with absolute exactness. No one knows what disturbance a
moment of craving or a moment of surfeit may cause in a life that is
trembling in the balance; and the miracle lacking to save the dying man
is often nothing more than placidity, persistence, and punctuality on
the part of his nurses.

At last, Laurent awoke one morning as if from a lethargic sleep, seemed
surprised to see Thérèse at his right and Palmer at his left, offered
each of them a hand, and asked them where he was and how he came there.

They deceived him a long while as to the length and severity of his
illness, for he was deeply distressed when he saw how weak and emaciated
he was. The first time that he looked in the glass he was frightened by
his own image. In the early days of his convalescence he asked for
Thérèse. He was told that she was asleep. He was greatly surprised.

"So she has become a genuine Italian woman, has she," he said, "that she
sleeps in the day-time?"

Thérèse slept twenty-four hours without a break. Nature reasserted
itself as soon as anxiety vanished.

Little by little, Laurent learned how devoted she had been to him, and
he detected on her face the traces of excessive fatigue following on the
heels of excessive grief. As he was still too weak to give his mind to
anything, Thérèse installed herself by his side, sometimes reading to
him, sometimes playing cards with him to amuse him, sometimes taking him
to drive. Palmer was always with them.

Laurent's strength returned with a rapidity as extraordinary as his
constitution. His brain was not always perfectly clear, however. One
day, he said angrily to Thérèse, when he happened to be alone with
her:

"By the way, when does the excellent Palmer propose to do us the honor
of going away?"

Thérèse saw that there was a gap in his memory, and did not reply.
Whereupon he made an effort to control himself, and added:

"You consider me ungrateful, my love, to speak thus of a man who has
been almost as devoted to me as you yourself have; but I am not vain
enough or simple enough not to understand that his reason for shutting
himself up for a month in the room of a very disagreeable invalid was to
have an excuse for not leaving you. Come, Thérèse, will you swear that
he did it solely on my account?"

Thérèse was offended by that point-blank question, and by his use of
the second person singular, which she had believed to be discarded
forever between them. She shook her head, and tried to change the
subject. Laurent yielded with ill grace; but he returned to it the next
day; and as Thérèse, seeing that he was strong enough to do without
her, was preparing to go away, he said, with unfeigned surprise:

"Why, where are we going, Thérèse? Aren't we comfortable here?"

She was obliged to explain, for he insisted.

"My child," said Thérèse, "you are to remain here; the doctors say
that you need another week or two of perfect quiet before you can travel
at all without danger of a relapse. I am going back to France, as I have
finished my work at Genoa, and I do not intend, at present, to visit
other parts of Italy."

"Very good, Thérèse, you are free; but if you choose to return to
France, I am at liberty to make the same choice. Can't you wait a week
for me? I am sure that I shall need no more than that to be in condition
to travel."

He was so sincere in his forgetfulness of the wrong he had done her, and
he was so like a child at that moment, that Thérèse had to force back
the tears that came to her eyes at the memory of that species of
adoption, formerly so sweet, which she was forced to resign.

She began involuntarily to use the familiar form of address, and said to
him, with the utmost gentleness and delicacy, that they must part for
some time.

"Why part, in Heaven's name?" cried Laurent; "do we no longer love each
other?"

"That would be impossible," she replied; "we shall always be friends;
but we have mutually caused each other a great deal of suffering, and
your health could not endure any more of it. We will wait until time
enough has elapsed for everything to be forgotten."

"But I have forgotten!" cried Laurent, with an earnestness that was
touching because it was so absolutely ingenuous. "I remember none of the
wrong you did me! You were always an angel to me, and, being an angel,
you cannot harbor resentment. You must forgive me for everything, and
take me away with you, Thérèse! If you leave me here, I shall die of
ennui!"

And as Thérèse displayed a firmness that he did not expect, he lost
his temper and told her that she did very wrong to feign a severity to
which her whole conduct gave the lie.

"I understand perfectly well what you want," he said. "You demand that I
repent, and atone for my wrong-doing. Well, don't you see that I abhor
the thought of it, and have I not expiated it sufficiently by going mad
for eight or ten days? You desire tears and oaths as formerly? What is
the use? you would not believe in them again. My future conduct is what
is to be judged, and you see that I am not afraid of the future, since I
cling to you. You see, my dear Thérèse, you are a child, too, and you
know I often called you one when I saw you pretending to sulk. Do you
think you can persuade me that you no longer love me, when you have just
passed a whole month shut up here, and for twenty days and nights of
that month did not go to bed and hardly left my room? Can't I see, from
the dark rings about your lovely eyes, that you would have died at the
task if it had been necessary? A woman doesn't do such things as that
for a man she no longer loves!"

Thérèse dared not utter the fatal words. She hoped that Palmer would
come and interrupt the tête-à-tête, and that she could avoid a scene
that might result seriously for the convalescent. But it was impossible;
he placed himself in front of the door to prevent her from going out,
dropped at her feet, and grovelled there in despair.

"Great God!" she exclaimed, "is it possible that you think me cruel
enough, capricious enough, to refuse to say a word that I could say to
you? But I cannot say that one because it would not be the truth. Love
is at an end between us."

Laurent rose in a passion. He could not understand that perhaps he had
killed that love in which he had pretended not to believe.

"Is it Palmer?" he cried, smashing a tea-pot, from which he had
mechanically poured himself a draught; "it is he, is it? Tell me, I
insist upon it, I insist upon the truth! It will kill me, I know, but I
don't choose to be deceived!"

"Deceived!" echoed Thérèse, taking his hands to prevent him from
tearing them with his nails; "deceived! what sort of a word is that for
you to use? Do I belong to you, pray? have we not been strangers to each
other since the first night you passed away from home at Genoa, after
telling me that I was your torment and your executioner? wasn't that
four months ago and more? and do you think that length of time, without
an indication of change on your part, was not enough to make me mistress
of myself once more?"

And as she saw that Laurent, instead of being exasperated by her
frankness, grew calmer, and listened with eager interest, she continued:

"If you do not understand the feeling that brought me to your sick-bed,
and that has kept me beside you until to-day, to complete your cure by a
mother's care, it is because you never understood my heart. This heart,
Laurent," she said, putting her hand to her breast, "may be neither so
proud nor so ardent as yours; but, as you yourself used often to say, it
always remains in the same place. What it has loved it cannot cease to
love; but, do not mistake my meaning, it is not love as you understand
the word, it is not such love as you once aroused in me and as you are
mad enough to expect again. Neither my passions nor my reason belong to
you now. I have resumed possession of my body and my will; my confidence
and my enthusiastic regard can never be restored to you. I am at liberty
to bestow them upon whoever may deserve them, upon Palmer, if I choose,
and you have no right to object, you who went to him one morning and
said:

"'Pray go and console Thérèse; you will do me a favor.'"

"That is true! that is true!" cried Laurent, clasping his trembling
hands; "I did say that! I had forgotten it, but I remember it now!"

"Do not forget it again," said Thérèse, who resumed a gentler tone
when she saw that he was calmer, "and understand, my poor child, that
love is too delicate a flower to rise again when one has trampled it
under foot. Think no more of it in connection with me, seek it
elsewhere, if this sad experience you have had of it opens your eyes and
modifies your character. You will find it on the day that you are worthy
of it. As for myself, I could no longer endure your caresses, I should
be degraded by them; but my sisterly and motherly affection will remain
yours in spite of yourself and in spite of everything. That is something
different, it is pity; I do not conceal the fact, but I tell you
frankly, so that you may think no more of winning again a love by which
you as well as myself would be humiliated. If you wish that this
friendship, which seems an insult to you now, should become agreeable to
you, you have only to deserve it. Hitherto you have had no opportunity.
Now the opportunity is at hand; make the most of it, part with me
without weakness or bitterness. Show me the calm, sympathetic face of a
man of heart, instead of this face of a child who weeps without knowing
why."

"Let me weep, Thérèse," said Laurent, kneeling at her feet, "let me
wash away my sin with my tears; let me kneel in adoration of this
saintly compassion which has survived shattered love in your heart. It
does not humiliate me, as you think; I feel that I shall become worthy
of it. Do not ask me to be calm, you know well enough that I cannot be;
but believe that I may possibly become good. Ah! Thérèse, I know you
too late! Why did you not speak to me sooner as you have just spoken?
Why did you overwhelm me with your kindness and devotion, sweet Sister
of Charity who cannot restore my happiness? But you are right,
Thérèse; I deserved what has happened to me, and you have made me
understand it at last. The lesson will benefit me, I promise you, and if
I am ever able to love another woman, I shall know how to love. So I
shall owe everything to you, my sister, past and future alike!"

Laurent was still talking effusively when Palmer entered. Laurent threw
himself on his neck, calling him his brother and his savior, and
exclaimed, pointing to Thérèse:

"Ah! my friend! you remember what you said to me at the Hôtel Meurice
the last time we met in Paris: 'If you are not sure that you will not
make her suffer, blow out your brains to-night rather than return to
her'?--I ought to have done it, but I did not! And now, look at her, she
is more changed than I am, poor Thérèse! She was thrown down and
trampled on, and yet she came and tore me from the clutches of death,
when she might well have cursed me and abandoned me!"

Laurent's penitence was genuine; Palmer was deeply moved by it. As the
artist worked himself up, he expressed himself with persuasive
eloquence, and when Palmer was alone with Thérèse, he said to her:

"Do not think, my dear, that I suffered on account of your solicitude
for him, I understood perfectly! You wished to cure his body and his
heart. You have won the victory. Your poor child is saved! Now what do
you propose to do?"

"Leave him forever," she replied, "or, at all events, not see him again
for years to come. If he returns to France, I remain in Italy, and if he
remains in Italy, I return to France. Have I not told you that was my
resolution? It was because my mind was so thoroughly made up that I
postponed the moment of parting. I knew that there must inevitably be an
outbreak, and I did not wish to leave him while it lasted, if it should
prove to be serious."

"Have you reflected seriously, Thérèse?" said Palmer, thoughtfully.
"Are you quite sure of not weakening at the last moment?"

"I am perfectly sure."

"That man seems to me irresistible in grief. He would extort pity from
the bowels of a stone, and yet, Thérèse, if you yield to him, you are
lost, and he with you. If you still love him, reflect that you can save
him only by leaving him!"

"I know it," replied Thérèse; "but why do you say that, my friend? Are
you ill, too? Have you forgotten that my word is pledged to you?"

Palmer kissed her hand and smiled. Peace re-entered his soul.

On the next day, Laurent came and told them that he intended to go to
Switzerland to complete his cure. The climate of Italy did not agree
with him: that was the truth. The physicians advised him not to wait
until the extremely hot weather.

It was definitely decided that they should part at Florence. Thérèse
had no other plans than to go where Laurent did not go; but, when she
saw how exhausted he was by the emotion of the preceding day, she had to
promise him to pass another week at Florence, in order to prevent him
from going away before he regained the necessary strength.

That week was, perhaps, the best in Laurent's whole life. Generous,
trustful, cordial, and sincere, he had entered upon a frame of mind
which he had never before known, even during the first week of his union
with Thérèse. Affection had penetrated him, invaded him, vanquished
him. He would not leave his two friends, but drove with them to the
_Cascines_, at the hours when there was no crowd there, ate with them,
took a childish delight in going to dine with them in the country, when
Thérèse would take his arm and Palmer's alternately, tried his
strength by fencing a little with the latter, accompanied them to the
theatre, and made _Dick the great tourist_ trace the itinerary of his
trip to Switzerland. It was a very important question whether he should
go by Milan or Genoa. He decided at last on the latter route, intending
to go by Pisa and Lucca, thence along the shore, by land or water,
according as he should feel stronger or weaker after the first few days
of travelling.

The day appointed for his departure arrived. Laurent had made all his
preparations with melancholy gaiety. Brimming over with jests concerning
his costume, concerning his luggage, concerning the mongrel aspect he
would present in a certain waterproof cloak, then a great novelty, which
Palmer had compelled him to accept, and concerning the barbarous French
of an Italian servant whom Palmer had selected for him, and who was the
best fellow in the world; accepting gratefully and humbly all
Thérèse's injunctions and attentions, he had tears in his eyes, while
he laughed most heartily.

On the night preceding this last day, he had a slight attack of fever.
He jested about it. The carriage in which he was to travel by slow
stages, was at the door. It was a cool morning. Thérèse was anxious.

"Go with him as far as Spezzia," Palmer said to her. "That is where he
is to take the boat, if he doesn't stand the carriage journey well. I
will join you there the day after he has left. Some very urgent business
will detain me here twenty-four hours."

Thérèse, surprised by this suggestion, refused to go with Laurent.

"I beg you to do it," said Palmer, with much earnestness; "it is
impossible for me to go with you!"

"Very good, my dear, but it is not necessary for me to go with him."

"Yes, it is," he replied; "you must go."

Thérèse fancied that she understood: that Palmer deemed this final
test necessary. She was surprised and disturbed.

"Will you give me your word of honor," she said, "that you really have
important business here?"

"Yes," he replied, "I give you my word."

"Very well, then I will remain."

"No, you must go."

"I do not understand."

"I will explain later, my love. I believe in you as in God, as you see;
have confidence in me. Go."

Thérèse hastily made up a small bundle which she tossed into the
carriage; then she took her place beside Laurent, calling back to
Palmer:

"I have your word of honor to join me in twenty-four hours."




VIII


Palmer, who was really obliged to remain in Florence and to send
Thérèse away, felt a mortal pang as he watched her go. And yet the
danger that he dreaded did not exist. The chain could not be rewelded.
Laurent did not even think of trying to stir Thérèse's passions; but,
feeling sure that he had not lost her heart, he resolved to recover her
esteem. He resolved, do we say? No, he made no plan; he simply felt a
natural longing to raise himself in the eyes of that woman who had grown
so much greater in his mind. If he had appealed to her at that moment,
she would have resisted him without difficulty; she would, perhaps, have
despised him. He took pains not to do it, or, rather, he did not think
of it. His instincts were too true to make such a mistake. In good
faith, and with the utmost enthusiasm, he assumed the rôle of the man
with the broken heart, of the chastised, humble child, so that, at the
end of the journey, Thérèse wondered if _he_ were not the victim of
their fatal liaison.

During that three days' tête-à-tête, Thérèse was happy with
Laurent. She saw a new era of exquisite sentiments opening before her,
an unexplored road, for she had hitherto walked alone in it. She enjoyed
keenly the pleasurable sensation of loving without remorse, without
anxiety, and without a struggle, a pale-faced, feeble creature, who was
no longer aught save a soul, so to speak, and whom she fancied she had
found again beyond this life, in the paradise of pure spirits, as one
dreams of finding one's self after death.

And then she had been deeply wounded and humiliated by him, stirred up
and irritated against herself; that love, which she had accepted with so
much courage and grandeur of soul, had left a stain, as a purely sensual
liaison would have done. Then had come a moment when she had despised
herself for allowing herself to be so grossly deceived. So she felt as
if she were born again, and she became reconciled with the past when she
saw growing upon the grave of that buried passion a flower of
enthusiastic friendship lovelier than the passion had been even in its
best days.

It was the 10th of May that they arrived at Spezzia, a small picturesque
town, half-Genoese and half-Florentine, at the head of a bay as smooth
and blue as the loveliest sky. The season for sea-bathing had not
arrived. The country round about was an enchanted solitude, the weather
cool and exquisite. At sight of that beautiful, calm water, Laurent,
whom the carriage journey had fatigued somewhat, decided to go by sea.
They inquired about means of transportation; a small steamboat went to
Genoa twice a week. Thérèse was glad that it did not start that same
evening. Her patient had twenty-four hours for rest. She bade him engage
a cabin on the boat for the following day.

Laurent, although he still felt decidedly weak, had never been so well.
He slept and ate like a child. The delicious languor of the first days
of complete cure caused a blissful sort of confusion in his mind. The
memory of his past life vanished like a bad dream. He felt and believed
that he was radically changed forever. In this new life, he seemed not
to have the faculty of suffering. He left Thérèse with a sort of
triumphant joy amid his tears. This submission to the decrees of destiny
was in his eyes a voluntary expiation for which she should give him due
credit. He had not sought it, but he had accepted it at the moment when
for the first time he realized the value of what he had hitherto failed
to appreciate. He carried this craving for self-immolation so far as to
tell her that she must love Palmer, that he was the best of friends and
the greatest of philosophers. Then he cried abruptly:

"Don't say anything, Thérèse. Don't speak to me of him! I don't feel
strong enough yet to hear you say that you love him. No, keep quiet! it
would kill me! But be sure that I love him, too! What more can I say?"

Thérèse did not once mention Palmer's name; and when Laurent, less
heroic, questioned her indirectly, she replied:

"Hush! I have a secret which I will tell you later, and which is not
what you think. You could not guess it, so don't try."

They passed the last day rowing about the harbor of Spezzia. From time
to time, they landed to pluck the lovely aromatic plants that grow in
the sand even to the verge of the transparent, lazily plashing waves.
Trees are rare along those lovely banks, from which mountains covered
with flowering shrubs rise perpendicularly. As the heat was somewhat
oppressive, they bade the boatman row toward a group of pines as soon as
they spied it. They had brought their lunch, which they ate on the grass
amid clumps of lavender and rosemary. The day passed like a dream; that
is to say, it was brief as a moment, and yet it contained the sweetest
emotions of two lives.

At last, the sun declined, and Laurent became melancholy. He saw in the
distance the smoke of the _Ferruccio_, the steamer from Spezzia, which
was getting up steam in readiness for sailing, and that black cloud
passed over his mind. Thérèse saw that she must distract his thoughts
to the very last, and she asked the boatman what more there was to see
in the bay.

"There is Isola Palmaria," he replied, "and the _portor_ marble-quarry.
If you care to go there, you can take the steamer there. It has to pass
the island to go out to sea, for it stops at Porto Venere to take
passengers or freight. You will have time enough. I will answer for
that."

The two friends bade him row them to Isola Palmaria.

It is a perpendicular block of marble on the side of the sea, with
fertile fields sloping gently down to the shore on the side of the bay.
There are a few houses half-way down the slope and two villas on the
shore. The island is planted, a sort of natural fortification, at the
mouth of the bay, the passage being very narrow between it and the small
harbor once consecrated to Venus. Hence the name Porto Venere.

There is nothing about that repulsive village to justify its poetic
name; but its situation on the naked rocks, lashed by angry waves,--for
they are genuine waves from the sea that rush through the passage,--is
as picturesque as possible. One could not imagine a more characteristic
stage-setting for a nest of pirates. The houses, black and wretched,
corroded by the salt air, stand one above another, immeasurably high, on
the uneven rocks. Not a pane unbroken in the little windows, which seem
like restless eyes watching for a victim on the horizon. Not a wall that
is not stripped of its plaster, which hangs in great layers, like veils
torn off by the storm. Not a straight line in all those buildings, which
lean against one another and seem on the point of crumbling together.
They reach to the very extremity of the promontory, where they come to
an end in an old dilapidated fort and the steeple of a tiny church,
standing like sentinels facing the immensity. Behind this picture, which
stands in bold outline against the expanse of sea, rise towering cliffs
of a livid tint, whose base, irised by reflections from the sea, seems
to plunge into something as indefinite and impalpable as the color of
the void.

From the marble-quarry on Isola Palmaria, across the narrow passage,
Laurent and Thérèse looked upon that picturesque scene. The setting
sun cast on the foreground of the picture a reddish light which blended
in a single mass, homogeneous in appearance, cliffs, old walls, and
ruins, so that everything, even the church, seemed hewn from the same
block, while the great rocks in the background swam in a sea-green haze.

Laurent was deeply impressed with the spectacle, and, forgetting all
else, contemplated it with the eye of a painter, wherein Thérèse saw,
as in a mirror, all the flaming colors of the sky.

"Thank God!" she thought; "the artist is awake at last!"

In truth, since his illness, Laurent had not given a thought to his art.

As there was nothing of interest in the quarry, after they had looked at
the great blocks of beautiful black marble, veined with golden yellow,
Laurent proposed to ascend the slope and look out to sea from the
highest point; and he went on through an almost impassable growth of
pines, to a sort of fringe of lichens, where he seemed suddenly to be
lost in space. The rock on which he stood overhung the sea, which had
eaten into its base, and broke against it with a terrific noise.
Laurent, who had no idea that side of the island was so steep, was
seized with such a fit of giddiness that, but for Thérèse, who had
followed him and forced him back upon the ground, he would have fallen
into the sea.

At that moment, she saw that he was as terror-stricken and wild-eyed as
on that night long before in the forest of ----.

"What is the matter?" she asked. "Is this another dream?"

"No! no!" he cried, rising, and clinging to her as if he thought that he
had grasped an immovable rock of refuge; "this is no dream, it is
reality! It is the sea, the horrible sea, which is to carry me off in a
few moments! it is the image of the life to which I am returning! it is
the impassable abyss that will soon be between us! it is that
monotonous, untiring, hateful noise which I used to go to listen to at
night in the roadstead of Genoa, and which roared blasphemies in my
ears! it is that brutal ocean swell which I seemed to be trying to
overcome in a boat, and which bore me resistlessly toward a deeper and
more implacable abyss than that of the waves! Thérèse, Thérèse, do
you know what you are doing when you toss me to that monster who is
waiting yonder, his hideous jaws already open to devour your poor
child?"

"Laurent," she said, shaking him by the arm, "Laurent, do you hear me?"

He seemed to wake in another world when he recognized Thérèse's voice;
for when he appealed to her he thought that he was alone, and he turned
with surprise when he saw that the tree to which he was clinging was
nothing else than his friend's trembling, tired arm.

"Forgive me, forgive me," he said, "it is a last attack, it is nothing.
Let us go!"

And he hurriedly descended the slope which he had ascended with her.

The _Ferruccio_ was coming at full speed from Spezzia.

"_Mon Dieu_! there she is!" he said. "How fast she comes! if only she
might sink before she gets here!"

"Laurent!" exclaimed Thérèse, sternly.

"Yes, yes, don't be afraid, my dear, I am perfectly calm. Don't you know
that all I need now is a glance from you, to obey with joy? Call the
boat! Come, it is all over! I am calm, I am content! Give me your hand,
Thérèse. Remember, I have not asked you for a single kiss in these
three days we have been together! I only ask you for this loyal hand. Do
you remember the day you said to me: 'Never forget that before being
your mistress, I was your friend!'--Well, it is as you wished: I am no
longer anything to you, but I am yours forever!"

He jumped into the boat, thinking that Thérèse would remain on the
island, and that the boat would return for her when he had been put
aboard the _Ferruccio_; but she jumped in after him. She wanted to make
sure, she said, that the servant who was to accompany Laurent, and who
should have gone aboard with the luggage at Spezzia, had forgotten
nothing that his master needed for the voyage.

So she took advantage of the brief stop the little steamer made at Porto
Venere to go aboard with Laurent. Vicentino, the servant in question,
awaited them. He was a trustworthy man, selected by Monsieur Palmer, it
will be remembered. Thérèse took him aside.

"You have your master's purse, have you not?" she said. "I know that he
told you to look after all the expenses of the trip. How much money did
he give you?"

"Two hundred Florentine _lire_, signora; but I think that he has his
wallet with him."

Thérèse had examined Laurent's pockets while he slept. She had found
the wallet, and knew that it was almost empty. Laurent had spent a large
amount in Florence; the expenses of his illness had been very
considerable. He had placed the remainder of his little fortune in
Palmer's hands, bidding him make up the accounts, and he had not glanced
at them. In money matters, Laurent was a genuine child, who knew the
value of nothing at all outside of France, not even the comparative
value of the coins of the different Italian provinces. The amount he had
handed to Vicentino seemed to him enough to last a long while, but it
was not enough to reach the frontier for a man who had not the slightest
idea of prudence.

Thérèse gave Vicentino all the money that she had in Italy, not even
retaining what she herself would require for a few days; for, seeing
that Laurent was coming toward her, she had no time to take one or two
gold pieces from the roll which she slipped hurriedly into the servant's
hand, saying:

"This is what he had in his pockets; he is very absent-minded, and
prefers that you should take charge of it."

And she turned to the artist to exchange a last grasp of the hand. She
deceived him this time without remorse. He had been distressed and
irritated once before when she wished to pay his debts; now, she was no
more than a mother to him, and she had the right to do as she was doing.

Laurent had seen nothing.

"One moment more, Thérèse!" he said in a voice choked by tears. "They
will ring a bell to warn those who are not passengers to go ashore."

She put her arm through his, and went to inspect his cabin, which was
comfortable enough for sleeping-quarters, but smelt disgustingly of
fish. Thérèse felt for her smelling-bottle to leave with him; but she
had lost it on the island.

"Why are you so anxious?" he said, touched by these attentions. "Give me
a piece of the wild lavender we plucked together in the sand yonder."

Thérèse had placed the flowers in her corsage; to leave them with him
was like leaving a pledge of love. There seemed to her something
indelicate, or equivocal at least, in that idea, and her womanly
instinct rebelled; but, as she leaned over the rail, she saw in one of
the skiffs made fast to the gangway a child offering great bunches of
violets for sale. She felt in her pockets, and was delighted to find
there one last remaining coin, which she tossed to the little fellow,
who in return tossed his finest bunch over the rail; she caught it
handily, and spread the flowers about Laurent's cabin. He appreciated
his friend's modesty, but he never knew that those violets were paid for
with Thérèse's last and only sou.

A young man, whose travelling costume and aristocratic air were in
striking contrast to those of the other passengers, who were mostly
dealers in olive-oil, or small traders along the coast, passed Laurent,
and, after glancing at him, said:

"Hallo! is it you?"

They shook hands with the absolute coldness of gesture and feature which
is the stamp of young men of fashion. And yet he was one of those former
companions in debauchery whom Laurent, speaking of them to Thérèse in
his days of ennui, had called his best, his only friends. "People of my
rank!" he would add; for he never lost his temper with Thérèse without
reminding her that he was a gentleman.

But Laurent had mended his ways, and, instead of rejoicing at this
meeting, he inwardly consigned to the devil this unwelcome witness of
his last farewell to Thérèse. Monsieur de Vérac--such was his former
friend's name--knew Thérèse, having been presented to her by Laurent
at Paris; and, having respectfully saluted her, he observed that he was
very fortunate to meet two travelling companions like Laurent and
herself on the wretched little _Ferruccio_.

"But I am not one of you," she replied; "I remain here."

"Here? Where? At Porto Venere?"

"In Italy."

"Oho! then Fauvel is going to do some errands for you at Genoa, I
suppose, and return to-morrow?"

"No!" said Laurent, vexed by this curiosity, which seemed to him
ungentlemanly; "I am going to Switzerland, and Mademoiselle Jacques is
not. Does that surprise you? Very good; then let me tell you that
Mademoiselle Jacques is about to leave me, and that I am very much
distressed. Do you understand?"

"No!" said Vérac, smiling; "but I am not obliged----"

"Yes, you are; you must understand what is a fact," retorted Laurent,
with a vehemence that was slightly overbearing; "I have deserved what
has happened to me, and I submit to it because Mademoiselle Jacques,
regardless of the wrong I have done her, deigned to be a sister and a
mother to me in a mortal illness which I have just gone through; so that
I owe her as much gratitude as respect and affection."

Vérac was greatly surprised by what he heard. It was a story which
resembled nothing in his experience. He walked discreetly away, after
remarking to Thérèse that no noble action on her part would surprise
him; but he watched the parting of the friends out of the corner of his
eye. Thérèse, standing at the top of the gangway, crowded and jostled
by the natives who embraced one another tumultuously and noisily at the
clang of the warning-bell, bestowed a maternal kiss on Laurent's
forehead. They both shed tears; then she went down into the skiff, and
was rowed ashore to the shapeless, dirty staircase of flat stones which
led to the hamlet of Porto Venere.

Laurent was amazed to see her go in that direction, instead of toward
Spezzia.

"Ah!" he thought, weeping afresh, "of course, Palmer is waiting for her
there!"


[Illustration: _THE SEPARATION._

_Laurent, as he cast his eyes for the last time upon
that dismal cliff, saw, on the platform of the old
ruined fort, a figure whose head and waving hair
were still tinged with gold by the sun's declining
rays; it was Thérèse's._]


But, ten minutes later, as the _Ferruccio_, after steaming out to sea
with some effort, turned to round the promontory, Laurent, as he cast
his eyes for the last time upon that dismal cliff, saw, on the platform
of the old ruined fort, a figure whose head and waving hair were still
tinged with gold by the sun's declining rays; it was Thérèse's fair
hair and her adored form. She was alone. Laurent held out his arms with
intense emotion; then he clasped his hands in token of repentance, and
his lips murmured two words which the breeze bore away:

"Forgive! forgive!"

Monsieur de Vérac gazed at him in speechless amazement; and Laurent,
the most sensitive man on earth in the matter of ridicule, did not heed
the glance of his former companion in debauchery. Indeed, he took a sort
of pride in braving it at that moment.

When the shore had disappeared in the evening haze, Laurent found
himself seated on a bench by Vérac's side.

"Come," said the latter, "tell me about this extraordinary experience!
You have said too much to leave me in ignorance of the rest; all your
friends in Paris--I might say all Paris, since you are a famous
man--will ask me concerning the progress of your liaison with
Mademoiselle Jacques, who is also too much in the public eye not to
arouse curiosity. What shall I reply?"

"That you found me very downcast and shamefaced. That what I told you
can be summed up in three words. Must I say them again?"

"Then you really abandoned her first? I like that better for your sake!"

"Yes, I understand; it is ridiculous to be betrayed, it is glorious to
have taken the first step. That is the way I used to reason with you,
that was our code; but I have changed my ideas altogether concerning all
such matters since I have been in love. I betrayed her, I have been
deserted, I am in despair: therefore our former theories had no
common-sense. Find in the theory of life which we used to put in
practice together an argument which will relieve me of my regret and my
suffering, and I will say that you are right."

"I shall seek no arguments, my dear fellow; suffering is not to be
argued with. I pity you because you are unhappy; but I am wondering if
there is a woman in existence who deserves to be mourned so deeply, and
if Mademoiselle Jacques would not have done better to forgive an act of
infidelity, than to dismiss you in your present desperate state. For a
mother, she seems to me a trifle stern and vindictive!"

"That is because you don't know how guilty and absurd I have been. An
act of infidelity! she would have forgiven that, I am sure; but insults,
reproaches!--and worse than that, Vérac! I said something to her that
no self-respecting woman can ever forget: '_You bore me_!'"

"Yes, that is a rough thing to say, especially when it is true. But
suppose it was not true? suppose you simply said it in a moment of
anger?"

"No! it was mental weariness. I had ceased to love her. Stay, it was
worse than that: I was never able to love her when she was mine. Just
remember that, Vérac; laugh if you please, but remember that for your
own guidance. It is very possible that you will wake up some fine
morning, sated with sham pleasures and violently in love with a virtuous
woman. That may happen to you as it has happened to me, for I do not
think that you are any more dissipated than I used to be. Well, when you
have overcome that woman's resistance, probably the same thing will
happen to you as to me: having acquired the deplorable habit of making
love to women you despise, you will be doomed to fall back into those
cravings for a barbarous sort of liberty of which dignified love has a
horror. Thereupon, you will feel like a wild animal tamed by a child,
and always ready to devour him in order to break its chain. And some
day, when you have killed the helpless little keeper, you will fly all
alone, roaring with joy and shaking your mane; but then--then the wild
beasts of the desert will frighten you, and, because you have once
learned to know the cage, you will care no more for liberty. However
slight the bond, and however unwillingly your heart may have accepted
it, it will regret it as soon as it is broken, and it will have a horror
of solitude, yet be powerless to choose between love and libertinism.
That is a form of suffering which you do not yet know. God grant that
you may never know it! And meanwhile laugh and jeer as I used to do!
That will not prevent your day from coming if debauchery has not already
made a corpse of you!"

Monsieur de Vérac, smiling, allowed this torrent of words to flow,
listening to it as to a well-executed cavatina at the Théâtre-Italien.
Laurent was unquestionably sincere; but perhaps his auditor was
justified in not attaching too great weight to his despair.




IX


When Thérèse finally lost sight of the _Ferruccio_, it was quite dark.
She had dismissed the boat which she had hired in the morning at
Spezzia, and paid for in advance. When the boatman rowed her ashore from
the steamer, she had noticed that he was drunk; she was afraid to return
to Spezzia alone with him, and, expecting to find some other boat on the
shore, she had dismissed him.

But when she thought seriously about returning, she remembered that she
was absolutely destitute. Nothing could be simpler, of course, than to
go back to the _Maltese Cross_ at Spezzia, where she and Laurent had
passed the preceding night, to have the boatman paid at the office, and
to await Palmer's arrival there; but the idea of being entirely
destitute, and of being obliged to owe her breakfast the next day to
Palmer, caused a feeling of repugnance, puerile, perhaps, but
insurmountable, considering the existing relations between them.
Furthermore, she was more than a little disturbed as to the real
explanation of his conduct toward her. She had noticed the heart-rending
sadness of his glance when she left Florence. She could not refrain from
thinking that an obstacle to their marriage had suddenly arisen, and she
saw in the projected union so many real drawbacks for Palmer, that she
considered it her duty not to contend against the obstacle in whatever
quarter it might arise. Thérèse adopted an altogether instinctive
solution of the problem, which was to remain for the present at Porto
Venere. In the small bundle which she had brought with her to guard
against emergencies, she had enough clothes to pass four or five days
anywhere. In the way of jewels, she had a gold watch and chain; these
she could leave in pawn until she had received the pay for her work,
which should have reached Genoa in the form of a banker's draft. She had
directed Vicentino to call for her letters at Genoa and forward them to
Spezzia.

She must pass the night somewhere, and the appearance of Porto Venere
was not inviting. The tall houses along the narrow passage out to sea,
which reach to the water's edge, are so nearly on a level with the top
of the cliff in the rear, that in many places one must stoop in order to
pass under the overhanging roofs which reach nearly to the middle of the
street. That steep, narrow street, paved with rough cobble-stones, was
crowded with children, hens, and large copper vessels placed at the
angles formed by the roofs to catch the rain-water during the night.
These vessels are the barometer of the locality: fresh water is so
scarce there, that as soon as a cloud appears in the direction from
which the wind is blowing, the housewives hasten to place all
practicable receptacles in front of their doors, in order not to lose a
drop of the blessing sent by Heaven.

As she passed before those yawning doorways, Thérèse caught a glimpse
of one interior which seemed cleaner than the others and which exhaled a
somewhat less acrid odor of oil. In the doorway was a poor woman whose
pleasant and honest face inspired confidence; and the woman anticipated
her by speaking to her in Italian or something approaching it. Thus she
and Thérèse were able to understand each other. The goodwoman asked
her pleasantly if she were looking for any one. She went in, looked
about, and asked if she could hire a room for the night.

"Yes, to be sure, a better room than this, and you will be much quieter
than at the inn, where you would hear the sailors singing all night
long! But I am not an innkeeper, and if you don't want me to have
quarrels on my hands, you will say publicly in the street to-morrow that
you knew me before you came here."

"Very well," said Thérèse, "show me the room."

She was led up several steps and found herself in an enormous, miserable
room, which commanded a panorama of vast extent on the bay and on the
open sea; she took a liking to the room at first sight, for no special
reason, unless it was that it seemed to her a sort of refuge against new
bonds which she did not wish to be forced to accept. In that room she
wrote on the following day to her mother:


"MY DEAREST LOVE:

"For twelve hours I have been at peace and in full possession of my free
will for--I know not how many days or years. Everything is unsettled
again in my mind, and you shall form your own opinion of the situation
of affairs.

"That fatal love which alarmed you so is not renewed and never will be.
You may set your mind at rest on that point. I came here with my
patient, and put him aboard ship last night. If I have not saved his
poor heart, and I hardly dare flatter myself that I have, I have made it
better at all events, and through me it has enjoyed the sweet pleasure
of friendship for a few moments. If I could have believed him, he was
cured forever of his tempestuous outbreaks; but I could see plainly
enough, from his contradictions and his relapses with respect to me,
that the foundation of his nature is still unchanged, and the something
still exists that I cannot define otherwise than as the love of that
which is not.

"Alas! yes, that child would like to have for his mistress some one like
the Venus de Milo, enlivened with the breath of my patron Sainte
Thérèse, or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that the same
woman should be Sappho to-day and Jeanne d'Arc to-morrow. It is most
unfortunate for me that I ever believed that, after adorning me in his
imagination with all the attributes of the Divinity, he would not open
his eyes the next day! It must be that, without suspecting it, I am very
vain, to have accepted the task of inspiring a cult! But, no, I was not,
I give you my word! I did not think of myself; on the day when I allowed
myself to be placed on that altar, I said to him: 'Since you absolutely
insist upon adoring me instead of loving me, which I should much prefer,
why, adore me, reserving the right to crush me to-morrow!'

"And he has crushed me! But of what can I complain? I anticipated it,
and resigned myself to it beforehand.

"But I was weak, undignified, and wretched when that horrible moment
came. My courage returned, however, and God permitted me to recover more
quickly than I hoped.

"Now, I must speak to you of Palmer. You wish me to marry him, he wishes
it, and I, too, did wish it! Do I wish it still? What shall I say, my
beloved? I still am tortured by scruples and fears. Perhaps it is his
fault. He could not or would not pass with me the last moments that I
passed with Laurent; he left me alone with him three days, three days
which I knew would be, and which actually were, without danger for me;
but did he, Palmer, know it, and could he be sure of it? or--which would
be much worse--did he say to himself that he must find out how far he
could depend on me? There was on his part either a display of romantic
unselfishness or an exaggerated discretion, which, in such a man, can
come only from some worthy sentiment, but which has given me food for
reflection none the less.

"I have written you what took place between us; it seemed to me that he
had taken it upon himself as a sacred duty to rehabilitate me by
marriage, after the affronts to which I had been subjected. I felt the
enthusiasm of gratitude and the emotion that follows profound
admiration. I said yes, I promised to be his wife, and to-day I feel
that I love him as much as it is in my power to love.

"And yet to-day I hesitate, because it seems to me that he repents. Am I
dreaming? I have no idea; but why could he not come here with me? When I
learned of my poor Laurent's terrible illness, he did not wait for me to
say: 'I am going to Florence;' but he said to me: 'Let us go!'--The
twenty nights that I passed at Laurent's bedside, he passed in the next
room, and he never said to me: 'You are killing yourself!' but simply:
'Take a little rest, so that you can go on with it.'--I have never
detected the shadow of jealousy in him. It seemed that in his eyes I
could never do too much to save the ungrateful boy whom we had both of
us adopted, as it were. He knew, noble heart, that his confidence and
generosity increased my love for him, and I was infinitely grateful to
him for understanding it. In that way he raised me in my own eyes, and
made me proud to belong to him.

"Very well; then why this whim or this obstacle at the last moment? An
unforeseen obstacle? With the strong will that I know him to possess, I
hardly believe in obstacles; it seems more probable that he wished to
test me. That humiliates me, I confess. Alas! I have become horribly
sensitive since I fell! Is it not natural? why did not he, who
understands everything, understand that?

"Or, perhaps he has thought better of it, and has said to himself all
that I said to him, from principle, in order to prevent his thinking of
me; what would there be surprising in that? I had always known Palmer as
a prudent and sensible man. When I discovered in him stores of
enthusiasm and trust, I was greatly surprised. Might he not be one of
those who take fire when they see others suffer, and who fall to loving
the victims passionately? That is a natural instinct in those who are
strong, it is the sublime pity of pure and happy hearts! There were
moments when I said that to myself, in order to reconcile me with
myself,--when I loved Laurent, for it was his suffering, before and
above all else, that attached me to him!

"All this that I am saying to you, my dearest love, I should not dare to
say to Richard Palmer if he were here. I should be afraid that my doubts
would cause him horrible pain, and I am sorely embarrassed, for I have
these doubts in spite of myself, and I am afraid, for to-morrow at all
events, if not for to-day. Will he not cover himself with ridicule by
marrying a woman whom he has loved, he says, for ten years, to whom he
has never lisped a word of anything of the sort, and whom he decides to
attack on the day that he finds her crushed and bleeding under the feet
of another man?

"I am sojourning in a horrible yet magnificent little seaport, where I
passively await the command of my destiny. Perhaps Palmer is at Spezzia,
three leagues away. That was where we had arranged to meet. And I, like
a sulking, or rather like a timid, child, cannot make up my mind to go
to him and say: 'Here I am!'--No, no! if he suspects me, no further
relations between us are possible! I forgave the other five or six
insults a day. With this one I could not overlook the shadow of a
suspicion. Is this unjust? No! henceforth I must have a sublime love or
nothing! Did I seek his love? He forced it upon me, saying: 'It will be
heaven!'--The other had told me that perhaps what he brought me would be
hell. He did not deceive me. Nor must Palmer deceive me, while deceiving
himself; for, after this new error, nothing would be left for me but to
deny everything, to say to myself that, like Laurent, I have forfeited
forever, by my own fault, the right to believe; and I do not know
whether, with that certainty, I could endure life!

"Forgive me, my beloved; my perplexities distress you, I am sure,
although you would say that I must spare you none of them! At all
events, have no anxiety concerning my health; I am exceedingly well, I
have the loveliest bit of ocean before my eyes, and over my head the
loveliest sky that can be imagined. I lack nothing, I am boarding with
excellent people, and it is likely that I shall write you to-morrow that
my uncertainties have disappeared. Do not forget to love your Thérèse,
who adores you."


Palmer had actually been at Spezzia since the preceding night. He had
purposely arrived just an hour after the sailing of the _Ferruccio_. Not
finding Thérèse at the _Maltese Cross_, and learning that she had
planned to put Laurent on board at the mouth of the bay, he awaited her
return. At nine o'clock, the boatman she had hired in the morning, who
belonged to the hotel, returned alone. The worthy man was not accustomed
to drink too much. He had been _surprised_ by a bottle of Cyprus, which
Laurent gave him after his lunch on the grass with Thérèse, and which
he drank during their stay on the Isola Palmaria; so that he remembered
well enough that he had put the signor and signora aboard the
_Ferruccio_, but had no remembrance of having afterward taken the
signora to Porto Venere.

If Palmer had questioned him calmly, he would soon have discovered that
the man's ideas were not very clear on the latter point; but the
American, notwithstanding his serious and impassive manner, was very
irritable and very passionate. He believed that Thérèse had gone with
Laurent, gone shamefacedly, afraid or unwilling to confess the truth to
him. He was thoroughly convinced, and returned to the hotel, where he
passed a terrible night.

We have not undertaken to tell the story of Richard Palmer. We have
entitled our tale _She and He_, that is to say, Thérèse and Laurent.
Of Palmer, therefore, we shall say no more than it is necessary to say
to make it possible to understand the events in which he was involved,
and we think that his character will be sufficiently explained by his
conduct. Let us hasten to say simply this, that Richard was as ardent as
he was romantic, that he had an abundance of pride, pride in the good
and the beautiful, but that the strength of his character did not always
come up to the idea he had formed of it, and that, while striving
constantly to rise above human nature, he cherished a noble dream, but
one probably impossible of realization in love.

He rose early, and walked by the shore of the bay, thinking seriously of
suicide, from which he was turned aside, however, by a feeling of
something like contempt for Thérèse; then the fatigue of a night of
intense agitation asserted itself and gave him sensible advice.
Thérèse was a woman, and he should not have subjected her to a
hazardous trial. But since he had done so, since Thérèse, whom he had
placed so high in his esteem, had been vanquished by a deplorable
passion after her sacred promises, why, he must never believe in any
woman, and no woman deserved the sacrifice of a good man's life. Palmer
had progressed thus far when he saw a graceful black cutter drawing near
the place where he stood, with a naval officer at the stern. The eight
oarsmen who pulled the long and narrow craft swiftly through the smooth
water tossed their white oars by way of salute, with military precision;
the officer stepped ashore and walked toward Richard, whom he had
recognized in the distance.

It was Captain Lawson, in command of the American frigate _Union_, which
had been stationed in the bay for a year. It is common knowledge that
the different maritime powers are accustomed to station war vessels, for
months or even for years, all over the globe to safeguard their
commercial interests.

Lawson had been a friend of Palmer's from boyhood, and Thérèse was
provided with a letter of introduction to him, in case she should care
to visit the ship while rowing about the harbor.

Palmer thought that Lawson would mention her, but he did not. He had
received no letter, had had no visit from any friend of Palmer's. He
invited him to breakfast on board, and Richard made no objection. The
_Union_ was to leave the station at the end of the spring. He conceived
the idea of seizing the opportunity to return to America in her.
Everything seemed to be at an end between Thérèse and him; however, he
determined to remain at Spezzia, the sight of the sea having always had
a strengthening influence upon him in the critical moments of his life.

He had been there three days, living on board the American vessel much
more than at the _Maltese Cross_, making an effort to revive his
interest in the study of navigation, which had occupied the greater part
of his life, when a young ensign, at breakfast one morning, declared,
half-laughing and half-sighing, that he had fallen in love the day
before, and that the object of his passion was a problem concerning
which he should be glad to have the opinion of a man of the world like
Palmer.

She was a woman apparently twenty-five to thirty years old. He had
simply seen her at a window at which she was seated making lace. Coarse
cotton lace is made by women all along the Genoese coast. It was
formerly a flourishing branch of commerce, which the looms have ruined,
but which still affords occupation and a trifling profit to the women
and girls of the coast. Therefore the young woman of whom the ensign was
enamored belonged to the artisan class, not only because of the work she
was doing, but because of the poverty of the house in which he had seen
her. And yet the cut of her black dress and the distinction of her
features caused some doubt in his mind. She had wavy hair, which was
neither dark nor light; dreamy eyes, a pale complexion. She had seen
that the young officer was gazing curiously at her from the inn, where
he had sought refuge from the rain. She had not condescended to
encourage him or to avoid his glances. She had presented a distressing
image of indifference personified.

The young seaman also stated that he questioned the innkeeper's wife at
Porto Venere. She had told him that the stranger had been there three
days, living with an old woman who said that she was her niece and who
probably lied, for she was an old schemer who let a miserable bedroom to
the detriment of the genuine, licensed public-house, and who apparently
presumed to invite and entertain guests, but who must feed them very
badly, for she had nothing, and for that reason deserved the contempt of
all well-to-do people and self-respecting travellers.

As a result of this harangue, the young ensign lost no time in going to
the old woman and asking her for lodgings for a friend of his whom he
was expecting, hoping, by means of this fable, to induce her to talk,
and to learn something about the stranger; but the old woman was
impenetrable, yes, and incorruptible.

The portrait that the officer drew of this young unknown aroused
Palmer's attention. It might be Thérèse; but what was she doing at
Porto Venere? why was she hiding there? Of course, she was not alone;
Laurent must be hidden in some other corner. Palmer deliberated whether
or not he should go to China in order not to witness his misfortune.
However, he adopted the more sensible course, which was to find out the
truth of the matter.

He crossed at once to Porto Venere, and had no difficulty in discovering
Thérèse, lodged and occupied as he had been told. They had an earnest
and frank explanation. They were both too sincere to sulk; so they both
confessed that they had been angry, Palmer because Thérèse had not let
him know where she had concealed herself, Thérèse because Palmer had
not sooner sought and found her.

"My dear," said he, "you seem to reproach me most of all for having, as
it were, exposed you to some danger. I did not believe that danger
existed!"

"You were right, and I thank you. But in that case, why were you so
depressed and despairing when I left you? and how does it happen that
you did not discover where I was the very first day after you arrived
here? Did you suppose that I had left, and that it was useless to search
for me?"

"Listen to me," said Palmer, evading the question, "and you will see
that I have had, during the last few days, much rough experience that
may well have made me lose my head. You will also understand why, having
first known you when you were very young and when it was possible for me
to think of marrying you, I let slip a happiness which I have never
ceased to dream of and to regret. I was at that time the lover of a
woman who has deceived me in a thousand ways. For ten years I considered
myself in duty bound to keep her on her feet and shelter her. At last,
she put the finishing-touch to her ingratitude and treachery, and I was
able to leave her, to forget her, and to dispose of myself as I chose.
But I fell in with that woman, whom I supposed to be in England, in
Florence, just as Laurent was about to leave. Abandoned by a new lover
who had taken my place, she desired and expected to recapture me: so
many times before had she found me generous or weak! She wrote me a
threatening letter, and, feigning an utterly absurd jealousy, she
declared that she would come to insult you in my presence. I knew that
she was a woman who would recoil from no scandal, and I would not for
anything in the world have had you see her in one of her fits of frenzy.
I could not persuade her not to appear on the scene, except by promising
to have an explanation with her the same day. She was living in the same
hotel where we were living with our sick man, and when Laurent's
carriage was at the door, she was on hand, determined to make a scene.
Her detestable and ridiculous plan was to exclaim before all the hotel
people and the whole street that I shared my new mistress with Laurent
de Fauvel. That is why I sent you away with him, and why I remained
behind, in order to have done with that mad woman without compromising
you, and without exposing you to the necessity of seeing her or
listening to her. Now, do not say again that my purpose was to subject
you to a test by leaving you alone with Laurent. I suffered enough on
that account, God knows! don't reproach me! And when I thought of your
having gone with him, all the demons of hell attacked me."

"And that is what I reproach you for," said Thérèse.

"Ah! what can you expect!" cried Palmer; "I have been so miserably
deceived in my life! That wretched woman stirred up a whole world of
bitterness and contempt in me."

"And that contempt overflowed on me!"

"Oh! don't say so, Thérèse!"

"But I, too, have been deceived," she rejoined, "and I believe in you
none the less."

"Let us say no more about it, my love; I regret that I have been driven
to tell you the story of my past. You will believe that it may react on
my future, and that, like Laurent, I shall make you pay for the
treachery with which I have been sated. Come, come, my dear Thérèse,
let us have done with these depressing thoughts. This place you are in
is enough to give one the blues. The boat is waiting; come and take up
your quarters at Spezzia."

"No," said Thérèse, "I shall stay here."

"What? what does this mean? hard feeling between us?"

"No, no, my dear Dick," she replied, offering him her hand; "I can never
be angry with you. Oh! I implore you, let our affection be ideally
sincere; for my part, I will do all that it is possible for a trustful
heart to do to that end; but I did not know that you were jealous,
whereas you were and you admit it. Be sure that it is not in my power to
avoid suffering keenly from your jealousy. It is so entirely opposed to
what you promised me, that I cannot help asking myself whither we are
going now, and why it was necessary that, on making my escape from a
hell, I should enter a purgatory, when I aspired to naught save repose
and solitude.--Not for myself alone do I dread these new tortures which
seem to be brewing for me; if it were possible that in love one of the
two should be happy while the other suffers, the path of self-sacrifice
would be all marked out and easy to follow; but, as you see, that is not
the case: I cannot have a moment's pain that you do not feel. So here am
I, who sought to render my life inoffensive, in a fair way to ruin your
life, and I am beginning to make a man unhappy! No, Palmer, believe me,
we thought that we knew each other, but we did not. What attracted me in
you was a trait which you have already lost--confidence. Don't you
understand that, debased as I was, I needed that, and nothing else, in
order to love you? If I should now accept your affection with its
blemishes and weaknesses, with its doubts and tempests, would you not be
justified in saying to yourself that I was influenced by selfish motives
in marrying you? Oh! do not say that idea will never occur to you; it
will occur to you in spite of yourself. I know too well how a person
goes from one suspicion to another, and what a steep incline hurries us
from a first disenchantment to humiliating repulsion! Now I, for my
part, have drunk enough of that gall! I want no more of it, and I do not
assume too much in saying I am no longer capable of undergoing what I
have undergone; I told you so the very first day, and, although you may
have forgotten it, I remember it. Let us put aside this idea of
marriage," she added, "and remain friends. I retract my promise
provisionally, until I can rely upon your esteem, such esteem as I
supposed that I possessed. If you are not willing to submit to a trial,
let us part at once. As for myself, I swear that I do not propose to owe
anything to you, not even the most trivial service, while I am in my
present position. I must tell you what that position is, for you must
fully understand my purpose. I have board and lodging here on the
strength of my word, for I am absolutely penniless, I gave all I had to
Vicentino to pay the expenses of Laurent's journey; but it happens that
I can make lace quicker and better than the women hereabout, and,
pending the arrival of my money from Genoa, I can earn enough from day
to day to pay my excellent landlady for the very frugal board with which
she supplies me, if not to reward her. I am neither distressed nor
humiliated by this state of things, and it must continue until my money
arrives. Then I will see what it is best to do. Until then, return to
Spezzia, and come to see me when you choose; I will make lace as we
chat."

Palmer had to submit, and he submitted with a good grace. He hoped to
regain Thérèse's confidence, which he felt that he had shaken by his
own fault.




X


A few days later, Thérèse received a letter from Geneva. Laurent
accused himself, in writing, of all that he had previously accused
himself of in speech, as if he had determined to perpetuate thus the
testimony of his repentance.


"No," he wrote, "I was not capable of deserving you. I was unworthy of
such a generous, pure, and unselfish affection. I tired out your
patience, O my sister, my mother! Even the angels would have been tired
of me! Ah! Thérèse, as I return to health and life, my memory becomes
clearer, and I look into my past as into a mirror, which shows me the
spectre of a man whom I once knew, but whom I no longer understand.
Surely, that poor devil was mad; don't you think, Thérèse, that, as I
drew nearer to that ghastly physical illness from which you saved me, I
may have been, even three or four months beforehand, in the grasp of a
moral illness which took from me all consciousness of my words and my
acts? Ah! if that were so, should you not have forgiven me? But what I
am saying lacks common-sense, alas! What is wrong-doing, if not a moral
malady? Could not the man who kills his father allege the same excuse
that I do? Good, evil--this is the first time that idea has ever
bothered me. Before I knew you and made you suffer, my poor love, I had
never thought of it. Evil was to my mind a monster of low estate, the
apocalyptic beast that soils with his hideous caresses the offscourings
of mankind in the unhealthy bogs of society; could evil come near me,
the man of fashion, the Parisian _beau_, the son of the Muses? Ah! fool
that I was, I imagined, because my beard was perfumed and my hands
neatly gloved, that my caresses would purify the great harlot of the
nations, debauchery, my fiancée, who had bound me to her with chains as
noble as those with which convicts are bound in the galleys! And I
sacrificed you, my poor, sweet mistress, in my brutal egotism, and after
that I held my head erect, saying: 'It was my right, she belonged to me;
nothing that I have the right to do can be evil!'--Ah! miserable,
miserable creature that I am! my behavior was criminal; and I never
suspected it! Nothing would make me understand it but to lose you, you,
my only treasure, the only mortal who had ever loved me and who was
capable of loving the insane and ungrateful child that I was! Not until
I saw my guardian angel veil her face and resume her flight heavenward
did I realize that I was forever alone and abandoned on earth!"


A large part of this first letter was written in a lofty tone, the
sincerity of which was confirmed by realistic touches and abrupt changes
of manner, characteristic of Laurent.


"Would you believe that, on my arrival at Geneva, the first thing that I
did, even before I thought of writing to you, was to go out and buy a
waistcoat? Yes, a summer waistcoat, a very pretty one, on my word, and
very well made, which I found at a French tailor's,--a most agreeable
find for a traveller in great haste to leave this city of watchmakers
and naturalists! Behold me, therefore, parading the streets of Geneva,
delighted with my new waistcoat, and halting in front of a book-shop
where an edition of Byron, bound in exquisite taste, offered an
irresistible temptation to me. What am I to read while travelling? I
cannot endure books of travel, unless they treat of countries which I
shall never be able to visit. I prefer the poets, who take you into the
world of their dreams, and I purchased this edition. And then I followed
aimlessly a very pretty girl in a short dress who passed me, and whose
ankle seemed to me a masterpiece of jointing. I followed her, thinking
much more of my waistcoat than of her. Suddenly she turned to the right
and I to the left without noticing it, and I found myself back at my
hotel, where, as I went to put my new books in my trunk, I discovered
the double violets that you strewed in my cabin on the _Ferruccio_ when
we parted. I picked them up, one by one, with great care, and kept them
as a relic; but they made me weep like a waterspout, and, glancing at my
new waistcoat, which had been the principal event of my morning, I said
to myself:

"'And yet this is the child that poor woman loved!'"


Elsewhere he said:


"You made me promise to take care of my health. 'As it was I who gave it
back to you,' you said, 'it belongs to me in a measure, and I have the
right to forbid you to throw it away.'--Alas! my Thérèse, what do you
expect me to do with this infernal health, which begins to intoxicate me
like new wine? The spring is at hand, it is the season for loving, I
know; but is it in my power to love? _You_ were unable to inspire true
love in my heart, and do you suppose that I shall meet a woman capable
of performing the miracle that you could not perform? Where am I to find
this magician? In society? No, surely not: there are no women there but
those who do not choose to risk or sacrifice anything. They are quite
right, no doubt, and you could tell them, my poor dear, that those for
whom a woman sacrifices herself seldom deserve it; but it is not my
fault if I can no more readily make up my mind to share with a husband
than with a lover. But should I love a maiden? and marry her? Oh!
surely, Thérèse, you cannot think of that without laughing--or without
trembling. Think of me, chained by the law, when even my own desires are
powerless to chain me!

"I once had a friend who loved a grisette and who believed that she was
true to him. I paid court to that faithful light-o'-love, and she was
mine for a green parrot which her lover would not give her. She said,
artlessly: '_Dame_! 'tis his own fault; why didn't he give me that
parrot!' And from that day I have sworn never to love a kept woman, that
is to say, a woman who longs for everything her lover does not give her.

"Thus, in the way of mistresses, there seems to be nothing left but an
adventuress, such as we meet on the high-roads, who are all born
princesses but have had _misfortunes_. Too many misfortunes, thank you!
I am not rich enough to fill the gulf of those past lives.--A famous
actress? That idea has often tempted me; but my mistress must renounce
the public, and the public is a lover that I do not feel the strength to
replace. No, no, Thérèse, I cannot love! I ask too much, and I ask
what I cannot give back; so I shall have to return to my former life. I
prefer that, because your image in my heart will never be contaminated
by possible comparisons. Why should my life not be arranged thus: women
for the passions, and a mistress for my heart? It is not in your power
nor in mine, Thérèse, to effect that you should be that mistress, that
ideal which I have dreamed of, lost, and wept for, and of which I dream
now more longingly than ever. I will never suggest such a thing to you,
for you may take offence. I will love you in my secret thoughts so that
no one will know it and no other woman can ever say: 'I have replaced
that Thérèse!'

"My dear, you must grant me a favor which you denied me during those
last dear, sweet days that we passed together; you must tell me
something of Palmer. You have thought that would increase my pain. But
you are mistaken. It would have killed me the first time that I
questioned you about him angrily; I was still sick and a little mad;
but, when my reason returned, when you let me guess the _secret_ that
you were not obliged to confide to me, I felt, in the midst of my grief,
that by being reconciled to your happiness I should atone for all my
wrong-doing. I watched closely your manner when you were together; I saw
that he loved you passionately, and that he seemed, nevertheless, to
have a fatherly affection for me. That was too much for me, Thérèse. I
had no conception of such generosity, such grandeur in love. Lucky
Palmer! how sure he is of you, how fully he understands you, and
consequently deserves you! It reminded me of the time when I said to
you: 'Love Palmer, you will do me a great favor!'--Ah! what a hateful
sentiment I had in my heart at that time! I longed to be delivered from
your love, which overwhelmed me with remorse, and yet, if you had
answered me then: 'I do love him,' I would have killed you!

"And he, that great, warm heart, already loved you, and was not afraid
to devote his life to you, when perhaps you still loved me! Under such
circumstances, I would never have dared to take the risk. I had too
large a dose of that pride which we parade so haughtily, we men of the
world, and which was invented by fools to prevent us from striving to
win happiness at any risk to ourselves, or from even knowing enough to
grasp it when it is slipping from us.

"Yes, I propose to confess to the end, my poor dear. When I said to you:
'Love Palmer,' I believed, at times, that you already loved him, and
that is what finally drew me apart from you. In the last days, there
were many hours when I was on the point of throwing myself at your feet;
I was kept from it by this thought: 'It is too late, she loves another.
It was my wish, but she should not have consented. Therefore she is
unworthy of me!'

"That is how I reasoned in my madness, and yet I am sure now that if I
had come back to you in all sincerity, even though you had begun to love
Dick, you would have sacrificed him to me. You would have entered anew
upon that martyrdom which I forced on you. Tell me, did I not do well to
run away? I felt that I did, when I left you. Yes, Thérèse, that was
what gave me strength to run away to Florence without a word to you. I
felt that I was killing you day by day, and that there was no other way
to undo the wrong I had done you than to leave you with a man who really
loved you.

"That was what sustained my courage at Spezzia, too, during that day
when I might have made another attempt to obtain my pardon; but that
detestable thought did not once occur to me, I give you my word, my
friend. I don't know whether you had told that boatman not to lose sight
of us; but it was quite unnecessary. I would have thrown myself into the
sea rather than try to betray the confidence in me which Palmer
displayed in leaving us together.

"Say to him, then, that I love him dearly, as much as I can love. Tell
him that it is to him as much as to you that I am indebted for having
condemned and executed myself as I have done. I suffered terribly, God
knows, in committing that suicide of the old man! But I am proud of
myself now. All my former friends would consider that I had been a fool
or a coward not to try to kill my rival in a duel, and then to abandon
the woman who had betrayed me, spitting in her face. Yes, Thérèse,
that is the judgment which I myself should probably have pronounced upon
another man for conducting himself as I have conducted myself toward you
and Palmer with so much resolution and delight. I am not a brute, thank
God! I am not good for much, but I understand how little I am good for,
and I do myself justice.

"So write me about Palmer, and do not be afraid that it will hurt me;
far from it; it will be my consolation in my hours of spleen. It will be
my strength, too; for your poor child is still sadly weak, and, when he
begins to think of what he might have been and what he actually is to
you, his head becomes still more confused. But tell me that you are
happy, and I will say, proudly: 'I might have disturbed, combated, and
perhaps destroyed her happiness; I did not do it. So it is my work to
some extent, and I am entitled now to Thérèse's friendship."


Thérèse replied affectionately to her poor child. That was the title
under which he was thenceforth buried and, as it were, embalmed in the
sanctuary of the past. Thérèse loved Palmer; at least, she wished to
love him, and believed that she did. It did not seem to her that she
could ever regret the time when, as she afterward said, she looked up
every morning when she woke to see if the house were not falling about
her ears.

And yet something was lacking, and an indefinable depression of spirits
had taken possession of her since she had dwelt upon that livid-hued
cliff of Porto Venere. It was as if she were held aloof from life,
which, at times, was not without a charm for her; but there was a touch
of gloom and dejection in her feelings, which was unnatural to her and
which she could not explain to herself.

It was impossible for her to do what Laurent asked with regard to
Palmer; she wrote of him briefly in the highest terms, and conveyed the
most affectionate messages from him; but she could not make up her mind
to make him a confidant of their relations. She felt disinclined to
divulge her real situation, that is to say, to confide to him plans
concerning which she had not absolutely made up her own mind. And even
if she had decided, would it not have been too early to say to Laurent:
"You are still suffering? so much the worse for you! I am to be
married!"

The money that she expected did not arrive for a fortnight. She made
lace during that fortnight with a perseverance that drove Palmer to
despair. When, at last, she found herself in possession of a few
bank-notes, she paid her kind landlady handsomely, and indulged in a
sail around the bay with Palmer; but she desired to remain at Porto
Venere a little longer, although she could not explain why she clung to
that dismal and wretched hamlet.

There are phases of the mind which one feels much more distinctly than
one can describe them. In her letters to her mother, Thérèse succeeded
in pouring out her whole heart.


"I am still here," she wrote in July, "notwithstanding the intense heat.
I have attached myself like a shell-fish to this rock where no tree has
ever thought of growing, but where brisk and revivifying breezes blow.
The climate is severe but healthy, and the constant view of the sea,
which formerly I could not endure, has become, in a certain sense,
necessary to me. The country which lies behind me, and which I can reach
by boat in less than two hours, was fascinating in the spring. On
walking inland from the head of the bay, two or three leagues from the
shore, you come across some most peculiar spots. There is one place
where the ground was all torn up by earthquakes Heaven knows how many
years ago, where the surface presents most extraordinary irregularities.
There is a series of hills of red sand, covered with pines and heather,
rising one above another, with natural paths of considerable width on
their summits, which paths end abruptly on the brink of sheer precipices
and leave you sorely perplexed as to how you are to go on. If you
retrace your steps and lose your way in the labyrinth of narrow paths
trodden by the herds, you come to other precipices, and Palmer and I
have passed whole hours on those wooded hill-tops, unable to find the
path by which we had come. Beyond these hills is a vast expanse of
tilled land, broken here and there, with something like regularity, by
similar curious excrescences, and beyond that vast expanse stretches the
blue immensity of the sea. The horizon seems boundless in that
direction. Toward the north and east are the Maritime Alps, whose
sharply outlined peaks were still covered with snow when I arrived here.

"But it is all over with the great fields of wild roses and the trees of
white heather which gave forth so sweet and delicious a perfume in the
early days of May. Then it was an earthly paradise: the woods were full
of Alpine ebony-trees, of Judas-trees, of fragrant genesta, and laburnum
gleaming like gold amid the black clumps of myrtle. Now everything is
burned, the pines exhale an acrid odor, the fields of lupin, lately so
fragrant and so bright with blossoms, display naught but shorn stalks,
as black as if they had been overrun by fire; the crops are harvested,
the ground smokes in the noonday sun, and one must rise early in order
to walk without discomfort. So that, as it takes at least four hours,
whether by boat or on foot, to reach the wooded part of the country, the
return journey is far from pleasant, and all the heights on the
immediate shores of the bay, magnificent as they are in shape and in the
views they afford, are so bare, that it is cooler at Porto Venere and on
Isola Palmaria.

"And then there is a scourge at Spezzia: I mean the mosquitoes, bred by
the stagnant waters of a small pond near by and of the vast marshes,
possession of which the hand of the husbandman disputes with the waters
of the sea. Here there is no water on shore to annoy us; we have only
the sea and the bare rock, consequently no insects, and not a blade of
grass; but such golden and purple clouds, such sublime tempests, such
solemn calms! The sea is a picture which changes in color and feeling at
every moment of the day and night. There are chasms here filled with
uproars of which you cannot conceive the terrifying variety; the sobbing
of despair, the imprecations of hell, seem to have appointed a meeting
there, and, from my little window, at night, I hear those voices of the
abyss, sometimes roaring a nameless bacchanalian refrain, sometimes
singing wild hymns, awe-inspiring even in their mildest form.

"And I love all this now, I who always cherished rustic tastes and a
love for tranquil little green nooks. Is it because in that fatal
love-affair I became accustomed to storms and to a craving for tumult?
Perhaps so. We women are such strange creatures! I must confess to you,
my own beloved, that many days passed before I could accustom myself to
the absence of my daily torment. I did not know what to do with myself,
having nobody to wait upon and nurse. Palmer would have done well to be
a little overbearing; but observe my injustice: as soon as he showed
signs of being so, I rebelled, and now that he has become as kind as an
angel once more, I don't know how to deal with the horrible ennui that
assails me now and again. Woe is me! that is the truth.--And must I tell
you? No, it is better that I should not find out myself, or if I do,
that I should not grieve you with my madness. I intended to write of
nothing but the country, my walks, my occupations, and my dull chamber
under the roof, or rather on the roof, where I take pleasure in being
alone, unknown, forgotten by the world, with no duties, no customers, no
business, no other work than that which it pleases me to do. I get
little children to pose for me, and I amuse myself arranging them in
groups; but all this will not satisfy you, and if I don't tell you where
I stand with regard to my heart and my desires, you will be more anxious
than ever. Very well; it is a fact that I have fully decided to marry
Palmer, and that I love him; but I have not yet been able to make up my
mind to appoint a time for the marriage; I fear for him and for myself
the morrow of that indissoluble union. I have passed the age of
illusions, and after such a life as mine one has had a hundred years of
experience and consequently of terrors! I believed that I was absolutely
severed from Laurent, and so, in fact, I was, at Genoa, on the day that
he told me I was his scourge, the assassin of his genius and his glory.
But now I no longer feel so entirely independent of him; since his
sickness, his repentance, and the letters he has written me during these
last two months, letters adorable in their gentleness and resignation, I
feel that a solemn duty still binds me to that ill-fated child, and I am
reluctant to wound him by a complete desertion. And yet that is just
what is likely to happen on the day after my marriage. Palmer has had a
moment's jealousy, and that jealousy may return on the day that he has
the right to say to me: _I wish it_! I no longer love Laurent, my
beloved, I swear it, I would rather die than love him; but on the day
that Palmer seeks to break the friendship which has survived that
unhappy passion in my heart, perhaps I shall cease to love Palmer.

"I have told him all this; he understands it, for he prides himself on
being a great philosopher, and he persists in believing what seems fair
and right to him to-day will never bear a different aspect in his eyes.
I believe it also, and yet I ask him to allow the days to pass, without
counting them, and without disturbing our present calm and pleasant
situation. I have attacks of spleen, it is true; but Palmer is not
naturally very keen-sighted, and I can conceal them from him. I can wear
before him what Laurent used to call my sick bird's face, without
frightening him. If my future suffering is limited to this, that I may
have irritated nerves and gloomy thoughts without his noticing it or
being affected by it, we can live together as happily as possible. If he
should begin to scrutinize my absent-minded glances, to seek to pierce
the veil of my reveries, to do, in short, ali the cruel, childish things
with which Laurent used to overwhelm me in my hours of moral weakness, I
feel that I have not the strength to struggle longer, and I should
prefer that he would kill me at once; it would be done with the sooner."


About the same time, Thérèse received from Laurent so ardent a letter
that she was alarmed by it. It was no longer the enthusiasm of
friendship, but of love. The silence that Thérèse had maintained
concerning her relations with Palmer had restored the artist's hope of
renewing his intimacy with her. He could not live without her; he had
made vain efforts to return to a life of pleasure. Disgust had seized
him by the throat.


"Ah! Thérèse," he said, "I used to reproach you for loving too
chastely and for being better adapted for the convent than for love. How
could I have blasphemed thus? Since I have been trying to renew my
acquaintance with vice, I feel myself that I am becoming as pure as in
my childhood, and the women I see tell me that I would make a good monk.
No, no, I shall never forget what there was between us above and beyond
love, that motherly gentleness which watched over me for long hours with
a placid, melting smile, those outpourings of the heart, those
aspirations to a higher intelligence, that twofold poem of which we were
the authors and the characters, without realizing it. Thérèse, if you
do not belong to Palmer, you cannot belong to any one but me! with what
other man can you find again those profound, ardent emotions? Were all
our days unhappy? Were there not some delicious ones? Besides, is it
happiness that you seek, you, the self-sacrificing woman? Can you do
without suffering for some one, and did you not call me sometimes, when
you pardoned my follies, your dear torment, your necessary torment?
Remember, remember, Thérèse! You suffered, and you are alive. I made
you suffer, and I am dying! Have I not atoned sufficiently? Three long
months of death-agony for my heart!"


Then came reproaches. Thérèse had said too much or too little. Her
expressions of friendship were too warm if it was only friendship, too
cold and too reserved if it was love. She must have the courage either
to give him new life or to kill him.

Thérèse decided to reply that she loved Palmer, and that she expected
to love him forever, but did not speak of the projected marriage, which
she could not make up her mind to consider as definitely decided upon.
She softened as much as she could the blow that confession was certain
to deal to Laurent's pride.


"Understand," she said, "that it is not, as you claimed, to _punish_
you, that I have given my heart and my life to another. No, you were
fully forgiven on the day that I responded to Palmer's affection, and I
proved it by hurrying to Florence with him. Do you think, my poor child,
that, when I nursed you as I did during your illness, I was there simply
as a Sister of Charity? No, no, it was not duty that tied me to your
bedside, but a mother's affection. Does not a mother always forgive?
Well, it will be always so with me, as you will see! Whenever, without
failing in my duty to Palmer, I can serve you, nurse you, and comfort
you, you will find me ready. It is because Palmer makes no objection to
that, that I am able to love him and do love him. If it had been
necessary for me to pass from your arms into those of your enemy, I
should have had a horror of myself; but it was just the opposite. Our
hands met as we swore to each other that we would watch over you, would
never abandon you."


Thérèse showed this letter to Palmer, who was deeply moved by it, and
insisted upon writing to Laurent himself, to make similar promises of
constant solicitude and true affection.

Laurent made them wait for another letter from him. He had begun to
dream a new dream, and saw it fly away beyond hope of recall. He was
deeply affected at first; but he resolved to shake off the sorrow which
he felt that he had not the strength to bear. There took place in him
one of those sudden and complete revolutions which were sometimes the
scourge, sometimes the salvation, of his life; and he wrote to
Thérèse:


"Bless you, my adored sister; I am happy, I am proud of your faithful
friendship, and Palmer's cordial words moved me to tears. Why did you
not speak sooner, bad girl? I should not have suffered so keenly. What
did I crave, in truth? To know that you were happy, nothing more. It was
because I thought that you were alone and sad, that I came and knelt
again at your feet, and said: 'Since you are suffering, let us suffer
together. I long to share your sorrows, your vexations, and your
solitude.'--Was not that my duty and my right?--But you are happy,
Thérèse, therefore so am I. I bless you for telling me. At last, I am
delivered from the remorse that was gnawing at my heart! I can walk with
my head erect, breathe freely, and say to myself that I have not marred
and ruined the life of the best of friends. Ah! I am full of pride to
feel within me this generous joy, instead of the horrible jealousy that
formerly tortured me!

"Dear Thérèse, dear Palmer, you are my two guardian angels. You have
brought me happiness. Thanks to you, I feel at last that I was born for
something different from the life I have led. I am born again, I feel
the air of heaven descend into my lungs, which thirst for a pure
atmosphere. My being is transformed. I am going to love.

"Yes, I am going to love, I love already! I love a pure and lovely child
who knows nothing of my love as yet, and in whose presence I take a
mysterious pleasure in guarding the secret of my heart, and in appearing
and acting as artless, as gay, as child-like as herself. Ah! how lovely
they are, these first days of a newly-born emotion! Is there not
something sublime and terrifying in this idea: 'I am going to betray
myself, that is to say, I am going to give myself away! to-morrow,
perhaps to-night, I shall cease to belong to myself'?

"Rejoice, my Thérèse, in this conclusion of your poor child's sad and
insane youth. Say to yourself that this rehabilitation of a creature who
seemed lost, and who, instead of crawling about in the mire, now spreads
his wings like a bird, is the work of your love, your gentleness, your
patience, your anger, your sternness, your forgiveness, and your
friendship! Yes, it required all the changing scenes of a private drama
in which I was vanquished to force me to open my eyes. I am your
handiwork, your son, your labor and your reward, your martyrdom and your
crown. Bless me, both of you, my friends, and pray for me: I am going to
love!"


All the rest of the letter was in this strain. On receiving this hymn of
joy and gratitude, Thérèse felt for the first time that her own
happiness was complete and assured. She held out both hands to Palmer,
and said:

"And now, when and where shall we be married?"




XI


It was decided that the marriage should take place in America. Palmer
looked forward with intense delight to presenting Thérèse to his
mother, and receiving the nuptial benediction before her eyes.
Thérèse's mother could not promise to be present, even if the ceremony
should take place in France. She was compensated for the disappointment
by the joy she felt in the knowledge that her daughter was pledged to a
sensible and devoted man. She could not endure Laurent, and she was
always in mortal terror that Thérèse would fall under his yoke again.

The _Union_ was making preparations for her voyage. Captain Lawson
offered to take Palmer and his fiancée as passengers. Everybody on
board was overjoyed at the prospect of crossing the ocean with that
favorite couple. The young ensign atoned for his impertinence by
maintaining a most respectful attitude toward Thérèse, and conceiving
the most sincere esteem for her.

Thérèse, having made all her preparations to sail on August 18th,
received a letter from her mother begging her to come first to Paris, if
for no more than twenty-four hours. She had to go thither herself on
some family matters. Who could say when Thérèse would return from
America? The poor mother was not happy with her other children, who,
guided by the example of a suspicious and irritable husband, were
insubordinate and cold toward her. So she loved Thérèse all the more
dearly, who alone had really been a loving daughter and devoted friend
to her. She wished to give her her blessing and to embrace her, perhaps
for the last time, for she felt prematurely aged, sick, and fatigued by
a life of constant insecurity and without love.

Palmer was more disturbed by this letter than he cared to confess.
Although he had always referred with apparent satisfaction to the
certainty of a lasting friendship between Laurent and himself, he had
not ceased to be anxious, in spite of himself, touching the sentiments
which might spring to new life in Thérèse's heart when she should see
him again. Not that he was conscious of this anxiety when he asserted
the contrary; but he became conscious of it on the 18th of August, when
the guns of the American man-of-war woke the echoes of the gulf of
Spezzia with repeated farewell salutes, throughout the day.

Each report made him jump, and, at the last one, he wrung his hands
until he nearly cracked the joints.

Thérèse was surprised. She had had no suspicion of Palmer's uneasiness
since the explanation they had had together at the beginning of their
residence in that neighborhood.

"_Mon Dieu_! what is the matter?" she cried, watching him closely. "What
presentiment----"

"Yes! that is it," replied Palmer, hastily. "I have a
presentiment--about Lawson, my friend from boyhood. I don't know
why.--Yes, yes, it is a presentiment!"

"Do you think that something will happen to him at sea?"

"Perhaps. Who can tell? However, you will not be exposed to it, thank
Heaven, as we are going to Paris."

"The _Union_ is to touch at Brest, and remain there a fortnight. Are we
not going to join her there?"

"Yes, yes, to be sure, unless some catastrophe happens between now and
then."

Palmer continued downcast and depressed, nor could Thérèse imagine
what was going on in his mind. How could she have imagined? Laurent was
taking the waters at Baden; Palmer knew it perfectly well. Moreover,
Laurent had his own marriage plans as he had written.

They set off by post the next day, and returned to France by Turin and
Mont Cenis, stopping nowhere on the way.

The journey was extraordinarily dull. Palmer saw signs of disaster
everywhere; he confessed to superstitions and mental foibles which were
entirely foreign to his character. Ordinarily so placid and so mild a
master, he indulged in savage fits of temper against the postilions,
against the roads, against the customs officers, against the passers-by.
Thérèse had never seen him in such a mood. She could not refrain from
telling him so. He answered with meaningless words, but with so sombre
an expression and so marked an accent of irritation, that she was afraid
of him, and consequently of the future.

Some lives are pursued by an implacable destiny. While Thérèse and
Palmer were returning to France by Mont Cenis, Laurent was returning
thither by Geneva. He reached Paris some hours in advance of them, his
mind engrossed by a painful anxiety. He had discovered at last that
Thérèse, to make it possible for him to travel for a few months, had
parted with every sou that she then possessed, and he had learned (for
everything comes to light sooner or later) from a person who had visited
Spezzia at that time, that Mademoiselle Jacques was living at Porto
Venere in extraordinarily straitened circumstances, and was making lace
to pay for her lodgings at the rate of six francs per month.

Humiliated and repentant, angry and hopeless, he determined to learn the
exact truth with reference to Thérèse's present situation. He knew
that she was too proud to consent to accept anything from Palmer, and he
said to himself, reasonably enough, that if she had not been paid for
the work she did at Genoa, she must have sold her furniture in Paris.

He hurried to the Champs-Elysées, trembling lest he should find
strangers installed in that dear little house, which he could not
approach without a violent beating of the heart. As there was no
concierge, he had to ring at the garden-gate, and he wondered who would
come in answer. He knew nothing of Thérèse's approaching marriage, he
did not even know that she was free to marry. The last letter that she
had written him touching on that subject had reached Baden the day after
his departure.

He was delighted beyond measure when the gate was opened by old
Catherine. He leaped on her neck; but his spirits instantly sank when he
saw the consternation depicted on the goodwoman's face.

"What have you come here for?" she said, angrily. "Have you found out
that mademoiselle is coming to-day? Can't you leave her in peace? Have
you come to make her miserable again? They told me that you had
separated, and I was glad of it; for, although I was fond of you at
first, I had grown to detest you. I saw plainly enough that you were the
cause of her troubles and her sorrows. Come, come, don't stay here
waiting for her, unless you have made a vow to kill her!"

"You say that she is coming to-day!" Laurent exclaimed again and again.

That was all that he had heard of the old servant's lecture. He entered
Thérèse's studio, the small lilac salon, and even the bedroom, raising
the gray covers that Catherine had spread over all the furniture to
preserve it. He gazed at all those rare and fascinating things one by
one, artistic, dainty objects which Thérèse had bought with the fruits
of her toil; not one was missing. There seemed to have been no change in
Thérèse's Parisian environment, and Laurent repeated in a slightly
bewildered tone, looking at Catherine, who was following him step by
step, with an anxious air:

"She is coming to-day!"

When he said that he loved a lovely child with a love as pure and fair
as she, Laurent had boasted unduly. He had believed that he was telling
the truth when he wrote to Thérèse, with the passionate warmth to
which he was wont to give way when speaking to her of himself, and which
contrasted so strangely with the cold and mocking tone he felt called
upon to adopt in society. The declaration he was supposed to have made
to the young woman who had filled his dreams, he had not made. A bird or
a cloud, passing through the sky at night, had sufficed to overthrow the
fragile edifice of happiness and passionate declamation which had sprung
up in the morning in that childish, poetic imagination. The fear of
making himself ridiculous had taken possession of him, or else the fear
of being cured of his invincible and fatal passion for Thérèse.

He remained there, making no reply to Catherine, who, being in haste to
prepare everything for her dear mistress's arrival, decided to leave him
alone. Laurent was agitated beyond expression. He asked himself why
Thérèse was returning to Paris without telling him. Was she coming
secretly with Palmer, or had she done as Laurent had done himself? Had
she announced to him a happiness which had no existence, and the thought
of which had already vanished? Did not this sudden and mysterious return
conceal a rupture with Dick?

Laurent was at once overjoyed and terrified by the thought. A thousand
contrary ideas and emotions wrangled in his brain and in his nerves.
There was a moment when he himself insensibly forgot the reality, and
persuaded himself that those linen-covered objects were tombs in a
cemetery. He had always had a horror of death, and his mind dwelt
constantly upon it, in spite of himself. He saw it about him in all its
forms. He fancied that he was surrounded by shrouds, and sprang to his
feet in terror, crying:

"Who is dead, then? Is it Thérèse? is it Palmer? I see, I feel that
some one is dead in this neighborhood to which I have returned!--No, it
is you," he replied, talking to himself, "it is you, who have lived in
this house the only real days of your life, and who return hither
lifeless, abandoned, forgotten, like a corpse!"

Catherine returned, unnoticed by him, removed the coverings, dusted the
furniture, threw all the windows and blinds wide open, and placed
flowers in the great china vases which stood on gilt consoles. Then she
approached him, and said:

"Well, what are you doing here?"

Laurent came out of his dream, and, looking about him in a dazed sort of
way, saw the flowers reflected in the mirrors, the Boule cabinets
glistening in the sun, and the whole holiday aspect which had succeeded,
as if by magic, the funereal atmosphere of absence, which does, in
truth, so closely resemble death.

His hallucination took another course.

"What am I doing here?" he said, smiling darkly; "true, what am I doing
here? To-day is a holiday in Thérèse's house, a day of joy and
oblivion. Evidently the mistress of this house has appointed a
rendezvous here to-day, and certainly it is not I whom she expects, I,
a dead man! What business has a corpse in this nuptial chamber? And what
will she say when she sees me here? She will say, as you do, poor old
woman; she will say: 'Begone! your place is in a coffin!'"

Laurent talked as if he were in a fever. Catherine felt sorry for him.

"He is mad," she thought; "he always was."

And as she was thinking what she should say to send him away quietly,
she heard a carriage stop in the street. In her joy at seeing Thérèse
again, she forgot Laurent, and hastened to open the door.

Palmer was there with Thérèse; but, being in haste to rid himself of
the dust of the journey, and not wishing to give Thérèse the trouble
of having the post-chaise unloaded at her door, he stepped in again at
once and ordered the postilions to drive him to Hôtel Meurice, saying
to Thérèse that he would return in two hours to dine with her, and
would bring her trunks.

Thérèse embraced her dear old Catherine, and, while she questioned her
concerning her own health during their separation, entered the house
with that impatient curiosity, sometimes joyous, sometimes anxious,
which we instinctively feel on returning to a place where we have lived
a long while; so that Catherine had no opportunity to tell her that
Laurent was there, and she surprised him sitting on the sofa in the
salon, pale, absorbed, and, as it were, petrified. He had not heard the
carriage, nor the noise of doors hurriedly opened and closed. He was
still buried in his dismal meditations when he saw her before him. He
uttered a terrible cry, darted toward her to embrace her, and fell,
gasping for breath, almost fainting, at her feet.

They had to remove his cravat, and give him ether to inhale. He was
suffocating, and his heart beat so violently that his whole body was
shaken as by a succession of electric shocks. Thérèse, dismayed to see
him thus, thought that he had fallen sick again. However, his youthful
vigor soon returned, and she noticed that he had grown stout. He swore a
thousand times that he had never been in better health, and that he was
overjoyed to find her improved and her eye as clear and bright as on the
first day of their love. He knelt before her and kissed her feet to
testify his respect and adoration. His outpourings of emotion were so
ardent that Thérèse was disturbed, and thought it her duty to remind
him at once of her impending departure and her approaching marriage to
Palmer.

"What? what's that? what do you say?" cried Laurent, as pale as if the
lightning had struck at his feet. "Departure! marriage!--How? why? am I
still dreaming? did you say those words?"

"Yes," she replied, "I did say them. I had already written them to you;
did you not receive my letter?"

"Departure! marriage!" repeated Laurent; "why, you used to say that it
was impossible! Remember! there were days when I regretted that I could
not impose silence on people who tore your reputation to pieces, by
giving you my name and my whole life. And you always said: 'Never,
never, so long as that man lives!'--Is he dead, pray? or do you love
Palmer as you never loved me, since for him you brush aside scruples
which I thought well founded, and defy a horrible scandal, which I
consider inevitable?"

"The Comte de ---- is dead, and I am free."

Laurent was so thunderstruck by this revelation, that he forgot all his
schemes of disinterested, fraternal friendship. What Thérèse had
foreseen at Genoa, happened under peculiarly distressing conditions.
Laurent conceived a most exalted idea of the happiness he might have
enjoyed as Thérèse's husband, and he shed torrents of tears; nor could
words of reason or remonstrance produce any effect upon his perturbed
and despairing heart. His grief was expressed so vehemently, and his
tears were so genuine, that Thérèse could not escape the emotion
naturally incident to a pathetic, heart-rending scene. She had never
been able to see Laurent suffer without feeling all the compassion of
maternal love, reproachful but vanquished. She tried in vain to restrain
her own tears. They were not tears of regret, she was not deceived by
this vertigo from which Laurent was suffering, and which was nothing
more than vertigo; but it acted on her nerves, and the nerves of such a
woman were the very fibres of her heart, torn by a pain which she could
not understand.

She succeeded finally in calming him, and, by speaking to him gently and
affectionately, in persuading him to look upon her marriage as the
wisest and best solution for them both. Laurent agreed, with a sad
smile.

"Yes," he said, "I should certainly have made a detestable husband, and
_he_ will make you happy! Heaven owed you that compensation and that
reward. You are quite right to thank Heaven for it and to consider that
it preserves you from a wretched existence, and me from a remorse worse
than the old one. It is because all that is so true, so wise, so
logical, and so well arranged, that I am so unhappy!"

And he began to sob afresh.

Palmer entered the house unheard by either of them. He was, in truth,
oppressed by a ghastly presentiment, and, albeit entirely without
premeditation, he arrived like a jealous man whose suspicions have been
aroused, ringing very softly, and walking so that his footsteps made no
noise on the floor. He stopped at the door of the salon and recognized
Laurent's voice.

"Ah! I was perfectly sure of it!" he said to himself, tearing the glove
which he had held in his hand to be put on at the door, apparently to
give himself time for reflection before entering. He thought it best to
knock.

"Come in!" cried Thérèse hastily, astounded that any one should insult
her by knocking at the door of her salon.

When she saw Palmer, she turned pale. What he had done was more eloquent
than many words: he suspected her.

Palmer saw that pallor, and could not understand its real cause. He saw
also that Thérèse had been weeping, and Laurent's discomposed
countenance put the finishing-touch to his agitation. The first glance
that the two men exchanged was a glance of hatred and defiance; then
they walked toward each other, uncertain whether they should shake
hands, or grasp each other by the throat.

At that moment, Laurent was the better and more sincere of the two, for
he had spontaneous impulses which redeemed all his faults. He opened his
arms, and embraced Palmer effusively, making no effort to conceal his
tears, which were beginning to suffocate him.

"What is all this?" said Palmer, glancing at Thérèse.

"I do not know," she replied, firmly; "I have just told him that we are
going to America to be married. It causes him some grief. He apparently
thinks that we are going to forget him. Tell him, Palmer, we shall
always love him, at a distance as well as near at hand."

"He is a spoiled child!" rejoined Palmer. "He must know that I have but
one word, and that I desire your happiness before everything. Must we
take him to America, to make him cease grieving and causing you to weep,
Thérèse?"

These words were uttered in a tone impossible to describe. It was a tone
of paternal affection, blended with an indefinable flavor of profound
and unconquerable bitterness.

Thérèse understood. She asked for her hat and shawl, saying to Palmer:

"We will go to dine at a restaurant. Catherine expected nobody but me,
and there is not enough dinner in the house for us both."

"You mean for us three," rejoined Palmer, still half-bitter and
half-loving.

"But I cannot dine with you," said Laurent, understanding at last what
was going on in Palmer's mind. "I must leave you; I will come again to
say adieu. What day do you start?"

"In four days," said Thérèse.

"At least!" added Palmer, looking at her with a strange expression; "but
that is no reason why we three should not dine together to-day. Do me
this favor, Laurent. We will go to the _Frères Provençaux_, and after
that we will take a drive in the Bois de Boulogne. That will remind us
of Florence and the _Cascines_. Come, I beg you."

"I am engaged," said Laurent.

"Oh! well, break your engagement," said Palmer. "Here are paper and
pens! Write, write, I beg you!"

Palmer spoke in such a decided tone that there was no denying him.
Laurent remembered vaguely that it was his old-time peremptory tone.
Thérèse wanted him to refuse, and she could have made him understand
it with a glance; but Palmer did not take his eyes from her face, and he
seemed in a mood to interpret everything in an unfavorable light.

Laurent was very sincere. When he lied, he was the first person
deceived. He deemed himself strong enough to face that delicate
situation, and it was his straightforward, generous purpose to restore
Palmer's former confidence. Unluckily, when the human mind, borne onward
by vigorous aspirations, has climbed certain lofty summits, if it is
attacked with vertigo, it does not descend gradually, but plunges
recklessly down. That is what happened to Palmer. Although the most
noble-hearted and loyal of men, he had aspired to control the emotions
aroused by a too delicate situation. His strength had betrayed him; who
could blame him for it? And he plunged into the abyss, dragging
Thérèse and Laurent himself with him. Who would not pity them--all
three? All three had dreamed of scaling heaven and of reaching those
serene regions where passions have naught of earthliness; but it is not
given to man to reach that height; it is much for him to deem himself
for an instant capable of loving without doubt or distrust.

The dinner was mortally dismal; although Palmer, who had assumed the
rôle of host, made it a point to set before his guests the daintiest
dishes and choicest wines, everything had a bitter taste to them, and
Laurent, after vain efforts to recover the frame of mind which he had
found so delightful during his relations with those two at Florence
immediately after his illness, refused to accompany them to the Bois de
Boulogne. Palmer, who had drunk a trifle more than usual in order to
forget himself, insisted in a way that annoyed Thérèse.

"Come, come," she said, "don't be so persistent. Laurent is right to
refuse; in the Bois de Boulogne, in your open carriage, we shall be very
conspicuous, and we may meet people whom we know. We can't expect them
to know what an exceptional position we three occupy with respect to
each other; and they may well draw some very unpleasant conclusions
regarding all of us."

"Very well, then let us return to your house," said Palmer; "then I will
go and take a walk alone; I need a bit of fresh air."

Laurent made his escape when he saw that Palmer had determined to leave
him alone with Thérèse, apparently for the purpose of watching them or
surprising them. He returned to his own quarters very much depressed,
saying to himself that perhaps Thérèse was not happy, and
involuntarily deriving some satisfaction from the thought that Palmer
was not superior to the weakness of human nature, as he had imagined,
and as Thérèse had represented him in her letters.

We will pass rapidly over the ensuing week, a week during which the
heroic romance of which the three ill-fated friends had dreamed more or
less vividly, faded from hour to hour. Thérèse clung to her illusions
more persistently than the others, because, after such far-seeing
apprehensions and precautions, she had determined that she would risk
her whole life, and that however unjust Palmer might be, she ought to,
and would, keep her word to him.

Palmer released her from it at one stroke, after a succession of
suspicions more aggravating, because they were unexpressed in words,
than all Laurent's insults had been.

One morning, after passing the night concealed in Thérèse's garden,
Palmer was about to retire when she appeared near the gate and detained
him.

"Well," she said, "you have been watching here six hours; I saw you from
my room. Are you convinced that no one came to see me last night?"

Thérèse was angry, and yet, by forcing the explanation Palmer wished
to avoid, she hoped to lead him back to confidence in her; but he
thought otherwise.

"I see, Thérèse," he said, "that you are tired of me, since you demand
a confession after which I should be contemptible in your eyes. And yet
it would not have cost you much to close them to a weakness with which
I have not annoyed you overmuch. Why do you not let me suffer in
silence? Have I insulted you and pursued you with bitter sarcasms? Have
I written you volumes of insults, only to come the next day and weep at
your feet and make frantic protestations of repentance, reserving the
right to begin anew to torture you the next day? Did I ever so much as
ask you an indiscreet question? Why could you not sleep quietly last
night while I sat on yonder bench, not disturbing your repose by shrieks
and tears? Can you not forgive a suffering for which I blush, perhaps,
and which, at all events, I have the pride to wish to conceal and know
how to? You have forgiven much more in the case of one who had not so
much courage."

"I have forgiven him nothing, Palmer, for I have parted from him
irrevocably. As for this suffering which you avow, and which you think
that you conceal so perfectly, let me tell you that it is as clear as
daylight to my eyes, and that I suffer more from it than you do
yourself. Understand that it humiliates me profoundly, and that, coming
from a strong and thoughtful man like you, it wounds me a hundred times
more deeply than the insults of an excited child."

"Yes, yes, of course," rejoined Palmer. "So you are wounded by my fault,
and angry with me forever! Well, Thérèse, everything is at an end
between us. Do for me what you have done for Laurent: continue to be my
friend."

"So you mean to leave me?"

"Yes, Thérèse; but I do not forget that, when you deigned to give me
your word, I placed my name, my fortune, and my worldly station at your
feet. I have but one word, and I will keep my promise to you; let us be
married here, quietly and joylessly, accept my name and half of my
income, and then----"

"And then?" echoed Thérèse.

"Then I will go home, I will go to embrace my mother, and you will be
free!"

"Is this a threat of suicide?"

"No, on my honor! Suicide is rank cowardice, especially when one has a
mother like mine. I will travel, I will start around the world again,
and you will hear no more of me!"

Thérèse was shocked by such a proposition.

"This would seem to me a wretched joke, Palmer," she said, "if I did not
know you to be a serious man. I prefer to believe that you do not deem
me capable of accepting this name and this money which you offer me as
the solution of a case of conscience. Never recur to such a suggestion;
I should feel insulted."

"Thérèse! Thérèse!" cried Palmer, violently, squeezing her arm until
he bruised the skin, "swear to me, by the memory of the child you lost,
that you no longer love Laurent; I will kneel at your feet and implore
you to forgive my injustice."

Thérèse withdrew her wounded arm, and gazed at him in silence. She was
outraged to the very bottom of her soul that he should exact such an
oath from her, and his words seemed to her even more cruel and brutal
than the physical pain she had undergone.

"My child," she cried, stifling her sobs, "I swear to you, to you who
are in heaven, that no man shall ever debase your poor mother again!"

She rose, went to her room, and locked herself in. She felt so entirely
innocent with respect to Palmer, that she could not endure the idea of
descending to self-justification like a guilty woman. Moreover, she
anticipated a horrible future with a man who could brood so long over a
deep-rooted jealousy, and who, after he had twice provoked what he
thought to be a serious danger for her, attributed his own imprudence to
her as a crime. She thought of her mother's ghastly life with a husband
who was jealous of the past, and she said to herself, justly enough,
that, after she had had the misfortune to be subjected to a passion like
Laurent's, she had been insane to believe in the possibility of
happiness with another man.

Palmer had a reserve store of good sense and pride which did not allow
him to hope to make Thérèse happy after such a scene as had just
occurred. He felt that his jealousy would never be cured, and he
persisted in believing that it was well-founded. He wrote to Thérèse:


"Forgive me, my friend, if I have pained you; but it is impossible for
me not to realize that I was about to drag you down into an abyss of
despair. You love Laurent, you have always loved him in spite of
yourself, and in all probability you will always love him. It is your
destiny. I tried to relieve you from it; you tried with me. I also
realize that in accepting my love you were sincere, and that you did
your utmost to respond to it. I indulged in many illusions, but I have
felt them slipping from me every day since we left Florence. If he had
persisted in being ungrateful, I should have been saved; but his
repentance and gratitude touched your heart. I myself was touched by
them, and yet I strove to believe that I was perfectly calm. It was of
no avail. Thenceforth there were between you, because of me, sorrows of
which you never told me, but which I divined. He recurred to his former
love for you, and you, although you fought against the feeling,
regretted that you belonged to me. Alas! Thérèse, that was the time
when you should have retracted your promise. I was ready to give it back
to you. I left you at liberty to go with him from Spezzia: why did you
not do it?

"Forgive me; I rebuke you for having suffered terribly to make me happy
and to become attached to me. I have fought hard, too, I promise you!
And now, if you care to accept my devotion, I am ready to struggle and
suffer anew. Tell me if you are yourself willing to suffer, and if, by
going with me to America, you hope to be cured of this wretched passion
which threatens you with a pitiable future. I am ready to take you with
me; but let us say no more of Laurent, I implore you, and do not look
upon it as a crime on my part to have guessed the truth. Let us remain
friends, come and live with my mother, and if, a few years hence, you
find me not unworthy of you, accept my name and a permanent home in
America, with no thought of ever returning to France.

"I will wait in Paris a week for your reply.

                             "RICHARD."


Thérèse rejected an offer which wounded her pride. She still loved
Palmer, and yet she felt so insulted by the offer to take her as a favor
when she had no reason to reproach herself, that she concealed the pain
that tore her heart. She felt, too, that she could not resume any sort
of connection with him without prolonging a torture which he no longer
had the strength to dissemble, and that their life thenceforth would be
a constant struggle or constant misery. She left Paris with Catherine,
telling no one where she was going, and hid herself in a small
country-house in the provinces, which she hired for three months.




XII


Palmer sailed for America, bearing with dignity a very deep wound, but
utterly unable to admit that he had been mistaken. He had an obstinate
streak in his mind, which sometimes reacted upon his disposition, but
only to make him do this or that thing with resolution, not to make him
persist in a painful and really difficult undertaking. He had believed
that he was capable of curing Thérèse of her fatal love, and he had
performed that miracle by his enthusiastic and, if you please, imprudent
faith; but he lost the fruit just as he was on the point of plucking it,
because, when the last test came, his faith failed him.

It should be said also, that, in establishing a genuine, serious
connection between two persons, nothing can be more unfortunate than an
attempt to take possession too quickly of a heart that has been broken.
The dawn of such a connection is attended by the noblest illusions; but
jealousy of the past is an incurable disease, and stirs up storms which
even old age does not always dispel.

If Palmer had been a really strong man, or if his strength had been
calmer and less unreasoning, he might have saved Thérèse from the
disasters that he foresaw for her. It was his duty to do it, perhaps,
for she had confided herself to him with a sincerity and
disinterestedness worthy of solicitude and respect; but many who aspire
to strength of character and believe that they possess it possess
nothing more than energy, and Palmer was one of those as to whom one may
be mistaken for a long while. Such as he was, he surely deserved
Thérèse's regrets. We shall see ere long that he was capable of the
noblest impulses and the bravest deeds. His whole mistake consisted in
believing in the unassailable duration of that which in him was simply a
spontaneous effort of the will.

Laurent knew nothing at first of Palmer's departure for America; he was
dismayed to find that Thérèse, too, had gone away without bidding him
adieu. He had received from her only these few words:


"You are the only person in France who knew of my projected marriage to
Palmer. The marriage is broken off. Keep our secret. I am going away."


As she wrote these ice-cold words to Laurent, Thérèse was conscious of
a bitter feeling toward him. Was not that fatal child the cause of all
the misfortunes and all the sorrows of her life?

She soon felt, however, that this time her irritation was unjust.
Laurent had behaved admirably toward both Palmer and herself during that
wretched week which had ruined everything. After the first outburst, he
had accepted the situation with perfect good faith, and had done his
utmost not to give offence to Palmer. He had not once sought to take
advantage with Thérèse of her fiancé's unjust suspicions. He had
never failed to speak of him with respect and affection. By a strange
concatenation of circumstances, it was he who had the dignified rôle
during that week. And Thérèse could not help realizing that, although
Laurent was sometimes insane to the point of downright atrocity, his
mind was never open to any base or despicable thought.

During the three months which followed Palmer's departure, Laurent
continued to show that he was worthy of Thérèse's friendship. He had
succeeded in discovering her retreat, and he did nothing to disturb her
tranquillity. He wrote to her, complaining mildly of the coldness of her
adieu, and reproaching her for not having confidence in him in her
sorrows, for not treating him like a brother; "was he not created and
brought into the world to serve her, to console her, to avenge her at
need?" Then followed questions to which Thérèse was forced to reply.
Had Palmer insulted her? Should he go to him and demand satisfaction?
Did I do anything imprudent, which wounded you? Have you any reproach to
bring against me? God knows, I did not think it! If I am the cause of
your suffering, scold me, and if I am not the cause of it, tell me that
you will allow me to weep with you.

Thérèse justified Richard without entering into any explanations. She
forbade Laurent to mention his name to her. In her generous
determination to leave no stain on her fiancé's memory, she allowed him
to believe that she alone was responsible for the rupture. Perhaps the
result was to revive in Laurent's heart hopes which she had no purpose
of reviving; but there are situations in which one bungles, whatever one
may do, and rushes onward, impelled by fatality, to one's destruction.

Laurent's letters were infinitely gentle and affectionate. He wrote
without art, without pretension in the way of style, and often in bad
taste and incorrectly. He was sometimes honestly emphatic, and sometimes
childish without prudery. With all their defects, his letters were
dictated by a depth of conviction which made them irresistibly
persuasive, and one could feel in every word the fire of youth and the
effervescent energy of an artist of genius.

Moreover, Laurent began to work with great ardor, thoroughly resolved
never to return to his former dissolute habits. His heart bled at the
thought of the privations Thérèse had imposed upon herself in order to
provide him with the variety, the bracing air, and the renewed health of
the journey to Switzerland. He had determined to pay his debt at the
earliest possible moment.

Thérèse soon began to feel that the affection of her _poor child_, as
he still called himself, was very pleasant to her, and that, if it could
continue as it was, it would be the best and purest sentiment of his
life.

She encouraged him by motherly replies to persevere in the path of toil
to which he said that he had returned forever. Her letters were sweet,
resigned, and breathed a chaste affection; but Laurent soon detected a
strain of mortal sadness in them. Thérèse admitted that she was
slightly ill, and she sometimes had thoughts of death at which she
laughed with heart-rending melancholy. She was really ill. Without love
and without work, _ennui_ was consuming her. She had carried with her a
small sum of money, which was all that remained of what she had earned
at Genoa, and she used it with the strictest economy, in order to remain
in the country as long as possible. She had conceived a horror of Paris.
And then it is possible that there had gradually stolen over her a
longing and at the same time a sort of dread to see Laurent once more,
changed, resigned, and improved in every way, as his letters showed him
to be.

She hoped that he would marry; as he had once had an inclination in that
direction, that excellent plan might occur to him again. She encouraged
him to do it. He said sometimes _yes_ and sometimes _no_. Thérèse
constantly anticipated that some trace of the old love would appear in
Laurent's letters: it did crop out a little now and then, but always
with exquisite delicacy; and the prevailing characteristic of these
veiled references to ill-disguised sentiment was a delightful
tenderness, an effusive sensibility, a sort of ardent filial devotion.

When the winter arrived, Thérèse, finding that she had come to the end
of her resources, was obliged to return to Paris, where her patrons were
and her duties to herself. She concealed her return from Laurent,
preferring not to see him again too soon; but, impelled by some
mysterious power of divination, he passed through the unfrequented
street on which the little house stood. He saw that the shutters were
down, and he went in, drunk with joy. It was an ingenuous, almost
child-like joy, which would have made a suspicious, reserved attitude
utterly ridiculous and prudish. He left Thérèse to dine alone, begging
her to come in the evening to his studio, to see a picture which he had
just finished and upon which he was absolutely determined to have her
opinion before sending it away. It was sold and paid for; but, if she
had any criticism to make upon it, he would work at it a few days more.
The deplorable days had passed when Thérèse "was no connoisseur, when
she had the narrow, realistic judgment peculiar to portrait-painters,
when she was incapable of comprehending a work of the imagination," etc.
Now she was "his muse and his inspiration. Without the aid of her divine
breath, he could do nothing. With her advice and encouragement, his
talent would fulfil all its promises."

Thérèse forgot the past, and, while she was not too much bewildered by
the present, she did not think that she ought to refuse what an artist
never refuses a fellow-artist. After dinner, she took a cab and went to
Laurent's studio.

She found the studio illuminated, and the picture in a magnificent
light. It was a most excellent and beautiful picture. That peculiar
genius had the faculty of making, while in repose, more rapid progress
than is always attained by those who work most persistently. As a result
of his travelling and his illness, there had been a gap of a year in his
work, and it seemed that, by reflection simply, he had thrown off the
defects of his earlier exuberance of fancy. At the same time, he had
acquired new qualities which one would hardly have deemed consistent
with his nature--accuracy of drawing, more agreeable choice of subjects,
charm of execution--everything that was likely to please the public
without lowering him in the estimation of artists.

Thérèse was touched and enchanted. She expressed her admiration in the
warmest terms. She said to him everything that she deemed best adapted
to make the noble pride of talent vanquish all the wretched enthusiasms
of the past. She found nothing to criticise, and even forbade him to
retouch any part of it.

Laurent, albeit modest in manners and language, had more pride than
Thérèse gave him credit for. In the depth of his heart he was
enraptured by her praise. He had a feeling that she was the shrewdest
and most conscientious of all those who were capable of appreciating
him. He felt, too, a violent recrudescence of the old longing for her to
share his artistic joys and sorrows, and that hope of becoming a master,
that is to say, a man, which she only could revive in his moments of
weakness.

When Thérèse had gazed a long while at the picture, she turned to look
at a figure as to which Laurent desired her opinion, saying that she
would be even more pleased with it; but, instead of a canvas, Thérèse
saw her mother, with smiling face, standing in the doorway of Laurent's
chamber.

Madame C---- had come to Paris, not knowing just what day Thérèse
would return. This visit was occasioned by serious business: her son was
to be married, and Monsieur C---- himself had been in Paris for some
time. Thérèse's mother having learned from her that she had renewed
her correspondence with Laurent, and dreading the future, had called
upon him unexpectedly to say to him all that a mother can say to a man,
to prevent his making her daughter unhappy.

Laurent was gifted with eloquence of the heart. He had reassured this
poor mother, and had detained her, saying:

"Thérèse is coming here, and I propose to swear to her at your feet
that I will always be to her whichever she may choose, her brother or
her husband, but in any event her slave."

It was a very pleasant surprise for Thérèse to find her mother there,
for she did not expect to see her so soon. They embraced with tears of
joy. Laurent led them to a small salon filled with flowers, where tea
was served in sumptuous fashion. Laurent was rich, he had just earned
ten thousand francs. He was proud and happy to be able to repay
Thérèse all that she had expended for him. He was adorable that
evening; he won the daughter's heart and the mother's confidence, and
yet he had the delicacy not to say a word of love to Thérèse. Far from
that, as he kissed the clasped hands of the two women, he exclaimed with
absolute sincerity that that was the loveliest day of his life, and that
never had he felt so happy and so self-contented when he and Thérèse
were alone.

Madame C---- first broached the subject of marriage to Thérèse some
days later. That poor woman, who had sacrificed everything to external
appearances, who, despite her domestic sorrows, believed that she had
done well, could not endure the idea of her daughter being cast off by
Palmer, and she thought that Thérèse might set herself right in the
eyes of the world by making another choice. Laurent was famous and much
in vogue. Never could there be a better assorted marriage. The young but
great artist had reformed. Thérèse possessed an influence over him
which had dominated the most violent crisis of his painful
transformation. He had an unconquerable attachment for her. It had
become a duty on the part of both of them to weld anew and forever a
chain which had never been completely severed, and which could never be,
strive as hard as they might.

Laurent excused his past offences by very specious reasoning. Thérèse,
he said, had spoiled him at the outset by too great gentleness and
resignation. If, at the time of his first ingratitude, she had shown
that she was offended, she would have corrected his wretched habit,
contracted with low women, of yielding to his impulses and his caprices.
She would have taught him the respect a man owes to the woman who has
given herself to him through love.

Another consideration, too, which Laurent made the most of in his
defence, and which seemed more weighty, was this, which he had already
suggested in his letters.

"Probably," he said to her, "I was ill, although I did not know it, when
I wronged you the first time. A brain-fever seems to strike you like the
lightning, and yet it is impossible to believe that in a young, strong
man there has not taken place, perhaps long beforehand, a terrible
revolution by which his reason has already been disturbed, and under
which his will has been unable to react. Is not that just what took
place in me, my poor Thérèse, when that sickness was coming on which
nearly killed me? Neither you nor I could understand it; and, as for
myself, it often happened that I woke in the morning and thought of your
grief of the preceding day, unable to distinguish between the dreams I
had just dreamed and the reality. You know that I could not work, that
the place where we were aroused an unhealthy aversion in my mind, that I
had had an extraordinary hallucination in the forest of ----; and that,
when you gently reproached me for certain cruel words and certain unjust
accusations, I listened to you with a dazed air, thinking that you were
the one who had dreamed it all. Poor woman! I accused you of being mad!
You must see that _I_ was mad, and can you not forgive involuntary
offences? Compare my conduct after my illness with what it was before!
Was it not like a reawakening of my heart? Did you not suddenly find me
as trustful, as submissive, as devoted, as I had been cynical,
irritable, and selfish, before that crisis which restored me to my
senses? And have you had any reason to reproach me from that moment? Did
I not bow to your marriage to Palmer as a punishment I had earned? You
saw me almost dead with grief at the thought that I was going to lose
you forever: did I say a word against your fiancé? If you had bade me
run after him, and even to blow out my own brains in order to bring him
back to you, I would have done it, so absolutely do my heart and my life
belong to you! Do you want me to do it now? If my existence embarrasses
you or makes you unhappy, say but a word, I am ready to put an end to
it. Say a word, Thérèse, and you will never again hear the name of
this wretched creature, who has no other desire than to live or die for
you."

Thérèse's character had grown weaker in this twofold love, which, in
fact, had been simply two acts of the same drama; except for that
outraged, shattered passion, Palmer would never have thought of marrying
her, and the effort that she had made to pledge herself to him was,
perhaps, nothing more than the reaction of despair. Laurent had never
disappeared from her life, since Palmer's constant argument, in seeking
to convince her, had been to refer to the deplorable results of that
liaison which he wished to make her forget and which he seemed fatally
impelled to recall to her mind over and over again.

And then the renewal of friendship after the rupture had been, so far as
Laurent was concerned, a genuine renewal of passion; whereas, to
Thérèse, it had been a new phase of devotion, more refined and more
touching than love itself. She had suffered from Palmer's desertion, but
not in a cowardly way. She still had strength to meet injustice; indeed,
we may say that was her whole strength. She was not one of those women
who are everlastingly suffering and complaining, overflowing with
useless regrets and insatiable longings. A violent reaction was taking
place in her, and her intelligence, which was abundantly developed,
naturally helped it on. She conceived an exalted idea of moral liberty,
and when another's love and faith failed her, she had the righteous
pride not to dispute the tattered compact, shred by shred. She even took
pleasure in the idea of restoring freedom and repose, generously and
without reproach, to whoever reclaimed them.

But she had become much weaker than in her earlier womanhood, in the
sense that she had recovered the craving to love and to have faith,
which had been long benumbed by a disaster of exceptional severity. She
had fancied for a long time that she could live thus, and that art would
be her only passion. She had made a mistake, and she could no longer
indulge in any illusions concerning the future. It was necessary for her
to love, and her greatest misfortune was that it was necessary for her
to love gently and self-sacrificingly, and to satisfy at any price the
maternal impulse which was, as it were, a fatal element of her nature
and her life. She had become accustomed to suffering for some one, she
longed to suffer still, and if that longing, strange, it is true, but
well characterized in certain women, and in certain men as well, had
made her less merciful to Palmer than to Laurent, it was because Palmer
had seemed to her too strong himself to need her devotion. So that
Palmer had erred in offering her support and consolation. Thérèse had
missed the feeling that she was necessary to that man, who wished her to
think of no one but herself.

Laurent, who was more ingenuous, had that peculiar charm of which she
was fatally enamored--weakness! He made no secret of it, he proclaimed
that touching infirmity of his genius with transports of sincerity and
inexhaustible emotion. Alas! he, too, erred. He was not really weak, any
more than Palmer was really strong. He had his hours, he always talked
like a child of heaven, and as soon as his weakness had won the day, he
recovered his strength to make others suffer, as is the wont of all the
children whom we adore.

Laurent was in the clutches of an inexorable fatality. He said so
himself in his lucid moments. It seemed as if, born of the intercourse
of two angels, he had nursed at the breast of a Fury, and had retained
in his blood a leaven of frenzy and despair. He was one of those
persons, more plentiful than is generally supposed in the human race, in
both sexes, who, although endowed with all sublimity of thought and all
the noble impulses of the heart, never attain the full extent of their
faculties without falling at once into a sort of intellectual epilepsy.

And then, too, he was, like Palmer, inclined to undertake the
impossible, which is to try to graft happiness upon despair, and to
taste the divine joys of conjugal faith and of sacred friendship upon
the ruins of a newly devastated past. Those two hearts, bleeding from
the wounds they had received, were sadly in need of repose: Thérèse
implored it with the sorrow born of a ghastly presentiment; but Laurent
fancied that he had lived ten centuries during the ten months of their
separation, and he became ill with the exuberance of a desire of the
heart, which should have terrified Thérèse more than a desire of the
senses.

Unfortunately, she allowed herself to be reassured by the nature of that
desire. Laurent seemed to be so far regenerated as to have restored
moral love to the place it should occupy in the front rank, and he was
once more alone with Thérèse, but did not worry her as before by his
outbreaks of frenzy. He was able to talk with her for hours at a time
with the most sublime affection--he who had long believed that he was
dumb, he said, and who at last felt his genius spreading its wings and
taking its flight to a loftier realm! He made himself a part of
Thérèse's future by constantly pointing out to her that she had a
sacred duty to perform toward him, the duty of sheltering him from the
mad impulses of youth, from the unworthy ambitions of middle life, and
the depraved selfishness of old age. He talked to her of himself, always
of himself. Why not? He talked so well! Through her means, he would be a
great artist, a great heart, a great man; she owed him that, because she
had saved his life! And Thérèse, with the fatal simplicity of loving
hearts, came at last to look upon this reasoning as irrefutable, and to
regard as a duty what she had at first been implored to grant as a proof
of forgiveness.

So Thérèse at last consented to weld anew that fatal chain; but she
was happily inspired to postpone the marriage, desiring to test
Laurent's resolution on that point, and fearing an irrevocable
engagement for his sake. If her own happiness alone had been involved,
the imprudent creature would have bound herself forever.

Thérèse's first happiness did not last _a whole week_, as a merry
ballad sadly says; the second did not last twenty-four hours. Laurent's
reactions were sudden and violent, in proportion to the intensity of his
enjoyment. We say his reactions, Thérèse said his _retractations_, and
that was the more accurate word. He obeyed that inexorable longing which
some young men feel to kill or destroy anything that arouses their
passions. These cruel instincts have been observed in men of widely
varying natures, and history has stigmatized them as perverse instincts;
it would be more just to describe them as instincts perverted either by
a disease of the brain contracted amid the surroundings in which the men
in question were born, or by the impunity, fatal to the reason, which
certain conditions assured them from their first steps in life. We have
heard of young kings murdering fawns to which they seemed to be much
attached, solely for the pleasure of seeing their entrails quiver. Men
of genius, too, are kings in the environment in which they mature;
indeed, they are absolute kings, who are intoxicated by their power.
There are some who are tormented by the thirst for domination, and whose
joy, when their domination is assured, excites them to frenzy.

Such was Laurent, in whom two entirely distinct natures struggled for
mastery. One would have said that two souls, having fought for the
privilege of vivifying his body, were engaged in a desperate conflict to
drive each other out. Between those contrary impulsions the poor wretch
lost his free will, and fell exhausted every day after the victory of
the angel or the demon who fought over his body.

And when he analyzed himself, it seemed to him sometimes that he was
reading in a book of magic, and could discern with marvellous and
appalling lucidity the key to the mysterious spells of which he was the
victim.

"Yes," he said to Thérèse, "I am undergoing the phenomenon which the
thaumaturgists called _possession_. Two spirits have acquired mastery
over me. Is one of them really a good and one an evil spirit? No, I do
not think so: the one who terrifies you, the sceptical, violent, frantic
one, does ill only because he is not able to do good as he understands
it. He would like to be calm, philosophical, playful, tolerant; _the
other_ does not choose that he shall be so. He wishes to play his part
of good angel; he seeks to be fervent, enthusiastic, single-hearted,
devoted; and as his adversary mocks at him, denies him, and insults him,
he becomes morose and cruel in his turn, so that the two angels together
bring forth a demon."

And Laurent said and wrote to Thérèse on this strange subject
sentences no less beautiful than appalling, which seemed to be true and
to add further privileges to the impunity he had apparently arrogated to
himself with respect to her.

All that Thérèse had feared that she would suffer on Laurent's account
if she became Palmer's wife, she suffered on Palmer's account when she
became for the second time Laurent's companion. Ghastly retrospective
jealousy, the worst of all forms of jealousy, because it takes offence
at everything and can be sure of nothing, gnawed the unhappy artist's
heart and sowed madness in his brain. The memory of Palmer became a
spectre, a vampire to him. He obstinately insisted that Thérèse should
tell him all the details of her life at Genoa and Porto Venere, and, as
she refused, he accused her of having tried to _deceive him_! Forgetting
that at that time Thérèse had written to him: _I love Palmer_, and
that a little later she had written to him: _I am going to marry him_,
he reproached her with having always held in a firm and treacherous hand
the chain of hope and desire which bound him to her. Thérèse placed
all their correspondence before him, and he admitted that she had said
to him all that loyalty called upon her to say to cut him loose from
her. He became calmer, and agreed that she had handled his half-extinct
passion with excessive delicacy, telling him the whole truth little by
little, as he showed a disposition to receive it without pain, and also
as she gained confidence in the future toward which Palmer was leading
her. He admitted that she had never told him anything resembling a
falsehood, even when she had refused to explain herself, and that
immediately after his illness, when he was still deluding himself with
the idea of a possible reconciliation, she had said to him: "All is at
an end between us. What I have determined upon and accepted for myself
is my secret, and you have no right to question me."

"Yes, yes; you are right!" cried Laurent. "I was unjust, and my fatal
curiosity is a torment which it is a veritable crime for me to seek to
make you share. Yes, dear Thérèse, I subject you to humiliating
questions, you who owed me nothing more than oblivion, and who
generously granted me a full pardon! I have changed rôles; I draw an
indictment against you, forgetting that I am the culprit and the
condemned! I try to tear away with an impious hand the veils of modesty
in which your heart is entitled, and doubtless in duty bound, to envelop
itself touching all that concerns your relations with Palmer. I thank
you for your proud silence. I esteem you all the more for it. It proves
to me that you never allowed Palmer to question you touching the
mysteries of our sorrows and our joys. And now I understand that not
only does a woman not owe these private confidences to her lover, but it
is her duty to refuse them. The man who asks for them degrades the woman
he loves. He calls upon her to do a dastardly thing, at the same time
that he debases her in his mind, by associating her image with those of
all the phantoms that beset him. Yes, Thérèse, you are right; one must
work on his own account to maintain the purity of his ideal; and I am
forever straining every nerve to profane it and cast it forth from the
temple I had built for it!"

It would seem that after such protestations, and when Laurent declared
his readiness to sign them with his blood and his tears, tranquillity
should have been restored and happiness have begun. But such was not the
case. Laurent, consumed by secret rage, returned the next day to his
questions, his insults, his sarcasms. Whole nights were passed in
deplorable disputes, in which it seemed that he had an absolute craving
to work upon his own genius with the lash, to wound it and torture it,
in order to make it fruitful in abusive language of truly appalling
eloquence, and to drive both Thérèse and himself to the uttermost
limits of despair. After these hurricanes, there seemed to be nothing
left for them to do but to kill themselves together. Thérèse
constantly expected it and was always ready, for life was horrible to
her; but Laurent had not as yet had that thought. Exhausted by fatigue
he would fall asleep, and his good angel seemed to return to watch over
his slumber and bring to his face the divine smile of celestial visions.

It was an incredible, but fixed and invariable, rule of that strange
character, that sleep changed all his resolutions. If he fell asleep
with his heart overflowing with affection, he was sure to wake with his
mind eager for battle and murder; and on the other hand, if he had gone
away cursing the night before, he would return in the morning to bless.

Three times Thérèse left him and fled from Paris; three times he went
after her and forced her to forgive his despair; for as soon as he had
lost her he adored her, and began anew to implore her with all the tears
of exalted repentance.

Thérèse was at once miserable and sublime in that hell into which she
had plunged the second time, closing her eyes and sacrificing her life.
She carried devotion to the point of acts of self-immolation which made
her friends shudder, and which sometimes brought upon her the blame,
almost the scorn, of certain proud and virtuous people who did not know
what it is to love.

Moreover, this love of Thérèse for Laurent was incomprehensible to
herself. She was not drawn on by her passions, for Laurent, besmirched
by the debauchery into which he plunged anew to kill a love which he
could not destroy by his will, had become a more disgusting object than
a dead body to her. She no longer had any caresses for him, and he no
longer dared ask her for them. She was no longer vanquished and swayed
by the charm of his eloquence and the child-like grace of his penitence.
She could no longer believe in the morrow; and the superb outbursts of
emotion, which had reconciled them so many times, were no longer
anything more in her eyes than alarming symptoms of storm and shipwreck.

What attached her to him was that all-embracing compassion which one
inevitably acquires as a habit toward those to whom one has forgiven
much. Pardon seems to engender pardon even to satiety, to foolish
weakness. When a mother has said to herself that her child is
incorrigible, and that he must either die or kill some one, there is
nothing left for her to do except to abandon him or to accept him as he
is. Thérèse had been mistaken every time that she had thought to cure
Laurent by abandoning him. It is very true that he seemed to improve at
such times, but only because he hoped to obtain his pardon. When he
ceased to hope, he plunged recklessly into dissipation and idleness.
Then she returned to rescue him, and succeeded in making him work for a
few days. But how dearly she had to pay for the little good she
succeeded in doing him! When he became disgusted once more with a
regular life, he could not find enough invectives with which to reproach
her for trying to make of him "what her patron saint Thérèse Levasseur
had made of Jean-Jacques," that is to say, according to him, "an idiot
and a maniac."

And yet there was in this pity, which he implored so fervently only to
insult it as soon as she had given it back to him, an enthusiastic,
perhaps a slightly fanatical respect for his genius as an artist. That
woman, whom he accused of being commonplace and lacking in intelligence,
when he saw her working for his well-being with simple-hearted
perseverance, was superbly artistic, in her love at least, since she
accepted Laurent's tyranny as a matter of divine right, and sacrificed
to him her own pride, her own labor, and what another less
self-sacrificing than she might have called her own glory.

And he, poor wretch, saw and understood that devotion, and when he
realized his ingratitude he was consumed by remorse which crushed him.
He should have had a heedless, robust mistress, who would have laughed
at his anger and his repentance alike, who would not have suffered
because of anything he did, so long as she controlled him. Thérèse was
not such a woman. She was dying of weariness and disappointment, and
Laurent, seeing her fade away, sought momentary forgetfulness of his own
tears in the suicide of his intelligence, in the poison of drunkenness.




XIII


One evening, he abused her so long and so incoherently that she ceased
to listen to him, and dozed in her chair. After a few moments, a slight
rustling made her open her eyes. Laurent convulsively threw on the floor
something that gleamed: it was a dagger. Thérèse smiled, and closed
her eyes again. She understood feebly, and as if through the haze of a
dream, that he had thought of killing her. At that moment, Thérèse was
utterly indifferent to everything. To rest from living and thinking, let
that rest be sleep or death--she left the choice to destiny.

Death was what she despised. Laurent thought that it was he, and, as he
despised himself, he left her at last.

Three days later, Thérèse, having decided to borrow a sum which would
enable her to take a long journey, to leave Paris in earnest,--for such
a succession of agitations and hurricanes was spoiling her work and her
life,--went to the Quai aux Fleurs and bought a white rose-bush, which
she sent to Laurent without giving her name to the messenger. It was her
farewell. On returning home, she found there a white rose-bush, sent
without a name: that was Laurent's farewell. They both intended to go
away--they both remained. The incident of the white rose-bushes moved
Laurent to tears. He hurried to Thérèse and found her finishing her
packing. Her place was taken in the mail-coach for six o'clock that
evening. Laurent's place also was taken in the same coach. Both had
thought of visiting Italy again alone. "Well, let us go together!" he
cried.

"No, I am not going," said she.

"Thérèse, it's of no use for us to plan! this horrible bond that
connects us will never be broken. It is madness to think of it. My love
has withstood everything that can crush a sentiment, everything that can
break a heart. You must love me as I am, or else we must die together.
Are you willing to love me?"

"It would be of no use for me to be willing to do it; I cannot," said
Thérèse. "I feel that my heart is exhausted; I think that it is dead."

"Very well; are you willing to die?"

"It is a matter of indifference to me how soon I die, as you know; but I
do not wish you to live or die with me."

"Ah! yes, you believe in the eternity of the _ego_! You don't want to
meet me again in the other life! Poor martyr! I can understand that."

"We shall not meet again, Laurent, I am sure. Each soul goes toward its
centre of attraction. Repose summons me, while you will always and
everywhere be attracted by the tempest."

"That is to say that _you_ have not earned hell!"

"Nor have you earned it. You will be in another heaven, that is all!"

"What is there left for me in this world, if you leave me?"

"Glory, when you no longer seek love."

Laurent became pensive. Several times he repeated mechanically:
"Glory!"--then he knelt in front of the hearth, poking the fire as he
was accustomed to do when he wished to be alone with himself. Thérèse
went out to countermand the orders for her journey. She was well aware
that Laurent would have followed her.

When she returned, she found him very calm and cheerful.

"This world is only a dull comedy," he said; "but why seek to rise above
it, since we do not know what there may be higher up, or even if there
is anything at all? Glory, at which you laugh in your sleeve, I know
very well----"

"I do not laugh at other people's glory."

"What other people?"

"Those who believe in it and love it."

"God knows whether I believe in it, Thérèse, or whether I snap my
fingers at it as a mere farce! But one can love a thing of which he
knows the trifling value. You love a balky horse that breaks your neck,
the tobacco that poisons you, a wretched play that makes you laugh, and
glory, which is only a masquerade! Glory! what is glory to a living
artist? Newspaper articles that tear you to pieces and make people talk
about you, and laudatory articles that no one reads, for the public is
amused only by bitter criticisms, and when its idol is praised to the
skies it ceases to care for him at all. And then the groups that gather
about a painted canvas, and the monumental orders which fill you with
delight and ambition, and leave you half-dead with fatigue, with your
ideal unrealized. And then--the Institute--a collection of men who
detest you, and who themselves----"

Here Laurent indulged in the most intensely bitter sarcasms, and
concluded his dithyramb by saying:

"No matter! such is the glory of this world! We spit upon it, but we
cannot do without it, since there is nothing better!"

Their conversation was prolonged until evening, satirical,
philosophical, and becoming gradually altogether impersonal. To look at
them and listen to them, one would have said that they were two friends,
naturally peaceable, who had never quarrelled. This strange situation
had occurred several times in the midst of their fiercest storms: when
their hearts were silent, their minds still understood each other and
agreed.

Laurent was hungry, and asked Thérèse to give him some dinner.

"What about the coach?" she said. "It is almost time for it to start."

"But you are not going?"

"I shall go if you stay."

"Very well; then I will go, Thérèse. Adieu!"

He left the house abruptly, and returned an hour later.

"I missed the mail," he said; "I will go to-morrow. Haven't you dined
yet?"

In her preoccupation Thérèse had forgotten her dinner, which was on
the table.

"My dear Thérèse," he said, "grant me one last favor; come to dine
somewhere with me, and let us go to some play this evening. I want to be
your friend once more, just your friend. That will cure me and be the
salvation of both of us. Try me. I will not be jealous, nor exacting,
nor even amorous any more. Let me tell you--I have another mistress, a
pretty little woman in society, as slender as a linnet, and as white and
dainty as a sprig of lily of the valley. She is a married woman. I am a
friend of her lover, whom I am playing false. I have two rivals, two
deadly perils to defy every time that I obtain a _tête-à-tête_. That
is very exciting, and therein lies the whole secret of my love. Thus my
passions and my imagination are satisfied there; my heart alone and a
free exchange of ideas are what I offer you."

"I refuse them," said Thérèse.

"What! you are vain enough to be jealous of a man whom you no longer
love?"

"Surely not! I no longer have my life to give, and I cannot understand
such a friendship as you ask of me, without exclusive devotion. Come to
see me as my other friends do, I am perfectly willing; but do not ask me
for any further private intimacy, even apparent."

"I understand, Thérèse; you have another lover!"

Thérèse shrugged her shoulders and made no reply. He was dying to have
her boast to him of some caprice, as he had just boasted to her. His
shattered strength was reviving and longed for a fight. He awaited
anxiously her response to his challenge, ready to overwhelm her with
reproaches and disdain, and perhaps to inform her that he had invented
that mistress of his to induce her to betray herself. He could not
understand Thérèse's inertness. He preferred to think that she hated
him and deceived him, rather than that he was simply annoying or
indifferent to her.

She tired him out by her silence.

"Good-night," he said at last. "I am going to dine, and then to the
Opera, if I am not too drunk."

Thérèse, left alone, explored for the thousandth time the fathomless
depths of this mysterious destiny. What did it lack of being one of the
most beautiful of human destinies? Reason.

"But what is reason?" Thérèse asked herself, "and how can genius exist
without it? Is it because it is such a mighty force that it can kill
reason and still survive it? Or is reason simply an isolated faculty,
whose union with the other faculties is not always necessary?"

She fell into a sort of metaphysical reverie. It had always seemed to
her that reason was an assemblage of ideas, and not a single detail;
that all the faculties of a perfectly constituted being borrowed
something from it and supplied something to it in turn; that it was at
once the means and the end; that no masterpiece could evade its law, and
that no man could have any real value after he had resolutely trampled
reason under foot.

She reviewed in her mind her memories of the great artists of all time,
and also of contemporary artists. Everywhere she saw the rigid rules of
the true associated with the dream of the beautiful, and yet everywhere
there were exceptions, terrifying anomalies, radiant yet blighted faces
like Laurent's. Aspiration to the sublime was a disease of Thérèse's
epoch and environment. It was a touch of fever which took possession of
youth and caused it to despise the normal conditions of happiness as
well as the ordinary duties of life. By the force of events, Thérèse
was hurled, without desiring or anticipating it, into that awful circle
of the human hell. She had become the companion, the intellectual half,
of one of those sublime madmen, one of those unreasoning geniuses; she
was a witness of the endless agony of Prometheus, of the recurrent
frenzies of Orestes; she felt the recoil of those indescribable
sufferings, with no comprehension of their cause, and with no power to
find a remedy for them.

And yet God still dwelt in those rebellious, tormented souls, for
Laurent became enthusiastic and kindly once more at certain hours, and
the pure well-spring of sacred inspiration was not dried up; his talent
was not exhausted, perhaps he still had a glorious future before him.
Should such a man be abandoned to the assaults of delirium or to the
stupor of fatigue?

Thérèse, we say, had skirted that abyss too often not to have been
made giddy by it more than once. Her own talent as well as her own
character had well-nigh become involved, without her knowledge, in that
desperate path. She had known that exaltation of suffering which shows
one the miseries of life on a large scale, and which hovers on the
boundaries between the real and the imaginary; but, by virtue of a
natural reaction, her mind aspired henceforth to the _true_, which is
neither one nor the other, neither prosaic fact nor the uncurbed ideal.
She felt that there the beautiful was to be found, and that, in order to
resume the logical life of the soul, she must seek to live a simple and
dignified material life. She reproached herself sternly for having been
false to herself so long; and a moment later she reproached herself as
sternly for thinking too much of her own lot, in face of the extreme
peril by which Laurent was still threatened.

With all its voices, with the voice of friendship as well as that of
public opinion, society called to her to rise and resume possession of
herself. That was her duty, according to the world, a term which in such
case is equivalent to general order, the interest of society: "Follow
the straight road; let those perish who wander from it."--And religion
added: "The virtuous and the good for everlasting salvation, the blind
and the rebellious for hell!"--Does it matter little to the wise man,
pray, that the fool perishes?

Thérèse was shocked at that conclusion.

"On the day that I deem myself the most perfect, the most useful and the
best creature on earth," she said to herself, "I will consent to a
sentence of death against all others; but if that day does not come,
shall I not be more mad than all the other madmen? Back, madness of
vanity, the mother of selfishness! Let us continue to suffer for others
than ourselves!"

It was almost midnight when she rose from the chair upon which she had
sunk, crushed and spiritless, four hours before. Someone rang. A
messenger brought a box and a note. The box contained a domino and a
black satin mask. The note contained these words in Laurent's
handwriting: _Senza veder, senza parlar_.

Without seeing or speaking to each other!--What was the key to that
enigma? Did it mean that she should go to the masked ball to amuse him
by a commonplace intrigue? Did he mean to try to fall in love with her
without knowing her? Was it the fancy of a poet, or the insult of a
libertine?

Thérèse sent away the box, and fell back in her chair; but a feeling
of uneasiness made it impossible for her to reflect. Ought she not to
try every expedient to rescue that victim from his infernal aberrations?

"I will go," she said, "I will follow him step by step. I will see, I
will listen to his life away from me, I will learn how much truth there
is in the villainous stories he tells me, whether he loves evil
innocently or with affectation, whether he really has depraved tastes or
is only seeking to distract his thoughts. Knowing all that I have
hitherto tried not to know of him and his vile associates, all that I
have striven with disgust to keep from his memory and my imagination,
perhaps I shall discover some weak spot, some pretext for curing him of
this vertigo."

She remembered the domino Laurent had sent her, although she had barely
glanced at it. It was of satin. She sent for one of Naples silk, donned
a mask, carefully covered her hair, supplied herself plentifully with
bows of ribbon, in order to change her appearance more completely in
case Laurent should suspect her identity, and, sending for a carriage,
she set out, alone and resolutely, for the Opera ball.

She had never attended one of those functions. The mask was stifling,
intolerable to her. She had never tried to disguise her voice, yet she
did not wish that her identity should be divined by any one. She glided
silently through the corridors, seeking the deserted corners when she
was tired of walking, but going on if any one was coming toward her,
always pretending to have a definite goal, and succeeding better than
she had hoped in remaining alone and unmolested in that hustling crowd.

It was the time when there was no dancing at the Opera ball, and when
the only disguise admitted was the black domino. There was therefore a
multitude, sombre and solemn in appearance, but probably intent for the
most part upon intrigues as immoral as the bacchanalian revels of other
functions of the sort, but of a most imposing aspect when seen as a
whole from above. And at intervals a blaring orchestra would suddenly
begin to play a frantic quadrille, as if the management, at odds with
the police, wished to induce the public to disregard the prohibition;
but no one seemed to think of such a thing. The black swarm continued to
move slowly and whisper amid the uproar, which ended with a pistol-shot,
a strange, fantastic finale, which seemed powerless to dispel the vision
of that dismal festival.

For some moments Thérèse was so impressed by the spectacle that she
forgot where she was, and fancied herself in the world of depressing
dreams. She looked for Laurent, and did not find him.

She ventured into the _foyer_, where the best-known men in Paris were
gathered, without masks or other disguises, and, having made the circuit
of the room, she was about to retire, when she heard her name mentioned
in a corner. She turned and saw the man she had loved so well, seated
between two masked damsels, whose voices and accent had that indefinable
combination of limpness and sharpness which betrays exhaustion of the
senses and bitterness of spirit.

"Well," said one of them, "so you have abandoned your famous Thérèse
at last? It seems that she deceived you in Italy, and that you would not
believe it."

"He began to suspect it," rejoined the other, "on the day that he
succeeded in driving out his fortunate rival."

Thérèse was mortally wounded to see the painful romance of her life
laid open to such interpretations, and even more to see Laurent smile,
tell those creatures that they did not know what they were saying, and
change the subject, with no trace of indignation and apparently without
noticing or being disturbed by what he heard. Thérèse would never have
believed that he was not even her friend. Now she was sure of it! She
remained, and continued to listen; her mask was glued to her face by a
cold perspiration.

And yet Laurent said nothing to those girls that all the world might not
have overheard. He chattered away, amused by their prattle, and answered
them like a well-bred man. They were empty-headed creatures, and more
than once he yawned, making a slight effort to conceal it. Nevertheless,
he remained there, caring little whether he was seen of all men in such
company, letting them pay court to him, yawning with fatigue and not
with real _ennui_, absent-minded but affable, and talking to those
chance companions as if they were women of the best society, almost dear
and genuine friends, associated with pleasant memories of joys which one
can avow.

This lasted fully a quarter of an hour. Thérèse still held her place.
Laurent's back was turned to her. The bench on which he was sitting
stood in the recess of a closed glass door. When the groups wandering
along the outer corridors stopped against that door, the black coats and
dominos made an opaque background and the glass became a sort of black
mirror, in which Thérèse's face was reflected unknown to her. Laurent
glanced at her several times without thinking of her; but eventually the
immobility of that masked face made him uneasy, and he said to his
companions, pointing her out to them in the black mirror:

"Don't you call that mask ghastly?"

"Do we frighten you, pray?"

"No, not you; I know what sort of a nose you have under that bit of
satin; but to have a face that you can't divine, that you don't know,
glaring at you like that! I am going away, I have had enough of it."

"That is to say," they retorted, "that you have had enough of us."

"No," he said, "I have had enough of the ball. It's stifling here. Don't
you want to come to see the snow fall? I am going to the Bois de
Boulogne."

"Why, that's enough to kill you!"

"Ah! yes. Is there such a thing as death? Are you coming?"

"Faith, no!"

"Who wants to go to the Bois de Boulogne in a domino with me?" he asked,
raising his voice.

A group of black figures swooped down upon him like a flock of bats.

"How much is it worth?" said one.

"Will you paint my portrait?" said another.

"Are we to go on foot or on horseback?" queried a third.

"A hundred francs a head," he replied, "just to walk about in the snow
by moonlight. I will follow you at a distance. I want to see the effect.
How many of you are there?" he added, after a moment. "Ten! that's
hardly enough. But no matter, off we go!"

Three remained behind, saying:

"He hasn't a sou. We shall get inflammation of the lungs, and that will
be all."

"You stay behind?" he said. "Seven left! Bravo! a cabalistic number, the
seven deadly sins! _Vive Dieu_! I was afraid I should be bored, but
there's an idea that saves me."

"Bah!" said Thérèse, "a mere artist's whim! He remembers that he is a
painter. Nothing is lost."

She followed the strange party as far as the peristyle, to make sure
that the fantastic idea was carried out; but the cold made the most
determined draw back, and Laurent allowed himself to be persuaded to
abandon the plan. He was asked to substitute a supper for the party.

"Faith," he said, "you are nothing but timid, selfish creatures, just
exactly like virtuous women. I am going back into respectable society.
So much the worse for you."

But they led him back to the _foyer_, and there ensued between him and
other young men who were friends of his, and a party of shameless
hussies, such a lively conversation, coupled with such fine projects,
that Thérèse, overcome by disgust, withdrew, saying to herself that it
was too late. Laurent loved vice; she could do nothing more for him.

Did Laurent really love vice? No: the slave does not love the yoke and
the lash; but, when he is a slave through his own fault, when he has
allowed his liberty to be stolen from him for lack of a day of courage
or prudence, he becomes accustomed to slavery and all its sorrows: he
justifies that profound saying of the ancients, that, when Jupiter
reduces a man to that condition, he takes away half of his soul.

When bodily slavery was the awful fruit of victory, Heaven so ordained
it in pity for the vanquished; but, when it is the mind that is
subjected to the lamentable embrace of debauchery, the punishment is
inflicted in its entirety. Laurent thoroughly deserved that punishment.
He might have redeemed himself. Thérèse, too, had risked half of her
soul: he had not profited by it.

As she entered the carriage to return home, a frantic man rushed after
her. It was Laurent. He had recognized her, as she left the _foyer_, by
an involuntary gesture of horror of which she was unconscious.

"Thérèse, let us go back to the ball," he said. "I want to say to all
those men: 'You are brutes!' to all those women: 'You are vile
creatures!' I want to shout your name, your sacred name, to that idiotic
crowd, to grovel at your feet and bite the dust, calling down upon
myself all the scorn, all the insults, all the shame! I want to make my
confession aloud in the midst of that vast masquerade, as the early
Christians did in the heathen temples, which were suddenly purified by
the tears of repentance, and washed clean by the blood of the martyrs."

This outbreak lasted until Thérèse had taken him to his door. She
could not at all understand why and how that man, who was so little
intoxicated, so self-controlled, so agreeably loquacious among the
damsels of the masked ball, could become passionate to the point of
frenzy as soon as she appeared.

"It is I who drive you mad," she said. "A moment ago, those women were
talking about me as about any vile creature, and it did not even rouse
you. I have become, so far as you are concerned, a sort of avenging
spectre. That was not what I wanted. Let us part, therefore, since I can
no longer do anything but harm."




XIV


They met again the next day, however. He begged her to give him one last
day of fraternal conversation, and to take one last friendly, quiet,
_bourgeois_ walk with him. They went to the Jardin des Plantes, sat down
under the great cedar, and visited the labyrinth. It was a mild day;
there were no traces of the snow. The sun shone pale through the
light-purple clouds. The buds were already bursting with sap. Laurent
was a poet, a contemplative poet and artist, nothing else, that day: a
profound, incredible tranquillity; no remorse, no desires, and no hopes;
at intervals, flashes of ingenuous gaiety.

Thérèse, who watched him with amazement, could hardly believe that
everything was at an end between them.

The next day, there was another terrible tempest, without cause or
pretext, precisely as a storm gathers in the summer sky for no other
reason than that it was fair the day before.

Then, from day to day, everything became darker and darker, and it was
like the end of the world, like continual flashes of lightning in the
darkness.

One night, he came to her house very late, in a completely dazed
condition, and, having no idea where he was, without a word to her,
threw himself on the sofa in the salon, and fell asleep.

Thérèse went into her studio, and prayed to God fervently and
despairingly to deliver her from that torture. She was discouraged; her
cup was full. She wept and prayed all night.

Day was just breaking when she heard the bell ring at her gate.
Catherine was asleep, and Thérèse supposed that some belated passer-by
had made a mistake in the house. The ring was repeated, once, twice.
Thérèse looked out through the round window in the hall over the front
door. She saw a child of ten or twelve years, whose clothes indicated
that his family was well-to-do, and whose upturned face seemed like an
angel's.

"What is it, my little friend?" she said; "have you lost your way?"

"No," he replied, "I was brought here; I am looking for a lady whose
name is Mademoiselle Jacques."

Thérèse ran down, opened the door, and gazed at the child with
extraordinary emotion. It seemed to her that she had seen him before, or
that he resembled some one whom she knew and whose name she could not
remember. The child also seemed confused and undecided.

She led him into the garden to question him; but, instead of answering
her questions, he asked: "Are you Mademoiselle Thérèse?" while
trembling from head to foot.

"I am, my child; what do you want with me? what can I do for you?"

"You must take me and keep me with you, if you will have me!"

"Who are you? Pray tell me!"

"I am the son of the Comte de ----"

Thérèse restrained a cry, and her first impulse was to spurn the
child; but suddenly she was struck by his resemblance to a face she had
recently painted, looking at it in a mirror, in order to send it to her
mother; and that face was her own.

"Wait!" she cried, taking the boy in her arms with a convulsive
movement. "What is your name?"

"Manuel."

"Oh! _Mon Dieu_! who is your mother?"

"She is--I was told not to tell you right away! My mother used to be the
Comtesse de ----, at Havana; she didn't love me, and she used often to
say to me: 'You are not my son, I am not obliged to love you.'--But my
papa loved me, and he often said to me: 'You are all mine, you haven't
any mother.'--Then he died a year and a half ago, and the countess said:
'You belong to me and you are going to stay with me.'--That was because
my father left her some money on condition that I should always be known
as their son. But she didn't love me any better, and I was very unhappy
with her, when a gentleman from the United States, whose name is
Monsieur Richard Palmer, came all of a sudden and asked for me. The
countess said: 'No, I am not willing.'--Then Monsieur Palmer said to me:
'Do you want me to take you to your real mother, who thinks you are
dead, and who will be very happy to see you again?'--I said: 'Yes,
indeed I do!' Then Monsieur Palmer came at night in a boat, because we
lived on the sea-shore, and I got up very softly, very softly, and we
sailed together to a big ship, and then we crossed the great ocean, and
here we are."

"Here you are!" said Thérèse, who held the child close to her heart,
and, trembling with frantic joy, enveloped him in a single, fervent kiss
while he was speaking; "where is Palmer?"

"I don't know," said the child. "He brought me to the door, and told me
to ring; then I didn't see him again."

"Let us look for him," said Thérèse, rising; "he cannot be far away!"

She ran out with the child, and they found Palmer, who was waiting at a
little distance, to make sure that the boy was recognized by his mother.

"Richard! Richard!" cried Thérèse, throwing herself at his feet in the
middle of the still deserted street, as she would have done if it had
been full of people. "To me you are _God_!"

She could say no more; suffocated by tears of joy, she well-nigh went
mad.

Palmer led her beneath the trees on the Champs-Elysées, and made her
sit down. It was at least an hour before she became calm and recovered
her wits, and could manage to caress her son without danger of
smothering him.

"Now," said Palmer, "I have paid my debt. You gave me days of happiness
and hope, and I did not choose to remain under obligations to you. I
give you a whole life-time of affection and consolation, for this child
is an angel, and it costs me dear to part from him. I have deprived him
of one inheritance, and I owe him one in exchange. You have no right to
object; my measures are taken, and all his interests are properly cared
for. He has a purse in his pocket which assures his present and his
future. Adieu, Thérèse! Be sure that I am your friend in life and in
death."

Palmer went away happy; he had done a good deed. Thérèse did not
choose to return to the house where Laurent was sleeping. She took a
cab, after sending a messenger to Catherine with her instructions, which
she wrote at a small café where she and her son breakfasted. They
passed the day driving about Paris, equipping themselves for a long
journey. In the evening, Catherine joined them with the boxes she had
packed during the day, and Thérèse left Paris to conceal her child,
her happiness, her repose, her toil, her joy, her life, in the depths of
Germany. She was selfishly happy; she thought no more of what would
become of Laurent without her. She was a mother, and the mother had
killed the mistress beyond recall.

Laurent slept all day, and awoke in solitude. He rose, cursing Thérèse
for going out to walk without thinking of ordering supper for him. He
was surprised not to find Catherine; consigned the house to all the
devils, and went away.

Not until some days later did he understand what had happened to him.
When he saw that Thérèse's house was sublet, the furniture stored or
sold, and when he waited weeks and months without receiving a word from
her, he abandoned hope, and thought of nothing but wooing oblivion.

Not until a year had elapsed did he find a way to send a letter to
Thérèse. He charged himself with all his misfortunes, and implored a
return of the former friendship; then reverted to the vein of passion,
and concluded thus:


"I know that I do not deserve even this from you, for I cursed you, and
in my despair at losing you I made the efforts of a desperate man to
cure myself. Yes, I strove to make your character and your conduct
unnatural in my own eyes; I said evil of you with people who hate you,
and I took delight in hearing evil said of you by people who did not
know you. I treated you absent as I treated you when you were here. And
why are you not here? It is your fault if I go mad; you should not have
abandoned me. Oh! wretch that I am, I feel that I hate you at the same
time that I adore you. I feel that my whole life will be passed in
loving you and cursing you. And I see that you detest me! And I would
like to kill you! And if you were here I should fall at your feet!
Thérèse, Thérèse, have you become a monster, that you no longer know
pity? Oh! what a horrible punishment is this incurable love, combined
with this unsatisfied anger! What have I done, O my God! to be reduced
to lose everything, even liberty to love or hate?"


Thérèse replied:


"Adieu forever! But be sure that you have done nothing to me which I
have not forgiven, and that you can never do anything which I cannot
forgive. God condemns certain men of genius to wander about in the
tempest and to create while in pain. I have studied you enough in your
lights and shadows, in your grandeur and your weakness, to know that you
are the victim of destiny, and that you should not be weighed in the
same scales with most other men. Your suffering and your doubt, which
you call your punishment, may be the conditions upon which your glory
depends. Learn, therefore, to submit to them. You aspired with all your
might to ideal happiness, and you grasped it only in your dreams. But
your dreams, my child, are your reality, they are your talent, they are
your life; are you not an artist?

"Have no fear, God will forgive you for not being able to love! He
doomed you to that insatiable aspiration, so that your youth should not
be engrossed by one woman. The women of the future, they who will gaze
at your work from century to century,--they are your sisters and your
sweethearts."




LAVINIA




AN OLD TALE


NOTE


"Since you are to be married, Lionel, would it not be well for us to
return our respective letters and pictures? It can easily be done, since
chance has brought us within a short distance of each other, and, after
ten years passed in different countries, we are but a few leagues apart
to-day. You come sometimes to Saint-Sauveur, so I am told; I am passing
only a week here. I trust, therefore, that you will be here during the
week with the package which I desire. I am living in the Maison
Estabanette, at the foot of the water-fall. You can send your messenger
there; he will bring back to you a similar package, which I have all
ready for delivery in exchange for the other."


REPLY

"MADAME:

"The package which you command me to send you is with me, sealed, and
bearing your name. I ought, doubtless, to be gratified to find that you
relied confidently upon my having it at hand whenever and wherever it
should please you to demand it.

"But is it necessary, madame, that I should go myself to Saint-Sauveur,
there to place it in the hands of a third person to be handed to you?
Since you do not deem it advisable to accord me the pleasure of seeing
you, will it not be simpler for me not to go to the place where you are
living and expose myself to the emotion of being so near you? Would it
not be better for me to entrust the package to a messenger of whom I am
sure, to be taken from Bagnères to Saint-Sauveur? I await your orders
in this regard; whatever they may be, madame, I will submit to them
blindly."


NOTE


"I knew, Lionel, that my letters happened to be among your luggage at
this moment, because my cousin Henry told me that he saw you at
Bagnères, and learned that fact from you. I am very glad that Henry,
who is a little inclined to prevaricate, like all gossips, did not
deceive me. I asked you to bring the package to Saint-Sauveur yourself,
because such documents should not be carelessly exposed to danger in
mountains infested with smugglers who steal everything that falls into
their hands. As I know that you are the sort of man to defend a trust
valiantly, I cannot but feel perfectly safe in making you the guardian
of the treasure in which I am interested. I did not suggest an
interview, because I feared to make even more disagreeable the vexatious
step which I have in a measure forced upon you. But since you seem to
refer with regret to the possibility of an interview, I owe you that
feeble compensation, and grant it with all my heart. But, as I do not
wish to make you sacrifice valuable time in waiting for me, I will
appoint a day, so that you may be sure to find me. Be at Saint-Sauveur,
then, on the 15th, at nine in the evening. Go to my house, and send word
to me by my negress. I will return at once. The package will be ready.
Farewell."


Sir Lionel was disagreeably surprised by the receipt of the second note.
It found him in the midst of preparing for a trip to Luchon, during
which the fair Miss Ellis, his future bride, expected to be favored with
his escort. It was certain to be a charming trip. At watering-places,
pleasure-parties are almost always successful, because they succeed one
another so rapidly that one has no time to prepare for them; because
life moves swiftly, sharply, and in unexpected ways; because the
constant arrival of new companions gives a flavor of improvisation to
the most trivial details of a fête.

Sir Lionel was amusing himself, therefore, at the watering-places in the
Pyrenees as much as it is seemly for a true Englishman to amuse himself.
He was, moreover, in love to a reasonable degree with Miss Ellis's plump
figure and comfortable dowry; and his desertion on the eve of so
important a riding excursion--Mademoiselle Ellis had sent to Tarbes for
a very handsome dapple-gray Bearnese steed, whose fine points she
proposed to exhibit at the head of the cavalcade--might have a
disastrous effect on his projected marriage. But Sir Lionel's position
was embarrassing; he was a man of honor, and of the most scrupulous
type. He went to his friend Sir Henry to lay before him this case of
conscience.

But, in order to compel that jovial individual to give him his serious
attention, he began by picking a quarrel with him.

"Rattle-pated gossip that you are!" he cried, as he entered the room;
"it was well worth while to go to tell your cousin that her letters were
travelling about with me! You never yet were able to keep a dangerous
word inside your lips. You are like a brook that flows the faster the
more water it receives; one of those vases, open at the ends, which
embellish the statues of naiads and river-gods; the water that rushes
through them doesn't stop for a moment."

"Good, Lionel, good!" cried the young man; "I like to see you in a fit
of temper; it makes you poetic. At such times, you are yourself a
stream, a river of metaphors, a torrent of eloquence, a reservoir of
allegories."

"Oh! it's all very well to laugh!" exclaimed Lionel angrily; "we are not
going to Luchon."

"We are not going! Who says so?"

"You and I are not going; I say so."

"Speak for yourself, if you please; so far as I am concerned, I am your
humble servant."

"But I am not going, therefore you are not going, either. You have made
a blunder, Henry, and you must repair it. You have caused me a terrible
disappointment; your conscience bids you to help me to bear it. You will
dine with me at Saint-Sauveur."

"May the devil fly away with me if I do!" cried Henry; "I have been
madly in love since last night with the little girl from Bordeaux, at
whom I laughed so heartily yesterday morning. I intend to go to Luchon,
for she is going; she is going to ride my Yorkshire, and she will make
your tall chestnut Margaret Ellis burst with jealousy."

"Look you, Henry," said Lionel gravely, "you are a friend of mine?"

"Of course; you know that. It's of no use to go into hysterics over our
friendship just at this time. I understand that this solemn beginning is
intended to impress me."

"Listen to me, Henry, I tell you; you are my friend, you rejoice in the
fortunate occurrences of my life, and you would not readily forgive
yourself, I am sure, for having caused me an injury, a genuine
misfortune?"

"No, on my honor! But what are you talking about?"

"Well, Henry! it may be that you have caused my marriage to fall
through."

"Nonsense! what folly! just because I told my cousin that you had her
letters, and she asks you to return them! What influence can Lady
Lavinia still have over your life, after ten years of mutual oblivion?
Are you conceited enough to believe that she has never been consoled for
your infidelity? Nonsense, Lionel! that is carrying remorse too far!
there's no great harm done! it can be remedied, believe me----"

As he spoke, Henry nonchalantly put his hand to his cravat and glanced
at the mirror; two acts which, in the venerable language of pantomime,
are easy to interpret.

This lesson in modesty, from the lips of a much more conceited man than
he, irritated Sir Lionel.

"I shall indulge in no reflections on Lady Lavinia's conduct," he
replied, trying to express all the bitterness he felt. "No feeling of
wounded vanity will ever lead me to try to blacken a woman's reputation,
even though I had never loved her."

"That is precisely my case," replied Sir Henry carelessly; "I never
loved her, and I never was jealous of those whom she may have treated
better than me; nor have I anything to say of the virtue of my
gloriously beautiful cousin Lavinia; I have never tried seriously to
move her."

"You have done her that favor, Henry? She should be exceedingly grateful
to you!"

"Come, come, Lionel! what are we talking about, and what did you come to
say to me? You seemed yesterday to have very little regard for the
memories of your early loves; you were absolutely prostrate before the
radiant Ellis. To-day where are you, please? You seem unwilling to
listen to reason on the subject of the past, and then you talk about
going to Saint-Sauveur instead of to Luchon! Tell me, with whom are you
in love? whom are you going to marry?"

"I am going to marry Miss Margaret, if it please God and you."

"Me?"

"Yes, you can save me. In the first place, read the last note your
cousin has written me. Have you done it? Very good. Now, you see, I must
decide between Luchon and Saint-Sauveur, between a woman to be won and a
woman to be consoled."

"Stop there, impertinent!" cried Henry; "I have told you a hundred times
that my cousin is as fresh as the flowers, lovely as the angels, lively
as a bird, light-hearted, rosy, stylish, and coquettish; if that woman
is in despair, I am content to groan all my life under the burden of a
like sorrow."

"Don't expect to pique me, Henry; I am overjoyed to hear what you tell
me. But in that case can you explain to me the strange caprice that
leads Lady Lavinia to force a meeting upon me?"

"O you stupid fellow!" cried Henry; "don't you see that it's your own
fault? Lavinia had not the slightest wish for this meeting; I am very
sure of it; for when I spoke to her about you, when I asked her if her
heart didn't beat fast sometimes, on the road from Bagnères to
Saint-Sauveur, when a riding-party drew near, of which you might be one,
she replied indifferently: 'Oh! perhaps my heart would beat faster if I
should meet him!'--And the last words were deliciously emphasized by a
yawn. Oh! don't bite your lip, Lionel; one of those pretty little
feminine yawns, so cool and harmonious that they seem courteous and
caressing, so long drawn out that they express the most absolute apathy
and the most hearty indifference. But you, instead of taking advantage
of this excellent disposition on her part, cannot resist the temptation
to construct phrases. True to the everlasting pathos of discarded
lovers, although enchanted to be one, you affect the piteous elegiac
tone; you seem to bewail the impossibility of seeing her instead of
telling her frankly that you are grateful beyond words."

"A man cannot say such impertinent things. How could I have foreseen
that she would take seriously a few meaningless words prompted by the
proprieties of the situation?"

"Oh! I know Lavinia; it's a characteristic piece of mischief."

"It's the never-failing mischief of womankind! But no; Lavinia was the
sweetest and least satirical of women; I am sure that she is no more
desirous of this interview than I am. Come, my dear Henry, save us both
from this torture; take the package and go to Saint-Sauveur; take it
upon yourself to arrange everything; make her understand that I
cannot----"

"Leave Miss Ellis on the eve of your marriage, eh? That's an excellent
reason to give to a rival! Impossible! you made the blunder, my dear
fellow, and you must drink the cup. When a man is foolish enough to keep
a woman's picture and letters for ten years, when he is giddy enough to
boast of it to a chatterbox like me, when he is mad enough to be witty
and sentimental in cold blood in a letter of rupture, he must submit to
all the consequences. You have no right to refuse Lady Lavinia anything
so long as her letters are in your hands; and whatever method of
communication she may impose on you, you must submit to it so long as
you have not carried out that solemn obligation. Come, Lionel! order
your pony saddled and let us be off; for I will go with you. I have been
a little to blame in all this, and you see that I cease to jest when it
comes to repairing my mistakes. Let us go!"

Lionel had hoped that Henry would suggest some other way of helping him
out of the scrape. He sat motionless, dismayed, chained to his place by
a secret, involuntary impulse to resist the decrees of necessity. But he
rose at last, sad, resigned, and with his arms folded across his chest.
In the matter of love, Sir Lionel was an accomplished hero. If his heart
had been false to more than one passion, his external conduct had never
departed from the code of the _proprieties_; no woman had ever had
reason to reproach him for any act at variance with that refined and
generous condescension which is the most convincing sign of indifference
that a well-bred man can give to an irritated woman. With the
consciousness of having been scrupulously observant of these rules, the
handsome Sir Lionel forgave himself for the sorrows attached to his
triumphs.

"Here is a pretext!" cried Sir Henry, rising in his turn. "The coterie
of our fair compatriots decides everything here. Miss Ellis and her
sister Anna are the most influential powers in the council of Amazons.
We must induce Margaret to postpone this excursion, which is fixed for
to-morrow, for one more day. A day here is a good deal, I know; but we
must obtain it, allege some serious reason for our inability to go, and
start to-night for Saint-Sauveur. We shall arrive there in the
afternoon; we will rest until evening; at nine o'clock, while you are
together, I will have the horses saddled, and at ten o'clock--I fancy
that you won't need more than an hour to exchange two packages of
letters--we will mount and ride all night, reach here at sunrise, and
find the fair Margaret caracoling on her noble steed, my pretty little
Madame Bernos curvetting on my Yorkshire; we will change boots and
horses; and, covered with dust, dead with fatigue, consumed with love,
pale and interesting, we will attend our Dulcineas over mountains and
valleys. If so much zeal is not rewarded, all women must be hanged as an
example. Come, are you ready?"

Lionel, overflowing with gratitude, threw himself into Henry's arms. An
hour later the latter returned.

"Let us be off," he said, "everything is arranged; the Luchon excursion
is postponed till the 16th; but it was hard work. Miss Ellis had some
suspicions. She knows that my cousin is at Saint-Sauveur, and she has a
terrible aversion for my cousin, because she knows what a fool you made
of yourself for her. But I adroitly turned aside her suspicions; I said
that you were horribly ill, and that I had just forced you to go to
bed----"

"Great Heaven! a new freak to help to ruin my chances!"

"No, no, not at all! Dick will put a night-cap on your bolster, place it
in your bed, and order three pints of herb-tea from the maid-servant.
Then he will put the key of the room in his pocket, and take up his
position in front of the door, with a long face and mournful eyes; and
he has orders not to let any one in and to murder whoever attempts to
force a passage, though it were Miss Margaret herself. Ah! here he is
already making up your bed. Good! he has an excellent face; he wants to
look sad and he looks idiotic. Let us go out by the gate leading into
the ravine. Jack will bring our horses to the end of the valley, as if
he were exercising them, and we will join him at Lonnio Bridge. Come,
forward, and may the god of love protect us!"

They rode rapidly over the space that separates the two mountain chains,
and did not slacken their speed until they entered the dark and narrow
gorge which extends from Pierrefitte to Luz. That gorge is
unquestionably one of the most characteristic and forbidding spots in
the Pyrenees. Everything has a formidable look there. The mountains draw
together; the banks of the Gave contract, and the river flows with a
dull roar under the arches of rock and wild vines; the black sides of
the cliff are covered with climbing plants, whose brilliant green fades
to bluish tints in the distance, and to grayish tones near the
mountain-tops. Their reflections in the rushing streams are sometimes of
a limpid green, sometimes of a dull, slaty-blue, such as we see in the
waters of the ocean.

Great marble bridges of a single span stretch from mountain to mountain
over deep chasms. Nothing can be more imposing than the construction and
the situation of those bridges, cast into space as it were, and swimming
in the white, moist atmosphere which seems to fall regretfully into the
ravine. The road passes from one side of the gorge to the other seven
times in the space of four leagues. When our travellers crossed the
seventh bridge, they saw at the bottom of the gorge, which widened
almost imperceptibly before them, the charming valley of Luz, bathed in
the flames of the rising sun. The mountains on both sides of the road
were so high that not a single beam reached them. The water-ouzel
uttered his plaintive little cry among the grasses by the stream. The
cold, foaming water raised with an effort the veil of mist that lay upon
it. On the higher ground a few lines of light gilded the jutting rocks,
and the hanging locks of the clematis. But in the background of that
rugged landscape, behind those huge black masses, as frowning and sullen
as Salvator's favorite subjects, the lovely valley, bathed in sparkling
dew, floated in the light and formed a sheet of gold in a frame of black
marble.

"How lovely it is!" cried Henry, "and how I pity you for being in love,
Lionel! You are insensible to all these sublime things; you consider
that the loveliest sunbeam is not worth one of Miss Margaret Ellis's
smiles."

"Confess, Henry, that Margaret is the loveliest creature in the three
kingdoms."

"Yes, theoretically she is a flawless beauty. But that is just the fault
I have to find with her. I would like her to be less perfect, less
majestic, less classic. I should love my cousin a thousand times better
if God should give me my choice between them."

"Nonsense, Henry, you don't mean what you say," said Lionel, smiling;
"family pride blinds you. By the unanimous agreement of all who have
eyes in their heads, Lady Lavinia's beauty is more than problematical;
and I, who knew her in all the freshness of her prime, can assure you
that there never was any possible comparison between them."

"Agreed; but Lavinia is so graceful and charming! her eyes are so
bright, her hair so lovely, her feet so small!"

Lionel amused himself for some time combating Henry's admiration for his
cousin. But, while he enjoyed extolling the beauty that he loved, a
secret sentiment of self-esteem made him also enjoy listening to the
praise of her whom he had formerly loved. It was a momentary impulse of
vanity, nothing more; for poor Lavinia had never really reigned in his
heart, which easy triumphs had spoiled very early. It is a great
misfortune for a man to be thrust into a prominent position too soon.
The blind admiration of the women, the foolish jealousy of vulgar
rivals, are quite enough to give a false direction to an untried
judgment and to corrupt an inexperienced mind.

Lionel, from having known too much of the joy of being loved, had
exhausted the powers of his heart; from having exercised his passions
too early in life, he had made himself forever incapable of feeling a
serious passion. Beneath a handsome, manly face, beneath a youthful and
vigorous expression, he concealed a heart as cold and worn out as an old
man's.

"Come, Lionel, tell me why you did not marry Lavinia Buenafè, who is
to-day Lady Blake through your fault? for, although I am no rigid
moralist, and although I am disposed to respect in our sex the God-given
privilege of doing as we please, I am unable to approve your conduct,
when I reflect upon it. After courting her for two years, after
compromising her as much as it is possible to compromise a young
lady,--which is not a very easy thing to do in blessed Albion,--after
causing her to reject some most eligible offers, you dropped her to run
after an Italian singer, who certainly did not deserve the honor of
inspiring such perfidy. Tell me, was not Lavinia clever and pretty? was
she not the daughter of a Portuguese banker, a Jew to be sure, but very
rich? was she not a good match? didn't she love you to distraction?"

"Why, my dear fellow, that is just why I complain: she loved me too much
for me ever to have made her my wife. In the opinion of every man of
sense, a lawful wife should be a gentle and placid helpmeet, an
Englishwoman to the very depths of her being, not very susceptible to
love, incapable of jealousy, fond of sleep, and sufficiently addicted to
the excessive use of black tea to keep her faculties in a conjugal
state. With that Portuguese girl, ardent of heart, active, accustomed
from childhood to constant change of abode, to unrestrained manners,
liberal ideas, and all the dangerous opinions that a woman picks up
while travelling all over the world, I should have been the most
miserable, if not the most ridiculous of husbands. For fifteen months I
was blind to the inevitable misery that that love was brewing for me. I
was so young then! I was only twenty-two; remember that, Henry, and do
not condemn me. I opened my eyes at last, just when I was about to
commit the signal folly of marrying a woman who was madly in love with
me. I halted on the brink of the precipice, and I fled in order not to
succumb to my weakness."

"Hypocrite!" said Henry, "Lavinia told me the story very differently: it
seems that, long before the heartless resolution that sent you off to
Italy with Rosmonda, you had already tired of the poor Jewess, and that
you cruelly made her sensible of the _ennui_ that overpowered you when
you were with her. Oh! when Lavinia tells about that, she displays no
self-conceit, I assure you; she avows her unhappiness and your cruelty
with an artless modesty which I have never noticed in other women. She
has a way of her own of saying: 'In a word, I bored him.'--I tell you,
Lionel, if you had heard her say those words, with the accent of
ingenuous melancholy that she puts into them, I'll wager that you would
have felt the stings of remorse."

"Ah! have I never felt them!" cried Lionel. "That is what disgusts a man
still more with a woman--all that he has to suffer on her account after
he leaves her, the thousand and one annoyances caused by the haunting
memory of her, the voice of bourgeois society crying for revenge and
shrieking curses, the disturbed and frightened conscience, and the
exceedingly gentle but exceedingly cruel reproaches which the poor
abandoned creature heaps upon him through the hundred voices of rumor.
I tell you, Henry, I know nothing more wearisome or more depressing than
the trade of a lady-killer."

"To whom are you talking?" retorted Henry grandiloquently, with that
ironical, conceited gesture which became him so well. But his companion
did not deign to smile, and continued to ride on slowly, letting his
reins lie on his horse's neck, and resting his wearied eyes on the
charming panorama which the valley unrolled at his feet.

Luz is a small town about a mile from Saint-Sauveur. Our dandies halted
there; Lionel could not be persuaded to go on to the place where Lady
Lavinia was living; he took up his quarters in an inn, and threw himself
on the bed, awaiting the hour fixed for the meeting.

Although the climate is very much cooler in the valley of Luz than in
that of Bigorre, it was a scorching, oppressive day. Sir Lionel,
stretched upon a wretched tavern bed, felt some feverish symptoms, and
fell into a troubled sleep amid the buzzing of the insects that circled
about his head in the burning air. His companion, being more active and
less disturbed in mind, crossed the valley, paid visits all over the
neighborhood, watched the riding-parties on the Gavarni road, saluted
the fair dames whom he spied at their windows or on the roads, cast
burning glances at the young Frenchwomen, for whom he had a decided
preference, and joined Lionel again about night-fall.

"Come, up, up!" he cried, pulling aside the woollen curtains; "it is the
time fixed for the meeting."

"Already?" said Lionel, who was just beginning to sleep comfortably,
thanks to the cool evening air; "what time is it, Henry?"

Henry replied, with emphasis:


    "At the close of the day when the Hamlet is still,
     And naught but the torrent is heard upon the hill--"[2]


"Oh! for God's sake, spare me your quotations, Henry! I can see for
myself that it is growing dark, that silence is stealing over the
landscape, that the voice of the torrent is louder and clearer; but Lady
Lavinia doesn't expect me until nine o'clock, so I can sleep a little
longer."

"No, not another minute, Lionel. We must walk to Saint-Sauveur; for I
had our horses taken there this morning, and the poor creatures are
tired enough now, to say nothing of what they still have to do. Come,
dress yourself. Good! At ten o'clock, I will be at Lady Lavinia's door
on horseback, holding your palfrey and ready to hand you your rein,
exactly as our big William used to do at the theatre, when he was
reduced to playing the jockey, the great man! Come, Lionel, here's your
portmanteau, a white cravat, and some wax for your moustache. Patience!
Oh! such negligence! such apathy! Can you think of such a thing, my dear
fellow, as appearing carelessly dressed before a woman you no longer
love? that would be a terrible blunder! Pray understand that you must,
on the contrary, appear to the very best advantage, in order to make her
realize the value of what she has lost. Come, come, brush your hair back
even more carefully than if you were preparing to open the ball with
Miss Margaret. Good! Let me brush your coat a bit. What! can it be that
you forgot to bring a phial of essence of tuberose with which to
saturate your silk handkerchief? That would be inexcusable. No, God be
praised! here it is. On my word, Lionel, you are deliciously fragrant,
you are magnificent; off you go. Remember that your honor is involved in
causing a few tears to flow when you appear to-night, for the last time,
on Lady Lavinia's horizon."

When they passed through the hamlet of Saint-Sauveur, which consists of
fifty houses at the most, they were surprised to see no people of
fashion in the street or at the windows. But they understood that
strange circumstance when they passed the ground-floor windows of a
house from which came the shrill notes of a violin, flageolet, and
_tympanon_, an indigenous instrument half-way between the French
tambourine and the Spanish guitar. The noise and the dust apprised our
travellers that the ball had begun, and that the most fashionable
members of the aristocracy of France, Spain, and England, assembled in
a modest apartment, with whitewashed walls embellished with wreaths of
boxwood and wild thyme, were dancing to the strains of the most infernal
cacophony that ever rent mortal ears and marked time falsely.

Several groups of _bathers_, those whom a less well-filled purse or
genuine ill-health deprived of the pleasure of taking an active part in
the function, were crowded about the windows, casting an envious or
satirical glance into the ball-room over each other's shoulders, and
exchanging enthusiastic or ill-natured remarks, pending the time when
the village clock should strike the hour when every convalescent must go
to bed, under pain of losing the _benefit_ of the mineral waters.

As our two friends passed these groups, there was a sort of oscillating
movement toward the windows; and Henry, mingling with the lookers-on,
overheard these words:

"That's the beautiful Jewess, Lavinia Blake, just standing up to dance.
They say that she's the best dancer in Europe."

"Come, Lionel," cried the young baronet; "come, see how beautifully
dressed and charming my cousin is!"

But Lionel pulled him by the arm and dragged him away from the window,
angrily and impatiently, not deigning to glance in that direction.

"Come, come!" he said; "we didn't come here to watch people dance."

But he could not move on so quickly that he did not hear another remark
made somewhere in his neighborhood:

"Ah! the handsome Comte de Morangy is her partner."

"Do me the favor to tell me who else is likely to be?" rejoined another
voice.

"They say he has lost his head over her," observed a third by-stander.
"He has already used up three horses for her, and I don't know how many
jockeys."

Self-esteem is so strange a counsellor, that, thanks to it, we all find
ourselves in flat contradiction with ourselves a hundred times a day. In
reality, Sir Lionel was delighted to know that Lady Lavinia was placed,
by a new attachment, in a situation which assured their mutual
independence. And yet, the publicity of the triumph which might help
that discarded woman to forget the past was a species of affront which
Lionel found it difficult to swallow.

Henry, who knew the neighborhood, guided him to the end of the village,
to the house in which his cousin lived. There he left him.

This house stood a little apart from the other dwellings; the mountain
rose behind it, and the front windows overlooked the ravine. A few feet
away, a stream fell noisily into a cleft of the rock; and the house,
bathed, so to speak, in that cool, wild noise, seemed to be shaken by
the falling water and on the point of plunging with it into the abyss.
It was one of the most picturesque locations imaginable, and Lionel
recognized in the choice the romantic and slightly eccentric nature of
Lady Lavinia.

An old negress opened the door of a small salon on the ground-floor. No
sooner did the light fall on her glistening, weather-beaten face, than
Lionel uttered an exclamation of surprise. It was Pepa, Lavinia's old
nurse, whom Lionel had seen for two years in attendance upon his
beloved. As he was not on his guard against any sort of emotion, the
unexpected appearance of that old woman, arousing the memory of the
past, upset all his ideas for a moment. He was very near leaping on her
neck, calling her nurse, as in his youthful, merry days, and embracing
her as an old friend and faithful servant; but Pepa stepped back,
observing Lionel's eagerness with an air of stupefaction. She did not
recognize him.

"Alas! am I so changed?" he thought.

"I am the person whom Lady Lavinia sent for," he said in a faltering
voice. "Did she not tell you?"

"Yes, yes, my lord," replied the negress; "my lady is at the ball; she
told me to bring her her fan as soon as a gentleman knocked at the door.
Stay here; I will go to tell her."

The old woman looked about for the fan. It was on a marble table, at Sir
Lionel's hand. He took it up and gave it to the negress, and his fingers
retained the perfume after she had gone out.

That perfume worked upon him like a charm; his nerves received a shock
which extended to his heart and made it quiver. It was Lavinia's
favorite perfume: a species of aromatic herb which grows in India, and
with which her clothes and her furniture used always to be impregnated.
That odor of patchouly was in itself a whole world of memories, a whole
life-time of love; it was an emanation from the first woman Lionel had
ever loved. A film passed over his eyes, his pulses throbbed violently;
it seemed to him as if a cloud were floating in front of him, and in
that cloud, a girl of sixteen, dark skinned, slender, at once lively and
gentle: Lavinia the Jewess, his first love. He saw her pass, swift as a
doe, skimming over the heather, riding through the game-laden preserves
of her park, urging her black hackney through the swamps; merry, ardent,
and capricious as Diana Vernon, or as the jovial fairies of the Emerald
Isle.

He soon felt ashamed of his weakness, when he thought of the _ennui_
that had blighted that love and all the rest. He cast a sadly
philosophical glance upon the ten years of positive existence which
separated him from those days of pastorals and poetry; then he evoked
the future, parliamentary renown, and the splendor of a political
career, in the guise of Miss Margaret Ellis, whom he next evoked herself
in the guise of her dowry; and finally he began to inspect the room in
which he stood, glancing about with the sceptical expression of a
disillusioned lover, and of a man of thirty at odds with social life.

Visitors to the watering-places in the Pyrenees live in simple lodgings;
but thanks to the avalanches and torrents which wreck many houses every
winter, decorations and furniture have to be replaced or restored every
spring. The cottage Lavinia had hired was built of rough marble, and
sheathed with resinous woods inside. The wood was painted white, and was
as bright and cool as stucco. A rush mat of several colors, woven in
Spain, served as a carpet. Snow-white dimity curtains reflected the
moving shadows of the firs which shook their black tops in the
night-wind, beneath the watery glance of the moon. Small jars of
varnished olive-wood were filled with the loveliest mountain flowers.
Lavinia had plucked with her own hand, in the loveliest valleys and on
the loftiest peaks, the nightshade with its ruddy breast; the
monk's-hood with its pale-blue petals and poisonous calyx; the pink and
white sweet-william, with its delicately notched petals; the pallid
soap-wort; the transparent bell-flowers, wrinkled like muslin; the
purple valerian and all the wild daughters of solitude, so fresh and
fragrant that the chamois fears that he may blight them by brushing
against them as he runs, and the water of springs unknown to the hunter
barely bends them with its careless, silent stream.

That white and perfume-laden apartment had, as if unwittingly, an air of
assignation; but it seemed also the sanctuary of a pure and maidenly
love. The candles shed a timid light; the flowers seemed modestly to
shield their bosoms from the glare; no woman's garment, no symbol of
coquetry, had been left lying on the furniture; only a bunch of withered
pansies and a torn white glove lay side by side on the mantel. Lionel,
obeying an uncontrollable impulse, picked up the glove and crumpled it
in his hand. It was like the cold, convulsive grasp of a last farewell.
He took up the odorless bouquet, gazed at it for a moment, made a bitter
remark about the flowers of which it was composed, and threw it down.
Had Lavinia placed it there with the purpose that it should be noticed
by her former lover?

Lionel walked to the window and put aside the curtains, to divert, by
looking upon the spectacle offered by nature, the emotion that was
gradually stealing over him. It was a magical spectacle. The house,
built on the solid rock, formed a sort of bastion to a gigantic wall of
perpendicular cliffs of which the Gave bathed the base. At the right,
the cataract plunged into the ravine with a loud roar; at the left, a
clump of firs leaned far over the abyss; in the distance lay the valley,
vaguely outlined in the white moonlight. A tall wild laurel, growing in
a cleft of the rock, brushed the window-sill with its long, shiny
leaves, and the breeze, rubbing them together, seemed to be whispering
mysterious words.

Lavinia entered while Lionel was engrossed by this spectacle; the noise
of the water-fall and the wind prevented him from hearing her. She stood
behind him a few moments, occupied, doubtless, in collecting her
thoughts, and perhaps asking herself if this were really the man she had
loved so dearly; for, at that moment of inevitable emotion, although the
situation had been planned beforehand, Lavinia fancied that she was
dreaming. She could remember a time when it would have seemed impossible
to her that she could see Lionel again without falling dead with grief
and wrath. And now she stood there, mild and calm, perhaps indifferent.

Lionel turned instinctively and saw her. He was not expecting her, and
he uttered an exclamation; then, ashamed of such a breach of the
proprieties, and bewildered by the emotion that he felt, he made a
violent effort to bestow upon Lady Lavinia a faultless and
irreproachable salutation.

But, despite his utmost endeavors, an unforeseen embarrassment, an
unconquerable agitation, paralyzed his shrewd yet frivolous wit, that
tractable, obliging wit, which stood ever ready to be thrown into
circulation, according to the laws of affability, and to be passed, like
coin, from hand to hand, for the use of the first comer. On this
occasion his rebellious wit held its peace and gazed open-mouthed at
Lady Lavinia.

You see, he did not expect to find her so beautiful. He had left her
quite ill and sadly changed. In those days, tears had withered her
cheeks, sorrow had reduced her flesh; her eyes were dull, her hands hot
and dry, and she neglected her dress. She imprudently made herself ugly
then, poor Lavinia! not thinking that sorrow embellishes a woman's heart
only, and that most men are quite ready to deny the existence of mind in
woman, as was done at a certain council of Italian prelates.

Now, Lavinia was in all the splendor of that second beauty which comes
to women who have not received incurable wounds in the heart in their
first youth. She was still a pale, thin Portuguese, with a slightly
bronzed skin and a somewhat sharp profile; but her expression and her
manners had acquired all the grace, all the caressing charm, of a
Frenchwoman's. Her dark skin was as soft as velvet, as the result of
restored and unfailing health; her slender form had recovered the lithe
and flexible activity of youth; her hair, which she had cut off in the
old days as a sacrifice to love, now shone in all its splendor, in heavy
masses over her smooth brow; her costume consisted of a gown of India
muslin, and a bunch of white heather, picked in the ravine and thrust in
her hair. There is no more graceful plant than the white heather; as you
watched its delicate clusters waving over Lavinia's black hair, you
would have said that they were clusters of living pearls. That
head-dress and that simple gown were in the most exquisite taste, and
the ingenious coquetry of the sex revealed itself therein by dint of
concealing itself.

Never had Lionel seen Lavinia so fascinating. For an instant, he was on
the point of falling at her feet and asking pardon; but the placid smile
that he saw on her face restored to him the modicum of bitterness
necessary to enable him to carry through the interview with every
appearance of dignity.

In default of suitable words, he took from his breast a carefully sealed
package, and said, in a firm voice, as he placed it on the table:

"You see, madame, that I have obeyed like a slave; may I believe that my
liberty will be restored to me from to-day?"

"It seems to me," rejoined Lavinia, with a somewhat melancholy
playfulness, "that your liberty has not been very tightly chained, Sir
Lionel! As a matter of fact, have you remained all this time in my
fetters? I confess that I had not flattered myself that such was the
fact."

"Oh! madame, in heaven's name, let us not jest! Is not this a melancholy
moment?"

"It is an old tradition," she replied, "a conventional _dénouement_, an
inevitable climax in all love-stories. And if, when two people were
writing to each other, they were thoroughly impressed with the fact that
in the future they would have to wrest their letters from each other
with suspicion---- But no one ever thinks of it. At twenty years, we
write with a sense of the utmost security, because we have exchanged
eternal oaths; we smile with pity when we think of the commonplace
results of all the passions that we see dying out; we are proud to
believe that we shall prove an exception to this great law of human
fickleness! Noble error, blessed conceit, wherein are born the grandeur
and the illusions of youth! isn't that so, Lionel?"

Lionel remained dumb with stupefaction. This sadly philosophical
language, although natural enough in Lavinia's mouth, seemed to him a
ghastly contradiction, for he had never seen her so: he had seen her, a
weak child, abandon herself blindly to all the errors of life, yield
herself trustfully to all the tempests of passion; and, when he had left
her crushed with grief, he had heard her continue to protest eternal
fidelity to the author of her despair.

But to hear her thus pronounce sentence of death on all the illusions of
the past, was a painful and ghastly thing. That woman who survived
herself, so to speak, and who was not afraid to deliver a funeral
oration on her own life, was a profoundly depressing spectacle, which
Lionel could not witness without a pang. He could think of nothing to
say in reply. He knew better than any one all that might be said in such
cases, but he had not the courage to help Lavinia to commit suicide.

As he twisted and turned the package of letters in his hand in his
embarrassment, she continued:

"You know me well enough, or, better still, you remember enough about
me, to be sure that I reclaim these pledges of a former attachment for
none of those prudential reasons which occur to women when they cease to
love. If you had any suspicion of such a thing, I need do no more to
justify myself than remind you that these pledges have remained in your
hands for ten years, and that I have not once thought of asking you for
them. I should never have made up my mind to do it, had it not been that
another woman's happiness was jeopardized by the existence of those
papers."

Lionel gazed steadfastly at Lavinia, watching for the faintest
indication of bitterness or chagrin produced by the thought of Margaret
Ellis; but he could not detect the slightest change in her expression or
her voice. Lavinia seemed to be invulnerable.

"Has this woman changed to diamond or to ice?" he asked himself.

"You are very generous," he said, in a tone which expressed both
gratitude and sarcasm, "if that is your only motive."

"What other can I have, Sir Lionel? Will you kindly tell me?"

"I might presume, madame, if I were inclined to deny your
generosity,--which God forbid!--that personal motives are behind your
wish to recover possession of these letters and this portrait."

"It would be a little late for me to think of that," laughed Lavinia;
"surely, if I should tell you that I had waited until this late day
before having _personal motives_,--that was your expression,--you would
feel terribly remorseful, would you not?"

"You embarrass me extremely, madame," said Lionel; and he said these
words composedly, for he was on his own ground once more. He had
expected reproaches, and was prepared for an attack; but he had not that
advantage; the enemy instantly changed her ground.

"Come, come, my dear Lionel," she said, smiling, with a glance of
genuine kindness which was entirely unfamiliar to him, who had known
only the passionate side of her nature, "don't be afraid of my abusing
the opportunity. Common-sense has come to me with years, and I have long
understood that you were not blameworthy with regard to me; I was
blameworthy toward myself, toward society, and perhaps toward you; for,
between two lovers as young as we were, the woman should be the man's
guide. Instead of leading him astray among the paths of a false and
impossible destiny, she should preserve him for the world by drawing him
to her. I did not know how to do anything right; I raised innumerable
obstacles in your life; I was the cause, involuntary, to be sure, but
imprudent, of the prolonged shrieks of malediction that pursued you; I
had the horrible agony of seeing your life threatened by avengers whom I
disavowed, but who rose up against you, despite my disavowal; I was the
torment of your youth and the curse of your manhood. Forgive me; I have
fully expiated the wrong I did you."

Lionel proceeded from surprise to surprise. He had come there, as a
defendant, to take his seat most unwillingly in the dock; and lo! he was
treated as a judge, and was humbly entreated to be merciful! Lionel was
born with a noble heart; the breath of worldly vanities had blighted it
in its bloom. Lady Lavinia's generosity moved him the more deeply,
because he was not prepared for it. Vanquished by the nobility of the
character thus revealed to him, he bowed his head and bent his knee.

"I did not understand you, madame," he said to her, in an altered voice;
"I did not appreciate your worth; I was unworthy of you, and I blush for
it."

"Do not say so, Lionel," she rejoined, putting out her hand to raise
him. "When you knew me, I was not what I am to-day. If the past could be
lived again, if to-day I should receive the homage of a man occupying
your position in society----"

"Hypocrite!" thought Lionel; "she is adored by the Comte de Morangy, the
most fashionable of great noblemen!"

"If," she continued, modestly, "I had to decide upon the outward, public
life of a man whom I loved, I should perhaps be able to add to his
good-fortune, instead of destroying it."

"Is this an overture?" thought Lionel, completely bewildered.

And in his confusion he pressed Lavinia's hand fervently to his lips. At
the same time, he glanced at that hand, which was remarkably white and
pretty. In a woman's younger days, her hands are often red and swollen;
later, they become white, grow longer, and assume more graceful
proportions.

The more he looked at her and listened to her, the more surprised he was
to discover newly acquired charms. Among other things, she spoke English
now with extreme purity, she had retained of the foreign accent and the
awkward locutions, for which Lionel had laughed at her mercilessly, only
so much as was necessary to impart an elegant and charming originality
to her pronunciation and her turn of phrase. It may be that the pride
and timidity formerly prominent in her character were concentrated
somewhere in the depths of her being; but there was no outward
indication of them. Less downright, less stinging, less poetic, perhaps,
than she used to be, she was far more fascinating in Lionel's eyes; she
was more in accord with his ideas, more in accord with society.

How shall I tell it? After an hour's conversation, Lionel had forgotten
the ten years that separated him from Lavinia, or rather he had
forgotten his whole life; he fancied that he was with a strange woman,
whom he loved for the first time; for the past showed him Lavinia
sullen, jealous, and exacting; moreover, it showed him Lionel guilty in
his own eyes; and, as Lavinia understood how painful his memories might
be, she had the delicacy to touch upon them only with the utmost
precaution.

They told each other the story of their lives since their separation.
Lavinia questioned him concerning his new love with the impartiality of
a sister; she extolled Miss Ellis's beauty, and inquired with kindly
interest about her disposition and the advantages that such a marriage
was likely to afford her former friend. For her own part, she told, in a
disjointed, but clever and entertaining way, of her travels, her
friendships, her marriage to an old nobleman, her widowhood, and the use
she had since made of her wealth and her liberty. There was no little
irony in all that she said; while she rendered homage to the power of
reason, a little secret bitterness against that imperious power showed
itself now and then, betrayed itself in the guise of badinage. But pity
and indulgence were predominant in that heart, ravaged so early in life,
and imparted to it a touch of grandeur which raised it above all other
hearts.

More than an hour had passed. Lionel did not count the moments; he
abandoned himself to his new impressions with the sudden and ephemeral
ardor which is the last remaining faculty of worn-out hearts. He tried,
by all possible hints, to enliven the interview by leading Lavinia to
talk of the real condition of her heart; but his efforts were of no
avail: the woman was quicker and more adroit than he. When he thought
that he had touched a chord, he found that he had only a hair in his
hand. When he hoped that he was about to grasp her moral being, and hold
it fast in order to analyze it, the phantom slipped away like a breath,
and fled, intangible as the air.

Suddenly they heard a violent knocking; the noise of the torrent,
drowning everything, had prevented their hearing the first blows, and
they were now repeated impatiently. Lady Lavinia started.

"It is Henry coming to remind me," said Sir Lionel; "but, if you will
deign to grant me a few moments more, I will go to tell him to wait. May
I hope to obtain that favor, madame?"

Lionel was preparing to persist obstinately in his entreaties, when Pepa
entered hurriedly.

"Monsieur le Comte de Morangy insists upon coming in," she said to her
mistress, in Portuguese. "He is at the door, he won't listen to a
word----"

"Ah! great heaven!" cried Lavinia, ingenuously, in English; "he is so
jealous! What am I to do with you, Lionel?"

Lionel stood as if struck by lightning.

"Show him in," said Lavinia, hastily, to the negress. "And do you"--to
Sir Lionel--"go out on the balcony. It is a magnificent night; you can
wait there five minutes, to do me a favor."

And she pushed him onto the balcony. Then she dropped the dimity
curtain, and turned to the count, who entered the room at that moment.

"What is the meaning of the noise you are making?" she said, calmly. "It
is a regular invasion."

"Oh! forgive me, madame!" cried Morangy; "on my knees I implore my
pardon. When I saw you leave the ball suddenly with Pepa, I thought that
you were ill. You have not been well these last few days, and I was so
frightened! In God's name, forgive me, Lavinia! I am a fool, a
madman--but I love you so dearly that I no longer know what I am doing."

While the count was speaking, Lionel, hardly recovered from his
surprise, flew into a violent rage.

"Insolent creature!" he thought, "to dare to ask me to be present at a
tête-à-tête with her lover! Ah! if this is premeditated revenge, if
it is a wilful insult, let them beware of me! But what folly! if I
should show my anger, it would simply make her triumph. No! I will look
on at the love scene with the coolness of a true philosopher."

He leaned toward the window, and ventured to enlarge, with the end of
his riding-crop, the chink between the curtains. He was thus able to see
and hear.

The Comte de Morangy was one of the handsomest men in France, tall and
fair, with a face that was more imposing than expressive, elaborately
curled and frizzled, a dandy from head to foot. His voice was soft and
velvety. He lisped a little when he talked; his eyes were large, but
devoid of brilliancy; his mouth fine and sneering, his hand as white as
a woman's, and his foot shod with indescribable elegance. In Sir
Lionel's eyes, he was the most formidable rival a man could possibly
have to contend against; he was a foeman worthy of his steel, from his
whiskers to his great toe.

The count spoke French, and Lavinia answered in that tongue, in which
she was as proficient as in English. Another new talent! She listened to
the _red heel's_ insipid speeches with singular patience. The count
ventured upon two or three impassioned sentences, which seemed to Lionel
to depart somewhat from the rules of good taste and dramatic propriety.
Lavinia did not lose her temper; there was not even a suspicion of
mockery in her smile. She urged the count to return first to the ball,
saying that it would not be proper for her to return with him. But he
persisted in his purpose to escort her to the door, swearing that he
would not go inside until she had been there a quarter of an hour. As he
spoke, he seized Lady Blake's hands, which she abandoned to him with
indolent and provoking heedlessness.

Sir Lionel lost his patience.

"I am a great fool," he said to himself, at last, "to look on patiently
at this mystification, when I can go away."

He walked to the end of the balcony. But there was a high balustrade,
and immediately below was a ledge of rocks which bore little resemblance
to a path. Nevertheless, Lionel boldly ventured to climb over the
balustrade, and to walk a few steps along the ledge; but he was soon
brought to a halt, for the ledge terminated abruptly at the water-fall,
and even a chamois would have hesitated to go a step farther. The moon
disclosed to Lionel the depth of that abyss from which only a few inches
of rock separated him. He was obliged to close his eyes to overcome the
vertigo that assailed him, and to crawl slowly back to the balcony. When
he had succeeded in climbing over the balustrade once more, and found
that frail bulwark between him and the precipice, he deemed himself the
most fortunate of men, even though his rival's triumph was the price he
must pay for that shelter. He had no choice but to listen to the Comte
de Morangy's sentimental tirades.

"Madame," he said, "you have played with me too long. It is impossible
that you should not know how I love you, and I think it very cruel of
you to treat me as if I acted on one of those fancies which are born and
die in a day. My love for you is a sentiment that will endure throughout
my days; and if you do not accept my consecration of my life to you, you
will see, madame, that a man of the world may lose all respect for the
proprieties, and throw off the sway of cold reason. Oh! do not reduce me
to despair, or else beware of its effects."

"So you wish me to speak frankly, do you?" replied Lavinia. "Very well;
I will do so. Do you know my story, monsieur?"

"Yes, madame; I know all. I know that a miserable wretch, whom I look
upon as the lowest of men, shamefully deceived you and abandoned you.
The pity which that misfortune arouses in me adds to my fervor. Only
great hearts are doomed to be victims of men and of public opinion."

"But, monsieur," rejoined Lavinia, "you must know that I have been able
to profit by the stern lessons of my destiny; that I am on my guard
to-day against my own heart and against another's. I know that it is not
always in a man's power to keep his oaths, and that whatever he obtains
he misuses. That being so, monsieur, do not hope to move me. If you are
speaking seriously, here is my reply: I am invulnerable. This woman who
has been so decried for her youthful errors, is surrounded henceforth by
a stouter rampart than virtue--distrust."

"Ah! I see that you do not understand me, madame," cried the count,
falling on his knees. "May I be accursed if I have ever had a thought of
presuming upon your misfortunes, to hope for sacrifices which your pride
condemns."

"Are you perfectly sure that you have never had such a thought?" said
Lavinia, with her sad smile.

"Well, I will be frank," said Monsieur de Morangy, with an accent of
truth in which the mannerisms of the great nobleman vanished entirely.
"Perhaps I may have had, before I knew you, the thought which I spurn
now with profound remorse. In your presence, feigning is impossible,
Lavinia; you subdue the will, you reduce cunning to naught, you command
veneration. Oh! since I have known what you are, I swear that my
adoration has been worthy of you. Listen to me, madame, and let me await
my sentence at your feet. I desire to devote my whole future to you by
oaths that cannot be broken. It is an honorable name, I venture to
believe, and a handsome fortune, of which, as you are aware, I am not
vain, that I lay at your feet, as well as a heart that adores you, a
heart that beats for you alone."

"So you really mean to offer me marriage?" said Lady Lavinia, without,
however, exhibiting offensive surprise. "I thank you, monsieur, for this
proof of esteem and attachment."

And she offered him her hand with much warmth.

"God of mercy! she accepts!" cried the count, covering that hand with
kisses.

"No, monsieur," said Lavinia; "I ask you to give me time for
reflection."

"Alas! but may I hope?"

"I do not know; rely, at all events, upon my gratitude. Adieu. Go back
to the ball; I insist upon it. I will be there in an instant."

The count passionately kissed the hem of her cape, and left the room. As
soon as he had closed the door, Lionel put aside the curtain, ready to
receive permission from Lady Blake to return. But she was sitting on the
sofa, with her back to the window. Lionel could see her face reflected
in the mirror opposite them. Her eyes were fixed on the floor, her
attitude dejected and thoughtful. Buried in absorbing meditation, she
had completely forgotten Lionel, and the exclamation of surprise that
escaped her when he suddenly appeared in the room was an ingenuous
avowal of that painful absorption.

He was pale with anger; but he restrained himself.

"You must agree," he said to her, "that I respected your new attachment,
madame. It required the most profound disinterestedness to listen to
insulting remarks about myself, purposely provoked, perhaps,--and to
remain quietly in my hiding-place."

"Purposely?" repeated Lavinia, gazing sternly at him. "How dare you
think so of me, monsieur? If you entertain such ideas, go!"

"No, no; I do not think so," said Lionel, walking toward her, and
grasping her arm excitedly. "Pay no heed to what I say. I am very much
disturbed.--You surely must have relied upon my strength of mind, to
force me to witness such a scene."

"On your strength of mind, Lionel? I don't understand that phrase. You
mean, do you not, that I counted upon your indifference?"

"Laugh at me as much as you choose; be pitiless, trample on me! you have
the right to do it. But I am very unhappy!"

He was deeply moved. Lavinia believed, or pretended to believe, that he
was acting a part.

"Let us have done with this," she said, rising. "You should have taken
advantage of the reply you heard me make just now to the Comte de
Morangy; and yet that man's love does not offend me.--Farewell, Lionel!
Let us part forever, but not in bitterness of spirit. Here are your
letters and your portrait. Come, release my hand; I must return to the
ball."

"You must return to dance with Monsieur de Morangy, I suppose?" said
Lionel, dashing his picture angrily on the floor, and grinding it under
his heel.

"Listen," said Lavinia, slightly pale, but calm; "the Comte de Morangy
offers me high rank and complete rehabilitation in society. My marriage
to an elderly nobleman never cleansed me completely from the cruel stain
that disfigures an abandoned woman. Every one knows that an old man
always receives more than he gives. But a wealthy, noble young man,
envied by all, loved by the women,--that is a very different matter!
That deserves consideration, Lionel; and I am very glad that I have
handled the count carefully thus far. I divined long ago the honesty of
his intentions."

"O woman! vanity never dies in you!" exclaimed Lionel angrily, when she
had gone.

He joined Henry at the inn. His friend was awaiting him impatiently.

"The devil take you, Lionel!" he cried. "Here have I been waiting in my
stirrups a good hour for you! Think of it! two hours for an interview of
this sort! Come, off we go! you can tell me about it on the road."

"Good-night, Henry. Go, tell Miss Margaret that the bolster lying in my
bed is at death's door. I remain here."

"Heavens and earth! what do you say?" cried Henry; "you don't mean to go
to Luchon?"

"I will go some other time; I shall remain here now."

"Why, you are dreaming, man! It isn't possible! You can't have made it
up with Lady Blake?"

"No, not so far as I know; far from it! But I am tired and out of sorts,
lame all over; I am going to remain here."

Henry fell from the clouds. He exhausted all his eloquence to induce
Lionel to go; but, failing utterly, he dismounted, and tossed his bridle
to the hostler.

"Well, if you are determined, I will also stay," he exclaimed. "It seems
to me such a good joke, that I propose to see it through to the end. To
the devil with love-affairs at Bagnères, and the plans we made on the
road! My excellent friend Sir Lionel Bridgemont is giving a performance
for my benefit; I will be an attentive and absorbed witness of his
drama."

Lionel would have given all the world to be rid of this irresponsible,
bantering spy upon his actions; but it was impossible.

"As you are determined to follow me," he said, "I warn you that I am
going to the ball."

"To the ball? very good. Dancing is an excellent remedy for the spleen
and lameness."

Lavinia was dancing with Monsieur de Morangy. Lionel had never seen her
dance. When she had come to England, she knew nothing but the _bolero_,
and she had never ventured to dance it under the austere skies of Great
Britain. Since then, she had learned our contradances, and she displayed
in them the voluptuous grace of the Spaniard combined with an
indefinable touch of English prudery, which tempered its exuberance.
People stood on the benches to watch her dance. The Comte de Morangy was
triumphant. Lionel was lost in the crowd.


[Illustration: _LIONEL SURPRISES LAVINIA._

_When Lavinia returned to her place, Lionel--the
count's attention being distracted for a moment--glided
adroitly to her side, and picked up her fan,
which she had just dropped._]


There is so much vanity in the heart of man! Lionel suffered bitterly to
see her who was long swayed and imprisoned by her love for him, who was
once his alone, and whom the world would not have dared to come to take
from his arms, now free and proud, encompassed by homage, and finding in
every glance revenge or reparation for the past. When she returned to
her place, Lionel--the count's attention being distracted for a
moment--glided adroitly to her side, and picked up her fan, which she
had just dropped. Lavinia did not expect to see him there. A feeble cry
escaped her, and her face turned perceptibly pale.

"Ah! great heaven!" she exclaimed; "I thought that you were on the road
to Bagnères."

"Have no fear, madame," he said, in an undertone; "I will not compromise
you with the Comte de Morangy."

However, he could not restrain himself for long, but soon returned and
asked her to dance.

She accepted his invitation.

"Must I not ask Monsieur le Comte de Morangy's permission also?" he
asked.

The ball lasted until daybreak; Lady Lavinia was sure of making such
functions last as long as she remained. Under cover of the confusion
which always creeps into the most orderly festivity as the night
advances, Lionel was able to speak with her frequently. That night
completely turned his head. Intoxicated by the charms of Lady Blake,
spurred on by the rivalry of the count, irritated by the homage of the
crowd, which constantly thrust itself between him and her, he strove
with all his power to rekindle that extinct passion, and self-esteem
made its spur felt so sharply that he left the ball in a state of
indescribable excitement.

He tried in vain to sleep. Henry, who had paid court to all the women,
and danced all the contradances, snored lustily. As soon as he awoke,
and while rubbing his eyes, he said:

"Well, Lionel, God save us, my dear fellow! this is a very entertaining
episode, this reconciliation between you and my cousin; for you need not
hope to deceive me, I know the secret now. When we entered the ballroom,
Lavinia was sad, and dancing with an absent-minded air; as soon as she
saw you, her eyes lighted up, her brow cleared. She was radiant during
the waltz, when you whirled her through the crowd like a feather. Lucky
Lionel! a lovely fiancée and a fine dowry at Luchon, a lovely mistress
and a grand triumph at Saint-Sauveur!"

"A truce to your nonsense!" said Lionel, angrily. Henry was dressed
first. He went out to see what was going on, and soon returned, making
his accustomed uproar on the staircase.

"Alas! Henry," said his friend, "will you never lose that gasping voice
and that frantic gesticulation? You always act as if you had just
started a hare, and as if you took the people you were talking to for
uncoupled hounds."

"To horse! to horse!" cried Henry. "Lady Lavinia Blake is in the saddle;
she is about starting for Gèdres with ten other young madcaps and
Heaven knows how many beaux, the Comte de Morangy at their head--which
does not mean that she has not the Comte de Morangy in her head, be it
understood!"

"Silence, _clown_!" cried Lionel. "To horse, as you say, and let us be
off!"

The riding-party had the start of them. The road to Gèdres is a steep
path, a sort of staircase cut in the rock, skirting the precipice,
presenting innumerable obstacles to horses, innumerable real dangers to
their riders. Lionel started off at a gallop. Henry thought that he was
mad; but, considering that his honor was involved in not being left
behind, he rode after him. Their arrival created a strange effect on the
caravan. Lavinia shuddered at sight of those two reckless creatures
riding along the edge of a frightful abyss. When she recognized Lionel
and her cousin, she turned pale and nearly fell from her horse. The
Comte de Morangy noticed it, and did not take his eyes from her face. He
was jealous.

His jealousy acted as an additional spur to Lionel. Throughout the day,
he fought obstinately for Lavinia's slightest glance. The difficulty of
speaking to her, the excitement of the ride, the emotions aroused by the
sublime spectacle of the region through which they rode, the clever and
always good-humored resistance of Lady Blake, her skill in managing her
horse, her courage, her grace, the words, always natural and always
poetic, in which she described her sensations,--all combined to stir Sir
Lionel to the depths of his being. It was a very fatiguing day for the
poor woman, beset by two lovers between whom she tried to hold the
scales even; so that she accorded a grateful welcome to her jovial
cousin and his noisy nonsense, when he spurred his horse between her and
her adorers.

At night-fall, the sky was covered with clouds. A severe storm seemed
imminent. The riders quickened their pace, but they were still more than
a league from Saint-Sauveur when the storm burst. It grew very dark; the
horses were frightened, and the Comte de Morangy's ran away with him.
The little cavalcade became scattered, and the utmost efforts of the
guides, who accompanied them on foot, were required to prevent some
serious accident from bringing to a melancholy close a day that had
begun so merrily.

Lionel, lost in the appalling darkness, compelled to walk along the edge
of the cliff, leading his horse, for fear of falling over the precipice
with him, was tormented by the keenest disquietude. He had lost sight of
Lavinia, despite all his efforts, and had been seeking her anxiously for
fifteen minutes, when a flash of lightning revealed the figure of a
woman seated on a rock just above the road. He stopped, listened, and
recognized Lady Blake's voice; but a man was with her; it could be no
one but Monsieur de Morangy. Lionel cursed him in his heart; and, bent
upon disturbing his rival's happiness, if he could do no more, he walked
toward the couple as best he could. What was his joy on recognizing
Henry with his cousin! He, like the kind-hearted, devil-may-care comrade
he was, gave up his place to him, and walked away to hold the horses.

Nothing is so solemn and magnificent as the tumult of a storm in the
mountains. The loud voice of the thunder, rumbling over the chasms, is
repeated and echoes loudly in their depths; the wind, lashing the tall
fir-trees and forcing them against the perpendicular cliff as a garment
clings to the human form, also plunges into the gorges and utters
shrill, long-drawn laments like sobs. Lavinia, absorbed in contemplation
of the imposing spectacle, listened to the numberless noises of the
storm-riven mountain, waiting until another flash should cast its bluish
glare over the landscape. She started when it showed her Sir Lionel
seated by her side, in the place occupied by her cousin a moment before.
Lionel thought that she was frightened by the storm, and he took her
hand to reassure her. Another flash showed her to him, with one elbow
resting on her knee, and her chin on her hand, gazing enthusiastically
at the wonderful scene produced by the raging elements. "Great heaven!"
she exclaimed; "how beautiful it is! how dazzling and soft at once that
blue glare! Did you see the jagged edges of the rock that gleamed like
sapphires, and that livid background against which the ice-clad peaks
towered aloft like giant spectres in their shrouds? Did you notice, too,
that, in the sudden passage from darkness to light and from light to
darkness, everything seemed to move and waver, as if the mountains were
tottering to their fall?"

"I see nothing but you, Lavinia," he said, vehemently; "I hear no voice
but yours, I breathe no air but your breath, I have no emotion except
that of feeling that you are near me. Do you know that I love you madly?
Yes, you know it; you must have seen it to-day, and perhaps you wanted
it to be so. Very well! if that is so, enjoy your triumph. I am at your
feet, I ask you to forgive me and to forget the past,--I ask it with my
face in the dust; I ask you to give me the future, oh! I ask it with
passionate fervor, and you must grant my request, Lavinia; for I want
you with all my heart, and I have rights over you----"

"Rights?" she repeated, withdrawing her hand.

"Does not the wrong I did you give me a right, a ghastly right, Lavinia?
And if you allowed me to assume it in order to ruin your life, can you
take it from me to-day, when I seek to claim it anew and to repair my
crimes?"

We know all that a man can say under such circumstances. Lionel was more
eloquent than I should have been in his place. He became strangely
excited; and, despairing of his ability to overcome Lady Blake's
resistance in any other way, seeing, moreover, that by making a less
complete submission than his rival he gave him a very valuable
advantage, he rose to the same level of devotion: he offered Lavinia his
name and his fortune.

"Can you dream of such a thing?" she said, with emotion. "You would
abandon Miss Ellis, when she is betrothed to you, when your marriage is
already appointed?"

"I will do it," he replied. "I will do what the world will call
insulting and criminal. Perhaps I shall have to atone for it with my
blood; but I am ready to do anything to obtain you; for the greatest
crime of my life is my failure to appreciate you, and my first duty, to
return to you. Oh! speak, Lavinia! give me back the happiness I lost
when I lost you. To-day, I shall know how to appreciate and retain it;
for I, too, have changed: I am no longer the ambitious, restless man
whom an unknown future tormented with its deceitful promises. I know
life to-day, I know what the world and its false splendor are worth. I
know that not one of my triumphs was worth a single glance from you; and
the chimera of happiness I have pursued, has always avoided me until
this day, when it leads me back to you. Oh! Lavinia, do you, too, come
back to me! Who will love you as I will? who will see, as I see, the
grandeur, patience, and pity that your heart contains?"

Lavinia did not speak, but her heart beat with a violence which Lionel
detected. Her hand trembled in his, and she did not try to withdraw it,
nor a lock of hair which the wind had loosened and which Lionel covered
with kisses. They did not feel the rain, which was falling in large but
infrequent drops. The wind had diminished, the sky became somewhat
lighter, and the Comte de Morangy came toward them as quickly as his
lame and shoeless horse, which had nearly killed him by falling over a
rock, could bring him.

Lavinia perceived him at last, and abruptly tore herself away from
Lionel's caresses. Lionel, furious at the interruption, but full of love
and hope, assisted her to remount, and escorted her to her door. There
she said to him, lowering her voice:

"Lionel, you have made me an offer of which I realize the full value. I
cannot reply without mature reflection."

"O God! that is the same reply you gave Monsieur de Morangy!"

"No, no; it is not the same thing," she replied, in an altered voice.
"But your presence here may give rise to many absurd reports. If you
really love me, Lionel, you will swear to obey me."

"I swear it by God and by you."

"Very well! go away at once, and return to Bagnères; on my part, I
promise you that you shall have my reply within forty hours."

"But what will become of me, great God! during that century of
suspense?"

"You will hope," said Lavinia, hurriedly closing the door, as if she
were afraid of saying too much.

Lionel did hope. His reasons for hoping were a word from Lavinia and all
the arguments of his own self-esteem.

"You are wrong to abandon the game," said Henry, as they rode away;
"Lavinia was beginning to melt. On my word, Lionel, that doesn't seem
like you. Even if for no other reason than not to leave Morangy master
of the field---- But I see that you are more in love with Miss Ellis
than I thought."

Lionel was too preoccupied to listen to him. He passed the interval
fixed by Lavinia, locked in his room, representing that he was ill; and
did not deign to confide in Sir Henry, who lost himself in conjectures
concerning his conduct. At last the letter arrived; it was in these
terms:


"_Neither the one nor the other!_ When you receive this letter, when
Monsieur de Morangy, whom I have sent to Tarbes, receives his reply, I
shall be far from you both; I shall have gone, gone forever, gone
irrevocably, so far as you and he are concerned.

"You offer me name and rank and fortune; you believe that a brilliant
position in society has a great fascination for a woman. Oh, no! not for
her who knows society and despises it as I do. Do not think, however,
Lionel, that I disdain the offer you made to sacrifice a brilliant
marriage, and bind yourself to me forever.

"You realized what a cruel blow it is to a woman's self-esteem to be
abandoned, what a glorious triumph it is to bring back a once faithless
swain to her feet, and you thought to compensate me by that triumph for
all I have suffered; so I give you my esteem once more, and I would
forgive you the past had I not done so long ago.

"But understand, Lionel, that it is not in your power to repair the
wrong. No, it is in no man's power. The blow I received was a deadly
blow; it killed the power to love in me forever; it extinguished the
torch of illusions, and life appears to me in a dull and miserable
light.

"But I do not complain of my destiny; it was bound to come, sooner or
later. We all live to grow old, and to see all our joys overshadowed by
disappointments. My disillusionment came when I was rather young, to be
sure, and the craving for love survived for a long while the faculty of
having faith in man. I have struggled long and often against my youth,
as against a desperate foe; I have always succeeded in beating it.

"And do you imagine that this last struggle against you, this resistance
to the promises you have made, is not exceedingly hard and painful? I
may confess it, now that flight has placed me beyond all danger of
surrender: I love you still, I feel it; the imprint of the first object
of one's love is never entirely effaced; it seems to have vanished; we
fall asleep, oblivious of the pain we have suffered; but let the image
of the past arise, let the old idol reappear, and we are ready to bend
the knee as before. Oh! fly, fly, phantom and falsehood! you are but a
shadow, and if I should venture to follow you, you would lead me again
among the reefs, and leave me there shattered and dying. Fly! I no
longer believe in you. I know that you cannot arrange the future as you
will, and that, though your lips may be sincere to-day, the frailty of
your heart will force you to lie to-morrow.

"And why should I blame you for being like that? are we not all weak and
fickle? Was I not myself calm and cold when I approached you yesterday?
Was I not perfectly certain that I could not love you? Had I not
encouraged the Comte de Morangy's suit? And yet, in the evening, when
you sat beside me on that rock, when you spoke, to me in such an
impassioned tone, amid the wind and the storm, did I not feel my heart
soften and melt? Ah! now that I reflect, I know that it was your voice
of the old days, your passion of the old days, you, my first love, my
youth, that came back to me all at once, for a moment!

"And now, when my blood is cool, I feel a deathly depression; for I am
awake, and I remember that I dreamed a lovely dream in the midst of a
melancholy life.

"Farewell, Lionel! Assuming that your desire to marry me should last
until the moment of its fulfilment (and even now, perhaps, you are
beginning to feel that I may be right in refusing you), you would have
been unhappy in the constraint imposed by such a bond; you would have
found that the world--always ungrateful and sparing of praise for our
good deeds--would look upon yours as the performance of a duty, and
would deny you the triumph which perhaps you would expect. Then you
would have thrown away self-content, and have failed to obtain the
admiration upon which you counted. Who knows! perhaps I myself should
have forgotten too quickly all that was noble in your return to me, and
have accepted your new love as a reparation due to your honor. Oh! let
us not mar the hour of honest impulse and mutual confidence we enjoyed
last night; let us remember it always, but never seek to repeat it.

"Have no fear for your self-esteem so far as the Comte de Morangy is
concerned; I have never loved him. He is one of the innumerable weak
creatures who have failed--even with my assistance, alas!--to make my
dead heart beat again. I would not even want him for a husband. A man of
his rank always sells too dear the protection he bestows, by always
making it felt. And then, I detest marriage, I detest all men, I detest
everlasting pledges, promises, plans, the arranging of the future, in
advance, by contracts and bargains at which Destiny always snaps its
fingers. I no longer care for anything but travel, reverie, solitude,
the uproar of the world, to walk through it and laugh at it, and poetry
to endure the past, and God to give me hope for the future."


Sir Lionel Bridgemont's self-esteem was deeply mortified at first; for,
to console those readers who may have become too warmly interested in
him, we must say that in forty hours he had reflected seriously. In the
first place, he thought of taking horse, following Lady Blake,
overcoming her resistance, and triumphing over her cold common-sense.
Then he thought that she might persist in her refusal, and that,
meanwhile, Miss Ellis might take offence at his conduct, and break off
the match.--He remained.

"Well," said Henry to him, the next day, when he saw him kiss Miss
Margaret's hand, who bestowed that mark of forgiveness on him, after a
sharp quarrel concerning his absence; "next year, we will enter
Parliament."


[Footnote 2: Written thus, in English, in the original.]