• • • • • • ~ ~ ~ ~~ E…"-~,!！.----~~~~ -…-…-.■-·----|--
---- ****** • * .*.*）…-----~）;raeg，►►!！！！！！！！· º:|-= --- -№i---;---|-.aerº.- - - --→→→→•••• • ►►*>（.*?）（ *）（--~~~~:~ ~~~~ -…+
§§§§•- --.（.*）（.*）.*r*, *），（*******-（A，≤≤）.ſ.∞ √≠√¶√∞aezī£， X，ººg，-|-，，，，，，，，，，，，，，，，，，，，F），Èžžż№ſſae
-* |-·|×------§§7:£p£®，，，。、。、E，7№， - - - ~~
-----·Ž/§§§§§§§§§Š-
}$§§§ÈŠĶĒžº§§§******
§Ë
•••• • • *-****<！-- ***~, w ~~~~. ~x~~ ~~~~ ~ ~~~~~ ~~~----… ···
!!！!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡ĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪĪİIĮĮ
… **** *~>~~:---， --------- > •«.*…*…*…|-----
iſſ
ſīlīſ
ſº
Up
§§
∞
，§§，§§
|||||
Milliºtº
a º ºsº.º.
śiññIIIHIIIſſſſſſſſſſſſſ
iſſil
-º-º-º-º-º-º-
TTTTTTTTT
T.
ĀŅſ
ĮĮĶIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIĘ
*************….* --...…….….….…>+.>>+<-- ….. …！ ！ .... -- rv. - … ••••• • • • • • • • • • • •~~~~ ~~
№№j-----· ~• • •■ ■ ■ ■ ■ ■ ■ ■ ■ ■
ĪÏï& ~→- -Īſ ſae，∞
ſ-
ſae
№-
Ē
Œ
№j
ſ-
§-ſ
ſae
ſ=s.
№.
。
ſ-j
№j
Y
k;
§§
&&\ſ?，?¿
º
ź.
¿
****ru-ºº-ººr（x <<！
º

Yu ?
B 77 ow
A LIVING LIE
PRINTED BY
SPOTTISWOODE AND co., New-STREET square
LONDON
A L I V I N G L I E
[MENSONGES]
BY
PAUL BOURGET
TRANS LATED FROM THE FREN CH
BY
JOHN DE VILLIERS
I, O N ID ON
CHATTO & WINDUS, PICCADILLY
1896

MY DEAR DE VILLIERS,
In the first place, you must let me thank you for
having undertaken the task of introducing ‘Mensonges
to the English-reading public; and also express the hope
that this novel, which is no longer new, may not cause a
recurrence of that misconception which too often arises
when a work written in and for a Latin Country is sud-
denly transplanted to Anglo-Saxon soil.
One of the most grievous results of such miscon-
ception, and one which French writers—I speak from
experience—feel most keenly, is the reproach of im-
morality. Balzac spent a lifetime in defending himself
against that charge ; so it was with Flaubert ; so it is
with Emile Zola. I well remember how hurt I felt my-
self when, in the course of an action brought some ten
years since against a publishing firm in London—who
had, by the way, issued a translation of the work with-
out my permission—“Un Crime d'Amour’ was harshly
spoken of by one of your judges. Not only then, but
on many occasions, have I had an opportunity of re-
marking that the English regard the novelist's art from
a standpoint differing entirely from that taken up by
French writers. That difference is well worth dwelling
upon here, for the problem it raises is neither more
nor less than the problem of the whole art of novel-
writing.
To French writers—and I refer more particularly to
Tº ºr , sº- ºr --a
# * , s 3 s.
–4%– º sº ºf ºf TS. §
vi A LIVING LIE
the great school which follows Balzac and Stendhal—
the first quality of that art is analytical precision.
Balzac called himself “a doctor of social sciences.’
Stendhal-Beyle, when asked his profession, used to
reply, ‘Observer of the human heart’; and upon the
title-page of “Rouge et Noir' he wrote as a motto the
significant words, “The truth, the ugly truth.' Every
word of Iºlaubert's correspondence breathes forth the
conviction that the novelist must always and before all
else paint life as it is. These writers and their disciples
do but follow, consciously or unconsciously, the scien-
tific movement of the age. They are sociologists and
psychologists who write in an imaginative form. The
attitude they usually take up towards the object they
are studying is explained by the fact that, as analysts,
they are obliged to assume that absolute indifference
to morality or immorality which should animate every
savant whilst pursuing his investigations.
For them the whole question resolves itself into this :
they must look the bare realities of life full in the face,
reproduce them with absolute fidelity, and reject nothing
they find ; it should be their aim to produce a work of
truth rather than a work of beauty. That is why
Balzac, for czample, did not hesitate, in ‘Splendeurs et
Misères des Courtisancs,’ and in “La Cousine Bette,’ to
lay bare with the brutal bluntness of a police report
the lowest depths of Parisian vice. That, too, is why
Plaubert had no compunction in placing before the
readers of his ‘Madame Bovary the repulsive picture of
Emma and Léon meeting in a house of ill-fame in
Rouen. In his conception of imaginative literature the
writer takes no heed of what will please or displease,
what will comfort or afflict, what will affect or disgust.
A LIVING LIE vii
His aim is to add one document more to the mass of
information concerning mankind and Society collected
by physiology, psychology, and the history of languages,
creeds, and institutions. The novelist is merely a
chronicler of actual life, and the value of his testimony
lies in its truth.
It is easy to see, as I shall presently prove, that
these aesthetics are intimately related to that great
principle of intellectual conscientiousness which, under
the name of science, animates the present age ; and this
relationship would in itself cndow with idealism an art
which has apparently no ideal. But a big objection to
these theorics has long been formulated—an objection
that seems to spring up most readily in English minds
when confronted with the bold utterances such theories
authorise. The novel, it is said, neccssarily appeals to
the popular taste and places its impress upon the
imagination of readers who are totally devoid of the
ideal impartiality of those who take up a scientific
standpoint. When such readers dip into a work like
‘Splendeurs et Misères’ or ‘Madame Bovary, they at
once enter into the very life and spirit with which these
books are permeatcq. The author's genius, reproducing
in vivid colours scenes of questionable morality, makcs
them almost real, and to man, naturally imitative, such
studies form a standing danger. If a bad example is
contagious in real life, Surely, it is urged, it is none the
less so when enhanced by the magic of a master's
style.
I do not think that, in stating the case for the other
side, I have weakenca their argument. At the first
glance, it seems irrefutable. I think, however, that
novelists of the school of Balzac and Flaubert may
viii A LIVING LIE
justly reply that the morality of a book is something
totally distinct from the danger that its perusal presents.
Before deciding whether the total effect of a certain class
of literature is worth the danger it incurs, it would be
necessary to ascertain how far a work has been properly
or improperly understood by all its readers. I, for my
part, am fully convinced that the safety of society is
absolutely dependent upon a true knowledge of human
life, and that every work composed in a spirit of truth
is on that account alone conducive of good. If the
work occasionally shocks or offends a reader, it is none
the less certain that it adds to the knowledge of the
laws governing the minds and passions of men. Now,
it is impossible to cite an example where the general
conclusions drawn by a novelist of the analytical school
have ever been contrary to the eternal laws set forth in
the Decalogue.
Balzac might well have headed the last part of his
‘Splendeurs et Misères’ with this prophetic admonition
from the Scriptures, The way of the ungodly shall perish.
Flaubert could have chosen no better epigraph for the
title-page of ‘Madame Bovary’ than the Seventh Com-
mandment; and, if a modest disciple may be permitted
to compare himself with these great masters, and his
humble productions with their superior works, the novel
now presented to the English public has its moral in
the words addressed by the Abbé Taconet to Claude
Larcher and in the lesson of social Christianity they
teach.
These few remarks are necessary for the compre-
hension of passages in the following pages that might be
considered crude outside the Parisian circle in which
they were written. When “Mensonges’ was first pub-
A LIVING LIE ix
lished, nearly ten years ago, it was generally admitted
that the picture was very faithfully drawn. On the
other hand, it evoked a lively discussion in the Press
concerning the value of the process by which this study
had been produced—in other words, the value of
psychological analysis.
Eminent critics reproached me with carrying the
dissection of motives too far, and with too frequently
laying bare the exquisitely delicate fibres of the heart.
I well remember that amongst my masters Alexandre
Dumas was most assiduous in warning me of the
dangers of my method. ‘It is a very fine thing to show
how a watch works,’ he would say to me, “but not if by
doing so you prevent it from telling the time.’
That all life is, to a great extent, unconscious is
perfectly true, and a psychological analyst may there-
fore imperil the beauty of the particular life he proposes
to describe by bringing into undue prominence and
bestowing too much care upon its hidden workings. So
far as I am concerned, I am quite willing to own that
in so doing I may have deserved reproach ; but I am
persuaded that, if such be the case, the fault is mine
and not that of the method employed. Every work of
art, if critically considered, will be found to contain
incongruities which the genius of the artist must
conceal. The drama, for instance, in its use of
dialogue, must compress into a few minutes conversa-
tions that would, in reality, occupy whole hours. It
would therefore seem a priori as if all semblance of
truth were in that case impossible. In the same way a
lyric poet, by attempting to express in scholarly rhyme
and in verse of complicated structure the most simple
and spontaneous feelings of the heart, would seem to
X A LIVING LIE
undertake a most paradoxical, I had almost said an ab-
surd, task. And yet the dialogue of a Shakespeare or
of a Molière has all the movement and colour of life
itself. Heine's Lieder and Shelley's lyrics ale real
vibrations of the heart ; and, to come back to the
psychological novel, I may surely hold up the works of
George Eliot, Tourguenieff, and Tolstoi in reply to the
objection that a too minute analysis of character and
feeling substitutes a dry anatomical study for the glow
and ardouſ of passion. If “Mensonges may not be
added to the list, it can only be because its authol has
not the necessary skill to wield what is, after all, a most
excellent instrument.
These are a few of the ideas which I beg you to lay
before the 1eaders of the English version of my story in
order that theil hearts may be inclined to indulgence
before they turn to the work itself. Allow me to thank
you, as well as MM. Chatto and Windus, once more
for having thought this study of Parisian life worthy the
distinction of such a careful and masterly translation as
you! S.
Believe me,
Yours very faithfully,
PAUL BOURGET.
IIYERES, January 30, 1896.
CHAPTER
I.
II.
III.
IV.
V.
VI.
VII.
VIII.
IX.
X.
XI.
XII.
XIII.
XIV.
XV.
XVI.
XVII.
XVIII.
XIX.
XX.
C O N T E N T S
A PROVINCIAL CORNER OF PARIS
SIMPLE SOULS . & Ü tº
A LOVER AND A SNOB .
THE ‘SIGISBáE’. ſº tº G tº
THE DAWN OF LOVE .
AN OBSERVER'S LOGIC
THE FACE OF A MADONNA .
THE OTHER SIDE OF THE PICTURE
AN ACTRESS IN REAL LIFE.
IN THE TOILS , * º
DECLARATIONS .
CRUEL TO BE KIND .
AT HOME * g
HAPPY DAYS .
COLETTE'S SPITE . º
THE STORY OF A SUSPICION .
PROOFS . tº Q tº e
THE HAPPIEST OF THE FOUR .
ALL OR NOTHING . t
THE ABBé TACONET
PAGE
A LIVING LIE
CHAPTER I
A PROVINCIAL CORNER OF PARIS
‘TIIE gates alc closed, sir,’ said the di Ivel, bending
down from his box
‘Closed at half-past nine l’exclaimed a voice from
the intellor of the cab ‘What a place to live in
You needn't trouble to get down. The pavement's
dry—I’ll walk’
The dool of the vehicle swung open, and a young
man stepped gingelly out, pulling the collar of his ful-
lined coat a little mole closely about his throat. The
dainty patent-leather shoes that left just an inch of the
embroidered silk socks visible, the plain black trousers
and opeia hat, showed that the wealer was 1n evening
diess. The cab was one of those Superior conveyances
that ply for hire outside the Palis clubs, and the driver,
little accustomed to this provincial cornel of the city,
began to peer, with almost as much interest as his fate,
1nto the stiange Stleet that, although situated on the
bordels of the Faubourg Saint-Germain, had such an
old-world look about it. At the time we wiite of the
beginning of February, 1879—the Rue Coetlogon,
1unning from the Rue d’Assas to the Rue de Rennes,
still possessed the peculiality of being shut off from the
1est of the would by gates, while at night 1t was lit up
by an oil lamp, hanging, in the old-fashioned way, from
B
2 A LIVING LIE
a rope swung right across the roadway. Since then the
appearance of the place has changed a good deal. The
mysterious-looking house on the right, standing in its
own bit of garden, and affording no doubt a quiet
retreat to Some retiring old dame, has disappeared.
The vacant land, that rendered the Rue Coetlogon as
inaccessible to vehicles on the one side as did the iron
gates on the other, has been cleared of its heaps of
stones. Gas jets have taken the place of the oil lamp,
and only a slight unevenness in the pavement now
malks the position of the posts upon which the gates
hung. These were never locked, but only swung to at
night; there was therefore no necessity for the young
man to pull the bell, but before entering the narrow
lane he stopped for a few moments to take in the
st ange scene presented by the dark outline of the
houses on the left, the galden on the right, a confused
mass of unfinished buildings at the bottom, and the
old oil lamp in the middle. Overhead a bright wintry
moon hung 1n the vast expanse of the heavens, through
which sped a few Swift-sailing clouds. As they scudded
across the face of the moon, and flew off into the dark
1mmensity beyond, they seemed only to enhance the
metallic b1 illiancy of the luminal y by the momentary
shadow they cast in Sweeping by.
‘What a scene it would make for a parting !’
murmured the young man, adding, in a somewhat
louder tone :
Until the hour when from the vault above us
Glares down the frowning visage of the moon .
Had any observant passer-by happened to hear
these two lines from Victor Hugo he would have
recognised a man of letters by the way in which they
were delive1.cd. The Solitary speaker bore indeed a
name well to the fore in the literature of the day. But
names so quickly disappear and get forgotten in the
incessant onward rush of new works, self-assertive
claims, and flecting reputations that the successes of
A PROVINCIAL CORNER OF PARIS 3
ten years ago seem as distant and as vague as those of
another age. Two diamas of model n life, a little too
directly inspired by the younger Dumas, had brought
this young man—he was thirty-five or more, but he
looked barely thirty—momentary renown, and he had
not yet spoilt his name by putting 1t at the bottom of
hastily written articles or upon the covels of indifferent
novels. He was known only as the author of “La
Goule’ and ‘Entle Adultères, two plays of unequal
mel it, full of a pessimism frequently conventional, but
powerful in their tienchant analysis, their Smart dialogue,
and their painful striving after the Ideal. º
these plays were alieady three years old, and Cſáude
Larcher, who had allowed himself to drift into a firsof
idle pſeasule, was beginning to accept lucrative and easy
work, being no longel fit to make any flesh and long-
Sustained cffort.
Like many analytical wiiters, he was accustomed to
study and probe himself incessantly, though all his
1ntrospection had not the least influence upon his
actions. The most ti Iſling Occul rencCS Seived as a pre-
text fol indulging 1n examination of himself and his
destiny, but long-continued dualism of this kind only
1esulted in keeping his perceptive faculties uselessly
and painfully alert. The sight of this peaceful stileet
and the thought of Victor IHugo immediately reminded
him of the resolutions he had been vainly fol mulating
for some months past to lead a 1etired life of 1egular
work. He reflected that he had a novel on older for a
magazine, a play to wiſte that had already been
accepted, and reviews to send to a ‘daily,’ whilst, instead
of being scated at his table in the Rue de Valenne, here
he was gadding about at ten o'clock at night dressed
like an 1cileſ and a snob He would pass the 1emainder
of the evening and a part of the night at a soarde given
by the Comtesse Komof, a Russian lady of fashion living
in Palis, whose receptions at the grand mansion in the
Rue de Bel-Resp110 were as magnificent as they were
B 2
4 A LIVING LIE
\
mixed. He was about to do even worse. He had

come to fetch an r writer, ten years younger than
\ himself, who had till that moment led precisely the
\noble life of hard work for which he himself so longed,
in one of the houses in this modest and quiet Rue
tºº.
Réflé-Vincy—that was the name of his young col-
league—had just leapt with one bound into the full
glale of publicity, thanks to one of those strokes of
literary luck which do not occul twice in a generation.
The ‘Sigisbée, a comedy 1n one act and 1n verse, a
fanciful, dreamy work, written without any hopes of
practical success, had b1 Ought him sudden fame. Like
our deal François Coppée’s “Le Passant, it had taken
the blasé capital by stol m, and had called forth not only
unanimous applause in the Théâtre Français, but a
chorus of p1a1Se 1n the newspapels next day. Of this
astonishing success Claude could claim a share. Was
he not the filst in whose hands the manuscript of the
‘Sigisbée’ had been placed P Had he not taken it to
Colette Rigaud, the famous actress of the House of
Molièle 2 And Colette, having fallen in love with the
p1 incipal part, had smoothed away all obstacles. It was
he, Claude Lalcher, who, consulted by Madame Komof
upon the choice of a play to be performed in her salon,
had suggested the ‘Sigisbée, the Comtesse had acted
upon his suggestion, and the performance was to take
place that evening Claude, who had undel taken to
chapel on the young poet, had come at the appointed
hour to the Rue Coetlogon, where René Vincy lived
with his married sistel.
This extreme kindness of an all eady successful
author towards a mele novice was not entilely devoid of
a tinge of irony and p110e Claude Laichel, who spent
his time 1n slandering the wealthy and cosmopolitan
world in which the Comtesse Komof moved, and in
which he himself was always mixing, ſelt his vanity
slightly tickled by being able to dazzle his friend with
A PROVINCIAL CORNER OF PARIS 5
the glamour of his fashionable connections. At the
same time the malicious cynic was amused by the sim-
plicity of the poet and by his childish awe of that magic
and meaningless word—Society. He had already en-
joyed, as much as a play, Vincy's shyness during their
first visit to the Comtesse a few days before, and
thoughts of the fevel of expectancy in which René must
now be made him Smile as he approached the house in
which his young friend lived
‘And to think that I was just as foolish as that
once l’ he murmuſed, remembering that he, too, as well
as René, had had his début, then he thought, ‘That is a
feeling of which those who have always lived in that
kind of would have no 1.jea , and how absurd it 1s for
us to go and visit these people !’
Whilst philosophising 1n this manner Claude had
stopped before another gate on the left, and, finding it
locked, had rung the bell. The passage to which this
gate gave access belonged to a three-storeyed house
separated from the street by a narrow strip of garden.
The poſter's lodge was under the alch at the end of the
passage, but eithel the coreczemºge was absent of the pull
at the bell had not been sufficiently vigorous, for Claude
was obliged to tug a second time at the rusty ring that
hung at the end of a long chain. He had time,
therefore, to examine this dull, dismal-looking house, in
which there was only one window lit up This was on
the ground floor, and belonged to the Suite of rooms
occupied by the Flesneaus, four windows of which
looked out upon the little garden.
Mademoiselle Emilie Vincy, the poet's sister, had
married one Maui 1Ce Flesneau, a teachel, whose col-
league Claude had been upon first coming to Paris—a
début of which the pampeled author of “La Goule’ was
weak enough to be ashamed. How happy he would
have been had he been able to say that he had fritteled
away his pati 1mony at cards or upon women He,
however, kept up a close acquaintance with his former
6 A LIVING LIE
colleague, out of gratitude for pecuniary services
rendered long ago. He had at first interested himself
in René chiefly for the sake of this old comrade of less
happy days, but had afterwards yielded to the chal m of
the young man's nature How often, when tired of his
artificial life and tortuled by painful indolence and bitter
passions, had he not come to obtain an houl's rest 1n
René's modest room, next to that in which the light was
now burning, and which was the dining-room. In the
short interval that clapsed between his two rings, and
thanks to the Swift 1magination of his artistic mind, this
room suddenly rose up before him—symbolical of the
purity of soul hithel to preserved by his filend. The
poet and his sister had with their own hands nailed to
the wall some thin 1ed cloth adorned here and there
with a few engravings, chosen with the consummate
taste of a lonely thinkel—some studies by Albeit Duler,
Gustave Moreau's ‘Hélène' and ‘Orphée,’ and one ol
two etchings by Goya The iron bedstead, the neatly
kept table, the bookcase filled with well-bound books,
the red parquetting of the floor forming a flame to the
carpct in the centre—how Claude had loved this familial
scene, with these words fiom the ‘Imitatio 'written ovel
the dool by René in his boyish days: Cella continuata
dulcescit l Lalcher's thoughts, at filst 11onical, had
become suddenly modified by the 1mages his b1ain had
conjured up, and he felt moved by the idea that this
entry into Society through the poſtals of the Komof
mansion was after all a gleat event for a child of twenty-
five who had always lived 1n this house. What a heart
full of ideals he was about to cal ry into that pleasure-
loving and artificial Society that C1owded the Comtesse's
salons !
‘What a pity he should have to go l’ he exclaimed,
his reverie bloken by the click of the lock, adding, as he
pushed the gate open, “But it was I who advised him to
accept the invitation, and who got him dressed for
to-night.' He had, indeed, taken René to his tailor, his
A PROVINCIAL CORNER OF PARIS 7
hosier, his bootmaker, and even his hatter, in older to
proceed to what he jestingly called his investiture.
“The dangers of contact with the world ought to have
been thought of before. . . . But how foolish of me to
meet ti oubles half way ! He will be presented to four
or five women, he will be invited to dinner two or three
times, he will forgot to call again, he will forget—and
he will be forgotten.’
By this time he was half way down the passage, and
had knocked at the first dool on the 11ght before coming
to the porter's lodge, which it was not necessary to pass
His knock was answered by a big fat maid of about
thiſ ty, with a short waist, Square shoulders, and a great
round face Sul mounted by a huge Auvergne cap and
lit up by two brown eyes betraying animal simplicity.
Instinctive distrust was exp1 essed not only 1n the
woman's physiognomy, but also by the mannel 1n
which she held the dool instead of opening it wide, and
by the way she blinked her eyes as she raised the lamp
to throw the light upon the visitol's features On recog-
nising Claude her big face explessed a degree of satis-
faction that told plainly how welcome the writer was in
the Fresneau household.
* Good evening, Françoise,’ said the young man; ‘is
your master 1eady ?’
“Oh 1–it's Monsieur Larchel,’ exclaimed the maid,
with a joyful smile, showing all her shalp little white
teeth, of which she had lost one on each side of the top
row. “He is quite ready, she added, ‘and looks like an
angel. You will find la compagnie in the dining-1oom.
Let me take your coat for you . . . Saints p1eserve us !
My dear gentleman, what a weight this must be on
your back l’
The familiarity of this maid-of-all-work, who had
come straight to the Flesneaus from the professor's
native village in Auvergne, and who had made herself
thoroughly at home with them for the past fifteen years,
was a constant source of amusement to Claude Lalcher.
8 A LIVING LIE
He was one of those deep thinkers who worship utter
simplicity, no doubt because they find in it a 1elief
from the incessant and exhaustive labout of their own
brain. Françoise would sometimes speak to him of his
works in most droll and glotesque telms, or with great
ingenuousness expless the fear with which she was
always haunted—that the author was going to put her
into one of his plays ; or, again, she would, after the
mannel of her kind, give a most ludicious tun to some
literary phrase she had picked up in waiting at table.
Claude remembered how he had once heald her say, in
praising René's ardouſ for work : ‘He dentifries himself
with his heroes.’ He could not help laughing at it even
now. She would say cewaller fol cue/ſer, engratigner for
“gratigner, archeduc for aqueduc, to travel 1n coquelicot
for ancognito, and a heap of othel Similar slips which the
writer would amuse himself by Jotting down in one of his
innumerable notebooks fol a novel that he would never
finish. He was therefore as a rule glad to provoke the
woman's gossip ; but that evening he was not in a mood
for 1f, being suddenly filled with melancholy at the
1dea that he was playing the part of a vulgar worldly
tempter. Whilst Fiançoise was hanging up his coat
for him he looked down the cort 1dor that he knew so
well, with its dools On each side. René's bedroom
was on the right at the end of the passage, facing the
south ; the Fresneaus were satisfied with a smallel
apartment looking no1th, the room next to this being
occupied by their Son Constant, a boy Six years old, of
whom Emilie thought a good deal less than of René.
Claude was fully acquainted with all the 1easons for
this tendel sistelly love, as he was indced with the
whole history of this family. It was that history, so
touching in its modest simplicity, which amply justified
his remorse in dragging from this peaceful reti eat the
one in whom all was centred.
The father of Emilie and René, an attorney of
Vouziers, had died a wretched death from the effects of
A PROVINCIAL CORNER OF PARIS 9
intemperate habits. The practice having been sold and
what little property there was 1ealised, the widow, after
paying all debts, found herself in possession of about
fifty thousand francs. Feeling that life in Vouziers
would recall too many bittel memories, Madame Vincy
went to live in Paris with her two young children She
Inad a blother there, the Abbé Taconet, a pliest of Some
eminence, who, though educated in the Ecole Normale,
had suddenly, and without giving any reasons, entered
1nto holy olders; the astonishment of his former com-
1ades was, if possible, 1ncleased when they saw him,
soon after leaving Saint-Sulpice, set up a School in the
Rue Casette. A conscientious but very liberal Catholic,
with strong leanings to Gallicanism, the Abbé Taconet
had seen many families of the upper middle class hesi-
tate between purely secular and purely 1 eligious Colleges,
not finding in either that combination of traditional
Chiistianity and modern development they sought, and
he had taken orders for the express purpose of carrying
into effect a plan he had formed fol lealising that com-
bination. The height of his ambition was reached on
the day that he and two younger p11ests opened an
ecclesiastical day school, which he christened the Ecole
Saint-Andié, after his patron Saint. The success that
attended the Abbé's enterprise was so 1apid that already,
in the third year, two small one-horse omnibuses were
required to fetch the pupils and take them back to their
homes.
This opportunity of giving her son, then ten years
old, an exceptional education, was one of the 1easons
that led Madame Vincy to choose Pal is for hel 1 est-
dence, especially since Emilie's Sixtecn years plomised
the mothel valuable aid in the discharge of hel house-
hold duties. By the advice of the Abbé Taconet, whom
the management of the School funds had made quite a
business man, she invested hel fifty thousand francs in
Italian stocks, which at that time could be bought at
Sixty-five fiancs, thus seculing hel an income of two
*
IO A LIVING LIE
thousand eight hundred ſrancs per year. The secret of
the idolatrous affection which Emilie lavished upon her
young brother lay almost entirely in the innumerable
daily sacrifices entailed by the inadequacy of this
amount, for in mattels of love we pursue our sufferings
as at calds we pursue our losses.
Almost immediately after her arrival in Paris—she
had taken rooms in this vely house in the Rue Coetlogon,
but on the third floor—Madame Vincy had become an
invalid, so that from 1863 to 1871, when the poor woman
died, Emilie had discharged the triple duty of nursing
her mother, of carefully tending a household where fifty
centimes meant much, and of Supel intending step by
step her brothel’s education. All this, too, she had
done without allowing the fatigue that stole the colour
from her cheeks to wring from her lips a single Com-
plaint. She 1esembled those sempstlesses in the old
songs of Paris who consoled themselves in their 1 ude,
incessant toil by cultivating some tendel flower upon
their window sill. Her flower was her brothel, a timid,
loving child with wistful eyes, and he had well 1e-
paid Emilie's devotion by his successes at college—a
source of great joy to women whose lives were so
entilely devoid of all pleasure. It was not long before
René began to wiſte poems, and Emilie had been the
happy confidante of the young man's first attempts.
Then, when Fresneau asked her to be his wife, not six
months after the death of her mother, she consented
only on condition that the professor, who had just passed
his examinations, would not leave Paris, and that René
was to live with them, and devote himself to writing.
Fresneau joyfully acceded to these demands. He was
one of those very good and very simple men who are
peculially fitted to be lovers, glanting blindly all that
the object of their love desires. He had been enamoured
of Emilie, without daring to declare his passion, since
first making the acquaintance of the Vincys as René's
master at the Ecole Saint-André in 1865. This man,
A PROVINCIAL CORNER OF PARIS II
who was not far from forty, felt drawn towards the girl
by the strange similarity of their destinies. Had he not
also renounced all selfish ambition and all personal
aspirations in order to liquidate the debts which his
father—a ruined Schoolmaster—had leſt behind P From
1851 to 1872, when he married, the professol had
paid twenty thousand francs to his father's creditols,
and that by giving lessons at five francs each, taking
one with the other | If we add to the number of wolk-
ing houls that p1 oduced this result the time required for
preparing the lessons, correcting exerciscs, and going
about from one place to another—Flesneau would some-
times have lessons at all points of the Parisian compass
on the same day—we shall have the sketch of an exist-
ence, not uncommon in the profession of teaching, that is
capable of wealing out the strongest constitutions His
love for Emilie had formed the one 1 omance of Fresneau's
life, too occupied as he had been during his youth to
find time for such sentiments. The Abbé Taconet had
given his blessing to their union, and an addition had
been made to the slaves of René's genius.
Claude Larcher was not ignolant of any of these
facts, which had all been of Importance in developing
the chal acter and talent of the young poet. Whilst
Françoise was hanging up his ovel coat his rapid glance
travelled round the dimly-lighted passage and took in
all those matelial details which for him had a deeper and
a moral Signification. He knew why, in the corner neal
the door, Side by side with the plofessor's stout alpaca
umbrella with 1ts clumsy handle, there stood a neat
English frame with an elegant stick, chosen by Madame
Fresneau for her blothel He knew, too, that it was the
sister's love that had plovided the dainty Malacca that
adorned the hall-stand, and which had plobably cost
thirty times as much as the plain heavy stick cari 10d by
Flesneau when 1t was fine. He knew that the professol's
books, after having for a long time been exposed to the
dirt and dust on the blackened shelves of a bookcase
I 2 A LIVING LIE
in this passage, had at length been banished even fiom
that place to a dark cupboard, and that the passage had
then been given up to René's decolative fancies. The
walls wel e adorned with engravings of his choosing—a
whole 1 ow of Raffet's splendid studics of the great
Napoleon, which must have becn vely obnoxious to the
Republican tastes of the professor But Claude knew
well enough that Fresneau would be the very last to
notice the Constant sacrifice of the whole household to
this brother, whom he, too, WöTshipped, out of lövé for
Emiſſe, as blindly as did the servant and even the uncle
—the uncle, fol the Abbé Taconet had not been able to
resist the influence of the young man's disposition and
talent. The Abbé did not forget that his nephew
possessed a modest income—the amount invested, by
his advice, in Italians, and afterwalds transferred to safe
French stocks, now b11nging in thiee thousand fiancs —
and that he himself would double 1t at his death. Was
not René's Chi 1stian education a guarantee that his
literary talents would help to propagate the views of
the Church P The priest had the efore done what he
could to start the poet on that difficult path of lettels
where the fortunate youth had so fal only met with
happiness.
Of this happiness, consisting of pure devotion, silent
affection, loving indulgence, and healty, Comforting con-
fidence, Claude Laichel knew the value better than
anyone—he who, bereft of both his palents, had, fiom
his twentieth year, been compelled to battle alone against
the hardships, the disenchantments, and the contamina-
tion of a struggling author's life in Pal 1s. He nevel
visited the Fresneaus without expellencing a feeling of
Sadness, and to-night was no exception to the rule It
was a feeling which generally made him laugh the louder
and exercise his most withering Sal casm. Too eneivated
to bear the slightest emotion without feeling pain, he
was, on such occasions, within an ace of proclaiming his
agony, and in view of the hopelessness of ever conquering

A PROVINCIAL CORNER OF PARIS 13
this excessive sensibility, ready, like a child, to be judged
by his words whilst uttering the most atrocious libels on
his own heart.
CHAPTER II
SIMPLE SOULS
WHEN, with his usual bantering smile, Claude entel cd
the Small dining-room he found that la compagnie, as
Françoise called 1t, comprised René—the hero of what
seemed to his friends a most remarkable adventure—
Madame Fresneau and her husband, Madame Offarel,
the wife of a sous-chef de ózureau in the Ministère de la
Guerre, and he two daughters, Angélique and Rosalie.
All these good people were Seated alound the mahogany
table on mahogany chairs, the horsehair seats of which
were glossy with the weal of years This suite formed
part of the oliginal household effects of the avoué of
Vouziers, and owed its marvellous state of preservation
to the care bestowed upon 1t by 1is present owners A
pol table stove, fixed upon the hearth, did not tend to
1mprove the air in the Somewhat Small apartment, though
it testified to the housewife's habits of thrift. Emilic
would have no wood files except in René's room. A
lamp suspended by a brass chain illumined the circle of
heads that was turned towards the visitor as he entered
and cast a feeble light upon the yellow flowers of the
wall-paper, 1 elieved here and theſe by a piece of old
china. The lamp-light 1evealed more clearly to the new
arrival the feelings expressed in the faces of the different
occupants of the 100m Likes and dislikes are not so
easily concealed by those who move in humble circles—
theſe the human animal 1s less tamed, less accustomed
to the mask continually woln in mole polite Society.
Emilie held out her hand to Claude—an unusual thing
fol hel to do—with a happy Smile upon her lips, and a
I4. A LIVING LIE
look of joy in her brown eyes, her whole being expless-
ing the sincere pleasure she felt at seeing someone whom
she knew to be interested in her brother.
“Doesn't his coat fit him beautifully P’ she asked
impetuously, before Lalcher had taken a chail ol even
exchanged a word of gleeting with the othcr visitors.
René, it was true, was a perfect specimen of the
creature so seldom scen in Paris–-a handsome young
man At twenty-five the author of the “Sigisbée’ was
still without a w linkle on his brow, while the fleshness
of his complexion and the look of pul ity 1n his clear
blue eyes told of a vilgin Soul and a mind unsullied by
the world. IIe bolc a g1 eat resemblance to the medal-
lion, but little known, which David, the Sculptol, has
left of Alfied de Musset in his youth, though René's
wealth of hail, his fall and already full beald, and his
broad shouldels gave him an air of health and stiength
wanting in the somewhat effeminate and almost too
flail appeal ance of the great poet. His cycs, generally
sel lous, spoke at that moment of simple and unalloyed
happiness, and Emilie's admilation was justificq by an
1nnate grace that 1evealed itself in spite of the levelling
effect of a dress-coat. In her tendel solicitude the
loving sistel had even thought of gold studs and links
for his shut-fiont and cuffs, and had bought them out of
hel savings at a Jeweller's 1n the Rue de la Paix, after a
seclet confei cnce with Claude. She had fastened his
white tie with her own fingers, and had bestowed as
much care upon him that evening as when, foul teen
years ago, she had superintended the toilet of this
1dol1Scq brother fol his filst communion.
“Pool Emilie,' said René, with a smile that disclosed
two splendid 1 Ows of teeth ; ‘you must excuse her,
Claude; I am her only weakness’
‘Well ! So you are diagging René into dissipation'
too, eh?’ cried Fresneau, as he shook hands with
Lalcher. The professor was a tall, bload-shouldered
man, with a great head of hail just beginning to turn
SIMPLE SOULS I5
grey, and an unkempt beard. Spread out before him,
and covered with pencil notes, were some large sheets of
paper—the exel cises he brought home to correct. He
gathered them up, saying, “Lucky man | You've got
rid of this terrible job | Will you take a thimbleful
just to warm you ?’ he asked, holding up a decanter half
filled with brandy, which was always left on the table
after coffee had been seived—the family sitting hete in
preference to moving 1nto the Salom, a room in the front
of the house used only on gland occasions “Or a *
cigalette 2' he added, offeling Claude a bowl filled with
tobacco.
Claude thanked him with a depiccatoly smile, and
turned to bow to the three lady visitols, not one of whom
offered him hel hand. The mother, who scratched her
head every now and then with one of her knitting-
needles, was busily at work upon a blue woollen stock-
1ng, and hel two daughters wel e engaged upon some
embroidely. Madame Offal el's hall was quite white,
and hel face deeply winkled ; through the round glasses
that she managed to balance somehow or other on her
shout nose there flashed a glance of deep hatred upon
Claude. Angélique, the eldel of the two gills, repressed
a smile as she heard the writer make a slight slip in his
pronunciation ; with hel black cycs, that shot swift side-
ward glances, with her blushes that came as leadily as
her smiles, she belonged to the numerous family of shy
but mocking females Rosalie, the youngel of the two
Sisters, had returned Claude's salute without 1aising her
eyes, black as her sistel's, but filled with a sweet, timid
expression. A few minutes later she stole a glance
fiom beneath hel long lashes at René, and her fingels
trembled as hel needle followed the tracing for the
embroidely. She bent her head still lower until her
chestnut hair shone in the lamp-light.
Not a whit of this by-play had been lost upon
Claude. He was well acquainted with the habits and
disposition of ces d'ames Offare/, as Fresneau called them
I6 ' A LIVING LIE
in his provincial way. They had piobably ariived at
about Seven O'clock, Soon aſtel dinnel. Old Offarel,
aftel having accompanied them hole from the Ruc
Bagneux, had gone on to the Café Tabouley, at the
corner of the Odéon, where he conscientiously waded
thlough all the daily papers. Claude had long guessed
that Madame Offal el cherished the idea of a marriage
between Rosalie and René ; he suspected his young
fliend of having encouraged these hopes by an innate
taste for the romantic, and it was only too evident that
Rosalie had been captivated by the mental qualities and
physical attractions of the poet. He, Claude Lalcher,
knew well enough, too, that he himself was both liked
and feared by the girl. She liked him because he was
devoted to René, and feared him because he was
diagging the lattel into a fiesh Cu1rent of events To
this 1nnocent child, as well as to all the members of this
small c11 cle, the soarée at Madame Komof's scemed like
a fally expedition to distant and unexplored lands. In
each of them it conjuled up chimeſ 1Gal hopes or foolish
fears. Emilie Flesneau had always chelished the most
ambitious dreams for her brother, and she now pictured
him leaning against a mantelpiece reciting veſses in
the midst of a crowd of duchesses, and beloved by a
“Russian princess.’ These two words expressed the
highest folm of Social Superio11ty that hel mind was
capable of 1magining. Rosalie was the victim of the
keenest perspicacity—that of the woman who loves.
Although she 1eproached herself for her folly, René's
cyes frightened her with the joy they expressed, and
that joy was at going 1nto a world which she, almost his
betrothed, could not enter. A bond, stronger than
Claude had imagined, already united them, for secret
vows had been exchanged by the pair one spring
evening in the preceding year. René was then still
unknown. She had him to herself. When by her side
he thought all things charming ; without hel, all was
1nsipid. To-day, her confidence disturbed by uncon-
SIMPLE SOULS 17
Scious jealousy, she began to see what dangerous com-
parisons threatened her love. With her home-made
dresses that spoilt the beauty of her figure, with her
1eady-made boots in which her dainty feet were lost,
with her modest white collars and cuffs, she felt herself
grow small by the side of the grand ladies whom René
would mect. That was why her fingers tiembled and
why a vague terlor shot through her heart, causing 1t to
beat quicker, whilst the professor pressed Claude to
drink a glass of /t/?teur and to make himself a cigarette.
‘I assuſc you 16's excellent cau-de-vae, sent me from
Normandy by one of my pupils. Really not P You
used to be so fond of 1: once Do you remember when
we gave lessons at Vanaboste's P Four hours a day,
Thursdays included, corrections to be done at home, for
a hundred and fifty francs a month ! And yet how
happy we were in those days We had a quarter of an
houl's intel val between the classes, and I lemenber the
little café we used to go to in the Rue Saint-Jacques to
get a glass of this eau-de-Vie to keep us going You
used to call it hardening the alteries, under the pretence
that a man is only as old as his artel 1es, and that alcohol
diminishes their elasticity.’
“I was twelve years youngeſ then,' said Claude, as
he laughed at the other's reminiscences, ‘and had no
1heumatism
‘It can't be very good fol one's health,’ interposed
Madame Offarel with some aspeiſty, “to go out nearly
every night; and these big dinnels, with their fine wines
and highly-seasoned dishes, 1mpoverish the blood
teiribly l’
‘Don’t be absurd," said Emilie, interposing ; ‘we have
had the honour of Monsieur Larcher's company to dinner,
and you would be surprised to see what a modest meal he
makes And people can afford to go to bed a little late
when they ale free to sleep long in the morning. René
tells us that it 1s so delightfully quiet 1n your house,” she
added, addiessing the writer.
C
I8 A LIVING LIE
‘Yes, so it is. I happened to come across some
rooms in an old house in the Rue de Varenne, and I
find that at present I am the only tenant 1n the place.
When the blinds are drawn I can fancy it is the middle
of the night. I can hear nothing but the ringing of the
bells in a convent close by and the 10al of the city far,
far away.”
‘I have always heard it said that one hour's sleep
before midnight is worth more than two afterwards,'
broke in the old lady, exasperated by Claude's 1mper-
tulbability. She was 1ncensed against him without
knowing exactly why—this feeling being inspired less
by the Influence he exercised upon René than by deep
natural antipathy. She felt that she was being studied
by this individual with the inquisitorial eyes, perfect
manners, and unfathomable smiles. His presence pro-
duced in hel a feeling of uneasiness that found vent in
sharp words She therefore added, ‘Besides, Monsieur
René cannot have such rest here. At what time will this
Countess's sourée be over ?’
‘I don't know,' replied Claude, amused by the ill-
concealed rancour of his adversary; “the “Sigisbée’
will be performed about half-past ten, and I suppose we
shall sit down to supper about half-past twelve or one.’
‘Monsieur René will be in bed about two o'clock, then,'
rejoined Madame Offarel, with the visible satisfaction
of an aggressive person bringing forwald an irrefutable
argument ; ‘and as Monsieur Fiesneau goes out about
seven, and Françoise begins to potter about at six——’
‘Come, come, once in a way !’ exclaimed Emilie
with some impatience, cutting shout the other's words.
She fealed the old lady's indiscreet tongue, and changed
the topic by flattering her pet mania. “You have not
told us whether Cendrillon came back for good P’
Cendrillon was a grey cat presented by Madame
Offarel to a young man named Jacques Passart, a
teacher of drawing, between whom and the sous-chef de
bureau a friendship had sprung up, born of their mutual
SIMPLE SOULS I9
taste for aquarelles. These were the two family vices—
a love for painting in the husband, who daubed his can-
vases even in his office; and a love of cats in the wife,
who had had as many as five such boarders in her flat—a
ground floor like that of the Fresneaus, also with its bit
of garden. Jacques Passart, who nursed an unrequited
affection for Rosalie, had so often gone into rhapsodies
over the pretty ways of Cendrette or Cendrinette, as
Madame Offarel called her, that he had been presented
with the animal. After a stay of three months in the
room occupied by Passart on a fifth floor in the Rue du
Cherche-Midi, Cendrillon had become a mother Out
of her three kittens two had been killed, and, doubtlessly
thinking the third in danger, she had run away with it.
Passart had been afraid to speak of his loss, but two
days later Madame Offarel heard a scratching at the
garden dool.
‘That's strange, she said, verifying the number of
her cats—one of which was lying at full length on the
counterpane of her bed, another on the only sofa, and
a third on the marble chimney-piece. ‘They are all
here, and yet I hear a scratching.” She opened the
door, and Cendrillon walked in, purring, arching her
back, and rubbing her head against her old mistress with
a thousand pretty little ways that charmed the good
lady. The next morning Cendrillon had once more
vanished. This visit, rendered more mysterious by the
avowal Passart had been obliged to make of his negll-
gence, had on the previous day been the sole theme of
Madame Offarel's conversation, and the fact that she
had not even alluded to the citcumstance that evening
revealed more than her epigrams the importance
attached by Rosalie's mother to René's entry into
Society.
“Ah! Cendrillon, she replied, her ill-humour tinged
with the enthusiasm evoked by the mention of the dear
creature. “I don't suppose Monsieur René remembers
anything about it?’ Upon a sign of reassurance from the
C 2
2O A LIVING LIE
young man that he had not forgotten the interesting
event, she continued : ‘Well, she came back this morning,
cal rying her little one in her mouth, and laid 1t at my
fect like an offering, with such a look in hel eyes | The
day before she had come to see whether I still caled for
her, and now she came to ask me to take her kitten too
It's better to bestow one's affections upon animals than
upon human beings,’ she added, by way of conclusion ;
‘they are much more faithful.’
‘What a wonderful trait of 1mstinct l’ cried Flesneau,
beginning once more to disfigure his exercises with
cabalistic signs. “I will make a note of it for my class.’
The poor man, a real Jack-of-all-trades in his p1ofession,
taught philosophy in a preparatory School for B A 's,
Latin in another, history in another, and even English,
which he could scarcely pronounce. In this way he had
contracted the habit, peculiar to old schoolmen, of
holding forth at length at every possible opportunity.
This marvellous 1 eturn of Cendrillon to her native
health was a text to be elaborated ad infinitumi He
went on telling anecdote aftel anecdote, and folgetting
his exercises—to all appearances. The excellent man,
so weak that he had never been able to keep a class of
ten boys in older, was a marvel of observation where his
wiſe was concerned. Whilst his pencil was 1 unning over
the margins of the sheets of foolscap he had distinctly
perceived Madame Offarel's hostility. From Emilie's
tone of voice, too, it was clear to him that she was
Somewhat uneasy as to the turn that such a conversation
might take So the professol prolonged his monologue
1n order to give the nerves of the sour tempered bour-
geoise time to steady themselves He was not called
upon to play his paſt long, for there came another ring
at the bell
‘That's papa l' exclaimed Rosalie ; “it must be a
quarter to ten She, too, had suffered from her mothel’s
show of temper towards Claude and René, and the
arrival of her father, which was the signal for departure,
SIMPLE SOULS 2 I
seemed like a deliverance—to her, too, for whom parting
from the Fresneaus was generally an ordeal. But she
knew her mother, and felt, by instinct rather than by
reasoning, how mean and distasteful the bitterness of
her remarks must seem to René There were only too
many reasons why he should no longer cale for their
company. She therefore 10se as her father entered the
room. M. Offarel was a tall, withered-looking man,
with one of those pinched faces that irresistibly lemind
one of the immoltal type of Don Quixote; an aquilinenose,
hollow temples, a harshly drawn mouth, and, to crown
all, one of those receding blows the winkles and bumps
of which 1epresent so many chimerical fancies and false
ideas within. To his 1nnocent mania fol aquare/les he
added the 1 idiculous weakness of 1ncessantly talking
about his 1maginal y Complaints
‘It’s vely cold to-night,’ were his first words, and,
addressing his wife, he added, ‘Adelaide, have you any
tincture of 10dine in the house 2 I am sure I shall have
my attack of 1heumatism in the morning'
‘Is you cab warmed P’ asked Emilie, turning to
Claude.
‘Oh, yes,' replied the writel, pulling out his watch ;
‘and I see that it's time to get into 1t, 1ſ we don't want
to be late.” Whilst he was taking leave of the little
clicle René disappeared through the door that led from
the dining-room to his bedroom without bidding any-
One good night.
‘He has probably only gone to get his coat,’ thought
Rosalie; ‘he cannot possibly have gone without saying
good-bye, especially as he has not looked at me at all
to-night.” She went on with her work whilst Flesneau
received the sous-chef de bureau with the same questions
he had put to his fliend “Just a thumbleful to keep the
cold out P’
‘Only a suspicion,' answeled Oſſarel.
‘That's 11ght,’ 1ejoined the plofessor, ‘you are not
like Larcher, who despised my eau-de-ºne.’
22 A LIVING LIE
* Monsieur Larcher l’ observed the other. ‘Don’t
you know his usual drink P Why'—he added, in a lower
key, and prudently looking towards the passage—‘I
read an article in the papel only this evening that shows
him up well.’
“Tell us all about it, petit pere, exclaimed Madame
Offarel, dropping her work for the first time that evening,
and artlessly allowing her 1ancorous feelings to betray
themselves as openly as her simple affection for her
Cat.
‘It appears,’ said the old man, emphasising his words,
‘that wherever Monsieur Larchel appears, they offel him
blood to drink instead of tea or other things.”
‘Blood l’exclaimed Fresneau, taken aback by this
astounding statement. “What for P’
“To sustain him, of course,' said Madame Offarel
quickly; “didn't you notice his face P What a life he
must lead ' '
‘It also appears, continued Offarel, anxious to gratify
that low taste for senseless gossip peculiar to a bourgeons
as soon as he gets hold of one of the innumerable
calumnies to which well-known men are exposed—‘it
appears that he lives surrounded by a court of women
who adore him, and that he has discovered an infallible
method of making whatever he writes a success. He
has a dozen copies of his proofs struck off at once, and
takes one to each of the ladies he knows. They spread
them out on their knees, and “Mon petit Larcher here, and
mon petit Larcher there—you must alter this and you
must cut out that.” So he alters this and he cuts out that,
and the ladies imagine that they have written his work
for him.’
‘I am not at all surprised,’ said Madame Offarel ;
“he looks like a bold deceiver.’
‘I must confess,' replied Flesneau, ‘that I don’t like
his writings much ; but as for being a deceiver—that's
another matter. My dear Madame Offarel, I assure
you he's a perfect child. How it amuses me when the
SIMPLE SOULS 23
newspapers say that he knows women's hearts I've
always found him in love with the worst creatures on
earth, whom he conscientiously believed to be angels,
and who deceive him and fool him as much as they
please. René told us the other day that he spends his
time in dallying with little Colette Rigaud, who plays
in the “Sigisbée”—a false hussy who'll worm his last
shilling out of him '
‘Hush l’ exclaimed Emilie, entering just in time to
hear the end of this little speech, and placing her hand
on her husband's lips ‘Monsieur Claude 1s a friend of
ouis, and I won't have him discussed. My brother
desires to be excused for not saying “good night ° to
you all, she added, “they hadn't noticed that it was so
late, and left in a hurly. And when am I to have that
drawing of the last scene in the “Sigisbée ”’ she asked,
turning to the sous-chef de óureau.
‘It’s a bad time of year for water-colours,” replied
the latter; ‘1t gets dalk So Soon, and we are over-
whelmed with work—but you shall have it. Why,
what's the matter, Rosalie? You are quite white.’
The poor girl was 1ndeed suffering tortures on finding
that René had left her without so much as a look or a
word. A great lump rose 1n her throat, and her eyes
filled with tears. She had strength enough, however, to
1epress hel Sobs and to 1eply that she was overcome by
the heat of the stove Her mother darted a look at
Emilie containing such a direct reproach that Madame
Fresneau turned away hel eyes involuntarily. She, too,
was deeply glieved ; for, although she had always been
opposed to this marriage, which was quite Out of keep-
1ng with the ambitious plans she vaguely cherished for
her brother, she loved Rosalie. When the mother and
her two danghters had put on their bonnets and were
at last ready to go, Emilie's feelings led her to embrace
Rosalie more affectionately than was her wont. She
was quite ready to pity the girl's sufferings, but that
pity was not entirely devoid of a sad kind of satisfaction
24. A LIVING LIE
at seeing René's manifest indifference, and as the door
closed behind her visitors she turned to Françoise with
unalloyed joy in her honest brown eyes
‘You will take care not to make any noise in the
morning, won't you ?’
“No more than a mouse,' replied the girl.
‘And you too, my big beauty,’ she said to her
husband, on entering the dining-1 oom, where the plo-
fessor was once more at his exercises. ‘ I have told
Constant to get up and dress quietly,’ adding, with a
proud smile, ‘what a triumph for René to-night,
p1ovided that these grand folks don't turn up their
noses at his verse ! But I’m sure they’ll not do that ;
his poetry is too good—almost as good as he is
himself ’
‘It is to be hoped that all these fine ladies will not
spoil him as you do, exclaimed Flesneau, “for it would
end by his losing his head. No, no,' he went on, in
order to flatter his wife's feelings, ‘it is a pleasure to see
how modest he is, even in success'
And Emilie kissed hel husband tenderly for those
words.
CHAPTER III
A LOVER AND A SNOB
THE two young men got into the cab and were soon
being rapidly driven along the Rue du Cherche-Midi
in older to reach the Boulevald du Montparnasse, and
so follow, by way of the Invalides, the long line of
avenues that crosses the Seine by the Pont de l'Alma
and leads almost direct to the Arc de Triomphe At
first both remained perfectly silent, René amusing him-
self by watching for the well-known landmarks of a
neighbourhood in which all the reminiscences of his
childhood and youth were centred. The pane of glass
A LOVER AND A SNOB 25
through which he gazed was clouded with a thin vapoul,
a fitting symbol of the cloud that separated the world
he had just left from that which lay before him. Theſe
was not an angle in the Rue du Cherche-Midi that was
not as familiar to him as the walls of his own room—
from the tall dark building of the military prison to the
corner of the quiet Rue de Bagneux, where Rosalie
dwelt. The remembrance of the charming girl whom
he had so unceremoniously quitted that evening passed
through his mind, but causcd him no pain The sensa-
tion he felt was like di eam1ng with open eyes, so little
did the 1ndividual who had trodden these st1eets 1n his
diealy and obscure youth 1 esemble the 11ch and cele-
brated wi iter now seated next to Claude Larcher
Celebrated—for all Pal 1s had flocked to sec his piece,
rich—for ‘Le Sigisbée, first performed in September, had
alteady blought him in twenty-five thousand francs by
February. Nor was this source of 1 evenue likely to be
soon exhausted. ‘Le S1gisbée’ had been put into the
same bill with ‘Le Jumeau, a three-act comedy by a
well-known author that would have a long run The
play, too, was selling well 1n book form, and the rights
of translation and of 1epresentation in the provinces
wele being turned to good account But all this was
only a beginning, for René had several othel works in
1eserve—a volume of philosophical poems entitled ‘ On
the Heights,' a drama in velse dealing with the Renais-
sance, to be called “Savonarola,’ and a half-finished
story of deep passion for which the wilter had as yet
found no title.
As the cab rolled along, the 1ntoxication ploduced
by thoughts of past Success, as well as by ambitious
plans for the future, was intensified by the excitement
of his entering into Society. The feelings of this grown-
up child were similar to those of a g111 going to her
first ball. He was a prey to a fit of nerves that almost
made him feel beside himself. This power of ampli-
fying even to fanciful dimensions impressions of utter
26 A LIVING LIE
mediocrity in themselves is both the misfortune and
happiness of poets. To that power is due those tran-
sitions, almost startling in their suddenness, from the
heights of optimism to the depths of pessimism, from
exultation to despail ; these lend to the 1magination, and
Consequently to the disposition and feelings, a continual
pendulum-like motion—an instability of terrible portent
to the women who become attached to these vacillating
Souls. Amongst such Souls, however, there are some in
whom this dangerous quality does not exclude true
affection. This was the case with René. The 1nvolun-
taly compal ISOn between the present and the past SO
Suddenly provoked by the familial aspect of the streets
brought his thoughts 1 ound to the more experienced
filend who had witnessed his rapid change of fortune.
In obedience to one of those simple 1mpulses which
form such a chal ming trait 1n the young—affolding as
they do a beautiful but 1a1e example of the Invincible
bond between the 1nnel and the outer man—he grasped
the hand of his silent companion, saying ‘How kind
you have been to me !’. . . And seeing Claude's eyes
turned upon him in some astonishment, he continued:
“If you had not been so encouraging when I made my
first attempts I should nevel have brought you “Le
Sigisbée,” and 1ſ you had not recommended it to
Mademoiselle Rigaud 1t would now be mouldering on
Some manager's shelf. If you had not spoken to the
Comtesse Komof my piece would not be performed at
her house, and I should not be going theie this evening.
I am happy, vely happy, and I owe it all to you !
Ah! non amzi, you may think me as silly as a school-
boy, but you cannot 1magine how often I have dieamt
of that world 1nto which you are now taking me, where
the mere dresses of the women ale poems, and where
joy and grief are set in exquisite flames l’
‘Would that these women had souls of the same
stuff as their dresses ' exclaimed Claude with a smile.
“But you surprise me,’ he went on ; “do you think that
A LOVER AND A SNOB 27
you will be in Society because you are received by
Madame Komof, a foreign countess who keeps open
house, or by any of the lion-hunters whom you will meet
there, and who will tell you that they are at home every
afternoon P You will go out a good deal, 1ſ you like
that kind of thing, but you will be no more 1n Society
than I or any other artist or even genius, Simply because
you were not born 1n it, and because your family is not
1n it. You will be received and made much of. But
try to marry into one of these families and you will see
what they will tell you. And a good thing for you,
too. Good heavens ! If you only knew these women
whom you pictule to yourself as being so refined, so
elegant, so aristocratic | Mere bundles of vanity, dressed
by Worth of Laferrière . . . Why, there are not ten in
the whole of Paris capable of true feeling The most
honest are those who take a lover because they like
him. Were you to dissect them, you would find in place
of a healt a di essmaker's bill, half-a-dozen prejudices
which serve as principles, and a mad desire to eclipse
some other woman. What fools we are to be here in
this vehicle—two fairly sensible men with work to do at
home—you all of a tremble at the idea of mixing with
So-called grandes dames, and I . . . . '
‘What has Colette been doing to-day ?' asked René
quietly, a little put out by the aspei1ty of his fliend's
words, though not laying much weight upon arguments
applied with such evident rancour. These ful 10us out-
bursts were nearly always caused, as he knew, by Some
coquetry on the part of the actress with whom Claude
was madly in love, and who delighted in fooling him,
though loving him in her way. It was one of those
attachments, based on hatred and sensuality, which both
torture and degrade the heart, and which transform their
victim into a wild beast, one of the features peculiar to
this sort of passion being the frequency with which it is
liable to suffer crises as sharp and violent as the physical
ideas on which it feeds,
28 A LIVING LIE
The image of his mistress had probably flashed
across Claude's brain, and the happy frame of mind
called forth by his last visit had 1mmediately yielded to
Sudden 1age—lage which he would have satisfied at that
moment by no matter what outrageous paradox. He
fell headlong into the ti ap laid for him by his friend,
and, grasping the arm of the latter tightly, he said with
a sickly laugh : ‘What has she been doing to-day P . . .
Are you anxious to know the depth of this keen analyst
of women's hearts, this subtle psychologist as the papers
call me, this unmitigated ass as I call myself? Alas !
my wits have never served for aught else than to
convince me of my folly! . . Have I told you,” he
added, dropping his voice, ‘that I have grown to be
jealous of Salvaney 2 . . . I ſorgot, you don't know
Salvaney—an up-to-date gallant who goes about his
love affairs cheque-book 1n hand ' . . . With a nose like
a beetroot, a bald pate, eyes staiting from their sockets,
and a colour like a drover ! . . . But theſe you are—he
is an anglomane, anglomane to such an extent that the
P1ince of Wales is a Frenchman by the side of him. . . .
Last year he spent three months in Florence, and I
myself heard him boast that in those three months he
had never woln a shirt that had not been washed in
London. You must take my wold for it that in Society,
which has such a fascination for you, one fact like that gives
a man more prestige than 1ſ he had written the “Nabab"
of “L’Assommoil.” Well ! this individual pleases
Colette. He is to be found in hel dressing-1 oom as often
as I am, and gazes at hel with his whisky-d1 inker's eyes.
It was he who introduced the custom of going to a bar
filled with jockeys and bookmake1s, 1n order to sip
most abominable spil 1ts after the Opera ; I will take
you theie some evening, and you will see the beauty for
yourself. . . . Colette lets him take her even there, and
goes about everywhere with him in a blougham . . .
“Get out !” she says, “you ale not going to be jealous
of a man like that, are you ? He Smells of gin, to begin
A LOVER AND A SNOB 29
with.” . . . Such women will tell youthese things without
any ado, and pull to pieces in the most shameless manner
their lovers of yestel day. . . . To cut a long story short,
I was at her house this morning. Yes, yes—I knew all
about these things, but I didn't believe them. A fellow
like Salvaney ! If you were to see him you would
understand how inci edible 1: seems, and as for hel-–well,
you know her with that soft look 1n her eyes, with her
mouth d la Bottº.cc//z and her exquisite grace What a
pity it seems | Well, I was with her when the servant,
a flesh 1mportation, who didn't know her business,
brought a letter 1n, saying, “It’s from Monsieur Salvaney
—his man is waiting for an answer.” In one of her fits
of affection Colette had just sworn to me that nothing,
absolutely nothing, not even the shadow of a shade of a
flirtation had ever passed between them. As she held the
letter in hel hand I was foolish enough to think, “She is
going to show me the letter, and I shall have written proofs
that she has not told me a lie—and p1oof positive, for
Salvaney could not have known that I should see this
letter.” She held the lettel in her hand, and, looking at
me, said to the girl, “Very well, I'll answer it at once
You will excuse me, won't you ?” she added, passing
into the othel 1 Oom-with her lettel ! I suppose you
think I took my hat and stick and left the house for
good with an oath on my lips ? No, I stayed, 1ſton cher
aſſai. She came back, rang the bell, gave the servant a
note, and then, coming towards me, said, “Are you
angry 2” Silence on my palt. “Did you want to 1ead
that letter 2 ” I was still silent. “No, you sha’n’t read
it,” she continucd, with a pretty little frown ; “I have
bulnt it He only asked for the pattern of some stuff
for a fancy dress; but I want you to believe me on my
bare wold.” All this was said as coolly as possible, I
have never seen her act bettel Don't ask me what I
said in 1eply. I treated her as the vilest thing on ealth
I flung into her teeth all the disgust, hatred, and
contempt I felt for her ; and then, as she sat theſe
3O A LIVING LIE
sobbing, I took her in my arms, and on the very spot
where she had lied to me, and I had treated her like
the common thing she was, we kissed and made it up.
Do you think I have fallen low enough 2'
“But were your suspicions correct?’ asked René.
‘Were they correct 2' re-echoed Claude, with that
accent of cruel triumph affected by jealous lovers when
their mad desire to know all has ended in proving their
worst suspicions up to the hilt. “Do you know what
Salvaney's note contained P An appointment—and
Colette's reply confirmed the appointment. I know
this, for I had her followed. Yes, I stooped even to
that. He met her coming from rehearsal, and they
were together until eight o'clock.’
‘And haven't you broken with her?’ asked Vincy.
‘It’s all over, replied Claude, ‘and for good, I
promise you. But I must tell her what I think of her,
just for the last time. The wietch You'll see how
I'll treat her to-night’
In telling his sad tale Claude had betrayed such
intense grief that René's folmer feelings of joy were
quite disturbed. Pity for the man to whom he was
deeply attached by bonds of gratitude was mingled
with disgust for Colette's shameless duplicity. For a
moment he felt, too, some deep-lying remorse as he
conjured up by way of contrast the pure soul that
shone in Rosalie's honest eyes. But it was only a
passing fancy, quickly dispelled by the sudden change
1n his companion. This demon of a man, who was one
bundle of nerves, possessed the gift of changing his
ideas and feelings with a rapidity that was perfectly
inexplicable. He had just been speaking in despairing
accents and in a voice b1 oken with emotion, which his
ſriend knew to be since1e. Snapping his fingers as if to
get rid of his trouble, he muttered, ‘Come, come,’ and
immediately brought the conversation round to litera1y
topics, so that the two writers were discussing the last
novel when the sudden stoppage of the vehicle as it fell
A LOVER AND A SNOB 31
in behind a long line of others told them that they had
arrived.
René's heart began to beat afresh with short, con-
vulsive throbs, The cab stopped before a doorway pro-
tected by an awning, and again the dreamlike feeling
came over the young man on finding himself in the ante-
room which he had already once passed through. There
were several liveried footmen in the room, which was
filled with flowers and heated by invisible pipes The
coats and cloaks arranged on long tables and the hum
of conversation that came from the salons made it evident
that most of the guests had a rived. In the ante-room
there was only one lady, whom an attendant was just
helping off with her fur-lined cloak, from which she
emerged 1n an elegantly fitting low-necked dress of red
material She had a very distinguishcq face, a nose
slightly tipped, and lips that denoted spirituality. A
few diamonds sparkled amidst the tresses of her fair
silken hair. René saw Claude bow to her, and he felt
himself grow pale as her eyes rested indifferently upon
him—eyes of light blue set off by that complexion,
found in blondes, which, in spite of the hackneyed meta-
phor, can only be described as that of a blush rose,
possessing as it does all the freshness and delicacy of the
latter.
‘That's Madame Moraines,’ said Claude, ‘the
daughter of Victor Bois-Dauffin, a Minister during
the Empire.’
These words, spoken as if in reply to a mute question,
were to come back to René more than once. Mole than
once was he to ask himself what strange fate had brought
him face to face, almost on the threshold of this house,
with the one woman who, of all those assembled 1n these
salons, was to exercise most influence upon him. But
at the moment itself he felt none of those presentiments
which sometimes seize us on meeting a creature who is
to bling us either good or evil. The vision of this
beautiful woman of thirty, who had already disappeared
32 A LIVING LIE
whilst Claude and he were waiting for the numbers of
their coats, became lost in the confused impression
created by the novelty of everything alound him.
Though it was impossible for him to analyse his feelings,
the 11chncss of the carpets, the splendidly decorated
vestibule, the lofty halls, the lively of the footmen, the
1eflection of the lights, all went a long way towards
making this implession a strange medlcy of painful
timidity and delightful sensuality
On the occasion of his filst visit he had already felt
himself enveloped by those thousand indescl Ibable atoms
that float In the atmosphele of luxuly IPersons born in
opulence no mole perceive these infinitely small but
subtle tº 1ſles than we perceive the weight of the air that
surrounds us We cannot feel what we have always
felt No do parvcnus ever tell us their 1mpressions.
Their instinct teaches them to swallow such feelings and
to keep them hidden in their hearts Apart fiom all
this, René had no time to 1.eflect upon the snobbishness
of the feeling that filled him. The doors were swung
back, and he chteled the filst salon, ful nished in that
sumptuous but steleotyped style peculiar to all the big
modern houses in Palis. Whoevel has seen one has
scen them all. A novice like René, howevel, would dis-
covci signs of the pulcst al 1stocracy in the smallest
details of this ful niturc, in the antique matel 1als with
which the arm-chairs wele upholstered, and 1n the
tapestry that hung Ovel the chimncy-picce and 1epre-
sented a Triumph of Bacchus. The first saloſa, of
middling dimensions, communicated by folding doors
with another much larger, 1m which all the guests wele
evidently assembled, Judging by the hum of conversa-
tion René's perceptive faculties being in that state
of 1ntense excitement frequently caused by extreme
shyness, he was able to take in the whole scene at a
glance; he saw Madame Molaines in hel 1ed diess dis-
appear through the open folding doors, and the Comtesse
Komof talking, with violent and extſ avagantgesticulation,
A LOVER AND A SNOT3 33
to a group of people before the chimney-piece of the
smaller salon. The Comtesse was a tall woman of
almost tragic appearance; she had shoulders too narrow
for the rest of her body, white hail, rather harsh features,
and grey eyes of piercing brilliancy The sombre hue
of her dress enhanced the magnificence of the jewels
with which she was covered, and her hands, as she waved
them about, displayed a wealth of enol mous Sapphires,
emeralds, and diamonds. Acknowledging with a smile
the bow that Claude and René made her, she continued
her account of a séance of spiritualism—a favourite hobby
of hers.
‘The table went up, up, up,' she said, ‘until our
hands could scarcely follow 16. The candles were blown
out by 1nvisible lips, and 1n the darkness I saw a hand
pass up and down—an immense hand—it was that of
Peter the Gleat l’
The muscles of her face grew rigid as she spoke, and
her eyes became fixed as 1f on a teri ible apparition
Traces of that brutish and almost half-wittcq cleatule
of instinct that Jul ks even in the most refined Russian
appeared for a few seconds upon the surface Then the
Society woman suddenly 1 emembered that she had to
perform the honours of her house, and the Smile came
back to her lips and the gleam in hel eyes grew softer.
Was it that Intuition peculiar to elderly women which
gives them such a soothing influence over men of
irritable nerves that revealed to hel how solitary René
felt in the midst of these clowded salons, where he knew
not a soul ? As soon as hel Stoly was ended she was
good enough to turn to him with a smile and Say “Do
you believe in spirits, Monsieur Vincy P. Of coulse you
do—you ate a poet. But we'll talk of that some other
day You must come with me now, in spite of the fact
that I’m neithel young nor pietty, and be plesented to
some of my fliends, who ale alleady passionate admirers
of youis’
She had taken the young man's alm, and, although
D
34 A LIVING I_IE
he was above the middle height, she was taller than he
by half a head. Her tragic expression was not decep-
tive. She had 1eally lived through what the strange
look in her eyes and the determined set of her featules
led one to imagine. Her husband had been muldered
almost at her feet, and she herself had killed the
assassin. René had heard the story from Claude,
and he could see the scene before him—the Comte
Komof, a distinguished diplomat, stabbed to the heart
by a Nihilist in his study ; the Comtesse entering at
the moment and bringing down the murderer by a
well-directed shot. While the young man reflected that
those tapering fingers, resplendent with rings as they
lay on his coat sleeve, had clutched the pistol, his
partner had already commenced some flesh story with
that savage energy of expression that in people of
Slavonic 1 ace is not incompatible with the most 1efined
and elegant manners
‘It was on my arrival in Pal is about eight years ago,
just after the war. I had not becn here since the first
Exhibition, in 1855 Ah my dear sil, the Paris of those
days was 1eally chal ming . . . and youl Emperor . . .
Ždeſa/’ She had a way of dwelling on her last syllables
when she wished to express her enthusiasm. “My
daughter, the P11ncess Roudine, was with me—I don't
think you know hel ; she lives in Florence all the year
round. She was taken 111, but Doctor Louvet—you
know, the little man who looks like a miniatute edition
of Henri III —got her over it. I always call him
Louvetsky, because he only attends Russians. I could
not think of taking her away from Palis, so this house
being for sale, ready furnished, I bought it. But I’ve
turned everything upside down. Look hele, this used
to be the garden, she added, showing René the larger
salom, which they had just entered.
This salon was a vast apartment, whose walls were
hung with canvases of all sizes and Schools, picked up
by the Comtesse in the course of her European ram-
A LOVER AND A SNOB 35
bles. Though René had been strongly impressed from
the first by the general air of material well-being every-
where apparent, this feeling was intensified by the
spiritual luxuly, if one may use such a term, which such
cosmopolitanism represents. The way in which the
Comtesse had mentioned Florence, as 1ſ it were a
suburb of Paris, the resources indicated by the Improve-
ments effected in the mansion, the fluency with which
this grand Russian lady spoke French—how could a
young man accustomed to the limited horizon of a
struggling family of modest bourgeois fail to be struck
with childlike wondel at the sight of a world such
as these details suggested 2 His cycs opened wide to
take in the whole of the charming scene before him.
At the end of the salon heavy, dalk 1ed curtains hung
across the usual entrance to the dining-room, which
apartment, approached by three broad stairs, had been
turned for the nonce 1nto a stage. In the centre of the
hall stood a marble column surmounted by a bust in
bronze of the famous Nicolas Komof, the friend of
Peter the Gleat—this ancestral kind of monument being
Sul rounded by a group of gigantic palms in huge pots
of Indian b1ass ware, whilst lines of challs were drawn
up between the column and the stage.
By this time nearly all the ladies were seated, and
the lights shone down upon a living Sea of snowy arms
and shoulders, some too robust, othels too lean, others
again mostcºguisitely moulded; jewels sparkled intresses
fair and dark, the fluttel of fans tempered the glances
that shot flom eloquent eyes, whilst words and laughter
became blended in one loud, haſ monious murmur. In
the ladies' dresses, too, lay a wonderful play of colour, and
one side of the salon presented a striking contlast to the
other, where the men, in their swallow-tails, formed a
Solid mass of black. A few women, however, had found
their way amongst the stel nel sex, while here and there
a dalk patch amidst the seated fair ones betrayed the
presence of a male interloper. The whole of the
D 2
36 A LIVING I, IE
company, although somewhat mixed, was composed of
people accustomed to meet daily, and for years, in
places that scive as common glound for different sets of
Society Thele were blue-blooded duchesses fiom the
Faubourg Saint-Germain, whose Sporting tastes and
charity el rands took them to all kinds of places Theſe
were also the wives of big financiels and politicians,
1eprescriting every degree of Cosmopolitan elegance, and
there were even the wives of plain artists, following up
their husbands' succCSSCs through a string of fashion-
able dinnels and 1cceptions
But to a new-comer like René Vincy the social dis-
tinctions that bloke up the salom into a series of vely
dissimilar groups wel e utterly 1mperceptible. The
spectacle upon which he gazed Sul passed, in outwald
magnificence, his wildcst dreams. Amidst a hum of
voices he allowed himself to be plesented to some of
the men as they passed, and to a few of the women
seatcq on the back row of challs, bowing and stammer-
1ng out a few wolds 1n reply to the compliments with
which the more amiable ones favoured him. Madame
Komof, perceiving his timidity, was kind enough not to
leave him, especially since Claude, a pley to some ſiesh
fit of his amolous passion, had disappeal cd He had
probably gone behind the scenes, and when the signal
fol raising the cultan was given the poet found himself
scated beside the Comtesse in the shadow of the palms
that surrounded the ancCŞtial bust, happy that he was
in a place where he could escape notice.
C II A P T E R IV
TIIE ‘SIGISBEE
TWO footmen in lively drew back the curtains from
before the miniatuſe stage. The scene bc1ng laid “In a
garden, in Venice, nothing had been required in the
THE • SIGISBEE 37
way of scenery beyond a piece of cloth stretched across
the back of the stage and a bank formed of plants
selected from the hostess's famous conservatory With
the somewhat crude appearance of their foliage under
the glale of the light these exotic shrubs made a setting
very different to that which M Perrin had arranged with
so much taste at the Comédie Fiançaise That model
of a manager, 1ſ ever the e was one, had hit upon the
happy idea of placing before his audience one of the
terraces on the lagoon that lead by a flight of marble
steps down to the lapping waters, with the variegated
façades of the palaces standing out against the blue sky
and the black gondolas ſlitting round the cornels of the
tortuous canals The change from the usual Scenery,
the diminutive stage, the limited and cminently Select
audience, all contributed to 1ncrease René's feeling of
uneasiness, and he again felt his heart beating as wildly
as on the night of the first performance at the theatre
The appearance of Colette Rigaud, dressed d la
Watteau, was the Signal ſo a bulst of applause, which
the actless smilingly acknowledged. Even 1n her gay
attire, copied fi Om one of the great paintel's /ētes
galantes, and 1n spite of hel powdered hair, hel patch,
and her pale cheeks bedaubed with paint, there was a
tone of sadness about hel—something 1n the dieamy
look of the eyes and the melancholy expression on the
sensual lips that reminded one of Botticelli's madonnas
and angels How many times had not René heard
Claude sigh “When she has been telling me lies, and
then looks at me in hel own peculial way, I begin to
pity her instead of getting angly.”
Colette had alieady attacked the first lines of her
part and René's anguish was at its highest pitch, while
all around he heard the loud 1emalks which even well-
bred people will make when an artiste appears on a
diawing-room stage. “She's vely pretty. Do you
think 1t's the same dress she wears at the theatre P
She's a little too thin for my taste. What a sympa-
38 A LIVING LIE
thetic voice " No, she imitates Sarah Bernhardt too
much. I’m in love with the piece, aren't you ? To tell
you the truth, poetry always sends me to sleep.’ The
poet's sharp eats caught all these exclamations and
many more. They were, however, soon silenced by a
loud ‘hush ' ' that came from a knot of young men
standing near René, Conspicuous among them being a
bald-headed 1ndividual with 1ather a piominent nose
and a very 1ed face.
The Comtesse thanked him with a wave of her hand,
and, turning to her partnel, said : ‘That's M. Salvaney ;
he is madly in love with Colette.” Silence was re-
established, a silence broken only by the 1ustle of
dresses and the unfurling of fans
René now listened 1n delightful intoxication to the
music of his own verses, for by the silence as well as by
the murmus of approval that were Occasionally heard
he felt, he knew, that his work was as Sutely captivating
this select audience as 16 had captivated the ‘house' on
its first night at the Théâtre Français, then filled with
tiled critics, worn out 1 epoltels, scoffing boulevardiers,
and smart women. Gladually his thoughts took him
back, in spite of himself, to the pellod when he had filst
thought out and then written the little play which was
that night procuring him such a new and delightful
thrill of gratification, after having SO completely changed
the tenor of his life. He saw himself once mole in the
Luxemburg garden at the close of a bright spring day;
the charm of the deepening twilight, the smell of the
flowers, the dark blue sky seen through the spale foliage,
and the marble statues of the queens---all these things
had deeply impressed him as he walked with Rosalie,
silent, by his side. She had such a simple way of look-
ing up at him with her great black eyes, in which he
could lead unconscious though tender passion.
It was on that evening that he had first spoken to
her of love, there, amidst the scent of the early lilac,
whilst the voices of Madame Offalel and Emilie could
THE • SIGISBEE 39
be heard, indistinctly, in the distance. He had returned
to the Rue Coetlogon a prey to that fever of hope
which brings tears to one's eyes and moves one's nature
to its in most depths. Finding it impossible to sleep, he
had sat there alone in his room and drawn a comparison
between Rosalie and the object of an earlier but less
innocent attachment—a girl named Elise, living in the
Quartier Latin. He had met her in a brasserze, where
he had been taken by the only two comrades he possessed.
Faded as she was, Elise could still boast of good looks,
in spite of the black under her eyes, the powder all over
her face, and the carmine on her lips. She had taken a
fancy to him, and although she shocked him dreadfully
by her gestures and her mode of thought, by her voice
and her expressions, he had continued the acquaintance-
ship for about Six months—six months that had left him
nothing but a bitter memory. Being one of those in
whom passion leads to affection, he had become attached
to the girl in spite of himself, and he had suffered cruelly
from her coquetry, the coarseness of her feelings, and
the stock of moral infamy that formed the groundwork
of the poor creatule's nature
Seated at his writing-table that night, and dreaming
ecstatically of Rosalie's purity, he had conceived the
idea of a poem in which he should draw a contrast
between a coquette and a true, tender-hearted girl. Then,
being an ardent admirer of Shakespeare and de Musset,
his vulgar love affair with Elise underwent a strange
metamorphosis and became an Italian romance. Thele
and then he made a 10ugh sketch of the “Sigisbée,’ and
composed fifty lines. It was the simple story of a young
Venetian noble, named Lorenzo, who had fallen in love
with Princess Coelia, a cold and cluel coquette. The
unhappy Swain, after wasting much time and many
tears in wooing this unlelenting beauty, was advised by
a young Maiquis de Sénece, a French roué on a visit to
Venice, to affect an interest in the sweet and pretty
Countess Beatrice in order to awaken Coelia's jealousy.
4O A LIVING LIE
He then discovered that the Countess had long loved
him, and when Coelia, caught in the trap, tried to lead
him back, Lorenzo, profiting by experience, said the
perfidious lady nay, and gave himself up entirely to the
charms of her who loved him without guile.
Colette, as Coelia, was speaking while Lorenzo sat
lamenting. The roué was cynical and Beatrice lost in
dreams. These chal acters, Coming straight from the
world of Benedict and Perdican, of Rosalind and
Fortunio, strutted on and off, enveloped 1n a ray of
poetry as sweet and light as a moonbcam. As René
heard the fiequent exclamations of “Charming !” or
‘Exquisite l’ that escaped fiom the clowd of women
before him he recalled the nights of wakefulness that
this or that passage had cost him. There were these
pathetic lines, fol instance, written by Lorenzo to Coelia,
and afterwards shown by the lattel to Beatrice. How
sweet Colette's voice became, in spite of its mocking
note, as she read them out.
If kisses for kisses the roses could pay
When our lips o'er their petals in ecstasy stray;
If the lilacs and tall slender lilies could guess
How their sweet perfume fills us with sorrowfulness ;
If the motionless sky and the sea nevel still
Could know how with Joy at their beauties we thrill ;
If all that we love in this strange would below
A soul in exchange on Our Souls could bestow.
But the sea set around us, the sky set above,
Lilacs, loses, and you, Sweet, know nothing of love
And as he listened the past returned to René more
vividly than ever; he was back in his peaceful room
again, and felt once more the Secret pleasure of 11sing
each morning to resume his unfinished task. By
Claude's advice, and from a childish desire to imitate
the ways of genius—a foolish but pretty trait in most
young writers—he had adopted the method formerly
practised by Balzac. In bed by eight o'clock at night,
he would get up before four in the morning, and, lighting
the fire and the lamp, would make himself some coffee
THE • SIGISBEE 4 I
over a little spirit-stove, all prepared for him by his
sister in the evening. As the fire burned up brightly
and the aloma of the inspiring Mocha filled the little
room, he would sit down at the table with Rosalie's por-
trait before him and begin work. Gradually the noises of
Paris grew more distinct as the great city awakened
once more to life. Then he would put down his pen
and gaze at the eng1avings that adorned the wall or
turn over the leaves of a book. About six o'clock
Emilie would make her appearance In spite of her
household cares, this loving Sister found time to copy
day by day the lines that her brothel had written. For
nothing in the world would she have allowed one of
René's manusclipts to pass 1nto the hands of the prin-
ters Poor Emilie How happy it would have made
her to heal the applause that di owned Colette's voice,
and what unalloyed plcasule René’s would have been
had not the change 1n his feelings with respect to
Rosalie sent a pang of sadness through his heart at the
very moment when the play was finishrng amidst the
enthusiasm of the whole audience.
‘It is a glorious success,’ said the Comtesse to the
young author. “You will see how these people will
fight for you.’ And as 1ſ to col roborate what might
only have been the flattery of a glacious hostess, René
could hear, during the hubbub that succeeded the close
of the piece, broken sentences that came to him amid
the front-front of the diesses, the noise of falling challs,
and the commonplaces of conversation.
‘That's the author | Whele P That young man.
So young ! Do you know him He's a good-looking
fellow. Why does he weal his hair so long? I 1ather
like to see 1t—it looks artistic Well, a man may be
clevel, and still have his hail cut. But his play is
charming. Charming ! Charming ! Who introduced
him to the Comtesse P Claude Larcher. Poor Larcher!
Look at him hanging 10und Colette. He and Salvaney
will come to blows one of these days. So much the
42 A LIVING LIE
better ; it will cool their blood. Are you going to stay
to supper P’
These were a few of the snatches of conversation
that 1eached the author's sensitive eals as he bowed and
blushed under the weight of the compliments showered
upon him by a woman who had carricq him away from
Madame Komof almost by force. She was a long, lean
cleature of about fifty, the widow of a M. de Sermoises,
who, since his death, had been p1 omoted to “my poor
Sermoſses,' aftel having been, while alive, the laughing-
stock of the clubs on account of his fail partner's
behaviouſ. The lady, as she grew older, had transferred
hel attention ſi Om men to literatule, but to literature of
a serious and even devotional kind She had heald
from the Comtesse 1n a vague SO1t of way that the
author of the ‘Sigisbée’ was the nephew of a pliest, and
the air of 1 Omance that pelvaded the little play gave her
reason to think that the young wittel had nothing in
common with the literatule of the day, the tendencies
of which she held in v11tuous execiation. Turning to
René with the exaggerated tone of pomposity adopted
by hel in giving uttelance to her pool, pludish ideas—a
judge passing sentence of death could scarcely be mole
severe—she said . “Ah, monsieur ! what poetry | What
divine glace It is Watteau on paper. And what sen-
timent This piece 1s epoch-making, Sir—yes, epoch-
making. We women ale avenged by you upon those
self-styled analysts who seem to write their books with
a scalpel in a house of 111-fame.’
‘Madame, Stammeled the young man, taken off his
feet by this astonishing phraseology.
‘You will come and see me, won't you ?’ she con-
tinued. ‘ I am at home on Wednesdays fiom five, to
seven. I think you will picfer the people I receive in
my house to those you have met here to-night; the dear
Comtesse is a foreigner, you know. Some of the
members of the Institut do me the honour of consulting
me about their works. I have written a few poems
THE • SIGISBEE 43
myself. Oh ! quite unpretentious things—lines to the
memory of poor Monsieur de Sermoises—a small collec-
tion that I have called “Lilies fiom the Grave” You
must give me your candid opinion upon them. Madame
Hulault—Monsieur Vincy, she added, presenting the
writeſ to a woman of about forty, whose face and figure
were still elegant in outline. “Charming, wasn’t it 2
Watteau on papel !’
‘You must be very fond of Alſied de Musset, sir,
remaiked this lady. She was the wife of a Society man
who, undel the pseudonym of Flolac, had wi itten
Several plays that had fallen flat in spite of the until ing
energy of Madame Huault, who, for the past sixteen
years, had not given a single dinner at which some
Clitic, Some manager, O1 Some person Connected with
Some c11tic or manager had not been present.
‘Who is not fond of him at my age 2' 1cplied the
young man.
‘That is what I said to myself as I listened to your
pretty verse,' continued Madame Huault; “it produced
the same effect as music alieady heard.’ Then, having
launched her epiglam, she 1emembered that in many a
young poet there lurks a future c11tic, and tried to
Smooth down by an invitation the phlase that betrayed
the cruel envy of a 1 ival's wife. “I hope you will come
and see us ; my husband is not here, but he will be glad
to make your acquaintance. I am always at home on
Thursdays from five till seven.’
‘Madame Ethorel—Monsieur Vincy,” said Madame
de Sermoises, again int1 oducing René, but this time to a
very young and vely pretty woman—a pale blunette,
with large dreamy eyes and a delicacy of complexion
that contrasted with her full, 11ch voice.
“Ah monsieur, she began, ‘how you appeal to the
heart | I love that sonnet which Lorenzo recites—let
me see, how does it go 2–
The spectre of a year long dead.”
‘“The phantom of a day long dead,”’ said René,
44 i
A LIVING LIE
1nvoluntalily correcting the line which the pretty lips
had misquoted ; and with unconscious pedantly he
repressed a smile, for the passage in question, two verses
of five lines each, presented not the slightest resemblance
to a SOnnet.
‘That's it, rejoined Madame Ethorel ; ‘divine, sir,
divine ! I am at home on Saturdays fiom five till
Seven. A vely small set, I assure you, 1ſ you will do
me the honout of calling.’
René had no time to thank hel, for Madame de
Sermoises, a pley to that Strange form of vanity that
delights in 1Cflected glory, and which 1nspires both men
and women with an 111esistible desile to constitute
themselves the showman of any interesting personage,
was already dragging him away to fresh int1 Oductions.
In this way he had to bow first to Madame Abel Mosé,
the celebrated Israelitish beauty, all in white, then to
Madame de Suave all in pink, and to Madame Belnaud
all in blue. Then Madame de Komof once mole took
possession of him in older to plesent him to the Com-
tesse de Candale, the haughty descendant of the terrible
mal shal of the fifteenth century, and to hel sister the
Duchesse d'Arcole, these high-Sounding French names
being succeeded by others impossible to catch, and
belonging to some of the hostess's 1elatives. René was
also called upon to shake hands with the men who were
in attendance on these ladies, and thus made the
acquaintance of the Marquis de Hèle, the most ca1eful
man in town, who with an income of twenty thousand
francs lived as though he had fifty , of the V1comte de
Brèves, doing his best to ruin himself for the third
time, of Crucé, the collectol ; of San Giobbe, the
famous Italian shot, and of three or foul Russians.
The names of most of these Society women and
clubmen were familiar to the poet from his having 1ead
them, with childish avidity, in the fashionable intelli-
gence published by the newspapers for the cqification
of young bourgeous dreaming of high life. He had
THE • SIGISBEE' 45
formed such gland and entirely false notions of the
‘upper ten of Paris–-a little world of wealthy cosmo-
politans rather than French aristocrats—that a feeling
of both rapture and disenchantment came ovel him at
the realisation of one of his earliest dreams The
splendour of his surroundings chal med him, and his
success soothed his professional vanity. There were
smiles for him on Such tempting lips and kind looks in
such glorious eyes. But though all this was very
flattering, it overwhelmed him with a sense of shyness,
and, whilst the crowd of St. ange faces struck a kind of
terror into his soul, the commonplace praise destroyed his
1llusions. What makes Society—of whatever class 1t be
—utterly insupportable to many artists 1s the fact that
they appear 1m 1t on rare Occasions only, in order to be
lionised, and that they expect something extraordinary,
whilst those who 1 cally belong to Society move in the
atmosphele of a diawing-1 Oom with the natural ease
that accompanies a daily habit. The 1ndescribable
feeling of disenchantment, the daze of excitement plo-
duced by endless introductions, the intoxication of
flattely and the anguish of timidity all made René
eager to find his fi ſend. Claude had disappeal cq, but
the poet's eyes fell upon Colette, who, having corne down
from the stage in hel b11ght-coloured diess of the last
century and her powdered hail, follmed a striking con-
trast in colour to the black coats of the men by whom
she was surrounded. She, too, was evidently em-
bal rassed—a feeling betlayed by her somewhat nervous
smile, by the look of defiance in her eyes, and the 1apid
opening and shutting of her fan. With her 1t was the
embariassment of an actress Suddenly transported
beyond hel sphere, proud of, and yet distressed by, the
attentions she commands.
She met René with a smile that showed real pleasure
in finding one of her own set, and bleaking off hel con-
versation with the owner of a tell a-cotta complexion, who
could be no other than Claude's 1ival, Salvaney, she clied,
46 A LIVING LIE
‘Ah! here is my authol —Well, she added, shaking
hands with the poet, ‘ I suppose you are quite satisfied ?
How well everything has gone off! Come, Salvaney,
compliment Monsieur Vincy, even if you don’t understand
anything about 16. And your friend Larcher, she went
on, ‘has he disappealed 2 Tell him for me that he
nearly made me die of laughing on the stage. He was
wearing a love-lock and his weeping-willow ail. For
whom was he acting his Antony P’
A cluel look came into her greenish eyes, and in the
curl of her lips there was an expression of hatred called
forth by the fact that the unhappy Claude had gone
without bidding her good night. Though she deceived
and to tured him, she loved him in her way, and loved
above all to bling him to her feet. She experienced a
keen delight in making a fool of him before Salvaney,
and in thinking that the Simple René would lepeat all
her words to his friend.
‘Why do you say such things ’’ replied the young
man in an undertone while Colette's partner was shaking
hands with a fi 1end , ‘you know very well that he loves
ou.’
‘I know all about that,' said the acticss with a harsh
laugh. “You Swallow all he tells you—I know the
story. I am his evil genius, his fatal woman, his
Delilah. I have quite a heap of lettels in which he
treats me to a lot of that kind of thing. That does
not prevent him ſi Om getting as drunk as a loid, under
pretence of escaping fi Om me. I suppose it's my fault,
too, that he gambles and diinks and uses molphia P
Get out !” And, Shlugging hel pietty shoulders, she
added mole gaily ‘The Comtesse is making signs for
us to go down to Suppel. . . . Salvaney, you alm l’
The numerous introductions had taken up some
time, and René, suddenly called back to his surroundings
by Colette's last wolds, saw that theſe were but very few
people left in the salons. The Comtesse had not invited
more than about thirty to stay, and gave the signal
THE • SIGISBEE ' 47
for adjourning to the Supper-room by taking the arm of
the most illustrious of her guests, an ambassador then
much run after in fashionable circles. The other
couples marched off behind her, mounting a narrow
stail case adorned with some marvellous wood-carving
brought fiom Italy. This led to an apartment which,
though furnished as a boudoir, was really a salon in size.
In the centle was a long table, laden with flowers,
and fruit, and sparkling with crystal and silver. Near
each plate stood a small pink glow-lamp encircled
with moss—an English novelty that called forth the
admiration of the guests as they sat down wherevel
they chose.
René, having in his bashful way gone up alone
among the last, chose an empty seat between the
Vicomte de B1éves and the fair woman in 1ed whom
Larcher and he had met in the ante 1 oom, and whom
Claude had spoken of as Madame Moraines, the
daughter of the famous Bois-Dauffin, one of the most
unpopular ministers of Napoleon III. Feeling quite
unobserved where he was, for Madame Moraines was
carrying on a conversation with hel neighbour on the
left whilst the Vicomte de Brèves was busily engaged
with his paltner on the right, René was at length able to
collect his thoughts and to take a look at the guests,
behind whom the Selvants were continually passing to
and fro as they attended to their wants. His glance
wandeled from Colette, who was laughing and flirting
with Salvaney, to Madame Komof, no doubt telling
some fiesh tale of her spirit experiences, for her eycs
had 1esumed their piercing b1 illiancy, her looks were
agitated, and her long bejewelled hands trembled as
she sat oblivious of all around hel table—she generally
So attentive and so eager to please hel guests | René's
feeling of solitude had now become almost painful in its
intensity, either because the varied sensations undergone
that evening had tried his nerves or because the Sudden
transition fiom flattery to neglect appealed to him a
48 A LIVING LIE

symbol of the Worthlessness of the world's applause,
Some of the .*.*.*:::::::::::Hº.
praise were gone ; the others had naturally chosen seats
near their own friends At the other end of the table
he could sce himself 1 cflected in the actor who had
taken the part of Lorenzo, the only one of the players
besides Colctte who had stayed to supper, and who,
looking vely stiff and awkwald in his golgeous attire,
was doing Justice to the v1ands without exchanging a
wold with anyone.
In this frame of mind René began to look at his fail
ncighboul, whose chal ms had made such an impression
upon him duling their momentaly encountel in the hall.
He had not becn mistaken 1n judging hel at the first
glance as a creature of thol Oughly aſ 1stocratic appeal -
ance. Everything about her, fiom her delicately-cut
featules to her slim waist and slendel wiists, had an all
of distinction and of almost excessive glace. Her
hands seemed fragile, SO dainty were her fingers and so
transpalent The fault of such kind of beauty lies 1n
the very qualities that constitute its charm. Its exceed-
1ng daintiness is ficquently too pionounced, and what
might 1eally be graceful becomes peculiar. Closer
study of Madame Molaines showed that this ethereal
beauty encased a being of strength, and that beneath
all this exquisite grace was hidden a woman who lived
well, and whose sound health was 1evealed 1n many
ways Her shapely head was glaceſully poſsed on a
full neck, while hel well-rounded shoulders were not
disfiguled by a single angle When she smiled she
showed a set of Sharp white teeth, and the way in which
she did honour to the Supper testified that hel digestion
had withstood the innumerable dangels with which
fashionable women ale beset—from the pressure of
col sets to late Suppers, to say nothing of the daily
habit of dining Out. He eyes, of a soft, pale blue,
would lemind a dreamer of Ophelia and Desdemona,
but possessed that perfect, humid setting in which the
THE • SIGISBEE 49
physiognomists of yore saw signs of a full enjoyment
of life, the freshness of hel eyelids telling of happy
slumbers that recruit the whole constitution, whilst her
lovely complexion showed her rich blood to be free of
any taint of anaemia.
To a philosophising physician, the contrast bOtween
the almost 1deal chal m of this physiognomy and the
evident materialism of this physiology would have
ſuinished food for 1 eflections not altogethel reassuring
But the young man who was stealing glances at this
beauty whilst toying with the morsel of chau/road set
before him was a poet—that is to Say, quite the opposite
of a physician and a philosopher. Instead of analysing,
he was beginning to take a delight in this proximity.
He had that evening unwittingly succumbed to a spell
of sensuality which was personified, SO to speak, In this
captivating woman, around whom theic floated such a
subtle and penetiating aroma A faithful disciple of
the mastels of Parnassus, he had in his youth possessed
a childish mania for perfumcs, and he now Inhaled with
delight the 1a1e and 1ntoxicating odour he 1ccognised as
white heliotrope, 1emembering how he had once, when
a pley to the nostalgia of 1 cfined passions, wi itten a
rhymed conceit 1n which the following lines occurled
Opoponax then sang, 'neath shades So sweet,
The story of those lips that nevel meet
Once more, but mole St. Ongly than ever, theſe
spiang up within him, the simple wish he had expressed
to Claude Lalcher 1n the carſ 1age that cvening—to be
loved by a woman like the one whose sweet laughter
was that instant ringing in his car. D1 eams—1&le
di eams | That houl would pass without his having
even exchanged a wold with this dreamlike cleature,
as fal fiom him heie as if a thousand miles had lain
between them D16 she even know that he existed 2
But Just as he was sadly asking himself this question
he felt his heart begin to beat moie quickly. Madame
Komof, having by this time recovered from her excite-
E
5O A LIVING LIE
ment, had no doubt perceived the distress depicted on the
young man's face, and fi Om her place at the end of the
table said to the Vicomte de B1éves: ‘Will you be good
enough to int1 oduce Monsieur Vincy to his neighbour P’
René saw the glol lous blue eyes turn towards him,
the fail head bend slightly fol ward, and a sympathetic
smile come to those lips which he had just mentally
compared to a flower, so fresh, pure, and 1 ed were they.
He expected to heal ſlom Madame Molaines one of the
commonplace compliments that had exasperated him
all the evening, and he was surprised to find that, instead
of at once speaking of his play, she simply continued
the topic upon which she had been conversing with her
neighbour.
‘Monsieul Clucé and I wole talking about the talent
displayed by Monsieur Peirin in putting plays on the
stage Do you lemenber the scenely of the “Sphinx”?”
She spoke in a low, sweet voice that matched her
style of beauty, and gave her that additional and in-
definable attraction which helps to 1ender a woman's
chalms irresistible to those who come under their spell.
René felt that this voice was as 1ntoxicating as the scent,
which now grew stronger as she turned towards him.
He had to make an effort to 1 cply, So keen was the
sensation that ovel poweled him. Did Madame Molaines
perceive his agitation P Was she flatteled by 1t, as
every woman 1s flattered by 1eceiving the homage of
unconquerable timidity ? However that might be, she
was such an adept 1n the alt of opening a conversation—
no easy mattel between a Society belle and a timid
admirer—that, before ten minutes wele Ovel, René was
talking to her almost confidentially, and explessing his
own 1&eas on stage mattels with a Celta1n amount of
natural eloquence, growing quite enthusiastic in his
praise of the performances at Bayreuth, as described to
him by his friends. Madame Moraines sat and listened,
putting on that peculiar ail worn by these thoroughbred
hypocrites when they are looking at the man they have
THE • SIGISBEE' 5 I
determined to ensnare. Had anyone told René that
this ideal woman cared as much about Wagner or music
as about her first ſrock, and that she really enjoyed only
light operettas, he would have looked as blank as if the
boisterous mirth going on around him had suddenly
changed into cries of terror.
Colette, who had evidently had just a little more
champagne than was good for her, was laughing some-
what immodel ately, and the guests were already
addressing each othel by familiar appellations; amidst
all this noise René heard his neighbour say: “How
delightful it is to meet a poet who is 1eally what one
expects a poet to be I thought that the species had
died out. Do you know,” she added, with a smile that
reversed their parts, and turned hel, the grand Society
dame, into a person intimidated by the indisputable
superiority of another ; “do you know that I was going
to ask for an int1 oduction to you just now in the salom P
I had enjoyed the “Sigisbée" so much But I said to
myself—what is the use 2 And now chance has brought
us together. For a man who has just had a ti ſumph,'
she continued, with a malicious little Smile, ‘you were
not looking very happy.”
“Ah! madame,’ he replied ; “if you only knew—’ and
in obedience to the iriesistible power this woman already
exercised over him, he added : ‘You will think me very
ungrateful. I cannot explain to you why, but their
compliments seemed to fleeze me.’
‘The cfole I didn't pay you any,’ she said, adding
in a negligent tone, ‘You don't go out much, I suppose P’
‘You must not make fun of me,’ he replied with that
natural grace that constituted his chief chal m ; ‘this is
my first appearance 1n Society. Before this evening,' he
went on, seeing a look of curiosity come into the
woman's eyes, ‘I had only read of 1t 1n novels. I am a
real Savage, you see.'
“But, she asked, ‘how do you spend your even-
ings P’
L 2
52 A LIVING LIE
‘I have worked very hard until lately, he replied ;
“I live with my sistel, and I know almost no one.’
‘Who intloduced you to the Comtesse 2' 1nquired
Madame Molalnes
‘One of my fi ſends, whom I dale say you know—
Claude Laichel '
“A charming man,’ she said, ‘with only one fault—
that of thinking very badly of women. You must not
believe all he says,’ She added, again assuming her timid
smile ; “he would deplave you. The poor fellow has
always had the misfol tune to fall in love with flirts and
coquettes, and is foolish enough to think that all women
are like them.’
As she uttered these words an expression of intense
sadness came 1nto hel cycs. He handsome face
betrayed all kinds of emotions, fiom the plide of a
woman who feels Outraged by the cluel sayings of a
misogynist writer to pity for Claude, and even a kind of
modest fear that René might be led into Similal errois—
a fear that implied a mute esteem of his chal acter. A
silence ensued, during which the young man was
surprised to find himself rejoicing in the absence of his
friend. It would have been painful to him to listen on
his way home to the brutal paradoxes with which
Colette's jealous lovel had 1 egaled him during their
drive from the Rue Coetlogon to the Rue du Bel-
Respiro. He had been right after all 1n Silently plo-
testing against Claude's withering tilades, even before
he had known a Single one of these Supei 101 creatures,
towards whom he felt attracted by an iſ repressible hope
of finding, amongst them, the woman he should love for
life And he sat the C listening to Madame Moraines
as she spoke of Secret troubles often hidden by a life of
pleasure, of v11tues concealed undc1 the mask of fivolity,
and of works of charity such as wele undel taken by one
or other of the friends whom she named. She said all
this so simply and So Sweetly that not a single intona-
tion betrayed aught but a since1.c love of the good and the
THE • SIGISBEE' 53
beautiful, and as the company rose from the table she
observed, with a kind of divine modesty at having thus
laid bale her 1nmost feelings
‘This is a very strange conversation for a supper ;
you must have heard of So many “fives to sevens’ that
I hardly dare to ask you to come and see me. But in
case you should be passing that way, pray remember
that I am always at home before dinner on Opel a days.
I should like you to see my husband, who is not here
this evening—he wasn't very well He made me come,
because the Comtesse had asked us so often—which
proves, she added, as she shook hands with René, ‘that
one is sometimes 1ewarded for doing one's duty, even
though it be a social one.’
CHAPTER V
T III DAWN OF LOVE
TIIE shock of the novel and varied sensations expel icnced
by René Vincy on that eventful evening had been so
gleat that 1t was impossible fol him to analyse them as
he made his way on foot from the Rue du Bel-Respiro
to the Rue Coetlogon. Had Claude not left the house
so suddenly, to tuled by the pangs of jealousy, the two
friends would have 1eturned together. Whilst walking
along the deserted Streets with the silent stats shining
above, they would have indulged in one of those confi-
dential talks in which, when young, we give full utterance
to the foclings inspired by the events of the past few
hours. By the mere mention of the name of Madame
Moraines, René might then have discovered what a hold
on his thoughts had suddenly been secured by this rale
specimen of beauty, the living embodiment of all his
ideas of aristocracy. Perhaps from Claude, too, he might
have gathered a few correct notions concerning the lady,
and the difference that existed between a mele fashion-
54 A LIVING LIE
able woman like Madame Moraines and a 1eal grande
dame; he would then have been spared the dangerous fever
of 1magination which, all along his route, conjuled up to
his delight visions of Suzanne. He had heald the Com-
tesse call her by that pretty name as she gave her a
farewell kiss, and he could Sce her again in her long, ful-
lined cloak, her shapely head looking quite lost encircled
by the deep ermine colla! He could again see the
slight inclination of that dainty head in his dilection
before she got into the ca111age. He could see her still,
as she sat at Suppel, with that look in her glorious eyes,
so full of intelligence, and that way she had of moving
her lips to utter words, vely simple in themselves, but
each of which proved that this woman's soul matched
her beauty, Just as her beauty was worthy of her sur-
roundings.
He was scarcely aware of the length of his journey,
covering nearly a third of Palis. He gazed up at the
sky above, and down into the Seine waters as they
rolled darkly along, while the long lines of gas-lamps
before him seemed even to lengthen the dim, fal-reaching
perspective of the streets. The night gave him an idea
of 1mmensity—a symbol, it seemed to him then, of his
own life. The mental formation peculial to poets who
are poets only predisposes them to attacks of what, for
want of a more definite name, might be called the lyric
state; this is something like the intoxication ploduced by
hope of despair, according as the power of exaggelating
present sensations to the highest degree is applied to joy
or sorrow. What, after all * ſº ciety,
which for the moment seemed to this simple boy an
entry upon a new life? Scal cely a glance stolen through
a half-open dool, and which, to be of any use at all,
would have to be followed up by a couise of petty
strategy that only an ambitious man would have dreamt of.
A man eager to make his way would have asked himself
what impression he had cleated, what kind of people he
had met, which of the women who had invited him were
THE DAWN OF LOVE 55
worth a single visit, and which of them deserved more
assiduous attentions. Instead of all that, the poet felt
himself surounded by ää atmosphere Of happiness. The
sweetness-of-the-fatter portion of the evening-spread
itself over the whole, and he entirely forgot the ſeelings
of distress that had once or twice overwhelmed him.
It was 1n this frame of mind that he reached home.
As he pushed the heavy house door open, and crept on
tip-toe to his 100m, 1t pleased him to compare the world
he had left behind with the world to which he returned.
Was it not this very contrast that lent his pleasure a
tinge of romance 2 Being, however, at that age when
the nervous system recruits 1:self with pelfect regularity
in spite of the most disol deled state of the mind and
feelings, his head had no soonel touched his pillow than
he was fast asleep. If he dreamt of the splendout he
had seen, of the applause that had filled the vast salon,
of the sweet face of Madame Molalnes set 1n a wealth
of fair ticsses, he was oblivious of 1t all when he awoke
about ten o'clock next morning
A ray of Sunlight came streaming through a narrow
slit in the blinds. All was quiet in the little street, and
there was no noise in the house—nothing to betray the
necessaly but exasperating pet formance of matutinal
household duties. This silence surplised the young
man. He looked at his watch to see how long he had
slept, and once mole he experienced that feeling of
which he nevel tiled—that of being beloved by his
sister with an 11olatious intensity extending to even
the smallest details of life. At the same time 1ecollec-
tions of the pieceding evening came back to his mind
A score of faces lose up before him, all gladually melt-
ing away into the delicate featules, mobile lips, and blue
eyes of Madame Moraines. He saw hel even more
distinctly than he had done a moment aftel leaving hel,
but neither the clearness of the vision nor the 1nfinite
delight it afforded him to dwell upon it led him to
suspect the feelings that were awakening within him.
56 A LIVING LIE
It was an altistic implession, nothing more—an embodi-
ment, as it wele, of all the most beautiful ideals he had
ever read into the lines of romancists and poets Idly
1eclining on his pillow, he enjoyed thinking of her in
the same way as he enjoyed looking round his old,
familial 1 Oom, with its air of peace and quiet. His gaze
dwelt lovingly upon all the objects visible in the sub-
dued light—upon his table, put in older by Emilie's
hands, upon his eng1avings set off by the dark tone of
the 1ed cloth, upon the bindings of his favourite books,
upon the marble chimney-piece with 1ts row of photo-
graphs 1n leather frames His mother's poſt1ait was
among them—the poor mother who had died before
Seeing the realisation of her most ardent hopes, she once
SO proud of the few scattered fragments she had occasion-
ally come across in tidying her son's 10om H19 father's
likeness was theie too, with 1ts cmaciated, drink-sodden
foatules. Often did René think that the want of will
power, of which he was dimly conscious, had been trans-
mitted to him by his unhappy palent. But that morn-
ing he was not in the humour to reflect upon the dalk
Side of life, and it was with childish glee that he gave
two or three smart raps on the bedside This was his
mannel of summoning Françoise in the morning to pull
up the blinds and open the shutters. Instead of the
servant 1t was Emilie that entered, and as soon as the
sunlight was let 1nto the 1 oom 11 was on his sister's face
with 1ts loving Smile that the young man gazed—a face
now beaming with hopeful curiosity
“A triumph l’ he cried, in reply to Emilie's mute
intel rogation.
The kind-healted creature clapped her hands for
joy, and sitting down on a low chair at the foot of the
bedstead, said, in the tone that we use to a spoilt child :
‘You mustn't get up yet . . . Fiançoise will bling you
your coffee. I thought that you would wake up about
ten, and I had just ground it when you knocked. You
shall have it quite fresh.” The maid enteling at that
THE DAWN OF LOVE 57
moment, holding in he big red hands the tray with its
little load of china, Emilie continued ‘I will serve you
myself. Fresneau has gone to take Constant to school
—so we have plenty of time—tell me all about 1t.’ And
René was obliged to give her a full account of the
soirée, without omitting any details.
‘What did Larchel say P’ asked his sister. “What
was the courtyald like P And the hall 2 What did the
Comtesse wear P’ She was highly amused by the
fantastic metaphols of Madame de Sel moises, and
cricd : ‘What a wretch '' when she heard the epigram
of the unsuccessful playwriter's wife, she laughed at
the 19 norance of pretty Madame Ethorel, and was
1ndignant at Colette's cruelty. But when the poet
attempted to describe the daunty features of Madame
Moraines, and to give her an idea of their talk at
supper, she felt as though she would have liked to
thank the exquisite lady who had thus at the filst
glance discovered what René really was The habits
she had conti acted long years since of seeing everything
through her brother's eyes and senses made her the
most dangerous of confidantes for the poet She
possessed the same imaginative nature as he himself—
an altistic imagination year n1ng after the beautiful
—and, since it was all for another's sake, she gave
helself up to 1t unlesclvedly. There 1s a kind of im-
personal feminine immolality peculial to mothels, Sisters,
and all women 1m love which 19 norcs the laws of con-
science where the happiness of One palticular man
is at stake. Emilie, who was all Self-denial and modesty
in what concerned hel self, indulged only 1n dreams of
splendour and ambition for her brother, often giving
expression to thoughts which René dared hardly formu-
late.
“Ah ! I knew you would succeed, she clied. ‘It’s
all very well for the Offarels to talk, but your place is
not in Oul modest set. What you wilters want is all
this grandeul and magnificence. Heavens ! how I wish
58 A LIVING LIE
you welc 1 ich But you will be some day. One of
these fine ladies will fall 1n love with you and marly
you, and cwen in a palace you will not cease to be my
loving b1 othel, I know. Is it possible fol you to go on
living like this for ever ? Can you fancy yourself in a
couple of 1 ooms on the fourth flool with a lot of cry-
ing children and a wife with a pair of servant's hands
like mine' — holding them out for his inspection
—‘and being obliged to work by the hour, like a cab-
diiver, to earn your living 2 Hele, it 1s true, you have
not lived in luxuly, but you have had your time to
yourself.
‘Dear, good sister l’ exclaimcd René, moved to
tears by the depths of affection 1evealed in these words,
and still more by the moral support they lent to his
secret desires. Although Rosalie's name had never
been mentioned between them 1m any particulal way,
and Emilie had never been taken into her brother's
confidence, René was well aware that his Sister had long
guessed his innocent Secret He knew that, holding
such ambitious views, she would nevel have approved of
such a marriage But would she have spoken as she
did if she had known all the details P Would she have
advised him to commit an act of treachely—for that it
was, and of a kind, too, most 1epugnant to a healt born
for noble deeds—the t1 cachely of a man who transfers
his love, and foresees, nay, already feels, the pain which
his il resistible perfidy will necessarily inflict upon
himself?
As soon as Emilie had gone René, his mind busied
with the thoughts his sistel's last words had suggested,
rose and dressed himself, and ſo the first time found
courage to look the situation well in the face. He
remembered the little garden in the Rue de Bagneux,
and the evening when he had first implessed a kiss
upon the girl’s blushing cheek It is true, he had
never been her avowed lover ; but what of those kisses
and their secret betrothal One truth appeared to
THE DAWN OF LOVE 59
him indisputable—that a man has no right to steal a
maiden's love unless he feels strong enough to chelish it for
evel. But he also felt that his S1ster had given voice to
the thought that had filled him ever since the success of
his play had opened up such a horizon of hope ‘This
glandeur and magnificence l’ Emilie had said, and
again the vision of all the splendout he had witnessed
rose up before him—again, Set in this rich frame, he
saw the face of Madame Mo1a1ncs with that sweet smile
of hers In his loyalty the young poet tried to banish
this seductive appal ition from his mind.
“Poor Rosalic, how sweet she is, and how she loves
me!’ he said, finding some Sad Satisfaction in the con-
templation of the deep love he had inspired, and
carrying these feelings with him to the bleakfast table.
How simply that table was laid, and how little resem-
blance it bore to the splendid display of the previous
night. The table-cover was of oil-cioth, adorned with
coloured flowers; on this stood a very modest Selvice of
white china, the heavy glasses that accompanied 16 being
rendered necessary by the combined clumsiness of
Fresneau, Constant, and Fiançoise, which would have
made the use of clystal too costly for the family budget.
Flesneau, with his long beald and his look of dist1action,
ate quickly, leaning his elbows on the table and
cal lying his knife to his mouth ; he was as common in
mannels as he was kind of heart, and, as if to emphasise
more strongly by contrast the Impicsson which the idle
cosmopolitanism of high life had made upon René, he
laughingly gave on account of his morning.
At seven he had given a lesson at Ecole Saint-
André From eight to ten he had taken a class of boys
in the same school who wele still too young to follow
the oldinary curl Iculum. Then he had just had time
to jump into a Pantheon omnibus which took him to a
third lesson in the Rue d’Astorg. “I bought a paper on
the way,’ added the good man, “to read the account
of last night's affail. Dear me,’ he exclaimed, undoing
6O A LIVING LIE
the strap that held his small parcel of books, ‘I must
have lost it.’
‘You are so caleless,’ said Emilie almost angrily
‘Oh! it doesn't mattel !’ clied René gaily; “Offarel
will tell us all about it. You know that he is my
walking guide-book By to-night he will have read all
the Paris and provincial newspapers’
Knowing that the smallest details of last night's
performance would be collected by Rosalie's ſather and
commented upon by her mothel, René was the more
anxious to give the g111 a full account of it himself.
There is an instinct in man—1s 16 hypocrisy or pity ?—
which impels him to theat with the utmost regald the
woman who no longel holds his affections. Directly
lunch was over he bent his steps towards the Rue de
Bagneux. It had formerly been his custom to call upon
the Fresneaus pretty frequently about that time. While
covering the short distance he had often extemporised
a few verses, after the manner of Heine, which he poured
1nto Rosalie's eal when they were alone. The power of
walking 1n a day-d1 eam had, however, long Since left him,
and rarely had the vulgarity of this coiner of Paris struck
him to such a degree. All 1n 1t was eloquent of the
sordid lives of the petit bourgeois—from the number of
the little shops to the display of their cheap and varied
wares that covered half the pavement. In the windows
of the restaurants were bills of fale offering meals of
various courses at extraordinarily low prices Even the
cooking utensils on sale in the bazaars seemed to have
an air of poverty about them.
These and a score of othel details 1 eminded the
young man of the limited resoul Ces of Small incomes,
of an existence reduced to that shabby gentility which
has not the horlible and attractive picturesqueness of
absolute want. When we begin to love we find in all
the surroundings of Our beloved so many—reasons for
fncreased affection, and when we cease to love these
same details furnish the heart with as many 1easons for
~~~~T

THE DAWN OF LOVE 6 I

further hardening. Why did the impression made upon
**:::::... of the neighbourhood cause
him to feel annoyed with Rosalie P Why did the appear-
ance of the Rue de Bagneux make him as angry with
the girl as any personal wrong done to himself? This
street, with its line of old houses and a blank wall at the
bottom, had a most deserted and poverty-stricken air.
At the moment when René enteled 16 one end was
almost blocked up by a ca1t heavily laden with straw,
the three horses yoked to it, in country fashion, by
Stout 1opes, standing with theil heads half hidden in
their nosebags whilst the drivel was finishing his dinner
in a small, gleasy-looking cookshop A Sister of Mercy
was walking along the pavement on the left carrying a
large umbrella under hel alm ; the wind flapped the
wings of her immense white cap up and down, and the
cross of her rosary beat against hel blue Selge dress
Why, after having heaped upon Rosalie all the dis-
pleasure caused by the sight of her miserable sur-
1 oundings, did René involuntarily connect Madame
Moraines with the 1eligious ideas the good Sister's dress
evoked P. The manner 1n which that beautiful creature
had spoken only the night before of the pious works
performed by many so-called frivolous women came.
back to him. Three times that day had Suzanne's
image come before him, and each time mole distinctly-
Great heavens ! What Joy wele his if his good genius
brought him face to face with hel in some lettled sticet
like this as she was going to visit hel poor But that
was out of the question, So René turned down a passage
at the end of which wele the glound-flool apartments
occupied by the Offalels. Plofiting by the example of
the Fresneaus, they, too, had 1ealised the ambition of
every family of the /etzte bourgeoisie of Palis, and had
found in this deserted quartel of the capital a suite of
rooms with a bit of garden as large as a pocket-handker-
chief.
“Ah ! Monsieu René !’ exclaimed ROSalie, coming
62 A LIVING LIE
to the door in answer to the young man's ring at the
bell. The Offarels only employed the services of a
charwoman who left at twelve o'clock, and concerning
whom the old lady always had an inexhaustible stock
of anecdotes. At the sight of her lover, poor Rosalie,
generally somewhat pale, coloured with Joy, and she
could not 1epless the cry of pleasure that 1ose to hel
lips.
‘How good of you to come and tell us so soon how
your play got on l’ she said, taking the visitol into the
dining-loom, a dismal apartment with a north light, and
1n which theſe was no file. Madame Offarel was so
stingy that in wintel, when the weather was not too cold,
she would save the cºpense of fuel, and make her
daughters weal mittens and capes instead ‘We are
Just going thi Ough the linen,’ 16malked the good lady,
motioning René to a chair.
On the table lay the whole of the fortnightly
washing, fiom the old man's shirts to the girls' under-
clothes, the bluish whiteness of the calicots and cottons
being enhanced by the darkness of the room. It was
the poor linen of a family 1n st1aitened circumstances ;
thele were stockings cvidently dained times out of
number, servicttes full of holes, cuffs and collais
frayed at the edges—in fact, a whole heap of things
that Rosalie felt were not for a poet's eyes. She the e-
fore gave him no time to sit down, but said, “Monsieul
René had much bettel come into the diawing-room—
it's so dark here.” *
Before hel mother had had time to say anything
ſurther she had pushed the visitor into the apartment
honoured by that pompous name, and which, in reality,
mole often served as a workroom for Angélique. The
latter added a little to the income of the family by
Occasionally tianslating an English novel, and was at
that moment seated at a small table near the window,
w11ting. A dictional y was lying at hel foet, those ex-
tremities being encased in a pair of slippels the backs
THE DAWN OF LOVE 63
of which she had trodden down for ease. No sooner
had she caught sight of Vincy than she gathered up
her books and papers and fled.
‘Excuse me, Monsicur René, she exclaimed,
brushing back with one hand the hail that hung about
her head and casting an apologetic look at her dress—
a loose moining wiapper wanting Some half-dozen
buttons down the ſi ont. ‘ I ain a perfect flight—don't
look at me, please.'
The young man sat down and let his eyes wander
round the well-known room, whose chief ornament con-
sisted in a 10w of aquatelles cxecuted by M. Offalel in
Government time. There wel e about a dozen, some
rcp1esenting bits of landscape that he had discovered in
his Sunday walks, othels being copics of pictures he
admired, and which René's more model n taste therefore
detested. A faded felt calpet, six cloth-covered chairs
and a sofa completed the ful niture of this room, which
René had once looked upon as a symbol of almost
1dyllic simplicity, but which now appeared doubly hate-
ful to him in his plesent state of mind, agg1avated by
the acidity of Madame Offal el's accents.
‘Well, did you enjoy yourself amongst all your
grand folks last night? I suppose your friend only
visits people now who keep a carriage, eh? Whenever
he opens his mouth you hear of nothing but countesses
and princesses Dear me! He needn't think himself
as gland as all that—he was giving lessons only ten
years ago.’
‘Mamma l' exclaimed Rosalie in beseeching
toncs
‘Well, what does he want to be so stuck up about 2'
continued the old lady. “He looks at us as much as to
say “Pool devils | " '
‘How mistaken you are in him l’ leplied René. ‘He
is rather fond of going into smalt society, it is tiue, but
that is only natural in an altist. Why, it's the same
with me,’ he went on, with a smile. “I was delighted to
64 A LIVING LIE
go to this affair last night and see that magnificent
house filled with flowels and fine diesses. Do you
think that prevents me appleciating my modest home
and my old friends P All writers have that mad long-
ing for splendour—even Balzac and Musset had it. It
1s a childish fancy of no importance.’
Whilst the young man was speaking Rosalie dalted
a look at her mothel that told of more happiness than her
pool eyes had explessed fol months past. In thus con-
fessing to and ridicultng his own Inmost feelings, René
was obeying 1mpulses too complicated fol the simple
gill to understand When Madame Offarel had spoken
of “you grand folks’ the young man had seen by the
look of anguish in her daughter's eyes that his love for
the false glamour of elegance had not escaped Rosalie's
perspicacity. He was ashamed of being found guilty of
such a plebeian failing, and therefore laid bare his 1mpres-
sions as though he were not theil dupe—partly in older
to reassure the girl and Spale hel unnecessary pain,
partly 1n order to 1ndulge 1n a little weakness without
having to reproach himself unduly.
Certain natures—and, owing to the habit of intlo-
spection, these are frequently found amongst wi iters—
find pardon for their sins in mele Confession. In
defending Claude Larcher, René, with an irony that
would have escaped shal pc1 C11tics than a trusting girl,
managed to administel a shalp rebuke to his own follies
Whilst openly ridiculing what he himself called his
snobbishness, he continued to make those mean-spil ited
mental comparisons that would force themselves upon
him all that day. IIe could not help measuring the
gulf that sepalated the creatures he had seen at Madame
Komof's—living blooms reaſed in the hothouse of
European aristocracy—from the pale-faced and simple-
looking creature before him, her hands spoilt by work,
her hair tied back in a knot, and dressed so plainly as
to look almost uncouth. The comparison, when dwelt
upon, became quite painful, and caused the young man
THE DAWN OF LOVE 65
one of those inexplicable fits of ill-humour that always
nonplussed Rosalie.
Knowing him as she did, she could always see when
he had them, but she never guessed their cause. She
knew by instinct that there were two Renés existing
side by side—the one kind, tender, and good, easily
moved and unable to withstand grief—in a word, the
René She loved ; the other cold, indifferent, and easily
il ritated The bond that united these two beings she
was, however, unable to find. All she knew was that
before the triumphant success of the ‘Sigisbée’ she had
Seen only the filst of these two Renés, and since then
only the second. She was afraid to say ‘the unfortunate
success;' she had been so ploud of 16, and yet she would
have given so much to go back to the time when her
darling was pool and unknown, but all hel own. How
quickly he could make his voice hard, so hard that even
the words addressed to another seemed by their intona-
tion alone to be intended to wound her. At that
moment, for instance, he was talking to her mother, and
the mere accent that he gave to wolds empty in them-
selves touched Rosalie to the quick.
Suddenly Madame Offarel, who had been listening
intently for a few seconds, started up. “I can hear
Cendrette scratching at the door, she said ; “the dear
creature wants to go out.'
With these wolds she 1eturned to the dining-room in
Ordc1 to open the yard door for her favourite cat. She
was probably delighted to have an excuse for leaving
the two young people together; for, Cendrette having
gone off, she stood fol some time stroking Raton,
another of her feline boarders. ‘How clever you are,
my Raton How I love you, my little demon l’ These
were some of the pet names that she had devised for hel
cats, and as she 1epeated them and a dozen others in
rather loud tones she was saying to herself: “If he has
come at once, that proves he is still faithful to her—but
when will he propose 2 Poor girl | He'll not find a
F
66 A LIVING LIE
jewel like her in any of his gilded saloons. She's pretty,
gentle, good, and true !' Then aloud: ‘Isn't that so,
my Raton P You understand, don't you, my son P’
And as the cat arched hel back, rubbed her head
against her mistress's skirt, and purred voluptuously, the
mother’s internal monologue went on : “And he is a
good match, too. We didn't despise him before ; so we
have a 1ight to set our caps at him now. She won't
have to drudge, as I do fol Offalel. It's a pity that she
should have to spoil hel pretty fingels botching up this
old linen.’ With the mechanical activity of an old
housewife, she made a small pile of the handkerchiefs
already gone through, and continued her thoughts :
‘Her little dowly, too ! What a surprise it will be l’
By exercising the most stiingent economy, she had
managed to save, out of her husband's modest salary,
some fifteen thousand fiancs, which she had invested
unknown to M. Offal cl. She smiled to hel self and
listened with some anxiety. “I wonder what they are
talking about !”
She knew that her daughter was fond of René, but
she was still ignorant of the secret bonds that united the
young people. What would have been her astonish-
ment had she known that Rosalie had already frequently
but timidly exchanged stolen kisses with her lover, and
that immediately her mother's back was turned she had
taken René's hand in hels and mul mured in a voice of
gentle reproach, “How could you go off last night with-
out Saying good-bye P’
‘Claude dragged me out,' said René, reddening, and
pressing his Sweetheart's fingers. She was, however, not
taken in either by the excuse or the feigned caress, and,
drawing back her hand, shook her head sadly, while her
wolds came out with an evident effort.
‘No,' she obsclved ; “you ale not so nice to me as
you used to be. How long is it since you last widte me
a line of poetry P’
‘You’re not so silly as to think people can sit down
THE DAWN OF LOVE 67
and wiite poetry when they like?’ replied the young

man, almost halshly. He ºfflº,
which is a sure sign of the decline of love. The obliga-
tion to make a show of sentiment—a most cruel duty—
was felt by him in one of its thousand forms.
By an instinct which leads them to sound the depths
of their present misfortune whilst desperately clinging to
their past happiness, the women who feel love slipping
from them formulate these Small, unpretending demands
that have the same effect upon a man as a clumsy tug
at the curb has upon a 1 estive horse. The lover who has
come with the firm 1ntention of being gentle and affec-
tionate immediately 1ears. Rosalie had made a mistake ;
she felt that as plainly as she had felt René's indifference
a few minutes ago, and a feeling of despair, such as she
had never known before, clept over her. Since her
lover's departure on the previous evening she had been
jealous—she had no 1eason to be, and she would scarcely
admit to hel sclf that she was—but she was jealous all
the same. “Whom will he meet there P To whom 1s
he talking 2' she had asked herself again and again
instead of going to sleep. And now she thought, ‘Ah !
he is alieady unfaithful, Ol he would not have spoken
to me in this mannel.”
The silence that followed the harsh reply was so
painful that she timidly asked, ‘Did the actors play
their parts well last night P’
Why was she hult to see how eager René was to
answer her question, and to turn the conversation from
a mole serious subject 3 Because the heart of a woman
who is 1eally in love—and that Rosalie was—is suscep-
tible to the lightest trifles, and 1n despair she heard
René 1eply: ‘They acted divinely,' after which he
immediately plunged into a dissertation on the difference
between acting on a stage Some distance from the audi-
ence and acting in the limited Space of a drawing-room.
“Poor child !’ thought Madame Offalel as she returned
to the salon, “she is so simple ; she has not got him to
In 2
68 A LIVING LIE
talk of anything but that wretched play !' Then, in
order to be revenged on some one for René's procrastina-
tion in proposing, she added aloud, ‘Tell me—isn't your
friend Larcher lather jealous of your success P’
CHAPTER VI
AN OBSERVER'S LOGIC
RENE had entered the house in the Rue de Bagneux a
prey to painful impressions, and when he left it his
impressions wele more painful still. Then he had been
discontented with his surroundings—now he was dis-
contented with himself. He had called on Rosalie with
the idea of giving her a little pleasure, and sparing her
the trifling pain of hearing all about his success from the
mouth of another ; instead of which his visit had only
caused the girl fresh grief. Although the poet had never
harboured aught else than an imaginary love for this
child with the beautiful black eyes, that love had gone
deep enough to implant in his bleast what is last to die
in the break-up of any passion—an extlaordinary power
of following the least movements of that virgin heart,
and a pity, as unavailing as it was dist1essing, for all the
pain he had caused it.
Once more he asked himself this question : ‘Is it not
my duty to tell her I no longel love her ?’ An insoluble
question, for it admits of only two replies—both impos-
sible ones—the first, cruel and brutal in its egoism, if
our feelings are plain ; the second a frightful mixture of
pity and tieachery, if they are complicated. The young
man shook his head as if to chase away the obtrusive
thought, and mutteling the eternal “We shall see—later
on,” by which SO many agonies have been prolonged,
forced himself to look about him. He had mechanically
tuned his steps towards that polition of the Faubourg
Saint-Germain where, in younger days, he had loved to
AN OBSERVER'S LOGIC 69
walk, and, inspired by Balzac, that dangerous Iliad of
poor plebeians, imagine that he saw the face of a
Duchesse de Langeais or de Maufrigneuse looking out
from every window.
He was now in that wide but desolate thoroughfare
called Rue Barbet-de-Jouy, which, by reason of the
total absence of shops, the grandeul of its buildings, and
the countrified look of its enclosed gardens, seems a
fitting frame for some fine lady of artificial aristocracy.
An inevitable association of 1deas brought René's mind
back to the Komof mansion, and the thought of that
lordly dwelling conjured up, for the fourth time that
day, but more clearly than ever, the image of Madame
Moraines. This time, however, worn out by the fretful
emotions through which he had passed, he became
entirely absorbed in the contemplation of that image
instead of trying to dispel it. To think of Madame
Moraines was to forget Rosalie, and experience, more-
over, a peculiarly Sweet Sensation.
After a few minutes of this mental contemplation
the natural roamings of his fancy led the young man
to ask himself, ‘When shall I see her again P’ He
recalled the tone of her voice and her smile as she had
said, ‘On Opera days, before dinner.' Opera days 2
This novice of Society did not even know them. He
felt a childish pleasure, Out of all proportion to its
ostensible cause—like that of a man who is realising his
wildest dreams—in gaining the Boulevard des Invalides
as quickly as possible and in finding one of the posts
that display theatrical advertisements. It was Friday,
and the bills announced a pet formance of the Huguenots.
René's heart began to beat faster. He had forgotten
Rosalie, his remorse of a little while ago, and the
question that he had put to himself. That inncr voice
which whispels in our Soul's ear such advice as would,
upon reflection, astonish us, had just said to him :
‘Madame Moraines will be at home to-day. What if
you went?’
7o A LIVING LIE
‘What if I went P’ he repeated aloud, and the bare
idea of this visit parched his throat and set him trem-
bling. It is the facility with which extreme emotions
are brought into play upon the slightest provocation
that makes the inner life of young men full of such
strange and rapid transitions from the heights of joy to
the depths of misery René had no sooner put the
temptation that beset him into words than he shlugged
his shoulders and said, ‘It’s madness.’ Having arrived
at that decision, he commenced to plead the cause of
his own desire under pletence of summing up the
objections. ‘How would she 1eceive me P’ The
remembrance of her beautiful eyes and of her sweet
smile made him reply, “But she was so gentle and so
indulgent.’ Then he resumed his questioning. “What
could I say to justify a visit less than twenty-four
hours after having left hel 2’ “Pooh l’ 1eplied the
tempting voice, ‘the Occasion brings its own inspira-
tion.” “But I am not even diessed ' Well, he had only
to go to the Rue Coetlogon. “But I don't even know
her addiess.’ “Claude knows 1t—I have only to ask
him.’
The idea of calling on Larcher having once presented
itself to his mind, he felt that it would be impossible
not to put at least that paſt of his plan into execution.
To call on Claude was the first step towards reaching
Madame Molaines; but, instead of confessing that, René
was hypoclite enough to pretend othel 1 easons. Ought
he not really to go and obtain news of his friend ? He
had left him so unhappy, so truly miseſ able, on the
previous evening Perhaps he was now fietting like a
child P Perhaps he was prepaling to pick a quarrel with
Salvaney P In this way the poet excused himself for
the haste with which he was now making for the Rue
de Varenne. It was not only Suzanne's address that he
hoped to obtain, but information about her too—and all
the while he was trying to persuade himself that he was
simply fulfilling a duty of friendship.
AN OBSERVER'S LOGIC 7 I
In a very short time he had reached the corner of the
Rue de Bellechasse, and a few moments later he found
himself before the great doors of the strange house in
which Larcher had taken up his abode. Pushing these
open, he entered an immense courtyard in which every-
thing spoke of desolation, from the grass that grew
between the Stones to the cobwebs that covered the
windows of the deselted stables on the left. At the
bottom of the Courtyard stood a noble mansion, built
in the reign of Louis XIV., and bearing the proud motto
of the Saint-Euvertes, whose town house this had been,
Fortiter. The stones of this building, already beating
traces of the ravages of time, its long shuttered windows
and its silence wele all in harmony with the solitude
of the courtyard. The old Faubourg Saint-Germain
contains many such houses, strange as the destiny of
their owners, and which will always plove peculiarly
attractive to minds in Search of the psychologically
picturesque—if we may unite these two words to define
an almost indefinable shade of meaning.
René had heard the history of this mansion from his
friend ; how the old Malguis de Saint-Euverte, 1educed
to despair by the almº - simultaneous loss of his wife,
his three daughters, and their husbands, had, six years
ago, gone to live with his grandsons on his estates in
Poitou. An epidemic of typhoid fever suddenly
breaking Out in a small watering-place where all the
family were staying together had made this happy old
man the lonely guardian of a tribe of olphans. Even
during the life-time of the Marquise—an excellent
business woman—two small wings in the house had
been let to quiet tenants These wings had also a
history of their own, the glandfathel of the plesent
Marquis having placed them at the disposal of two
cousins—Knights of Saint-Louis and at one time
political refugees—who, after a wletched, wandel 1ng
existence, had ended their days hel e. M de Saint-
Euverte had left everything as his wife had arranged it
72 A LIVING LIE
Claude therefore one day found himself the only tenant
in the whole of this silent, gloomy building, for the
occupant of the other wing had been Scared away by
the loneliness of the place, and no one else had yet
seemed anxious to bury himself in this tomb, standing
between a desolate courtyal d and a still more desolate
garden.
But all these points, that wele so displeasing to
others, were a source of delight to Larcher. The
oddness of the place appealed particularly to this
dreamer and maker of paradoxes It pleased him to
set his irregular existence as an artist and a swell club-
man in this framework of imposing Solitude ; and here,
too, he could shut himself up with his secret agonies.
The love of analytical introspection with which he
knew he was infected, and which, like a doctor culti-
vating his own disease for the sake of a fine “case, he
carefully nurtured, could not have found a better home.
Then, again, here Laichel cnjoyed absolute fleedom.
The concierge, won ovel by a few theatre tickets and
fascinated by the 1eputation of his tenant, would have
allowed him to hold a saturnalian feast 1n every hall of
the Saint-Euverte mansion had Claude felt any desire
to found another Club de Haschischens or to reproduce
some scene of literary orgies out of love for the
romanticism of 1830. The concierge was absent from
his post when René ariived, so that the poet walked
straight across the courtyaid to the house. Entering
the main hall, where the magnificent lamps bore testi-
mony to the grandeul of the receptions once held here,
he mounted the stone staircase, whose wrought-iron
balustrade formed a splendid oi nament to the huge well
of the house. On the second floor he turned down a
corridor, at the end of which heavy curtains of Oliental
texture proclaimed a modeln installation hidden in the
depths of a mansion that seemed to be peopled only
with the bewigged ghosts of grands seigneurs.
The man-servant who answered his ring possessed
AN OBSERVER'S LOGIC 73
that type of face peculiar to nearly all custodians of old
buildings; it is met with both in the guides of ruined
castles and in the vergers of cathedrals, and shows how
vast must be the influence which places have on human
beings It is a face with a greenish tint and with a
hawk-like expression about the eyes and mouth ; from
its appearance one would suppose that it smelt damp.
Ferdinand—that was the name of this individual—
differed from his kind only in dress, which, consisting
as it did of Claude's cast-off clothes, was fashionable
and smalt. He had been valet to the late Comte de
Saint-Euverte, and, in addition to his duties as Larcher's
servant, he was a kind of housekeeper for the whole
mansion, fiom which he seldom emerged more than
once a month. The concierge went on all the writer's
errands, and his wife did the cooking. This little world
lived entirely under the spell of Claude, who, through
his knowledge of chalacter and his infantile goodness of
heart, possessed in a 1are degree the gift of winning the
attachment of his inferiors. When Ferdinand saw who
the caller was he could not help showing great un-
easiness.
“They shouldn't have let you come up, sil ' ' he said.
“I shall get into trouble.’
‘Is Monsieur Larcher at work 2' asked René, smiling
at the man's terror.
‘No,' replied Ferdinand in an undertone, and quite
at a loss what to do with a visitor whom his master had
evidently not expected. “But Madame Colette is here.”
“Ask him whether he can see me for a minute,’ said
the poet, curious to know how the two lovers stood after
the scene of the preceding evening ; and, in order to
conquer the valet's hesitation, he added: “I’ll take all
the responsibility.’
‘You may come up, sil,’ was the answer with which
he returned, and, preceding René through the ante-room,
he took him up the small inner staircase that led to
the three apartments usually inhabited by Claude, and
74 A LIVING LIE
which the writer either called his “laboratory’ or his
‘tortule-chambel, according to the mood he was in.
The staircase and the first two of the three 1 ooms
were remarkable for the richness of their carpets and
hangings. The faint light that filtered through the
stained-glass windows on this dull February afternoon
Scarcely cast a shadow, eithel in the smoking-1 oom with
its molocco-covered ful niture or in the large salon lined
with books. Claude's favourite nook was a den at the
end, the walls of which were hung with some dark
material and adolned with a few canvases and aqua-
ze/les of the most modern painters of the day—these
being what the writer's extravagant fancy preferred.
There were two opera boxes by Forain, a dancing girl
by Degas, a rural Scene by Raffaelli, a sea-piece by
Monet, four etchings by Félicien Rops, and on a diaped
pedestal a bust of Laichel himself by Rodin. The bust
was a splendid picce of work, In which the gleat Sculptor
had reproduced with marvellous skill all that might be
read in his model's face—qualms of morality mingled
with libel tinism, bold reflection allied to a weak will,
innate idealism hand 1n hand with an almost systemati-
cally acquired Col 1 uption. A low bookcase, a desk in
one cornel, three fauteuils in Venetian style with negroes
supporting the arms, and a wide green leather couch
completed the furniture of this retreat, clouded at that
moment with the smoke of Colette's Russian cigarette.
The young lady was lying at full length on the
couch, her fair hair tumbling about her eals, and attiled
in somewhat masculine style, with a stand-up collar and
an open jacket. Her short plain cloth skirt revealed a
pair of neat ankles and long narrow feet encased 1n
black silk stockings and patent leather shoes. Her
sunken cheeks were pale—that pallol produced in most
theatrical women by the constant use of paint, by late
hours, and by the fatigues of an arduous profession.
‘A/, / mom petit Vincy, she cried, holding out her
hand to the visitor, ‘you have come just in time to save
AN OBSERVER'S LOGIC 75
me from a beating I only wish you knew how badly
this boy treats me ! Come, Claudie, she added, shaking
her finger at her lover, who was seated at her feet, “ say
1t's not true if you dare' And with a graceful move-
ment of her lithe and supple body—she herself would
confess that she scarcely ever wore a corset—the charm-
ing creature rose to a Sitting posture, laid her fair head
on Claude's shoulder, and placed between his lips the
cigarette she had just been smoking. The wietched
man looked at his young friend with shame and Sup-
plication written on his face; then, turning to Colette, his
eyes filled with teals At this the actiess's behaviour
became more wanton still, and leaning forward upon her
lover's shoulder, she gazed into his eyes until she saw in
them the look of passion that she knew So well how to
turn to her own advantage
A dead silence ensued. The fire burned blightly in
the grate, and a Solitary Sunbeam, making 15s way
through the coloured glass, fell in a long red streak upon
the girl's face René had been present at scenes of this
kind too often to feel surprised at the want of modesty
of either his friend or Colette He was well acquainted
with the st1ange cynicism of their nature; but he also
remembered Claude's terlible language the night before,
and the cluel words his mistress had uttered after his
disappearance. He was astounded to see to what depths
of degladation the wiitel's weakness diagged him down
and to witness such proofs of this wietchcq woman's
inconsistency. In the close atmosphere of this room,
1mpregnated with the perfume that Colette used, and
before the almost immodest attitude of the pair before
him, there came over him a feeling of sensuality with
which he was already too familial. The sight of this
depraved creature——though her depravity was generally
clothed in graceful forms—had often awakened in him
1deas of a physical passion very different from any he
had hitherto known She had frequently received him
in her dressing-room at the theatre, and as she stood in
76 A LIVING LIE
careless dishabille before hel glass putting the finishing
touches to her face, or completing, with unblushing
indifference, the more hidden details of her toilet, she
had appeared to him like some temptless personifying
the highest forms of voluptuousness, and at such times
he would envy Claude as much as he sometimes pitied
him. But these feelings would soon be dispelled by the
disgust with which the moral degradation of the actress
inspired him and by the burning scruples of fiendship
that animate and restrain the young. René would have
been horrified to find himself, even for a moment, covet-
ing what he considered his fliend's property, and perhaps
the knowledge of this delicacy of feeling went for some-
thing in Colette's behaviouſ. Out of sheer wantonness
she amused herself by displaying her beauty before him,
just as we hold up a flower to be smelt when we know
the hands will not be put out to seize it Wantonness
it was, too, that led the misguided girl to dally with
Claude and to lavish Such caresses upon him before René.
All this, however, produced in the poet a vague
physical longing that he could not 1epress; it grew upon
him unconsciously, and, by an association of desires,
more difficult to interrupt in its Secret workings than an
association of ideas, the vision of Madame Moraines was
once mole before him, surrounded by the halo of seduc-
tion that had so completely dazzled him on the plevious
evening. Two things were now obvious to René : one
was, that he must go and call on that woman to-day ;
the other, that he would never be able to utter her name
and ask for her address before the lascivious cleature
who was torturing Claude with her kisses.
“Get away,’ said the writer, pushing hel from him ;
“I love you, and you know it. Why, then, do you make
me suffer so P Ask René what a state I was in last
night. Tell her, Vincy, and tell her she should not trifle
with me Aftel all,” he cried, buying his face in his
hands, “what does it matter P If you became the most
degraded wretch on earth, I should still idolise you.’
AN OBSERVER'S LOGIC 77
‘These are some of the pretty things I have to hear
all day long, cried Colette, rolling back on the cushions
with a laugh. ‘Well, René, tell him about me too. Tell
him how angry I was last night because he went home
without saying a wold. And then he didn't write, so I
came here. Yes, I came to ſlim, 1ſ you please. You
savage l’ she cried, taking Larcher by the hair, “do you
think I should trouble to run after you if I didn't love
you?”
Every featue of her face expressed the real nature of
the feeling she entertained for Claude—cruel sensuality,
that sensuality which impels a woman to make a martyr
of the man from whose power she cannot free herself.
History tells of queens who loved in this fashion, and
who handed ovel to the headsman the men whom they
hated and yet desired to possess. René quietly ob-
served .
“I was uneasy about him last night, it is true, and
you were very cruel.’
‘That will do!’ cried Colette, with a contemptuous
laugh. “I’ve already told you that you swallow any-
thing he says. I’ve given that up myself long ago One
day he threatened to commit suicide, and when I came
here in my stage clothes, without even waiting to wash
my paint off, I found him—col recting ploofs l’
“But that I'm obliged to do, 1eplied Claude; ‘you
often have to Smile on the stage yourself when you're
1eally in trouble.’
‘What does that plove?’ she 1etolted shal ply;
‘that we ale merely acting Only I take you for what
you are, and you don't.'
Whilst she rattled on, rating Claude with that savage
rancour that a woman takes no pains to conceal fiom
the man with whom she is on intimate telms, René's
glance, as it wandeled 1 ound the room, fell upon a direc-
toly containing the addiesses of the “upper ten and the
hangers-on of Society.
Taking it up he turned over the leaves, and to offer
78 A LIVING LIE
some excuse for his action, mendaciously remarked,
‘Why, youl name isn't here, Claude l’
“I should think not,’ said Colette; ‘I won't let him
send it. He sees quite enough of the swells as it is.’
“I thought you liked the society of that kind of man,’
obselved Claude.
‘What a clevel thing to say !' she replied, with a
graceful shlug of her shoulders. ‘They're smart, it's tiue—
1t's their business to be. They know how to dress, to play
tennis, to 11de, and to talk of hoises, whilst you, with all
you blains, will nevel be anything but a cad. How I
wish you were now what you were eight years ago when
I first met you in that restaurant at the corner of the
Rue des Saints-Pères | I had just come from the Con-
servatoire with my mother and Falguet, my professor,
and we welle having Some lunch. You looked so good,
sitting in the Colner— as though you had come from a
monastely, and were having your filst peep at the world.
It was that, I think, that made me like you. Are you
coming to the theatre to night P’ she asked René, as he
closed the book and 1 ose to go. He had found what he
wanted ; Madame Molaines lived in the Rue Murillo,
neal the Parc Monceau. “No 2 Well, to-morrow then,
and mind you don't get gadding about like this boy
Such fine ladies as they ale, too, youl Society women—
I know something of them Oh, look at his face—won't
he stol m as soon as you're gone ! You're Surely not
going to be jealous of women 'she said, lighting a fresh
cigarette. ‘Good-bye, René.’
“She is like that before you,' observed Claude, as he
let his friend out; ‘but you wouldn't believe how gentle
and affectionate she can be when we are alone !”
‘And how about Salvaney ’’ asked René unthink-
ingly.
Claude turned pale. ‘She says that she merely
went to his rooms to look at Some drawings for her next
rôle : she sweals that theſe was nothing wrong in it.
With women, everything is possible—even what is good,'
AN OBSERVER'S LOGIC 79
he added, giving René a hand that was not very steady.
‘I can't help it—I must believe her when she looks at
me in her peculiar way.'
CHAPTER VII
T III. FACE O T A M ADON N.A.
* CAN a man of sense, and a good follow into the bar-
gain, fall as low as that P’ René asked himself on
leaving his unhappy friend. Then, thinking of Colette's
handsome face, he muttered, “She is very pretty.
Heavens ! if one could only get Rosalie's beauty
of soul united to this creature's incomparable grace and
elegance l’
But was not such union to be found 2 The inner or
molal beauty, without which a woman is more bitter
than death to the healt of a right-thinking man, and
the outer or physical glamouſ that enables her to
atti act and captivate his grosser nature—was not such
complete and supreme harmony to be found in those
creatures whom the accidents of birth and for tune have
surrounded by the attributes of 1eal aristocracy, and
whose personal chal mS ale in keeping with their sur-
1oundings Was not Madame Molaines an example of
this 2 In any case, that was the poet's first implession
of her, and he took a delight in Stiengthening this im-
pression by a1gument. Yes, he was sure that this
woman, whose soothing image floated through his
brain, did indeed possess that double chal m—not only
beauty and grace Superior to Colette's, but a Soul as un-
Sullied as Rosalic's. The 1efinement of her manners,
the sweetness of her voice, and the ideality of her con-
versation gave abundant proofs of it.
René walked on, his mind occupied with these
thoughts, and his eyes fixed upon a solt of millage that
made him insensible to all alound him. He awoke from
8O A LIVING LIE
this fit of somnambulism on reaching the end of the Pont
des Invalides, and found himself in the middle of the
Avenue d'Antin. His footsteps had mechanically
turned towards the quarter where dwelt the woman to
whom his thoughts were so constantly 1ecuring that
day. He smiled as he remembered how often he had
made a pilgrimage to this Rue Murillo when Gustave
Flaubert still lived there. René was such an aident
admirer of the author of the ‘Tentation ' that it had
always been a great treat to him to gaze up at the house
of the eminent and powerful writer. How long ago
those times seemed now, and how 1apturous they would
have been had he then known that the woman who was
to 1ealise his fondest ideal would live in that vely
st1ect Should he go and Sce hel to-day P The ques-
tion became mole pressing as time advanced. One
sweep more of the large hand 1 ound the dial, and it
would be five o'clock—he could see her. He could see
her The idea of this being a real possibility took
such a hold upon his mind that all the objections his
timidity could devise arose at once. ‘No,' he muttered,
“I shall not go ; she would be surprised to see me so soon.
She only asked me to come because she knew all the
others had invited me. She did not want to seem less
polite.’
What had seemed in others an empty compliment
became a delicate attention 1n the case of the woman
he was beginning to love—unknown to himself. The
discovery of an additional motive for distinguishing her
from all the women he had met on the plevious even-
1ng made him feel less able to resist the desire to be
near her. He hailed a cab almost mechanically, and on
reaching home commenced to dress. His sister was
out, and Fiançoise was busy in the kitchen. Though he
had still not the courage to say to himself outright, ‘I
am going to the Rue Murillo, he paid as much atten-
tion to the minute details of his toilet as amorous
youths—at such times a deal more coquettish than
THE FACE OF A MADONNA 8 I
women—are wont to do. It was now no longer upon
his timidity that he relied for help to battle against the
ever-increasing desire within him Every object in the
room recalled memories of Rosalie. With the innate
honesty of the young, he for a long time tried to impress
upon himself the duty he owed the poor girl. “What
would I think of her if I heard that she was accepting
the attentions of a man whom she liked as much
as I like Madame Moraines 2 But then, rejoined the
tempting voice, ‘you are an artist, and require fresh
sensations and experience of the world. And who says
that you are going to call on Madame Moraines only to
make love to her P’
He was just in the act of applying his handkerchief
to a bottle of ‘white rose’ that stood on his dressing-
table. The penetrating perfume sent the warm blood
coursing through his veins in that 1rresistible tide of
voluptuous desire that marks the nascent passions of
ardent but continent natures such as his. Since his
secret engagement to Rosalie his delicate scruples had
led him to return to a life of absolute purity. But the
barriers of reserve gave way before this subtle per-
fume, which awakened memories of all that was least
ideal in her rival—the golden ringlets in her neck, her
ruby lips and pearly teeth, her Snowy rounded shoul-
ders and the long bare arms with their tapering wrists.
And this, too, just as he was attempting to attribute
his admiration for her to 1ntellectual motives. Of what
avail were ideas of loyalty towards Rosalie in the
face of such visions P It was five o'clock. René left
the house, jumped into another cab, and told the man
to drive to the Rue Murillo. He kept his eyes closed
the whole of the way, SO 1mtensely painful was the sen-
sation of suspense. Mingled with this was shame for
his own weakness, apprehension of what was in store
for him, deep joy at the thought that he was about to
see that glorious face once more, and, permeating all, a
spice of that mad hope, intoxicating on account of its
G
82 A LIVING LIE
very vagueness, that u1ges the young along flesh paths
simply for the sake of their novelty. The feeling of
permanence, so indispensable to a man of experience,
who knows how short life 1eally is, is hateful to the
vely young. At twenty-five they ale by nature
changeable, and consequently fickle. René, who was
even better than a good many othels, had already
irreparably betrayed in thoughts the girl who loved him
when his cab set him down at the door of the woman
he had seen for one houl on the plevious night. He
would lather have stepped upon Rosalie's healt than
not enter that door now. If a last thought of his
betrothcq did trouble him at that moment, he no doubt
dismissed 1t with the usual phlase—“She won't know,'
and passed on.
The house in which Madame Molaines lived was one
of those buildings to be found 1n the fashionable quarters
of Palis which, although pal celled out into ſlats, have
been made by the modern alchitect to look almost like
plivate mansions. The house was of noble elevation and
stood back some little distance fiom the stileet, the
privacy of the coultyard being 1msured by Some 1 ailings
that shut 1t off from the outside would. In the centle of
these railings was the portel's lodge, a Sort of Gothic
pavilion, and as René 1nquired whether Madame
Molaines was at home he could see that the interior of
this lodge was bettel ful nished and looked smaltel and
brighter than the drawing-1 oom of the Offalels on
reception nights. The strain upon the young man's
nerves had now become so painful that if the veteran
soldier who was ending his days in this haven of 1est
had answered him in the negative he would almost
have thanked him. But what he heald was, ‘Second
floor up the steps at the bottom of the courtyard.’
He crossed the marble threshold and then mounted
a wooden staircase Coveled with a soft-toncol carpet.
The air that he bleathed on the stairs was waſ m, like
that of a 100m. Heic and there stood exotic plants,
THE FACE OF A MADONNA 83
the gaslight glinting on their green foliage. Chairs were
placed at every turn of the staircase, and twice did René
sink down into one. His knees trembled under him.
If until then he had had any doubts respecting the
nature of the feelings he entertained for Madame
Moraines, his piesent state of excitement should have
warned him that those feelings amounted to something
more than simple culiosity. But he went on as if he
were in a dream. He was in that state when he pressed
the button at the side of the door, when he heard the
Servant coming to open it, and when he gave him his
name ; then, before he had recovered his wits, the man
had shown him into a small salon, where he found the
dangerous creature whose charms had so enslaved him,
though he knew nothing of her except that she was
beautiful. Alas ! that this beauty should so often be
only a mask, and a dangerous mask, too, when we give
it credit for being more than it really pretends to be
Had René in fancy painted any setting for this rare
and majesticbeauty, he could have imagined no other than
that in which he saw Madame Moraines for the second
time. She was seated at her writing-desk, on which
stood a lighted lamp covered with a lace shade, whilst
an ivy plant trained to Cleep along a gilded tiellis
formed a novel and pleasing Scieen to the table. The
small 10om was filled with a profusion of ol naments and
trifles indispensable to every modern interiol. The inevi-
table reclining-chail, with 1ts heap of Cushions, the what-
not crowded with Japanese netsuke's, the photographs in
their frames of filigree, the three or four genre pictures,
the lacquered boxes standing on the little table covered
with its strip of Oliental silk, the flowers distributed
here and there—who in Palis is unacquainted with this
refinement of comfort now so stereotyped as to be quite
commonplace But all that René knew of Society life
he had learnt either from Balzac and other novelists of
fifty years ago or from more modern authors who had
never secn the inside of a drawing-room ; the ensemble
G 2
84 A LIVING LIE
of this apartment, beautifully harmonised by the soft
tints of the shaded lamp, was therefore to him like the
revelation of a hidden trait peculiar to the woman who
had presided over its arrangement. The charm of the
moment was the more 1rresistible since the Madonna
who dwelt in this shrine, with its subdued light and its
warm air heavy with the scent of flowels, received him
with a smile and a look in her eyes that at once dis-
pelled all his childish fears.
The men whom Nature has endowed with that
inexplicable power of pleasing women, apart from what-
ever other qualities they may possess, either mental or
physical, are provided with a kind of antennae of the soul
to warn them of the impressions they produce. The
poet, in spite of his complete ignol ance both of
Suzanne's disposition and of the customs of the world
she lived in, felt that he had done right in coming.
This knowledge served to soothe his overstrung nerves,
and he gave himself up entirely to the sweetness that
emanated from this creature, the first of her kind whom
he had been permitted to approach. By merely looking
at her he saw that she was not the same woman as on
the previous evening She had evidently but just come
In ; some pressing duty—a note, perhaps, to be written—
had only given her time to take off her hat and to sub-
stitute a dainty pair of slippels for her outdoor boots,
so that she was still wearing a walking-dress of some
dark material with a high Collar like Colette's. Her
hair, René noticed, was of the same colour as the
actress's, and was twisted into a plain coil upon her
head. Like that, she seemed to René more approach-
able, less superhuman, less Suri Ounded by that impene-
trable atmosphere in which the pomp of dress and the
ceremony of grand receptions envelop a woman of
fashion. The few traits that she possessed in common
with the actress only added to her charms. They
enabled René to measure the distance that separated
the two beings, and whilst doing this he heard Suzanne
THE FACE OF A MADONNA 85
say in that voice which on the previous evening had
proved so irresistibly seductive: “How good of you to
come, Monsieur Vincy!”
It was nothing—a mere figure of speech. Madame
de Sermoises, and Madame Ethorel, and even the
spiteful Madame Hurault would have used the same
words. But, in the mouth of Madame Moraines, and
for him to whom they were addressed, they were ex-
pressive of deep and true sympathy, of unbounded
kindness, and of divine indulgence. The phrase had
been accompanied by a gesture of 1ndescribable grace,
by a slight look of surprise in the pale blue eyes, and
by a smile more seductive than ever. Had René not
come to the Rue Murillo fully prepared to seize upon
the slightest motives for admiring Suzanne still more,
the tribute which she paid to his vanity by this form of
reception would alone have conquered him. Do not
the most celebrated authors and those most weary of
drawing-room sycophancy allow themselves to be
captivated by attentions of this kind 2 The author of
the ‘Sigisbée' was not inclined to look at these things
so critically, either. He had come 1n fear and trembling,
and his reception had shown him he was welcome.
Since the morning he had felt a passionate desire to see
Suzanne again ; he stood before her, and she was glad
to see him.
There was a melry look in her eyes as her pretty
lips now framed the second sentence she had yet spoken :
“If you accepted all the Invitations which were showered
upon you yestel day you must have had a hard day's
work 2'
“But you ale the only one I have called upon,
madame,’ he replied naively. He had scarcely uttered
the words when a deep blush overspread his face. The
significance of his reply was so apparent, the Sentiments
it expressed so sincere, that he felt quite abashed, like a
child whose simple nature has led it to tell what it
wished to keep secret. Had he not been guilty of
86 A LIVING LIE
familiarity that would shock this exquisite creature, this
woman whose delicate perception no shade of meaning
could escape, and upon whose sensitive nature the
slightest want of tact would certainly Jar P The pale
pink of her cheeks and the silken gloss of her hair, the
blue of her eyes, and the glace of all her person made
her appear to him for the few seconds that followed his
exclamation like some Titania, by the side of whom he
was but an obscule and loutish Bottom. Before her he
felt as clumsy in mind as he would have been in body
had he ti led to imitate any of her graceful movements—
the way, for Instance, in which she closed her hand-
somely worked blotting-book and with her fail hands
put in older the knick-knacks that covered her table.
An imperceptible smile hoveled about her lips as the
young man uttered his simple words. But how could
he have seen that smile when his eyes were modestly
cast down at the moment? How could he have guessed
that his reply would be acceptable, although it was
piecisely the one that had been expected and even
provoked P René was only certain of one thing—that
Madame Molaines was as gentle and as kind as she
was beautiful ; instead of appearing Offended or drawing
back she tried to conquer the fresh fit of timidity that was
beginning to seize him by replying to his foolish remaik.
‘Well, sil, I certainly deserve that preference, which
would create a deal of jealousy if it were known, for
no one admiles your talent as much as I do. You!
poetry contains such true and delicate sentiment. We
women, you know, never Judge by 1eason ; out hearts
criticise fol us, and it is so seldom that a model n author
manages to touch only the 1ight choids. How can it be
otherwise 2 We ale faithful to the old ideals—ah yes,
I know that 1s not at all the fashion to-day—1t makes
one look almost ridiculous. But we defy ridicule—and
then, besides, I have inherited these 16eas from my
poor father. It was always his fondest wish to do
something towards 1aising the literal y tone in our un-
THE FACE OF A MADONNA 87
happy country. I thought of him as I listened to your
verses; how he would have enjoyed them l’
She stopped, as 1f to banish these too melancholy
1ecollections. On hearing the way in which she pro-
nounced her father's name one must needs have been a
monster of distrust not to believe that the incurable
wound caused by the death of that celebrated minister
bled aflesh every time she thought of him. René was,
nevel theless, a little surprised at the tenor of her words.
He 1emembered that one of the last things Sainte-Beuve
had written was a philippic against a copyright bill
proposed by Bois-Dauffin, and he had always looked
upon the statesman as one of the Sworn enemies of
literature, of whom there ale thousands in the political
world. He, moleovel, had a profound horror of the con-
ventional idealism to which Madame Moraines had
alluded. In poetry, his favourite author was Théophile
Gautler, both on account of his construction and the
precision of his metaphols—in plose, the sevel e Flaubert,
on account of his wondel fully cleal style, and his lack
of all mannel 1sms.
It pleased him, howevel, that Suzanne should see
in her father a libel al protector of literature, for 1t
ploved the depth of her filial piety. He was also
pleased to find that she chel 1shed an ideal of his art
almost childish in its simplicity. Such a complehension
of beauty, if sincere, showed real inner pulity. If
sincere ! René would have disdained to entertain such
a doubt in the presence of this ethereal angel with her
dieamy eyes. He stammeled Out Some phlase as vague
as that in which Madame Moraines had explessed her
idea, and spoke only of woman's fine judgment 1n litela-
ture—he, the worshipper not only of Gautieſ, but of
Baudelaire | Was she quick enough to hear by his tone
of voice that she was on a wrong tack 2 Or did the
profound ignorance in which, like So many Society
women, she was content to dwell—nevel reading any-
thing beyond a paper and a few third-rate novels when
88 A LIVING LIE
travelling—make it impossible fol her to keep up a
conversation of this older and quote names in support
of her ideas P. In any case, she soon dropped this dan-
gerous subject, and quickly passed from the ideal in alt
to another mole feminine problem, the ideal in love.
In merely uttering the word ‘love,' which, in itself, con-
tains so much that is contradictory, she managed to
assume such an air of modesty that René felt as if he
had been taken into her confidence. It was evidently
a subject upon which this woman, so far above all ideas
of gallantry, did not care to enter unless she was in full
sympathy with her hearer.
‘What pleases me, too, so much in the “Sigisbée,”’
she observed, in her swect, musical voice, ‘is the faith in
love poſtrayed there—the horror of coquetly, of lies, of
all that dishonours the most divine sentiment of which
the human Soul is capable. Believe me,’ she added,
resting her head upon her hand as if in deep reflection,
and regarding René with a look of such seriousness that
it seemed to concentrate all hel thoughts ; ‘believe me,
the day that you doubt the reality of love you will
cease to be a poet. But there is a God who watches
over genius, she went on, with a kind of suppressed
emotion. ‘That God will not permit the splendid gifts
with which he has endowed you to be sterilised by
Scepticism—for you are a believe!, I am Sule, and a
good Catholic P’
“I was, he replied.
‘And now 2° she asked, with a look almost of pain
on her face.
‘I have my days of doubt, he answered in simple
fashion. She was silent, whilst he sat gazing in speech-
less admilation at this woman who, 1n the vortex of
Society life, could still ascend to a world of higher and
nobler ideas. He did not stop to think that there was
something degrading—something like an attempt to
gain cheap applause—in parading before a stranger—
and what else was he to her ?—the most sacred feelings
THE FACE OF A MADONNA 89
of the heart. Although he had in his uncle, the Abbé
Taconet, a perfect example of a true Chiistian Soul, he
was not surprised to hear Madame Moraines combine
in one sentence two things so completely foreign to each
other as a belief in God and the gift of writing plays in
verse. He knew nothing except that to hear her voice
once more, to see in her blue eyes that expression of
true faith, to gaze upon the curl of her dainty lips, to
feel her presence near him now, always, and for ever, he
would have braved the direst perils. Amid this silence
the singing of the tea urn in a corner of the little salom
became more perceptible Suzanne passed her hand
with its well-polished nails over her eyes; then, with a
smile of apology for having dared, ignorant as she was,
to broach such serious problems to a great mind like
his, she suddenly changed her theme as lightly as Some
women will offer you a Sandwich after having discussed
the immortality of the soul
“But you have not come here to be preached at, she
cried, ‘and I am forgetting that I am only a worldly
woman after all. Will you have a cup of tea P Then
come and help me make it.’
She rose; her step was so lithe and she walked with
such an easy grace that to René, who was alieady
completely bewitched, 1t seemed as 1ſ her very move-
ments continued 1n some way the charm of her con-
versation. He too had risen, and was now made to
take a seat near the little table on which the tea-kettle
was singing merrily. He looked at her as her dainty
hands, so calefully tended, deftly moved amongst the
fragile china with which the tray was laden. She was
talking, too, but now her talk ran upon a score of details
of every-day life. As she poured the strong liquor into
the cups she told him where she got her tea; then, as
she added the boiling water, she questioned him upon
the manner in which he made his coffee when he wanted
to work. She finished by taking a seat beside him,
after having spread a small cloth fol the cups, the plates
90 A LIVING LIE
of toast and cake, the pot of cream, and all the 1est.
She had set it out as though it were for a young lady's
tea party, and bestowed upon her visitol those little
attentions in which women excel. They know that the
most savage men often love to be petted and made
much of, and that they are so easily won by this false
coinage of pretended affection. Suzanne was now
beginning to question the poet, and made him give her
an account of his feelings on the first night of the
‘Sigisbée, thus completing her work of seduction by
compelling him to talk about himself. All René's
timidity had disappeared, and he felt as if he had
known this woman for years, so rapidly had she
succeeded in gaining an ascendency over him in this
first visit. It was therefore a cruel sensation, like awak-
ing from a heavenly dream, when the door opened to
admit a new comer.
“Oh ! what a bother l’ exclaimed Suzanne in an
undertone. How sweet this exclamation sounded in
the poet's eals, and how he appleciated hCr pretty look
of annoyance, and the g1aceful shrug of her shoulders
that accompanied it ! He rose to take his leave, but
not before Madame Moraines had introduced him to the
unwelcome visitor.
‘Monsieur le Baron Desforges—Monsieur Vincy.’
The poet caught a glance of a man of middle height
attired in a smart-fitting frock-coat. The man might
have been fifty-five or forty-five—in 1eality he was fifty-
six—so difficult was it to read his age fiom his impene-
trable featules. His moustache was still fair, and though
the Baron had managed to escape baldness, that plague
common to all Parisians, the colour of his hair, a decided
grey, showed that he made no attempt to hide his years.
His face was a little too full-blooded to be strictly in
keeping with the rest of his appearance. His searching
gaze rested upon René with that air of profound indif-
ference which diplomatists by profession ale so prone
to affect, and which seems to say to the man so 1egarded,
THE FACE OF A MADONNA 9I
‘If I chose to know you, I should know you—but I do
not choose to.' Was this really the meaning of the look
that rested on him, or was René merely put out by the
interruption to his charming téte-à-tête 2 Be that as it
might, the poet felt an immediate and profound anti-
pathy towards the Balon, who, on healing his name,
had bowed without uttering a wold to show whether he
knew him or not But what did that matter to René,
since Madame Moraines had still managed to say with
a smile as she gave him her hand : ‘Thanks for your
kind visit. I am so glad that you found me at home'
Glad ' And what word should he use—he who, in
an almost maudlin state of intoxication, felt, as he left
the house in which this delightful creature lived, that
before that day and that hour he had never really loved
CHAPTER VIII
THE OTHER SIDE OF THE PICTURE
‘IT's Madame Komofºs little poet,” said Suzanne, as
soon as the door had closed upon René. The tone in
which she replied to the Balon's mute interrogation
indicated the familiar footing upon which Desforges
stood in this house Then with that gulish smile she
could so well assume—one of those smiles in which the
most distrustful men will always believe, because they
have seen their sisters smile like that—she went on,
“Oh I I forgot—you wouldn't go last night. I looked
so nice—you would have been proud of me. I had my
hail done just as you like it. I expected to see you
come in later on. This young man, who is the author
of the play, was introduced to me, and the poor fellow
just called to leave his card. He didn't know my
hours, and came stiaight up. You have done him a
great Selvice in giving him an opportunity to escape,
He had stayed so long that he was aflaid to go.”
92 A LIVING LIE
‘You see that I was right in setting my face against
last night's affair, remarked the Baron. ‘Here we
have another man of letters brought out. He has been
here, and will call on others. He'll call again, no doubt,
and then he'll be invited here and theie. People will
talk before him as they do before you and me, without
thinking that on leaving your house he will, out of
sheer vanity, go and 1etail the stories he has heard here
in some café or newspapel office. And then the Society
dames will be astonished to find themselves figuring in
the columns of some scurrilous sheet or in an up-to-date
novel. To invite wiite1s into the drawing-room is one
of the latest and maddest freaks of so-called Society.
We wrong them by robbing them of their time, and
they leturn the injury by libelling us. I was told the
other day that the daughter of one of this gentleman's
colleagues, who helps her papa in his books, was heald
to say: “We never go anywhere without bringing home
at least two pages of useful notes.” I myself cannot
understand this mania for talking into phonographs—
and such silly, lying phonographs, too, as they are l’
“Ah !’ exclaimed Suzanne, taking the Baton's hand
in hers, and looking up at him with an admilation that
was too marked not to be since1e, ‘how fortunate I am
in having you to guide me through life What correct
and clear judgment you have l’
“Oh merely a little gumption, that's all,’ 1 eplied
Desforges, with a shake of the head ; “that will prevent
one from committing nine-tenths of the bad actions that
are really only follies. All my wisdom of life is to try
and get what I can out of what is left me—and what is
left me is precious little Do you know that I shall be
fifty-six this week, Suzanne P’
She shook her pretty head, and came closer to him
as he stopped in his march up and down the room.
With a look of ingenuousness that might have been
worn either by an accomplished wanton or a big girl
a sking her father for a kiss she brought first her cheek
THE OTHER SIDE OF THE PICTURE 93
with its pretty dimple, and then the corner of her sweet
mouth, under the Baron's lips.
‘Come, she said, “don’t you want any tea P It's a
bad sign when you begin to talk about your age; you
must have upset yourself either in the Chambre or at
some Board meeting.’
As she spoke she moved towards the little table,
and her eyes fell upon the cups and plates she and
René had used. Did she remember the Madonna-like
rôle she had played in this very spot only a quarter of
an hour ago, and the handsome young man for whose
benefit she had assumed her most bewitching attitudes 2
And if such a thought really entered that pretty head,
set in its coils of pale gold, did she feel any shame, any
regiet, that the poet had gone, or only a kind of secret
joy, such as these bold actresses feel in their moments
of greatest hypocrisy She made the tea with as much
care as she had bestowed on the process a few minutes
before. Desforges had naturally slipped into the arm-
chair just vacated by René, and Suzanne occupied her
former seat as she sat listening to the Baron's talk.
This estimable man had an unfortunate habit of dog-
matising at times. He knew the world—that was his
great boast, and he was justified in making it. Only,
he attached a little too much 1mportance to this know-
ledge.
• ‘It was rather trying in the Chambre to-day, it is
true,' he said. “I went to hear de Suave hurl his thunder-
bolts at the Government. He still believes in Parlia
mentary specches and in O1atorical triumphs. As ſol
me, I have, of course, become a Sceptic, a grumbler, and
a pessimist since the day when I refused office They
are glad to have me in the House because my grand-
father was a Prefect under one emperor and I a Coun-
cillor of State under another. The name looks well at
the bottom of a poster; but as for hearing me, that's
another matter. And they have such respect for me,
too ! When I drop in at the club in the afternoon I
94 A LIVING LIE
find half-a-dozen of my friends, both young and old,
engaged in restoring the monarchy whilst watching the
girls pass, if it is summer, or between two deals at
bézique in winter. When I come in you should see
how quickly they change their faces and their conversa-
tion, as if I were discletion itself. I should like to have
told them a few home-truths to-day, just to 1elieve my
feelings, but I went to the Rue de la Paix instead to get
your earrings.’
With these words he took from his pocket a small
leather case ; it was quite plain, without the jeweller's
address, and as he held it out the fire flashed from the
two splendid diamonds it contained, making Suzanne's
eyes sparkle with delight. The case passed from the
Baron's hands into hers, and after gazing at its contents
for a moment, she closcq the little box and placed it
among some other things on a small shelf beside her.
The manner 1n which she accepted it would alone have
sufficed to prove how accustomed she was to receiving
similar presents. Then, turning to Desforges, her sweet
face all aglow with pleasure, she exclaimed, “How good
you are to me!’
‘Don’t thank me It's pure selfishness,’ said the
Baron, though evidently pleased by the impression the
earrings had made. “It is I who Ought to thank you
for being good enough to wear these poor stones—I do
so love to see you look nice Ah!’ he added, ‘I had for-
gotten to tell you—the famous port has arrived ; I shall
send you half the consignment, and, by a stioke of good
luck, I have managed to get the Watteau you admired
so much for a mere song.’
“I shall have a chance of thanking you to-morrow, I
hope, in the Rue du Mont-Thabor, she replied, darting
a look at him ; “at four o'clock, isn't it P’ she added,
dropping her eyes with a blush. If, endowed with the
power of second sight, poor René, who had just returned
home in a fit of idolatry, could have perceived her at that
moment without hearing the conversation he would cer-
THE OTHER SIDE OF THE PICTURE 95
tainly have seen in her noble face an expression of most
divine modesty. But those downcast lids and the look
she had given him had probably brought other thoughts
to the Baron's mind, for his eyes grew bright, and the
blood rushed to his cheeks—those cheeks which
bore such evident traces of good living, a dangerous
vice whose consequences Desforges was always trying to
elude. “I hold the balance,’ he used to say, ‘between
gout and apoplexy.'
Giving his moustache a twirl, he changed the subject,
and in a thick voice, by which his mistress could once
more gauge the hold she had upon the senses of this
hoaly sinner, asked, ‘Who will be in your box to-night?'
‘Only Madame Ethorel.’
‘What men P’
“Etholel cannot come. There will be my husband
—and, of couise, Crucé."
‘He must make a pretty little thing out of her, only
in commission exclaimed Desforges. ‘He has just
put her on to a picture for which she has paid twenty
thousand francs—I’ll wager he got ten thousand out of
it ’
‘What a wretch l’ cried Suzanne.
‘She is such a fool,' remaiked the Baron, “and Crucé
is known to be a connoisseur. Besides, if poor Etholel
didn't have him to consult, his money would go just the
same in absolute rubbish. All 1s fol the best in this
best of possible worlds. Well, go on.’
‘Little de Brèves and you. Halk ' ' she exclaimed,
stopping to listen. “Some one is coming up—I have
such an ear.’ And then, looking at the Baron in pre-
cisely the same way she had looked at René, she added,
with a pietty look of annoyance, “Mon Dieu ! What a
bother Oh! It's no one,’ breaking into a Silvery laugh
as the servant opened the door ; ‘it’s only my husband.
Good afternoon, Paul.’
‘That sounds very complimentary,” said the man
who had just entered, a tall, well-built fellow with frank,
93 A LIVING LIE
fearless eyes, and one of those pale but healthy com-
plexions that reveal great energy. His features had
that stamp of regularity which is only to be met with in
Paris in very young men, fol a face of that kind in a
man of mole than thirty-five indicates a perfectly clear
conscience. The depth of his love was easily measured
by the way in which Moraines looked at his wife, and
his sincerity by the manner in which he shook hands
with the Baron.
After a hearty laugh at Suzanne's exclamation, he
added, with mock glavity, ‘Am I int1uding, madame 2'
“Do you want any tea P’ asked Suzanne, quietly ;
‘I must tell you that it's cold. “Yes, please,” or “No,
thank you ?”
‘No, thank you,' 16plied Molaines, dropping into an
arm-chair, and p1eparing his words as if to produce an
effect, like some visitor. “Some husbands are real idiots,
and I blush for the community. Have you heard about
Hacqueville P The story was told me at the club just
now. Haven't heard it, eh? Well, this morning he
happens to open a letter addiessed to his wife which
leaves no doubt as to the lady's virtue.'
“Poor Mainterne,’ cried Suzanne, ‘ he was so fond of
Lucie | *
‘That's the beauty of it,' shouted Molaines, in the
triumphal accents of one who is about to astonish his
hearers, ‘the letter didn't come from Mainterne, but
Lavel din Lucie had more than two strings to her bow.
And guess to whom Hacqueville takes the letter and
looks for advice ’’
“To Maintelne, 1eplied the Balon.
‘You’ve heard the stoly 2’
‘No,' rejoined Desforges, “but it seems so simple.
And what did Mainterne say?’
‘You may guess how indignant he was. Ilucie has
gone to her mothel's, and a duel is announced between
Hacqueville and Laverdin, in which the former 1nsists
upon Mainterne being his second. Well, of all the fools
THE OTHER SIDE OF THE PICTURE 97
I’ve seen, I think he is about the biggest. And he
hasn't a single friend to open his eyes.’
‘He'll find one,’ said the Baron, rising to go. ‘The
moral of your story is, never wiite.’
‘Won't you stay and dine with us, Frédéric P’ asked
Moraines.
‘I have an engagement,’ replied Desforges, “but will
meet you later at the Opera. Madame Moraines has
been good enough to save me a seat.’
‘In your box,’ rejoined Paul, with more truth than
he thought. The Baron, who had been a widower for
the past ten years, had kept his box at the Opera, and
sublet it for alternate weeks to his excellent friends the
Moraines. The rent, however, was never paid. The
husband was as little aware of his wife's accommodating
ways as he was of the impossibility of living as they did
on their income of fifty thousand francs. The remnant
of the wretched fortune left by the late Minister,
Madame Moraines' father, who in fifteen years of office
had saved almost nothing, fol med the half of this
annual budget. The other half was the salary which
Moraines got as Secretary to an insurance company,
a place procured for him by Desforges. In spite of
Suzanne's protests, Paul had not lost the deplorable
habit of expatiating upon his wife's clever husbanding
of their united income, which was very small for the
world in which the Molaines lived. Thanks to his
simple-minded confidence, he was the kind of man who,
when his friends complained of the increasing severity
of the struggle ſo life, would say, ‘You Ought to have a
wife like mine—s/he knows where to get baigains She
has a maid who is a perfect treasule, and who can turn
out a diess as well as the best tailor l’ ‘You make me
look ridiculous !’ Suzanne would often say ; but he
loved hel too well to give up praising her, and now,
just after Desforges had left, his first act was to take
her hands in his and say, ‘How nice it is to have you
all to myself fol a moment Kiss me, Suzanne'
H
98 A LIVING LIE
She gave him hel cheek and the corner of hel mouth,
just as she had done to Desforges.
“When I am told such tel rible stories as that,’ he
continued, “it gives me quite a shock ; but I soon recover
when I think that I have been lucky enough to get a
little woman like yourself. Ah Suzanne, how I love
you !’
‘And yet I am sule you will scold me,’ she 1eplied,
escaping from his embrace. ‘The woman you think
so clever, and of whom you are so ploud, has been
very foolish. Those diamonds, she went on, holding
up the box brought by Desforges, ‘ that I told you
about—well, I couldn’t 1esist them, and so I bought them.’
“But it's Out of your own savings,’ 1emalked Paul.
‘What fine stones / Do you want me not to scold you ?
Then let me put them in.'
‘You’ll never be able to manage it,” she replied,
holding up one of her dainty eals adorned with a plain
pink pearl, which Paul slipped out deftly. Then came
the turn of the other eal and the other pearl. He showed
the same dexteilty in putting in the diamonds, touching
his beloved as gently with his strong man's hands as
any gill could have done. To look at he self, Suzanne
took up a small mirror Set in a flame of antique silver,
another present of the Baron's, and smiled. She looked so
pretty at that moment that Paul diew her towards him,
and, holding her 1n his alms, tried to obtain a kiss from
her lips. As a rule, she nevel refused him this. Possibly,
from some complication in her nature, she had managed
to preserve, in spite of all, a kind of physical liking for
this honest, manly fellow, whom she deceived in such a
cruel fashion. What, then, had suddenly come over
her, and made the usual kiss unbearable P. She pushed
her husband away almost roughly, saying, “Oh let me
alone’—then, as if to mitigate the harshness of hel tone,
she added, ‘It’s ridiculous in an old married couple.
Good-bye, I have hardly time to dress.’
With these words she passed into her bedroom,
THE OTHER SIDE OF THE PICTURE 99
and so into her dressing-1 oom. Of all the apartments
in her home, this was the one in which the profound
materialism that formed the basis of this woman's
nature was most revealed. Her maid, Céline, a tall,
dark girl with impenetrable eyes, commenced to undless
her in this shrine of beauty, as gorgeously upholstered
as that of any royal Courtesan, and anyone who had
seen Suzanne at that moment would have understood
that she was ready to do anything for the luxury of living
in this atmosphere of Sup1eme refinement.
This woman, so delicately fashioned that she seemed
almost fragile, was one of those C1eatules who combine
full hips with a slender waist, neat ankles with a well-
turned leg, dainty wrists with rounded alms, small
features with a full figure, and whose diesses, by hiding
all such material chal ms, clothe them, as 16 were, with
spirituality. She cast a glance at the long millor set
in the centre of her waſ drobe, where, packed away in
sweet-smelling Sachets, lay piles of embloidered linen ;
seeing how well she looked she Smiled as there once
more flashed acı OSS her brain the same idea that but a
few moments ago had diagged her fi Om her husband's
arms. This 1dea was evidently not one of those which
it pleased hel to entertain, for she shook her head, and
a few minutes later, having thi Own Over her bare neck
and shouldeis a dressing-jacket of pale blue ſoula, d
silk and put her naked feet into a pair of soft swans-
down slippers, she gave herself up to the hands of her
maid, who began to di CSS the long, Shining hair. The
cool water in which she had bathed hel face had com-
pletely restored hel self-possession, and in the mirrol
before her she saw all the details of this apartment that
she had turned into the chapel of her one 1eligion—hel
beauty.
All was reflected there—the soft-toned carpet, the
bath of English porcelain, the wide marble washhand-
stand with its silver fittings and its host of small toilet
necessalies. Did the sight of all these things 1emind
; : *% . . . .
º jo
º
* @ * * * , sº
2
º * * *
IOO A LIVING LIE
ſº e
tº º g *
her of the divers conditions that secured her this happy
existence 2 In any case, it was of her husband she was
thinking when she exclaimed, “The dear, good fellow !’
The sparkling diamonds that she had kept in her ears
recalled thoughts of Desforges, and following close upon
the other came the mental exclamation, “Dear, kind
friend ' ' These two contradictory impressions became
as easily reconciled in the head adorned with those long
silken tresses as the two facts welle reconciled in life.
Women excel in these moral mosaics, which appear less
monstrous when the process of their construction has
been calefully watched. This fair Parisian of thirty was
certainly as thoroughly corruptcd as it is possible to be ;
but, to do her justice, 1t must be said at once that she
was unawale of it, so passive had she been with regard
to the circumstances that had gradually reduced her to
this state of unconscious 1mmolality.
When Suzanne had allowed hel self to be married
to Paul Moraines two years before the war of 1870
she had felt neither 1 epugnance nor enthusiasm. The
matter had been arianged by the two families ; old
Molaines, a senator ever since the establishment of the
Second Empire, belonged to the same set as old Bois-
Dauffin, and Paul, who was then an officer of the Council
of State, a good dancer and a charming ladies' man,
seemed made for her, as she did for him. For the first
two years they formed what is called in women's
parlance ‘a sweet couple ; it was one round of balls,
suppers, and theatre parties, with 1 ural festivities in
summer and hunting palties in autumn, all of which
both of them enjoyed to the full. Paul himself well
defined the kind of relations that bound him to his wife
amidst these continual pleasules. “You ale as bewitch-
ing as a mistress, he would say to her as he kissed her
in the brougham that took them home at one in the
morning
The 1evolution of the Fourth of September put an
... end to this faily-like existence. The families on both
gº
*
• *, *
THE OTHER SIDE OF THE PICTURE for
sides had lived on large salaries that were suddenly
stopped, but this stoppage had no immediate effect upon
the gratification of their expensive tastes. Until his
death, which occurred in 1873, Bois-Dauffin was con-
vinced of the Speedy restoration of a régame that had
been so strong, So well supported, and SO popular. The
ex-Senator, who survived his friend only a few months,
shared his Sanguine d1 eams. Paul had, of course, lost
his place at the Council of State. He possessed, to an
even gleater cztent than his father and his father-in-law,
that blind faith in the success of the cause which will
always remain an Original trait of the Imperialist party.
Suzanne, who had no faith of any kind, commenced to
be troubled in 1873 by a very clear vision of the 1u1n
towards which she and her husband were steel ing by
living, as they did, on their capital. This was piccisely
the moment when Frédé11c Desforges commenced to
pay her Coult.
This man, who was then not yet fifty, had remained
the most brilliant representative of the generation that
had come in with the Second Empile, and which had for
its chief the clear-sighted and seductive Duc de Molny.
In Suzanne's eyes the Baron's highest 1ecommendation
lay in the romantic tales of gallantry that were told of
him in the diawing-room, and Soon this prestige was
supplemented by his indisputable superiority in the
knowledge and management of Parisian Society. Hav-
ing been left a childless widower after a brief union, with
almost nothing to do, for his parliamentary duties did
not trouble him much, and with an income of four
hundred thousand francs a year, exclusive of his
mansion in the Cours-la-Reine, his estate 1n Anjou and
his chalet at Deauville, the fol mer favour 1te of the
famous Duke had the rare courage to allow himself to
glow old—just as his leadei had had the courage to die.
He wished to form one last attachment that would bear
cultivating until his sixtieth year, and plocule him not
only an agreeable and accommodating mistress, but a
IO2 A LIVING LIE
pleasant circle in which to spend his evenings. He had
taken in the position of Madame Moraines at a glance,
and decided that this was exactly the kind of woman
he wanted—extremely pietty and graceful, guaranteed
against all plobability of maternity by six years of
childless malried life, and possessing a presentable
husband, who would never become a blackmailel. The
crafty Baron Summed up all these advantages, and by
gradually worming his way into Suzanne's confidence,
by ploving his devotion in getting Moraines his
Secreta1yship, by making her accept presents upon
p1esents, and by showing that exquisite tact of a man
who only asks to be tolerated, he at last got hel to con-
sent to his wishes. All this, too, was done so slowly
and so Impel ceptibly, and the Zaaison, when once esta-
blished, became so simple and so closely bound up with
hel daily life, that the criminality of hel 1elations with
Desforges scarcely ever seemed to strike Suzanne.
What wi ong was she doing Moraines, after all P
Was she not his wife, and 1eally attached to him P. As for
the Baron, it is true that he plovided a very fair share of
the luxuries in which she indulged. But what of that?
May not a woman receive presents P If he paid a bill
here, and a bill there, did that hult anyone P. She was
his m1stless, but their relationship was clothed in an air
of respectability that made1t seem almost like a legitimate
union. She had become so accustomed to this compro-
mise with her conscience that she considered herself, if
not quite an honest woman, at least vastly Supel 10r in
virtue to a number of her friends with whose various
1ntrigues she was acquainted. If her conscience 1e-
proached her at all, 1t was for having deceived Desforges,
two years after the beginning of their intimacy, with a
swell clubman, whom she had carried off from one of hel
friends during the racing season at Deauville. This
individual had, however, almost compromised hel so
fatally, and she had been so quick to detect in him the
self-conceit of a mere flilt, that she had been only too
THE OTHER SIDE OF THE PICTURE 103
glad to sever the connection at once. Thereupon she
had sworn to restrict herself to the peaceful delights of
her three-cornered arrangement—to Paul's gentlemanly
ways and the Baron's Epicurean gallantry. And so
carefully had she kept her resolve, and with such attention
to Outward appearance, that her good name was as safe as
it could be in the enviable position to which her beauty
raised her. She had rivals who were too well
accustomed to drawing up accounts not to know that
the Moraines were living at the rate of eighty thousand
francs a year ; ‘and we knew them when they were almost
beggars,’ added these kind people “Scandal ' ' cried all
the Baron's filends in chorus, and he had a way of
making friends everywhere. ‘Scandall’ cried the simple-
minded people who are shocked by the tales of 1nfamy
that go the 10und of the drawing-1 ooms every night.
“Scandall' added the wiseacres, who know that the best
thing to do in Paris is to pretend to believe nothing, and
to take people at their own value.
Recollections of the innumerable services that
Desforges had rendered her were no doubt running
through Suzanne's mind as, seated before her toilet
table, she exclaimed, “The dear, kind friend l’ Why,
then, did the Baron's face, intelligent but worn, suddenly
make way for another and a younger face, adorned with
an ideal beard and lit up by a pair of dark blue eyes
that 1eflected all the ardoul of a vilgin and enthusiastic
soul ? Why, whilst Céline's nimble fingels were busy
with laces and hooks, would an inner voice continually
murmur the sweet music of these four syllables—René
Vincy P What secret temptation was she resisting when
she whispered again and again the word, ‘Impossible' '
She had seen the poet twice. That she, the mistress,
almost the pupil, of the elegant Desforges; she, the very
pattern of the Society belle, who had sold herself for all
this fine perfumed linen in which she wiapped her beauty
—fol these soft, silken skirts which her maid was now
fastening about her waist and for the countless luxuries
IO4. A LIVING LIE
that a licentious woman of fashion delights in, that she
could so forget herself as to be captivated by the eyes
and wolds of a chance poetastel, seen to-day and forgotten
to-mol row, was well nigh 1mpossible. She had said
‘Impossible !’ and yct helc she was thinking of him
again. How strange it was that ever since meeting
René she had been unable to rid herself of the alluring
hope of winning him If anyone had used that old-
fashioned phlase, ‘Love at filst sight,’ in her hearing, she
would have shrugged those pretty shoulders whose
graceful contours welle now revealed by her low-necked
Opera gown and whose whiteness was enhanced by the
single string of pealls she wore ; and yet, what other
wolds could describe the sudden and ardent feelings that
her meeting with the poet had inspired—feelings that
were hourly glowing mole intense P
The fact of the matter was that for some months
past Suzanne had been somewhat boled between hel
husband—‘the dear, good fellow ’—and her ‘dear, kind
friend,’ the Baron. The life of pleasure and of luxury
for which she had made so many sacrifices seemed to
her empty and dull. This she called “being too happy.”
‘I ought to have a little trouble,” she would say, with a
laugh. Incessant indulgence had destroyed her appetite
fol enjoyment and made her a prey to the molal and
physical weariness that frequently causes demi-mondaines
to suddenly throw up a position which it has cost them
much labour to attain. They 1equire fresh Sensations,
and, above all, that of love. They will commit any folly
when once they have met the man who is able to make
them feel something beyond their former empty delights
—one whom their less elegant Sisters would expressively
term ‘their sort.’
For Madame Moraines, who had just attained her
thirtieth year, and who, satiated as she was with every
kind of luxury, with no ambition to realise, and without
the least respect for the men she met in her set, the ap-
parition of a new being like René, so entirely different
THE OTHER SIDE OF THE PICTURE Io;
to the usual drawing-room ‘Swell,’ might and did become
an event in its way. It was curiosity that led her to
take a seat next to him at Madame Komof's suppel-
table, and hel feminine tact had at once told her 1n
what rôle she would be most seductive in his eyes. His
conversation had delighted her, but on her return home
she had gone to sleep after uttering the ‘Impossible !’
which is used as a charm against all complaints of this
kind by Society belles, a class mole bound down in their
narrow paths of pleasure than any busy housewife by
her daily duties. Then René had called, and the 1m-
pression he had alieady made on her was intensified a
hundred-fold. She was pleased with all she saw or
imagined in the young man—his good looks, his true-
heartedness, his awkwardness, and his timidity. It was
in vain that she kept 1epeating ‘Impossible !’ as she put
the finishing touch to her dress by fastening one on two
diamond pins in her bodice—in spite of that word she
was already capitulating. She turned the 1dea ovel again
and again, and all kinds of plans for b11nging the adven-
ture to a successful issue passed through her practical
mind ‘Desforges is very shalp, she reflected, adding,
as she remembered the Baron's tirade against literary
men, “and he has already Smelt a rat.’ This tirade had
at first affolded her amusement, but now it annoyed
her, and made her feel a desire to act in a manner en-
tirely opposed to hel excellent friend's wishes. She
was so completely absol bed in thought that it attracted
her maid's attention, and caused that young person to
say to the footman, ‘There's something wrong with
Madame. Can Monsieur have found out anything 2'
This unleasonable and iriesistible abstraction lasted
all through dinner, then on the way to the theatre, and
even during the performance, until Madame Ethorel
suddenly remarked, ‘Isn't that Monsieu Vincy looking
at us over there—in the stalls neal the door on the
1ight?'
‘Madame Komof's poet P’ asked Suzanne indiffe-
IO6 A LIVING LIE
rently. During René's visit she had mentioned that she
was going to the Opera that night. She 1emembered
it now as she put up her own glasses, mounted in chased
Silver—another plesent from the Balon. She saw
René, and as he timidly turned away his glance a sudden
thrill 1an through her. Had Desforges, from his place
at the back of the box, overheard Madame Ethorel's
remark 2 No, she thought not ; he was in deep con-
versation with Crucé.
‘He is talking shop, she said to herself as she
listened, ‘and has heald nothing. What is going on in
me?’
It was the first time for many a day that the music
touched some chord of feeling within hel. She spent
the evening between the happiness that René's presence
caused hel and the mortal dread that he might visit
hel in her box. The shame of having been remarked
no doubt palalysed the poet, for he dared not even look
towards the place where Suzanne Sat, and when she
went down to hel cal riage his face was not to be seen
in the double row of men who lined the staircase.
There was therefore nothing to prevent hel from giving
herself up to the idea that had obtained such a hold
upon her, and as she laid her fair head upon the lace-
covered pillow she had got so far as to say: ‘Provided
he doesn't ask his filend Lalcheſ for information about
me!’
CHAPTER IX
AN ACTRESS IN REAL LIFE
EVERY molning a little beſole nine Paul Molaines
entered his wife's room. By that time she had had her
bath and was employed in attending to little trifles.
Her small white feet, showing their blue veins, played
in and out of hel slippers, her dressing gown of soft
AN ACTRESS IN REAL LIFE IO7
clinging material was gathered round her slim waist by
a silken cord, and her hair hung down in a thick golden
plait. The bedroom, in which the big bedstead took
up a good deal of Space, was aired and perfumed, and
to Paul the thiee-quartels of an hour he spent in taking
his morning cup of tea with Suzanne at a little table
near the window was the happiest part of the day.
He had to be at his office by ten, and was too busy to
come home for lunch. He was the kind of man who
sits down in a first-class restaurant about half-past
twelve, orders the plat du four, a small bottle of wine,
and a Cup of Coffee, and goes away after having spent
the Smallest sum possible It pleased him to rival
his wife's economy in this fashion. But his morning
Cup of tea was the reward he looked forwald to during
the six or seven hours he devoted to the Company's
work.
‘There are some days,’ he would say in his simple
way, “when I should see nothing of you if it were not
for this thrice blessed cup of tea l’ It was he who
served her ; he buttered hel toast with infinite care and
watched her dainty teeth attack the crisp morsels He
was uneasy when, as on the molning after she had seen
René at the Opera, her eyes wele not quite so bright
as usual and a look of fatigue showed that she had not
had sufficient sleep. All night had she been tormented
by thoughts of the young poet, and by the stir he had
made amongst the small bundle of remnants she called
her feelings. Her mind being before all else clear and
precise—the mind of a business man at the service of a
p1etty woman's whims—she had reviewed the means at
her disposal fol giatifying her passionate caprice. The
first condition was that she should see René again, and
see him often ; now, that was impossible at hel own
house, as was proved by her husband's words that vely
morning. After a few tender inquiries concerning her
health, he asked, ‘Did you have many visitois yester-
day?'
IO8 A LIVING LIE
“None at all, she replied ; and it being her custom
never to tell an unnecessary fib, she added, ‘only
Desfolges and that young fellow who wrote the play
performed at Madame Komof's the other night.”
“René Vincy,’ 1emarked Molaines. “I’m sorly I
missed him—I like his work very much. What is he
like P Is he presentable P’
‘He's nothing much,' answeled Suzanne ; ‘ quite
insignificant.”
‘Did Desforges see him P’
‘Yes—why?’
“I’ll ask the Balon about him. I dare say he took
his measure at the first glance. He has a rare know-
ledge of men.’
‘That's just like him,” said Suzanne, when Moraines
was gone, after having devoured her with kisses; ‘he
tells the Baron everything’ She foresaw that the first
person to tell Desforges of René's frequent visits to the
Rue Murillo, if she got the poet to come, would be Paul
himself. “He is really too silly, she went on, getting
out of patience with him for his absolute confidence in
the Baron, which she had herself been most instrumental
in inspiring. But now she was beginning to flet under
the first feelings of restraint.
Thoughts of René ran through her head all the
morning, which was spent in looking over accounts
and in 1eceiving the visit of Madame Leloux, her mani-
cure, a person of ripe age, extremely devout, with a
Sanctimonious and discreet air, who waited on the most
aristociatic hands and feet in Palis. As a 1ule Suzanne,
who, with perfect justice, looked upon inferiors as the
principal source of all Society Scandal, had a long talk
with Madame Leroux, partly to procure her good-will,
partly to hear a good many details concerning those
whom the altiste deigned to honour with her services.
Madame Leroux was therefore never tired of singing
the praises of that charming Madame Moraines, ‘so un-
affected and so good. She absolutely worships her
AN ACTRESS IN REAL LIFE IO9
husband.’ But that day none of the manicure's flattery
could draw a single word from her fair client. The
desire that had seized hold of the latter grew stronger
and stronger, whilst the obstacles that stood in the
way of its gratification assumed a clearer and more
uncompromising shape. To gain a man's love requires
time and opportunities of meeting. René did not go
into Society, and if he had done so it would have been
worse still, for other women would have taken him
from her. Here, in her home in the Rue Murillo, she
could have wormed her way into his virgin heart so
easily—and only the Baron's watchfulness prevented
her.
It was the first time for some years that she felt
helself fettered, and a fit of angel against the man to
whom she owed all she had came over her. Filled with
such thoughts as these she lunched as usual alone, and
in very flugal fashion. Even with the generous assist-
ance of her benefactor she could only make both ends
meet by practising economy in things that would not be
noticed, such as the table In her solitude she felt so
miserable and at the same time so utterly powerless that,
as she rose, the cly almost escaped her, “What is the
use of it, after all P’
What was the use of it all, indeed P. She was a
slave. Not only could she not see René as she wished
in her own house, but that vely afternoon, in spite of
the new sentiments that were springing up within her,
she had to keep an appointment with Desforges.
‘What is the use of 1t P’ she repeated, as she got
herself ready to go out, putting on a pail of tiny shoes
1nstead of boots, a plain dress that fastened in front, a
black bonnet, and in her pocket a thick veil. She had
ordered her carriage for two o'clock—a brougham and
pair that she hired by the month for the afternoon and
evening. On getting into it she was so crushed by the
weight of her slavery that she could have cried. What,
then, were her feelings when, on turning the corner of
I IO A LIVING LIE
the street, she saw René Standing theie, evidently wait-
ing to see hel pass P
Their eyes met. He took his hat off with a blush,
and she too could not help blushing 1m the corner of her
cal riage, so great was the pleasulable revulsion of
feeling caused by this unexpected meeting, and especi-
ally by the idea that he must be in love with her. She,
the cleature of calculation and deceit, fell into one of
those piofound 1 everies in which women, when in love,
anticipate all the delights to which the sentiment they
experience and inspire can give b11th. At such a
moment they will give themselves up 1m thoughts to
the man they did not know a week ago. If they daled,
they would give themselves up too, there and then,
though this would not hinder them from persuading the
man who conqueled them at the filst glance that their
subjugation was a work of time and degrees. In this
they are right, for man's stupid vanity is glatified by
the difficulties of the conquest, and few have sense
enough to understand the divine quality of love that is
spontaneous, natural, and 11 resistible.
Whilst the poet walked off, saying to himself, ‘ I am
undone—she will never forgive me for such folly,’
Suzanne was in one of those transports of delight
before which prudence 1tself gives way, and, folgetting
her feals of the morning, she now saw hel way to
cal rying Out one of those S1mple plans such as only the
eminently realistic mind of a woman can concoct. She
had set hel Self the task of deceiving a vely sharp man,
and one who was well acquainted with hel disposition.
The best thing to do, the efore, was to act in a mannel
exactly contraly to what that man would expect and
foresee. Mattels must be piecipitated ; René must be
brought to her feet after two or thiee visits, and she
must surrender before he had had time to woo her; Des-
forges would never Suspect her of such an escapade—he
who knew her to be SO circumspect, so cautious, and so
clever. But what if the poet despiscq hel for hel too easy
AN ACTRESS IN REAL LIFE I I I
surrender P She shook her pretty head incredulously
as this objection occurled to her. That was a matter of
tact and of woman's wit, and there she was Sure of her
ground !
Her joy at having roughly worked out this problem
and the Joy of deceiving the subtle Balon became so
strangely mixed that she now looked forward to her
appointment not only without 1egret, but with malicious
delight. On reaching the colonnades in the Rue de
Rivoli she got out as usual and sent the carriage home.
The house in which the Baron had taken rooms for his
meetings with Suzanne possessed two entrances, an
advantage SO uncommon in Paris that buildings
favoured in that way ale not only well known, but
Imuch sought after by transgressors of the Seventh
Commandment. Flédélic was too Intimately acquainted
with this phase of Parisian life to have fallen into the
error of going to a place whose 1 eputation was alieady
made. The house he had somewhat accidentally hit
upon must have escaped discovely by reason of its
sedate and dismal-looking fiontage 1n the Rue du
Mont-Thabor, where he had taken the first floor, con-
S1sting of an ante-room and three othel apartments.
The rooms were kept in O1 del by his valet, a man on
whom he could thoroughly 1ely, thanks to the liberal
wages he gave him. Considc1able regard had been paid
to what must be called the comfort of pleasure in
furnishing this Small Suite, where the hangings and
curtains deadened the noises ſiom without, where soft
skins were thiown down here and there fol naked feet,
where the countless mirrors leminded one of similar but
less decorous places, and where the low alm-chairs and
couches invited those long, familiar talks in which lovels
delight. In a word, the minute care bestowed upon
this interior would alone have betrayed the extent of
the Baron's sensualism.
Suzanne had so often come to this house during the
past few years, she had so often tied on hel thick veil
I I 2 A LIVING LIE
in the doorway in the Rue de Rivoli, so often hastencil
past the porter's lodge that she had come to perform
almost mechanically these rites of adultely which pro-
cule novices such exquisite emotions. To-day, as she
mounted the stalls, she could not help thinking how
differently she would feel if she were going to meet
René Vincy instead of the Baron in this quiet retreat.
She knew so well exactly what would happen. Des-
forges would be there and have everything prepared for
her reception, from the flowers in the vases to the bread
and butter for tea ; then, at a given moment, she would
go into the diessing-room and come out in a loose lace
gown, hel hall hanging about her shoulders and her
little feet encased in slippers similar to those she wore
1n the morning She took not the least pleasure in all
this, but the Bal on had such a chal ming way of show-
1ng his glatitude for the favous she granted him and
displayed so much wit and affection during their long
talks together that it was fiequently he who had to
1emind his mistless that it was time to go.
To-day the state of her mind and feelings piompted
Suzanne herself to say, as soon as she had enteled the
room, ‘ I am vely sorly, Flédéric deal, but I shall have
to leave you lather eally.”
“Has it put you out to come 2' asked the Baron as
he helped hel off with her cloak. ‘Why didn't you
send me a line to countermand our appointment?’
‘He is 1eally too kind, thought Suzanne, feeling
some slight 1 cmorse for hel unnecessary fib. Taking
her hat off before the glass the flash of hel diamond
eat rings caught her eye, and suddenly 1 eminded her of
all that she owed this man, who asked for so little in
return.
False situations sometimes give rise to conscientious
paradoxes, and it was a feeling of honesty that impelled
this woman to come and seat herself on the arm of the
Baron's easy chair and to sigh, “I should have been
terribly disappointed myself. Will you never believe
AN ACTRESS IN REAL LIFE II 3
that I am 1eally glad to come hele 2—I owe him that at
least, she thought, and in further obedience to her
strange qualms of conscience she contrived to be more
than usually fascinating and docile during the whole of
their fate-d-16te.
At the end of a couple of houls, whilst she was lying
back half buried in one of the great arm-chairs, enjoying
a caviar sandwich and a thimbleful of fine old sherry,
Desforges, who was watching her dainty movements as
she ate, could not help exclaiming : ‘Ah ! Suzon | At
my age, too ! What would Noirot say ?’
This Noirot who had so suddenly troubled the
Baron's mind was a doctor who treated him to a course
of massage every morning and watched ovel his general
health. Everything in the life of this systematic
voluptual y was ca1efully planned Out, from the amount
of exercise to be taken each day to the attendance he
should receive when in his dotage. He had taken into
his house a poor and pious female 1elative, to whose
good wolks he annually subscribed a pretty 1ound sum.
When complimented on his geneiosity, he would reply
in his own joculal and cynical way: “What can I do 2
I must have some one to look after me in my old age
My cousin will be my nulse, and make the best one in
Paris.’
Generally these outbusts of unblushing egotism
amused Suzanne. She saw in them a conception of life
whose pronounced materialism was far from displeasing
her. But to-day she looked a little mole closely at the
Baion as he uttered his doctol's name, and sitting the c
with the lamp-light full upon his wrinkled face, his
diooping moustache and his swollen eyelids, he looked
so broken down and so fully his age that the hideous-
ness of her own life suddenly bul St upon hel. It is a
horrible thing for a young and beautiful woman to
endule the ca1esses of a man she docs not love, cven
when that man is young, full of passion and a dour.
But when he is boldeling on old age, when he pays for
I
II.4. A LIVING LIE
the right to pollute this fail woman whose love he can-
not win, then it is prostitution so terrible that disgust
gives way to sorrow. For the filst time, perhaps,
Desforges looked old in Suzanne's eyes, and by an
irresistible 1mpulse of her whole soul she called to
mind, as a contrast, the fresh lips and fair young face
of the man whose image had haunted her for the past
two days. She felt how foolishly she had behaved in
hesitating for an instant, and, being a person of
determination, she commenced to act at once.
She was now dressed, and having put on her bonnet
and buttoned hel gloves, she said to Desforges before
tying on hel veil, ‘When ale you coming to lunch with
me . Once upon a time you often used to come without
being asked—1t was So nice of you.’
‘To-morlow I can't,' he 1eplied, ‘nor the next day
eithel, but the day after that——
‘Tuesday, then P. That's an understood thing. And
to-night I shall sce you at Madame de Sermoises', sha’n’t
I P
‘Charming woman l’ thought the Balon, as he was
left alone. “She might have so many adventures, and
hel only thought 1s of pleasing me.’
‘The day aftel to-mol low, then, I am sule of being
alone,’ said Suzanne to hel self as she swept along the
pavement of the Rue du Mont-Thabor, casting cautious
glances to the 11ght and left, but with such art that hel
eyes scarcely seemed to move. ‘But what czcuse can I
give René’—she already called him by that name in hel
thoughts— to make him come 2 I know—I’ll ask him
to wiite a few lines on a copy of the “Sigisbée" that I’m
going to send to a fi Iend.’
She had to pass a bookselle's in the Rue Castiglione,
and went in to buy the book, being in that state of mind
when the execution of an 10ea follows almost automati-
cally upon its conception. “I hope he'll not do anything
foolish before then. And I hope he won't hear anything
about me that will dampen his ardour.” Claude Larcher
AN ACTRESS IN REAL LIFE 115
once more came into her mind. ‘Yes—he's certainly
dangerous, she thought, and saw at once the means of
avoiding the danger provided René came to her before
speaking to Claude. Then 1t suddenly stiuck her that
she did not know the poet's address, but that difficulty
could be got over by calling on Madame Komof. ‘It is
past six now, and she is sure to be at home.’ Hailing a
cab, she drove to the Rue du Bel-Respiro, and was lucky
enough to find the Comtesse alone, from whom 16 was
easy to obtain the information she wanted.
The worthy lady, whose soirée had been a success,
was loud in her p1aise of the poet. ‘Adéa/ /’ she ex-
claimed, with one of her wild gesticulations, ‘charming !
And so modest ! He will be your modeln Poushkin.”
“Do you know where he lives 2' 1nquired Suzanne.
‘He called on me and only left his name.’
No soonel had her note been written and sent than
she became a pley to that uncertainty upon which new-
born love thrives so well that in those days when the
stiange but not unintellectual vice of seduction was still
fashionable the professors of the art used to dwell upon
the importance of invoking the aid of this feverish con-
dition. Would René come or not 2 If he came, what
would he look like P
She would be able to see at once by his face if any-
thing had happened to impail the 1mpression she was
sule she had made upon him the othel day The houl
that she had fixed in hel note at length al 11yed, and when
the poet was announced Suzanne's heart beat faster
than did that of hel Simple lover. She looked at him
and read to the bottom of his Soul. Yes, she was still
to him the Madonna she had pletended to be fiom the
first with that facility of metamorphosis peculiar to these
Protei in petticoats. In his soft daik blue eyes she
perceived both joy and feat—joy at seeing hel again so
soon, and in her own home ; fear at appearing befol C
this angel of purity after having dared to look for her at
the Opera and to wait for her at the corner of the street.
I 2
I I6 A LIVING LIE
This time the charming actress had devised a new
background for her beauty. She was seated near the
window, and with some bundles of silk thread and the
aid of a few pins was working a pattern upon a drum
of green cloth. Behind her the lace curtains were
drawn back in their bands, and the visitor's gaze could
rest upon the landscape of the Parc Monceau, upon the
pale blue sky, the bale trees, the yellow grass, and the
dark ivy that grew about the 1u1ns. A February sun
lit up this wintry prospect, and its rays fell caressingly
upon Suzanne's hair with 1ts soft golden sheen. A white
diess, made in fanciful style, with long, wide sleeves and
trimmings of violets, gave her the appearance of a lady
of the M1Cldle Ages. Her feet, encased in silk stockings
of the same shade as the ti Imming of her dress, were
modestly crossed upon a low footstool. Had she been
told that less than forty-eight hours ago these same
modest feet had wandered across the ca1 pets of what
was almost a house of 111-fame, that this hair had been
handled by an aged lover who paid her, that she was in
fact kept by Desforges, she would probably have denied
the statement in perfect Since11ty, so closely did her
desire to please René make hel identify hersetſ With the
*&e she was playing.—
The poet could not be awale of this. He had spent
three days in one continual state of exaltation, feeling
his desile increase houly, and very glad to feel 11. The
beginning of a passion 1s as alluring at twenty-five as at
thirty-five it is terrifying. Suzanne's note had given him
unmistakable proofs that the trifling impludences which
he himself looked upon as a crime had not given gleat
displeasure, but in matters that concern us very closely
we always find flesh motives fol doubt, and this grown-
up child had been Silly enough to fear the reception that
awaited him. How delighted he was, therefore, to be
met with the simple familiarity, the beaming eyes, and
the sweet Smile of this woman whom, seated in the fore-
ground of the wintry landscape, he immediately com-
AN ACTRESS IN REAL LIFE I 17
pared to those saints whom the early masters set in the
midst of gleen fields and placid lakes. But this was a
saint whose gown had been made by the first tailor in
Paris, a Saint from whom there emanated that odour of
heliotrope which had already played such havoc with
the poet's Senses, and through the opening of whose long,
wide sleeves two golden bands were seen clasping an
arm as white as Snow.
What René had so much feared did not take place.
Madame Molaines did not make the slightest allusion
either to the Opera or to their meeting at the corner of
the street. Fol some time she continued her work,
having quite naturally brought the conversation round
from Madame Komof's enthusiasm to the poet's plans
for the futule. She, who could not have distinguished
Béranger from Victor Hugo, or Volta11e from Lamar-
tine, spoke like one entirely devoted to literature She
had met Théophile Gautier two or three times under the
Empire, and though she had scarcely looked at him on
account of his complete lack of British elegance, this did
not prevent her from giving the enthusiastic René a
minute description of the great writer. He had În-
terested her to such a degree—she thought she must
still have some of his letters.
“I must find them for you, she said Then, 1.cminded
by this lie, she added, ‘I am solry to have put you to all
this inconvenience for your autograph, but my fliend
leaves fol Russia to-morrow.’
‘What shall I write P' asked René.
‘Whatever you please, she said, rising to get the
book, and placing it on her ivy-mantled desk. She got
everything 1eady for him to make his task easier—
opened the ink-pot with its silver top and put a fresh
pen in the ivory and gold penholder; in doing this she
contrived to touch René lightly in passing to and fro,
enveloping him with her sweet perfume and causing his
hand to tremble as he copied on the fly-sheet of the
I IS A LIVING LIE
book the two verses which kind Madame Etholel had
called a sonnet :
The phantom of a day long dead
Appeared, with hand stretched out to show
A fair white rose whose bloom was fled,
And in my car it whispered low,
‘Where is thy heart of long ago?
Where is that hope thy fond heart chose
So like this lose in days of yole P
Dear was the hope and dear the lose.
How sweet their perfume helctofore
When once they bloomed ! They bloom no mole.’
When he had finished writing Madame Moraines
took the book fiom his hands, and, standing behind him,
recited the verses in a low, almost inaudible, voice, as if
to hel Sclf. She added no word of p1aise or criticism,
but, after having 1ead out the lines with a sigh, 1emained
standing there as though their music lent an infinitely
tender tone to hel 1 ever 1e.
René gazed at hel almost wild with cmotion. How
could he have resisted such sweet and sup1eme flattery
as that which she had just employed to captivate him,
appealing, as 16 did, both to his vanity as an alt1st and
to his highest conceptions of beauty P And, indeed,
she had managed to fall into a splendid Žose whilst
reading. She knew how charming she looked with half-
averted face and eyes cast down. But suddenly she
turned these glorious cycs, now eloquent with the
feelings 1nSp11ed by his lines, full upon the poet, and
almost asked pal don fol hel tempol aly abst1action.
She scemed to step out of he poetic visions as though
she were aflaid of p1 Ofaning them, and with a culiosity
this time as 1eal as hel al tificial cmotion was appalent,
she said: ‘I am sule you did not wiite these lines for
your play P’
‘That is true, 1eplied René, with another blush.
He had scruples about lying to this woman, even to
please her. But how could he tell hel the sad and
AN ACTRESS IN REAL LIFE I IQ
wretched story which, with a poet's touch, he had
transformed into a romantic idyll P
“Ah! you men l’ she went on, without waiting for
further reply—‘how full your life is, and how flee
But you must not think I am complaining. We
Christian wives know out duty, and a beautiful one it
is—obedience ' After a moment's silence she added :
‘Alas! we do not always choose our master,’ and then,
in a tone of mingled resignation and pride that both
suggested and folbade ful the speculation, ‘ I am Soriy
I have not been able to int1 oduce you to Monsieu1
Moraines yet I hope you will like him He is not
much 1ntelestcd in alt, but he is a vely clever man in

business. Unfortunately—wº-live in an age when O11C
º in Islael to get on well 'P.C.C.T.
STmay be imagined, theſe was not the slightest
anti-Semitic feeling 1n Suzanne, who was always very
glad to receive invitations to dine at two or thiee Jewish
houses of princely hospitality, but it had struck her that
these words would intensiſy the halo of picty with which
she had endeavoured to invest herself in the poet's eyes
‘You will find my husband somewhat 1esel ved at first,’
she continued ; “1t was my ambition to make my diaw-
ing-1 oom a 1endez-vous of wiiters and altists, but you
know that business men are a little Jealous of you all,
and then Monsieur Molaines doesn't cale for society
much. He was not at Madame I&omof's the othel
night; he likes to move just in a small c11cle, and have
only well-known faces about him.’
She spoke with an air of constraint, as if she meant
to say, ‘You must excuse me 1f I cannot ask you to
come and see me here as I should like ’ This con-
strained air also meant that this lovely woman must
have been sacrificed (not that she was ever heald to
complain) to cold social considerations which take no
account whatevel of sentiment. Alleady, in René's
imagination, Paul Moraines, that amiable and jovial
fellow, had become a Crotchety and bad-tempered
I 20 A LIVING LIE
husband, to whom this creature of a Superior race was
bound by the terrible chains of duty. In addition to the
passion that animated him, he felt for her that pity
which the less a woman deserves it the more she loves
to inspire.
Tempering the pointedness of his reply by the
generality in which he clothed it, he made bold to say,
‘I wish I could tell you how often, when I have wan-
dered as far as the Champs-Elysées, I have longed to
know the secret of the sadness I imagined I saw on
certain faces It has always seemed to me that the
troubles of the wealthy are the worst, and that mental
anguish in the midst of material well-being is most to
be pitied
She looked at him as if his words surprised her. In
her eyes was that look of rapt and involuntary astonish-
ment worn by a woman when she suddenly discovers in
a man a shade of sentimentalism which she believed to
be restricted to her own sex.
‘I think we shall soon become friends,’ she said, ‘for
there is much in our hearts that 1s similar. Ale you
like me? I believe in sympathy and antipathy by sheer
instinct, and I think I can also feel when people don't
like me. Now—perhaps I am wrong in telling you
this, but I speak to you in confidence, as if I had known
you a long time—there is your friend Monsieur Larcher;
I am sure that he doesn’t like me.’
She was really agitated as she said this, for she was
now about to learn for certain, not whether Claude had
been speaking 111 of her—she knew he had not by René's
face—but whether the poet could hold his tongue. She
was well aware that in a love affair the dangelous time
for imprudent confidences lies at the beginning and the
end. Your only sure men are those who can keep their
peace when their hearts are overflowing with hope or
bitterness. By René's reply she would be able to judge
an important trait In his character, and one that was a
principal factor in the plan that she had madly and
AN ACTRESS IN REAL LIFE I 2 I
rapidly evolved. It was only natural that he should
have confided his passion to Claude on the very day of
its birth—and he would have done so, too, had it not
been for Colette's presence. This detail was, of course,
unknown to Suzanne, and René's silence was a promise
of prudence that set her heart beating.
‘We have never mentioned your name,’ said the
poet; ‘but, as you remarked only too justly the other
evening, he has always been particularly unfortunate in
his love affairs, and he cannot shake his troubles off. If
you could but see how he carries on with the woman he
is miserably in love with at the present moment l’
‘That is no reason,’ said Suzanne, ‘why he should
revenge himself by forcing his attentions upon any
woman chance throws 1n his way. I got quite angry
one day when he was seated next to me at table I
heard, too, that he had been speaking ill of me, but I
have forgiven him.’
‘And now Claude may say what he likes, she
thought when René had gone after promising to come
again in three days' time and to bring his collection of
unpublished poems. Then she looked at herself in the
glass with unfeigned satisfaction The Interview had
been a success; she had made the poet understand that
she could not receive him in the ordinary way; she had
put him on his guard against his best friend, and she
had completed her capture of his healt.
‘He is mine, she cried, and this time hel joy was
sincele and deep.
CHAPTER X
I N T H E TO I L S
SUZANNE thought she was very clever—and not with-
out reason ; but by being too clever people often defeat
their own ends, Accustomed to confound love and
I 22 A LIVING LIE
mere gallantly, she knew nothing of the generous expan-
sion of feeling to be found in one so young as the object
of her semi-1omantic, semi-sensual captice. She pre-
sumed that the insidious accusation she had thrown out
against Claude would put René on his guard. It
resulted, however, in giving the poet an iriesistible desile
to talk to Larchel. It gl 1eved him to think that the
latter should entertain a false opinion of Madame
Molaines Which of us, at twenty-five, has not felt a
desire that out dearest friend should 1cselve a special
place in his esteem fol the woman we loved P. It is as
strong then as is at forty the wise desire to hide our-
selves most of all fiom that same fiend.
René's first act on leaving Suzanne was to proceed
at once to the Rue de Valenne. He had not been to
see Claude since the day when he had met Colette in
his rooms, and as he passed through the gateway and
made his way across the spacious Coultyard he could
not help comparing this visit with his last. They were
separated by a very few houls only, but yet by what a
gulf! The poet was a prey to that fever of delight which
makes reasoning 1mpossible He did not reflect that
his Madonna had been wonderfully clever in b11nging
matters to Such a pass So Soon. The amazing rapidity
with which his hopes wele being realised only delighted
him, and showed him how strong his love really was
He felt so light and happy that he bounded up the
old staircase two steps at a time, Just as he used to
do when as a boy he came home fiom School after
1eaching the top of the class To-day Lalcher's man
admitted him without the slightest hesitation, but he
wore such a long face that René asked him what was
the matter.
‘It isn't right, sil,” sighed Ferdinand, shaking his
head. ‘Master has been at it now for forty-eight houls—
writing, writing, writing—and with only about six hours'
sleep altogether. You ought really to tell him, sir, that
he'll damage his constitution. Why can't he get into a
IN THE TOILS I 23
nice, comfortable habit of working a little every day, like
everybody else P’
The man's wise remonstrances prepared René for
the sight that he knew so well—the ‘den' in which he
had seen Colette enthroned turned 1nto a writer's work-
shop. He went in. The broad leather-covered couch
on which the glaceful but frivolous actress had 1 eclined
was now covered with sheets of papel flung down and
covered with great Straggling characters written 1n haste ;
similar sheets, all toln or crumpled, being strewn about
the floor, and the chimney-piece encumbered with half-
opened bundles of p1oofs.
Larchel, with a beard of three days’ growth and
unkempt hail, was seated at his writing table, dressed
like a beggar, in a dirty coat devoid of a Single button,
a pail of worn-out slippers on his feet, and a silk hand-
kerchief tied in a knot 1ound his neck The real
Bohemian, utterly 1egal dless of appearance from his
earliest youth, came to the sulface every time the would-
be swell was obliged to step out of his paſt and put his
shoulder to the wheel. And this he was obliged to do
pretty fiequently. Like all litelaly workers whose
time 1s their sole capital, and who, the efore, lead most
irregular lives, Claude was always behindhand with his
work and short of money, especially Since his relations
with Colette had 1nvolved him in that most 1uinous
expense of all—the expense incurred by a young man
for a woman he does not keep. Besides the salary she
drew from the theatre, the actless had an income of
twenty thousand francs, left her by an old admirei, a
Russian noble who was killed at Plevna ; but what with
riding about and dining Out with his m1stress, and buy-
1ng her heaps of flowels and presents, Claude had to
find many a bank-note. The proceeds of the two plays
being long spent, the wiitel was forced to earn these
w1etched notes by overworking his blain in the intervals
of his enervating debauches.
“At it again ' ' he cried, looking up with his pale
I 24 A LIVING LIE
face and clasping René's hand in his fevelish grasp.
‘Fifteen chapters to be deliveled at once. A splendid
stroke of business with the Chronique Parisienne, the
new eight-page paper financed by Audry. They came
and asked me for a story the other day to run as a
feuil/eton for a fortnight. A franc a line. I told them
I had one ready—only wanted copying. My dear
fellow—hadn't got a word witten—not that But I had
an idea Re-wl 1te “Adolphe "up to date in our jargon,
and put in out local colouring. It will be a beastly
hash, but all that's nothing Do you know what it
means to sit down and write while your heart is being
to tuled by jealousy P I am here at my table, scribbling
a phrase ; an 1ciea occuls to me, and I want to hold it.
Now fol It, I think. Suddenly a voice within me says:
“What is Colette doing now P” And I put down my
pen as the pain—ah | Such tellible pain l—comes over
me. Balzac used to say that he had discovered how much
brain matter was wasted in a night's debauch : half a
volume ; and he used to add, “There is not a woman
b1eathing worth two volumes a year.” What nonsense !
It isn’t love that wears out an artist, but the continual
worry of some fixed idea causing one long heart-ache.
Is it possible to think and feel at the same time 2 We
must choose one or the other. Victor Hugo never felt
anything—nor did Balzac. If he had really loved his
Madame Hanska he would have run after her all
over Europe, and would have cared for his “Comédie
humaine” as much as I do for this rubbish. Ah! my
dear René, he continued with an air of dejection as he
gathered up the sheets scattered all over his desk, ‘keep
to your simple mode of life. I hope you have not been
weak enough to accept the invitations of any of the
sharks you met at Madame Komot's.'
‘I have only paid one visit, replied René, ‘and that
was to Madame Moraines.’ He could scarcely control
himself as he pronounced her name. Then, with the
involuntary impetuosity of a lover who, though come
IN THE TOILS I 25
expressly to speak of his mistress, is afraid of criticism,
and staves off the reply as he would thrust aside the point
of a dagger, he added, ‘Isn't she sweetly pretty and
graceful? And what lofty ideas she has Do you think
ill of her too 2'
‘Bah!’ exclaimed Claude, too full of his own suffer-
ings to pay much heed to René's words, “I dare say we
could find something ugly in her past or hel present 1ſ
we tried. All women have within them the toad that
springs fiom the mouth of the princess in the fairy tale.’
‘Is there anything you know about her ?’ asked the
poet.
“Anything I know !’ replied Claude, struck by the
strange tone of his friend's voice. He looked at René
and saw how matters stood.
Mixing as he did in Parisian Society, he was well
acquainted with the 1umours concerning Suzanne and
Baron Desforges, and with the easy-going—though
sometimes mistaken— c1edulity of a misanthiope to
whom every infamy seems probable because possible,
he believed them. For a moment he was tempted to
info1m René of these 1 umours, but he held his tongue
Was it from motives of pludence, and in order not to
make an enemy of Desforges, In case Suzanne should
get to know what he had said, and tell the Balon 2 Was
1t out of pity for the glief his words would cause René 2
Was it for the cruel delight of having a companion in his
torture—for how much better was Suzanne than Colette 2
Was he impelled by the curiosity of an analyst and
the desire to witness another's passion P Who shall deter-
mine the exact point of departure of so many and such
complex motives as go to make up a sudden resolve P
Claude paused for a moment, as if to ransack his
memory, and then repeated his fiend's question. “Is
there anything I know about her ? Nothing at all. I am
a professional woman-/later, as the English say. I only
know the woman thiough having met hel here and
there, and I thought hel a little less foolish than most
I 26 A LIVING LIE
of her kind. It's true she is very pretty l’ And then,
cither out of malice of in order to sound René's heart,
he added, ‘Allow me to congratulate you !”
‘You talk as though I were in love with hel,’ replied
René, growing red with shame. He had come there with
the intention of Singing Suzanne's plaises, and now
Claude's bantering tone caused his confidences to freeze
upon his lips.
“So you are not in love with her l’ clied Latcher,
with his most horribly cynical laugh. Then, with one
of those geneious impulses in which his better and
truer natule 1 evealed 1tself, he took his fi iend's hand
and begged his paidon. Seeing in René's eyes that this
was about to plovoke a flesh outburst, he stopped him.
‘Don’t tell me anything You'd only hate me for it
afterwards I’m not fit to listen to you to day. I am
enduling torture, and that makes me cluel.’
SO 1 happened that even Suzanne's clumsy man-
Oeuvring turned out favourably fol her plan of capture.
The only man whose hostility she had to fear had
voluntarily imposed silence upon himself. Since René
was in absolute need of a confidante to 1.eceive the
overflow of his feelings, it was to Emilie that he
turned, and poor Emilie, Out of sheel sistelly vanity,
was all eady the abettoſ of the unknown lady whom
she had secn through hel blothel's cycs cncil cled with
a halo of al 1stocracy.
The vely next morning after the soirée at Madame
Komof's she had guessed from René’s words that
Madame Molaines was the only woman he had met
theſe whom he 1eally liked, and the only one, too, upon
whom he had made any strong impression. Mothers
and sistels possess some peculiar sense for perceiving
these shades of feeling. Fol the next few days after
making her discovery René's 1estlessness was very plain
to Emilie. Bound to him by the double bond of affec-
tion and moral affinity, no feeling could travelse her
b1 other's heart without finding an echo in hel own. She
IN THE TOILS 127
knew that René was in love as well as if she had been
present in the spirit during the two meetings in the Rue
Murillo. She felt delighted, too, without being at all
jealous, though her brother's attachment to Rosalie
had caused her not only jealousy, but anxiety. With
peculially feminine logic, she thought it but natural that
the poet should enter upon an 1ntrigue with a woman
who was not frce. She recognised that exceptional
men 1 equite a mode of life and a standard of morality
as exceptional as themselves, and she felt that this love
of René's for a grand lady, whilst 1ealising the proud
di eams she had formed for hel idol, would not 1ob her
of a jot of affection.
His passion fol Rosalie, on the contrary, she had
regarded as an infringement upon her 11ghts. This
was because ROSalle 1.csembled hel, and was of her
would, and because René's attachment to her could
only result 1n marriage and the setting up of anothel
home. It was the efore with Sec1 et joy that she beheld
the b11th of a fresh passion in her brother. She would
have been glad if he had taken her further into his
confidence, and so completed the confession he had
made on awakening only a few houls after the soirée
at Madame Komof's. But this he had not done, neithel
had she led him on to do so, her 1nstinct telling her that
René's confidences would only be the more complete for
being spontaneous. So she waited, watching his eyes,
whose every look she knew so well, fol that expression
of sup1eme joy which is the ſevel of happiness. Hel
silence was also to a gleat extent due to the fact that
she only saw René when Fresneau was p1esent With
that natural cowardice begotten of Celta1n false post-
tions, the poet left the house as Soon as he was up and
1eturned only in time fol lunch. Then he again took
himself off until dinnel, going out 1mmediately aftel, in
order to avoid meeting Rosalie. The professor's ab-
straction was so great that he did not even notice this
change in René's habits. Such, however, was not the
I 28 A LIVING LIE
case with Madame Offal el. Having come on two
consecutive evenings with he two daughters and seen
nothing of him whom she already looked upon as
her son-in-law, she did not hesitate to remaik upon his
unwonted absence.
“Does Monsieur Laïchel present Monsieur René to
a fresh comtesse every evening that we never see him
here now, not at our house either ?’
‘It’s true,' observed Flesncau, ‘I nevel see him
now. Where does he get to ?”
“He has set to work again upon his “Savonal ola,
replied Emilie, ‘and he spends his cvenings at the
Bibliothèque.”
Early on the morning after this conversation, which
was also the morrow of René's second visit to Suzanne,
Emilie entered hel blother's 1 oom to give him a full
account of what had been said. She found him getting
out a few sheets of fine note-paper—some that she had
bought for him—on which he was about to copy, in his
best handwriting, the veſses he was to read to Madame
Moraines. The table was covered with sheet upon
sheet of his poems, from which he had all eacly made a
selection.
When Emilie told him of her innocent fib he kissed
her, and exclaimed, with a laugh, “How clevel you alc l’
‘There is nothing clevel 1n it,' she 1eplied ; “I am
your sister, and I love you’ Then, taking up some of
the papers scattered about, she asked, “Do you 1eally
think of getting on with your book 2'
‘No,' answered René, “but I have plomised to 1ead
a few of my verses to some one.’
“To Madame Molaines P' exclaimed his sister.
‘You have guessed 1t,’ 1 eplied the poet, looking
slightly confused. ‘Ah 1f you only knew l’
And then the pent-up confidence burst forth. Emilie
had to listen to an enthusiastic eulogy of Suzanne and
all that concerned her. In the same bleath René spoke
of the lofty nobility of this woman's ideas and of the
}} }
IN THE TOILS I29
shape of her shoes, of her marvellous intelligence and
of the figured velvet on her blotting-book. That
childish astonishment at these luxurious details should
be united to the more poetic fancies in the fabric of love
did not surprise Emilie. Had she herself in her love for
René not always associated petty desires with boundless
ambition ? She wished, for instance, with almost equal
fervour, that he might have genius and horses, that he
might write another ‘Childe Harold, and possess
Byron's income of four thousand a year. In this she
was as ingenuously plebeian as he himself, confounding
—in excusable fashion, after all—real aristocracy of
sentiment with that aristocracy expressed by outer and
worldly forms. Those who come of a family in which
the struggle for bread has lowered the tone of thought
easily mistake the Second of these aristocracies for a
condition inseparable from the first
Those words, therefore, which might have led an
unkind listenel to think that René loved Suzanne for
her surroundings, and not for hel self, charmed Emilie
instead of shocking hel, and she had so fully entered
into her brother's Infatuation that on leaving him she
said: “You are not at home to anyone—I’ll see that no
One comes in. You must show me your verses when
you have written them—mind you choose them well.”
The task of making this selection cheated the poet's
al dour, and he was able to await the day fixed for his
next visit to the paradise in the Rue Murillo without
much impatience. The hours of solitude, broken only
by his talks with Emilie, passed by in alternate fits of
happiness and melancholy. Often a delightful vision of
Suzanne would rise up before him. He would then lay
down his pen, and all the objects about him would melt
away, as if by magic. Instead of the red hangings of
his 1 Oom, it was the little salon of Madame Moraines
that he saw ; gone were his dear Albert Durers, his
Gustave Moleaus, his Goyas, his small library on
whose shelves the ‘Imitatio’ lubbed shoulders with
K
I 30 A LIVING LIE
‘Madame Bovaly’—gone were the two leafless trees
that stood out black against a light blue sky. But in
their place he could see Suzanne, her dainty ways, the
poise of her head, the peculiar golden tint of her hair,
and the transparent pink of her lovely complexion.
This appalition, which had nothing of a pale or
shadowy phantom about it, appealed to René's senses
in a way that ought to have made him understand that
Madame Molaines’ attitudes did but mask the true
woman, the voluptuous though 1efined courtesan. But
of this he took no note, and, whilst madly desirous to
possess her, he believed that his worship of her was of
the most etheleal kind. This mirage of sentiment is a
phenomenon fiequently observed in men who lead
chaste lives, and one which renders them the defenceless
prey of the most barefaced hypocrisy. The inability
to understand their own feelings makes them still more
1ncapable of analysing the tricks of the women who
arouse in them the accumulated passion of a lifetime.
The poet, however, became perfectly lucid as soon as
Suzanne's image made way for that of Rosalie. On
going through his papers he was continually coming
across some page headed, in boyish fashion, “For my
flower;' that was the name he had given Rosalie in the
heyday of his love, when he had written her a fresh
poem almost every morning.
‘O Rose of candou, and sincerity l’ wele the terms
in which he addressed her at the end of one of these
effusions. When his eyes fell upon such lines he was
again obliged to lay down his pen, and once more his
surroundings would melt away, but this time to make
room for a vision of torture. The 10oms occupied by
the Offarels lay before him, cold and silent. The old
woman was busy with her cats. Angélique was turning
over the leaves of an English dictionary, and Rosalie
was looking at him, René—looking at him through an
ocean of space with eyes in which he read no leproach,
but only deep dist1ess, He knew as well as if he were
IN THE TOILS I31
there, near her, that she had guessed his secret, and
that she was suffering the pangs of jealousy. If such
were not the case would he have been so terribly afraid
to meet the girl's eyes P Would that he could go to her
and say, ‘Let us be only friends !” It was his duty to
do so. The only means of preserving one's self-esteem is
by acting with absolute loyalty in these subsidings of
love, which are like fraudulent bankruptcies of the heart.
But that loyalty was thrust aside by weakness in which
both egoism and pity were equally represented. He
took up his pen again, and saying, as on the first day,
“We shall see—later on, he tried to work. Soon he
had to stop once more as his mind reverted to Rosalie's
sufferings. He thought of the long nights she would
spend in tears, knowing as he did every trifling habit of
the simple creature who had given him her heart. She
had often told him that the only time she could Indulge
in hel own g11ef was at night. Then he hid his face in
his hands and waited till the vision had passed, mean-
while saying to himself, ‘Is it my fault P’ *:
# A law in our nature bids out passions grow
stronger in proportion to the number of obstacles
to be overcome, so that the 1emoise of his Infidelity to
poor Rosalie 1esulted in making René's heart beat
fastel as the time fixed by Madame Molaines for their
next meeting drew near. She, on her side, awaited
him with an almost feverish 1mpatience that astonished
even hel self. She had looked out for the young poet
whenever she had been in the street, and again at the
Opela when Fliday came round. Had she seen his
eyes fixed upon hel in that simple adoration which is as
compi omising as a declaration, she would have said,
‘How imprudent l’ Not to see him, however, gave her a
slight fit of doubt, which blought hel caprice to its
climax. She looked forward to this visit all the more
anxiously because she considered it decisive. It was
the third time René visited her, and, out of these three
times, twice unknown to her husband. Further than that
K 2
I 32 A LIVING LIE
she could not go, on account of the servants. A day of
two back Paul, meaning no harm, had said to her at
dinner, “I was talking to Desforges about René Vincy.
He doesn’t seem to have made a good impression on
the Baron. It is decidedly better not to see the authors
too closely whose works we admire.’
If the servant who had announced the poet had
been in the dining-room at the moment these words
were uttered Suzanne would have had to speak. The
same thing might happen the next or any other day.
She was therefore determined to find a peg in her con-
versation with René on which to hang an appointment
elsewhere. An idea suddenly occulled to her of going
somewhere with the poet under pretence of curiosity—a
meeting in Notre Dame, for instance, or in some Old
church sufficiently distant from the fashionable quarter
of Paris to be beyond the 1isk of danger, and she relied
upon one or other of René's poems to furnish her with
an opportunity of making such an appointment.
On this occasion she once more wore a walking-dress,
for, having attended a marriage ceremony in the morn-
ing, she had kept on the rather smalt mauve gown in
which her shapely figure, elegant shoulders, and slim
waist were so well set off. Thus attired, and lounging
back in a low arm-chair—an attitude that marked the
adorable outlines of her body—she begged the poet,
after the usual Commonplaces had passed, to Commence
his reading. She listened to his poetry without betray-
ing any surprise at the peculiar drawl with which even
the best scholars intone their verses, her great intelligent
eyes and the repose of her face seeming to indicate the
closest attention. At rare intervals she would venture
upon some apparently involuntaly exclamation, such
as : “How beautiful that is l’ or, ‘Will you 1epeat those
lines 2—I like them so much l’
In reality, she cared little for the poet's verses,
and understood them less. To complehend even super-
ficially the work of a modern artist—in whom theie is
IN THE TOILS I 33
always a critic and a Scholar—16 guiles such mental
development as is only met with in a small number of
Society women, sufficiently interested in culture to read
much and to think more in the midst of a life entirely
opposed to all kind of study and 1eflection. What made
Suzanne's pretty face and big blue eyes look so pensive
was the desire not to let the important word slip by
upon which to hang her project. But line came after
line, stanzas succeeded Sonnets, and yet she had not
been able to seize upon anything which could reason-
ably be made to give the conversation the turn she
wanted. What a pity it was For René's eyes, that
continually wandered from the page ; his voice, that
shook occasionally as he read ; his hands, that trembled
as he tuned the leaves—all showed that her pretended
admiration had completely intoxicated the Trissotin
that lurks in every author.
And now there was only one piece left | This the
poet had purposely kept to the last; it was his favourite,
and bore a title which was a revelation to Suzanne,
“The Eyes of the Gioconda.’ It was rather a long
poem, half metaphysical, half descriptive, in which the
w11ter had stiiven to collect and reproduce in Sonorous
verse all the opinions of the modern School of critics
concerning Leonardo da Vinci's masterpiece. In this
portrait of an Italian woman we ought, perhaps, to see
nothing beyond a study of the purest and most technical
naturalism, one of those struggles against conventionality
in art in which the great painter appears to have been so
frequently engaged. Can it not have been an attempt
of the master to seize the unseizable—the play of a
face, and to paint the fleeting expression on the lips as
they pass flom repose to a smile P In his poem René,
who took a childish plide in the fact that his family name
1esembled that of the village which lends its appellation
to the most subtle master of the Renaissance, had con-
densed into thirty verses an entire system of natural
and historical philosophy. He valued this symbolical
I34 A LIVING LIE
medley higher than the ‘Sigisbée, which contained only
what was natural and appertaining to the passions—
two qualities fit only for the vulgal herd.
What then was his delight to heal Madame Moraines
say, ‘If I might be allowed to expless any preference, I
would say that this is the piece which pleases me most.
How well you understand true art | To see the great
masterpieces with you must be a revelation I am sule
that if I visited the Louvre under your guidance you
would explain to me so much that I see in the pictules
but cannot understand I have often wandered about
there, but quite alone’ſ
She waited. As soon as René had started reading
this last poem she had said to hel self, ‘How foolish of
me not to have thought of that before l’ closing her eyes
for a moment as if to retain some beautiful dream. At
the finish she had pulposely used such wolds as would
give him an opportunity of Seeing her again. He would
propose a visit together to the Louvre, to which she
would accede, after having cleverly raised just sufficient
difficulties. She saw the suggestion trembling on his
lips, but he had not the coulage to make it. She was
therefore compelled to do so herself.
‘If I were not afraid of wasting your time P
Then, with a sigh, “But we have not been acquainted
long enough.”
‘Oh, madame !' cried René, “it seems to me as if I
had been your friend for years l’
‘That is because you feel I am sincere in what I
say, she replied, with a frank and open smile. “And I
am going to prove it to you once more. Will you show
me the Louvre one day next week 2'
DECLARATIONS I 35
CHAPTER XI
D E C L AIR AT I O N S
AN appointment had been made for eleven o'clock on
the following Tuesday, in the Salon Carré of the
Louvre. Whilst Suzanne was being driven to the old
palace in a cab she was counting up for the tenth
time the dangels of hel matutinal escapade, ‘No, it's
not a vely wise thing to do,” she thought ; “and suppose
Desforges discovers I’ve been out? Well, there's the
dentist. And what if I meet some one I know P It's
very improbable, but in that case I would tell them just
as much of the truth as was absolutely necessary.’
That was one of her great maxims—to tell as few
lies as possible, to maintain a disc1eet silence about
most things, and never to deny established facts. She
was therefore ready to say to hel husband, and to the
Baron as well, if necessaly, ‘I went into the Louvre
this morning as I passed. I was lucky enough to find
Madame Komofºs little poet theie, and he showed me
through a few of the rooms. Yes,’ she said to herself,
‘that will do for once. But it would be madness to try
it on often.’
Her mind then became occupied with other thoughts
of less positive pulpolt. The uncertainty of what
would take place in this interview with René caused
her greater agitation than she cared for She had played
the paſt of a Madonna before him, and the time had
now come to get down from the altar upon which she
had been so piously adoled. He feminine tact had
hit upon a bold plan—lead the poet to a declaration,
reply by a confession of her own feelings, then flee flom
him as 1f in remoise, and so leave the way open for any
step she might afterwards care to take. Whilst playing
havoc with René's heart, this plan would suspend his
judgment of her acts and absolve hel of any follies she
136 A LIVING LIE
might Commit. It was bold but clevci, and, above all,
simple. There were, nevertheless, a few real dangers
connected with it. Let the poet entertain distrust but
for one moment and all was lost Suzanne's heart beat
faster at the thought. How many women there are
who have been similarly situated, and who, after having
reared a most elaborate fabric of falsehoods, have been
compelled to continue their rôle in order to obtain
satisfaction for the true feelings that Oliginally actuated
them | When the men on whose account such women
as these have played their hypoclitical rôles discover the
lie palmed off upon them, their indignation and con-
tempt abundantly plove how important a factor vanity
is in all affection.
‘Come, come, exclaimed Suzanne, “here am I
trembling like a school-girl l’ She smiled indulgently
as she uttered the wolds, because they proved once
mole the sincerity of her feelings, and again she smilcd
when, on alighting fiom her cab and C1OSS1ng the coult-
yald, she saw that she was theſe to the minute. ‘Still
a school-girl l’ she 1epeated to herself. A momentary
fear came over her at the thought that if René happened
to arrive just after hel he would see hel obliged to ask
one of the attendants for the entrance to the galleries
—she who had boasted of having been there so often.
She had not been in the place three times in her life,
though to-day her little feet trotted across the spacious
courtyard in their daunty laced boots as confidently as
though they performed the journey daily. “What a
child I am l’ said the 1nner voice once more—the voice
of the Baron's pupil, who had acquired as deep a know-
ledge of life as any hoary diplomat. ‘He has been
waiting for me upstails for the last half-hour !’ Still
she could not reflain from looking anxiously about her
as she asked her way of one of the attendants. But
her worldly knowledge had not deceived her, for no
sooner had she reached the doorway between the
Galerie d'Apollon and the Salon Carré than she saw
DECLARATIONS I37
René ; he was leaning against the iron railing, just
underneath the noble work by Veronese, representing
Mary Magdalene washing our Saviour's feet, and opposite
the famous Noces de Cana.
In his boyish timidity the poor fellow had considered
it his duty to put on his very best clothes in coming to
meet one who, besides being a Madonna in his eyes, was
a ‘Society woman —that vague and fanciful entity
which exists in the brain of so many young bourgeots,
and is a curious medley of their most erroneous 1mpres-
Sions. He was attired in a smalt-fitting frock coat, and,
although the morning was a cold one, he wore nothing
over it. He possessed only one overcoat, and that,
having been made at the beginning of the winter, did
not come from the tailor to whom he had been 1ntro-
duced by his friend Larcher. With his brand-new
chimney-pot hat, his new gloves, and his new boots, he
almost looked as though he had stepped out of a fashion
plate, though his diess contrasted Strangely with his
artistic face. If he had made himself appear still more
ridiculous, Suzanne would have found still more reasons
fol glowing fonder of him. Such is the way of women
in love.
She understood at once that he had been afraid he
would not look nice enough to please her, and she stood
in the doorway for a few seconds in order to enjoy
the anxiety that was depicted on the poet's face. When
he saw hel theie was a sudden rush of blood to his
cheeks, though the blush soon died away beneath the
gold of his fair silken beard. What a flash, too, lit up
those dark blue eyes, dispelling the look of anguish they
contained ‘It is lucky theie 1s no one hele to see our
meeting, she thought, for the pale light that came
through the glass roof fell only upon a few painters setting
up their easels and upon a few tourists wandering about,
guide-book in hand.
Suzanne, who had taken all this in at a glance,
could therefore abandon herself to the pleasure which
138 A LIVING LIE
René's agitation afforded her ; as he came towards her
he said, in a voice trembling with emotion, ‘I hardly
dared to hope that you would come.’
‘Why not?’ she replied, with an air of candid aston-
ishment. “Do you 1eally think I cannot get up early 2
Why, when I go and visit my poor I am up and
dressed at eight.' And in what a tone of voice it was
that she said this A pleasant, modest tone—like that
in which a helo would tell of something extraordinaly
he had done without seeing anything in it himself—the
tone in which an officer would say, “As we were charg-
ing the enemy l’ The joke of it was that she had never
ventured even to set her foot in a poor man's dwelling.
She had as great a hor101 of povelty as of sickness or of
old age, and to hel Selfish nature chal 1:y was a thing
almost unknown. But at that moment René would
have looked upon anyone who dared charge her with
selfishness as guilty of the most infamous blasphemy.
After having uttered hel well-chosen wolds this novel
Sister of Mercy stopped for a moment in older to enjoy
their effect. In René's eyes shone that look of blind
faith which these pretty hypocrites ale so accustomed
to 1egard as their due that they charge all who refuse it
them with heartlessness. Then, as if to evade an admira-
tion that embarrassed hel modesty, she went on, “You
forget that you are my guide to-day. I will pretend I
know nothing of any of these pictures; I shall then be
able to see whether we have the same tastes.’
“Mon Dieu /' thought René, ‘I must take cale not
to show her anything that might give hel a bad opinion
of me !' The most commonplace women can, when
they choose, inspire a man who is vastly superior to
them with this sensation of utter inferiority.
They had now commenced their tour, he leading
her to those masterpieces which he thought would please
her. How well acquainted he was with all the galleries
of his dear Louvre | There was not one of these pictures
that did not recall the memory of Some dream of his
DECLARATIONS I 39
youth—a youth entirely spent in adorning with beauti-
ful images the shrine we all carry within us before our
twentieth year, but fiom which our passions soon expel
all but the image of Venus ! These pale and noble
frescoes of Luſni that hang in the narrow room to the
1ight of the Salon Carré—how often had he not come to
gaze upon their pious scenes when he wished to lend
his poetry the Soft charm, the broad and tender touch,
of the old Lombard master | He had feasted his cyes
fol whole hours upon the mighty Crucifixion by Man-
tegna—a fragment of the magnificent painting in the
church of San Zeno at Verona—as well as upon that
most glorious of Raphaels, Saint George—an ideal hel O
dealing the diagon a furious stroke of his sword whilst
Spurling his white charger in pink trappings across the
fresh greensward, symbolic of youth and hope. But 1t
was mole especially the pol traits which had been the
objects of his most fervent pilgrimages—from those of
Holbein, Philippe de Champaigne, and Titian, to that of
the elegant and mysterious lady simply attributed 1n
the catalogue to the Venetian school, and bearing a
cipher 1n her hail. He loved to think, in company with
a clever critic, that this cipher meant Balbarelli and
Cecilia—the name of the G1orgione and that of the
m1stress for whom tradition says that this great master
died. During a visit he had once paid to the Louvre
with Rosalie he had told her the romantic and tragic
story on this very spot and before this very portrait.
He now found himself repeating 1t to Suzanne, and 1n
almost the same wolds.
‘The painter loved hel, and she betrayed him for
one of his friends. At Vienna theie is a pictule painted
by himself in which you see his sweet, sad eyes resting
upon his treacherous filend, who approaches him with a
gleaming dagger concealed behind his back'
Yes—the same wolds ! When Rosalie heard the
story she had turned her eyes upon him, and he had
distinctly read the thoughts that filled hel. ‘How can
I4O A LIVING LIE
any woman betray the man who loves her P’ With her
the question had 1emained a dumb one, but Suzanne,
after having stared curiously at the mysterious woman
with the thin lips, gave expression to her thoughts with
a sigh and a shake of her fair head. “And yet she looks
So good. It is tel rible to think that a woman with a
face like that could lie l’
As she spoke she too turned her eyes upon René ;
and, gazing into the clear depths that presented such a
contrast to Rosalie's dark Orbs, he felt a strange remorse.
By one of those ironies of the inner life which a com-
parison of consciences would often reveal, Suzanne,
unspeakably happy in strolling amidst these pictures,
which she pretended to admire, was keenly enjoying the
impression that her beauty was making on her com-
panion, whilst the latter, a simple child, reproached him-
self with the double treachery of leading this ideal
cleature through places that he had once visited with
another. The fatal comparison which, since his first
meeting with Madame Moraines, was effacing poor little
Rosalie from his mind was becoming more obtlusive
than ever.
A vision of his betrothed floated before him, humble
as she herself, but beside him walked Suzanne, a living
sister of the aristocratic beauties the old masters had
portrayed on their canvases. Her golden hair shone
brightly under her little bonnet; the short astracan
jacket fitted her like a glove, and her grey check skirt
hung in graceful folds. In her hand was a small muff,
from which peeped out the cornel of an embroidered
handkerchief; the muff matched her jacket, and every
now and then she would hold it up just above her eyes
in order to get the right light to see the pictures well.
How could the present fail to conquer the absent—an
elegant woman fall to Oust a simple, modest girl, especi-
ally since in Suzanne all the refinement of an aesthetic
soul seemed allied to the most exquisite charm of
external appearance and attitude P
DECLARATIONS 141
She who in her crass ignorance would have been
unable to distinguish a Rembrandt from a Perugino, or
a Ribera from a Watteau, had a clever way of listening
to what René said, and of supporting the opinions he
expressed with an ingenuity that would have deceived
men with more experience of feminine duplicity than
this young poet of twenty-five. This meeting was to
him a source of happiness so complete, such perfect
realisation of his most Sec1 et dreams, that he felt sad
at the thought of having attained his highest ambi-
tion. The time slipped by, and an indescribable
sensation invaded him , 1t was made up of the nervous
excitement that the sight of masterpieces always pro-
duces in an alt1st, of the 1emorse he felt for his treachery
in plofaning the past by the present and the present
by the past, and finally of the knowledge of Time's
unrelenting flight. Yes, that delightful hour was
slipping by, to be followed by so many cold and
empty ones—for never, no, never would he dare to
ask his adorable companion for another such meet-
1ng.
She, the sensual Epicurean, was only eager to pro-
long the delight of mental possession. Voluptuously,
carefully, and secretly did she watch the poet from
the corner of her blue eye that looked so modest
beneath 1ts golden lashes. She was unable to tal.c
exact account of all the changes of feeling he under-
went, for although she was alieady well acquainted
with his inner nature, she was so entirely 1gnorant of all
the facts of his life that sometimes she would ask her-
self with a thrill whether he had ever loved before. It
was impossible to follow his thoughts in detail, but it was
not difficult to see that he was now looking at her much
more than at the pictures, and that his distress was in-
creasing every minute. She attributed this distress to a
fit of shyness—a shyness that delighted her, for it proved
the presence of a passionate longing tempered by
1espect. How pleased she was to be the object of a
I42 A LIVING LIE
desire that expressed itself with such modesty It en-
abled her to measure more coirectly the gulf that
separated her little René—as she alieady called him in
hel thoughts—from the bold and dangerous men with
whom she usually mixed. His looks were full of love,
though devoid of insolence, and contained an amount
of suffeling that finally decided her to lead him on
to the declaration which she had promised herself to
p1 Ovoke.
“Mon Dieu " ' she suddenly clied, catching hold of
the iron bar that runs 1 ound the walls, and turning to
René with a smile that was meant to hide some sharp
pain. “It’s nothing, she added, 1n reply to the poet's
look of anxiety. “I twisted my foot a little on this
slippery floor.” Then, standing on one leg, she put out
the foot that she said was hult, and moved 1t about in
the soft boot with a giaceful eſfolt. “Ten minutes'
rest and 1 will be all 11ght, but you must be my
crutch '
As her pretty lips uttered this ugly wold she took
hold of René's alm, the poet little thinking, as he
almost piously helped hel along, that this imaginary
accident was but one episode mole in the comedy of
love in which he was playing SO 1nnocent a part.
Taking cale to thiow hel whole weight upon him, she
managed to redouble his passionate a doul and to
completely intoxicate him by the rhythmic and com-
municated movement of her lithe and supple limbs.
The trick succeeded only too well. He could scarcely
speak, ovel whelmed as he was by the pioximity of this
woman and penetrated by the subtle perfume she cz-
haled It was as much as he dared do to look at her,
and then he found beside him a face both ploud and
playful, a cheek of 1deal colouring, and a pair of mobile
cherry lips upon which from time to time there
hovered a sweet little Smile that meant mischief, though
when their eyes met this Smile would change into an
expression of such flank sympathy that it dispelled
T)|ECLARATIONS I43
René's timidity. This she knew by the greater assur-
ance with which he now supported her.
She had been careful to choose one of the most
isolated rooms—the salle Lesueur-for acting the epi-
sode of her twisted foot. Arm-in-arm they passed
through a small passage, and, crossing one of the
galleries of the French school, entered a dark, deserted
chamber in which were then exhibited Lebrun's
pictules 1 epiesenting the victories of Alexander the
Great. The Ingres and Delacroix gallery, by which
this room 1s now reached, was not yet opened, and 1n
the centre of the floor stood a large round ottoman
covered in gleen velvet. Though in the very heart of
Paris, this spot was mole secluded than a room in any
provincial museum, and theie was no likelihood of
being disturbed except by the attendant, who was
himself deep in conversation with his colleague in the
next apartment.
Suzanne took in the place at a glance, and, point-
ing to the ottoman, said to René, “Shall we sit down
there for a few minutes ? My foot is much bettel
already.’
A fresh silence fell upon them. Everything seemed
to emphasise their seclusion—from the noises in the
Cour du Carrousel that came to them in a dull mul mur
through the two high windows to the dim light in the
room itself. But this seclusion, instead of encouraging
the poet to declare his passion, only increased his
distress. He said to himself, ‘How pretty she 1s, and
how sweet ! She will go, and I shall never see her
again. How stupid she must think me !—I feel quite
paralysed near her and 1ncapable of speech.” “I shall
never have a better opportunity,' thought Suzanne.
‘You are vely sad,” she said aloud, bestowing upon
him a look of affectionate and almost sisterly sympathy.
* I noticed it as soon as I arrived, she continued, “but
you do not trust me sufficiently to tell me your
tioubles.’
I44 A LIVING LIE
‘No,' replied René, ‘ I am not sad. Why should I
be 2 I have cvelything that can make me happy.”
She looked at him again with an expression of
surprise and mute interrogation that seemed to say,
“Tell me what you have to make you happy P’ René
thought he saw that question in her eyes, but dared not
understand it so He sincerely believed himself to be
so inferior to this woman that he had not the courage to
disclose to hel the depths of his devotion. All Suzanne's
delightful confidence, in which he could not possibly
detect any cold calculation, would be destroyed the
moment he spoke, and he therefore went on as if his
words referred to the general circumstances of life.
‘Claude Larcher often tells me that I shall nevel be
happier at any period of my litcſary caleer. He
maintains that theſe ale four stages in a writel's life—
when he is unknown, when he is applauded by those
who wish to spite his elders, when he is maligned
because he is successful, and when he is forgiven because
he is forgotten. I am So Sorry you don't know him
better—I am sure you would like him. Literature is
his religion l’
‘He is rather too artless, after all,' thought Suzanne,
but she was too interested in the result of this inter-
view to give way to her impatience. She seized upon
the words René had just uttered and inter, upted his
uncalled-for praises of Claude by saying, “HIS 1 eligion |
It is tiue, that is just like you writers. I lave a fliend
who is undergoing the ordeal, and she is always telling
me that a woman ought to be calcful not to bestow
hel affections upon an artist. He will nevel love hel as
much as he loves his art.’
She repeated these supposititious words of her
imaginal y friend with a look of pain upon he face; her
cherry lips wele paſted by a half-stifled sigh that hinted
at heartrending confidences and a presentiment of
similar experiences in stole for hel self.
DECLARATIONS I45
“Why, it is you who are sad,” observed René, struck
by the sudden change in her pretty face.
‘Now for it !” she thought, and then replied, ‘That
doesn't matter. What difference can it make to you
whethcr I am sad or not P '
“Do you think that I take no interest in you?”
1ejoined René.
‘A little, perhaps, she 1eplied, shrugging hel
shouldels; “but when you have left me will you think of
me otherwise than as of Some sympathetic woman whom
you have casually met and speedily forgotten ?’
She had never looked so lovely in René's eyes as
when she uttered these words, which went as far as she
dated go without jeopardising her game. Her gloved
hand rested on the green velvet sofa quite close to the
poet, and he was bold enough to take it. She did not
draw it back. Her eyes seemed fixed upon some vision
far away, and it was doubtful whether she had even
noticed René's daring action. There ale women who
have a delightful way of paying no heed to the
familiarities which some people wall take with them.
René pressed her dainty hand, and, as she did not resent
it, he began to speak in a voice trembling with emotion :
‘I have no right to be surplised at your thinking
that of me. Why should you think that my feelings
towards you differ from those of other men you meet?
And yet if I told you that since the day when I first
spoke to you at Madame Komof's my life has changed
for evel—ah ! do not smile—yes, fol ever ! If I told you
that since then I have had but One desire—to see you
again ; that I came to you house with a beating heart;
that every houl since then has increased my madness; that
I came hele in a di eam of rapture, and that I shall leave
you in despair I see you do not believe me! People
are willing to admit the existence of these sudden and
lifelong passions in novels, but do such things ever hap-
pen in real life?’
He stopped, amazed at the boldness of his own words.
L
I46 A LIVING LIE
As he finished speaking there came over him that
strange sensation that seizes us when in our dieams we
hear ouiselves revealing Some Secret to the vely person
fiom whom we ought most to hide 1t. She had listened
to him with her eyes still fixed on vacancy, and still
wealing her look of abst1action. But hel eyelids
quivered, her bleath came short and quick, and her
little hand tiembled as it lay in his. This was such a
startling and delightful surprise that it gave René
courage to go On.
“Forgive me for talking to you like this If you
only knew—it may be childish and silly—but when I
saw you for the first time I seemed to 1ecognise you—
you are so like the woman I have always dieamt of
meeting ever since I have had a healt. Before meeting
you I only thought I lived, I only thought I felt.
What a fool I was And what a fool I am | I have
gone and undone myself in your eyes. But at least I
have told you that I love you—you know it now.
You can do with me as you will. My God how I love
you, how I love you !”
As he gazed at her in rapt admiration and repeated
the words that seemed to relieve the feelings that raged
within him he saw two great tears fall from Suzanne's
eyes and slowly make their way down her pink cheeks.
He did not know that most women can c1y like that at
will, especially if they are at all nervous. These two
wretched teals drove his delirium up to its highest
pitch.
‘You are clying !” he exclaimed ; “you——’
‘Don’t finish your sentence, cried Suzanne, putting
her hand on his lips and then moving a little ful ther off.
Her eyes remained fixed upon his face, and in them might
be read both passion and a kind of startled surprise.
‘Yes, you have reached my heart. You have awakened
feelings of whose existence I had not the faintest sus-
picion. I am afi aid—afi aid of you, afraid of myself,
afraid of being here. We must never see each other
DECLARATIONS I47
again. I am not free. I Ought not even to have
listened to your words.” She stopped ; then, taking his
hand in hers this time, she went on : ‘Why should I
deceive you ? All that you feel perhaps I feel too, but
I swear to you that I did not know it until a moment
ago. The feeling of sympathy to which I yielded, and
which made me come and join you here this morning—
my God —I understand it now, I understand Fool
that I was not to have known how easily the heart is
ensnared l’
Fresh tears started fiom her eyes, and René was so
agitated by all that he had said and heard that he could
only murmur, “Tell me that you forgive me !’
‘Yes, I forgive you, she replied, squeezing his hand
so hard that she hurt him. “I feel that I love you too,”
and then, as though suddenly awakening from a dream,
she added, “Good-bye—I forbid you to follow me. This
is the last time we shall meet.’
She rose. Her face wore a threatening look, and
it was clear that her feelings of honour were now
thoroughly roused. There was no longer any thought
of fatigue or of a sprained foot. She walked straight
Out, and with such an angry mien that the poet, utterly
crushed by what he had undergone, saw her depart
without doing anything to stop her. She had been
gone some minutes before he rushed off in the direction
she had taken. But he did not find her. Whilst he was
trying first one staircase and then another she had crossed
the coultyard and jumped into a cab, which 1apidly
bore her, exulting and in ecstasy, to the Rue Murillo
Whilst René was employed in seeking means to get
her to 1 econsidel her hasty decision he would have no
time to reflect upon the rapidity with which his
Madonna had led him to make, and had herself made, a
declaration of love. So much fol her exultation. The
recollection of the poet's words, of his face beaming with
love, and his eyes eloquent with passion, enchanted her
as with a promise of most perfect happiness. So much
L 2
I48 A LIVING LIE
for her ecstasy. She was already drawing up her plans
for the ſuture. He would write to her, of coulse—but
to his first two letters he would get no answer. On
1eceipt of his third ol fourth lettel she would pretend to
believe in his threats of suicide and drop upon him at
home—to save him 1 Just as her thoughts had carried
her as far as this, chance, which is sometimes as sar-
castic as an ill-tempered friend, made her eyes fall upon
Baron Desforges walking along the Boulevard Hauss-
mann. He was probably going to her house to ask her
to lunch out with him. She looked at the pretty little
gold watch that hung from hel b1acelet and saw that it
was only twenty minutes past twelve. She would be
home in good time, and, thoroughly pleased with her
morning's outing, she took a keen delight in pulling down
the little window-curtain as she passed quite close to the
Baron without being seen.
CHAPTER XII
CRUEL TO BE KIND
WHEN René Vincy had got as far as the Museum gates
without finding Suzanne a crowd of contradictory 13eas
burst so suddenly upon him that he was lifted, meta-
phorically speaking, off his feet. Suzanne had not been
mistaken in her calculations, the double blow she had
dealt the young poet paralysing all his powers of
analysis and reflection Had she simply told him that
she loved him he would plobably have opened his eyes
and perceived the striking contrast between the angelic
attitude assumed by Suzanne and the bluntness of this
declaration. He would have had to acknowledge that
the angel's wings were very loosely attached if they
could be so easily laid aside. But Instead of commit-
ting the mistake of laying them aside the angel had
spread hel bright pinions out wide and disappeared.
CRUEL TO BE KIND I49
“She loves me, and will never forgive me for having
dragged that confession from her,’ said René to himself.
He fully believed that she had gone away resolved
never to see him again, and all his thoughts became
concentrated upon that idea. How could he hope to
shake the resolution of a creature so sincere that she
had been unable to conceal her feelings, so saint-like
that she had immediately regarded her 1nvoluntary
confession as a crime? And René again saw her before
him with terror written on her face and tears starting
from hel eyes. Lost in these thoughts, he walked
straight before him, unable to beaſ the sight of a human
being, even were 1: Emilie, his dear confidante. Hail-
ing a cab, he told the drivel to take him to Saint-Cloud.
This was the filst name that rose to his lips, because
Suzanne had described to him two fêtes at which she
had been present in the palace when quite a girl. On
getting out of the cab he felt a savage delight in plung-
1ng into the denuded wood A pale February sun lit
up the bleak wintry landscape and the dry leaves
cracked under his tiead as he stiode along Now and
then, through a network of blackened trunks and naked
branches, he could see the drealy 1 uins of the old palace
and the blue waters of the little lake upon which, in
bygone days, Madame Molaines had seen the unhappy
Prince, since killed at the Cape.
The impressions p1 oduced by his surroundings and
by these memories of a tragic past did not distract the
poet's thoughts from the one idea that hypnotised
him, as it were—by what means he could conquer the
will of this woman whom he loved, who loved him in
return, and whom he was detel mined to See again at all
costs. What was to be done P Call at hel house and
demand admittance P Inflict his plesence upon hel by
fiequenting the houses she visited P Waylay her at
street cornels and at theatles P No-he felt that he
could not do anything that might ful nish Suzanne with
a single reason fol loving him less It was to hel that
I5O A LIVING LIE
he looked for everything, even for the right of beholding
her. The memory of the ideals he had cherished in the
filst years of his manhood and the purer years of his
youth inspired him with serious thoughts of doing
absolutely nothing to apploach her, of obeying her as
Dante would have obeyed Beatrice, Petrarch his Laura,
Cino da Pistoia his Sylvia—those noble poets of the
ages of chivalry who gave voice to the lofty conceptions
of an imaginative and holy love full of ideal devotion.
He had so often dipped with delight into the Vita
AVuova and devoured the sonnets these dreamers wrote
their lady-loves. But how could such literature, of
almost ascetic purity, hold its own against the poison
of sensuous passion which, unknown to him, Suzanne's
beauty and surroundings had instilled into his blood P
Obey hel ! No–that he could not do. Fresh 1deas
welled up within him, and he sought to calm his over-
w1 ought nerves by excrcise, the only palliative for the
tel11ble mental agonies he was suffeling
Night fell—a wintry night pieceded by a short,
dismal twilight. Woln out by the excess of emotion,
René at last decided to adopt the only coulse that could
be put into immediate execution—that of writing to
Suzanne. On 1 eaching the village of Saint-Cloud he
entered a café, and thcle, on a beer-stained blotting-pad,
with a spluttering pen, disgusted with the papel he used
and the place he was in, distulbed by the noise of
billiald balls and blinded by the smoke of the players'
pipes, he wrote, undel the 1nsolent gaze of a dirty
waiter, first one letter, then another, and finally a third.
How horrified he would have been had Suzanne seen
him sitting there ! But, on the other hand, he felt that he
could not wait until he got home to tell her what he had
to say, and in the following terms, that would have
greatly surprised Baron Desforges had he read them
and been told that they were addressed to his Suzette
of the Rue du Mont-Thabor, he gave vent to his
excessive grief:
CRUEL TO BE KIND 151
‘I have written you several letters, madame, and
torn them up, and I am not sure that I shall send you
this one, so great is my fear of displeasing you by the
crude expression of sentiments which I am sure would
not displease you if you really knew them. Alas! we
cannot bare our hearts, and will you believe me when I
tell you that the feelings which prompt me to write this
letter have nothing in them that would offend the most
sensitive and pure-minded woman— not even yourself,
madame P But you know so little of me, and the
feeling which, with the divine sincerity of a soul that
abhols concealment, you have permitted me to see, has
been such a surprise that, by the time I am writing
these lines, 1t has probably been already banished and
effaced fiom your healt for ever If that be so, do not
answer this lettel —do not even read it I shall know
what to make of you silence, and will bow to your
decision I shall suffer cruclly, but my gratitude to you
will be eternal for having procuted me the absolute and
unalloyed delight of seeing the Ideal of all my youthful
dreams in the flesh. For such happiness I can never be
sufficiently grateful, even were I to die of grief through
having met you only to lose you. You crossed my
path, and by you existence alone you have ploved that
my ideal was no myth. Howevel hald my lot may one
day be, this dear, divine memory will be to me a talis-
man, a magic charm.
“But, unworthy as I am, should the feeling that I
1ead in youl eyes this morning—how beautiful they
were at that moment, and how I shall always 1emember
them l—should, I say, that feeling conquel yout virtuous
indignation, should that sympathy with which you
reproached yourself still live in you healt, should you
remain, in spite of yourself, the woman who wept when
she heald me confess my love and adoration—then
I conjure you, madame, to wrest some pity fiom that
sympathy. Before confilming the sentence to which I
am quite 1eady to submit—that tellible sentence never
I 52 A LIVING LIE
to see you more—let me ask you to put me to one
single proof. My request is so humble, and so sub-
servient to your will. Heal it, I beg. If I have
guessed rightly from the all too short and fleeting con-
versations we have had, your life, though apparently so
complete, is devoid of many things. Have you nevel
felt the need of having near you a friend to whom you
could confide your troubles, a friend who would never
speak to you again as he once dared to do, but who
would be content to breathe the same air as yourself,
and to share your joys and sorrows—a friend on whom
you could lely, whom you could take or leave at your
sweet will—in a word, a thing of your own, whose very
thoughts would be yours ? Such a friend, with no desire
beyond that of serving you, regretting only that he has
not always done SO, and entertaining no criminal hopes
whatever, is what I dréamt of becoming before that
interview in which my feelings were stronger than my
will. And I feel that I love you sufficiently to realise
that dream even now. Nay, do not shake your head.
I am sincere in my entreaties, sincere in my determina-
tion never to utter a word which will make you repent your
forbearance if you decide to put me to this proof. Will
it not be time enough to banish me from your presence
when you think me in danger of breaking the promise
I now make P
‘My God! how empty my phrases seem | I tremble
at the thought that you will read these lines, and that
is why I can scal cely write them. What will your
answer be * Will you call me back to that shrine in
the Rue Murillo where you have already been so kind
and so full of indulgence that the memory of the
minutes spent there falls like balm upon my aching
heart? That poor heart beats only for you in obedient
and humble admilation. Say–oh! say that you
forgive me. Say that you will let me see you once
more. Say that you will let us try to be friends. You
would say all this, I know, if you could read what is in
CRUEL TO BE KIND I 53
my heart. And even if you do not speak those blessed
words, there shall be no murmuring, no reproaches,
nothing but eternal gratitude—gratitude as deep in
martyrdom as it would have been in ecstasy. I have
learnt to-day how sweet it is to suffer through those one
loves | ?
It was six o'clock when René posted this letter.
He gazed after it as 1t disappeared in the box, and no
sooner had it left his hand than he began to regret
having sent it, the anguish of Suspense 1 especting the
result being greater than his sufferings of the afternoon.
In his disturbed state of mind he had entirely forgotten
his daily habits and the fact that he had never stayed
from home a whole day without giving Some previous
explanation. He sat down to dinner in the first
restaurant he came across, without a thought of his
people at home, and completely absorbed in specula-
tions as to what Suzanne would do aftel reading his
effusion. The first thing that awoke him fiom his state
of semi-somnambulism was the exclamation of Françoise
when, having reached home on foot about half-past nine,
he opened the door and found himself face to face with
the big, clumsy maid, who nearly dropped the lamp
with fright.
“Oh sir, she cried ; “if you only knew how uneasy
you've made Madame Fresneau—it's sent her into fits’
As Emilie ran out into the passage to meet him
René said, ‘You don't mean to say that you've been
upset by my not coming home 2 I couldn't help it,'
he added in an undel tone as he kissed her ; ‘It was on
/her account.”
Emilie, who had really spent a most wretched even-
ing, looked at her brother. She saw that he too had
been greatly agitated, and that his eyes were burning
feverishly ; she had not the courage to reproach him
with selfishness in paying no regard to her own
unreasonable susceptibilities—though he knew them
So well—and replied in a whisper, as she pointed to the
I54 A LIVING LIE
half-open door of the dining-room : ‘The Offarels are
here.”
These simple words sufficed to give a sudden turn
to René's feelings. His fevel of suspense was dispelled
by a more plessing fear. During the sweetest moments
of his walk through the Louvie that morning the
memory of Rosalie had been able to give him pain—
even when he was with Suzanne ! And now he was
obliged to unexpectedly face—not a vision—but the gill
herself, to meet those eyes which he had avoided in such
Cowardly fashion for days past, to gaze upon that pallor
which he himself had caused. A sense of his treachery
Once more came over him, but this time it was more
painful and acute than ever. He had spoken words of
love to another woman before bleaking off his engage-
ment with her whom he justly 1egarded as his betrothed.
He entered the dining-room as if he were walking
to the scaffold, and had no sooner come under the full
light of the lamp than he saw by the look in Rosalie's
eyes that she read his heart like an open book. She
was seated between Fresneau and Madame Offarel,
working as usual, her feet resting on the supports of an
empty chair upon which she had placed her ball of wool
and her father's hat ; this, as René knew well enough,
was only an innocent 1 use to get him to sit near her
when he came home. She and her mother were knitting
some long mittens for old Offarel, who had now got hold
of an idea that he was going to have gout in his wrists.
Her fanciful palent was there, too, drinking, in spite of
his imaginaly ills, a glass of good strong grog and play-
ing piquet with the plofessor. It was Emilie who had
proposed the game in order to discourage general con-
versation, and so be able to give herself up to thoughts
of her absent brother, whilst Angélique Offarel had been
helping her to unravel some skeins of silk. A soft light
1llumined this quiet, peaceful scene, symbolical, in the
poet's eyes, of all that had so long constituted his happi-
CRUEL TO BE KIND I 55
ness, and which he had now given up for ever. Fortu-
nately for him the professor immediately made his loud
voice heard, and so put an end to his further reflections.
‘Young man,’ cried Fresneau, ‘you can boast of
having a sister who thinks something of you, I can tell
you ! She was actually proposing to sit up all night !
“Something must have happened to him. He would
have sent a wile.” For two pins she would have sent
me off to the Morgue. It was no use my suggesting
that some one had kept you to dinner. Come, Offarel,
it's your deal.’
‘I had to go into the country, replied René, ‘and I
lost the train.”
‘How badly he tells them ' ' thought Emilie, admiring
her brother as much for his unskilfulness, which in this
case was a sign of honesty, as she would have admired
him for Machiavelian cleverness.
‘You look rather pale,' observed Madame Offarel
aggressively, “aren't you well ?”
‘Shall I make loom for you here, Monsieur René P'
asked Rosalie, with a timid smile ; ‘I’ll take away papa's
hat.”
‘Give it to me,’ said old Offarel, perceiving a place
for it on the sideboard ; “it will be safer here. It's my
Number One, and mamma would scold me if any harm
came to it.’
‘It’s been Number One for such a long time,’ cried
Angélique, with a laugh. ‘Look here, papa, here's a real
Number One, she added, holding up René's hat under
the lamplight and comparing its glossy nap with the
shabby silk and old-fashioned shape of her father's head-
gear, much to the latter's disadvantage
“But nothing is too good for Monsieur René now,'
observed Madame Offarel with her usual acrimony,
venting the rest of her displeasule upon Angélique,
whose action had annoyed hel. “You’ll be lucky if your
husband is always as well dressed as your father.’
I 56 A LIVING LIE
René was seated by Rosalie's side, and let the epigram
of the terrible bourgeoise pass unnoticed, taking no part
either in the rest of the conversation, which Emilie
wisely led round to cookery topics. Madame Offarel
was almost as keen on this subject as she was on that of
her feline pets. Not content with having recipes of hel
own for all kinds of dishes, such as coulis d'écrevisses, her
triumph, and canard sauce Offarel, as she had proudly
named 1t, she also kept a list of addresses where speci-
alities might be obtained Treating Paris like Robinson
Crusoe treated his island, she would, from time to time,
start out on a fol aging expedition to the most remote
quarters of the capital, going to some particular shop
for her coffee and to another for her pâtes d Italie. She
knew the exact date on which a certain man received
his consignment of Bologna sausages, and when another
got his Spanish olives in.
The slightest incidents of these excursions were
magnified by her into events Sometimes she would go
on foot, and then hel comments on the improvements she
had noticed, on the increase in the traffic, and on the
superiority of the air in the Rue de Bagneux were in-
exhaustible. At other times she would go by omnibus,
and then her fellow-passengers formed the subject of her
remarks. She had met a very nice woman who was
very fat, or a young man who was very impertinent ;
the conductor had recognised her and said good morn-
ing ; the 'bus had neally been upset three times ; an
old gentleman—“decorated '—had had some trouble in
alighting. ‘ I 1eally thought he would fall, pool, dear
old man l'
The insignificant and superfluous details upon which
it pleased the poor woman's simple mind to dilate gener-
ally amused René, for the bourgeoise sometimes hit upon
some curious figules of speech in her flow of words. She
would say, for 1nstance, when speaking of a fellow-pas-
senger who was paying attentions to a cook laden with
provisions, “Some people like their pockets greasy,' or
CRUEL TO BE KIND I 57
of two persons quarrelling, “They fought like Darnajats’
—a mysterious expression which she had always refused
to translate.
But that evening there was too pronounced a con-
trast between the state of romantic excitement into
which his interview with Suzanne had thrown the poet
and the meanness of the surroundings in which he had
been born. He did not stop to think that similar con-
trasts are to be found in every form of life, and that the
substrata of the fashionable world are composed of mean
11valries, of disgusting attempts to keep up illusory
appearances, and of compromises of conscience compared
with which the narrow-mindedness of the middle classes
is a proof of the most delightful simplicity
He looked at Rosalie, and the resemblance between
the girl and her mother struck him most forcibly. She
was pretty, for all that Her oval face, pale with evident
grief, had an ivory tint as she bent down over her
knitting in the lamplight, and when she raised her eyes
to his the sincerity of the passion that animated her
shone forth from beneath hel long lashes. But why
were her eyes of precisely the same shade of colour as
her mother’s P Why, with twenty-foul years between
them, had they the same shape of brow, the same cut of
the chin, and the same lines of the mouth P But how
unjust to blame this 1nnocent child for that resemblance,
for that pallor, for that grief, and even fol the silence in
which she wiapped herself! Alas ! that 1t should be so,
but when we have wionged a woman 1: 1s easy enough
to find an Inexhaustible Soulce of unjust complaints
against her.
Rosalie had unwittingly committed the crime of
adding 1emorse to the feelings brought into play by
René's flesh passion. She represented that past which
we never forgive 1ſ it becomes an obstacle between us
and our future. False as most women are in matters of
love, their perfidy can never sufficiently punish the secret
selfishness of the majority of men. If René had had
I58 A LIVING LIE
the sorry courage of his friend Claude Larcher, and
looked himself straight in the face, he would have had
to confess that the real cause of his irritation lay in the
fact that he had deceived Rosalie. But he was a poet,
and one who was an adept at throwing a veil over the
ugly parts of his Soul.
He therefore compelled himself to think of Suzanne,
and of the noble love which had sprung up and was
burning within him ; for the first time he succeeded in
forming a resolve to break definitely with Rosalie, Say-
ing to himself, ‘I will be worthy of her l’ She was the
lying wanton who, with hel luxurious surroundings, her
rare science of dress, hel incomparable power of aping
sentiment, and her seductive, soul-troubling beauty, had
such 1mmense advantages over sweet, simple-hearted
Rosalie. Her beauty once more rose up before René's
enslaved imagination just as old Offal el was giving the
signal for departure by 1ising and saying to Fresneau,
“I’ve won fourteen sous from you—ha! haſ that'll keep
me in cigars for a week. Come, he added, turning to
his wife, ‘are you ladies ready ?’
‘Since we are all here, 1eplied Madame Offarel,
emphasising the word “all” by darting a look at René.
“When are you coming to dinner P Would Saturday
suit you ? That's M. Flesneau's best day, I believe P’
The professol replying 1n the affirmative, she now
addlessed herself to the poet direct, ‘Will that suit
you, René 2 You'll be more comfortable at our place,
I can assure you, than amongst all those grand people
on whom youl friend Larcher goes sponging.’
“But, Madame—’ exclaimed the poet.
‘Oh—that's enough l’ cried the old lady; ‘ I always
remember what my deal mother used to say: a crust
of bread at home is better than a stuffed turkey at
another's table'
Although this epigram of Rosalie's mother was simply
nonsense when applied to the unhappy Claude, whose
acute dyspepsia Seldom permitted him to d1 ink even a
CRUEL TO BE KIND I59
glass of wine, it wounded René as deeply as if it had
been thoroughly deserved. This was because he saw in
it yet another sign of deep and ever-increasing hostility
between his old associations and the new life for which
since that morning he so eagerly and ardently longed.
These people had a right to him—a fuller right than
Madame Offarel knew, for was he not bound to Rosalie
by a secret understanding 2 A flesh fit of 1111tation
against this poor child came Over him, and he said to
himself more firmly than before, ‘I shall break it off.”
Having arrived at that decision, he went to bed, but
could not sleep. The Curient of his ideas had changed
He was now thinking of his letter. It must have
reached Suzanne by this, and a series of unforeseen
dangers splead itself Out before his imagination. Sup-
pose her husband were to Intercept the letter? A
thrill 1an thi ough him as he thought of the misery his
imprudence might bring down upon this poor woman,
in the power of a tyrant whose blutality he could well
Imagine. And then, even 1ſ the lette, 1eached Suzanne
safely, what 1ſ 1t displeased hel ? And he was sure that
such would be the case He tried to remember the
words he had wi Itten. “How can I have been such a
fool as to write like that P’ he asked himself, and hoped
that the letter might miscarry. He kncw that such
things happened sometimes when people wished the
contrary. Why should it not happen now that he
expressly desired it? He grew quite ashamed of his
childishness, and attributing 16 to the nervous excitement
of the evening, began once more to curse Madame
Offal el's mean-sp111ted 1emalks. His il ritability against
the mother paralysed all pity for the daughter. He
passed the night in this fashion, tossed between two
kinds of tortures, until he fell into that deep morning
sleep which is mole tiring than refleshing ; on awaking,
the first thought that Occul red to him was his desire,
stronger than ever, to bleak off his engagement.
What means could he employ P A very simple
I6O A LIVING LIE
expedient presented itself to his mind at once—ask the
girl to make an appointment. It was so easy, too !
How many times had she not let him know when
Madame Offalel would be out, so that he could come
to the Rue Bagneux sule of finding her alone with
Angélique ; and how considerate the latter had always
been in leaving the two lovels togethel and In peace
This was undoubtedly the most loyal means to adopt.
But the poet could not even bear to think of such an
interview.
In such crises we are sometimes assailed by a con-
temptible folm of pity that consists in unwillingness to
look upon the sufferings we have caused. We do not mind
inflicting torture upon the woman we cast off, but we do
not care to see her tears. It was only natural that René
should try to spare himself this insufferable pain by
writing—the resource of the weak in every kind of
rupture. Papel can stand a good deal, people say. He
got out of bed and commenced to write—but the words
would not flow easily, and he was obliged to stop.
Meanwhile the hour for the postman's first call was
diawing neal Although it was perfect madness to
expect Suzanne's 1eply by that delivery, the lover's
heart beat fastel when Emilie entered the 1 Oom with
his letters and the newspapel, as was hel wont when she
knew he was awake. How happy would he have been
had one of the three cnvelopes she blought him borne
that long, elegant hand which, though seen but once, he
would have 1ecognised amongst a hundred others | No
—these were only business lettels, which he tossed aside
so petulantly that his sister stared at him in sulprise.
‘Are you in trouble, René P’ she asked, and as she
put the question theie was a look of such intense
devotion and love in her eyes that she appeared to her
brother like a guardian angel come to save him fiom the
troubles of that cluel night Why should he not charge
Emilie with the utterance of those words he dared not
fol mulate himself, and which he could not manage to
CRUEL TO BE KIND I6 I
put into wiiting 2 He had no sooner conceived this
plan of getting over the difficulty than he hastened to
carry it out with the impetuosity common to all weak
minds, and with tears in his eyes he began to disclose
the unfortunate plight he was in with regard to Rosalie.
He told his sister exactly how the whole matter
stood. Whilst his mind was in that state of excitement
frequently caused by confessions, fresh ideas originated
within him and strengthened the resolve he had made.
They were, however, such as Ought to have occurred to
him at the time he was entering into those relations
which he now regarded as guilty ones. When the
intimacy had first sprung up between them—a purely
1nnocent but clandestine affair—he had not told himself
that strict morality forbids any secret engagement of
this kind, and that to accustom a girl to elude the
watchfulness of her parents is a most reprehensible pro-
ceeding. He had not told himself then that a man of
honour has no right to declare his love until he has
satisfied himself as to its stability, and that, although the
ardour of passion excuses many weaknesses, a mere
desire for obtaining fresh emotions makes such weakness
sinful. These 1eploaches and many more were now in
his mind and on his lips, and as he looked in Emilie's
face he plainly saw what pain his conduct had caused
his confiding sister. In a narrow home circle such dis-
simulation is ploductive of much grief to those who have
been its victims. But though Madame Fresneau felt as
though she had been imposed upon, she vented all her
angel upon the girl, and upon her alone, exclaiming,
after her brother had told her what he wanted her to do,
‘I never would have believed her so deceitful.” we
‘Don’t blame her,’ said René shamefacedly. If their
relations had remained hidden, whose fault was it P. He
therefore added : ‘I am the guilty one.’
‘You !' cried Emilie, folding him in her arms. ‘No,
no ; you are too good, too loving. But I will do what
you wish, and I promise you I'll be as gentle as possible.
M
I62 A LIVING LIE
It was the best thing you could have done to come to
me. We women know how to smooth things down.
And then, you know, it is only right that you should put
an end to such a false position. The sooner it's over the
better, so I shall go to the Rue Bagneux this vely after-
noon. If I can’t see her alone I will ask her to meet me
somewhere.’
In spite of the confidence she had expressed in her
own tact, Emilie became so impressed with the diffi-
culties of her mission that, during lunch, she wore a look
of anxiety that made her husband feel uneasy and
awakened in René feelings of remorse. In employing a
third person to tell Rosalie the truth was he not acting
1n a particularly cluel manner and adding unnecessary
humiliation to unavoidable pain P When his sister came
to him ready dressed, just before staiting on her c11and,
he was on the point of stopping her. There was still
time—but he let her go He heard the door close.
B. milie was in the street—now she was in the Rue
d’Assas—now in the Rue du Cherche-Midi
But such thoughts as these were soon dispelled by
the fever of anxiety with which he awaited the arrival
of the next post. Suzanne must have had his letter
that morning. If she had replied at once the answer
would come by the next delivery. This idea, and the
approach of the moment in which its correctness would
be tested, at once cut shout his pity for the girl he had
cast off. Complex as are the subtle workings of the
heart, love simplifies them wond1ously. René was tol-
tured by the suspense felt by all lovers, from the simple
soldier who expects an 111-spelt lettel from his sweet-
heart to the royal prince carrying on a sentimental cor-
respondence with the brightest and most healtless Court
beauty. The man wishes to go on with his usual
occupations, but his mind is on the alert, counting the
minutes and unable to endure the torment of waiting.
He looks at the clock, and imagines all kinds of possi-
bilities. If he dared he would go twenty times an hour
CRUEL TO BE KIND 163
to the person from whom he gets his letters, and ask
whether there is nothing for him. Such is the agony of
waiting, with all its intense anxiety, its mad conjectures,
the burning fever of its illusions and disenchantments.
Every other feeling of the soul is burnt up and con-
sumed in this fire of impatience. When Emilie came
back, after having been gone an hour and a half, René
seemed to have entirely forgotten on what errand he
had sent her, but there was such a look of pain on his
sister's face that it quite startled him.
‘Well ?” he ejaculated, in a tone of suspense.
‘It is all over, she replied, almost in a whisper.
‘Oh, René, how I misjudged her l’
‘What did she say?’
“Not a word of reproach. She only wept—but, oh,
how bitterly Her love for you is greater than I thought.
Her mother had gone out with Angélique—how cruel
it sounds !—to order the things for Saturday's dinner.
I, for one, am not going to that dinner. When Rosalie
opened the door she turned so pale that I thought she
was going to faint. She guessed everything before I
said a wold. She is like I am with you—1t 1s a kind of
second sight. She took me Into her 1 oom. It is full of
you—of your poltraits, of trifles that remind her of
places you've been to together, and of cuts from the
illustrated papers about your play I began to deliver
your message as gently as I could, but I give you my
word I was quite as upset as she was. She said, “It is
so good of him to have asked you to come. You at least
will not think me foolish in loving him as I do.” And
then she went on, “I have been expecting it for some
time. It seemed too good to be true Ask him to let
me keep his letters.” Oh, my God I can't tell you
any more about it now I am So afraid for you, my
deal René ; I am so aflaid that her grief may bling
you ill luck.’
I64 A LIVING LIE
CHAPTER XIII
AT HOME
THE letter posted by René at Saint-Cloud had duly
1 eached its destination on the morning of the day that
was to complete poor Rosalie's unhappiness. Suzanne
had received it with the rest of her correspondence a
few minutes before her husband entered her room to get
his morning cup of tea, and she was Just engaged in
reading it when Paul's kind and jovial face appeared in
the doorway.
“Bon four, Suzon, he clied in his deep but cheely
voice, adding, as he sometimes did, ‘my fair 1 ose.’
This allusion to de Musset's well-known romance was
always accompanied by a kiss. In Paul's eyes de Musset
was the embodiment of youth and love, with just a spice
of suggestiveness, and it was the favourite joke of this
simple-hearted fellow to look upon himself as Suzanne's
lover, and not as a lawful spouse. He was one of those
stiange husbands who say to you in confidence, ‘I have
no secrets from my wife—that is the only way to cule
her of curiosity.’ Meanwhile, he was as much in love
with his ‘fair lose' as ever, and ploved it by the
manner in which he tenderly kissed hel on the neck.
But she checked further demonstrations of affection
with the words, “Get along ! See to the tea, and lot me
finish my letter.’
She knew that Paul would never ask her anything
about her correspondence, and 1t gave her such intense
pleasure to read the poet's aident phrases that she was
not satisfied with going over them once, but lead them a
second time, and then, folding up the letter, slipped it
into her bodice. She looked SO Supremely happy as
she sat down to the table and took up the fine porcelain
cup filled with fragrant tea that Moraines, wishing to
tease hel, said, in a voice that was meant to be gruff,
AT HOME I65
‘If I were a jealous husband, I should think you had
received a letter from your sweetheart, you look so
happy, madame. And if you knew how nice you look
like that,’ he added, kissing her arm Just above the
wrist, where the delicate pink skin, perfumed and
warmed by her luxurious bath, looked so inviting.
“Well, Sir, you would be right, she replied, with a
roguish air. Women take a divine pleasure in Saying in
fun things which, though true, will not be believed. It
procures them that mild sensation of danger which
titillates their nerves so delightfully.
‘I hope this sweetheart of yours is a nice fellow 2°
asked Paul, quite amused by what he considered a good
joke
‘Very nice.’
‘And may I know his name 2'
‘You are too 1nquisitive. Guess.’
“Bless me—no l’ cried Paul. “I should have too
much to do. Ah ! Suzanne,’ he added, suddenly
changing his tone to one that betrayed deep feeling,
‘what pain it must be to harbour suspicions ! Just
fancy me being Jealous of you, and having to sit in the
Office all day whilst my heart was being torn by doubts
Ah well, this with a shrewd look, ‘I would set
Desforges to watch you !'
‘It’s lucky there was no one to hear his “joke,”
thought Suzanne when she was alone. “He has a
Silly way of saying these things, too, when he's out.’
René's letter had, however, put her in such a good
tempel that she forgot to get angry, as she would do
when she thought her husband too utterly simple. Such
is the logic of these pretty and light-hearted sinners;
ifié wº exel cise all their wits in blindfolding a man,
and then blame him for stumbling. The fact of having
deceived him does not satisfy them—he must only be
deceived up to a certain point. If he goes beyond that
it is too much—he makes them feel uneasy, and they
hate him for it—sincerely. Suzanne contented herself
I66 A LIVING LIE
with a shrug of her shoulders and a look of sweet pity.
Then she took the lettel fiom its hiding-place and 1ead
it for the third time.
‘It’s quite true, she said aloud ; “he is not like other
men.’
The cupon she fell into a deep 1 evenie, in which she
saw the poet as she had seen him waiting for her at the
Louvie, standing just undel the large Veronese canvas
with his face turned a little to the 11ght. How agitated
he had been when his eyes met hers How young he
was How his lips had trembled when he told her a
little later that he loved her—those full, fresh lips which
she could have bitten like some fluit, after having
caressed his fair cheeks and the soft silken beard that
adol ned his manly face. But the fruit was not yet ripe;
She must learn to wait. She Sighed. Her calculation
that the poet would write that very letter, and so soon
after their meeting, too, had ploved correct. She had
made up her mind not to reply to it, nor yet to the
Second. For this second lettel she waited one, two,
three days. Though her confidence in the strength of
the passion with which she had inspired René was un-
shaken, she was somewhat startled when, on the after-
noon of the third day, just as her blougham was turning
the corner of the Rue Murillo, she saw him standing
where she had seen him once before. She was very
careful to look as though she had not noticed him,
and put on her saddest expression, her most dreamy
eyes and an air of Sweet 1esignation that would have
moved a tigel. The comfortable brougham, furnished
with a number of dainty and useful knick-knacks, was
immediately transformed 1n René's eyes into a prison
van Containing a marty1—a martyr to her husband, a
martyr to her home, a martyr to her love, and a martyr
to her virtue.
She was not acting a vely great lie, eithel, as she
passed René. As she saw the pallor on his cheeks,
caused by three days' anguish, and the look of despair
AT HOME 167
in his eyes, she would have given much to be able to
stop the blougham, to get out or to make him get in,
and to exclaim as she carried him off, ‘ I love you as
much as you love me!’ Instead of that she drove on
to do her shopping and pay her calls, Sure now that the
second letter so impatiently expected would not be long
in coming. It came the same afternoon, but Just when
its arrival presented most danger. And for this reason.
Having gone home 1mmediately after meeting Suzanne,
René had written her four pages in feverish haste, and
1n order that they might 1 each her Sooner and mole
safely, he had sent them about five o'clock by a com-
missionalle; the lettel was the efore handed to Suzanne
by her manservant whilst Desforges was with her He
had come, as he often did at that hour, with a dainty
little present ; this time it was a pretty needle case in
old gold which he had picked up at a sale.
No soonel had she recognised the writing on the
envelope than she said to herself, ‘The least sign of
emotion and the Baron will Smell a 1 at l’ As some-
times happens, the fear of betraying hel agitation made
it mole difficult for her to conceal 16. She took the
letter, looked at the address as we do when trying to
guess from whom a communication comes, tole it open
and skimmed 1ts contents, after having first cast a glance
at the Signature ; then, getting up to place it amongst
some others on her desk, she said:
‘Another begging letter | It's astonishing how
many I’ve had lately How do you manage with them,
Frédéric 2'
‘I have a very simple plan, replied the Balon.
* Fifty francs the filst time of asking, twenty francs the
second, nothing the third. My Secreta1y has orders to
that effect. That's one of the fads I don’t believe in—
charity Just as if it were through want of money that
the poor are poor | It's their disposition that has made
them so, and that you’ll never change. Look here, take
this person who is sponging on you to-day ; I'll bet
I68 A LIVING LIE
twenty-five pounds that if you inquire about him you'll
find that fortune, or at least a competency, has been in
his grasp ten times during his life. If you were to Set
him up afresh he would be in the same plight in a few
years from now. Not that I mind giving, and as much
as people want—but as to believing that money so spent
is of the least use, that's a different thing altogether.
And then these benefactors and lady patronesses—I
know them ; it's all advertisement—a means of making
their way 1nto Society and of getting hold of good
people.’
‘That's enough,” said Suzanne, ‘you are a terrible
sceptic.” And with that delicate 1rony that women
Sometimes use in avenging themselves upon the man
who compels them to lie, she added, ‘You’le not one to
be easily duped.’
The Baron accepted this flattery with a smile. Had
his suspicions been aloused, that phrase alone would
have lulled them. The most cunning men have that
weak point by which they can always be conquered—
vanity. But Suspicion of any kind had been far from
the Balon's mind. Suzanne deceived him as easily as
René had deceived his sistel. Those who see us every
day ale the last to perceive what would be evident to
the merest strange1. That is because the Stranger
comes to us without any preconceived idea, whilst Oul
daily associates have formed an opinion about us which
they do not take the trouble to verify or change. The
Ba1 on therefore did not remark that Suzanne was that
afternoon a prey to intense agitation, which lasted dur-
1ng the whole of his visit. He stayed rather longer than
usual, too, telling her all sorts of club stories, while she
pottered about 1n the room, under some pretence or
other, with one eye on her letter, seizing it once more
with delight as soon as Desforges had at last decided
to go.
‘He is an excellent fellow,” she said, “but such a
bore ' ' A fol thight's passion had sufficed to bling her
AT HOME I69
to this stage of ingratitude, and she now found compen-
sation for the 1estraint of the past hour in going over
each phrase and word of the poet's mad letter. This
time it was an ardent prayer—an appeal to a woman's
love. He no longer spoke of friendship. The air of
melancholy she had assumed in the brougham had
told.
‘Since you love me,’ he said, ‘have pity on yourself,
if you have no pity on me.’ What would have appeared
to Suzanne an intolerable piece of concert in anyone else
touched her deeply as a mark of absolute confidence 1n
her love. She recognised 1t for what 1: really was—
worship SO devout that 1: did not harbour a shadow of
doubt. It would have been so natural 1ſ René had
accused her of having cruelly trifled with his feelings,
but such an hypothesis was far from the poet's thoughts
“Poor boyſ' she said to herself, ‘how he loves me !’
Then, thinking of Desforges by way of comparison, she
added, ‘It is the best way to make sure of not being
deceived ' ' She took the letter out once more Its
language was so touching, and 16 was full of such sincere
grief; then, again, the Cosy salon, just at that houl,
reminded her so forcibly of the poet and of his first
visit, and she asked herself whether she had not put
him sufficiently to the proof. ‘No,' she concluded, “not
yet.'
This burning letter could, indeed, have but one reply
—to tell René to come and see hel theic, and 1t was 1n
his own home that she wanted to see him, in the little
room he had described to her. She would appear before
him in a state of distraction, and under pretence of
saving him from suicide. The third letter would un-
doubtedly ful nish her with that pretence, and she
decided to await its coming, already enjoying in antici-
pation the delight of seeing René once more. Amidst
the whill of excitement that her sudden and unexpected
appealance would cause the poet there would be no
room for reflection, All the hateful preliminaries of a
I70 A LIVING LIE
false step, impossible to discuss with a man so inexperi-
enced as he, would be dispensed with. It was true
there was the presence of the 1est of the family to con-
side1. Suzanne would not have been the depraved
woman she was, even in this crisis of true passion, if
this detail had not given her plans the chal m of doubly
forbidden fruit.
She waited for that third letter with intense longing.
The time slipped rapidly by. She dined out, went to
the theatre, and paid calls, hel mind entilely absorbed
in that one thought. As luck would have 16, Desforges,
having no doubt been lectured by Doctor Noirot, had
not asked for any appointments in the Rue du Mont-
Thabor that week. She knew that this was merely a
postponement. Even after becoming René's mistress
she would still have to continue her relations with the
man who supplied so many of her luxurious wants.
This seemed to her as natural as the fact of being Paul's
wife. “What does that matter, since you know I love
only you ?’ 1s what such a wife will say to her lover
when he gets into one of those ridiculous fits of jealousy
that so ill become a man in that position. And these
women are never more sincere than in uttering that
phiase. They know full well that love is totally different
from duty, interest, or even pleasure. Though Suzanne
saw nothing particularly shocking in the plural life she
was leading, she was glad that the opportunity was
afforded her of devoting herself entirely to her new
passion for a day or two. In all this, howevel, she was
still the courtesan, one of those cleatules who, when
they do fall 1n love, become real altists of sentiment,
feeling as delicately on certain points as they ale abomin-
ably wanton 1n others.
‘What if he should really have taken it into his
head to go away !' This was the thought that struck
her when she at last received the much desired third
letter, consisting of one long, heartlending falewell—
without a wold of reproach.
AT HOME 171
She trembled lest René might have had recourse to
the proceeding counselled by Napoleon, who, with his
imperial good sense, said, ‘ In love the only victory is
flight.” In behaving as she had done she had staked
all. Would she win P What she had foreseen had come
to pass with a precision that both delighted and fright-
ened her. The third letter bore the 1mprint of such
deep despair that, on 1eading it a second time, this
Subtle actress, with all her experience, was seized by a
fresh fear more terrible than the first—the fear that
René might really have destroyed himself In vain did
She argue with herself that if the poet had had real
intentions of going away he would have mentioned it in
the letter, and that a handsome young man of twenty-
five does not kill himself on account of the silence of a
woman he believes to be in love with him—her anguish
was none the less real and intense when she reached
the Rue Coetlogon a few hours after having received
the letter.
It was two o'clock. She stopped for a moment at
the corner of the street, gazing 1n wonderment at this
provincial corner of Paris, whose picturesqueness had so
charmed Claude Larcher on the evening our story opens.
The grey clouds hung low in the wintry sky, and the
bare branches of the trees stood out drearily against
them. The cries of a few children playing at soldiers
amongst the ruins at the back alone broke the silence
The strange appearance of the peaceful little street, the
perils attending the step she was about to take, and the
uncertainty of the result, all combined to b11ng Suzanne's
excitement to its highest pitch, though she smiled as she
thought to herself that theie was no reason for believing
René to be at home unless he were hopelessly waiting
for a reply to his last letter. But when the conczerge
had told her that M. René was in, and had pointed out
the door, her wits at once came back to her.
Like all strong-minded women, she possessed the
characteristics of a man of action. A plain and circum-
I72 A LIVING LIE
scribed course of events inspired her with determination
and courage to carry out her plans. She rang the bell.
Heavy footsteps were heard apploaching, and the face
of Françoise appeared in the doorway. At any other
time she would have smiled at the look of amazement
which the simple maid did not even try to conceal.
Colette Rigaud had once called upon the poet to get him
to make some slight alteration in her part, and Françoise,
1ecovering somewhat from her surprise, no doubt thought
that this was a similar visit, for Suzanne could hear her
say, as she opened the last door on the right : ‘Mon-
sieu René, there's a lady asking for you. . . . A very
pretty woman—probably some actress.’
She saw the poet come out of his room and turn as
pale as death on recognising her. She glided quietly
along the passage which Raffet's prints had turned into
a small Napoleonic museum and entered René's room.
He was obliged to get out of the way to let hel pass ;
the door closed, and they were alone.
‘You—you here !’ clied René. He could only gaze
at hel as she stood before him looking so slim and
elegant in the dark costume she had chosen for this
visit, for he was in that state of speechless agitation
caused by Some unexpected event that Suddenly raises us
from the depths of despair to the height of bliss. At
such moments we are assailed by a whirlwind of ideas
and sensations that threatens to turn our brain. Our
legs give way beneath us and our hands tremble. It is
happiness, and it gives pain. René was obliged to
support himself against the wall, his eyes still fixed
upon that handsome face that he had despaired of ever
seeing again. A small detail completed the madness of
his joy. He noticed that Suzanne's hands trembled a
little too, and, as 1t happened, her emotion was sincere.
To the passionate feelings that inspired her there
was now added the fear of displeasing the man she was
resolved to win. On entering this chamber, where she
was sure no woman had ever been before her, her plan
AT HOME # 73
of action was as clearly traced as plans of that kind
can be. Room must always be left for the unforeseen.
Suzanne felt that with René there would be many diffi-
culties which with others might have been lightly and
safely glided over. His simplicity both charmed and
frightened her. In him she could rely, it was true, upon
the impulse of the passions—more daring than cool
calculation—but to arouse unnoticed that impulse in
the poet when she was herself suffering its tortures
was no easy matter.
Whilst he stood gazing at her after the door had
closed she felt a momentary hesitation , then, almost
forgetting her plans and her part, she threw herself upon
his neck and stammered out, ‘ I was in such terrible
fear. Youl lettel frightened me so that I could not
help coming. I have had an awful struggle, and could
not hold out any longer. My God, my God | What
will you think of me?’
He held her in his arms, and a thrill 1an through
her. Then he lifted her lovely head and commenced to
kiss her, filst on her eyes, those eyes whose sadness had
so touched him as she passed him in her brougham—
next on her cheeks, those cheeks whose ideal form had so
charmed him from the first—finally on her sweet mouth,
which gave his kisses back. What did he think of her 2
How could any idea shape itself in his mind, absorbed as
it was by that union of the lips which is in itself complete
and intoxicating possession ? What delight, too, that
embrace was to Suzannel Through all the horrible
complexities of her feminine diplomacy one sincere
desire had grown stronger and stronger within her—
that of meeting with a fresh and spontaneous, natural
and thrilling passion. This passion she found in René's
breath ; it stirled the vely depths of her Soul and made
her almost faint with emotion. Ah! this was youth,
with its complete and absolute abandonment, expressing
neither thought nor word ; oblivious of all, except the
immediate present; effacing all, except the fleeting
I74 A LIVING LIE
sensation whose sweetness and whose very Outlines
seem to lie in a kiss.
This woman, colrupted by the influence of a Palisian
cynic of fifty and degraded by that hol rible venality
which has not the excuse of necessity—this Machiave-
lian coultesan, who had regulated hel passion for René
like a game of chess—tasted for one second that divine
joy. The punishment of those who let calculation entel
Into their love lies in the remembrance of thcil calcula-
tion in the moment of ecstasy. Though intoxicated by
the mad kisses she had given and 1eceived, Suzanne
clearly saw that she could not abandon hel self at once
to hel lovci's arms. She therefore bloke away fiom
him and said, ‘Let me go now that I have seen you
and now that I know you are alive. I beg you to let
me go. O René !'—she had nevel called him by
this name before—“don’t come near me!’
‘Suzanne,’ 1eplied the poet, maddened by the but n-
ing nectar he had found on those lips—the certainty
of being loved— don't be afraid of me. When shall
we have another hour like this to ourselves? Let me
beg of you to stop. See,” he added, 1eceding still
faithel fiom hel, “I will obey you. I obeyed you
even when I found it so very haid Ah you believe
me now !” he exclaimed, seeing that Suzanne's face no
longer explessed such intense fear. ‘Will you be very
nice ’’ he continued, in that playful tone which takes so
well with women, and which will make any one of them,
be she a lady of high degree or a simple gill, call a man
a “ darling.’ “Sit down there in that a m-chail, where I
have so often sat at work, and then be nicer still, and
try to look as though you were not on a visit.’
He had again come closel and had forced her into
the chair; then he took away her muff and began to
unbutton her coat. She submitted to this with a sad
smile, like one who yields against her will. This smile
was the death agony of the Madonna, the last act in
the comedy of the Ideal performed by Suzanne. He
AT HOME I75
also took off her bonnet, a toque that matched her
coat. He was now kneeling before her and gazing at
her with that look of idolatry a woman is sure to pro-
voke in her lover if she but give him one of those proofs
of affection that flatter a man's vanity and love—the
lower passions and the higher passions of the heart.
The poet said to himself: “How she must love me to
have come here, she whom I know to be so pure, so
pious, and so devoted to her duty l’
All the lies she had so carefully told him came back
to his mind like further ploofs of her sincerity as he
said: “How delighted I am to have you hele, and just
now, too ! Don't be afiaid—we are quite alone. My
sister has gone out for the whole afternoon, and the
slave'—this was the name he gave Françoise, in ordel
to amuse Suzanne—‘the slave is busy in the kitchen.
And I have you hel c | You see, this is my own little
kingdom, this room—the place in which I have en-
dured so much Theſe is not one of these corners, not
one of these objects that could not tell you what I
have suffered these past few days. My poor books'—
and he pointed to his low bookcase—‘were left un-
opened. These dear old engravings I scal cely looked
at. The pen with which I had written to you I never
touched. I sat just where you are sitting now count-
ing the hours as they passed God what a week I
have spent l But what does it all matter now that you
are hele and I can gaze at you ? It is happiness to
me to tell you even my troubles l'
She listencil with half-closed eyes, giving herself up
to the music of his wolds, and following out her plan in
spite of the passions that welled up within her. Does
the knowledge of danger as he faces his adversary drive
from the mind of a skilful swordsman the lessons he
learnt in the school 2 René's assulance that they were
alone in the house had sent a thrill of joy through
Suzanne, and the glance she had thrown round the little
room, So neatly and carefully kept, had proved, to her
176 A LIVING LIE
delight and satisfaction, that she had not been mistaken
concerning her lover's past. Everything here spoke of
a studious and secluded life, the pure and noble life of
an artist who surrounds himself with an atmosphere of
beautiful dreams. Above all, the poet himself pleased
her, with his love-lit eyes and the playful way in which
he treated her, and she began to sec that this exchange
of confidences respecting their mutual sufferings would
lead her to her goal without the least risk of diminishing
her prestige in his eyes.
‘And don't you think that I have suffered too P’ she
1eplied. “Why should I deny it P You speak of you!
letters—God knows that I did not want to read them
I kept the first one in my pocket a whole day, having
neither the courage to tear it open nor to bun 1t. To
1ead your words was to heal you speak once more, and
I had determined that it should not be I had prayed
to my guardian angel SO long and so fel vently for
strength to forget you. How I struggled to do so !’
Here the Madonna appeared for the last time. She
lifted her eyes to heaven—or rather to the ceiling, fiom
which hung two or three little Japanese dolls—and in
her glorious orbs were reflected the wings of her
guardian angel as he flew far, far away. . . .
Fixing hel blue eyes once mole on René, she sighed
in that tone of abandonment that p1Oves a conqueled
heart: ‘I am lost now, but what of that P I love you so
dearly that I do not ca1e what happens—only I cannot
bear to picture you in distress.’
Here she broke down, her bosom racked with convul-
sive sobs, and as the poet tendelly kissed hel tears
away her head once more fell upon his bleast. She lay
there for a few moments listening to the wild beating of
his healt—then, like a tiled child, she entwined her
alms about his neck, and heaved a sigh of peace.
HAPPY DAYS 177
CHAPTER XIV
HAPPY DAYS
WHEN Suzanne left the house in the Rue Coetlogon
her next meeting with René was already arranged.
After taking a few steps down the little street she
stopped and tuned her head, although it would have
been more prudent to walk straight on, as she always
did in the Rue du Mont-Thabor. But so firm a hold
had passion obtained upon this usually cold-blooded
woman that she smiled and waved her hand at the poet
as he stood watching her from the window of the room
in which she had enjoyed such a triumph—for all hel
calculations had turned out perfectly col rect. Getting
into a cab at the corner of the Rue d’Assas, she drove to
the Bon Marché, where she had ordered her carriage to
meet her; on the way the details of the conversation she
had had with René recurred to her, and, going over them
again, she congratulated herself upon the manner in
which she had acquitted herself. As soon as the first
real step has been taken in an intrigue of this kind the
discussion of further arrangements becomes as easy and
as delightful as 1t was before hateful and difficult.
Suzanne had been the first to attack this delicate
question. “I want you to piomise me something. If
you do not wish me to 1 eproach myself with this love as
with a crime, promise me that you won't go out 1nto
Society at all. You are not accustomed to that kind of
life, and you Ought to be at work. You would flitter
away your magnificent talents and genius in idle
nonsense, and I should look upon myself as the cause.
Promise me that you won't go and See anyone’—and in
a whisper— any of those women who flocked round you
the othel night.’
How tenderly René had kissed hel for those wolds,
in which the authol could read a ti Ibute of devotion
N
t
178 A LIVING LIE
paid to his future work and the lover a delicate expres-
sion of secret jealousy. He asked a little timidly,
‘Mayn't I come even to your house?’
“To mine least of all,” she replied. “I could not
bear to see you touch my husband's hand now. You
know what I mean, she added, passing her fingels
caressingly thi Ough his hall. He was Sitting at hel
feet, while she was still in the arm-chall She bent
forward and hid her face on René's shouldel. “Don’t
make me say any more,' she sighed ; then, after a few
minutes, ‘What I should like to be to you is the friend
who only enters into a man's life to bring him the Sweet
and noble gifts of joy and coul age, the friend who loves
and is beloved in Secret, away from the mocking world
that snce1s at the puiest feelings of the Soul. I have
committed a great Sin as 1t 1s’—hele she hid her face in
her pietty hands— do not let it grow into that series of
base and soldid acts which fills me with Such holrol in
others. Spare me this, René, iſ you love me as you say
you do . . . But tell me, do you 1eally love me so
much 2'
In deliveling herself of this pretty batch of lies she
had seen in the face of her simple and romantic victim
the raptuous joy with which these beautiful sentiments
inspired him. The Madonna 1esumed the halo which
she had tempolalily laid aside. Then, by a skilful Com-
bination of ruse and affection, by giving to Cool calcula-
tion an appearance of tendel est Susceptibility, she had
led him to agree to the following convention as being the
only one befitting the poetry of her love He was to
look out for a small Suite of rooms Somewhere not very
fal from the Rue Mulillo ; he would engage them in an
assumed name, and they could meet the e two, three, O1
four times a week. She had suggested Batignolles, but
1t was so clevelly done that he almost imagined he had
hit upon it himself, as Indeed upon the 1est of her ideas.
He was to start out the vely next day, and then write
to hel, poste restante, in Celtain initials, at a cel tain office.
HAPPY DAYS I79
All these unnecessary precautions gave René an idea of
the state of slavery in which his poor angel lived—if
such an existence could be called living ! “Poor angel’
he had called her, as she gave utterance to a half-stified
complaint concerning her husband's despotism and com-
pared herself to a hunted animal, ‘how you must have
suffered l’ And she had lifted her eyes to the ceiling
with such a well-feigned expression of grief that, years
afterwards, the man for whose benefit all this was done
still asked, “Was she not since1e P’
There was, however, no need for so much theatrical
display to make René joyfully accede to the plan pro-
prosed by the clever pupil of Desforges. Simply out of
love for her he would have agreed with pleasure and
alacrity to any kind of scheme she put forward. But
the ploglamme laid before him corresponded well with
the romantic side of his nature. It enchanted the poet
to dwell upon the idea of carrying such a delightful
Secret with him through life, whilst the phraseology in
which Suzanne had posed as the pation saint of his
work had flattered his vanity, dieaming as he did of
reconciling art and love, of uniting indulgence of the
baser passions with that independence and solitude his
work required.
And now René, after so many days of torture, felt
as though both his mind and his healt had wings. So
great was his happiness that he did not even notice the
look of pained surprise that his sister wore during the
evening that followed Suzanne's visit. What had
Françoise heard? What had she told Madame Fies-
neau P That the latter was deeply agitated was very
evident. The profound 1gnorance of certain women
who ale both 1 omantic and pure exposes them to these
rude sulprises. They interest themselves in love affails
because they are women, and assist in the establishment
of 1elations which they believe to be as 1nnocent as they
ale themselves. Then, when they see the blutal conse-
quences to which these relations almost necessarily lead,
N 2
I8O A LIVING LIE
their surprise is so great that but for its cruelty it would
be comical.
According to the description given her by the ser-
vant, Emilie had no doubt as to the identity of the
visitor, and the mere idea of what might have taken
place there in her house filled the staid and pious mation
with horlor. Her mind involuntarily reverted to the
bitter tears she had seen on Rosalie's pale cheeks, and
as she thought, first of the poor girl, of whose sincerity
she was convinced, and then of the unknown Society
lady for whom in hel Simplicity she had taken sides, she
said to hel self, ‘What 1ſ René should be mistaken in
this woman P’
But she was a sister too—a sistel indulgent to a
fault, and, after a feeling of uneasiness which his evident
distress had caused her during the past week, she had
not the coul age to trouble her brother with 1eploaches
On Seeing him look so happy. This mixtute of conflict-
ing sentiments prevented her fiom plovoking any fiesh
confidences, and René was become too discrect to make
them. It was impossible for him to speak of Suzanne
now, what he felt for her could not be expressed in
words. He had found suitable apartments almost im-
mediately in a quiet street in the centle of the Bati-
gnolles qual ter, just where Suzanne had wanted them ;
and almost immediately, too, chance had so willed it
that he was flee to devote himself to hel entirely. A
week had scarcely passed since Suzanne's appealance 1n
the Rue Coetlogon when Claude Larcher, the only one
of the poet's friends whom he visited at all often, sud-
denly left Paris. He called on René, who had neglected
him a little of late, about half-past Six One evening, in
tlavelling garb, his face pale and agitated. The family
were just Sitting down to dinnel.
‘I have only come to bid you good-bye,’ said Claude
without taking a seat ; ‘ I am going by the nine o'clock
Mont Cenis express, and I shall have to dine at the
station.’
HAPPY DAYS I8 I
“Shall you be away long P’ asked Emilie.
‘Chi ſo sa P’ replied Claude, “as they say in that
beautiful land where I shall be to-morrow.’
“Lucky fellow !' cried Fresneau, ‘to be able to go
and read Virgil in his own country instead of teaching
donkeys to translate him l’
“Very lucky, indeed l’ said the writer with a forced
laugh ; but when he took leave of René at the gate,
where his cab laden with luggage awaited him, he burst
into sobs. ‘It’s that beast of a Colette l’ he cried.
‘You remember that day you saw her in my rooms?
God how sweet she looked And do you remember
what she said, as I thought, in a joke? I can't even
repeat it. . . . Well, things have come to such a pass
that life fol me hele is unbearable, and I must be off for
a time. I had no money, so I was forced to go to a
usurer who lent me some at sixty per cent Terrible,
isn't it P What with the usuler, my old aunt in the
countly, to whom I was bad enough to write, my pub-
lishel, and the editor of the “Revue parisienne’—who,
by the way, has got me to sign a contract for copy—I
have six thousand francs. As the train carries me
along every turn of the wheel will seem to go over my
heart, but at any rate I shall be getting away from her,
and when she gets my lettel, written from Milan, what a
grand 1evenge it will be l’ He rubbed his hands with
Joy, then, shaking his head, said, ‘It has been like
Heine's ballad of Count Olaf all along. You know how
he talks of love to his betſ othed while the headsman
stands at the dool--that headsman has always been at
the door of Colette's chamber. But when he assumed
the folm of a Sappho I could bear it no longer. Good-
bye, René, you will not see me back till I am cured.’
Since then there had been no news fiom the unhappy
fellow, of whom René generally thought when compal ing
the noble woman he idolised with the savage and dan-
gerous actress. Claude's absence was the reason why
René never put in an appearance now at the green-room
I 82 A LIVING LIF.
of the Théâtre Français. Why should he expose him-
self to the 1ancour of Colette's tongue, which no doubt
wagged loudly enough when on the subject of her
fugitive lovel P Thanks to this absence, too, all bonds
between the poet and the world into which Larcher had
1ntroduced him were sevel ed.
Undc1 the 1nfluence of his growing passion for
Suzanne, the author of the ‘Sigisbée’ had 1gnored the
most elementaly rules of etiquette. Not only had he
neglected to call upon the different women who had so
graciously invited him, but he had not even paid
Madame Komof his duty visit. The Comtesse, who was
large-minded enough to understand the unconventional
ways of genius, and kind enough to forgive such irregu-
larity, said to herself, ‘He was probably bored here, and,
though not angry with him, had not asked him again.
She was busy, too, fol the moment in b11nging out a
Russian pianist who pretended that he was 1n direct
communication with the soul of Chopin. René, feeling
safe in that qual ter, had heald with 1egret that Madame
Offarel was greatly offended that neither he no Emilie
had come to the famous dinner whose ingredients it had
taken her a week to collect from all parts of Paris.
Fresneau had gone all alone.
‘A fine expedition you sent me on l’ he said to his
wife on his return. “When I mentioned your headache
the old woman gave a grunt that almost knocked me
down, and when I told hel that René was gone to see a
sick friend—a vely queel excuse, by the way, but let
that pass—she said, “In some palace, I suppose !”
During dinner pool Claude was the only topic of con-
versation. She pulled him to pieces till he hadn't a rag
on his back. “He is an egoist and an ill-mannered
fellow, he is in bad health and has no futul e l’—and
goodness knows what she didn't say ! If it hadn't been
for a game of piquet with Offarel—and even that the sly
old fox won. Oh !—Passart was there too. Remind me
about recommending him to the Abbé for the college.
HAPPY DAYS 183
He's a nice young fellow. Between you and me, I think
Rosalſe rather likes him.’
Emilie could not help smiling at her husband's
marvellous perspicacity. She had often heard Madame
Offarel complain of the pressing attentions of the
young drawing-master, and she 1mmediately under-
stood that he had been asked at the last minute to
prove that, besides René, there were other suitors on
hand. Thereupon the Offal els, who had never allowcq
four days to pass without coming in after dinner, had
not set foot in the Rue Coetlogon for a fortnight. When
they at last decided to 1esume their visits, at their
wonted hour, they were escorted by the aforementioned
Passart, a tall, fair, gawky lad in spectacles, with a shy
look on his freckled face. Emilie saw at once that
their motive in bringing him was to arouse her brother's
jealousy, and the old lady was not long in showing her
hand.
‘Monsicur Offarel is engaged this evening, she said,
‘SO Monsieur Passart was kind enough to b11ng us
Give Monsieur Jacques that seat near you, Rosalie.'
Poor Rosalie had not seen René since 1eceiving his
cruel message through Emilie. In passing from the
Rue Bagneux to the Rue Coetlogon—in reality a short,
but to her an interminable distance—she had suffered
agonies, and hel heart beat fast as she entered the 10om.
She had, however, the courage to steal a glance at her
old lover, as a kind of protest that she was not responsible
for her mother's mean calculations, and the coul age also
to reply coldly, as she took a seat in a cornel and placed
a chair before her, “I want this chail to put my wool on.
I’m sure Monsieul Passalt won't deprive me of it.’
‘There's room here,' said Emilie, coming to the poor
girl's aid, and giving the young man a seat next to herself.
Rosalie firmly refused to play the rôle marked out for her,
although she well knew what a terrible scene awaited her
at home. And yet it would have been so natural if spite
had inspired her with that petty mode of revenge. But
184 A LIVING LIE
women with tiuly delicate feeling, who know what real
love is, are strangers to such mean spite. To inspire a
fickle lover with jealousy would horrify them simply
because it would mean flirting with another, and such a
proceeding is beneath them. Such scrupulous loyalty in
spite of all is a touching proof of love, and one which
ensures a woman a place in a man's 1egrets for ever.
For ever ! But as far as regards the present hour
and the immediate result, these loyal hearts get left far
behind, and the flirts win. When the years have fled,
and the lover, grown old, shall institute comparisons, he
will understand the unique position held by her who
would not cause him pain— even to win him back.
Meanwhile he runs after the jades who make him drink
the bitter cup of that degrading but intoxicating passion,
jealousy. It is only fair to René to say that, in sacrificing
Rosalie for Suzanne, he believed that he was acting in
the interests of true love. When, next morning, his sister
praised the girl's noble behaviour, he was quite sincere
too in his reply, Smacking as it did, though, of naive
self-conceit.
‘What a pity that such fine feeling should be wasted l’
‘Yes,’ repeated Emilie with a sigh, “what a pity!”
Had René had a thought for aught else than his love,
the tone in which his sister had uttered these wolds
would no doubt have revealed to him the change that
her opinions had undergone with regard to Madame
Moraines. His love, howevel, entirely absorbed him.
His days were now parcelled out into two kinds—those
on which he was to meet Suzanne and those which he
was to spend without seeing her. The latter, which were
by far the more numerous, were passed in the following
manner. A great part of the morning he spent in bed,
dreaming, for he was already beginning to feel a diminu-
tion of vital energy. Then he bestowed much time
upon his toilet, lavishing such attention on details as
would convince a woman of experience that a young
man was beloved. His toilet finished, he wrote to his
HAPPY DAYS 185
Madonna. She had imposed upon him the sweet task
of sending her an account of all his thoughts day by
day. As for herself, he had not a line of her writing.
She had said, ‘I am so watched, and never alone !’ And
he pitied her as he devoted himself to compiling the
detailed diary that she had demanded.
This pose of a sentimental Narcissus gazing inces-
santly upon himself and his love was well in keeping
with that deep-rooted vanity which he possessed in
common with nearly all writers. Suzanne had not
sufficiently reflected upon the anomalous nature of a
man of letters to have taken vanity into account. It
pleased her to read René’s words when he was not
there simply as a burning reminder of the kisses they
had exchanged. When the poet had paid his morning
devotions to his divinity in this fashion 1t was time for
lunch. Immediately after that he would go to the
Bibliothèque in the Rue de Richelieu and work un-
remittingly at the notes for his ‘Savonarola,’ which he
had again taken up, during the whole of the afternoon,
and sometimes right on 1nto the evening He worked
now without ever having, as in writing the ‘Sigisbée, those
flashes of talent which pass from the brain to the pen,
charging the memory with a flow of wolds and drawing
the images with such precision and life-like resemblance
that the effort of production becomes a strong but de-
lightful intoxication that ends in a state of agreeable
exhaustion
To build up the scenes of the drama he was now
writing, René had to keep his mind in a painful state of
tension, and at a worse tension still to turn his prose
sketches 1nto verse. His blain no longer served him in
making happy finds. For this there were several
important and distinct reasons. The first—a physical
one—was the waste of vital energy Inseparable fiom all
reciprocated passions; the second—a moral one—the
constant hold that Suzanne had upon his mind and the
inability to entirely forget her ; the last—an intellectual
I 86 A LIVING LIE
and secret one, though most powerful—was the deaden-
ing influence which success exercises upon the gleatest
genius.
Whilst conceiving and writing he was beginning to
think of the public. He saw before him the house on
the first night, the clitics in their stalls, the fashionable
people scattered here and there, and, Seated in a box,
Madame Molaines He alieady heard the shouts of
applause, as demoralising for a diamatic author as the
number of editions 1s for a novelist. The desile to
produce a certain effect took the place of that dis-
interested, natural, and irresistible impulse which is a
necessary condition in true alt. Still too young to
possess the skill with which litelaly veterans can w11te
impassioned phrases in cold blood, and even well enough
to deceive the best clitics, René sought in himself that
source of ideas which he no longer found. His play
would not take shape in his mind in a natural and easy
way. The goat-like featules of the Florentine monk
and the tragic figures of the tellible pontiff Alex-
ander VI., the violent Michael Angelo, the sour
Machiavelli, and the formidable Caesar Borgia would
not clothe themselves in flesh and blood before his eyes,
in spite of the heaps of notes and documents he had col-
lected and the pages erased again and again. Frequently
he would lay down his pen and gaze up at the blue sky
through the lace curtains of his window; he would listen
to the noises in the house—the closing of a door,
Constant playing, Françoise glumbling, Emilie passing
quietly, Fresneau walking heavily—and then find him-
self counting how many hours he had still to wait before
seeing Suzanne
‘How I love her How I love her | he would
exclaim, increasing his passion by the fervouſ with
which he uttered these words. Again, he would delight
in conjuring up a vision of the room in which these
meetings, awaited with such feverish impatience, took
place. He had been more lucky in finding a suitable
HAPPY DAYS 187
place than his inexperience had led Suzanne to expect,
It was a small suite consisting of three 1 Ooms, 1ather
prettily furnished by Malvina Raulet, a brunette of about
thirty-five, whose sweet voice, demure looks, and general
air of propriety had at once enchanted René. This
lady, whose attire was almost severe 1n its simplicity,
gave herself out as a widow. She lived Ostensibly on a
small income left hel by the late M. Raulet, an imaginary
individual whose profession she defined in a vague way
by saying that “he was 1n business.” As a matter of
fact, the shrewd and cunning landlady had never been
malried. She was, for the moment, being ‘protected
by a 1espectable physician—a well-known man and the
father of a family—whom she had so thoroughly taken
in by her fine mannels that she managed to get five
hundred francs a month out of him, regularly paid on
the first, like the salary of a Civil Servant.
Being before all else a thrifty soul, she had conceived
the idea of increasing hel monthly 1ncome by letting
out three of the rooms she did not want, and as there
were two doors to her flat she was able to give this
small Suite a separate entrance. The almost elegant
furnitute it contained had come to her as a weird 1n-
heritance. Fol ten years she had been the mistress of a
madman, whose family, desiring for some reason to keep
this insanity secret, had paid her well. Upon her
unhappy lover's death, Malvina had, according to
promise, received twenty thousand francs and the
contents of the house in which she had played such a
strange palt. This woman's dark and hideous past
René was nevel to know. In that gay city, where
clandestine attachments abound, how many of the
thoughtless youths who hile such places know aught of
the history of those who pandel to their wants P Nor
could the poet think for one moment that this woman
with the irreproachable manners had seen right through
his demands at the first glance. He had told her that
he lived in Versailles, and that he was obliged to come
I 88 A LIVING LIE
to Paris two or thiee times a week. The name he gave
her was that of his favourite helo—the paradoxical
d'Albeit in “Mademoiselle de Maupin ; ” but as he wrote
it at the bottom of the agreement which the careful
Madame Raulet got him to sign, he placed his hat on
the table, and there the crafty landlady could plainly
read the real Initials of her new lodgel.
“If you would like my servant to undertake the
cleaning of the rooms,” she said, ‘1t will be fifty francs
a month extra '
This exorbitant demand was made in such a cool
tone, and Madame Raulet, moreover, looked so thoroughly
respectable, that René dared not discuss the amount.
He could, however, not help eyeing her somewhat
distrustfully. He appearance, it was true, disarmed all
suspicion She wore a dalk dress, well but simply
made Round her neck hung one of those long gold
chains so much worn at one time by the French bour-
geoisie—a chain which had no doubt once belonged to
her sainted mother. She wore her watch in her belt;
a brooch containing a lock of white hair—that of a
beloved fathel, most probably—fastened her neat lace
collar, and through the meshes of the silk mittens that
covered her long hands might be seen her wedding
ring.
As René was leaving, this virtuous cleature remarked,
‘The house is a very quiet one, Sir You are a young
man,’ she added with a smile, and you will not be
offended if I make so bold as to say that the least noise
on the stairs at night, or anything like that, would be
sufficient reason for my asking you to leave.’
René felt himself blush as she spoke. In his exces-
sive simplicity he feared lest the worthy widow might
give him notice after his first meeting there with
Suzanne. This ridiculous fear 1mpelled him to visit his
landlady immediately Madame Moraines had gone
under pretence of speaking to her about some trifling
matter he wanted done. She received him with the
HAPPY DAYS I89
polite air of a woman who knows nothing, understands
nothing, and has seen nothing, although she had been
watching Suzanne's departure from her window, and
had, with the practised eye of a Parisian, taken that
lady's measure at a glance. Malvina now saw through
it all—her lodgel's visitor was a woman in the first ranks
of Society, but he himself, although well diessed, showed
by the cut of his beard, his hair, his walk and his whole
appealance that he belonged to a lower station in life.
The landlady thought that most probably the rent
would be paid by the mistress, and not by the lover,
and she regretted not having asked mole than five
hundred francs a month besides the fifty for attendance.
The whole of the flat cost her fourteen hundred francs
a year, and she paid her maid-of-all-work forty-five
francs | No matter, she would make up fol 1t in the
extras—in the filing, the washing, and especially in the
meals, if ever the young man asked her to provide
lunch, as she had offered to do.
“She is an excellent woman, and very attentive,’
said René, when Suzanne questioned him about Madame
Raulet. Was the poet wi ong in being so trustful ? Of
what use would it have been to indulge, as Claude
would have done, in a pessimistic analysis of this
woman's chal acter, except to conjule up thoughts of
blackmail and othel dangels, all entirely imaginal y, as it
happened 2 For although Malvina was far fiom being
a saint, she was at the same time a bourgeouse who had
a sincere hankeling aftel respectability, and who plo-
posed, as Soon as she had made her little pile, to return
to her native town of Tournon, and lead a life of abso-
lute purity. The fear of Seeing hel name figule in the
report of some evil-smelling case was sufficient to detel
her from practising any pronounced form of 1mposition.
So far did her love of 1espectability Carly her that she
wove a complicated web of falsehoods to the concierge
about her new lodgel. She made out that Suzanne and
René were a happy couple who lived in the country all
I90 A LIVING LIE
the year round, and that they were distantly 1elated to
the late M. Raulet. Then, in order that he should have
nothing whatever to do with the said concierge, she
herself handed René two keys even before he had asked
for them.
What ca1ed the poet for the real cause of her
attentiveness 2 The young have sense enough not to go
into facts which lend themselves to the gratification of
their desiles This system sometimes leads them along
perilous paths, but they cull many a flower by the way-
side and enjoy 1ts fragrance, nevertheless. When the
poet walked across half Palis to reach his little suite in
the Rue des Dames there was a music in his heart that
shut out all dissonant voices of suspicion. His meetings
with Suzanne were generally in the morning. René
had never asked himself why that time of the day was
most convenient to his beloved. As a mattel of fact it
was the houl when she was most certain of escaping
the watchfulness of Desforges. In the forenoon the
hygienic Baron devoted himself to what was dearest to
him on earth—his health. First he had a bout of fenc-
ing, which he called his ‘dose of exercise’, then he
galloped through the Bois, which was his “air cule';
lastly he “burnt his acid, a formula he owed to Doctor
No1rot.
The double Madonna, who had studied her man
thoroughly, knew that he was as much a slave to these
rules of health as Paul was to those of his office. She
therefore felt a secret pleasure in thinking of her hus-
band seated at his desk, of her ‘excellent friend'
bestliding an English male, and of her René entering a
flol 1st's to buy some flowers wherewith to adorn the
chapel of their love. Roses were his usual choice, roses
red as his darling's lips, roses fair as her blushing
cheeks, fresh and living blooms that filled the air with
their sweet and penetiating perfume. As she was borne
towards the harbour of their love she knew that René
would be standing at the window listening to the rattle
HAPPY DAYS I91
of the cabs as they passed. How delighted he would be
when hers stopped before the house ! She would ascend
the stairs, and there he would be waiting for her, having
softly opened the door so as not to lose one second of
her sweet presence. Then he would hold her in his
arms devouring her with Silent kisses that pierced the
black lace veil as they sought her fresh and mobile lips.
Suzanne's great triumph consisted in her ability to
p1eserve her innocent Madonna-like expression amidst
all the madness of their love ; and, by a Singular dis-
pensation of nature, too, this Strange Creature was
entirely devoid of all sense of remoise. She belonged,
no doubt by heredity, being the daughter of a states-
man, to the great 1ace of active beings whose dominant
trait is a faculty for distributing their energies. These
beings have the power to make the most of the present
without allowing themselves to be troubled either by
the past or the future. In modern slang we find a
p1etty phrase to express this power of temporary
oblivion—it is called “Cutting the Cord.’ Suzanne had
parcelled out her life into three parts—one belonging to
Paul, one to Desforges, and one to René. During the
time she devoted to each there was such absolute
suspension of the 1est of her existence that she would
have had some difficulty in 1ealising the extent of her
duplicity had she cared to probe her conscience—a
ploceeding she never dieamt of whilst the opium of
pleasure couised through her brain. She generally
remained with René till about twelve o'clock, and when
she was gone Madame Raulet would send up his lunch ;
and he would stay in the rooms for the 1est of the day,
ostensibly to work, for he had some of his papels there,
but really to gloat over the 1eminiscences that floated
in the vely air he breathed. When night was beginning
to fall he would wend his way homewards, under the
twinkling gas lamps that illumined his route, possessed
by a divine languor that seemed to combine and blend
into one haſ monious whole all the delights of the day.
I92 A LIVING LIE
CHAPTER XV
COLE TTE'S SPITE
THIS delightful existence had been going on for about
two months with nothing to break its Sweet monotony
but the pain of parting and the joy of meeting when, one
morning, just as René was about to proceed to the Rue
des Dames, Françoise handed him a letter that made
him stalt, for on 1t he recognised Claude Lalcher's
handwriting. By calling at Laichel's rooms René had
learnt from Ferdinand that the writer had stopped at
Florence and then at Pisa. He had even sent him a
letter to each of these towns addressed poste restanțe, but
had received no reply. He saw by the postmark that
Claude was now in Venice, and with feelings of intense
curiosity he tore open the envelope, 1eading the contents
as he strolled down to the river through the quiet
suburban streets on this fair Spring morn that was as
flesh and blight as his own love.
‘Venice, Palais Dario : Apul, 1879.
‘MY DEAR RENE,--I am wiiting you these lines from
you. Venice—from that Venice whence you evoked the
cruel featules of your Coelia and the sweet face of your
Beatrice ; and as this fairy-like City is, as it always was,
the land of improbabilities, the city of the Undines,
which on these Eastern shores are called sirens, I have,
like Byron, discovered a small furnished suite in a most
delightful little palace on the G1 and Canal, a palazzino
with marble medallions on its façade, all ol namented,
carved, and engraved, and leaning as badly as I do on
my bad days. As I scribble this letter I have the blue
waters of the Canal Grande under my window and
alound me the peace of this great city—the Cora Pearl
of the Adriatic, a wretched play-writeſ would say—like
the silence of a dream. My deal fellow, why have I
COLETTE'S SPITE I93
brought my battered old heart here of all places—here,
where I feel it beat louder and stronger in the sweet
stillness 2 I must tell you that it is two o'clock, that I
have just breakfasted at Florian's under the arcades after
having been to San Giorgio in Bragora to look at a
divine Cima, that I am to dine to-night with two ladies
directly descended from the Doges—fair as the creations
of Veronese—and Some Russians as amusing as our
friend Beyle's Korazoff, and that, instead of feeling
elated, I have come home to look at Her Portrait—with
a capital H and a capital P-the portrait of Colette
René, René, why am I not seated 1n my stall at the
Théâtre Français, gazing at her as Camille in “On ne
badine pas avec l’amour"—a divine play, as bitter as
“Adolphe,” yet as sweet as the music of Mozart P Do
you 1emember her smile as she holds her pretty head on
one side and says, “Are you sure that a woman lies with
all her soul when her tongue lies 2 * Do you remember
Perdican and these words: “Pride, thou most fatal of
human counsellors, why art thou come between this
maid and me P” All my story—all our story lies in
those few words. Only 16 happens that I am the real
Perdican of the play, having in my soul that source of
idealism and love, ever flowing in spite of experience,
ever pure in spite of so many sins ! And she, my
Camille, has been stained by so much shame that nought
can wash her clean Alas ! how sadly the would treated
my flower—when I wished to inhale its fiagiance I found
1nstead a Smell as of the glave
‘Come, come, 1t was not to write you such stuff that
I sat down before my balcony, through the carving of
which I can see the gondolas pass. They glide and
Slant and turn about, looking SO pietty with their slim,
funereal shapes. If each of these floating biels callied
away one of my dead dieams, what an Interminable
procession there would be on the diealy waters! Would
that I wole an etcher | I know what Dance of Death I
would engrave—a flight of these black barques in the
O
I94 A LIVING LIE
twilight, with white skeletons as gondoliels at the prow
and poop, and a 10w of 1uined palaces for a background.
Under it I should wi ite. “Such is my healt l” After a
youth mole down-trodden than the grapes in the wine-
tubs, and when I had just emerged flom the miserable
di udgely of my plofession, it was this hol 11ble slavery of
love that stated me 1n the face—this love with 1ts basis of
hatred and contempt Why, just Heaven l—why P Who
could have guessed on that July evening when this mad-
ness began that I was entering upon one of the most
Solemn periods of my life 2 I had been dining alone after
a hard day's work, and, in Older to get a little fresh air
and pass the time until ten o'clock, I was just strolling
wherevel my fancy took me, gazing 1dly at the passers-by
What invisible demon led my steps to the Comédie Fran-
çaise Why did I go up 1nto the gleen-room, where I had
not been for months, to shake hands with old Falguet,
about whom I did not cale a rap P Why had I such a
ready flow of wit and such b1 illiant 1epartee at my com-
mand at that very moment—I who, at fashionable dinnels,
had fiequently found myself as dumb as the ca1p & /a
Chamāord on the dish 2 Why was Colette the e in that
adolable costume that belongs to the old re?erfozre 2
She was playing Rosine in the “Balber of Seville,” and I
went to the fiont to heal hel sing the air, “When Love
b11ngs us spling again.” Why did she look at me as she
Sang 1t, and show Such 1eal emotion that I dated Scal cely
believe it was meant fol me * Why had she those lips,
those eyes, that face on which might be 1ead the suffelings
of a conquered Psyche, a prey to love 2 How passionately
we loved each othel from that vely first evening ! And it
was only the second time we had met. Can you undel-
stand how I was mad enough to expect fidelity fiom a
g|11 who had thrown herself at me in that fashion ? As
soon as I got back behind the scenes she invited me into
hel dressing-1 oom, and before we had becn theſe a qual ter
of an hour hel lips wele piessed to mine in most painful
ecstasy. Fool that I was I ought to have taken her
COLETTE'S SPITE I95
for what she was—a chal ming courtesan—and 1e-
membered that women are just the same to others as
they ale to us Instead of which—
‘Let us leave this road, my dear René, fol I perceive
a fingel-post on which is written “To despail,” like the
posts in that forest of Fontainebleau where I took her
one Summer morning in a dog-cart drawn by a black
horse named Cerberus. I can see the horse now, with
a fox-tail hanging down ovel his forehead, and my
Colette beside me, looking pale, but so beautiful. When
was she not beautiful to me P But let us leave, I say,
this fatal road, and come to the present, of which I owe
you an account, since you have been good enough to
write me several such nice letters. When I left you in
the Rue Coetlogon and hied me off to Italy—it sounds
like a song !—I wanted to see whether I could do without
her. Well, the experiment has been made—and has
failed. I cannot. I have argued with myself, and I have
struggled long and hard. Since my departure I have
got up not ten—but twenty, thirty times, and sworn not
to think of her during the whole of that day It's
all 1 ight fol a qual tel of an hour, fol half an houl even.
But at the end of that time I see her again I see hel
eyes and her mouth, I see those gestures I have seen in
none other—the pietty way she had, fol instance, of
laying hel head on my shouldel when I held hel in my
aims, and then, wherevel I may be, I am obliged to stop
and lean against a wall, so shal p is the pain that plences
my heart. Would you believe that I had to leave
Florence because I spent my time in the “Uffizi " before
Botticelli's “Madonna Incoronata,” a photo of which
you have seen in my 1ooms ? I have sometimes taken a
cab from the other end of the town 11m oldel to 1 each the
gallely before closing time, so that I might gaze upon
the canvas once mole. The angel on the 11ght, the one
that lifts the cultain, 1s the very image of her, and weals
that look which has so often made me pity Colette and
bewail her misfortune when I ought to have killed her.
O 2
I96 A LIVING LIE
“So I left Florence and came to Pisa, the dead city
whose sweet silence had enchanted me in days gone
by. I had taken an immense fancy to the square in
which stand the Dome, the Baptistely, and the Belfry,
with a cemetery wall and the remains of a battlemented
rampart to enclose it. Then there was the shore of the
Gombo two houls distant—a sandy desert among the
pines—and the yellow Arno flowing sluggishly by
My room looked out upon the dreary river, but it was
full of sunshine, warm and clear, and I had come there
filled with a glorious plan. An old maxim of Goethe
had come into my mind, “Poetry is delivelance l’” “I
will try it,” I said to myself, and I swore not to leave
Pisa before I had turned my grief into literature.
Perhaps, in making bubbles out of the tears I had
alieady shed, I might forget to shed flesh ones. These
bubbles glew 1nto a story which I called Analysis.
You have no doubt 1ead 1: 1n the Revue partszenile.
Don't you think 1t as good as anything I have done?
As you see, it is the whole story of my sad love, every
detail is absolutely col rect, from the episode of the letter
to my jealousy of the Sapphos. What do you think of
Colette—isn't she well drawn P And of me P Alas ! my
dear fellow, would that I had obtained peace of mind
by besmirching the 1mage of her I have so loved, by
dragging 1n the dirt the 1dol once adolned with freshest
roses, by dishonouling the dear past with all the strength
at my command Hear the result of this noble effolt—I
had no sooner posted the manuscript of this story than I
went home and wrote to Colette asking her to forgive me.
An excellent Joke, this maxim of Goethe–a sublime
Philistine and a Jupite1, as they used to style him I
have plunged a pen into my wound to use my blood for
1nk, and I have only poisoned myself aflesh If I am to
be cured at all, time 1s the only thing that will cure me.
But, after all, why be cured P
‘Yes, why I have been proud—I am ploud no
longer. I have struggled against the passion that abased
COLETTE'S SPITE I97
me—I will struggle no more. If I had the cancer in my
cheek, should I be ashamed of it 2 Well, I have a
cancer in my Soul, and make no attempt to check its
growth. Listen to the end of my story. Colette did
not answer my letter. Could I expect her to be kind
to me after my behaviour P I had already begun to
humble myself by writing to her. I went on doing so.
Then I commenced to feel such delight as I had never
felt before—that of degrading myself before hel, of letting
her trample upon my manly dignity. I wrote to her a
second, a third, a fourth time.
“My novel appeared, and I wrote to her again—letters
in which I delighted in humbling myself, letters that
she might show about and say: “He has left me, he
insults me, and yet see how he loves me!” Should not
those very insults have proved to her how much I loved
her ? You don’t know her, René ; you don't know how
ploud she is, in spite of all her faults. What pain that
wretched novel must have caused hel I scarcely dare to
think, and that, too, is why I dare not come back. In
my present state of mind I could not possibly face a
scene such as we used to have, and to live longer without
her is equally beyond me. I have therefore decided, my
dear René, to ask you to go and speak to her. I know
that she has always liked you, and that she is really
grateful to you for the pretty rôle you wrote her. I
know that she will believe you when you say to her,
“Claude can stand it no longer—have pity on him.”
Tell her, too, René, that she need have no fear of my
horlible temper. The rebellious Larcher she could not
bear exists no longer. To be neal hel, to live in hel
shadow, to have her near me, I will tolerate all, all—you
understand. Our last months together wele not all
honey, it is tiue, but what a paradise they were com-
pared with this Infei no of absence And we had our
happy hours, too—those afternoons we spent together
in her rooms in the Rue de Rivoli, overlooking the
gardens of the Tuilei les. The bustle of the great city
I98 A LIVING LIE
went on around us as I held my darling pressed to my
heart. See how my hand trembles only to think of it !
If I have ever done you a service in the past, as you Say
I have, be my friend now and call on her, show hel this
lettel, speak to her, appeal to her heart. Ask her to
say that she forgives me and that I may come back to
her. Good-bye. I await yout reply in agony, and you
know what torture that machine is capable of Suffering
which calls itself your old friend ‘C. L.
‘P.S.—Go to the Revue office and ask for five copies
of my story; I can get rid of them hele.’
‘How like him l’ said René, after having 1ead this
strange epistle, which was nothing but a bundle of the
different elements that made up Claude's composite
personality Childish sincerity wedded to a taste ſol
dramatic display; a love of posing even when suffeling
bitter anguish ; most Susceptible professional vanity and
an absolute lack of all pictensions ; profound Self-know-
ledge and total inability to govern himself—all this
was there. “I shall go to the theatle to-night if Colette
is playing,’ said René to himself. He bought a paper
and saw her name in the list for that evening. “But,’
he thought, ‘how will she 1eceive me?’
He was so interested in what would happen and so
moved by his dear friend's glief that he could not help
telling Suzanne all about 16 as soon as he reached the
trysting-place. He even gave her the letter to read, and
as she handed it back to him she said: “Poor fellow !”
adding, in an indifferent tone, ‘Haven't you really ever
mentioned me when talking togethel P’
‘Yes, once, quite casually, replied René, with some
hesitation. Since he had become Suzanne's lover he
had nevel forgiven himself for the question he had
put to Claude about hel—the unfortunate question
which had drawn down upon him the sarcasm of his
friend.
Suzanne mistook the cause of his hesitation and
COLETTE'S SPITE I99
returned to the charge. “I am sure that he said some-
thing nasty about me P’
* Indeed, he didn't,' replied René, in a tone of
assurance. He was too well acquainted with the play
of Suzanne's face not to have rema1 ked the look of
anxiety in her eyes as she put her second question, and
he, in his turn, now asked : ‘How you distrust him
Why?’
‘Why?’ she repeated with a smile ; ‘because I love
you so dearly, René, and men are so bad.' Then,
wishing to entirely destroy the effect that her excessive
dist1ust might have produced in the poet, she added,
‘You must go and see Mademoiselle Rigaud.’
‘Celtainly I must,” said René ; ‘I intend going to-
night. And you ?’ he asked, as he often did, ‘how are
you going to spend yout evening P’
‘I am going to the theatre, too, she replied ; “but not
behind the scenes. My husband wants to take me to
the Gymnase. Why do you put me in mind of it? I
shall be quite miserable enough when I'm there all
alone with him . . Come, give me a nice kiss'
That voice, sweet as the Sweetest music, was still 1n
the poet's ears, and his soul was still troubled by those
kisses, more intoxicating than Strong drink, when about
nine that night he entered the stage door of the Théâtre
Français in order to reach the celebrated green-room.
He cast a glance round the dool keeper's lodge, re-
membering that the 10om had been one of the stations
In Claude's Calvary. Frequently, when entering the
theatle togethel, Lalcher would say to his friend as
he pointed to the pigeon-hole that contained Colette's
lettels: ‘If I stole them I should perhaps know the
truth.”
‘How happy I am, thought René, ‘not to know
that tellible malady called Suspicion l’ And he smiled
as he ascended the stall case, whose walls are covered
with the politiaits of actols and actlesses of a bygone
age. There, fixed on the canvas, are the grinning faces
2OO A LIVING LIE
of past Scapins—there the Célimènes, who lived and
loved long years ago, still Smile down upon us. These
reminders of milth for ever vanished, of passions for
ever stilled, of once happy generations for ever gone,
have something strangely sad about them for the
dieamers who feel their life, like all life, slipping away,
and who realise the brevity of human joys.
Often had René experienced this feeling of vague
sadness; it came over him again now, in spite of him-
self, and made him hasten to the green-room, expect-
ing to find a good many acquaintances there with whom
he might exchange a few words of greeting. But he
found the place entirely given up to two actors in
Louis XIV. costumes, their heads adorned with enor-
mous wigs, their legs incased in 1ed stockings, and their
feet cramped in high-heeled shoes. They were engaged
in a political argument, and took no notice of the poet,
who heald one of them, a long, thin, bilious-looking
creature, say to the other, a round, red-faced individual,
“All the misfortunes of our countly alise from the fact
that people do not take sufficient interest in politics.”
‘What a pity Larcher isn't hele !’ thought René as
he caught these words; he knew what pleasure they
would have given his friend, the exclamation that would
have escaped him—‘This is grand l’—and how he
would have clapped his hands with delight. Every-
thing in this part of the theatre reminded him of
Claude, who had so often accompanied him theie. They
had sat together in the little green-room, now empty.
Together they had descended the few steps that lead
behind the scenes, and, slipping in between the proper-
ties, had mingled with the actors and actresses standing
in the narrow passage waiting for their calls.
Colette was not there, and René determined to go up
the steep stail case and along the interminable corridors
lined with private dressing-rooms. He at length reached
the door that bore the name of Mademoiselle Rigaud ;
he knocked, feebly at first, but conversation was probably
COLETTE'S SPITE 2O I
going on inside, and he was not heard. He had to
knock louder. ‘Come in l’ cried a shrill voice, which he
recognised ; it was the same that could make itself SO
sweet to recite :
If kisses for kisses the roses could pay . . .
On opening the door the visitol entered a tiny ante-
room, which communicated with a tiny dressing-room.
René lifted the gilt-embroideied cuſtain of black satin
that divided the two miniatule apartments, and found
himself in an atmosphere overheated by the lamps and
the presence of six people; five of these were men, two
in evening dress being evidently “swells,’ and the other
three friends of the actless of a slightly inferior order.
One of the two black-coated gentlemen was Salvaney,
but he did not 1ecognise René. He and his friend were
the only two who were seated. The ottoman on which
they sat had been 1e-covered with an old Chinese dress
of pink satin ; it was Claude who had given Colette that
dress, and who, in the heyday of their love, had presided
over the arrangement of the whole dressing-room. He
had ransacked Paris to collect the panels set in bamboo
frames which adorned the walls. Thiee of these panels
bore figures of Chinese women painted on pale silk. The
widest, which, like the heavy cuſtain, was of black satin,
represented a flight of white birds amidst peach blossoms
and lilies of the valley. Bright-coloured fans and
bunches of peacock's feathers distributed here and
there, and a gleat gilt dragon with enamelled eyes
suspended fiom the ceiling, helped to give this pretty
little cabin an ail of charming Oliginality.
Colette, with her hair all undone and her bare arms
emerging flom the wide sleeves of a loose bright blue
dressing-gown, was “making up under the gaze of the
five men. Before her, on the dressing-table, stood a
whole row of pots filled with different salves. There
were other pots, containing white, yellow, and pink
powder, and a few saucers filled with long ‘tlagedy '
2O2 A LIVING LIE
pins, while hale's feet covered with paint, enormous
powder puffs, black pencils, and Small sponges lay
Scattered all about. The actless could see who entered
by looking in the large glass before her. Recognising
the author of the ‘Sigisbée, she half turned and
showed him hel hands covered with vaseline as an
apology fol not offering him one, and by the look
she gave him René understood how prudent Claude
had been in not coming back without some plevious
understanding.
‘Good evening !' she clied. “Why, I thought you
were dead, but I see by you face that you’ve only had
an Cxcess of happiness I’m playing you to-morrow,
you know. Sit down, if you can find 10om.’ And
before René had time to 1eply she turned to Salvaney,
saying: “Well, I will if you like. Come for me to-
morlow at twelve. Aline will be there, and we'll go
and have lunch together filst.’
Having uttered these words, she daited another look
at René. The lines of her mouth deepened, and her
chal ming face Suddenly assumed an explession of
Intense cruelty. The words had 1eally been hurled in
defiance at Claude through his most intimate filend.
This filend would cel tainly 1epeat them to the jealous
lover. It was just as if she had shouted through space
to the man whom she could not forget in spite of his
flight and his 1nsults: ‘You are not here, and so I do
exactly what will cause you most pain'
She then exchanged a few words with the other
visitols, 1ecommending some pool fellow in whom she
was intel ested to One, importuning another for the
1nsertion of a complimentary notice in some papel,
returning to Salvaney to ask him for a tip for the next
races, until at last, having wiped her hands, she rose and
said, “And now, my deal fellows, 1t is vely kind of you
to stay, but '-pointing to the doo!—‘ I am going to
dicss, so you must go. No, not you,' she went on,
speaking to René, and not minding the others, ‘I want
COLETTE'S SPITE 2O3
to talk to you for a minute.” As soon as they were
alone, and she was again seated before the glass pencil-
ling her eyeblows, she asked, ‘Have you read Claude's
infamous work P’
‘No,' replied René, “but I have 1eceived a letter
ſrom him ; he is terribly unhappy.”
“Oh I haven't you read it?’ cried Colette, intell upt-
ing him. “Well, read it ! You will see what a cad
your friend is l’ Crossing her arms, she tuned to face
the poet, the angry glitter in her eyes intensified by
their painted 1 ings and by the artificial pallor of her
cheeks. ‘Tell me, is it 1 ight for a man to insult a
woman P What have I done to this gentleman I
1efused to slavishly obey his whims, to cut off all my
friends, and lead the life of a dog | Did he imagine that
I was his wife P Did he keep me * Did I ask him for
an account of what he did P And cven if I had been
in the wrong, was that why he must go and tell the
public all the lies he can invent about me P He's a cad,
I tell you—a low cad You can write and tell him so
fiom me, and tell him that I shall sp1t in his face when
I see him Your fine gentleman treated me like a drab,
did he P. Well, he shall find out how the drab takes her
1evenge | Not yet, Mélanie, she said, as the dresser
came in, ‘I’ll call you in a quarter of an houl.”
“But if he did not love you,' 16plied René, taking
advantage of this interruption, “he would not carly on
in this fashion. He is maddencq by grief.”
“Oh ! don't come to me with such rubbish, clied
Colette, shrugging her shoulders and again setting to
work on her eyeblows; “do you think that creature has
got a healt P And he's no friend of youis, my dear
fellow. If you had heard him making fun of your love
affairs you would know what to think of him.’
‘Of my love affails 2' 1cpeated René, in blank
astonishment.
‘Come, come,' said the actress, with a nasty laugh,
‘it’s no use trying to bluff me; but when you want a
2O4. A LIVING LIE
confidant, choose a better one than your friend Monsieur
Larcher P’
‘I don't understand you,' replied the poet, his heart
beating fast; ‘I have never made a confidant of him.’
‘Then he must have invented the story of your being
in love with Madame Molaines, that pretty, fair woman,
the mistress of old Desforges. Well, that beats all !' ex-
claimed the cluel actless, with the bitter and ironical
laugh of a creature whose pride has been deeply wounded.
The unhappy Claude, who in his tender moments forgot
what he thought of Colette in his lucid ones, had simply
said to hel on the moſrow of René's visit, “Poor Vincy
is in love.’ ‘With whom P’ she had asked. And he had
told her.
Colette was well acquainted with the 1umours that
were afloat concerning Suzanne and the Balon, thanks
to the habit most fast men have of retailing Society
scandal, be 16 true or not, to the demi-mondaines whom
they fiequent. In alluding to René's love affair with
Madame Molaines, the actress, beside herself with passion,
had spoken almost at random, in O1 der to lower Larcher
in his fliend's esteem. Seeing the effect that her words
had produced on the latter, she continued the theme. To
torture the man she had before her, and in whose features
she could read the suffering she caused, was to satisfy to
a certain extent her thirst for revenge against the other,
knowing, as she did, how deal the poet was to Claude.
‘Claude did not tell you that,’ cried René, excitedly,
‘and if he were here he would for bid you to slander a
woman whom he knows to be worthy of your respect.’
“Of my 1espect l’ repeated Colette, with a shuill,
nervous laugh. “What do you take me for, my dear
fellow 2 Of my respect Because she has a husband
to hide her shame and help her spend the old man's
money P Of my respect Because she wants a higher
wage than the girl in the street who hasn't the price of a
dinner P Do you believe in them, these Society women?
And look here,' she cried, rising in her fury and betray-
COLETTE'S SPITE 2O5
ing her low extraction by the way in which she jerked
her head and blinked her eyes, “if you don't like me
telling you that she is your mistress and the Baron's too,
go and fight it out with Claude. It’ll furnish my fine
gentleman with copy. Are you beginning to have the
same opinion about him as I have P Between you and
me, my boy—just you keep your eyes open. Worthy of
my respect ' Hall haſ ha | No—that's a bit too thick.
Well, good-bye. This time I am going to dress in
earnest. Mélaniel’she cried, opening the door, “Mélaniel
Give Claude my compliments, she added, as a parting
shot, “and tell him that trifling with Colette 1s as dan-
gerous as trifling with love.’
With this allusion to the play so enthusiastically
mentioned by Claude 1n his letter, she pushcd René out
of her room, and as she closed the door broke out once
mole into silvery but cruel, mocking laughter—laughter
that was a stiange mixture of affectation and hatred, of
a courtesan's nonchalance and the vengeance of a slighted
mistless.
CHAPTER XVI
THE STORY OF A SUSPICION
‘WHAT a wicked woman | What a wicked v, onian
muttered René as he went down the stall case, now 1e-
echoing with the shouts of the call-boy. He tiembled
with agitation and asked himself, ‘What harm have I
ever done hel P’ folgetting that for a quarter of an hour
he had 1eplesented Claude in Colotte's cyes. Pelhaps
the joy felt by the actless in wounding him to the quick
might have had its rise in the malice often occasioned
by a man's unwillingness to pay his fi ſend's mistless
attentions. The loyalty of one man to anothel ranks
amongst the Sentiments most Odious to women.
‘What have I done to hel P’ repeated the poet, unable
2O6 A LIVING LIE
to find an answer to his question, unable even to collect
his thoughts. There ale phrases which, flung at us un-
expectedly, will stun us as Surely as any blow physically
dealt. They bring about a sudden cessation of all con-
Sciousness—a cessation even of pain. René was not quite
himself again until he stood in the Place du Palais Royal
amid its throng of traffic. The first feeling that animated
him was a fit of ful 10us 1age against Claude. ‘The
perfidious wietch l’ he cried ; “how could he trust my
Secret to a cleature like that 2 And such a secret, too !
What did he know about it P’ A slight blush and a
moment's hesitation in uttering her name. ‘He thinks
that is sufficient evidence upon which to slander a woman
he hardly knows, and in the ears, too, of a hussy whose
Infamy he pioclaims fiom the housetops l’
He 1ecalled to mind every detail of the only con-
versation in which Lalcher might have discovered his
nascent feelings for Suzanne. He saw himself once more
1n Claude's 10oms in the Rue de Valenne, with the
manuscripts arid proofs strewn about, and the writer's
face looking livid in the greenish light of the stained-
glass windows. He saw the sceptical smile flit across
that face whilst the sarcastic lips uttered the words:
“So you are not in love with he l’ Bolne on the
same wave of memory came other visions connected
with the last He heald Suzanne's voice saying on the
occasion of his third visit : “Youl fliend M Lalchel
—I am sule he doesn't like me.’ Had she not explessed
hel dist1ust of him only that morning 2 Hel suspicions
had, indeed, been only too well justified. And then 1ſ
he had only contented himself with coupling her name
with his, René's. But he had even dared to make this
other vile accusation--that she was kept by Desforges
Not that René haſ bouled the least shadow of a suspicion
against his divine mistless—1t was not that which
maddened him—but the knowledge that Colette had
not lied in claiming to have heard this infamous thing
fiom Larcher. If Laichel 1epeated it, he must have got
THE STORY OF A SUSPICION 2O7
it from some one else. And if Suzanne had insisted, as
she had twice done, upon being told how Claude spoke
of hel, it was because she knew she was exposed to the
insult of this abominable calumny.
René 1 emembeled the old beau whom he had once
met at her house, with his military bearing, his 1ed,
bloated face, and his grey hair. And then he saw he
as she had looked only that morning, so fail, so white,
so dainty—with he pale blue eyes and that peculia, an
of 1efinement that lent an almost 1deal chai m to her
most passionate emblaces. Was 16 possible that such
vile calumnies could have been spread concerning this
woman ‘People ale too horribly wicked ' ' exclaimed
René aloud “And as for Claude——’ His affection
for him had becn So Since1e, and 1 was this man, his
deal est friend, who had spoken of Suzanne in such a
shameless mannel, like a blackguard and a traito.
What a contrast with the pool angel thus insulted, who,
knowing it, had taken no further revenge than to Say,
‘I have folgiven him ' ' On every other occasion when
she had spoken of Claude It had becn to admiſe him
for his talents and to pity him for his faults Another
phrase of Suzanne's suddenly struck him ‘That is no
reason why he should ſevenge himself by ſorcing his
attentions upon any woman chance throws in his way
I got quite angry One day when he was seated next to
me at table’ ‘That is the 1eason l’ said the poet to
himself with 1eturning angel ; “he has paid hel attentions
which she has 1 epciled, and SO he slandels hel. It is too
disgusting !’
A pley to these painful reflections, René had walked
as fal as the Place de l'Opé1a, and, mechanically turning
to the right, had ascended the boulevard without 1eally
noticing where he was. Hatred and 1ancoui were so
repugnant to his Soul that these feelings were soon
Supplanted by the love he bole the beautiful woman so
basely reviled by the vindictive actress. What was she
doing at that moment? She was yondel, in a box at
2O8 A LIVING LIE
the Gymnase, obliged to sit out some play with her
husband, and, no doubt, Sadly dreaming of their love
and their last kisses. No Sooner had he conjured up
hel adolable image than he was seized with an in-
stinctive and il resistible longing to see her in the flesh.
He hailed a passing cab and gave the driver the name
of the theatle. How often had he been similarly
tempted to go to some place of amusement when he
knew Suzanne would be there ! But having given his
mistress a promise that he would not do so, he had
always sciupulously 1epelled the temptation Besides,
he took a curious pleasure in dwelling upon the absolute
distinction between the two Suzannes—between the
woman of fashion and his simple love—above all, he
feared to meet Paul Moraines. He had 1cad El nest
Feydeau’s ‘Fanny,' and was more aflaid of the terrible
jealousy described in that fine work than of death itself.
To an analytical wiitel, like Claude, this would have
been an excellent reason fol Seeking an encounter with
the husband, so as to have a new kind of wound to
examine under the microscope. The poets who have
not turned their art into a trade nor their hearts into a
raree-show are possessed of an instinct which makes
them avoid such deglading expel 1ments; they respect
the beauty of their own feelings,
Whilst the cab was rolling along towards the Boule-
vald Bonne-Nouvelle all these Sc1 uples, which René had
once so 1 cligiously obselved, 1 ctuined to him. But
Colette's wolds had moved him mole deeply than he
caled to admit. A hideous vision had flashed across his
b1ain. He half feated that it might Come again, and he
know that Suzanne's plesence was the best preventive.
Love1s frequently have these appalently unway ranted
ideas—the results of an instinct of Self-preservation
which out feelings, like animate beings, possess. The
cab rolled on whilst René defended his infraction of
the agreement made with his mistless. “If she could
know what I have been obliged to hear, would she not
THE STORY OF A SUSPICION 2O9
be the first to say, “Come and read my love for you in
my face " ? Besides, I shall only look at her for a
quarter of an hour, and then go away purged of this
stain. And what of the husband P. Well, I must see
him sooner or later, and she tells me he is nothing to
her l’ Madame Moraines had not failed to make her
favourite lover swallow the improbable fable served up
by all married women to their paramours, though some-
times the fable is true—for woman will be a riddle to all
etelnity—as the reports of the divorce cases prove. In
the delicacy with which Suzanne had allayed his most
secret and least legitimate feelings of Jealousy René
found an additional pretext for denouncing those who
slandered this sublime creature. ‘This woman the
mistress of Desforges | Why? For money P What
nonsense ! She, the daughter of a Cabinet Minister and
the wife of a business man | Claude, Claude how could
you ?’
This tumult of ideas was somewhat stilled by the
necessity for action as soon as the poet reached the
doors of the Gymnase. He was most anxious that he
should not be seen by Suzanne, and stood on the steps
Outside for a moment lost in reflection. The first act
was just over, as he could see by the people flocking out,
and this circumstance furnished him with an idea for
beholding his mistress without being observed by her.
He would first take a ticket for one of the cheaper seats
in order to get into the house; then, having found out
where Suzanne was sitting—which he could easily do
during the interval from the corridor at the side of the
stalls—he would take a better seat, from which he could
safely feast his eyes upon her adorable features.
As he entered the theatre he was startled for a
moment by coming face to face with the Marquis de
Hère, one of the swells he had seen at Madame Komof's ;
the young nobleman, wearing a sprig of heather in his
button-hole, was swinging his stick and humming an air
from the then popular “Cloches de Col neville’so lightly
* >
• * *
e
º:
P, 2, e > * * *
* 3. 3. *
*
x
p
2 °
*
2 IO A LIVING LIE
that he could haldly hear it himself. He brushed past
René without recognizing him, or appearing to do so, any
more than Salvancy had done an hour ago The poet
quickly made his way to one of the entrances to the stalls.
He had not long to look ; Madame Moraines was in the
third box from the stage, almost opposite him. She
occupied the front seat, and there were two men in the
background ; one, a fine young fellow, with a long beard
and a pale complexion—the husband, no doubt—was
standing up. The other, who was seated
But why had chance—it could only be chance—
brought into that box on this very night the man whose
name the wretched actress had just coupled with
Suzanne's P Yes, it was indeed Desforges who occupied
the chair behind Madame Moraines. The poet had not
the slightest difficulty in recognizing the Baton's ener-
getic countenance, his pleicing brown eyes, his fall
moustache, his high coloul, and his forehead Sul mounted
by a wealth of almost white hair. Why did it distress
René to see this old beau talking so familiarly to
Suzanne as she sat theſe fanning hel Self, hel face turned
towards him, whilst Moraines scanned the boxes with
his opera-glass P Why did it cause him such pain as to
make him turn hastily away 2 For the filst time since
he had had the happiness to catch sight of this woman
on the threshold of the Komof mansion, looking so fair
and slim in hel 1ed gown, Suspicion had entered his
soul
What suspicion P. He could not possibly have ex-
pressed it in words. And yet? When Suzanne had
spoken to him about the theatre that morning she had
told him that she was going alone with her husband.
What motive had led her to pervert the truth? The
detail, it was tiue, was of no importance. But a lie, be
it great or small, is still a lie. After all, perhaps Des-
forges was only visiting them in their box during the
interval. This explanation seemed so natural as well as
acceptable that René adopted it on the spot.
g { º ºr
{
r * r *
THE STORY OF A SUSPICION 2 II
Returning to the box-office, he asked for an outside
stall, on the left, having calculated that from this seat
he would have the best opportunity of watching the
Moraines without being seen himself. Meanwhile the
audience had again settled down and the curtain rose.
Desforges did not leave the box. He kept his seat at
the back, leaning forward to talk to Suzanne. But why
not? Could not his plesence be explained in a thousand
ways without Suzanne having lied ? Could not Moraines
have invited him without his wife's knowledge He
spoke familiarly to the woman, it is true, and she
answered him in a similar manner. But had not he,
René, met him at her house A gentleman is sitting
down in a theatre talking to a lady he knows. Does
that prove that there is a vile bond of sin existing
between them P
The poet argued in this fashion, and his arguments
would have seemed to him irrefutable if he had seen on
Suzanne's face a single one of those traits of melancholy
he had expected to find. On the contrary, as she sat
there in her elegant theatre-gown of black lace, with a
little pink bonnet on her fair hail, eating, with dainty
fingels, from the box of crystallised fruit that stood
before her, she looked thoroughly happy, and as though
she had not a care in the world. She laughed so
heartily at the jokes in the piece, and her eyes were so
bright and sparkling as she chatted with her two com-
panions, that it seemed impossible to imagine she had
only that morning paid a visit to the shrine of her most
seclet and heartfelt love. The emotions called forth by
her meeting with her lover had left so few traces on her
face, now beaming with pleasure, that René scal cely
believed his own eyes. He had expected to find her so
very different.
The husband, too, with cordial joviality expressed in
his manly features, seemed by no means the crabbed
and suspicious recluse Suzanne had led her credulous
lover to imagine. The unhappy fellow had come to the
P 2
2 I 2 A LIVING LIE
theatre to get rid of the pain which Colette's words had
caused him, but when he reached home his distress had
only increased. It has often been said that we should
not keep many friends if we could hear those to whom
we give that title speak of us behind our back. It is
an even less satisfactory experiment to take by Surprise
the woman we love. René had just tried it, but he was
too passionately fond of Suzanne to believe in this first
vision of his Madonna's duplicity.
‘What am I worrying about after all 2' he thought,
on waking next morning, and finding that he was still a
prey to his painful feelings. ‘That she was in a good
temper last night? I must be very selfish to reploach
her with that That Baron Desforges was in her box
when she had told me that she was going to the theatre
with her husband alone P. She will explain that next
time I see her. That her husband's face was not in
keeping with his character 2 Appearances are so de-
ceptive How thoroughly have I been deceived in
Claude Larcher, with his wheedling ways and his frank
face . How often has he done me a favour and then
pretended he had forgotten it, and yet how basely he
has betrayed me after all !’
All the cruel impressions he had experienced on the
preceding evening were now concentrated in a fresh and
more furious fit of resentment against the man who, by
his wicked gossip, had been the primary cause of his
trouble. In the excess of his unjust anger René ignored
the unquestionable merits of his friend and protector—
absolute disinterestedness, a devotion that hoped for no
return, and a total lack of literary envy. He was not
even charitable enough to admit that Claude might
have spoken to Colette unthinkingly and incautiously,
but without any treacherous intentions. Suzanne's
lover felt that he could not remain the friend of a man
who had gone so far as to say what Larcher had said of
his mistress. That is what René kept repeating to
himself the whole day. On his return from the Biblio-
THE STORY OF A SUSPICION 2 I 3
thèque, where he had found it almost impossible to
work, he sat down to his table to write this villain one
of those letters that are not easily forgotten. Having
finished it, he read it over. The terms in which he
defended Madame Moraines proclaimed his love, and
now more than ever did he wish to keep that a secret
from Claude.
‘What is the use of writing to him at all P’ he
thought; ‘when he comes back I will tell him what I
think of him—that is much better.’
He was just about to destroy this dangerous letter
when Emilie came in, as she often did before dinner, to
ask him how he was getting on with his work. With a
woman's innate curiosity, she read the address on the
envelope, and said, “Oh is Claude in Venice P Then
you've heard from him l’
“Never utter that name before me again l’ replied
René, tearing up the letter in a kind of cool rage.
Emilie said no more. She had not been mistaken
in her brother's accents. René was in pain, and his
anger against Claude was vely great ; but since he was
silent concerning its cause, his sister knew that the latter
must be something more than a mere literary dispute.
By that intuition which always accompanies tender
affection, Emilie guessed that the two writers had
quarrelled on account of Madame Moraines, whose name
René never mentioned now, and whom she was
beginning to hate for the same reasons that had at first
prompted her to like her. For Some weeks past she
had noticed a great mental and physical change coming
over her brother. Although a model of purity herself,
she was shrewd enough to attribute this degeneration to
its true cause. She noticed it as she copied the fiagments
of the ‘Savonarola’ in the same way as she had copied
the ‘Sigisbée'; and although hel admilation for the
lightest trifle that came from René's pen was intense,
there were many signs by which she could see how
differently the two works had been inspired—from the
2I4 A LIVING LIE
number of lines written at each sitting to the continual
reconstruction of the scenes and even to the handwriting,
which had lost a little of its bold character.
The bubbling spring of clear, flesh poetry in which
the ‘Sigisbée' had had 1ts Soulce seemed to have diicd
up What change had taken place in René's life P A
woman had cntercă 1t, and 1t was the efore to this
woman's 1nfluence that Emilie atti ibuted the momentaly
impailment of the poet's faculties. She went still ful thei,
and hated this unknown but formidable c1 cature for the
pain inflicted on Rosalie. By a strange lapse of memory,
frequently met with in generous natures, she forgot what
palt she had herself taken in hel blother's 1 upture with
his for mel fancée. It was Madame Molaincs whom
she blamed for 1t all, and now this same woman was
emblolling René with the best and most devoted of his
filends—the one whom his faithful sister preſerica
because she had gauged the strength of his fi ſendship.
“But how could it have happened, she thought,
“since Claude is not heic 2'
She cudgelled hel b1ains for a solution to this
p1oblem whilst attending to her household duties,
hearing Constant's home lessons, making Out Fresneau's
bills, and conscientiously examining every button-hole
and seam of her brothel's linen. René was shut up in
his 1 oom, where everything 1eminded him of Suzanne's
One hCavenly visit, and with feverish 1mpatience he
awaited the day appointed for their next meeting.
Slander was doing 16S secret work, like some venomous
sting. A poisoned man will go about without knowing
that he is ill, except for a vague feeling of restlessness,
but all the while the virus is fel menting in his blood
and will produce sudden and term ible results.
The poct still treated the shameful accusations
b1 Ought by Colette against Suzanne with Scoln, but, by
dint of pondering on her words in older to refute
them, his mind became mole accustomed to their tenour.
At the moment when the actless had made her tel rible
THE STORY OF A SUSPICION 2 I 5
charge he had not stooped to 1ebut it; but now, as he
turned it ovel in his mind, he tuied to save himself
fiom a tel11ble abyss of doubt and from the most
degrading jealousy by clutching at the marks of SincCrity
Suzanne had given him. What, then, were his feelings
when, at the very outset of their next meeting, he re-
ccived undeniable proofs that hel sincerity was not what
he had thought 16
He had reached the Rue des Dames with a troubled
look on his face that had not escaped Suzanne. In
reply to her solicitous inquilies he had pictended that
it was due to an unfail alticle that had appeared in
Some paper, but had almost immediately felt ashamed
of this 1nnocent excuse, so sweetly had his mistless
1ebuked him.
‘You big baby, you cannot have success without
inspiring jealousy.'
‘Let us talk about you instead, he replied, and then
asked, with a beating healt : “What have you becn
doing since I saw you last P’
Had Suzanne been watching him at that moment
She must have seen his agitation. It was a trap—inno-
cent and simple enough—but a trap for all that. In
three times twenty-four houls suspicion had brought
the enthusiastic lover to this degree of distiust. But
Suzanne could not know this, for he was treating her in
exactly the same way as she was treating Desforges.
She did not think René capable of stepping out of the
only rôle in which she had seen him. How could she
imagine that this simple boy was trying to catch her P
‘What have I been doing 2' she repeated. ‘First
of all I went to the Gymnase the other evening with
my husband. Fortunately we haven't much to say to
each othel, so I could think of you just as well as if I
were alone—I do feel so alone when I am with him.
You talk of the tioubles of your literary life—if you
only knew the misery of my so-called life of pleasure
and the loneliness of these wealy tete-d-têtes /’
2 I6 A LIVING LIE
‘Did you feel boled at the theatre, then P’ continucci
René.
‘You were not there, she replied with a smile, and
looked mole intently at him. “What is the mattel,
love P’
She had never seen this bitter, almost hard, expres-
sion on René's face,
‘It’s very stupid of me, but I can't forget that
article,' said the poct.
‘Was it so very bad, then 2 Where did it appear 2'
she asked, her instinct of danger thoroughly aroused ;
but René, being unable to reply to this unexpected
question, merely stammered, ‘It isn't worth your trou-
bling to read it.’
This only confirmed her suspicions—he was angry
with her about something. A question rose to her lips :
“Has some one been speaking ill of me?” Her diplo-
macy, howevel, got the better of her impetuosity. Is
not anxiety to disarm Suspicion almost a confession
in itself? The really innocent are quite callous. Her
best course was to find out what René had been doing
himself, and what persons he had seen who might have
told him something
‘Did you go and see Mademoiselle Rigaud 2’ she
asked, indifferently.
, ‘Yes,’ 1eplied René, unable to disguise his emba11ass-
ment at the question.
‘And has she forgiven poor Claude P’ continued
Suzanne.
‘No,' he 1ejoined, adding : “She is a very bad
woman,’ and in such a bitter tone that Madame Molaines
at once guessed paſt of the truth. The actress must
certainly have spoken of her to René. She was again
seized with a desile to provoke his confidence, and
reflected that the Sulest means of attaining her object
was by intoxicating her lover with passion. She knew
how powerless he would be to resist the emotions her
caresses would let loose, and at once sealed his lips
THE STORY OF A SUSPICION 217
with a long kiss. By the silent and frenzied ardour with
which he returned it Suzanne understood not only that
René had suffered, but that she had, to a great extent,
been the cause.
In her sweetest voice, and in tones best calculated
to reach that heart which had always been open to her,
she said, ‘What is this trouble that you won't tell me?’
Had she uttered those words at the beginning of their
interview he would not have been able to resist them.
Amidst tears and kisses, he would have repeated what
Colette had said | But alas ! It was no longer Colette's
words that caused him his present sufferings. What
now gave him frightful pain and pierced his heart like a
dagger was the fact of having caught her, his 1dol, 1n a
deliberate lie. Yes, she had lied ; this time there was
no doubt about it. She had told him that she had been
to the theatre with her husband only, and that was
false ; that she had been sad, and that was false too.
Could he reply to hel question, which betrayed affec-
tionate concern, by two such clear, explicit, and 1rrefutable
charges He had not the courage to do it, and got Out
of the dilemma by repeating his former 1 eply. Suzanne
looked at him, and he was obliged to turn his head.
She only sighed and said, “Poor René !’ and, as 1t was
almost time ſor her to go, she pushed her inquiries no
further.
‘He will tell me all about it next time, she thought
as she went home. In spite of herself she was worried
by René's silence. Her love for the poet was since1e,
though it was a very different passion from that which
she expressed in words. Before all else it was a physical
love, but, corrupted as Suzanne was by her life and her
surroundings, or perhaps because of this very col ruption,
the poet's nobility of soul did not fail to 1mpless her.
And to such an extent that she 1magined their romance
would be robbed of half its delight if ever the circle of
illusions she had drawn 1 ound him were broken. That
some one had tried to bleak this magic circle was evident,
2 I 8 A LIVING LIE
and this some one could only be Colette. Everything
seemed to prove it. But, on the other hand, what
reason could the actress have for hating her, Suzanne,
whom she probably did not know, even by name P
Colette and Claude were lovers, and here Madame
Moraines again came upon the man whom she had dis-
trusted from the first day. If Colette had spoken to
René about her, Claude himself must have spoken
about her to Colette. At this point her 1deas became
confused. Larcher had never seen hel with Rcné. And
the lattel, whose word she did not doubt, had told hel
that he had confided nothing to his fliend.
‘I am on the wrong track,’ thought Suzanne. A1 gue
as she would, she could not convince hel self that René
was so troubled on account of this pletended newspapcr
alticle. There was dangel 1n stole for the dear 1 elations
that existed between them. She felt it, and the feeling
became still more pronounced by what her husband told
her on the very next day after her unsatisfactory inter-
view with René.
It was just before seven, and Suzanne was alone in the
little salom where she had first cast hel net over the poet
—a net as finely woven and as yielding as the web in
which the spider catches the unwary fly. She had had
more callers than usual that afternoon, and Desforges
had only just gone Suddenly Paul came in in his
wonted noisy way and 1n high animal spirits. Seizing
hel by the waist—for she had started up at his boistel-
ous entry—he said, ‘Give me a kiss—no, two kisses,’
taking one after the other, “as a rewald for having been
good.’ Seeing the look of interrogation in Suzanne's
eyes, he added, ‘I have at last paid Madame Komof that
visit I’ve owed her for so long. Whom do you think I
met there P Guess—that young poet, René Vincy. I
can’t understand why Desforges doesn’t like him. He's
a charming fellow ; he pleased me immensely. We had
quite a long talk. I told him that you would be very
glad to see him. Was I doing right P’
THE STORY OF A SUSPICION 219
‘Quite right,’ replied Suzanne; ‘and who else was
there P’
Whilst her husband was reciting a list of familiar
names she was thinking : ‘What reason had René for
going to Madame Komofºs ?’ This was the first call of
that kind he had made since the beginning of their
attachment. He had so often said to his m1stress : ‘I
want only you and my work.’ It had been his custom
duling the past few months to give her a full account not
only of what he had done, but of what he was going to
do, and yet he had said nothing of this visit, so entirely
out of keeping with his present mode of life. And he
had met Paul, who had no doubt proved himself the
vely opposite of what his wife had described him to be.
Suzanne felt quite out of temper with the kind-
heaſted fellow who had been guilty of calling on the
Comtesse on the same day as the poet, and she said,
in an almost petulant tone : ‘I am sure you haven't
wiitten to Crucé for that Alençon.’
‘I have wi itten,’ 1eplied Moraines, with an air of
triumph, “and you shall have it.’ Clucé, who acted as
a sort of private art bloker, had spoken to Suzanne
about some old lace, and 1 was this she wished hel
husband to get her. From time to time she would ask
him for something that she could show hel fiends and
say, ‘Paul is so good to me. This a present he brought
me only the other day.” She would forget to add that
the money fol Such plesents generally came flom Des-
forges—in an indirect way, 1tistiue. Although the Balon
seldom troubled himself with business mattels except so
far as the careful investment of his capital necessitated,
he often had opportunities fol speculating with almost
absolute safety, and always gave Moraines a chance
of doing the same. The Compagnie du Nord, of which
Desforges was a directol, had 1ecently taken ovel a
local line that was on the brink of 1 uin. Paul had
succeeded in making a profit of thirty thousand fiancs
by purchasing Some shares at the 1ight moment, and it
22O A LIVING LIE
was out of this piofit that Suzanne was going to have
her lace. This little business operation, too, had in-
directly led to a somewhat strange scene between René
and his mistress.
In the couise of conversation she had asked him
how much the ‘Sigisbée' had produced, adding, ‘What
have you done with all that money ’’
‘I don't know,’ René had replied, with a laugh.
My Sister bought me some stock with the first few
thousand francs, and I have kept the test in my drawer.’
‘Will you let me talk to you like a sister, too P’ she
had said. “A fliend of ours is a director of the Com-
pagnie du Nord, and he has given us a valuable tip.
Do you promise to keep it a seeret 2'. Thereupon she
had explained to him how to get hold of some shales.
‘Give your orders to-morrow, and you can make as
much as you like.’
‘Hold your tongue!’ René had said, putting his
hand over her mouth. “I know it's very kind of you to
talk like that, but I can't allow you to give me that
SO1t of information. I should feel ashamed of myself.'
He had spoken so seriously that Suzanne had not
dared to press the matter, though his scruples had
appeared to her somewhat ridiculous. But then, if he
had not been SO unsophisticated and such a goffeur, as
she called him in that horrible Parisian slang that spares
not even the highest forms of sentiment, would she
have been so fond of him P And yet it was this very
innocence of soul that she feated. If ever he should
get to hear what her life was really like, how his noble
heart would turn against her, and how incompatible it
would be with his high sense of honour ever to forgive
her | A hunt had, nevertheless, somehow 1 eached him.
In going over the different signs of danger that she had
noticed one after anothel —René's trouble, his anger
against Colette Rigaud, his reticence and his unexpected
visit to Madame Komof—Suzanne said to herself: ‘I
made a mistake in not getting him to explain at once.’
THE STORY OF A SUSPICION 22 I
When, therefore, she made her appearance in the
Rue des Dames a few days late1 she was fully determined
not to fall into the same el ror again. She saw at once
that the poet was even more distressed than before,
though she pretended not to notice this distress nor the
cool manner in which he rcoeived her first kiss. With
a sad Smile she said to him :
“It was very silly of you, dear, not to tell me you
were about to call on the Comtesse. I would have
taken care that you were spared a meeting which must
have been very painful ?”
‘Painful?’ repeated René in an ironical tone that
Suzanne had never heard him use before, ‘why, M.
Moraines was charming.’
‘Yes,’ she replied, ‘you have made a conquest.
He, so sarcastic as a rule, spoke of you with an en-
thusiasm that really pained me. Didn't he invite you
to call on us? You may be proud. It is so rare that
he welcomes a new face. Poor René, she con-
tinued, placing both her hands on her lover's shoulder,
and laying her cheek on her hands, ‘how you must have
suffered l’
‘I have indeed suffered,’ replied René, in a hollow
voice. He looked at the pretty face so near his own
and remembered what Suzanne had said to him in the
Louvre before the portrait of the Giorgione's mistress,
‘How can anyone lie with a face like that P’ Yet she
had lied to him. And what p1 Oof had he that she had not
been lying all along Whilst a prey to the torments of
suspicion, and especially since his meeting with Paul, the
most frightful conjectures had entered his mind. The
contrast between the Molaines he had seen and the
tyrannical husband described by Suzanne had been too
great. “Why has she deceived me on that point too P’
René had asked himself.
He had called on Madame Komof without any dis-
tinct aim, but in the secret hope of hearing Suzanne
spoken of by those of her own set. They at least
222 A LIVING LIE
would be sure to know her | But alas ! his conversation
with Molalnes had sufficed to involve him in more
hol rible doubt than ever One thing was now very
plain to him ; Suzanne had used her husband as a bug-
beal to keep him, René, fiom visiting their house. Why
—if it were not that she had something in her life to
hide 2 What was this something P Colette had taken
upon herself to answer this question in advance. Under
the 1nfluence of that horl ible suspicion, René had con-
ceived a plan, very simple of execution, and the result
of which he thought would plove decisive. He would
take advantage of the husband's invitation to ask
Suzanne for permission to visit her at home If she
said yes, she had nothing to hide ; if she said no——
And as this 1esolution recuried to the poet he con-
tinued to gaze upon that adorable face resting on his
shoulder Each one of those dear featules recalled
fresh memories | Those eyes so clear and blue—what
faith he had had in them | That noble brow—what
refined thoughts he had imagined 1t to sheltel I Those
delicate, mobile lips—with what Sweet abandonment
had he heald them speak | No–what Colette had told
him was 1mpossible ! But why these lies—a filst, a
second, and a third time P Yes, she had lied three
times. There is no such thing as a trivial lie. René
understood this now, and felt that confidence, like love,
is governed by the great law of all or nothing, We have
it or we have 1t not. Those who have lost it know this
only too well.
‘My poor René !’ 1epeated Suzanne. She saw that
he was in that State when compassion Softens the healt
and opens it wide.
“Poor indeed l’ 1eplied the poet, moved by this mark
of pity, that came just when he had most need of it;
then, looking into her eyes, he unburdened himself.
‘Listen, Suzanne, I prefer to tell you all. I have
come to the conclusion that the life we are leading
now cannot last. It makes me too unhappy—it does not
THE STORY OF A SUSPICION 223
satisfy my love. To see you only by stealth, an hour
to-day and an houl in a few days' time, to know nothing
of what you ale doing, to share no part of your life,
is too cluel. Be quiet—let me speak. There was a
weighty objection to my being received in your house—
your husband. Well—I have seen him I have borne
the ordeal. We have shaken hands. Since 18 1s done,
allow me at least to benefit by my effort. I know the e
is nothing very noble in what I am saying, but I have
no desile to be noble—I love you. I feel that my mind is
getting full of all kinds of ideas about you. I entreat you
to let me come to your house, to live in your world, to see
you elsewhere than here, where we meet only to—
“To love each other l’ she exclaimed, interlupting
him and shaking hel head ; “do not utter blasphemy.'
Then, sinking down into a chair, she continued, ‘Alas !
my beautiful dream is over then—that dieam in which
you seemed to take as much delight as I–the dream of
a love all to Ourselves, and only for ourselves, with none
of those complomises that horrified us both !’
‘Then won't you let me come and see you as I ask 2'
said René, returning to the change.
‘What you are asking me to do is to kill our
happiness,’ cried Suzanne ; ‘so sensitive as I know you to
be, you would never stand the shocks to which you would
be exposed, You know nothing of that world in which
I am obliged to live, and how unfitted you are for it.
And afterwards you would hold me responsible for your
disenchantment. Give up this fatal idea, love, give it
up for my sake.’
‘What is there then in this life of yours that I may
not see P’ asked the poet, looking at her fixedly. He
could not be aware that Suzanne had only one aim in
view—to get him to tell her the reason of this sudden
desire—for she concluded that it must be the same
1eason which had caused his distress the other day,
and which had taken him to Madame Komofºs so
unexpectedly. She was not mistaken as to Rene's
224 A LIVING LIE
meaning, and replied in the broken accents of a woman
unjustly accused :
‘How can you talk to me like that, René P. Some
One must have poisoned your mind. You cannot have
got hold of such ideas yourself. Come to my house,
lovel Come as often as you like 1 “Something in my
life that you may not see”—I, who would rather die
than tell you a lie l’
‘Then why did you tell me a lie the other day?'
cried René. Conquered by the despair he thought he
could see in those beautiful eyes, disarmed by the
permission she had just given him, unable to keep the
secret of his grief any longer, he felt that necessity of
unbosoming himself which, in a quarrel with a woman, is
as good as putting one's head into a noose.
‘I told you a lie P’ exclaimed Suzanne.
‘Yes, when you told me you went to the theatre with
your husband.’
“But I did go y
“So did I,’ said René ; ‘there was some one else in
your box.’
‘Desforges 1’ cried Suzanne; ‘you’re mad, my dear
René—mad He came into our box during one of
the intervals, and my husband made him stay till the
piece was over. Desforges l’ she repeated with a smile,
‘why, he's nobody. I didn't even think of mentioning
him. Seriously, you don't mean to say you're jealous of
Desforges?’
‘You looked so bright and happy, rejoined René,
in a voice that already showed signs of relenting.
‘Ungrateful man,’ she said ; “I wish you could have
read what was going on within me ! It is this necessity
for continual dissimulation which is the bane of my life;
and now, to have you reproach me with it ! No, René—
this is too cruel, too unjust l’
“Forgive me ! Forgive me!’ cried the poet, now
perfectly convinced by the natural manner of his
mistress. “It is true. Some one has poisoned my
THE STORY OF A SUSPICION 225
mind. It was Colette How justified you were in your
distrust of Claude Larcher l’
‘I did not allow him to pay me attentions,’ said
Suzanne ; “men never forgive that.'
‘The wretch !’ cried the poet angrily, and then, as if
to rid himself of his grief by telling it, he went on : ‘He
knew that I loved you. How P Because I hesitated
and got confused the only time I ever mentioned your
name to him. He knows me so well ! He guessed my
Secret and told his mistless all about it—and a lot of
other lies. I can’t repeat them to you.’
‘Tell me, René, tell me,’ said Suzanne, wearing at
that moment the noble look of resignation that is seen
on the faces of those who go to the scaffold innocent.
‘Did they say that I had had lovers before you?”
‘Would that it were only that l’ exclaimed René.
‘What then, mon Džew 2° she cried ‘What does it
matter to me what they said, but that you, René, should
believe it ! Come, confess, so that you may have nothing
on your mind. I have at least the right to demand that.”
“True,' replied the poet, and looking as shamefaced
as though he were the guilty one, he stammered rather
than pionounced the following words: “Colette told me
she heard from Claude that you were . . . No-I can't
say it—well, that Desforges . . .”
‘Still Desforges,’ said Suzanne, interrupting him
with a swect but ironical smile ; “it is too comical.” She
did not want René to formulate the charge that she
could now guess. It would have wounded hel dignity
to descend to such depths. ‘You were told that
Desforges had been my lover—that he was still so, no
doubt. But that is not slander—1t is too ridiculous to
be that. Pool old friend—he who knew me when I was
as high as that l—he and my fathel were always togethel.
He has seen me grow up, and loves me as if I were his
own child. And it is this man whom— No, René,
swear to me that you didn't believe 1t, Have I deserved
that you should think so badly of me?’
Q
226 A LIVING LIE
CHAPTER XVII
PROOFS
IN that strange mental disease called jealousy the
intervals between the attacks are periods of delight.
For some days or fol some hours the feelings of love
regain their divine sweetness, like a return to strength
in convalescence. Suzanne had so fully convinced
René of the absurdity of his suspicions that he did not
wish to be behind her 1n generosity, and refused to avail
himself of the permission to call in the Rue Murillo for
which he had so earnestly entreated. Two or three
phrases uttered in the right manner and with the right
explession will always ovel come the deepest distrust
of a devoted lover, provided he has not had ocular
proofs of treason—and even then But here the ele-
ments of which this first suspicion was composed wele
so fragile !
It was therefore with absolute good faith that the
poet said to Suzanne, who was hel self quite delighted
with this unexpected result, ‘No, I shall not come to
your house. It was foolish of me to desire any change
in our relations. We are so happy as we are.’
‘Yes, until some wretch libels me again, she replied.
‘ Promise me that you will always tell me.’
“I swear I will, love,’ said he. “But I know you
now, and I am more sure of myself.”
He said so, and he thought so. Suzanne thought so
too, and gave hel Self up to the delights of her paradise
regained, though fully aware that she would have a
second battle to fight when Claude returned. But
could Larcher say mole than he had already said P
Besides, René would tell her of his return, and if the
first meeting of the two men did not result in a definite
rupture it would be time to act. She would make her
lover choose between breaking entirely with Claude or
PROOFS 227
with herself, and about his choice she had no doubt
whatever. In spite of his protests, the poet seemed to
be less sure of himself, for his heart beat fast when, on
his return home from the Bibliothèque one evening
about a week after the Scene with Suzanne, his sister
said to him, ‘Claude Larcher is back.’
‘And has he dared to call here P’ cried René.
Emilie was visibly embarrassed and said, ‘He asked
me when he could see you ?’
‘You should have answered “Never,”’ replied the
Oet.
poe René !’ exclaimed Emilie, ‘how could I say that to
an old friend who has been SO kind and devoted to
you ? I think I had better tell you ’ she added ; “I
asked him what had taken place between you. He
seemed so surprised—SO painfully surprised—that I
will swear he has never done you any harm. There is
some misundelstanding I told him to come to-morrow
morning, and that he would be sure to find you in.”
‘Why don't you mind your own business P’ cried
René anglily; ‘did I ask you to meddle in my
affairs P’
‘How unkind you ale !” said Emilie, deeply hurt by
her brother's words, and almost in teals.
“All right, don't cry,' replied the poet, somewhat
ashamed of his roughness; “perhaps it is better that
I should see him. I Owe him that. But after that, I
never want to heal his name again. You understand—
never !”
In spite of his apparent firmness, René did not sleep
much that night, but lay awake thinking of the
apploaching meeting. Not that he had much doubt
about the 1ssue, but, try as he would to increase his
resentment against his old fliend, he could not get as
far as hating him. He had grown extremely fond of
this peculiar individual who, when not intentionally
disagreeable, commanded affection by his sincere though
frivolous nature, by his originality, by those very faults
Q 2
228 A LIVING LIE
which only harmed himself, and above all by a kind of
innate, indestructible, and invincible generosity.
On the eve of severing their friendship René recalled
to mind how it had originated. Claude, then very poor,
was a tutor in the Ecole Saint-André when René him-
self was a scholar in the Sixth form A curious legend
concerning the eccentric professol was told in this well-
conducted and eminently religious institution. Some
of the boys declared they had seen him seated in an
open carriage next to a very pretty woman dressed in
pink. Then one day Claude disappealed from the
school, and René did not see him again until he turned
up at Fresneau's wedding as best man, and already on
the 1 oad to fame. After some talk over old times,
Claude had asked to see his poems. The wiiter of
thirty had shown as much indulgence as an eldel
brothel in reading these first essays, and had imme-
diately treated the aspiring lad as an equal. With what
tact had he submitted these rough sketches to the
processes of a higher criticism—a criticism which
encourages an altist by pointing out his defects with-
out crushing him beneath their weight. And then had
followed the episode of the ‘Sigisbée, in which Claude
had displayed unusual devotion for one who was himself
a dramatic author.
The poet was sufficiently well acquainted with literary
life to know that even simple kindness 1s ral ely met with
between one genelation and the next. His rapid success
had already procured him what is perhaps the bitterest
experience of the years of apprenticeship—the jealousy
of those vely masters he admited most, in whose school
he had formed his style, and at whose feet he would so
gladly have laid his sprig of laurel. Claude Larcher's
delight 1n another's talent was as spontaneous and as
sincere as if he had not all eady wielded the pen for fif-
teen years. And now this valuable, nay, unique fliend-
ship was to be severed. But was it his fault, René asked
himself, as he tossed about in his bed, and recalled all
PROOFS 229
these things one aſter another P Why had Lalcher
spoken to this wretched girl as he had done? Why
had he betrayed his young friend, who looked up to him
as a brother P Why?
This distressing question again led René's mind to
ideas from which he turned instinctively. Basilio's
famous phlase—“Slander, slander—some is sure to stick’
—expresses one of the saddest and most indisputable
truths concerning the human heart. René would, it is
true, have despised himself for doubting Suzanne after
their reconciliation, but every suspicion, even a ground-
less one, leaves behind it some poisonous remnant of dis-
trust, and had he dared to look into the very depths of
his soul he would have recognised that fact in the un-
healthy curiosity he felt to learn from Claude what
reasons had led him to make his lying accusation.
This curiosity, the reminiscences of a long friendship, and
a kind of fear of the man who, by his age alone, had
always had an advantage over him—all tended to lessen
the anger of the wounded lover. He tried to work him-
Self up to the same degree of fully that had possessed
him on leaving Colette's dressing 100m, but he was not
successful. Like all who know themselves to be weak,
he wished to rear an insurmountable barrier between
Claude and himself at once, and when Lalcher made his
appearance at nine o'clock, and held out his hand in
friendly greeting, the poet kept his own hand in his
pocket.
The two men stood for a moment facing each other,
both very pale. Claude, though tanned by his travels,
looked thin and careworn, and his eyes blazed at the
insult offered him. René knew to what lengths Larcher's
angel would lead him, and expected to see the hand he
had refused raised to strike a blow. But Claude's will
was stronger than his offended pride, and he spoke in a
voice that trembled with suppressed passion.
‘Vincy, do not tempt me. You are only a child,
and it is my duty to think for both of us. Come, come !
23O A LIVING LIE
Listen, René–I know all. Do you understand P All–
yes, all. I arrived yesterday. Your sister told me that
you were angry with me, and a good many other things
that opened my eyes. Your silence had frightened me.
I thought that you had betrayed me with Colette. Fool
that she is Fortunately she hadn't the sense to guess
that there was my vulnerable point. On leaving here I
went to her house. I found her alone. She told me what
she had done—what she had told you, and gloried in it,
the hussy. Then I did what was right.' Here he began
to malch up and down the 100m, absorbed in recollections
of the scene he described and almost oblivious of the
poet's presence. “I beat her—beat her like a madman.
It did me good. I flung hel to the glound and rained
blow upon blow until she cried “Mercy! mercy l’ I
could have killed her—and taken a delight in it. How
beautiful she looked, too, with her hair all tumbling about
and her dress hanging in shreds where I had toin it from
her snowy shoulders. Then she glovelled at my feet, but
I was relentless, and left the house. She can show the
marks on her body to hel next lover if she likes, and tell
him from whom she got them. How it relieves one to
be a brute sometimes l’ Then, suddenly stopping before
René, he said, “And all because she had touched you.
Yes or no,' he cried, in his same angry tone, ‘is it on
account of what this jade told you that you are angry
with me P’
‘It is on that account,’ 1eplied René coldly.
“Very well,' said Claude, taking a seat, “then we can
talk. There must be no misunderstanding this time, so
I shall be as plain as I possibly can. If I understand
rightly, this wretch of a girl has told you two things.
Let us proceed in order. This is the first—that I told
her you were intimate with Madame Moraines. Excuse
me,’ he added, as the poet made a gesture “Between
us two, in a matter affecting our friendship, I don't care
a rap for the conventionalities that forbid us to mention
a woman's name. I am not conventional myself, and
PROOFS 23 I
so I mention her. Infamy number one. Colette told
you a lie. This was exactly what I had said to her—I
recollect the words as though it were yesterday, and
regretted them before they had left my mouth—“I think
poor René is falling in love with Madame Moraines"
The only thing I went by was your embarrassed manner
when mentioning hel to me. But Colette had seen you
sitting next to her at Supper and paying her great
attention. We had joked about the mattel—as people
will joke about these things—without attaching much
importance to it. At least, I didn't—but all that's
nothing. You were my friend. Your feeling might
have been a serious one—it was, as 16 happened. I was
wrong, and I frankly apologise in spite of the insult
which, on the word of this vile drab, you have just
offered me—me, your best and oldest friend l’
“But then why, cried René, ‘did you give me away
to this creature, knowing what she was P And again,
had you spoken only of me, I would have forgiven
ou——
you Let us pass on to this second point,' said Claude, in
his calm, methodical tone, ‘that is to say, to the second
lie. She told you that I had 1nfo1 med her of Madame
Moraines' relations with Desforges That is false. She
had heard of them long ago from all the Salvaneys with
whom she dined, supped, and fluted. No, René—1f
there is anything with which I reproach myself, 1t is
not for having spoken to hel about Madame Moraines
—I could not have told her anything she didn't know
It is for not having spoken to you openly when you
came to see me. I was fully acquainted with the
depravity of this second but mole fashionable Colette,
and I did not wain you of it while there was yet time.
Yes, I ought to have spoken—I Ought to have opencil
your eyes and said: “Woo this woman, win her and
wear her, but do not love her.” And I held my peace
My only excuse is that I did not think her sufficiently
disinterested to enter into your life as she has done. I
232 A LIVING LIE
said to myself “ IIe has no money, so there is no
danger.””
“Then,’ clied René, who had scarcely been able to
contain himself whilst Claude was speaking of Suzanne
in such terms, “do you believe this vile thing that
Colette has told me of Madame Moraines and Baron
Desforges P’
“Whether I believe it?’ replied Lalcher, gazing at
his fliend in astonishment. ‘Am I the man to invent
such a story about a woman P’
“When you have paid a woman attentions,’ said the
poet, uttering his words very slowly, and in a tone of
deepest contempt, “attentions which she has repulsed,
the least you can do is to 1 espect her.’
“I l’ cried Claude, “Il I have paid Madame Moraines
attentions 2 I understand—this is what she has told
you.’ He broke into a nervous laugh. “When we put
such things into our plays these harlots accuse us of
libelling them. Of libelling them As if such a thing
were possible ! They are all the same. And you
believed her | You believed me, Claude Lalcher, to be
Such a villain as to dishonour an honest woman in order
to avenge my wounded pride P Look me well in the
face, René. Do I look like a hypocrite P Have you
ever known me to act as one P. Have I proved my
affection for you ? Well—I give you my word of
honour that this woman has lied to you, like Colette.
The hussles | And there was I dying of grief, without
a wold of pity, because this woman, who is worse than
a prostitute, had accused me of this dirty thing. Yes—
worse than a prostitute | They sell themselves for
bread—and she, for what? For a little of the wretched
luxury that parvenus indulge in.”
‘Hold you tongue, Claude, hold your tongue !’
cried René, in terrible accents. “You are killing me.”
A storm of feelings, irresistible in its fury, had suddenly
burst forth within him. He could not doubt his friend's
sincerity, and this, added to the assurance with which
PROOFS 233
Claude had spoken of Desfolges, ſorced upon the
w1etched lover a conviction of Suzanne's duplicity too
painful to endure. He could rest1ain himself no longer,
and, rushing upon histormentor, seized him by the lapels
of his coat and shook him so violently that the material
gave way.
“When you tell a man such things about the woman
he loves you must give him proofs—you understand—
proofs l’
‘You are mad ' ' replied Claude, disengaging himself
from his grasp ; ‘proofs l—why, all Paris will give you
them, my poor boy! Not one person, but ten, twenty,
thirty, will tell you that seven years ago the Moraines
were ruined. Who got the husband into the Insurance
Company P Desforges. He is a director of that
company, as he is also a director in the Compagnie du
Nord, and a deputy and an ex-Councillor of State, and
Heaven knows what besides | He is a big man, this
Desforges, although he doesn't look it, and one who can
indulge in all kinds of luxuries. Whom do you always
find in the Rue Mulillo P Desforges. Whom do you
meet with Madame Molaines at the theatre P Desforges.
And do you think the fellow is a man to play at
Platonic love with this pretty woman married to hel
ninny of a husband P Such nonsense is all very well
for you and me, but not for a Desforges Wherever are
your eyes and ears when you go to see her ?’
‘I have only been to her house three times,’ said
René.
‘Only three times 2' 1epeated Claude, looking at
his friend. Emilie's plaintive confidences on the pre-
ceding evening had left him no doubt concerning the
1elations between Suzanne and the poet. René's im-
prudent exclamation, however, opened his eyes to the
peculiar chal acter these 1elations must have assumed.
‘I don't want to know anything,” he went on ; “it is an
understood thing that honour forbids us to talk of such
women, just as if real honour did not call upon us to
234. A LIVING LIE
denounce their infamy to the whole world. So many
fresh victims would then be spared Proofs You
want ploofs. Collect them for yourself. I know only
two ways of getting at a woman's Secrets—by opening
her letters or having her watched. Madame Moraines
never wiites—you may be sule of that. Put some one
on her track.’
‘You are advising me to commit an ignoble action l’
cried the poet.
“Nothing is noble or ignoble in love,' replied Larcher.
‘I have myself done what I advise you to do. Yes, I
have set detectives to watch Colette. A connection with
one of these hussies means war to the knife, and you are
scrupulous about the choice of your weapon.’
‘No, no,' replied René, shaking his head ; “I cannot.’
‘Then follow her yourself!' continued the relentless
logician. “I know my Desforges. He's a character,
don't you make any mistake. I made a study of him
once, when I was still fool enough to believe that
observation led to talent. This man is an astonishing
compound of order and disorder, of libertinism and
hygiene. Their meetings are no doubt regulated, like
all else 1n his life, once a week, at the same hour, not in
the morning, which would intel fele with his exercise,
not too late in the afternoon, which would interfere with
his visits and his game of bezique at the club. Watch
her. Before a week is ovel you will know the truth. I
wish I could say that I had any doubt concerning the
result of the experiment. And it is I, my poor boy,
who led you into this mile ! You were so happy here
until I took you by the hand and introduced you to that
wicked world where you met this monster. If it hadn't
been she it would have been another. I seem to bring
misfortune on all those I love. But tell me you forgive
me! I have such need of your fiendship. Come, don't
say no l’
Then, as Claude held out his hands, René grasped
them fervently, and sinking down into a chair—the
PRO OFS 235
same in which Suzanne had sat—he burst into tears and
exclaimed, “My God, what suffering this is l’
Claude had given his friend a week. Before the end
of the fourth day René called at the Sainte-Euveite
mansion in a state of Such agitation that Ferdinand
could not 1epress an exclamation as he opened the dool.
‘My poor Monsieur Vincy,” said the worthy man,
“are you going to kill you self with work like master 2'
Claude was seated at his writing-table in the famous
‘torture-chamber, Smoking as he worked, but, on seeing
René, he threw down his cigarette, and a look of intense
anxiety came into his face as he cried, “Mon Dzelt J
What has happened P’
‘You were right,’ 1eplied the poet, in a choking voice,
‘she is the vilest of women.’
‘Except one,' remarked Claude bitterly, and, parody-
ing Chamfort's celebrated phrase, added, ‘Colette must
not be discouraged. But what have you done?’
‘What you advised me to do, 1eplied René, in
accents of peculiar asperity, ‘and I have come to beg
your pardon for having doubted your word. Yes—I
have played the spy upon hel. What a feeling it is
The first day, the second day, the third day—nothing.
She only paid visits and went shopping, but Desforges
came to the Rue Murillo every day. I was 1n a cab
stationed at the corner of the street, and when I saw
him enter the house I suffered agonies of torture. At
last, to-day, about two o'clock, she goes out in her
brougham. I follow her in my cab. Aftel stopping at
two or three places, her Calriage draws up in front of
Galignani's, the booksellet's, undel the colonnade in the
Rue de Rivoli, and she gets out. I see hel speak to the
coachman, and the brougham goes off without her. She
walks for a short distance under the Colonnade, and I
see that she is wealing a thick veil. How well I know
that veill My heart beat fast and my blain was in a
whirl. I felt that I was nearing a decisive moment.
236 A LIVING LIE
She then disappeals through an at Chway, but I follow
hel closely and find myself in a courtyard with an open-
ing at the othel end, affolding egress into the Rue du
Mont-Thabor. I look up and down the latter street.
No one. She could not have had time to get out of
sight. I decide to wait and watch the back entrance.
If she had an appointment there she would not go out
the same way she came in. I waited for an hour and a
quarter in a wine-shop just opposite. At the end of
that time she reappeared, still wearing her thick veil.
The dress, the walk, and the veil—I know them all too
well to be mistaken. She had come out by the Rue du
Mont-Thabor. Her accomplice would therefore leave
by the Rue de Rivoli. I rush through to that side.
After a quarter of an hour a door opens and I find
myself face to face with—can you guess? Desforges |
At last I have them—the proofs W1etch that she is l’
“Not at all ! Not at all !’ replied Claude ; ‘she is a
woman, and they're all alike. May I confide in you in
return—that is, make an exchange of horlors P You
know how Colette treated me when I begged for a little
pity P The other night I flogged her till she was black
and blue, and this is what she writes me. Read it’
And he handed his friend a letter that was lying open on
the table. René took it and read the following lines:
* 2 A.M.
‘I have waited for you till now, love, but you haven't
come. I shall wait for you at home all day to-day, and
to-night aftel I come from the theatre. I only act in
the first piece, and I shall make haste to get back. Come
for the sake of our old love. Think of my lips. Think
of my golden hair. Think of our kisses. Think of her
who adores you, who is wretched at having given you
pain, and who wants you, as She loves you—madly.
‘Youl Own COLETTE.’
‘That's something like a love letter, isn't it?’ said
Larcher with a kind of Savage joy. “It’s more cruel
PROOFS 237
than all the rest to have a woman love you like that
because you've beaten her to a jelly. But I’ll have no
more to do with them—neither with her nor anyone
else. I hate love now, and I’m going to cut out my
heart. Follow my example.’
‘If I could !’ replied René, “but it's impossible.
You don't know what that woman was to me.' And again
yielding to the passion that raged within him, he wrung
his hands and broke into a fit of convulsive sobs.
‘You don’t know how I loved her, how I believed in
her, and what I’ve given up for her. And then to think
of her in the arms of this Desforges—1t's horrible !’ A
shudder of disgust ran thi ough him. “If she had chosen
another man, a man of whom I could think with hatred
or rage—but without this feeling of horror | Why, I can't
even feel jealous of him. For money ! For money !’
He rose and caught hold of Claude's arm frantically.
‘You told me that he was a director of the Compagnie
du Nord. Do you know what she wanted to do the
other day P To give me a few good tips in shares. I,
too, would have been kept by the Baron. It's only
natural, 1sn't it, that the old man should pay them all—
the wife, the husband, and the lover ? Oh! if I only
could ! She is going to the Opera to-night—what if I
went theie P What if I took her by the hair and spat in
hel face, before all the people who know her, telling
them all that she is a low, filthy harlot P’
He fell back into his chair, once more bursting into
tearS.
“She occupied my thoughts every hour, every moment
of the day. You had told me to be on my guard
against women, it is tiue. But then you were beguiled
by a Colette, an actless, a cleatue who had had other
lovers before you—whilst she Every line in her face
sweals to me that it is impossible—that I have been
dreaming. It is as if I had seen an angel lie. And yet
I have the ploof, the undeniable proof. Why did I not
confront hel there in the street, on the threshold of
238 A LIVING LIE
that vile place 2 I should have strangled her with my
hands, like Some beast. Claude, my dear fellow, how
I wronged you ! And the other I have crushed and
trodden under foot the noblest heart that beat in order
to get to this monster. It is but just—I have deserved it
all. But what can there be in Nature to produce such
beings?’
For a long, long time these confused lamentations
continued. Claude listened to them in silence, his head
resting on his hand. He too had suffered, and he knew
what consolation it gives to tell one's Soi 10w. He pitied
the pool youth who sat there sobbing as if his heart
would break, and the clear-sighted analyst within him
could not help observing the difference between the
poet's grief and that which he himself had so often felt
under similar circumstances. He never remembered
having suffered this torture, even when hard hit, without
p1obing his wounds, whilst René was the picture of a
young and sincere creature who has no 1jea of studying
his teals in a milror. These Strange 1eflections upon
the diversity of men's souls did not prevent him from
sympathising most deeply with his friend, and there
was a note of true feeling in his voice when he at last
took advantage of a break in René's lament to speak.
‘It is as our dear Heine said—Love is the hidden
disease of the heart. You ale now at the period of
inception. Will you take the advice of a veteran
suffeler P Pack up your traps and put miles upon
miles between you and this Suzanne. A pretty name
and a well-chosen One ! A Suzanne who makes money
out of the elders At you! age you will be quickly
cured. I am quite cured myself. Not that I know
how and when it happened—1n fact, it amazes me !
But for the past three days I have been rid of my love
for Colette. Meanwhile, I'm not going to leave you
alone ; come and dine with me. We shall drink hard
and be merry, and so avenge ourselves upon our
troubles.’
PROOFS 239
After his fit of passion had spent itself René had
fallen into that state of mental coma which succeeds
great outbursts of grief. He suffered himself to be
led, like one in a trance, along the Rue du Bac, then
along the Rue de Sèvres and the boulevard as far as
the Restaurant Lavenue at the corner of the Gare
Montparnasse, long frequented by many well-known
painters and sculptors of our day. Claude led the
way to a cabinet particulaer, in which he pointed out
to René Colette's name, Scratched on One of the mirrors
amidst scoles of others. Rubbing his hands, he ex-
claimed : ‘We must treat our past with ridicule,’ and
ordered a very elaborate meal with two bottles of the
oldest Corton. During the whole of the dinner he did
not cease to propound his theories on women, whilst
his companion hardly ate, but sat lost in mental con-
templation of the divine face in which he had so fully
believed. Was it possible that he was not dreaming,
and that Suzanne was really one of those of whom
Claude was speaking in terms of Such contempt 2
‘Above all,” said Larcher, “take no revenge. Re-
venge in love is like drinking alcohol aftel burning
punch. We become attached to women as much by
the harm we do them as by that which they do us.
Imitate me, not as I used to be, but as I am now, eating,
drinking, and caring as much for Colette as Colette
cares for me. Absence and silence—these are the
sword and buckler in this battle. Colette writes to me,
and I don't answer. She comes to the Rue de Varenne.
No admission. Where am I ? What am I doing?
She cannot get to know. That makes them maddel
than all the rest. Here's a suggestion : To-morrow
morning you stalt for Italy, or England, or Holland,
whichevel you plefer. Meanwhile Suzanne thinks you
are piously meditating upon all the lies she has told
you, but in reality you are comfortably seated in your
compartment watching the telegraph poles Scud past
and saying to yourself, “We are on even terms now, my
24O A LIVING LIE
angel.” Then in three, four, or five days' time the angel
begins to get uneasy. She sends a servant with a note
to the Rue Coetlogon. The servant comes back:-
“Monsieur Vincy is travelling !” “Travelling 2 ” The
days roll on and Monsieur Vincy does not return, neither
does he write—he is happy elsewhere. How I should
like to be there to see the Baron's face when she vents
her fury upon him. For these equitable creatures in-
variably make the one who stays behind pay for the one
who has gone. But what's the matter with you?”
“Nothing,' said René, though Claude's mention of
Desforges had caused him a fresh fit of pain. “I think
you are right, and I shall leave Paris to-morrow without
seeing her.’
It was on that understanding that the two fliends
separated. Claude had insisted on escolting René
back to the Rue Coetlogon, and, as he shook hands
with him at the gate, said, ‘I will send Perdinand to-
morrow morning to inquire what time you start. The
sooner the better, and without Seeing hel, mind—re-
member that ' '
‘You need not be afraid,' replied René.
“Poor fellow !' muttered Claude, as he returned
along the Rue d’Assas. Instead of going towards his
own home he walked slowly in the d11ection of the cab
rank by the old Couvent des Carmes, turning round
once on twice to see whether his companion had 1eally
disappeared. Then he stopped for a few minutes and
secmed to hesitate. His eyes fell upon the clock near
the cab lank, and he saw that it was a qual tel-past ten.
‘The piece began at half-past eight, he said to him-
self, ‘and she's just had time to change. I should be an
ass to miss such a chance. Cocher '' he cried, waking
up the man whose hoise seemed to have most speed in
him, ‘Rue de Rivoli, cornel of Jeanne d'Arc's statue,
and drive quickly.'
The cab started off and passed the top of the Rue
Coetlogon. ‘He is weeping now,” said Claude to him-
PROOFS 24. I
self; ‘what would he say if he saw me going to
Colette's P’ He little thought that as soon as he had
entered the house René had told his sister to get out
his dress suit. Astonished at such a request, Emilie
ventured upon an interrogation, but was met with, ‘I
have no time to talk,” uttered in such harsh tones that
she dared not insist.
It was Friday, and René, as he had told Claude, knew
that Suzanne was at the Opera. He had calculated that
this was her week Why had the idea that he must see her
again and at once taken such a firm hold upon him that,
1n his 1mpatience to be off, he quite upset both his sister
and Françoise P Was he about to put his threat into
practice and insult his faithless mistress in public 2 Or
did he only wish to feast his eyes once more on her
deceptive beauty before his departure ? On the occasion
of his visit to the Gymnase a week ago, after his intel-
view with Colette, his aim had been clear and definite.
It was the outward similal 1ty of that visit with the step
he was now taking that made him feel more keenly what
a change had come ovel him and his surroundings in
such a short space of time. How hopefully had he then
betaken himself to the theatre, and now in what mood
of despair | Why was he going at all P
He asked himself this question as he ascended the
gland staircase, but he felt himself impelled by some
foice superior to all reason or effort of will. Since he
had seen Suzanne leave the house in the Rue du Mont-
Thaboi he had acted like an automaton He took his
seat in the stalls just as the ballet scene fiom “Faust’ was
diawing to a close. The first effect ploduced by the
music on his overstrung nerves was a feeling of almost
morbid sadness; tears stalted to his eyes and dimmed
his vision as he turned his opera-glasses upon Suzanne's
box—that box in which she had looked so divinely
modest and pretty on the morrow of Madame Komof's
soirée, though not more so than she did now.
To-night she was in blue, with a row of pealls round
R
242 A LIVING LIE
her fair throat and diamonds in her golden hair. Another
woman, whom René had never seen, was seated beside
her ; she was a blunette, dressed in white, and wore a
number of jewels. There were three men behind them.
One was unknown to the poet, the other two were
Molaines and Desforges. The unhappy lover gazed
upon the trio before him—the woman sold to this aged
libertine, and the husband who profited by the bargain.
At least, René believed that it was so. This picture of
infamy changed his feelings of sadness into fury. All
combined to madden him—indignation at finding such
ideal grace in Suzanne's face when but that afternoon
she had hurried home fiom hel disgusting amours,
physical jealousy wrought to its highest pitch by the
presence of the mole fortunate rival, lastly a kind of
helpless humiliation at beholding this perfidious mistress
happy and admited, in all the glamour of her queenly
beauty, whilst he, her victim, was almost dying of grief
and unavenged.
By the time that the ballet was over René had lashed
himself into that state of fully which in every day
language is expressively styled a cool rage At such
moments, by a contrast similar to that observed in certain
stages of madness, the frenzy of the soul is accompanied
by complete control of the neives. The individual may
come and go, laugh and talk ; he preserves a perfectly
calm extel lor, and yet inside him there is a whillwind of
murderous ideas. The most unheard-of proceedings
then seem quite natural as well as the most pronounced
cruelties. The poet had been struck with a sudden
idea—to go into Madame Molalnes' box and express
to her his contempt How 2 That did not trouble
him much. All he knew was that he must ease his
mind, whatever the result might be. As he made his
way along the corridor, just then filled with the gilded
youth of Paris, he was so beside himself that he came
into collision with Several people, but strode on unheed-
ingly and without proffering a wold of excuse. On
PROOFS 243
reaching the ouvreuse, he asked her to show him the
sixth box from the stage on the right.
‘The box belonging to Monsieur le Baron Desforges?’
said the woman.
‘Quite right, replied René. ‘He pays for the
theatre, too,” he thought; ‘that's only as it should be.’
The door was opened, and in a trice he had passed
through the small ante-room that leads to the box itself
Moraines turned round and smiled at him in his frank
and simple way. The next moment he was shaking
hands with René in English fashion and saying, “How
d'you do?’ as though they were accustomed to meet
every day.
Then, tuining to his wife, who had witnessed René's
entrance without betraying the slightest surprise, he said,
‘My dailing, this is Monsieur Vincy.’
‘I haven't forgotten Monsieur Vincy, replied Su-
zanne, receiving her visitol with a graceful inclination
of her head, ‘although he seems to have forgotten me'
The perfect ease with which she uttered this phrase,
the Smile that accompanied it, the painful necessity of
shaking hands with this husband whom he regarded as
an accessory to his wife's guilt, and of bowing to Balon
Desforges as well as to the other persons plesent in the
box—all these details were so strangely out of keeping
with the fever consuming the poet that for a few moments
he was quite taken aback. Such is life in the world of
fashion. Tragedies are played in silence, and amidst an
interchange of false compliments, an assumption of
meaningless manners, and an empty show of pleasure.
Moraines had offered René a seat behind Suzanne, and
she sat talking to him about his musical tastes with
as much apparent indifference as if this visit were not
of terrible significance for her.
Desforges and Moraines were talking with the
other lady, and René could hear them making remarks
concerning the composition of the audienee. He was
not accustomed to impose upon himself that self-con-
R 2
244. A LIVING LIE
trol which permits women of fashion to talk of dress or
music whilst their hearts are being torn with anxiety.
He stammered forth replies to Suzanne's words without
the least idea of what he was saying. As she bent
slightly forward he inhaled the heliotrope perfume she
generally used. It awakened tender memories within
him, and at last he dared to look at her. He saw her
mobile lips, her fair, rose-like complexion, her blue eyes,
her golden hair, her snow-white neck and shoulders
over which his lips had often strayed. In his eyes
there was a kind of savage delirium that almost
flightened Madame Moraines. His bare coming had
told her that something extraordinaly was taking place,
but she was under the watchful eye of Desforges, and
she could not afford to make a single mistake. On the
other hand, the least impludence on René's part might
1uin hel. Her whole life depended upon a word or
gestule of the young poet, and she knew how easily
such wold or gestule might escape him She took up
her fan and the lacc handkerchief she had laid on the
ledge of the box, and 1 ose.
‘It is too warm hele, she said, passing her hand
ovel hel eyes and addressing René, who had 11Sen at
the same time. ‘Will you come into the ante-room P. It
will be cooler there.”
As soon as they were both seated on the sofa she
said aloud, ‘Is it long since you last saw our friend
Madame Komof P’ Then, 1n an undertone, ‘What is
the matter, love? What does this mean P’
‘It means,' replied René, in a suppressed voice,
‘that I know all, and that I am come to tell you what
I think of you. You need not trouble to answer. I
lznow all, I tell you—I know at what time you went
into the house in the Rue du Mont-Thabor, at what
time you left it, and whom you met there. Don't lie;
I was there—I saw you. This is the last time I shall
ever speak to you, but you understand—you are a
wretch, a miserable wretch l’
PROOFS 245
Suzanne was fanning herself whilst he flung these
terrible phrases at her. The emotions they aroused
did not prevent her from perceiving that this scene
with her enraged lover, who was evidently beside
himself, must be cut short at any price. Bending fol-
ward, she called her husband from the box.
* “Paul, she said, “have the carriage called. I don't
know whether it's the heat in the house, but I feel quite
faint. You will excuse me, Monsieur Vincy P
“It's strange,’ said Moraines to the poet, who was
obliged to leave the box with the husband, “she had
been so bright all the evening. But these theatres are
very badly ventilated. I am sure she is sorry at being
unable to talk to you, for she 1s such an admirer of
your talent. Come and see us soon—good-bye!’
And with his usual energy he again shook hands
with René, who saw him disappear towards that part
of the vestibule where the footmen stand in waiting.
The orchestra was just attacking the first bars of the
fifth act of “Faust.” A fresh fit of rage seized the poet,
and found vent in the wolds which he almost shouted
in the now deserted cor Idol : ‘I will be 1 evenged l’
CHAPTER XVIII
THE II APIPIEST OF TIIE FOUR
SUZANNE knew the Balon's cagle eye too well to
imagine that the scene in the box had entirely escaped
him. How much had he seen P What did he think?
These two questions were of capital importance to her.
It was impossible to formulate any reply to them during
the few minutes occupied—she leaning on his arm and
he supporting her as though he leally believed her to
be ill—in passing fiom the box to the entrance reserved
fol carriages. The Baron's face remained 1mpenetrable
246 A LIVING LIE
and she herself felt unable to exercise her usual faculties
of observation. René's sudden onslaught had inspired
her with such terror and pain that her indisposition had
been a sham only to a certain extent. She had been
afraid that the poet, evidently beside himself, might
cleate a scene and 1uin her for ever. At the same time
her since1e and deep-rooted passion had 1eceived a
severe blow in this tel rible insult and still more terrible
discovery. As she lifted up the train of her diess and
descended the steps in her blue satin shoes she shud-
dered as we sometimes do when we escape from a
danger which we have had the coul age to brave. A
faint Smile hoveled upon hel quivering lips, but her
face was ashy pale, and it was a real relief to her when
she sat down 1n the corner of her carriage with her
husband by her side. Before him, at least, there was
no necessity to control herself. As the horses stalted
she bent folwald to bow hel adieux. A gas-lamp
shed 16s light full upon the Balon's face, which now
betrayed his real thoughts. Suzanne read them in a
Second.
‘He knows all, she thought. “What is to be done 2'
For a few moments after the cal riage had gone
Desforges still stood theſe twirling his moustache—with
him a sign of extraordinal y preoccupation. It being
a fine night, he had not ordered his blougham. It was
his custom, when the weathel was dry, to walk to his
favourite club in the Rue Boissy-d'Anglas from any
place in which he had been spending the evening—even
1f such place was some small theatre situated at the
other end of the boulevalds. Whilst smoking his third
cigar—Doctor Noilot only allowed him three a day—
he loved to stroll through the streets of that Paris which
he justly prided himself upon knowing and enjoying
as well as anyone. Desforges was no cosmopolitan,
and had a horror of travelling, which he called ‘a life
of luggage.’ This promenade in the evening was his
delight. He utilised it for “making up his balance'—
THE HAPPIEST OF THE FOUR 2.47
that was his expression—for going over the different
events of the day, placing his receipts in one column
and his expenses in another. ‘Massage, fencing, and
morning ride, were put down in the column of receipts
to the credit of his health. ‘Drinking burgundy or
port'—his pet sin—‘or eating truffles or seeing Suzanne'
went into the column of expenditure. When he had
indulged in some trifling excess that contravened his
well-regulated lines of conduct he would carefully
weigh the plos and cons, and conclude by pronouncing
with the solemnity of a judge whether ‘it was worth
it’ or ‘not worth it.’
This Paris, too, in which he had dwelt since his
earliest youth, always awakened in him memories of the
past. His cynicism went hand in hand with cunning,
and he practised only the Epiculeanism of the senses.
He was a master in the art of enjoying happy hours
long after they had passed. In such a house, for
instance, he had had appointments with a charming
mistress; anothel 1ecalled to his mind exquisite dinnels
in good company. “We Ought to make ourselves four
stomachs, like oxen, to ruminate,’ he used to say; ‘that
is their only good point, and I have taken it from
them.’
But when the Molaines had driven away in their
brougham on this mild and balmy May evening he
began his walk, a prey to most sad and bitter impres-
sions, although the day had been a particularly pleasant
one until René Vincy's ently in the box. Suzanne had
not been mistaken. He knew all. The poet's visit had
struck him all the more forcibly since, that very after-
noon, on leaving the house in the Rue de Rivoli, he had
found himself face to face with the young man, who
stared hard at him. “Where the deuce have I seen that
fellow before ?' he had asked himself in vain. “Where
could my senses have been P’ he said, when Paul
Moraines mentioned René's name to Suzanne. The ex-
pression on the visitor's face had immediately aroused
248 A LIVING LIE
his suspicions; when Suzanne went into the ante-room
he had placed himself so as to follow the interview
from the corner of his eye. Without hearing what the
poet said, he had guessed by the look in his eyes,
the frown on his brow, and the gestures of his hands
that he was taking Suzanne to task The feigned indis-
position of the latter had not deceived him for a single
moment. He was one of those who only believe in
women's headaches when there is nothing to be gained
by them. The manner in which his mistress's hand
trembled on his arm as they descended the staircase
had strengthened his convictions, and now, as he crossed
the Place de l'Opéra, he told himself the most mortifying
truths instead of going into his usual raptures before the
vast perspective of the avenue, but lately lighted by
electricity, or before the façade of the Opera, which he
declared to be finer than Notre Dame.]
‘I have been let in,’ he said, ‘and at my age, too !
It's rather too bad—and for whom 2'. All combined to
render his humiliation more complete—the absolute
secresy with which Suzanne had deceived him, and
without arousing the slightest Suspicion ; the startling
suddenness of the discovery ; lastly, the quality of his
11val, a bit of a boy, a scribbling poet ! A score of
details, one more exasperating than the othel, crowded
1n upon him The forlorn and bashful look on the
poet's face when he had seen him on the day after
Madame Komofºs soirée ; Suzanne's 1nexplicable fits of
abstraction, which he had scarcely noticed at the time
and her allusions to matutinal visits to the dentist's, the
Louvre, or the Bon Marché. And he had swallowed 1t
all—he, Baron Desforges
‘I have been an ass!” he repeated aloud. “But
how did she manage it?’ It was this that completely
floored him ; he could not understand how she had
gone about it, even when René's attitude in the box left
him no doubt as to their relations. No, theie was no
possibility of doubt.
THE HAPPIEST OF THE FOUR 249
Had Suzanne not been his mistress he would never
have dared to speak to her as he did, nor would she
have allowed it. “But how P’ he asked himself; ‘she
never received him at home, or I should have known it
through Paul. She did not see him out ; he goes
nowhere.” Once more he repeated, ‘I have been an
ass!” and felt really angry with the woman who was
the cause of his pertubation. He had just passed the
Café de la Paix and had to brush aside two women
who accosted him in their usual shameless manner.
‘Bah!” he exclaimed; “they are all alike.’ He walked
on for a few paces and saw that he had let his cigar go
out. He threw 1t away with a gesture of impatience.
‘And cigals ale like women.” Then he shrugged his
shoulders as it occurred to him how childishly he was
behaving. ‘Frédélic, my dear fellow, whispered an
inner voice, ‘you have been an ass, and you are con-
tinuing the rôle.’ He took a fresh cigar from his case,
held it to his ear as he cracked it, and went into a cigar-
shop for a light. The havana proved to be delicious,
and the Baron, a connoisseur, thoroughly enjoyed it
“I was wrong,' he thought ; “hele is one that is not a
fraud.’
The soothing effect of the cigal changed the tenoul of
his ideas.
He looked about him and saw that he had almost
reached the end of the boulevard. The pavement was
as crowded as at midday, and the cari lages and cabs
went hulrying by. The gas-lamps glinted upon the
young foliage of the tlecs 1n a fantastic manner, and on
the right the dark mass of the Madeleine stood out
against the dark blue sky studded with stars. This
Parisian picture pleased the Baron, who continued his
reflections in a calmer flame of mind. ‘Hang it all !’
he cried ; “can it be that I am jealous P’ As a rule he
shook his head whenever he was treated to an example
of that mournful passion, and would generally reply,
“They pay your mistress attentions ! But that is
25O A LIVING LIE
merely a compliment to your good taste.’ ‘I, jealous!
Well, that would be good l’
When we have accustomed ourselves to play a
certain part in the eyes of the world for years together
we continue to play it even when alone. Desforges was
ashamed of his weakness—like an officer who, sent out
on a night expedition, blushes to find himself afraid
and 1efuses to admit the presence of that feeling. ‘It is
not true,' he said to himself; ‘I am not jealous.’ He con-
jured up a vision of Suzanne in René's arms, and it tickled
his vanity to feel that the picture, though not a pleasant
one, did not cause him one of those fits of 1ntense pain
that constitute jealousy. By way of contrast, he recalled
the poet's entry in the box, his agitated manner, and
the unconquerable frenzy that betrayed itself in every
lineament. There you had a really jealous man, ex-
posed to the full fury of that terrible mania
The antithesis between the relative calm he felt
within him and his rival's despair was so flattering to
the Baron's vanity that for a moment he was absolutely
happy. He caught himself making use of his customary
expression, one he had inherited from his father, a clevel
speculator, who had again had it from his mother, a
fine Normandy woman who had linked her fortunes
with those of the first Baron Desforges, a Prefect under
the grand empereur, ‘Gumption | Why should I be
jealous 2 In what has Suzanne deceived me * Did I
expect her to love me with a love such as this fool of a
poet no doubt dieamt of? What could a man of more
than fifty ask of her? To be kind and amiable 2 That
she has been. To afford me an opportunity of spending
my evenings agreeably P She has done so. Well, what
then 2 She has met a strapping youth, a bit wild, with
a fresh-looking complexion, and a fine pair of lips. As
she couldn't very well ask me to get him for her, she has
indulged in a little luxury on her own account. But, of
the two of us, I should say that he is the cuckold !’
This reflection, so purely Gallic in form, occurred to
THE HAPPIEST OF THE FOUR 251
him just as he reached the door of his club. The plain
language in which it had found expression relieved him
for a moment. ‘That's all very well, he thought; ‘but
what would Crucé say?’ The adioit collector had once
sold him a worthless daub at an exolbitant figule,
and Desforges had ever since entertained for him that
mixture of respect and resentment felt by very clever
men for those who have duped them well. He drew a
picture of the small club-room and the cunning Crucé
relating Suzanne's adventure with René to two or three
of his most envious colleagues. The idea was so hateful
to the Baron that it stopped him from entering the club,
and he walked away in the direction of the Champs
Elysées trying to shake off 1s influence. ‘Bahl
Neithel Clucé nor the othels will know anything of 1t.
It's lucky after all that she didn't hit upon any of these
men about town.” He threw a glance at the club
windows that looked out upon the Place de la Concorde,
and which were all lit up. “Instead of that she has
taken some one who is not in Society, whom I never
meet, and whom she has neither patronised nor presented.
I must do her the justice to admit that she has been
very considerate. Her trepidation, too, just now, was
entirely on my account. Poor little woman l’
“Poor little woman l’ he repeated, continuing his
soliloquy under the trees of the avenue. ‘This beast is
capable of making her repent her capı 1ce most bitterly.
He seemed in a pretty rage to-night! What want of
taste and manners In my box, too ! What irony
If this good Paul were not the husband I have made
him, she would be a ruined woman. And then he has
discovered the secret of our meetings, and we shall have
to leave the Rue du Mont-Thabor. No—the fellow is
impossible !” This was one of his favourite expressions.
A fresh fit of ill humour had seized him, this time
directed against the poet, but, as he prided himself upon
being a man of Sense and upon his cleal-sightedness,
he suppressed it at once, ‘Am I going to be angry with
252 A LIVING LIE
him for being jealous of me? That would be the height
of folly! Let me rather think upon what he is likely to
do. Blackmail No. He is too young for that. An
article in some paper? A poet with pretensions to
sentiment—that won’t be in his line. I wonder whether
his indignation will lead him to cast her off altogether ?
That seems too good to be true. A young scribbler, as
poor as a church mouse, shall give up a beautiful and
loving mistress, surrounded by all the refinements of
luxury, who costs him nothing ! Get out ! But what
if he asks her to break with me, and she is foolish
enough to yield 2' He saw at once and clearly what
disturbance such a rupture would create in his life.
‘Firstly, there would be the loss of Suzanne, and where
should I find another so charming, so sprightly, so
accustomed to my ways and habits 2 Then, again, I
should have to find something to do in the evenings, to
say nothing of the fact that I have no better friend in
Paris than this excellent Paul.” To remove his fears
concerning these contingencies he was obliged to
recapitulate the bonds of 1nterest that made him
indispensable to the Moraines. ‘No,' he concluded, as
he 1 eached the door of his mansion in the Couls-la-
Reine, “he will not let hel go, she will not give me up,
and everything will come right. Everything always
comes right 1n the end.”
This assurance and philosophy were probably not so
sincere as the Balon's vanity—his only weakness—would
have him believe, and for the first time in his life he got
Out of patience with his valet, a pupil of his who for
years had helped him to undress. Though he was still
anxious about the future, and more inwardly upset than
he caled to admit, this easy-going egoist nevertheless
slept right off for seven houls, according to his wont.
Thanks to a life of moderate and continual activity, to a
careful system of diet, to absolute regularity in rising
and retiring, and, above all, to the cale he took to rid his
brain at midnight of all troublesome thoughts, he had
THE HAPPIEST OF THE FOUR 253
acquired such a fixed habit of diopping off to sleep at
the same hour that nothing less than the announcement
of another Commune—the most terrible calamity he
could think of—would have kept him awake. On
opening his eyes in the morning, his mind refreshed by
his recuperative slumbers, all irritation was so completely
dispelled that he recalled the events of the preceding
night with a smile.
‘I am sure that he has not done as much, he said to
himself, thinking of the sleepless hours that René must
have spent, ‘nor Suzanne either’—she had been so
agitated—‘nor Moraines.’ An indisposition of his wife's
always turned that poor fellow upside down. “What a
fine title for a play—“The happiest of the four !” I
must take credit fol 1ts invention.’ His joke pleased
him immensely, and when Doctor Noirot, during the
process of massage, had said to him, ‘Monsieur le
Baton's muscles are 1n excellent condition this moining ;
they are as healthy, Supple, and firm as those of a man
of thiſ ty,' the scnsation of well-being abolished the last
traces of his ill humour.
He had now but one idea—how to plevent last night's
scene from bringing any change into his comfortable
existence, so well adapted to his dear person. He
thought of 16 as he d1 ank his chocolate, a kind of light and
fragiant froth which his valet plepared according to the
precepts of a master of the culinary art. He thought of
it as he galloped through the BoIS on this bright spring
morning. He thought of 1ſ as he sat down to luncheon
about half-past twelve opposite the old aunt whose duties
consisted of looking after the linen, the silver, and the
servants' accounts, until such time as she should be
called upon to look after him. He decided to adopt the
principle of every wise policy, both public and private—
to wait ! ‘Better give the young man time to make a
fool of himself and slip away of his own accord. I
must be very kind, and pretend I have seen nothing.’
Turning this resolve over in his mind, he made his
254. A LIVING LIE
way on foot to the Rue Murillo about two o'clock. He
stopped before the shop window of an art dealer whom
he knew very well, and his eyes fell upon a Louis XVI.
watch, its chased gold case Set in a wreath of roses and
bearing a charming miniature. ‘An excellent means,’
he thought, ‘of proving to her that I am for the statu
quo.’ He bought the pretty toy at a reasonable price,
and congratulated himself upon its acquisition when, on
entering Suzanne's little salon, he saw how anxiously
she had awaited his coming. Her careworn look and
her pallor told him that she must have spent the night
in concocting plans to get Out of the dilemma into which
the scene with René had led her, and by the way in
which she eyed him the Balon saw that she knew she
had not escaped his perspicacity. This compliment was
like balm to his wounded vanity, and he felt real
pleasule in handing her the case containing the little
bauble with the wolds, “How do you like this P’
‘It is chal ming,' said Suzanne ; ‘the shepherd and
shepherdess ale most life-like'
‘Yes,’ replied Desforges ; “they almost look as
though they were singing the 10mance of those days:
* I gave up all for fickle Sylvia's sake,
She leaves me now and takes another Swain . . .”
His fine and well-tiained tenor voice had once gained
him some success in the drawing-rooms, and he hummed
the refrain of the well-known lament with a variation of
his own :
‘Love's pangs last but a moment,
Love's pleasures last for life . . .”
“If you will place this shepherd and shepherdess on a
corner of your table, they will be better than with me.”
‘How you spoil me!’ said Suzanne, with some
embarrassment.
‘No, replied Desforges, ‘I spoil myself. Am I not
your friend before all else?’ Then, kissing her hand,
he added in a serious tone that contrasted with his
THE HAPPIEST OF THE FOUR 255
usual bantering accents, “And you will never have a
better.’
That was all. One word more and he would have
compromised his dignity. One word less and Suzanne
might have believed him her dupe. She felt deeply
grateful for the consideration with which he had treated
hel—the mole so since that consideration left her free
to devote her mind to René. All her thoughts had
been concentrated during hel sleepless night upon this
one question—how to manage the one while keeping
the other, now that the two men had seen and under-
stood each other P B1eak with the Baron P. She had
thought of it, but how could it be done P. She saw
herself caught in the web of lies which she had spun for
her husband this many a year. Their mode of life
could not be kept up without the aid of her rich lovel.
To break with him was to condemn herself to 1mmedi-
ately seek a new relationship of the same kind. On the
other hand, to keep Desforges meant bleaking with
René. The Baron, she had said to hel self, would never
understand that in loving another she was not robbing
him of a whit of affection. Do men ever admit such
truths P And now he was kind and considerate enough
not even to mention whatever he had noticed. Never,
even when paying the heaviest bills, had he appeared so
generous as at that moment, when, by his attitude, he
allowed her to devote herself to the task of winning
back hel young lover and the kisses she neither could
nor would do without.
‘He is right, she said to hel self when Desforges had
gone; “he is my best friend.’ And immediately, with
that marvellous facility women possess for indulging in
fresh hopes on the slightest provocation, she was ready
to believe that mattels would arrange themselves as
easily on the other side As she lay at full length on
the sofa, her fingers idly toying with the pietty little
watch, her thoughts were busied with the poet and with
the means she should employ to win him back. She
256 A LIVING LIE
must examine the situation carefully and look it full in
the face. What did René know P This first point had
been already answered by himself; he had seen both
her and the Baron come out of the house in the Rue du
Mont-Thabor. Now Desforges, from motives of pru-
dence, never went out the same way as she did. René
must therefore know of the existence of the two exits.
Had he seen her leave her carriage and walk as fal as
the entrance in the Rue de Rivoli P It was very proba-
ble. If chance alone had blought him into contact with
her first, and then with the Baron, he could have drawn
no conclusions from the double meeting No, he must
have watched her and followed her. But what had
Induced him to do so? At their last interview at the
beginning of the week she had left him so reassured, so
full of love and happiness | There was only one thing
that could possibly have caused a revival of suspicion so
violent as to lead him to watch her movements—-Claude's
1eturn. Once more a feeling of rage against that indi-
vidual came ovci her.
‘If It is to him that I owe this fresh alal m, he shall
pay ſo it,' she thought. But she soon 1eturned to the
real dangel, which, for the moment, was of mole impoſt-
ance to hel than her 1 ancour against the imprudent
Larchel. The fact remained that in some way or other
René had detected the secret of hel meetings with
Desforges, and this evidently caused him such intense
pain that he had been compelled to fling his discovery
at her as soon as it was made. His mad conduct at the
Opera was but a proof of love, though it had nearly
ruined her, and, instead of her being angry with him for
it, she only chelished him the more His passion was a
sign of her power ovel him, and she concluded that a
lover who loved so madly would not be difficult to win
back. Only she must see him, speak to him, and explain
her visit to the Rue du Mont-Thabol with her own lips
She could say that she had gone to see a sick friend
who was also a friend of the Baron's. But what of the
THE HAPPIEST OF THE FOUR 257
carriage sent back from Galignani's P She had wanted
to walk a little way. But the two entrances? So
many houses are built like that. She had had too
much experience of René's confiding nature to doubt
that she would convince him somehow or other. He
had simply been overwhelmed at the moment by proofs
that corroborated his suspicions, and was probably
already doubtful and pleading with himself the cause of
his love.
Her reflections had carried her as far as this when
her carriage was announced. The desire to get René
back had taken such a hold upon her, and she was,
moreover, so convinced that her presence would over-
come all resistance, that a bold plan Suddenly occurred
to her. Why should she not see the poet at once P
Why not, now that she had nothing to fear from Des-
forges 2 In love quarrels the quickest reconciliations
are the best. Would he have the courage to repulse her
if she came to him in the little room that had witnessed
he first visit, bringing him a fresh and indisputable
proof of love P She would say, ‘You have insulted,
slandered, and tortured me—yet I could not bear to
think you in doubt and pain—and I came !” No
sooner had she glasped the possibility of taking this
decisive step than she clung to it as if it were a sure
way out of the anguish that had tortured her since the
preceding evening. She dressed so hurriedly that she
quite astonished her maid, and yet she had never looked
prettiel than in the light grey gown she had chosen.
Without a moment's hesitation, she told her coachman
to di ſve to the Rue Coetlogon. To that point had this
woman, generally so circumspect and so careful of
appeal ances, come.
“Just for once l’ she said to hel self as her brougham
1olled along ; ‘I shall get there quicker.' The ideas
of worldly prudence had soon made way for others. “I
wonder whether René is at home 2 Of course he is.
He is waiting for a letter from me, or for some sign of
S
258 A LIVING LIE
my existence.’ It was almost the same question she
had asked herself and the same answer she had given
on the occasion of her first visit in March, two months
and a half before. By the difference in her feelings she
could measure the plogress she had made since that
time. Then, she had hastened to the poet's dwelling in
obedience to a violent caplice—but still only a caprice.
Now, it was love that coulsed through her veins, the love
that thirsts for love in return, that sees nought else in the
world but the object it desires, and that would unflinch-
ingly make for its goal under the cannon's mouth. She
loved now with all her body and Soul ; she had proofs
of it in her unreasonable impatience to get along still
faster and in her fears that the step she had taken might
be in vain. Her agitation was intense when the carriage
stopped at the gate that barred the entrance to the
street. The latter, thanks to the trees whose foliage
overtopped the garden wall on the right, looked fresh
and green in the soft sunlight of this bright May after-
1100ſ].
She had undoubtedly been less moved on the former
occasion when asking the concierge whether M. Vincy
was at home. The man told her that he was in She 1ang
the bell, and, as before, the Sound of it caused a thrill to
run through her fiom head to foot. She heard a door
open and light footsteps approaching. Remembeling
the heavy tread she had once heard in the same place,
she concluded that the person now coming to the
door was neither the maid nor René ; the footfall of
the latter she knew too well. She had a presentiment
that she was about to face her lover's sister—the woman
whose absence had favoured her former visit. She had
no time to think of the drawbacks of this unexpected
incident, for Madame Fresneau had alieady opened the
door. Her face left Suzanne no doubt as to her identity,
so great was the resemblance between the brother and
sister. Neither had Emilie any hesitation in deciding
who the visitor was. The sight of René's fresh sufferings
THE HAPPIEST OF THE FOUR 259
during the past few days, added to the information she
had gleaned flom Claude, had intensified her hatred
towards Madame Moraines, and as she replied to
Suzanne's question she could not help giving her words
a tone of bitter and unconcealed hostility.
‘No, madame, my brother is not in.” Then, her
sisterly affection suggesting a way to avoid all further
questions as to the time of René's return, she added:
‘He left town this morning.’
The 1eply given her by the concienge told Suzanne
that this was a lie, but she had no reason for believing
the lie to be an invention of Emilie's. She was obliged
to believe, and did believe, that Madame Fresneau was
obeying the olders giving her by her brother. She
tried to leain nothing ful ther, a graceful inclination of
her head in the very best form being the only revenge
she took fol the almost rude manners of the bourgeouse.
Her outwald calm, however, hid a great deal of dis-
appointment and real pain She did not stop to ask
herself whether Emilie's strange behaviour was due to
René's indiscleet confidences or not. She merely said
to herself, ‘He does not wish to see me again,’
and that idea hurt her deeply. On reaching the
street she turned to cast a glance at the window of
the 100m into which she had once made her way, and
remembered how, on that Occasion, she had also looked
round on leaving, and had seen the poet standing
behind the half-drawn blinds. Would he not take up
the same position to see her go when his sister told
him who had called 2 She stood waiting for five
minutes, and the fact of the blinds remaining down was
a source of flesh glief to her. As she got into her
blougham she was as agitated as only a woman can be
who loves sincerely and who is obliged to be incessantly
changing her plans. After turning the matter over
again and again, she, who never widte, decided to send
the following lettel :
S 2
26O A LIVING LIE
Saturday, 5 o'clock.
‘DEAR RENE,--I called at your house, and your
sister told me you had left town. But I know
that is not true. You were there, only a few yards
away from me, in that room where every object must
have reminded you of my former visit, and yet you
would not see me. You can Surely have no doubts of
my sincerity on that occasion ? Why should I have
acted a lie P I entreat you to let me see you, if it be
only for a minute. Come and read in my eyes what
you swore never to doubt—that you are my all, my life,
my heaven. Since last night I am as one dead. Your
horrible words are continually in my ears. It cannot be
you who spoke them. Where could you have got that
bitterness, almost akin to hatred P. How can you con-
demn me unheard on a Suspicion for which you will
blush when I have proved to you how false it is P I
ought, it is true, to be indignant and angry with you, but
my heart, dear René, contains only love for you, and a
desire to efface from your Soul all that the enemies of
our happiness have engraved there. The step I took
this morning, though contrary to all that a woman owes
herself, I took so cheerfully that, had you seen me, you
could have had no doubt respecting the sentiments
that animate me. Send me no answer I feel even as
I write how powerless a letter is to describe the feelings
of the heart. I shall expect you on Monday at eleven
in our sanctuary. It should be my right to tell you I
demand to see you theie, for those accused have
always the right to defend themselves. I will only say,
Come, if you ever loved, even for a day, the woman
who has never told you and never will tell you aught
but the truth. I sweat it, my only love.’
When Suzanne had finished her letter she read it
over. A lingering instinct of prudence made her hesitate
before signing it, but the sincerity of her passion caused
her to blush for her momentary weakness, and, taking
THE HAPPIEST OF THE FOUR 261
up her pen, she wrote her name at the bottom of this
faithful description of the strange moral condition into
which she had drifted. She lied once more in Swearing
that she spoke the truth, and yet nothing was truer,
more spontaneous, and less artificial than the feelings
which dictated the Sup1eme deception that capped all
the rest She summoned her footman, and, again scorn-
ing all ideas of prudence, told him to give the letter—
any single sentence in which would have ruined her—to
a commissionaire for immediate delivery. During the
thuty-six hours that separated her from the rendez-
vous she had fixed she lived in a state of nel vous ex-
citement of which she would never have deemed herself
capable.
This woman, who had such perfect control over her-
self, and who had entered upon this adventure with the
same Machiavellan sang froid she had maintained in all
her Society relations for years, now felt powerless to
follow, or even to form, any kind of plan respecting the
attitude to be assumed towards her lover. She was to
dine out that night, but she went through the process
of dressing in an absolutely listless way—an unusual
thing for her—and without even looking in the glass.
During the whole of the dinner she found not a word
to say to her neighbour, the ubiquitous Crucé, and her
brougham had been ordered for ten o'clock on the plea
that she was still suffering fi Om her indisposition of
the preceding evening. On hel way home she paid not
the slightest attention to hel husband's words; his
very presence was intolerable to her, for it was on his
account, remaining at home as he did on Sundays, that
she had been obliged to put off her meeting with René
until Monday. Would the poet consent to come P
How anxiously, as the servant helped her off with her
cloak, did she scan the tray on which were placed the
letters that had come by the evening post The poet's
writing was not to be seen on any envelope. She spent
the whole of Sunday in bed, under pretext of a bad
262 A LIVING LIE
headache, but in reality trying to think out some plan
in case René refused to believe her story of a sick
fiend as an explanation of her visit to the Rue du
Mont-Thabor.
But he would believe it. She could not admit to her-
self that he would not ; the supposition was too painful.
Her fever of longing and suspense, of hope and fear,
reached its climax on Monday morning as she ascended
the stairs of the house in the Rue des Dames. If René
were waiting for her, hidden, as usual, behind the half-open
door, it would prove that her letter had conquered him,
and in that case she was saved. But no—the door was
closed Her hand tiembled as she inseited the key in the
lock. She entered the first room and found it empty and
the blinds drawn. She sat down in the semi-darkness
and gazed upon the objects that 1ecalled a happiness SO
1ecent and yet already So far away. There was just
the ordinary furniture of a modest drawing-room—a
few alm-chairs and a sofa in blue velvet, with anti-
macassars carefully hung at the proper height. The
handful of books René had brought were ranged in
perfect oldel on a well-dusted shelf, and the worthy
landlady had even taken care that the gilt clock, with
its figure of Penelope, had been kept going.
Suzanne listened to the swing of the pendulum as it
bloke the silence in the apartment. Seconds passed,
then minutes, then quarters, and still René did not come.
He would not come now. As this fact dawned upon
her Madame Moraines, accustomed from her earliest
youth to having all her wishes gratified, was seized with
a fit of real despair. She began to weep like a child,
and her tears fell faster and faster, unaccompanied now
by any thoughts of simulation. She felt a desire to
write, but no sooner had she found some paper in the
blotting-book left by her lover and dipped the pen in
the ink than she pushed the things away, exclaiming,
‘What is the good of it P’ To show that she had been
there in case René should come after she was gone she
THE HAPPIEST OF THE FOUR 263
left behind her the scented handkerchief with which she
had dried her bitter tears. She murmured to herself,
“He used to like this scent l’ and by the side of the
handkerchief she laid the gloves that he had always
buttoned for her as she was going. Then, with a heavy
heart, she left the room in which she had been so happy.
Could it be possible that those happy hours had gone
—and for ever ?
CHAPTER XIX
A L L OR NOT H IN G
THE Fresneau family were at dinner when the commis-
sionaire delivered Suzanne's letter. Françoise entered,
holding the dainty envelope in her great red hand, and
the expression on René's face as he tore it open sufficed
to tell Emilie from whom the missive came. She
trembled. The sight of her brother's wild despair had
emboldened her to 1efuse admission to the unknown
visitor whom she had instinctively recognised as its
undoubted cause, the dangerous woman Claude Larchel
had spoken of as the most wanton Cleatule living. But to
face René's anger and tell him what she had done was
beyond her strength, and she postponed the unpleasant
step from hour to hour. The look her brother gave her
after 1eading the letter made her drop her eyes and
colour to the roots of her hair. Fresneau, who was
calving a fowl with rare ability—he had learnt the art,
a strange one for him, at his fathel's table in days gone
by—was so struck by the expression on his brother-in-
law's face that he sat Staling at him with a wing stuck on
the point of his fork. Then, being afraid that his wife
had noticed his surprise, he bloke out into a laugh and
tried to excuse his momentary abstraction by saying,
‘This knife will cut butter.’
His jocular remaik was followed by a silence that
264 A LIVING LIE
lasted until dinner was over—a silence threatening to
Emilie, inexplicable to Fresneau, and unperceived by
René, who was almost choking and did not eat a mouth-
ful. Hardly had Françoise removed the cloth and placed
the tobacco bowl and the decanter of brandy on the
table when the poet went off to his room, after having
asked the maid to light him a lamp.
‘He looks annoyed, doesn't he P’ observed the pro-
fessol.
‘Annoyed 2’ replied Emilie. “Some idea ſol his
play has probably occurred to him, and he wants to put
1t into writing at once. But it's a bad thing to work
immediately after dinner—I’ll go and tell him so.’
Glad to have found some excuse, Emilie went into
her brother's room. She found him Sci ibbling a reply
to Suzanne's note in the twilight, without even waiting
for the lamp. He was no doubt expecting his sister to
come in, for he said roughly and in an angry tone, ‘Oh,
there you are Some one called to see me to-day, and
you said I was out of town P’
“René, said Emilie, joining her hands, “forgive me ;
I thought I was doing right. I was afraid of your seeing
this woman in your present state.’ Then, finding strength
in the ardour of her affection to bare her inmost thoughts,
she went on, ‘This woman is your evil genius y
‘It seems,' cried the poet, with suppressed rage,
‘that you still take me for a child of fifteen. Am I at
home here—yes or no P 'he shouted, bursting out. ‘If I
cannot do as I like, say so, and I’ll go and live elsewhere.
I have had enough of this coddling, you understand.
Look after your Son and your husband, and let me do
as I like.’
He saw his sister standing there before him pale
and overcome by the harsh words he had used. He was
himself ashamed of his outburst. It was so unjust to
make poor Emilie atone for the pain that was gnawing
at his heart. But he was not in a mood just then for
acknowledging himself in the wrong, and, instead of
ALL OR NOTHING 265
taking in his arms the woman he had so cruelly wounded
in her most sensitive parts, he left the room, closing the
door behind him with a bang. He snatched up his hat
in the ante-room, and from the place where he had left
her, trembling with agitation, Emilie could hear him leave
the house.
The worthy Fresneau, who, after listening in amaze-
ment to René's excited accents, had also heard the noise
of his departure, now entered the room to learn what
had happened. He saw his wife standing there 1n the
semi-darkness like one dead. Seizing hel hands, he
cried, “What's the mattel P’ in such an affectionate tone
that she flung her arms round his neck and c11ed out
amidst her sobs :
“Mom ami—I have no one but you in the world !’
She lay there weeping, with her head on her
husband's shoulder, whilst the poor fellow scarcely
knew whether to curse or bless his brother-in-law, his
despair at his wife's grief and his joy at seeing her fly
to him for comfort being equally great.
‘Come, come,’ he said, “don’t be silly. Tell me what
has taken place between you.’
“He has no heart, he has no heart,’ was all the
answer he could get.
‘Nonsense, nonsense l’ he replied, adding, with that
clear-sightedness which true affection brings to the
dullest, ‘He knows how much you love him, and he
abuses his knowledge—that's all !’
Whilst Fresneau was consoling Emilie as well as he
could, though without getting her to divulge the secret
of her quarrel with the poet, the lattel was striding along
the streets a prey to a fresh attack of that grief which
had tortured his soul for the past twenty-four houls.
Suzanne had been right in thinking that a voice within
him would plead against what he knew—against what he
had seen. Who that has loved and been betrayed
has not heard that voice which reasons against all
1eason and bids us hope against all hope P Faith has
266 A LIVING LIE
gone for ever, but how pleased we should be to find
ourselves again at the stage of doubt How regretfully
we then recall as some happy period the cruel days
when suspicion had not yet grown into hol lible and un-
bearable certainty
René would have purchased with his blood the
shadow of the shadow of a doubt, but the more he
dwelt upon all the details that had led to his conviction
the more filmly did that conviction take 1 oot in his
healt. “But if she had been paying a haſ mless visit 2'
hazal ded the voice of love. Harmless P Would she
have concealed her destination from her coachman P
Would she have gone out by the othel door, thickly
veiled, walking straight before her, but looking furtively
about her just as she did on leaving him 2 And then
the appearance of Desforges almost immediately after
at the other entrance . . . All the proofs brought
forward by Claude occulled to him one after another—
the Society rumous, the 1ecent 1 uin of the Moraines,
the post obtained for the husband, the suggestion made
to him by Suzanne for purchasing shares, and her lies,
now proved to be such. “What mole positive proofs
can I have,’ he asked himself, ‘except one P’ And as
the terrible vision of Suzanne in the aims of her aged
lovel rose up before him he closed his eyes in pain.
Then came thoughts of her visit to the Rue Coetlogon
and of the lettel he had in his pocket ‘And she dares
ask to see me 2 What can she have to say ? I will go,
as she asks, and take my 1 evenge by insulting her as
Claude insults Colette. . . . No,' he continued, ‘that
would be degrading myself to her level; tıue revenge
consists in ignoring her. I shall not go.”
He waveled between these two decisions, feeling
quite powerless to make up his mind, so intense was his
longing to see Suzanne once more and so sincere his
1esolution not to be duped again by her lies. His per-
plexity became so great that he resolved to go and ask
Claude's advice. Now only did he begin to feel some
ALL OR NOTHING 267
surprise that this faithful fiend had not sent to inquire
about him in the morning, as he had promised to do.
“I’ll go and call on him, although he'll probably not
be in,’ said René as he bent his steps towards the Rue
de Valenne. It was about half-past ten when he rang
the ponderous bell of the Sainte-Euverte mansion.
There was a light burning in one of the apartments
occupied by Claude, who, contrary to René's expecta-
tions, was not out. The poet found him in the smoking-
room, the filst of the small set at the top of the stairs.
A lamp with a pink globe shed a soft light round the
apartment, the walls of which were adorned with a large
piece of tapestry and a copy of the ‘Triumph of Death '
attributed to Orcagna. In a corner of the room the
bluish flame of a spirit lamp was burning under a small
tea kettle ; this, with the two cups, a decanter of sherry,
and some bouchées au fore gras on a china dish were
ploofs that the Occupant of this quiet abode expected a
visitor. A bundle of small Russian cigarettes with long
mouthpieces—Colette's favourites—plainly 1 evealed to
René who that visitor was. He would still have hesi-
tated to believe his own eyes had not Claude, in evident
embarrassment, said, with a shamefaced smile :
“After all, it's as well that you should know it—cani's
ſeversus ad vomitum situm. Yes, I am expecting
Colette. She is coming here after the theatie. Do you
object to meeting her ?’
“Candidly, replied René, “I plefel not to see her’
‘And how do matters stand with you ?' asked
Claude.
After the poet had briefly acquainted him with the
present position, the scene at the Opera, Suzanne's visit,
and her request for a meeting, Laïchel 1ejoined ‘What
can I say to you ? Have I the right to advise you,
weak as I am myself? But does that really matter P
I can see my own follies clearly enough, although I am
continually stumbling like a blind man. Why, then,
should I not see clearly for you, who have pelhaps more
268 A LIVING LIE
energy than I? You ale younger, and have never
stumbled yet. . . . It comes to this. Have you resolved
to become, like me, an erotic maniac, a madman ruled
only by sexual passion, and—worse than all—a wietch
sensible of his own degradation ? Then keep this
appointment. Suzanne will give you no reasons, not
one. Don't you see that if she were innocent the vely
sight of you would be hateful to her after what you
have said 2 She came to your house. Why? To blind
you once more with her beauty. Now she summons
you to the very place where you will be least able to
resist that beauty. She will say what women always
say in these cases. Words—and words—and words
again. But you will see hel, you will heal the rustle of
her skirts. And, believe me, there is no love-potion so
powerful as treachery ! You will feel the truth of this
when you stifle her with Savage and brutish embraces—
and then, good-bye to reproaches | Everything is
forgotten. But what follows P You saw how brave I
was yesterday. See what a cowald I am to-day, and
say to yourself, like the workman who sees his di unken
comrade staggering helplessly along, “That's how I
shall be on Sunday !” If, after all, you feel unable to
do without her—if you must have her, as the drunkard
must have his wine—you will find solace in this
cowardice, even though it kill you. That solace I
have found. Glut yourself with this woman's love. It
will rid you either of your love for her or of your self-
respect. You will learn to treat Suzanne exactly as I
treat Colette. But remember what I have told you to-
night—it is the end of all. Talent I no longer possess.
Honour ! What should I do with it, having forgiven
what I have forgiven P My poor boy,’ he concluded
in tones of entreaty, “you can still save yourself. You
are at the top of the ladder that leads down to the
sewer—listen to the cry of an unhappy wretch who is
up to his neck in filth at the bottom. And now, good-
bye, if you don't want to see Colette. Why did she tell
ALL OR NOTHING 269
you what she did 2 You knew nothing, and where
ignorance is bliss—— Good-bye once more, old man.
Think of me and pity me !’
‘No,' said the poet, as he made his way home, ‘I
will not descend to such depths.” For the first time
perhaps since witnessing Claude's unhappy passion he
really understood the nature of his wretched friend's
malady. He had just discovered in himself feelings
identical to those which had made such an abject slave
of Colette's lover—a mingling of utter contempt and
ardent physical longing for a woman justly tried and
condemned. Yes, in spite of all he had learnt he still
desired Suzanne—still desired those lips kissed by
Desforges and all that beauty which the hoary libertine
had stained but not destroyed. It was that fair white
flesh that troubled his senses now—nought but that
flesh . To this had come his noble love, his worship of
her whom he had once called his Madonna. Claude
was right: if he yielded to this base longing but once,
all would be lost. His loathing for the slough of col-
ruption in which his friend was helplessly struggling
was so intense that it gave him strength to say, ‘I
pledge myself not to go to the Rue des Dames on
Monday,’ and he knew he would keep his word.
Whilst Suzanne was undergoing the tortures of hope
and despair in the little blue salon on the appointed
morning René too was suffering intensely, but it was in
his own room. “I won't go—I won’t go!’ he muttered
repeatedly. Then he thought of his friend, and he
sighed “Poor Claude l’ as he fully realised the position
of the man who had been beaten in the struggle in which
he himself was now engaged. He pitied himself whilst
pitying Colette's victim, and this pity, as well as his old
and long-continued religious habits, aided his courage.
For some time now he had refrained from all observances,
and had surrendered himself to those doubts which all
modern writers entertain more or less before returning
to Christianity as the sole source of spilitual life. But
27o A LIVING LIE
even during the period of doubt the moral muscle,
developed by exercise in childhood and youth, continues
to put forth its strength. In his resistance to the most
pressing calls of passion, the nephew and pupil of
the Abbé Taconet once more found this power at his
service. When the last stroke of twelve had died away
he said to himself, ‘Suzanne has gone home—I am
saved.’
Saved he was not, and his inability to follow Claude's
advice to the letter ought to have convinced him of
this. Neither on the Monday nor the following days
could he summon up sufficient courage to leave the city
that contained the woman from whom he now both
wished and thought himself freed. He invented all
kinds of shallow pretexts for remaining in Paris. “I am
as far from her in this room as I should be in Rome or
Venice; I shall not go to hel, and she will not come
here.” In 1eality, he was expecting—he scarce knew
what. He only knew that his passion was too intense
to die in this way. A meeting would take place between
Suzanne and himself. How or where mattered little, but
it would certainly take place He would not confess to
this cowaldly and secret hope, but it had taken Such
hold upon him that he 1emained a prisoner 1n the Rue
Coetlogon in houſly expectation of 1eceiving anothel
letter ol of finding himself the object of some last
attempt. No letter came, no attempt was made, and
his heart glew heavier within him.
At times this desile to see Suzanne once more—a
desire he felt, but would not admit—drove him to his
writing-table, where he would sit and indite page after
page of the wildest sentiment to the abandoned cleature.
His pent-up rage found vent in the mad lines in which
he both insulted and idolised her, and in which terms of
endearment mingled with words of hatred. Then
Claude's pitcous laments would re-echo in his ears, and
he would tear up the paper as he stifled an answering
wail that rose within him. He lay down at night with
ALL OR NOTHING 271
despair in his heart, thinking of death as the only thing
to be desired. He rose, and his thoughts were unchanged
The bright days, so glorious in the budding time of
Nature, were to him intolerable, and his poetic soul
longed for the twilight hour and the darkness that
matched so well the black night in his heart. In the
gloaming, too, he could find Sweet Solace in tears. It
was the hour that his poor sister feared most for him.
They had become reconciled on the very next day after
their quartel.
‘Are you still angly with me 2' she had asked him,
with that gentleness of voice that betokens true affec-
tion.
‘No,' he 1eplied ; “I was entirely in the wrong; but,
unless you wish to see me act SO unjustly again, I entreat
you never to re-open that subject.’
“Never, she said, and she kept hel word Mean-
while she saw her blothel wasting away, his cheeks
growing still thinnel and a fierce light that flightened
her burning in his sunken eyes It was for this 1eason,
then, that she generally chose the dangerous houl of
twilight to come and sit with him. One day Fresneau
had gone to take Constant for a walk 1n the Luxem-
bourg; she herself had found some pletext fol staying
at home. She took her dailing b1 other's hand in heis,
and this dumb caress made the unhappy fellow feel
inexpressibly sad. He 1eturned her pressure without a
word, hel benign and soothing influence controlling him
until thoughts of Desfolges suddenly flashed across his
brain. ‘Leave me,’ he said to Emilie, and she obeyed
him in the hope of easing his pain. As soon as she was
gone he buried his head in the pillows of the bed whilst
jealousy gripped his heart with relentless claws. Ah!
the agony of it!
How many days had he spent in this fashion P
Scarcely seven, but in his present sufferings they ap-
peared to him an eternity. Looking at the almanac on
the morning of the eighth day, he saw that May was
272 A LIVING LIE
drawing to an end. Although the pilgrimage he con-
templated inspired him with horror, the bourgeois habits
of regularity that had animated him throughout his life
induced him to turn his steps once more towards the
Rue des Dames. There was the landlady's bill to be
paid and notice of leaving to be given her. He
chose the afternoon for his visit, so as to be sure of not
meeting Suzanne. “Just as if she had not already
forgotten me,’ he said to himself. What were his feel-
ings on finding not only her handkerchief and gloves,
but next to them a note she had left there on a
second visit addressed to ‘M. d’Albert l’ He tore it
open, but his hands shook so terribly that it took him
quite five minutes to read the few sentences it con-
tained, many of the words, too, being half effaced by
tears.
‘I came back once more, my love | From the shrine
of our passion, and 1n the name of the memories it
must contain for you as well as for me, I entreat you to
see me once again. Darling—will you not think of me
here without those horrible flashes of hatred I have seen in
your eyes P Remember what proofs of affection I have
given you on the spot where you are reading these lines.
No | I cannot live if you doubt what is the one, the
only great truth of my life. I repeat once more that I
am not angry nor indignant—I am in despair ; if you
do not believe me it is because, with my heart full of love
and pain, I cannot stoop to artifice to make you believe
anything. Good-bye, my love . How often have I
1epeated these words on the threshold of this room
And then I would add—Azt revoir. But I Suppose it
must 1eally be good-bye now, both on my lips and in
my heart—can it be good-bye fol evel 2’
* Good-bye, my love!’ 1epeated René, trying in vain
to steel his heart The simple, loving words, the sight
of the room, the thought that Suzanne had come here
without the hope of Seeing him, and metely as a pilgrim
to the shrine of their past love—all contributed to work
ALL OR NOTHING 273
him up to a pitch of frenzy, which he did his best to
withstand. ‘Her love l’ he cried, with a sudden out-
burst of fury, ‘and she went to another——for money !
What a coward I am l’ To escape the painful feelings
he could not banish he left the room hurriedly and
rang Madame Raulet's bell. The fair-spoken and
accommodating landlady soon made her appearance,
and led the way into her own little parlour, furnished
with the remaining articles she could not get into the
other. On his telling her that he was giving up the
apartments her face showed signs of real annoyance.
‘The bill is not quite ready, she said.
‘I am in no hurry,' replied René, and, feaſing a fresh
attack of despail if he returned to the room he had left,
he added, “I’ll wait here, if you don't mind.”
Although he was in no observant mood, he could
not help noticing that in the twenty minutes she kept
him waiting Madame Raulet had found time to change
her dress. Instead of the striped cotton wrapper in
which she had received him, she now wole a becoming
evening dress of black gi enadine. The Corsage con-
sisted of bands of stuff alternating with lace insertions,
through which might be seen the fair neck and shoulders
of the coquettish widow. There was a brighter look in
her eyes and a mole vivid coloul in her cheeks than
usual, and, laying the bill on the table, she said:
“Excuse me for having kept you waiting I didn't
feel very well. I have such palpitations of the heart—
feel !’ Taking René's hand with a smile that would
not have deceived the simplest Soul living, she placed it
on the spot where hel heart should have been.
She had suspected the rupture between the pseudo-
d’Albert and his mistless by the two solitary visits of
Madame Moraines The fact of René giving up the
apartments proved her suspicions to be correct, and an
1dea of taking advantage of the 1 upture had suddenly en-
tered her head, either because the poet with his manly
beauty 1eally pleased her or because she had an eye
T
274 A LIVING LIE
to pecuniary considerations she could not afford to de-
spise. She was by no means old and thought herself
very attractive. But on looking at her lodger as she
carried his hand to her side she saw in his eyes a look
of Such cool contempt and disgust that she immediately
loosed her hold of his fingers. She took up the bill,
the writing in which showed that it had been prudently
made out beforehand, and tried to cover hel confusion
by entering into profuse explanations of this or that
item in a highly inflated account which the poet did not
even stoop to verify. He handed her the sum he owed
hel, half in paper, half in gold. The humiliating defeat
of hel amorous attempt had not deprived hel wits of
their sharpness, fol she examinca the notes by holding
each one up to the light, and looked closely at each
of the gold pieces as she counted them. She even
sounded one of the coins that seemed a little light in
weight, and, after a moment's hesitation, said: ‘I must
ask you to let me have another for this'
The impressions ploduced by this shamelessness
and soldid gleed were so well in keeping with the rest
of René's feelings that during the quarter of an houl
it took him to carry the few things he had in the
three rooms to his cab he—to use the apt and expres-
sive words of a humourist—‘was as merry as a mute
going to his own funeral.” As the old ‘growler' jolted
along over the stones, carrying in its musty-smelling
interior the emblems of his happiness, his cruel merri-
ment changed to a fit of most abject melancholy. He
recognised every inch of the way he had so often
trodden in the ecstasy of love, and which he would
nevel tread again. Dalk and lowering clouds hung
over the city. Since the pieceding evening there had
been one of those unexpected 1eturns of winter to
which Paris is fiequently exposed about the middle of
spring, and which nip the young verdure with frost.
As the cab crossed the Seine, flowing darkly and
diearily along, the unhappy man looked down into the
ALL OR NOTHING 275
water and thought, ‘How easy it would be to end
it all !’
After this movement of despail he felt in his pocket
for Suzanne's letter, as if to convince himself of the
reality of his grief. He also took out her handker-
chief and inhaled its perfume—for some time; then he
gazed at her gloves, and saw in them the shape of the
fingers he had loved so well He felt that he had
exhausted all his energy in resisting temptation, and
as soon as he was alone in his room after this fresh
and painful crisis he clied aloud, ‘I cannot bear it any
longer l’
Calmly, almost mechanically, he opened a drawel
and took Out of a leather case a small revolver his
sister had given him to carry in his pocket when coming
home late from the theatre. It was not loaded, and,
taking out a packet of cartridges, he weighed one 1n
the palm of his hand. Poor human machine, how little
is required to bring you to a standstill ! He loaded the
revolver and unbuttoned his shirt; then, feeling for the
place where his heart thiobbed within him, he pressed
the barrel against it.
‘No,' he said, 1n a firm tone, “not before I have
tried.’
These words were the outcome of an idea which
had repeatedly entered his mind, and which, 1epeatedly
rejected as a crazy one, now took shape and folm with
the precision our thoughts assume in moments of im-
portant action. He put the revolver back in the drawer,
and sitting down in his almchail—Suzanne's arm-
chair — he plunged into that abyss of tragic thought
in which visions stand out in bold relief, arguments
follow on each other with lightning rapidity, and des-
perate resolutions are adopted. “My love l’ he repeated
to himself, remembering the wolds of Suzanne's lettel
Yes, in spite of her lies, in spite of the play she had
acted—the innumerable scenes of which now passed
thlough his mind—in spite of hel base connection with
‘T 2
276 A LIVING LIE
Desforges, she had truly and passionately loved him. If
that love were not sincele, then the story of the past
few months was perfectly unintelligible ! What other
motive could have thrown her into his alms? It could
not have been an interested one. He was So poor, SO
humble, so utterly beneath her. Neither was it the
glory of enslaving a fashionable author, for she had
herself begged that their relations should be kept a
secret. It could not be vanity, for she had not stolen
him from any rival, nor had she held out long to give
her conquest mole value. No-monstrous as that love
might be, mingled as 1 was with CO1 ruption and deceit,
there was no doubt that she had loved him and that
she loved him still. That soul whose molal lepiosy
had struck him with horror was yet capable of Some
kind of sincerity. There was still something within
this woman bettel than her life, better than her actions.
René at length consented to listen to the voice which
pleaded for his mistress, and calmly and dispassionately
did he now weigh the crime of venality that had at
first so disgusted him.
His visits to the Komof mansion and his intimate
1elations with Suzanne had opened his eyes to a new
world and initiated him into the mysteries of the highest
forms of luxury and refinement. The false notions of
high life which the unsophisticated bourgeois poet had
at first entertained were soon dispelled by a more cor-
rect idea of the frightful extravagance which fashionable
existence in Paris involves. Now, whilst his love was
struggling for life and attempting to justify Suzanne, or
at least to understand her, to discovel in her something
to save her from utter contempt, he began to see, thanks
to his truer knowledge of the world, the tragedy in
which this woman had played a leading part. Claude
had summed up the situation briefly in these words :
‘Seven years ago the Moraines were ruined. Ruined
That word was now synonymous in René's ears with
all the privation and humiliation it generally brings.
ALL OR NOTHING 277
Suzanne had been brought up in luxury to lead a life
of luxury. It was as necessary to her as the air she
breathed. Her husband had no doubt been the first to
urge her to adopt her sinful expedient—so at least did
the poet continue to judge poor Paul. Desforges had
presented himself, and she had sinned, but not from love.
When at length love did come to her could she break her
chains P Yes—she could, by proposing to him, René,
that each should give up all that bound them here, and
that they two should go and live together for ever !
‘Give up all ! . . . They two . . . Live together l’
He caught himself uttering these words as in a dream.
Was it too late P What if he went to Suzanne now and
offered to sacrifice all to their love, to wipe out all the
past except that love, and to bind up and identify with
1t their whole being, their whole present, their whole
future ? What if he said: “You swear that you love
me, that this love is the one and only truth in you!
heart. Prove it. You have no children, you are free
Take my life and give me yours. Go with me, and I
will forgive you and believe in you. . . . I am going mad,'
he said, suddenly bringing his mind to a standstill as
this idea presented itself so clearly that he could actually
see Suzanne listening to him. Mad P But why The
stories he had read in his youth about the redemption
of fallen women by love—an idea of such sublime con-
ception that it has attracted the greatest writers—came
back to him. Balzac's Esther, the most divine chal acter
of an amorous courtesan ever painted, had often figured
in his dreams of long ago, and natures like his, in which
literary 1mpressions precede those of life itself, nevel
altogether lose the impress of such dieams.
He loved Suzanne, and Suzanne loved him. Why
should he not attempt to save her, in the name of that
sublime passion, fiom the infamy that covered her, and
try to drag himself away from the dark abyss of death
towards which he felt drawn P Why should he not offer
her this unique opportunity of repairing the hideous
278 A LIVING LIE
wretchedness of her fate P But she—what answer would
she make 2 “I shall know then whether she loves me,’
continued René. ‘Yes—if she loves me, how eagerly
will she seize this means of escaping flom the horrible
luxury to which she is chained And if she says no P’
A thrill of tello shot through him at the thought, ‘It
will be time enough to act then, he concluded.
The whillwind of passion let loose by the sudden
conception of this plan raged fol nearly thiee hours. As
his thoughts swayed hither and thithel the poet seemed
unconscious of the fact that his mind was already made
up, and that the fluctuations only served to disguise
from him the one feeling that dominated all the 1est—a
furious longing, amounting almost to a necessity, to
have his mistress back. Even had this plan of elope-
ment been more irrational, mole impracticable, and less
likely to succeed, he would have taken it up as the most
reasonable, the easiest, and most certain of success,
simply because it was the only one that 1 econciled the
irreplessible ardouſ of his love with that dignity his still
unsullied honour would never compl omise.
“To action,’ he said at last. He sat down to his
table and wrote Suzanne a note in which he asked hel
to be at home the next day at two o'clock. He took
the letter to the post himself, and immediately ex-
perienced that relief which invaliably follows upon some
definite resolve He who for a whole week, and evel
since his filst wild fit of glief, had felt himself unable to
put forth the least energy, and incapable even of opening
the manuscript of his ‘Savonarola,’ at once set about
preparing everything, as if there could be no doubt what
Suzanne's reply would be. He counted out the money
he had in his drawer ; there was a little ovel five thousand
francs. That would suffice for the initial expenses.
And afterwards P. He made a calculation of the amount
to which he was entitled out of the pattimony that had
never been divided between Emilie and himself. The
great thing was to get over the first two years, during
ALL OR NOTHING 279
which he would finish his play and have it staged. Im-
mediately after that he would publish his novel, which
the success of his piece would help on, just as one wave
sweeps on another, and then would come his collection
of poems. A boundless hot 1zon of work and of triumph
seemed to lie before him. Of what efforts would he
not be capable, Sustained by the divine elixir of happi-
ness and by the desire to provide Suzanne with that
luxury she would have sacrificed for him P. When his
sister entered his room she surprised him arranging his
papels, putting his books in order, and sorting some prints.
‘What are you doing 2' she asked.
‘You can see that,’ he replied, ‘I’m getting ready
to go.”
“To go!’
‘Yes,’ he rejoined ; “I think of going to Italy.’
“When P' asked Emilie in astonishment.
“Most probably the day after to-morrow.’
He meant what he said. He had calculated that
Suzanne would require about twenty-foul hours for
her preparations if she decided to go If she
decided to go! The mele possibility of his attempt
failing caused him Such pain that he did not care
to dwell upon it. Since the scene at the Opera,
when he had left her pale and crushed in the semi-
darkness of the private box, he had imposed almost
superhuman 1 estlaint upon himself by stemming the
torrent of passionate longing within him. The hope so
suddenly conceived was a kind of breach through which
the torrent swept with Such unrestrained and violent
fury that it overturned and carried away all before it.
In his madness René even went so far as to look at
some trunks in two or three shops in the Rue de la Paix.
Since the departule from Vouziel's no one in the Vincy
family had left Palis, even for twenty-four houls. The
only articles in the Rue Coetlogon that could hold any-
thing were two old worm-eaten coffers and three leather
portmanteaus falling to pieces from age. These prepara-
28O A LIVING LIE
tions, which lent an appearance of reality to the poet's
dreams, cheated the fever of suspense until the hour of
his appointment. The illusion in which he had indulged
had been so strong that he did not realise his actual
position until he stood in the little salom in the Rue
Murillo. Nothing had yet been achieved.
‘Madame will be hele in a moment,’ the servant had
said, leaving him alone in the 1 oom. He had not been
there since the day when he read his choicest verses to
her whom he then 1egarded as a Madonna. Why did
she keep him waiting for full five minutes in this place
that must awaken in him so many recollections 2 Was
it yet another ruse on her part 2 Recollections did
indeed rise up before him, but produced an effect totally
different from that anticipated by Suzanne. The
elegance of these surroundings, once so much admired,
now inspired him with horror. An atmosphele of
infamy seemed to hang over all these objects, many of
which had no doubt been paid for by Desforges. The
horror he felt intensified his desile to drag the woman
he loved away from her misely, and when she appealed
on the threshold it was not love that she read in his
eyes, but a fixed and determined look of resolve.
What resolve P Of the two she was undoubtedly
the most agitated and least under control. Her long
white lace robe lent a sickly hue to her face, already
drawn and haggald by the ti ouble she had lately under-
gone. There had been no necessity for her to pencil
her eyes—a custom practised by actresses of the draw-
1ng-1 oom as well as by those of the stage—nor of study-
ing the movement with which, at sight of René, she
brought her hand to her heart and leant against the
wall for support. At the first glance she saw that she
had a hard battle to fight, and she feared the result.
There fell upon the two lovers one of those spells of
silence so awful in their solemnity that in them we seem
to hear the flight of destiny |
The silence became unbearable to the unhappy
ALL OR NOTHING 28 I
woman, and she broke it by saying in a low tone,
“René, how you have made me suffer l’ Then, rushing
forward in her mad state of agitation, she took hold of
his two hands, and, throwing herself upon him, sought
his lips for a kiss. But he had the strength to shake
her off.
‘No,' he said, ‘I won't.'
Wringing her hands, she cried in distress, ‘Then you
still believe in those vile suspicions ! You did not
come, and you condemned me unheard | What proofs
had you ? That you saw me leave a certain house !
Not a single doubt in my favour—not one out of twenty
suppositions that might have pleaded for me! What if
I tell you that a friend of mine living in that house was
ill, and that I had been to call on her P What if I tell
you that the presence of the other person whose sight
drove you mad was due to the same cause P Shall I
swear it by all I hold most sacred, by——
“Don’t swear, exclaimed René in harsh tones, ‘I
shouldn't believe you—I don't believe you.’
‘He does not believe me even now—my God
What shall I do ’’ She paced up and down the room,
repeating, ‘What shall I do? What shall I do 2'
During the whole of that week she had been tor-
mented by the thought that he might be so thoroughly
exasperated as not to believe her. If but a single sus-
picion were left him she was lost. He would follow
her again or have her watched. He would know that
she met Desforges every time she visited her 1maginaly
friend, and the whole thing would begin over again.
What, then, was the use of going on with her lies P She
had had enough of it all. Now that her heart was
stirred by the sincerest of passions she felt a desire to
tell her lover the truth—the whole truth, and, while tell-
ing him, to convince him of the depth of her love. He
must be made to hear the cry that came from her heart,
and made to believe it.
Almost beside herself, she commenced her story.
282 A LIVING LIE
* It is tiue—I lied to you. You want to know all—
you shall know all.’
She stopped for a moment and passed her hands
wildly over her face No, no She felt incapable of
making this confession. He would despise her; and
Inventing, as she went on, a kind of incoherent com-
promise between her desire to unbosom herself and the
fear of repelling René, she began again.
‘It is a horrible story. My father died. There were
letters to get back with which his enemies might have
blackened his memory. This required money—a good
deal. I had none. My husband stood aloof. Then
this man came. I lost my head, and once he had me in
his grasp he would not let me go. Ah I can you not
understand that I lied only to keep you?”
René had been watching her as these hurried words
fell from her lips. The story of rescuing her father's
honour he knew to be a flesh lie, but her last cry, uttered
with almost Savage ardour, had the ring of truth in 1t.
What mattered to him all the rest? He would know
by her answer whether this love, the only sincerity to
which she now laid claim, was strong enough to triumph
over all else
“So much the better!’ he replied. ‘Yes, so much
the better if you are the slave of a wretched past that
weighs you down | So much the better if your subjec-
tion to this man causes you such hori or You say that
you have loved me—that you still love me, and that you
lied only to keep me? I now offer you an opportunity
of giving me such ploofs of that love as will put an end
to all my doubts.
‘I ask you to efface the past for ever and with one
stroke. I too love you, Suzanne--ah ! how tenderly
Do not ask me what my feelings were on learning what
I have learnt, on Seeing what I have seen. If it has not
killed me, it is because we do not die of despair. I am
ready to forgive all, to forget all, provided I know of a
certainty that you really love me. I am free, and, since
ALL OR NOTHING 283
you have no children, you too are free. I am ready to
give up everything for you, and I have come to ask you
whether you are ready to do the same We will go
wherever you like—to Italy, to England, to any country
where we shall be sure of finding no traces of your past
life. That past I will blot out; my belief in your love
will give me strength to do this. I shall say to myself:
“She did not know me ; but as soon as I bared my heart
there was nothing that could withstand her love.” To
accept the present hol rible state of things is impossible.
To see you coming to me stained by this man's caresses
—or even, if you should break with him, to doubt the
reality of the 1upture, and to reassume the degrading
zóle of a spy I have all cady played—no, Suzanne, do
not ask it of me ! We have reached that point when
we must be all or nothing to each other—either absolute
strangels of lovers who find in their love compensation
for the loss of family, country, and the whole world. It
is for you to choose.’
He had spoken with the concentrated energy of a
man who has sworn to carry Out what he has 1n his
mind. Mad as the ploposal seemed 1n the eyes of a
woman accustomed only to such folms of passion as
are compatible with the laws and usages of Social life,
Suzanne did not hesitate fol a moment. René had
spoken in all sincerity, but in doing so had given proofs
of such deep-looted affection that she had no doubt as
to her final triumph over the rebellious and mad schemes
of the poet.
‘How good you are to talk to me like that l’ she
replied with a thrill of joy. ‘How you love me ! How
you love me!’ In utteling these words she hung her
head a little, as if the happiness brought her by these
proofs were almost too much to bear. ‘God how
Sweet this is l’ she murmuſed.
Then, approaching him once more, she took his
hand, almost timidly this time, and held it tightly
clasped in her own.
284 A LIVING LIE
‘Child that you are, what is it you offer me? If it
were only a question touching myself, how gladly I
would say, “Take all my life,” and deserve little praise
for doing so ! But how can I accept the sacrifice of
yours ? You are twenty-five years old and I am more
than thirty. Close your eyes, and look at us in ten
years' time. I shall be an old woman, whilst you will
still be a young man. What then 2 And what about
your work—that art to which you are so attached that
it makes me quite jealous P Why should I hide it from
you now P You must be in Paris to be able to write.
I should see you pining away beside me. I should sce
you, an unwilling slave, bestowing affection upon me
out of pity and from a sense of duty. No—I could not
bear it ! My love, lay aside this mad plan and say that
you forgive me without it—say it, René, I implore
you!”
Whilst speaking she had nestled closer to the poet,
and now hung her arms about his neck, seeking his lips
with hers. An intense desire to fold her in his arms
came over him, but it was drowned in the disgust he
felt at her lasciviousness.
Seizing her by the wrist, he flung her from him,
shouting in his fury, “Then you refuse to come—tell
me once more you refuse to come !’
“René, I entreat you,' she went on, with tears in her
voice and in her eyes, “do not cast me off! Since we
love each other, let us be happy Take me as I am,
with all the wretchedness of my life. It is true—I love
luxury, I love gaiety, I love the Paris you hate. I shall
never have the courage to break my bonds and give all
this up. Take me for what I am, now that you know
all, now that you feel I am speaking the truth when I
swear I love you as I have never loved before. Keep
me! I will be your slave, your thing ! When you call
me, I will come. When you drive me away, I will go.
Do not look at me with such eyes, I implore you—let
your heart be softened When you came to me, did I
ALL OR NOTHING 285
ask you whether you had another mistress P No.; I
had but one wish—to make you happy. Can you
reproach me for having kept all the misery of my life
from you ? Look at me—I kneel before you and
beseech you j
She had, indeed, thrown herself at his feet. She
took no heed of prudence now, nor of the possibility of
a servant entering the room. Clinging to his garments,
she dragged herself about on her knees. Never had
she looked so beautiful as when, with eyes aglow and
her face burning with all the fire of passion, she at
length laid aside the mask and proclaimed herself the
sublime courtesan she had always been. René's senses
were in a state of wild commotion, but a cruel reminis-
cence flashed across his brain, and he flung his words
at her with an insulting Sneer—
‘And what about Desforges P’
‘Don’t speak of him, she moaned, “don’t think of
him If I could get rid of him or forbid him the house,
do you think I should hesitate P Don't you understand
what a hold he has upon me 2 My God My God . It is
not right to torture a woman like this No,' she added,
1n a dull, despairing tone, still on her knees, but now
immovable and with hanging head, ‘no, I can bear it
no longer l’
“Then accept my offer,’ said René ; ‘there is still
time. Let us fly together.’
‘No,' she 1eplied, in accents of still greater despair,
‘no ; I can't do that either. It would be so easy to make
a promise and break it. But I have already lied too
much.” She rose. The crisis through which she had
passed was beginning to react upon her nerves, and she
repeated wealily, ‘I can't do that either—I can't.'
‘What, then, do you want?’ he cried in tones of fury.
‘Why were you on your knees just now P A toy——a
plaything—is that what you want me to be P A young
man whose calesses would compensate you for those of
the other ' ' His angel carried him away, and the brutal
286 A LIVING LIE
words almost led to deeds. He strode towards her
with uplifted fist and with an expression so tellible
that she thought he was going to kill her. She diew
back, pale with fear, and with outstretched hands.
“Forgive me, forgive me !' she clied in her distrac-
tion. “Don’t hult me !”
She had taken sheltel behind a table upon which,
amongst othel tº 1ſles, there stood the photograph of the
Balon in a plush flame. In struggling with the hor11ble
temptation to strike this defenceless woman René had
turned his eyes fiom her. As they fell upon the por-
trait he bloke out into a hideous laugh. Taking up
the frame, he seized Suzanne by the hair and 1ubbed
the port1ait violently over her lips and face, at the risk
of cutting her, continuing his fiantic laughter all the
time.
‘Here,' he cried, “hele is your lover ! Look at him
—your lovel !’
He threw the frame upon the floor, and crushed it
with his heel. But no sooner had he committed this
mad action than he was ashamed of it. For the last
time he looked at Suzanne as, with dishevelled hair and
staring eyes, she stood in a corner overcome with fear—
then without a word he left the room, and she had not
the strength to uttel a syllable to retain him.
CHAPTER XX
THE ABBE TACONET
Two days after this terrible scene Claude Larcher was
standing on the balcony of Colette's rooms, which over-
looked the Tuileries gardens. It was about two in the
afternoon, and theie had been a 1eturn of glorious
spring weather, bringing a bright blue sky and warm
THE ABBE TACONET 287
May breezes. Claude had spent several days with Colette.
The two lovers had been seized with one of those
revivals of passion which are all the more ardent and
vehement on account of the memories of past quarrels
and the certainty of others to come. Larcher was
1eflecting upon this culious law of love as he watched
the smoke of his cigar culling up in thin blue wreaths in
the sunshine. Then he looked down upon the line of
carriages in the street and the crowd of promenaders
under the scanty foliage of the gardens.
He was astonished at the state of perfect felicity into
which these few days of indulgence had plunged him.
His painful jealousy, his legitimate anger, his feelings
of degradation—all had passed away since Colette had
acted in accordance with his wishes and closed her door
to Salvaney. This would not last, he knew full well,
but the presence of this woman was to him such com-
plete happiness that it allayed his fears for the future as
it effaced his rancout for the past. He smoked his cigar
slowly and peacefully, turning round every now and
then to look at Colette through the open window as she
sat in a cane rocking-chair, dressed 1n a Chinese gown
of pink satin embroidered with gold—a duplicate of the
one in her dressing room at the theatre. Swinging her-
self to and fro, she slipped her dainty feet in and out of
her embroidered morocco leather slippers, displaying, as
she did so, a pair of pink Silk Stockings to match her
dress.
The room in which she sat was filled with flowels
The walls were covered with Souvenils of an artist's life—
water-colour drawings of Scenes in the gleen-room,
tambourines won in cotillons, photographs, and wreaths
A small white Angora kitten, with One eye blue and the
other black, was lying on 1ts back playing with a ball
whilst Colette continued rocking herself—now smiling
at Claude between the puffs at her Russian cigarette,
now reading a newspaper she held in her hand, and
all the time humming a chal ming ballad of Richepin's
288 A LIVING LIE
recently set to music by a foreign composer named
Cabaner.
‘One month flies by, another comes,
And time runs like a hare 2
“Mon Dieu !” murmured the writer as he listened to
the couplets of the only poet of our time who has been
able to compete successfully with the divine Chansons
populaires—‘these lines are very fine, the sky is very
blue, my mistless is very pretty. To the deuce with
analysis ' '
The actless interrupted this placid soliloquy of her
contented lover with a cry of alarm. She had risen
from her chair and was holding the paper with a trem-
bling hand. After having, according to her wont, looked
over the contents of the third page, where the theatrical
news are chronicled, she had turned to the Second and
then to the first. It was there she had just read what
had so upset her, for she stammered, as she handed
Claude the paper—
‘It is horrible !’
Claude, terrified by her sudden and intense agitation,
took the paper and read the following lines under the
heading, “Echos de Palis: '
‘As we go to press we hear of an event that will
cause much grief and constel nation 1n the literary world.
M. René Vincy, the successful author of the “Sigisbée,”
has made an attempt to commit suicide in his rooms in
the Rue Coetlogon by discharging a revolver in the
region of his heart. In order to remove the fears of M.
Vincy's numerous admirers, we hasten to add that the
attempt will have no fatal results. Our sympathetic
confrère is indeed grievously wounded, but the ball
has been extracted, and the latest news are most re-
assuring. Much speculation 1s indulged in concerning
the motive of this desperate act.'
‘Colette l’ cried Claude, “it is you who killed
him l’
‘No, no l’ moaned the actless wildly ; ‘it can't be.
THE ABBE TACONET 289
He won't die. You see, the paper says he is better.
Don't say that I should never forgive myself. How
was I to know P I was so mad with you—you had be-
haved so cluelly that I would have done anything to
be revenged. But you must go to him—run | Here is
your hat, your gloves, your stick. Poor little René !
I will send him some flowers; he was so fond of them.
And do you think it is on account of that woman P’
As she spoke—her incoherent sentences betraying
both her customary puerility and the real good feeling
she possessed in spite of all—she had dressed Larcher
and pushed him towards the door.
‘And where shall I find you ?’ he asked
‘Fetch me here at six o'clock to go and dine in the
Bois. Moſz Dieu / ' she added, “if I hadn't these two
appointments with the milline1 and the dressmaker, I
would go with you. But I must see them.’
“Do you still want to go and dine 1n the Bois P’ said
Claude.
‘Don’t be unkind, she 1eplied, giving him a kiss; ‘It
is such fine weather, and I do so want to dine out in the
open.” With these words closed a scene which described
the actless to a nicety, with her Sudden transitions from
sincerest grief to a most passionate love of pleasure.
Laichel kissed her in return, though despising him-
self in a vague kind of way for being so indulgent to
hel least whims even now after hearing of a catastrophe
that touchcq him so closely. Rushing out of the room,
he flew down the stalls foul at a time, jumped into a
cab, and at the end of fifteen minutes found himself
before the gate in the Rue Coetlogon thiough which he
had passed but a few months since
All that had stiuck him so ſo; cibly then Suddenly
came back to him now– the fiowning sky, the pale
moon sailing amid the Swift-Scudding clouds, and the
strange presentiment that had chilled his healt. Now
the b11ght May Sunshine filled the heavens with light,
and the nal 10w strip of galden in fiont of the house was
U
29O A LIVING LIE
decked with green The air of spring that hung over
the peaceful abode was an excellent presentment of
what René's life had long been, and what it would have
remained 1ſ he had nevel met Suzanne. Who had been
the indirect author of that meeting 2 In vain did Claude
try to shake off his 1emorse by saying, ‘Could I foresce
this catastiophe P’ He had foreseen it. Nothing but
evil could lesult from the poet's sudden transplantation
to a world of luxury in which both his vanity and sen-
suality had been diawn to the surface The worst had
come to pass—by a terrible run of ill luck, it is true.
But who had provoked that ill luck P. The answel to
that question was a cruel one for a true friend, and it
was with a heavy healt that Claude walked up to the
house in which formerly there had dwelt naught but
simplicity, honest labour, and a pure and noble love.
How many deadly stings had entered it since then,
and what an infinity of gl 1ef! This came home to
him once more on Seeing the maid's agitated face
and on hearing the sobs which burst flom hel as she
opened the door and recognised the visitol. Wiping
her eyes with the corner of her blue apron, she let loose
a flow of words thickly sprinkled with hel own patois
‘A/, / / /a faut-i ' Mom &om monsteal?' ' To try and
kill himself like that—a child I’ve known as tendel and
as gentle as a girl' /ésus, Marze, Josep/, / Come 1n,
Monsieul Claude, you will find Madame F1 esneau and
Mademoiselle Rosalie in the sal/e-d-manger. Monsieur
l'Abbé Taconct 1s with /.272 °
Emilie and Rosalie were togethel in the 10om in
which Claude had so often been welcomed by a
charming family picture. The doctor had evidently
just gone, fol theie was a st1 ong Smell of calbolic acid,
like that leſt by rebandaging. A bottle beaſ ºng a red
label was standing on the table with a saucel beside it,
and close by lay a Small heap of Square pieces of cotton.
A packet of linen bandages, Some strips of plaster, a pot
of ointment labelled red like the bottle and covci.ed
THE ABBE TACONET 29 I
with tinfoil, Some nursery pins, and a stamped prescrip-
tion gave the room the appearance of a hospital ward.
Emilie's pallor revealed mole than words what she had
gone through during the past fol ty-eight houls. The
sight of Claude produced the same effect upon her as
upon Françoise. His mere presence recalled to her the
old days when she had been so proud of her René.
She burst into tears, and, giving him her hand, said:
‘You were right !”
Rosalie had darted a look at the visitor charging
him as plainly as possible with René's attempted suicide.
Her eyes expressed such deep hatred and their meaning
was so fully in keeping with Claude's secret remorse
that he turned his own eyes away, and asked, after a
moment's silence, ‘Can I see him 2'
“Not to-day, replied Emilie, “he is so weak The
doctor ſeals the least excitement.” She added, “My
uncle will tell you how he is now.’
“When did this happen? I only heard of it from
the papels.’
‘Has it got into the papcis P’ said Emilie. “I tried
so hald that it should not.’
‘A few lines of no 1mportance,’ 1Cplied Claude, guess-
ing the truth from Rosalie's sudden change of colour.
Old Offalel had a young man under him in the Wal
Office who was connected with the Pless, and whom
Larcheſ knew The sous-cheſ had no doubt been gos-
Siping, and his daughtcl had already got to heal of 16
Lal chel made an attempt to gain flesh favout in
Rosalie's cycs by allaying Madame Flesneau's suspicions.
‘The 1epolteis fel 1 et out everything,' he said ; “no one
who is the least bit known can escape them. But, he
continued, ‘what alc the details P’
‘He came home the day before yestel day about four
o'clock, and I saw at once by his face that there was
Something wiOng with him. I had, however, been so
accustomed to see him look sad of late that 1t did not
stlike me very much. He had told me that he was
U 2
292 A LIVING LIE
going to Italy on a long tour. I said to him : “Do
you still intend going to-morrow 2° “No,” he replied,
and, taking me in his alms, held me there for some time,
whilst he sobbed like a child. I asked him what was
the matter. “Nothing,” he said ; “where is Constant 2 ”
His question surplised me He knew that the boy
nevel comes home from school before six o'clock. “And
Flesneau ?” he added Then he drew a deep sigh and
went into his room. I stood there for five minutes de-
bating with myself—I thought that perhaps I ought not
to leave him alone. At last I began to get frightened—
he is so easily led away in his fits of despair. And
then I heard the report—I shall hear it all my life l’
She stopped, too agitated to go on, and, after another
stol m of teals had spent itself, Claude asked, ‘What
does the doctor say ?’
‘That he is out of danger, unless some unforeseen
complication sets in,’ 1eplied Emilie; “he has explained
to us that the trigger of the revolver—1t was I who gave
it him l—was somewhat hard to pull. The plessure
that he brought to beat upon it must have altered the
direction of the ball ; it passed through the lung without
touching the heart, and came out on the other side. At
twenty-five Mon Dieu ! Mon Dieu ! What a terrible
thing ! No-he does not love us, he has nevel loved us !’
Whilst she was thus lamenting and laying bale a
heart suffering from those pangs of unlequited affection
that mothels know so well the Abbé Taconet appealed
on the thieshold of the sick-room. He shook hands
with Claude, whom he had long since forgiven for
having run away fi Om the Ecole Saint-André, and
replied to the inquiring looks of his niece and Rosalie
‘He is going to sleep, and I must get back to my
school.'
‘Will you allow me to walk with you?” said Claude.
‘I was going to ask you to do so, 1eplied the priest.
Fol some minutes the two men walked side by side
in silence. The Abbé Taconet had always inspired
THE ABBE TACONET 293
Larcher with respect. His was one of those spotless
natures which form Such a contrast to the ordinary low
standard of morality that their mere existence is a stand-
ing 1eproach to a man of the period like the writer, given
up to vice though Craving for the ideal Even now, as
the Abbé walked beside him with his somewhat heavy
tread, Claude looked at him and thought of the moral
gulf that separated them. The d11ector of the Ecole
Saint-André was a tall, strong-looking man of about
fifty. At filst sight there was nothing in his robust
corpulence to betray the asceticism of his life. His
rounded cheeks and ruddy complexion might cven have
lent him an all of joviality had not the serious lines of
his mouth and the usually serene look in his eyes cor-
rected this 1mplession. The sort of 1magination found
in true altists, and which, elaborated by heredity, had
produced the morbid melancholy of René's mother, the
poet's own talent, his delight in all things brilliant, and
even Emilie's inordinate affection for her brother—that
imagination which will not allow the mind to be satisfied
with the present and the positive, but which paints all
objects in too bright or too dark a colour—this danger-
ous yet all-powerful faculty had also its reflex in the
eyes of the priest. But Catholic discipline had collected
its excesses as deep faith had sanctified its use. The
serenity of his piercing glance was that of a man who
has lain down at night and risen each morning for years
together with but one idea, and that—of self-sacrifice.
Claude was well acquainted with the precise terms in
which this idea was couched, and to which the Abbé
Taconet always revelted in his conversation—the Salva-
tion of France by the aid of Christianity. Such was,
according to this 1 obust workel in moral spheres, the
task laid down in our day for all Frenchmen who welc will-
ing to undertake it. Claude was also aware of the hopes
this truly eminent pliest had cherished concerning his
nephew. How often had he heard him say “France has
need of Christian talent ' | He therefore looked at him
294 A LIVING LIE
with palticular culiosity, discoveling in his usually calm
face a tiace of anxiety—he would almost have called
It an explcssion of doubt. They were walking along
the Rue d’Assas, and were just about to closs the Rue
de Rennes, when the Abbé stopped and turned to his
Companion.
‘My niece tells me you know the woman who has
diiven my nephew to this desperate act. God has not
permitted the poor boy to disappeal 1n this fashion
The body will be healed, but the soul must not be allowed
to relapse. What is she P’
‘What all women are, 1eplicq the wi iter, unable to
1esist the pleasure of displaying before the pliest his
pletended knowledge of the human healt.
“If you had ever sat in the confessional you would
not say all women,” remaiked the Abbé ‘You do not
know what a Chiistian woman is, and of what sacrifices
she is capable.’
‘What almost all women are, 1epeated Claude, with
a touch of 1rony, and began to 1elate what he knew of
René's story, drawing a fairly exact poſt1ait of Suzanne
with the aid of many psychological cxpressions, and
speaking of the multiplicity of her person——of a first and
a second condition of her ‘I,’ ‘There is in hel,’ he
said, ‘a woman who is fond of luxuly, and she therefore
keeps a lovel who can give it her ; then there is a
woman who is fond of love, and So she takes a young lovel ;
a woman who is fond of respect, and so she lives with a
husband whom she treats w1th consideration. And I
will wager that she loves all thiee—the paying lovel,
the loving lover, and the plotecting husband—but in a
different way. Certain natures ale so constructed, like
the Chinese boxes which contain six or seven others.
She is a very complicated animal l’
‘Complicated P’ said the Abbé, throwing back his head.
‘I know you use these words to avoid uttering mole
simple ones. She is metely an unhappy woman who allows
he self to be governed by hel senses. All this is filth.’
THE ABBE TACONET 295
There was a look of profound disgust on his noble
face as he uttered these words of brutal simplicity. It
was plain that the thought of matters concerning the
flesh provoked in him that peculiar repugnance found
in priests who have had to struggle hard against a natural
inclination for love. His disgust soon made way for a
decp melancholy, and he continued his 1emarks.
‘It is not this woman who causes me alarm 1n René's
case. According to what you tell me, she would have
left him when once her whim was gratified. In his
present state she will not give him a thought. It is
the moral condition of the poor lad, as shown by this
affair, which troubles me. Hele is a young man of
twenty-five, brought up as he has been, knowing how
1ndispensable he is to the best of sistels, possessing that
divine and incompalable gift called talent—a gift which,
1f p1 operly directed, can produce such great things—and
possessing 15, too, at a tragic moment in the history of our
country ; hel e is one, I say, who knows that to-mori ow
his countly may be lost for ever in another hurricane,
that its safety is entrusted to every one of us—to you
and me and each of these passers-by-and yet all this
does not outweight the grief of being deceived by a
wretched woman | But,’ he continued, as 1ſ his remaiks
applied to Claude as much as to the wounded man he
had just quitted, ‘what is it you hope to find in that
tioubled sea of sensuality into which you plunge on a
pretext of love, except sin with 1ts endless misery P
You speak of complication. Human life is very simple.
It is all complised in God's Ten Commandments.
Find me a case, a single one, which is not provided for
theie. Has a blindness fallen upon the men of this
generation that a lad, whom I knew to be pure, has
sunk so low in So short a time, and only through
breathing the vapours of the age * Ah, sir,’ he added
in the accents of a fathcl deceived in his son, ‘I was so
ploud of him I expected so much of him l’
‘You talk as if he were dead,' said Claude, feeling
296 A LIVING LIE
both moved and iriitated by the Abbé's words. On the
One hand, he pitied him for his evident distress; but, on the
Other hand, he could not bear to hear the pliest enunciate
Such ideas, although they were also his own in his fits
of remorse. Like many modern sceptics, he was inces-
Santly sighing for a simple faith, and yet his taste for
intellectual or sentimental complexities was incessantly
lcading him to look upon any and every faith he ex-
amined as a mutilation. Thele Suddenly came over him
an iriesistible desire to contradict the Abbé Taconet
and to defend the very youth whose fate he had himself
SO bewailed on 1 eaching the Rue Coetlogon that after-
1] OO11.
“Do you think,’ he said, ‘that René will not be all
the stronger for this tiial—more able to cxercise and
to develop that talent in which you at least believe,
Monsieur l’Abbé 2 If we writers could cvolve our ideas
as easily as a mathematician Solves his ploblems on the
black-board, and enunciate them, coolly and calmly, in
well-chosen and precise terms—why, every one would
Set up as an author instead of turning engineeſ or lawyer.
They would only require patience, method, and leisure.
But wiiting is a different thing altogether.' He was
getting more excited as he went on. ‘To begin with,
one must live, and, to know life in every one of its
peculiar phases, become acquainted with every possible
Sensation. We must expeliment upon Ouiselves. What
Claude Bernald used to do with his dogs, what Pasteur
does with his rabbits, we must do with out heart, inocu-
lating it with every form of virus that attacks humanity.
We must have felt, if only for an hour, each of the
thousand emotions of which Our fellow-man is capable,
and all in order that some obscure reader in ten, a
hundled, or two hundred years' time may stop at some
phrase in one of Our books and, recognising the disease
from which he is suffeling, say, ‘This is true.’ It is
indeed a terrible game, and we run a terrible risk in
playing it. G1 catel even than that incurled by doctors,
THE ABBE TACONET 297
for they run no risk of cutting themselves with the
dissecting knife nor of being struck down when visiting
a cholera hospital It was nearly all over with poor
René, but when he next wi ites of love, jealousy, or
woman's treachely, his words will be tinged with blood–
the red blood that has coursed through his veins—and
not with ink borrowed from anothel's pen. And it will
make a fine page, too, one that will swell the literary
tl easures of that France you accuse us of folgetting.
We selve our country in our own fashion That fashion
may not be yours, but it has its gleatness Do you know
what a martyrdom of suffering has to be enduled before
an Adol//ie of a Manon can be dragged fiom the Soul ?”
‘Beat: pauperes sparafu,' replied the pliest. ‘I
remember having heard something of the kind in the
Ecole No1 male thirty years ago as I walked in the
courtyard with some of my comrades who have Since
distinguished themselves. They possessed fewel meta-
phors, but greater powers of abstraction than you have,
and they called it the antinomy of alt and morality.
Wolds are but wolds, and facts remain facts. Since
you talk of science, what would you think of a physician
who, undel pretence of studying an infectious disease,
gave it to himself and so to all the town P Do you ever
think of the terrible 1 esponsibility that 1ests upon those
great wi items whom you envy for having been able to
give the world their own w1etched experiences 2 I have
not read the two novels you mention, but I well 1emember
Goethe’s “Werther ” and de Musset’s “Rolla.” Don’t
you think that the pistol-shot René fired at himself was
somewhat influenced by these two apologies of suicide P
Do you know that it is awful to think that both Goethe
and de Musset ale dead, but that their work can still
place a weapon in the hand of a healt-broken lad P. The
sufferings of the soul should be laid bale only to be
relieved, and a cold, pitiless interest in human woe
inspires me with holror whenever I meet with 1t.
Believe me,’ he added, pointing to the crucifix that
298 A LIVING LIE
adorned the gateway of the Couvent des Carmes, ‘no
one can say more than He has said about sufferings
and passions, and you will find a 1emedy nowhere
else’
Irlitated by the priest's air of conviction, Claude
replied, ‘You blought René up in His name, and you
yourself admit that your hopes have been deceived.’
‘The ways of God are inscrutable, replied the Abbé,
with a look of mute reploach that made Claude blush. In
attacking René's uncle in a painful spot, simply because
the algument was going against him, he had yielded
to an evil impulse of which he was now ashamed. The
two men passed the corner of the Rue de Vaug11ard and
the Rue Cassette in silence, and reached the door of the
Ecole Saint-André just as a class of boys was entering.
There were about forty of them—lads of about fifteen
or sixteen years old, all looking very well and happy.
As they passed the Directeur they saluted him so de-
ſel entially and with such evident heartſness that this
act alone would have shown what 1a1e influence their
excellent instructor possessed. Claude, however, also
knew from experience how conscientiously the Abbé
discharged his duty; he knew that each of these boys
was followed daily, almost hourly, by the Selene but
vigilant eyes of the worthy priest.
A sudden rush of feeling prompted him to seize the
lattel by the hand and to exclaim, ‘You are an upright
man, Monsieur l’Abbé, and that is the best and finest
talent one can have l’
‘He will save René, he said, as he saw the good
Christian's 1 obe disappear across the threshold that he
had himself so often crossed in less happy days. His
thoughts became singulally Sellous and Sad, and as his
steps wandered almost mechanically towards his rooms
in the Rue de Varenne, where he had not put in an
appearance for several days, he allowed his mind to
dwell upon the ideas awakened by the conversation and
the life of the priest. The feeling of physical beatitude
THE ABBE TACONET 299
experienced two hours ago on Colette's balcony had
fled. All the wretchedness of the undignified life he had
been leading for the past two years came home to him,
and looked still more wretched when compared with the
hidden glory of the perfect life of duty he had been
privileged to behold.
His disgust grew stronger when he found himself in
his own rooms, recalling, as they did, the memories of
SO many hours of shame and pain. A score of visions
rose up before him illustrating the drama in which he
had played a part—René reading the manuscript of the
‘Sigisbée, the first performance at the Comédie Fiançaise,
the soirée at Madame Komof's, Suzanne's appearance 1n
her red gown, and Colette in his rooms on the day after
the soirée ; then René telling him of his visit to Madame
Moraines, his own departure for Venice, his return, the
Scencs to which it had led, and the two palallel passions
that had sprung up in his heart and René's, ending with
the attempted Suicide of the one and the abasement of
the other ‘The Abbé is right,’ he thought ; ‘all this is
filth.’ He went on with his soliloquy. ‘Yes, the Abbé
will save René ; he will compel him to go fol a toul of
Six months O1 a year as soon as he is bettel, and he
will come back rid of this hol rible nightmale. He is
young—a healt of twenty-five 1s such a vigorous and
haldy plant. Who knows? He may perhaps be moved
by Rosalie's love and mally her. Anyhow, he will
triumph. He has suffered, but he has not debased him-
Self. But I ?”
In a few moments he had diawn up a statement of
his actual position—well Over thiſ ty-five years of age,
not a single 1 eason fol 1emaining alive, disorder within
and disorder without, in his health and in his thoughts,
in his money mattels and in his love affairs, an absolute
conviction of the emptiness of literatule and the deglad-
ing power of passion, coupled with sheer inability to
tun aside flom the profession of letters or to give up
his libel tinc life,
3OO A LIVING LIE
‘Is it really too late P’ he asked himself, as he paced
up and down his loom. He could see, like a port in
the distance, the country home of his old aunt, his
father's sister, to whom he wrote two or three times a
year, and nearly always to ask for money. He saw
before him the little room that awaited his coming, its
window looking Out upon a meadow. The meadow,
through which ran a stream bordeled with willows, was
closed in by some rising ground. Why not take refuge
theſe and try to commence over again P Why not
make one more attempt to escape the misely of an
existence in which there was not a single illusion left P
Why not go at once, without again beholding the
woman who had exercised a more baneful influence
upon him than Suzanne had had upon René P
The agitation brought on by this sudden prospect of
a still possible Salvation drove him fiom his rooms, but
not before he had told Feldinand to pack his tiunk.
He went out and wandered aimlessly as far as the
entrance to the Champs Elysées. On this bright May
evening the roadway was crowded with an interminable
line of carriages. The contrast between the moving
panorama of Paris at its gayest, once his delight, and
the quiet scene he had evoked for his complete reform,
charmed his artistic soul. He sat down upon a chair
and watched the Stling of vehicles, recognising a face
here and there, and recalling the rumours, true or false,
he had heard about each. Suddenly a carriage came in
view that atti acted his particulal attention—no, he was
not mistaken It was an elegant victoria, in which sat
Madame Moraines with Desfolges by her side, and
Paul Moraines facing them. Suzanne was smiling at
the Baron, who was cvidently taking his mistress and
her husband to the Bois—probably to dine there. She
did not see René's friend, who gazed after her shapely
blonde head, half turned to her protector, until it was
lost to view.
He laughed.
THE ABBé TACONET 3OI
‘What a comedy life is, and how silly we are to
turn it into a drama l'
He took out his watch and rose hurriedly.
“Half-past six—I shall be late for Colette.’ And
he hailed a passing cab in order to get to the Rue de
Rivoli—five minutes sooner
TIHE ENI).
PRINTED BY
SPOTTISWOODE AND CO , NLW S I RDET SQUARE
LONDON
2
！
№：№ſ
§2ſae



[Nov. 1895.
CHAT TO & Wi Nii) US
214 PICCADILLY, LONDON, W.
About (Edmond).—The Feliall: An Egyptian Novel. Translated by
Sir RANDAL ROBERTS Post 8vo, Illustrated boards, 2s
Adams (W. Davenport), Works by.
A Dictionary of the Drama, being a comprehensive Guide to the Plays Plmvwrights, Players,
and Playhouses of the United Kingdom and America, from the l arliest I lines to the Present
Day Crown 8vo, half bound, 12s 6d [Area runsr
Quips and Quiddities. Selected by W D AvrX Port ADAYIs Post 8vo, cloth imp, as 67
Agony Column (The) of “The Times,’ from 1800 to 1870. Edited,
with an Introduction, by ALICE CLAY Post 8vo, cloth limp, 2s 6,”
Aide (Hamilton), Novels by. Post 8vo, Illustrated boards, 2s each.
Carr of Carrlyon. | Confidences.
Albert (Mary).-Brooke Finchley’s Daughter. Post 8vo, picture
boards, 2s , cloth limp, 2s 6d
Alden (W. L.).-A Lost Soul: Being the Confession and Defence of
Charles Lindsay FCap 8vo, cloth boards, 1s 6d
Alexander (º: Novels by. Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. each
Maid, Yife, or Yidow 7 | Yalerie’s Fate.
Allen (F. M.).-Green as Grass. With a Frontispiece. Crown 8vo,
cloth, 3s 6d
Allen (Grant), Works by.
The Evolutionist at Large. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 6s
Post-Prandial Philosophy. Crow n 8vo, art linen, 3s 67
Moorland Idylls. With numerous Illustrations Large crown 8vo, cloth, 6s [S/tortºy.
Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s 6d each, post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s each
Philistia, In all Shades. Du'maresq's Daughter.
Babylon. x2 Illustrations The Devil’s Die. The Duchess of Powysland
Strange Stories. 1 routis This Mortal Coil. Blood Royal.
The Beckoning Hand. The Tents of Shem. Frontis Ivan Greet's Masterpiece.
For Maimie’s Sakes The Great Taboo. The Scallyws.g. 24 Illusts.
Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s 6d, cach
At Market Yalue. | Under Sealed Orders, [Shortly,
Dr. Palliser’s Patient. Foap 8vo, cloth boards, 1s 6d
Anderson (Mary).-Othello's Occupation : A Novel. Crown 8vo,
cloth, 3s 6d.
Arnold (Edwin Lester), Stories by.
The Yonderful Adyentures of Phra the Phoenician. Crown Svo, cloth extra, with is
Illustrations by H M PAGET, 3s, 6d ost 8vo, Illustrated boards, as
The Constable of St. Nicholas. With Irontispiece by S L WooD Crown 8vo, cloth, 3s 63.
Artemus Ward's Works. With Portrait and Facsimile Crown 8vo,
cloth extra, 7s 6d —Also a POPULAR EDITION, post 8vo, picture boards, 2s
The Genial Shººman: The Life and Adventures of AR 1 EMUS WARD. By EDWARD P
HINGSTON. With a Frontispiece. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. 6d. e

2 cHAtto & windus, PUBLISHERS, PiccADILLY.
Ashton (John), Works by. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 7s.6d. each.
History of the Chap-Books of the 18th Century....With 334 Illustrations.
Social Life in the Reign of Queen Anne. With 85 Illustrations
Humour, YWit, and Satire of the Seventeenth Century. With 82 Illustrations.
; Caricature and Satire on Napoleon the First. With 115 Illustrations.
Modern Street Ballads. With 57 Illustrations
Bacteria, Yeast Fungi, and Allied Species, A Synopsis of. By
W B GROVE, B A With 87 Illustrations Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s 6d
Bardsley (Rev. C. Wareing, M.A.), Works by.
English Surnames: Their Sources and Significations Crown 8vo, cloth, 7s 6d.
Curiosities of Puritan Nomenclature. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 6s.
Baring Gould (Sabine, Author of ‘John Herring,’ &c.), Novels by.
Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 33 6d each, post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s each
Red Spider. | Eye.
Barr (Robert: Luke Sharp), Stories by. Cr. 8vo, cl, 3s. 6d. each.
In a 'Steamer Chair. With Trontispiece and Vignette by DEMAIN HAMMOND.
From Whose Bourne, &c, With 47 Illustrations by IIAL_HURST and others.
Crown 8vo, cloth extrºn, 6s each
A Woman Intervenes. With 8 Illustrations by HAL HURST. [Shortly.
Revenge With numerous Illustrations [Shortly.
Barrett (Frank), Novels by.

Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s each, cloth, 2s 6d each
Fettered for Life. A Prodigal’s Progress.
The Sin of Olga, Zassoulich, John Ford; and His Helpmate,
Between Life and Death. A Recoiling Yengeance.
#. Morrison. | Homest Dayles Lieut. Barnabas. | Found Guiltya
Little Lady Linton, For Love and Honour,
The Woman of the Iron Bracelets. Crown 8vo cloth 3s 6d –º
Barrett (Joan).--Monte Cario Stories. FCap 8vo, cl., 1s. 6d [shorzo,
Beaconsfield, Lord. By T P. O'Connor, M.P. Cr 8vo, cloth, 5s
Beauchamp (Shelsley).-Grantley Grange. Post 8vo, boards, 2s.
Beautiful Pictures by British Artists: A Gathering of Favourites
from the Picture Galleries, cngraved on Steel Imperial 4to, cloth extra, gilt edges, 21s
Besant (Sir Walter) and James Rice, Novels by.
Crown 8vo, cloth cytra, 3s 6d each, post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s each, cloth limp, 2s 6d each.
Ready-Money Mortiboy, By Celia,’s Arbour.
My Little Girl. The Chaplain of the Fleet,
YWith Harp and Crown, The Seamy Side.
This Son of Yulcan. The Case of Mr. Lucraft, &c.
The Golden Butterſly. *TYas in Trafalgar’s Bay, &c,
The Monks of Thelema. The Ten Years’ Tenant, &c
*** T here is also a LIBRARY TDITION of the above Twelve Volumes, handsomely set in new type on a
large crown 8vo page, and bound in cloth extra, 6s cach , and a POPULAR EDI TION of The Golden
Butterfly, medium 8vo, 6d , cloth, 1 ; –NI W EDI I IONS, printed in large type on crown 8vo laid paper,
bound in figured cloth, 3 s 6d cach, are also in course of publication
Besant (Sir Walter), Novels by.
Crown 8vo, cloth extra, as bd each post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s each, cloth limp, 2s. 6d, each,
All Sorts and Conditions of Men. With 12 lllustrations by FRED BARNARD
The Captains’ Room, &c With Iºrontispiece by E J WH17 FI LR
AII in a Garden Fair. With 6 Illustrations by IIARRY F. URNISS
Dorothy Forster. With I rontispiece by CIIARLEAS GRTFN t
IJncle Jack, and other Storie', | Children of Gibeon,
The YWorld Went Yery Well Then. With 12 Illustrations by A. For ESTIER,
Herr Paulus: IIIs Rise, his Greatness, and his Tall | The Bell of St. Paul’s,
For Faith and Freedom. With Illustrations by A FORFS IIFR and F, WADDY,
To Call Her Mine, &c. With 9 Illustrations by A TOREST IER
The Holy Rose, &c. With Frontispiece by I BARNARD
Armorel of Lyonesse A Romance of To day With 12 Illustrations by F BARNARD,
St. Katherine’s by the Tower. With 12 Illustrations by C GRLEN
Yerbena. Camellia Stephanotis, &c. With a lºrontispiece by GORDON BROWNE.
The Ivory Gate. | The Rebel Queen.
Beyond the Dreams of Avarice. Crown 8vo, cloth cwtra, 6s
In $. Orders, &c. With I'rontispiece by A l'ORFST IER Crown 8vo, cloth, 6t.
The Master Craftsman. 2 vols, crown 8vo, Ios inct [Shortly,
Fifty Years Ago. With 144 Plates and Woodcuts Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 5s
The Eulogy of Richard Jefferies. With Portrait Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 6s.
Ilondon. With 125 Illustrations Demy 8vo, cloth cxtra, 7s 6d
Westminster. With Etched Frontispiece by F. S. WALKER, R P E , and 130 Illustrations by
WII I IAM PATTFN and others Demy 8vo, cloth, 18s
Sir Richard Whittington. With Frontispiece Crown 8vo, art linen, 3s, 6d,
Gaspard de Coligny. With a Portrait Crown 8vo, art linen, 3s 6d
As Yve Fire. As ye May Bo , Social LSSays. Crown 8vo, linen, 6s. [Shortly,
CHATTO & WINDUS, PUBLISHERS, PICCADILLY. 3.
Bechstein (Ludwig). —As Pretty as Seven, and other German
Stories . With Additional Tales by the Brothers GRIMM, and 98 Illustrations by RICHTER Square
8vo, cloth extra, 6s 6d , gilt edges, 7s 6d
Beerbohm (Julius).-Wanderings in Patagonia; or, Life among
the Ostrich Hunters With Illustrations Crown,8vo, cloth extra, 3s
Bellew (Frank).—The Art of Amusing: A Collection of Graceful
Arts, Games, Tricks, Puzzles, and Charades With 300 Illustrations Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 4s 6d
Bennett (W. C., LL.D.).-Songs for Sailors. Post 8vo, cl. limp, 2s.
Bewick (Thomas) and his Pupils. By AUSTIN DOBSON. With 95
Illustrations Square 8vo, cloth extra, 6s
Bierce (Ambrose).-In the Midst of Life: Tales of Soldiers and
Civilians Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 6s , post 8vo, 1ſlustrated boards, 2s
Bill Nye's History of the United States. With 146 Illustrations
by F OPPER Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s 6d

Biré (Edmond). — Diary of a Citizen of Paris during “The
Terror’ Translated by JOHN DE VILLIERS Two Vols, demy 8vo, Lloth extra, 21s [S/to' ('y
Blackburn’s (Henry) Art Handbooks.
Academy Notes, 1875, 1877-86, 1889, Grosvenor Notes, Vol II, 1883-87. With
1890, 1892-1895, Illustrated, each Is 3oo Illustrations Demy 8vo, cloth, 6;
Academy Notes, 1875-79. Complete in Grosvenor Notes, W. III , 1888-90, With
One Vol, with 6oo Illustrations Cloth, 6s 230 Illustrations Demy 8vo cloth, 3s 6d
Academy Notes, 1880-84. Complete in The New Gallery, 1888-1895. With nu
One Vol , with 7oo Illustrations Cloth, 6s Imerous Illustrations, each rs
Academy Notes, 1890-94. Complete in The New Gallery, Vol I, 1888-1892. With
One Vol , with 8oo illustrations Cloth, 7s 6d 250 Illustrations emy 8vo, cloth, 63.
Grosvenor Notes, 1877. 6d. English Pictures at the National Gallery.
Grosvenor N otes separate years from ol."º: .* hº
p Sters at the Nation l º
1878-1890, each Is ºne, ºptional Gallery
Grosvenor Notes, Vol I, 1877-82. With Illustrated Catalogue to the National
300 Illustrations Demy 8vo, cloth, 6s Gallery. With 242 Illusts Denny 8vo, cloth, 3s,
The Paris Salon, 1895. With 300 Facsimile Sketches 3s
Blind (Mathilde), Poems by.
he Ascent of Man. Crown 8vo, cloth, 5s
Dramas in Miniature: With a Frontispiece by F MADox BRown Crown 8vo, cloth, 5s
Songs and Sonnets. Tcap 8vo, vellum and gold, 5s
Birds of Passage. Songs of the Orient and Occident Second Edition Crown 8vo, linen, 6s net
Bourget (Paul).-Lies. Translated by JoHN DE VILLIERs Crown
8vo, cloth, 6s [S/to, tºy
Bourne (H. R. Fox), Books by.
English Merchants Memoirs in Illustration of the Progress of British Commerce. With Ilúmerous
E. º Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 7s
nglis eXspaper's Chapters in the IIIstory of Journalism. Two Vols, demy 8vo, clotl f
The Other Side of the Emin Pasha. Relief Expedition. Crown $vo, ... 63. l, 25.5
Bowers (George).-Leaves from a Hunting Journal. Coloured
Plates Oblong folio, half bound, 21s
Bºyle (Frederick), Works by. Post 8vo, Illustrated bds., 2s. each
hronicles of No-Man's Land. I Camp Notes. I Savage Life.
Brand (John).--Observations on Popular Antiquities; chiefly
illustrating the Origin of our Vulgar Customs, Ceremonies, and Superstitions With the Additio
HENRY #EEis, and numerous illustrations." Crown ºvo'cloth extra, 7s 6d 1tions of Sir
Brewer (Rev. Dr.), Works by.
The Reader's Handbook of Allusions, References, Plots, and Stories. Seventeenth
Thousand Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 7s 6d
Authors and their Works, with the Dates Being the Appendices to ‘The Reader's Hand
book,' separately §: Crown 8vo, cloth limp, 2 ×
Jº Dictionary of Miracles. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 7 c 67
Brewster (Sir David), Works by. Post 8vo, cloth, 4s 6d each
#º. § §§§. º of º and IIope of the Christian With Plates
& artyrs o Glen Ce : GALILEO, TYCHO BRAHE, and KEPLEK. With 4. e
Letters on Natural Magic. With numerous Illustrations 1th Portlants
Brillat-Sayarin-I-Gastronomy as a Fine Art. Translated by
R E ANDERSON, M A Post 8vo, half bound, 2s
Brydges, (Harold).-Uncle Sam at Home. With 9I Illustrations.
Post 8vo, illustratt d boards, 2s., cloth limp, os 6d,
\
4. CHATTo & WinDUS, PUBLISHERS, PiccADILLY.
Buchanan (Robert), Works by. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 6s. each.
Selected Poems of Robert Buchanan. With Frontispiece by T DALZIEL.
The Earthquake; or, Six Days and a Sabbath
The City of Dream • An Epic Poem With Two Illustrations by P MACNAB
The Yandering Jex. A Christmas Carol
The Outcast : A Rhyme for the Time With 15 Illustrations by RUDOT F BLIND, PET ER MACNAB,
and HUME NISBET Small demy 8vo, cloth extra, 8s
Robert Buchanan’s Poetical Works. With Steel plate Portrait Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 7s 6d
Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. 6d each, post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s each
The Shadow of the SYWord. Love Me for Exer. With Trontispiece
A Child of Nature. With Frontispiece Annan Yater. | Foxglove Manor,
God and the Man. With II Illustrations by The NeYº. Abelard.
FRED BARNARD Matt - A Story of a Caravan With Frontispiece.
The Martyrdom of Madleline, With The Master of the Mine. With kºrontispiece.
lºrontispiece by A. W. COOPER The Heir of Linne,
Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s 6d each.
Yoman and the Man. I Red and YInite Heather, | Rachel Dene,
Lady Kilpatrick. Crown 8vo, cloth cvtra, 6s
The Charlatan. By RobrPT BUCHANAN and HENRY MURRAY. With a Frontispiece by T. H.
ROBINSON Clown 8vo, cloth, 3s 6d [S/tort/y.
Burton (Richard F.).—The Book of the Sword. With over 4oo
Illustrations Demy 4to, cloth extra, 32s
Burton (Robert). —The Anatomy of Melancholy. With Tiansla-
tions of the Quotations Demy 8vo, cloth extra, 7s
Melancholy Anatomised: An Abridgment of BURTON'S ANATOMY Post 8vo, half ba , 2s 6d.
Caine (T. Hall), Novels by. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. 6d. each ,
post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s each , cloth limp, 2s 6d each
The Shadow of a Crime. A Son of Hagar. | The Deernster.
A LIBRARY EDITION of The Deemster is now ready, and one of The Shadowy of a Crime
is in preparation, set in new typc, crown 8vo, cloth decorated, 6s each
Cameron (Commander V. Lovett).—The Cruise of the “Black
Prince' Privateer Post 8vo, picture boards, 2s
Cameron (Mrs. H. Lovett), Novels by. Post 8vo, illust. bās. 2s. ea.
Juliet's Guardian. Deceivers EYer.
Cai Iyle (Jane Welsh), Life of. By Mrs. ALEXANDER IRELAND. With
Portrait and Facsimile Letter Small demy 8vo, cloth extra, 7s 6d
Carlyle (Thomas).-On the Choice of Books. Post 8vo, cl, Is. 6d.
Gorrespondence of Thomas Carlyle, and R. W. Emerson, 1834, 1872. Edited by
C D NOR TON With Portraits Two Vols, crown 8vo, cloth, 24s
Carruth (Hayden).-The Adventures of Jones. With 17 Illustra-
tions Fcap 8vo, cloth, 2s
Chambers (Robert W.), Stories of Paris Life by. Long feap. 8vo,
loth, 66. l
#. àng in Yellow. | In the Quarter.
Chapman’s (George), Works. Vol. I, Plays Complete, including the
Doubtful Oncs —Vol II, Poems and Minor Translations, with Lssay by A C SWINBURNE –Vol
III, Translations of the Iliad and Odyssey Three Vols, crown 8vo, cloth, 6t each
chappie (J. Mitcheil).-The Minor Chord: The Story of a Prima
IDonna Crown 8vo, cloth, 3s 6d
Citatio W. A.) and J. Jackson.--A Treatise on Wood Engraving,
IIIstolicai and Practical With Chaptor by II G BOHN, and 450 fine Illusts Large 4to, half leather, 28c.
Chaucer for Children: A Golden Key. By Mrs H. R. HAWEIs. With
8 Colouncel Plates and 30 Woodcuts. Crown 4to, cloth extra, 3s 6d
Chaucer for Schools. By Mrs II R HAWEIS Demy 8vo, cloth limp, 2s 6&
Chess, The Laws and Practice of. With an Analysis of the Open-
ings By IIoward STAUNTON Edited by R B WORMAID Crown 8vo, cloth, 5s
The Minor Tactics of Chess " A Treatise on the Pºplºt of the Forces in obedience to Stra
tegic Principle By F. K YOUNG and E C IIOWELI ong ſcap 8vo, cloth, 2s 6d
The Hastings Chess Tournament Book (Aug. Sept , 1895) . Containing the Official Report of
the 231 Games played in the Tournament, with Notes by the Players, and Diagrams of Interesting
Positions, Portlants and Biographical Sketches of the Chess Masters, and an Account of the
Congress and its surroundings row n 8vo, cloth extra, 7s 67 net. [Shortly
CHATTO & WINDUS, PUBLISHERS, PICCADILLY. 5
Clare (Austin).-For the Love of a Lass. Post 8vo, 2s. ; cl, 2s. 6d.
Clive (Mrs. Archer), Novels by. Post 8vo, Illust. boards, 2s. each
Paul Ferroll. | YWhy Paul Ferroll Killed his Wife.
Clodd (Edward, F.R.A.S.).-Myths and Dreams. Cr. 8vo, 3s. 6d
Cobban (J. Maclaren), Novels by.
The Cure of Souls. Post 8vo, Illustrated boards, 2s
The Red Sultan, Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s 6d , post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s
The Burden of Isabel. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, as 6d
Coleman (John).—Players and Playwrights I have Known. Two
Vols, demy 8vo, cloth, 24s
Coleridge (M. E.).-The Seven Sleepers of Ephesus. Cloth, Is 6d.
Collins (C. Allston).-The Bar Sinister. Post 8vo, boards, 2s
Collins (John Churton, M.A.), Books by.
Illustrations of Tennyson. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 6s
Jonathan Swift A Biographical and Critical Study Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 8s
Collins (Mortimer and Frances), Novels by.
Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s 6d each, post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s each.
From Midnight to IIidnight. Blacksmith and Scholar.
Transmigration. | You Play me False. | A Yıllage Comedy,
Post 8vo, Illustratcd boards, 2s each
SYeet Anne Page. A Fight with Fortune. Sweet and Tyronty. | Frances,
Collins (Wilkie), Novels by.
Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s 6d each, post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s each, cloth limp, 2s 6d each.
Antonina. With a Frontispiece by Sir JOHN GII BEPT, R A
Basil. Illustrated by Sir Join, GIf Brri, R A , and J MAHONFY
Hide and Seek. Illustrated by Sir JOIIN GILBFRT, R A , and J MAHONFY
After Dark. With Illustrations by A B IIOUGIIT ON | The Tyszo Destinies.
The Dead Secret. With a Frontispiece by Sir JOHN GILBERT, R A
Queen of Hearts. With a lºrontispiece by Sir JOHN GILBTR. T., R. A
The YWoman in Yºſhite. With Illustrations by Sir JOHN GILBERT, R A , and F A ITRASER.
No Name. With Illustrations by Sir J D MILLAIS, R A , and A W Cooper
My Miscellanies... With a Steel plate Portrait of WILH-ID COLLINS
Armadale. With Illustrations by G H THOMAS
The Moonstone. _With Illustrations by G DU MAURITR and F A FRASER t
Man and Yife. With Illustrations by WILLIAM SMALL
Poor Miss Finch, Illustrated by G DU MAURIER and DDWARD HUGHTS
Miss or Mrs. 7 With Illustrations by S L ITILDLS, R A , and IIFNRY WOODS, A R A.
The Nex Magdalen. Illustrated § G DU MAURILR and C S RCINIIARD I
The Frozen Deep. Illustrated º G DU MAURILR and J MA"IONEY
The Law and the Lady. With Illustrations by S L TILDLS, R A , and SY DNEY HALL.
The Haunted Hotel. With Illustrations by ARTHUR HOPKINS
The Fallen Lueayes, Heart; and Sciences The Evil Genius.
Jezebel’s Daughter, * I Say No.” Little Novels. Irontis,
The Black Robe. A Rogue’s Life. The Legacy of Cain,
Blind Lowe. With a Preface by Sir WALTER BESANT, and Illustrations by A TORÉS 1 IER
POPULAR EDITIONS Medium 8vo, 6d each, cloth, rs each
* Who Yonnan in White. | The Moonstone.
Colman’s (George). Humorous Works: ‘Broad Grins,’ ‘My Night-
gown and Slippers,' &c. With Life and I'rontispiece Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 7s 6d.
Colquhoun (M. J.).—Every Hnch a Soldier. Post 8vo, boards, 2s.
Colt-breaking, Hints on. By W. M. HUTCIIISON. Cr 8vo, cl, 3s.6d.
Convalescent Cookery. By CATHERINE RYAN Cr 8vo, Is , cl, Is. 6d.
Conway (Moncure D.), Works by.
Demonology and Devil-Lore. With 65 Illustrations Two Vols, demy 8vo, cloth, 28s
George YWashington's Rules of Cuxility. Tcap 8vo, Japanese vellum, 2s 67
Cook (Dutton), Novels by.
Paul Foster's Daughter. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s 6d , post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s
Leo. Post 8vo, illustrated boards, -s
Cooper (Edward H.).—Geoffory Hamilton. Cr. 8vo, cloth, 3s 6d
Cornwall.—Popular Romances of the West of England; or, The
Drolls, Traditions, and Superstations of Old Cornwall Collected by RoberTHUNT, F R S With
two Steel Plates by GEORGE CRUIl-SILANK Crown 8vo, cloth, 7s 6d

Cotes (V. Cecil).--Two Girls on a Barge. With 44 Illustrations by
F. H TOWNSEND. Post 8vo, cloth, 2s 6d.
6 CHATTO & WINDUS, PUBLISHERS, PICCADILLY.
Craddock (C. Egbert), Stories by.
The Prophet of the Great Smoky Mountains. Post 8vo, illustrated boards, as.
His Yanished Star. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 33 6d
Crellin (H. N.) Books by.
Romances of the Old Seraglio. With 28 111ustrations by S L WOOD Crown 8vo, cloth, 3s.6d.
Tales of the Caliph. Crown 8vo, cloth, 2s
The Nazarenes A Drama Crown 8vo, 1s
Crim (Matt.).-Adventures of a Fair Rebel. Crown 8vo, cloth
extra, with a Frontispiece by DAN BIT ARD, 3s 6d , post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s
Crockett (S. R.) and others. — Tales of Our Coast. By S. R.
CROCKETT, GILBERT PARKER, HAROLD FRLDFRIC, “Q ,' and W CLARK RUSSELL With 12
Illustrations by I. RANK BRANGWYN Crown 8vo, cloth, 3s 6d [Shortly,
Croker (Mrs. B. M.), Novels by. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. 6d.
each,_post 8vo, illustrated boards 2s each, cloth limp, 2s 6d each
Pretty Miss Neville. | Diana, Barrington, | A Family Likeness,
A Bird of Passage. Proper Pride. * To Let.”
Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s 6d each.
Yillage Tales and Jungle Tragedies.
Mr. Jery is, | The Real Lady Hilda, [Shortly,

Married or Single 7 Three Vols, crown 8vo, 15s net
Cruikshank’s Comic Almanack. Complete in Two SERIES The
TIRST, from 1835 to 1843, the SECOND, from 1844 to 1853 A Gathering of the Best Humour of
THACKERAY, IIOOD, MAYIILW, ALBERT SMITH, A'BECKETT, ROBERT BROUGH, &c. With
numerous Steel Lngravings and Woodcuts by GEORGE CRUIKSHANK., HINE, LANDELLS, &c.
Two Vols , crown 8vo, cloth gilt, 7s 6d each
The Life of George Cruikshank. By BLANCIIARD JERROLD. With 84 Illustrations and a
Bibliography Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 6s
Cumming (C. F. Gordon), Works by. Demy 8vo, cl. ex., 8s. 6d. ea
In the Hebrides. With an Autotype Trontispiece and 23 Illustrations
In the Himalayals and on the §ai: lains. With 42 Illustrations.
Two Happy Years in Ceylon. With 28 Illustrations
Yia. Cornwall to Egypt. With a Photogravure Frontispiece Demy 8vo, cloth, 7s 6d
Cussans (John E.).-A Handbook of Heraldry; with Instructions
for Tracing Pedigrees and Deciphering Ancient MSS , &c Fourth Edition, revised, with 408 Woodcuts
and 2 Coloured Plates Crown 8vo, cloth CXtra, 6s
Cyples (W.).—Hearts of Gold. Cr. 8vo, cl, 3s. 6d., post 8vo, bds., 2s.
Daniel (George).-Merrie England in the Olden Time. With
Illustrations by ROHLRT CRUIKSHANK Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 33 6d
Daudet (Alphonse).-The Evangelist; or, Port Salvation. Crown
8vo, cloth extra, 3s 6d , post 8vo, illustrated boards, 23.
Davenant (Francis, M.A.).-Hints for Parents on the Choice of
a Profession for their Sons when Starting in Life Crown 8vo, 1s cloth, 1 c 6d
Davidson (Hugh Coleman).-Mr. Sadier's Daughters. With a
Trontispiece by S I ANLEY WOOD Crown 8vo, cloth cºtra, 3 - 6d.
Davies (Dr. N. E. Yorke=), Works by. Cr 8vo, Is, ea, cl., Is, 6d, ea.
One Thousand Medical Maxims and Surgical Hints,
Nursery Hints A Mother's Guide in IIealth and Disease
Foods for the Fat A Treatise on Corpulency, and l Dietary for its Cure.
Aids to Long Life. Crown 8vo, 2s , cloth limp, 2s 6d
Davies' (Sir John) Complete Poetical Works. Collected and Edited,
with Introduction and Notes, by Rev A B GROSART, D D Two Vols, crown 8vo, cloth, 12s.
Dawson (Erasmus, Mºſhe Fountain of Youth. Crown 8vo,
cloth extra, with Two Illustrations by HUME NISBET, 3s 6d , post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s
De Guerin (Maurice), The Journal of. Edited by G. S TREBUTIEN.
With a Memoir by SAINTE, BEUVE Translated from the 20th Trench Edition by JESSIE P FROTH.
INGHAM FCap 8vo, half bound, 2s 6d
De Maistre (Xavier).—A Journey Round my Room. Translated
by Sir IIENRY ATTWELI Post 8vo, cloth limp, 2s 6d.
De Mille (James).—A Castle in Spain. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, with
a Frontispiece, 3s 6d , post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s
Derby (The): The Blue Ribbon of the Turf, with Brief Accounts
of Tiip OAKS. By LOUIS IIHNRY CURZON. Crown 8vo, cloth limp, 2s. 6d,
Aºf.” ---, cHATTo & wind US, PUBLISHERS, Piccadilly. 7
Derwent (Leith), Novels by. Cr. 8vo, cl, 3s 6d, ea., post 8vo, 2s. ea.
Our Lady of Tears. | Circe's Loyers.
Dewar (T. R.).--A Rample Round the Globe. With 220 Illustra-
tions Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 7s 6
Dickens (Charles), Novels by. Post 8vo, 111ustrated boards, 2s each.
Sketches by Boz, | Nicholas Nickleby. | Oliyer Tywist.
About England with Dickens. . By ALFRED RIMMER. With 57 Illustrations by C. A. VANDER-
HOOF, ALITRDD RIMMER and others Square 8vo, cloth extra, 7s 6d
Dictionaries.
A pictionary of Miracles: Imitatiye, Realistic, and Dogmatic By the Rev E C BRTwº:R,
L Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 7s
The Reader’s Handbook of Allusions, References, Plots, and Stories. By the Rov
L C BREWER, LL D With an ENGLISH BIBLIOGRAPHY Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 7s 6d
Authors and their Yorks, with the Dates Crown 8vo, cloth !. 2.5
Familiar Short Sayings of Great Men. With IIistorical and Explanatory Notes by SAMUEL
A BENT, A M Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 7s 6d
The Slang Dictionary. Ltymological, Histolical, and Anecdotal. Crown 8vo, cloth, 6s 6d
Yords, Facts, and Phrases A Dictionary of Curious, Quaint, and Out of the Way Matters By
ELIEZLR LDWARDS Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 7s 6d
Diderot.—The Paradox of Acting. Translated, with Notes, by
WALTER HERRIES POLLOCK With Preface by Sir IIENRY IRVING Crown 8vo, parchment, 4.s 6d.
Dobson (Austin), Works by.
Thomas Beywick and his Pupils. With 95 Illustrations Square 8vo, cloth, 6s.
Four Frenehyomen. With Tour Portraits Crown 8vo, buckram, gilt top, 63.
Eighteenth Century Yignettes. TWO SERIES Crown 8vo, buckram, 6s each –A THIRD
SERIES is in preparation
Dobson (W. T.)—Poetical Ingenuities and Eccentricities. Post
vo, cloth limp, 23.
Donovan (Dick), Detective Stories by.
Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s each, cloth lump, 2s 6d each
X
The Man-Hunter. Yanted, A Detectiye's Triumphs.
Caught at Last. In the Grip of the Law.
Tracked and Taken. From Information Received.
YWho Poisoned Hetty Duncan 7 Link by Link. Dark Deeds.
Suspicion Aroused. The Long Arm of the Law. [Shortly.
Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s 6d each , post 8vo, illustrated boards, 23 each, cloth, 2s 6d each
The Man from Manchester. With 23 Illustrations
Tracked to Doom. With Six full page illustrations by GoRDON BRownB.
The Mystery of Jamaica Terrace. Crown 8vo, cloth, 3s 6d [Shortly.
Doyle (A. Conan).—The Firm of Girdlestone. Cr 8vo, cl., 3s 6d
Dramatists, The Old. Crown 8vo, cl ex, with Portraits, 6s per Vol.
Ben, Jonson's Works. With Notes, Critical and Explanatory, and a Biographicaſ Memoir by
WII LIAM GIFFORD Edited by Colonel CUNNINGHAM 1 hree Vols
chººl's Yorks. Three Vols Vol I contains the Pl §s complete, Vol II, Poems and Minor
ranslations, with an Essay by A. Q. SWINBURNL, Vol. III, Translations of the Iliad and Odyssey.
Marlovye's Works. Editod, with Notes, by Colonel CUNNINGHAM One vol
Massinger's Plays. From GIFT ORD S Text Edited by Colonel CUNNINGHAM One Vol
Duncan (Sara Jeannette: Mrs EveRARD COTEs), Works by.
Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 7s 6d each
A Social Departure With III Illustrations by F. H. TownsrND
An American Girl in London. With 80 Illustrations by R H Townsp ND
The Simple Adventures of a Memsahib. With 37 illustrations by F. H. Townsend,
Crown 8vo, cloth cxtra, 33 6d each
Å Daughter of To-Day. | Yernon's Aunt. With 47 Illustrations by HAL HURST
Dyer (T. F. Thiselton).—The Folk-Lore of Plants. Cr 8vo, cl, 6s.
Early English Poets. Edited, with Introductions and Annotations,
y Rev. A. B. GROSART, DD Crown 8vo, cloth boards, 6s per Volum
Fletcher’s (Giles) Complete Poems. One Vol p Ge
Davies’ (Sir John) Complete Poetical Works. Two Vols
Herrick’s (Robert). Complete Collected Poems. Three Vols
Sidney’s (Sir Rhilip) Complete Poetical Yorks. Three Vols

Edgcumbe (Sir E. R. Pearce).- Zephyrus: A Holiday in Brazil
and on the River Plate With 41 Illustrations Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 53
Edison, The Life and Inventions of Thomas A. By V —-g
Antonia DICKSON. With 200 Illustrations by R. F. OUTcALT, &c. Demy 4to, A.Y.;; and
*.
§ CHAtto & WINDUS, publishERS, piccAffiliy.
Edwardes (Mrs. Annie), Novels by. i
Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s each
Archie Lowell. | A Point of Honour.
Edwards (Eiiczer).--Words, Facts, and Phrases: A Dictionary
of Curious, Quaint, and Out of the Way Matters Crown 8vo, cloth, 7s 6d, –4–4–-
Edºards (M. Betham=), Novels by. *
itty. Post 8vo, boards, 2s , cloth, 2s. 6d | Felicia. I’ost 8vo, illustratorl boards, cy
Egerton (Rev. J. C., M.A.). — Sussex Folk and Sussex, Ways.
With Introduction by Rev Dr II WACE, and Four Illustrations Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 5s
Eggleston (Edward).-Roxy : A Novel Post 8vo, illust boards, 2s.
Englishman’s House, The . A Practical Guide for Selecting or Build-
ing a IIouse By C J RICHARDSON Coloured T1 ontispiece and 534 Illusts Cr 8vo, cloth, 7s 6d
W | #
Ewald º: Charles, §: Works by.
The Life and Times of Prince Charles Stuart, Count of Albany (TIIE YOUNG PRETFN
DTR) With a Portrait Crown 8vo, cloth evtra, 7s 6d
Stories from the State Papers. With Autotype 1 rontispiece Crown 8vo, cloth, 6s
Eyes, Our : How to Preserve Them. By JOHN BROWNING. Cr 8vo, Is.
Familiar Short Sayings of Great Men. By SAMUEL ARTHUR BENT,
A M Fifth Ddition, Revised and Enlarged Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 7s 67
Faraday (Michael), Works by. Post 8vo, cloth extra, 4s 6d each.
The Chemical History of a Candle Lectures delivered before a Juvenile Audience Edited
% WILLIAM CROOKES, F C S With numorous Illustrations Y
On the Yarious Forces of Nature, and their Relations to each other. Edited by
WILLIAM CROOKES, F C S With Illustrations
Farrer (J. Anson), Works by.
Military Manners and Customs. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 6s
ar. Three Essays, reprinted from ‘Military Manners and Customs " Crown 8vo, 1s , cloth, 1s 6d.
Fenn (G. Manville), Novels by.
Crown 8vo, cloth cxtra, 3s 6d each, post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. each.
The Noy Mistress, | YWitness to the Deed,
Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s 6d each
_The Tiger Lily: A Tale of Two Passions | The White Yirgin.
Fin-Bec.—The Cupboard Papers: Observations on the Art of Living
and Dining Post 8vo, cloth limp, 2s 6d
Fireworks, The Complete Art of Making ; or, The Pyrotechnist's
I reasury By TIIOMAS KENTISH With 267 Illustrations Crown 8vo, cloth, 5s
First Book, My. By WALTER BESANT, JAMES PAyN, W. CLARK RUs-
Sl I T, GRAN T ALLIN, HALL CAINE, GEORGF R SIMS, RUDYARD RIPLING, A CONAN DOYLF,
M l BRADIOON, I W ROBINSON, II RIDI R HAGGARD, R M BALLAN I YNE, I ZANG, WILL,
Mok I ry RobH R1S, D CIIRIS 1 IE MURRAY, MARY CORLLLI, J K J Romp, John Strant, B.
WINI FR, 13RET HAR 1 F, ‘Q,' ROBERT BUCHANAN, and R L S TEVLNSON With a Prefatory Story
by JEROME K JEROME, and 185 Illustrations Small demy 8vo, cloth extra, 7s 6d
Fitzgerald (Percy), Works by.
The YWorld Behind the Scenes. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s 6d
Little Essays Passages from the Letters of CHARLES 1 AMB Post 8vo, cloth, 2s 6d
Day's Tour : A Journey through France and Belgium With Sketchcs Clown 4to, rs,
Fatal Zero Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s 6d , post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s.
Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s cach
Rolla, Donna, The Lady of Brantonne, | The Second Mrs. Tillotson,
Polly, Neyer Forgotten. Seventy-flye Brooke Street,
The Life of James Boswell (of Auchinleck). With Illusts Two Vols, demy 8vo, cloth, 243.
The Savoy Opera. With 60 Illustrations and, Portraits. Crown 8vo, cloth, 3s 6d. \
Sir Henry Irving : T wenty Ycals at the Lyceum With Portrait Crown 8vo, 1s , cloth, 1s 6d
Flammarion (Camille), Works by.
Popular Astronomy: A General Description of the Heavens Translated by J. ELLARD GoRE,
1. R A S With Three Plates and 283 Illustrations Medium 8vo, cloth, 16s
Urania. . A Romance. With 87 Illustrations Clown 8vo, cloth extra, 5s *
Fletcher’s (Gifes, B.D.). Complete Poems: Christ's Victorie in
IIcaven, Christ's Victorie on Earth, Christ's Triumph oyer Death, and Minor Poems With Notes by
Pay A, B GROSAR 1, D ID Crown 8vo, cloth bouds, 6s
Fonblanque (Albany).—Filthy Lucre. Post 8vo, illust, boards, 2s.
&
º & CHATTO & WINDUS, PUBLISHERS, PICCAD LLY, 9
Francillon (R. E.), Novels by.
Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s 6d ench, post 8vo, illustrated boards, 25 each.
One by One. | A Real Queen, King or Knaye,
ºo: Sand, Illustrated A Dog and his Shadoyº,
Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s each
Queen Gophetua, Olympia. | Romances of the Law.
Jack Doyle’s Daughter. Crown 8vo, cloth, 3, 6d
Esther’s Glove. Foap 8vo, picture cover, Is
Seth's Brother’s YWife. The Lawton Girl.
French Literature, A History of. By HENRY VAN LAUN. Three
Vols, demy 8vo, cloth boards, 7s 6d each
Friswell (Hain).-One of Two: A Novel. Post 8vo, illust bds ; 2s.
Frost (Thomas), Works }. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s 6d, each.
Circus Life and Circus Celebrities. | Lives of the Conjurers,
The Old Showmen and the Old London Fairs.
Fry’s (Herbert), Royal Guide to the London Charities. Edited
by JOHN LANE Published Annually Crown 8vo, cloth, 1s 6d
Gardening Books. Post 8vo, Is... each, cloth limp Is. 6d each
A Year's Work in Garden and Greenhouse. By GEORGF GLFNNY.
Household Horticulture. By TOM and JANE JI RROLD Illustrated
The Garden that Paid the Rent. By TOM JLRROLD
My Garden Wild. By FRANCIS G IIFATH Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 6s
Gardner (Mrs. Alan). Rifle and Spear with the Rajpoots: Being
the Narrative of a Winters vel and Sport in Northern India. With numerous Illustrations by the
Author and F II TOWNSEND Dcmy 4to, half bound, 21s
Garrett (Edward).—The Capel Girls: A Novel Crown 8vo, cloth
extra, with two Illustrations, 3s 6d , post 8vo, illustrated boards, as
Gaulot (Paul).-The Red Shirts: A Story of the Revolution . Trans-
lated by JoriN DE VILLIERs With a Irontispiece by STANLEY Wood Crown 8vo, cloth, 3s 6d
Gentleman’s Magazine, The. Is. Monthly Contains Stories,
Articles upon Literature, Science, Biography, and Art, and ‘Table Talk' by SYLVANUS URBAN.
*** Boland Polumes ſon 1 ccent 1 can s &pt 1ſt stock, 8s 6d each Cases for buta'ung', 2's
Gentleman’s Annual, The. Published Annually in November. Is.
German Popular Stories. Collected by the Brothers GRIMM and
Translated by FDGAR TAYLOR With Introduction by JOHN RUSKIN, and 22 Steel Plates after
GeoRGE CRUIKSHANK Square 8vo, cloth, 6s 6d , gilt edges, 7s 6d
Gibbon (Charles), Novels by.
Crown 8vo, cloth cvtia, 3s 6d each, post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s each
Robin Gray, Iºrontispiece | The Golden Shaft. Frontispiece | Loying a Dreams
Frederic (Harold), Novels by. Post 8vo, illust, boards, 2s. each.
|


Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s each
The Floyer of the Forests In Love and Yar.
The Dead Heart;. A Heart's Sºroblem.
For Lack of Gold. By Mead and Stream.
What Will the YWorld Say? The Braes of Yarrow.
For the King. | A Hard Knot, K'anoy Free. | Of High Degree,
Queen of the Meadox, In Honour Bound.
In Pastures Green. Heart’s Delig'at. Blood Money
º
Gibney (Somerville).-Sentenced 1 Crown 8vo, 1s. ; cloth, Is. 6d
Gilbert (W. S.), Original Plays by. In Three Series, 2s. 6d, each.
The FIRS I, SERIES contains The Wicked World—Pygmalion and Galatea—Charity—The Princess—
The Palace of Truth–Trial by Jury
The SPCOND SFRIES Broken Hearts—Engaged—Sweethearts—Gretchen–Dan'l Druce–Tom Cobb
—II M.S ‘Pinafore '—The Sorcerer—1 he [?irates of Penzance
The THIRD SDRIES - Comedy and Tragedy—loggerty's I nury—Rosencrantz and Guildenstern—
Patience-Princess Ida—The Mikado—Ruddigore—1 he Yeomen of the Guard—I he Gondoliers—
The Mountebanks-Utopia
Eight Original Comic Operas written by W S GILBERT containing The Sorcerer—II M S
Pinafore '-The Pirates of Penzance—Iolanthe—Patience—Puncess Ida—l he Mikado–Trial by
}"3 Demy 8vo, cloth lump, 2 × 6&
The Gilbert, and Sulliyān Birthday Book: Quotations for Dvery D ty in the Year, selected
from Plºys by W.S. Gil Bills I set to Music by Sur A. SULI IVAN, Compled by ALLX, WATson,
Royal 16myo, Japan.Sc leather, 25, 6d.
-** *-*.
10 CHATTO & WINDUS, PUBLISHERS, Piccadilly,
Gilbert (William), Novels by. Post 8vo, illustrated bds., 2s. each,
Dr. Austin’s Guests. James Duke, Costermonger,
The Wizard of the Mountain.
Glanville (Ernest), Novels by.
Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s 6d each, post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s each.
The Lost Heiress - A Tale of Love, Battle, and Adventure With Two Illustrations by H. NISBET,
The Fossicker A Romance of Mashonaland With Two Illustrations by HUMD NISãET.
A Fair Colonist. With a Frontispiece by ST ANI LY WOOD
The Golden Rock. With a Trontis by STANLEY Wood Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s 6d
Glenny (George).-A Year's Work in Garden and Greenhouse:
Practical Advice as to the Management of the Tlower, Fruit, and Frame Garden Post 8vo, 1s , cl lp, 1s 6d.
Godwin (William).-Lives of the Necromancers. Post 8vo, cl, 2s.
Golden Treasury of Thought, The . An Encyclopaedia of QUoTA-
TIONS Edited by THCODORE TAYLOR Crown 8vo, cloth gilt, 7s 6d
Gontaut, Memoirs of the Duchesse de (Gouvernante to the Chul-
dren of Trance), 1773–1836 With Two Photogravures Two Vols, demy 8vo, cloth extra, 2rs
Goodman (E. J.).-The Fate of Herbert Wayne. Cr. 8vo, 3s 6d.
Graham (Leonard).-The Professor’s Wife: A Story Fop. 8vo, Is.
Greeks and Romans, The Life of the, described from Antique
Monuments By DRNST GUIIL and W KonLR Edited by Dr F HUEI FER With 545 Illustra
tions Large crown 8vo, cloth extra, 7s 6d
Greenwood (James), Works by. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. 6d. each.
The Wilds of London, | Low-Life Deeps,
Greville (Henry), Novels by.
Nikanor. Translated by LLIZA E CIIAST Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2 º'
A Noble Woman. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 5: , post 8vo, Illustrated boards, 2s.
Griffith (Cecil).-Corinthia Marazion: A Novel. Crown 8vo, cloth
extrm, 3S 6d , post 8vo, Illustrated boards, 2s
Grundy (Sydney).-The Days of his Vanity: A Passage in the
Life of a Young Man Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 33 6d , post 8vo, Illustrated boards, 2.;
Habberton (John, Author of ‘Helen's Babies'), Novels by.
Post 8vo, Illustrated boards, 2s each , cloth limp, 2s 6d each
Brueton’s Bayou. | Country Luck.
Hair, The : Its Treatment in Health, Weakness, and Disease, Trans-
lated from the German of Dr J PINCUS Crown 8vo, rs , cloth, 1s 6d
Hake (Dr. Thomas Gordon), Poems by. Cr. 8vo, cl ex., 6s. each.
New Symbols. | Legends of the Morrow, | The Serpent Play.
Malden Ecstasy. Sinall 4to, cloth extra, 8s
Hall (Owen). —The Track of a Storm. Crown 8vo, cloth, 6s.
Hall (Mrs. S. C.).--Sketches of Irish Character. With numerous
Illustrations on Steel and Wood by MACLISL, GILBLRT, IIARVEY, and GEORGE CRUIKSHANK.
Small deliny 8vo, cloth extra, 7s 6d
Halliday (Andrew).-Every-day Papers. Post 8vo, boards, 2s.
Handwriting, The Philosophy of. With over Ioo Facsimiles and
Explanatory T ext Dy DON TF LIX LjF SALAMANCA Post 8vo, cloth limp, 2s 6d
Hanky-Panky: Easy and Difficult Tricks, White Magic, Sleight of
II and, &c. Lditcd by W. H. CREMIER With 200 Illustrations Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 4s 6d.
Hardy (Lady Duffus).-Paul Wynter’s Sacrifice. Post 8vo, bds, 2s.
Hardy (Thºmas);ºnder the Gireenwood Tree. Crown 8vo, cloth
extra, with Portrait and 15 Illustrations, 3s 6d , post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s cloth limp, 2s 6d
Harper (Charles G.), Works by. Demy, 8vo, cloth extra, 16s, each.
The Brighton Road. With Photogravure I'rontispiece and 90 Illustrations
From Paddington to Penzance The Record of a Summer T ramp With ro5 Illustrations
Harwood (J. Berwick).—The Tenth Earl, Post 8vo, boards, 25,
*…*...* CHATTO & WiNDUS, PUBLISHERS, PMCCADíLí.Y. f :
Harte's (Bret) Collected Works. Revised by the Author. LIBRARY
ED
ITION, in Eight Volumes, crown 8vo, cloth extra, 6s each
Vol. I ComPLeie PoeticAL AND DRAMAT ic Works With Steel plate Portrait
II THE LUCK OF ROARING CAMP-BOHEM IAN PAPCRS-AMERICAN LEGENDS,
... III TALES OF THE ARGONAU Ts—FASTLRN SKETCHES
, IV GABRIEL CONROY || Vol V STORIES–CONDENSLD NOVELS, &c
.., VI TALFs of T HE PACIFIC SLOPE
VII TALFS OF THE PACII IC SLOPE—II With Portrait by JOHN PETTIE, R.A.
, VIII TALEs of TIIF PINE AND THE CYPRESS
The Select Works of Bret Harte, in Prose and Poetry With Introductory Fssay by J. M.
BELLEW, Portrait of the Author, and 50 Illustrations Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 7s 6d
Bret Harte's Poetical Works. Printed on hand made paper Crown 8vo, buckram, 4s 6d
The Queen of the Pirate Isle. With 28 Original Drawings by KA TE GREEN AWAY, reproduced
in Colours by EDMUND EVANS Small 4to, cloth, 5s
Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s 6d each, post 8vo, picture boards, 2s each.
A Waif of the Plains. With 6o Illustrations by STANLEY L WOOD
A Yard of the Golden Gate. With 59 Illustrations by STANLEY L WOOD.
Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s 6d each
A iº of Green Springs, &c. With Two Illustrations by HUME NISBET
Colonel Starbottle’s Client, and Some Other People. With a Frontispiece.
Susy. A Novel. With Frontispiece and Vignette by J A CHRISTIF
Sally Dows, &c. With 47 Illustrations by W D ALMOND and others
A Protegee of Jack Hannlin’s. With 26 Illustrations by W S M ALI and others
The Beli-Ringer of Angel’s, &c. With 39 Illustrations by DUDLEY HARDY and others.
Clarence : A Story of the American War With Light Illustrations by A JULE GOODMAN.
Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s each
Gabriel Conroy. | The Luck of Roaring Camp, &c.
An Heiress of Red Dog, &C Californian Stories.
Post 8vo, Illustrated boards, 2s each, cloth, 2s 6d each
Flip, | Maruja. | A Phyllis of the Sierrass
Feap 8vo, picture cover, 1s each
Snow-Bound at Eagle’s. | Jeff Briggs's Love Story.
Haweis (Mrs. H. R.), Works by.
he Art of Beauty. With Coloured I rontispiece and 91 Illustrations Square 8vo, cloth bds, 6s
he Art of Decoration. With Coloured Frontispiece and 74 Illustrations Sq 8vo, cloth bds, 63.
he Art of Dress. With 32 Illustrations Post 8vo, 1s , cloth, 1s 6d
aucer for Schools. Demy 8vo, cloth limp, os 6d
haucer for Children. With 38 Illustrations (8 Coloured) Crown 4to, cloth extra, 3s 6d
Haweis (Rev. H. R., M.A.).-American Humorists: WASHINGTON
IRVING, OLIVER WITNDF LL II OLMI S, JAM H S RUSSTLL LOWELL, ARTEMUS WARD, MARK
TwAIN, and BRET HARTL Third Tolution Clown 8vo, cloth extra, 6s
Hawthorne (Julian), Novels by.
Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 35 6¢ each post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s each.
T
t
º
;
Garth. | Ellice Quentin, Beatrix Randolph. With Four IIlusts
Sebastian Strome. David Poindexter's Disappearange,
Fortune’s Fool. Dust. Four Illusts The Spectre of the Camera,
*
Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s each
Miss Cadogna, | Love—or a Name,
Mrs. Gainsborough’s Diamonds. I cap 8vo, illustrated cover, Is
Hawthorne (Nathaniel).-Our Old Home. Annotated with Pas-
sages from the Author's Note books, and Illust, nted with 31. Photogravures Two Vols, crgvo, 15s
Heath (Francis George).-My Garden Wild, and What I Grew
There Crown 8vo, cloth extrm, gilt edges, 6s
Helps (Sir Arthur), Works by: Post 8vo, cloth lump, 2s. 6d. each.
Animals and their Masters. Social Pressure.
Ivan de Biron • A Novel Crown 8vo, cloth extra, Cs 6d post 8vo, illustrated boards, 23.
Henderson (Isaac). — Agatha Page: A Novel Cr. 8vo, cl, 3s 6d
Henty (G. A.), Novels by. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. 6d. each.
Rujub the Juggler. With Eight Illustrations by ST ANLEY L WOOD
Dorothy's Double.
Herman (Henry).—A Leading Lady. Post 8vo, bds, 2s , cl, 2s 6d.
Herrick's (Robert), Hesperides, Noble Numbers, and Complete
Collected Poems. With Memorial Introduction and Notes by the Rey, A B, GRosari, D.D.,
Steel Portrait, &c. Three Vols , crown 8vo, cloth boards, 18s,
¥
12 chatto & WiNDUS, PUBLISHERS, PiccAbilly. *-º-
Hertzka (Dr. Theodor).-Freeland: A Social Anticipation. Trans-
lated by ART HURRANSOM Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 6s \
Hesse-Wartegg (Chevalier Ernst von).- Tunis: The Land and
the People With 22 Illustrations Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s 6d s
Hill (Headon).—Zambra the Detective. Post 8vo, bds., 2s.; cl, 2s 6d.
Hill (John), Works by.
Treason-Felony. Post 8vo, boards, 2s. | The Common Ancestor. Cr 8vo, cloth, 3s 6d.
Hindley (Charles), Works by.
Tayern necdotes and Sayings Including Reminiscences connected with Coſſee Houses,
Clubs, &c. With Illustrations Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s 6d'
The Life and Ādyentures of a Cheap Jack. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s 6d
Hodges (Sydney).--When Leaves were Green. 3 vols., 15s net tºº.
Hoey (Mrs. Cashel).-The Lover’s Creed. Post 8vo, boards, 2s
Hollingshead (John).—Niagara Spray. Crown 8vo, Is
Holmes (Gordon, M.D.)—The Science of Voice Production and
Yoice Preservation. Crown 8vo, Is , cloth, 1s 6d
Holmes (Oliver Wendelſ), Works by. i
The Autocrat of the Breakfast-Table. Illustrated by J GORDON THIOMSON Post 8vo, cloth
lump, 2s 6d —Another Edition, post 8vo, cloth, 2s
The Autocrat of the Breakfast-Table and The Professor at the Breakfast-Table,
In One Vol Post 8vo, half bound, 2s
Hood's (Thomas), Choice Works in Prose and Verse With Life of
the Author, Portrait, and 200 Illustrations Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 7s 6d
Hood's Whims and Oddities. With 85 Illustrations Post 8vo, halt bound, 2s
Hood (Tom).--From Nowhere to the North Pole: A Noah's
Arkaeological Narrative With 25 Illustrations by W BRUNT ON and E C BARNDS Cr 8vo, cloth, 6s.
Hook's (Theodore) Choice Humorous Works; including his Ludi-
crous Adventures, Bons Mots, Puns, and IIoaxes With Life of the Author, Portraits, Facsimiles, and
Illustrations Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 7s 6d
Hooper (Mrs. Geo.).-The House of Raby. Post 8vo, boards, 2s.
Hopkins (Tighe).-‘’Twixt Love and Duty.’ Post 8vo, boards, 2s.
Horne (R. Hengist). — Orion: An Epic Poem. With Photograph

Portrait by SUMMERS Tenth Edition Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 7s
Hungerford (Mrs., Author of ‘Molly Bawn'), Novels by.
Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s each, cloth limp, 2s 6d each
A Maiden All Forlorn, | In Durance Yile. | A Mental Struggle,
Marvel, A Modern Circe.
Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s 6d each
The Red-House Mystery. | The Three Graces. With 6 Illusts [Shortly.
Lady Yerner's Flight. . Crown 8vo, cloth, 3, 6d , post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s
The Professor’s Experiment. Three Vols, crown 8vo, 15s net
by EDMUND OLLILR Post 8vo, half bound, 2s
Hunt (Mrs. Alfred), Novels by.
Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s 6d each, post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s each
The Leadern Casket, | Self- Condemned. | That Other Person,
Thornicroft's Model. Post 8vo, boards, 2s . . . Mrs. Juliet. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. 6d.
Hutchison (W. M.).-Hints on Colt-breaking. With 25 Illustra-
tions Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s 6d
Hydrophobia: An Account of M PASTEUR's System, The Technique of
his Method, and Statistics By RBNAUD SUZOR, M B Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 6s
Hyne (C. J. Cutcliffe).- Honour of Thieves. Cr 8vo, cloth, 3s 6d.
Idler (The): An Illustrated Magazine Edited by J. K., JEROME. 6d.
Monthly. The First SEVEN WOLS are now ready, cloth extra, 5s each, Cases for Binding, Is. 6d each.
Hunt’s (Leigh) Essays: A Tale for a Chimney Corner, &c. Edited
, , CHATTO & WINDtſS, PUBLISHERS, PiCCADILLY. 13
Impressions (The) of Aureole. Crown 8vo, printed on blush-rose
_paper and handsomely bound, 6s
Indoor Paupers. By ONE OF THEM. Crown 8vo, Is., cloth, 1s 6d.
Ingelow (Jean).-Fated to be Free. Post 8vo, illustrated bds, 2s
Innkeeper’s Handbook (The) and Licensed Victualler’s Manual.
By J TRF voR DAVIES Crown 8vo, 1s cloth, 1s 6d
Irish Wit and Humour, Songs of. Collected and Edited by A.
PERCEVAL GRAVES Post 8vo, cloth limp, 2s 6d
Irving (Sir Henry): A Record of over Twenty Years at the Lyceum
By PERCY FITzGERALD With Portrait Crown 8vo, rs , cloth, 1s 6d
James (C. T. C.). — A Romance of the Queen’s Hounds. Post
8vo, picture cover, Is , cloth lump, 1s 6d
Jameson (William).-My Dead Self. Post 8vo, bds, 2s., cl, 2s. 6d
Japp (Alex. H., LL.D.).--Dramatic Pictures, &c. Cr 8vo, cloth, 5s
Jay (Harriett), Novels by. Pos 8vo, 111ustrated boards, 2s each.
The Dark Colleen, The Queen of Connadght.
Jefferies (Richard), Works by. Post 8vo, cloth lump, 2s. 6d each.
Nature near London. | The Life of the Fields. The Open Air.
*** Also the HAND MADE PAPER EDITION, crown 8vo, buckram, gilt top, Ös each
The Eulogy of Richard Jefferies. By Sir WALTER BES ANT With a Photograph Portrait.
Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 6s
Jennings (Henry J.), Works by.
Curiosities of Criticism. Post 8vo, cloth himp, os 6d
Lord Tennyson : A 13iographical Sketch With Port, ut Post 8vo, Is , cloth, 1s 67
Jerome (Jerome K.), Books by.
Stageland. With 64 Illustrations by J. BERNARD PART RIDGT Tcap 4to picture cover, rs
John Ingerfield, &c. With 9 Illusts by A S BOYD and JOIN GULICH I cap 8, o pic cov rs. 6d.
The Prude's Progress. A Comedy by J K JDROM1 and LDEN PHILLPO i*IS Cr 8vo, 1s 6d
Jerrold (Douglas).-The Barber’s Chair; and The Hedgehog
Letters. Post 8vo, printed on laid paper and half bound, 2s
Jerrold (Tom), Works by. Post 8vo, Is ea , cloth limp, Is. 6d. ea.
The Garden that Paid the Rent.
Household Horticulture • A Gossip about Flowers Illustrated
Jesse (Edward).-Scenes and Occupations of a Country Life.
Post 8vo, cloth limp, 2s
Jones (William, F.S.A.), Works by. , Cr 8vo, cl extra, 7s 6d, ea
Fingº Lore. Historical, Legendary, and Anecdotal With nearly 300 Illustrations. Second
Edition, Revised and Enlarged
Credulities, Past and Present, Including the Sea and Seamen, Miners, Talismans, Word and
Letter Divination, Exorcising and Blessing of Animals, Birds, Løgs, Luck, &c. With Irontispiece
Crowns and Coronations A History of Regalla With roo Illustrations
Jonson’s (Ben) Works. With Notes Critical and Explanatory, and
a Biographical Memoir by WILLIAM GIFFORD Edited by Colonel CUNNINGHAM Three Vols.
crown 8vo, cloth extra, 6s each
Josephus, The Complete Works of. Translated by WHISTON Con-
taining “The Antiquities of the Jews' and “The Wars of the Jews " With 52 Illustration d M
Two Vols, demy 8vo, halt bound, ros. 6d J 5 SEI lº! Oils all? aps
Kempt (Robert). —Pencil and Paiette : Chapters on Art and Artists
Post 8vo, cloth limp, 2s 6d
Kershaw (Mark). — Colonial Facts and Fictions: Humorous
Sketches Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 23 , cloth, 2s 67
Keyser (Arthur).-Cut by the Mess. Crown 8vo, Is , cloth, rs. 6d.
King (R. Ashe), Novcis by. Cr 8vo, cl, 3s 6d ea , post 8vo, bds, 2s ea.
|
, A Dravyn Game, * The Yoaring of the Grcoln.”
Tost 8vo, Illustrated boards, as t nch
Passion’s Slaye. | I.- IJ Barry.
14 CHATTO & WINDUS, PUBLISHERS, PICCADiLLY, 2. ----->
Knight (William, M.R.C.S., and Edward, L.R.C.P.). — The
Patient’s Yade Mecum : How to Get Most Benefit from Medical Advice. Cr 8vo, Is , cl, 1s 6d
Knights (The) of the Lion: A Romance of the Thirteenth Century.
Edited, with an Introduction, by the MARQUESS OF LORNE, KT Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 6s
*** **** *m
Lamb's. (Sharles) Complete Works in Prose, and Verse, including
“Poetry for Children' and ‘Prince Dorus' Edited, with Notes and Introduction, by R H SHEP
HERD. With Two Portraits and Facsimile of the “Essay on RoastPig ’ Crown 8vo, half bq , 7.s. 6d.
The Essays of Elia. Post 8vo, printed on laid paper and half bound, 2s
Little Essays. Sketches and Characters by CHARLES LAMB, selected from his Letters by PERCY
FITZGERALD Post 8vo, cloth lump, 2s 6d
The Dramatio Essays of Charles Lamb. . With Introduction and Notes by BRANDER MAT
THEWS, and Steel plate Portrait FCap 8vo, half bound, 2s 6d
Landor (Walter Savage).--Citation and Examination of William
Shakspeare, &c., before Sir Thomas Lucy, touching Deer stealing, 19th September, 1582 To which
is added, R Conference of Master Edmund Spenser with the Darl of Essex, touching the
State of Ireland, 1595 F.Cap 8vo, half Roxburghc, 2s 6d
Lane (Edward Williºli.Tº. Thousand and One Nights, com-
monly called in England. The Arabian Nights’ Entertainments. Translated from the Arabic,
with §. Illustrated with many hundred Engravings from Designs by HARVEY Edited by EDWARD
STANLEY POOLE With Preface by STANLEY LANE POOLL Three Vols, demy 8vo, cloth, 7s 6d ea
Larwood (Jacob), Works by.
The Story of the London Parks. With Illustrations Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. 6d.
Anecdotes of the Clergy. Post 8vo, laid paper, half bound, 2s
Post 8vo, cloth limp, 2s 6d each
Forensic Anecdotes, | Theatrical Anecdotes.
Lehmann (R. C.), Works by. Post 8vo, Is. each, cloth, Is. 6d. each.
Harry Fludyer at Cambridge.
Conversational Hints for Young Shooters • A Guide to Polite Talk
Leigh (Henry S.), Works by.
Carols of Cockayne. Printed on hand made paper, bound in buckram, 5s.
Jeux d’Esprit. Edited by II LNRY S L lic, H Post 8vo, cloth limp, 2s 6d
Lepelletier (Edmond). — Madame Sans-Gêne. Translated from
the French by JOHN DE VILLIERS Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s 6d
Leys (John).-The Lindsays: A Romance. Post 8vo, illust bds., 2s.
Lindsay (Harry).--Rhoda Roberts: A Welsh Mining Story. Crown
8vo, cloth, 3s 6d
Linton § Lynn), Works by. Foº 8vo, cloth limp, 2s. 6d. each.
Witch Stories, Ourselyes: Essays on Women.
Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3, 6d each, post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s each
Patricia Kemball. Ione. Under Yºzhich Lord 7 With 12 Illustrations,
The Atonement of Leam Dundas. * My Love 1 * | . . Sowing the Wind,
The YWorld Well Lost. With 12 Illusts Paston Carey, Millionaire and Miser.
} Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s each.
The Rebel of the Family. | YWith a Silken Thread,
The One Too Many. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s 6d
Dulcie Everton. Two Vols, crown 8vo, Ioy net [Shortly.
Freeshooting: Extracts fom the Works of Mrs LYNN LINTON Post 8vo, cloth, 2s. 6d.
Lucy (Henry W.).--Gideon Fleyce: A Novel. Crown 8vo, cloth
extra, 3s 6d , post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s
Macalpine (Avery), Novels by.
Teresa, Itasca, Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 13
Broken Wings. With Six Illustrations by W J HENNESSY Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 6s
MacColl (Hugh), Novels by.
Mp, Stranger's Sealed Packet. Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s.
Edmor Yhitlock. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 6’s —t-º-º-º-h-
Macdonell (Agnes),-Quaker Cousins. Post 8vo, boards, 2s.
MacGregor (Robert). —Pastimes and Players: Notes on Popular
Games Post 8vo, cloth limp, 2s 6d
Mackay (Charles, LL.D.). — Interludes and Undertones; or,
Music at Twilight Crown 8vo, cloth c \tra, 6s.
CHATTo &.WINDUS, PUBLISHERS, PICCADILLY, IS
McCarthy §§. M.P.), Works by.
A History of our own Times, from the Accession of Queen Victoria to the General Llection of
1880 §. Vols, demy 8vo, cloth extra, 12s each —Also a POPULAR EDI TION, in Four Vols ,
crown 8vo, cloth extra, 6s each —And the JUBILEE EDITION, with an Appendix of Events to the end
of 1886, in Two Vols, large crown 8vo, cloth extra, 7s 6d each
A Short History of our own Times. One Völ, crown 8vo, cloth extra, 6* —Also a CHEAP
PopULAR EDi'iion, post 8vo, cloth lump, 2s 6d
A History of the Four Georges. Four Vols, demy 8vo, cl. ex, 12s each [Vols I & II ready.
Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s 6d each, post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s each, cloth limp, 2s 6d each
The Waterdale Neighbourg, Donna. Quixote. With 12 Illustrations
My Enemy’s Daughter, The Comet of a Season.
A Fair Saxon. Maid of Athens. With 12 Illustrations.
Linley Rochford, Camiola. A Gill with a Tortune
Dear Lady Disdain The Dictator.
Miss Misanthrope. with 12 Illustrations. Red Diamonds.
• The Right Honourable.” By JUSTIN McCARTHY, MP, and Mrs CAMPBELL PRARP Crown
8vo, cloth extra, 6s
McCarthy (Justin Huntly), Works by.
The French G titlént Assembly, 1789-91) Four Vols, demy, 8vo, cloth extra, 12s,
© Rexolution. (Constitue %iº II*.*.*Vºi”:'Ivº:
eaCIl
An outline of the History of Ireland. Crown 8vo, 15, , §9th, ſº
Ireland since the Union. Sketches of Irish History, 1798 1886 Crown 8vo, cloth, 6.
Hafiz in London: Poems. Small 8vo, gold cloth, 3s 6d
Our Sensation Novel. Crown 8vo, picture cover, 1s , cloth limp, 1s 6d.
Doom. An Atlantic Episode Crown 8vo, picture cover; Is
Dolly - A Sketch Crown 8vo, picture cover, 1s cloth lump, Is 6&
Lily Lass. A Romance Crown 8vo, picture cover, Is , cloth limp, tº 6d
The Thousand and One Days. ith Two Photogravures Two Vols, crown 8vo, halfbd; rar
A London Legend. Crown 8vo, cloth, 33 6.d [Shortly,
MacDonald (George, LL.D.), Books by.
Yorks of Fancy and Imagination. Ten Vols, 16mo, cloth, gilt edges, in cloth case, 21s , or
the Volumes may be had separately, in Groller cloth, at 2s 6d each
Vol I WI TIIIN AND WITHOU T —T HE IIIDDEN LITF
,, II THE Disciple —THE Gospel Wom EN —Book OF SONINETS —ORGAN SONGS
... III Violin SoNCs –SoNGs of THE DAYS AND NIGII IS —A BOOK OF DREAMS —ROADSIDB
POEMS –POH, MS FOR CHILD RITN
,, . IV PARABLDS —BALLADS —SCOTCH SONGS
, V & VI PIIANTASTES A Faerie Romance | vol VII THE PORTENT.
, VIII THE LIGHT PRINCESS —THE GIAN I'S HEART —SHADOWS
... IX CROSS PURPOSEs —THE GOLDFN KEY —TIIT CARASOYN –LITTLE DAYLIGHT
..., X THE CRUI L PAINTCR —T HE Wow o' RivvlN — 1 III: CASTL} —THE BROKEN SWORDS,
—THE GRAY WOLF —UNCLE CORNLLIUS
Poetical Works of George MacDonald. Collected and Arranged by the Author. Two Vols.
crown 8vo, buckram, 12s
A Threefold Cord. Edited by GFORGE MACDONALD Post 8vo, cloth, 5s
Phantastes • A Faerie Romance With 25 Illustrations by J BELL Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. 6d.
Heather and Snow. A Novel. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 33 6d
Lilith. A Romance Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 6s
Maclise Portrait Gallery (The) of Illustrious Literary Charac-
ters' 85, Portraits by DANIEL MACLISE , with Memoirs—Biographical, Critical, Bibliographical,
and Anecdotal—illustrative of the Literature of the folner half of the Present Century, by WILLIAM
B VTES, B A Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 7s 6d
Macquoid (Mrs.), Works by. Square 8vo, cloth extra, 6s. each.
In the Ardennes. With 50 Illustrations by THOM \S R MACQUOID
Pictures and Legends from Normandy and Brittany. 34 lllusts by T. R. MACQUOID.
Through Normandy....With 93 Illustrations by l, R. M. ACQUOID, and a Map
Through Brittany. With § Illustrations by 1 R MACQUOID, and a Map
About Yorkshire. With 67 Illustrations by T R MACQUOID !
Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s each
The Evil Eye, and other Stories | Lost Rose, and other Stories
Magician’s Own Book, The : Performances with Eggs, Hats, &c.
Edited by W H CREMER With 200 Illustrations Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 4s 6d
Magic Lantern, The, and 1s Management • Including full Practical
Directions By T C HEPWORT II With Io Illustrations Crown 8vo, Is , cloth, 1s 6d.
Magna Charta: An Exact Facsimile of the Original in the British
Museum, 3 feet by 2 feet, with Arms and Senls emblazoned in Gold and Colours, 5s
Mallory. (Sir Thomas). — Mort d’Arthur: The Stories of King
Arthur and of the Knights of the Round 1 able, (A Selection ) Edited by B MonTCOMERIE
KING, Post 8VQ, Cloph lily)p, 2s. , (A Selection ) Edited by MERIB RAN
*
|
I6 CHATTo & WINDUS, PUBLISHERS, PiccADILLY.
Mººk (W. H.), Works by.
he New Republic Post 8vo, picture cover, 2s , cloth limp, as 6d
The New Paul & Yirginia. Positivism on an island fost 8vo, cloth, 2s 6d
A Romance of the Nineteenth Century. Crown 8vo, cloth 6s , post 8vo, illust, boards, as,
Poems. Small 4to, parchment, 8s
Is Life Bºorth Lixing 7 Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 6s
Mark Twain, Books by. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 7s 6d each.
The Glaoice Yorks of Mark Twain. Revised and Corrected throughout by the Author. With
Life, Portlant, and numerous Illustrations
Roughing It ; and The Innocents at Home. With 200 Illustrations by F A FRASER
Mark Twain’s Library of Humour. With 197 Illustuations
Crown 8vo, cloth extra (illustrated), 7s 6d each, post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s, each
The Innocents Abroad, or, The New Pilgrims Progress With 234 Illustrations (1he Two Shil-
ling Folition is ent,tled TRark, Twain’s Pleasure Trip.)
The Gilded Age. By MARK T WAIN and C D WARNLR. With 212 Illustrations.
The Adventures of Tom Sawyer. With III Illustrations,
A Tramp Abroad. With 314 Illustrations
The Prince and the Pauper. With 190 Illustrations
Life on the Mississippi. With 300 Illustrations
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. With rºd Illustrations by T W KTM my b,
A Yanked at the Court of King Arthur. With czo Illustrations by DAN BEARD.
Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s 6d each
The American Claimant. With 8r Illustrations by IIAL HURST and others.
Tom Sawyer Abroad. With 26 Illustrations by DAN BEARD
Pudd’nhead Yºſilson With Portlant and Six Illlllstrations by LOUIS LOEB.
Tom Sawyer, Detective, &c. With numerous Illus rations [Shortly.
The £1,000,000 Bank-Note. Crown 8vo, cloth, 3s 6d , post 8vo, picture boards 2s.
Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s each
The Stolen White Elophant. | Mark Twain's Sketches.
Marks (H. S., R.A.), Pen and Pencil Sketches by. With Four
Photogravures and 126 Illustratons Two Vols demy 8vo, cloth, 32s.
Marlowe’s Works. Including his Translations. Edited, with Notes
and Introductions, by Colonel CUNNINGIIAM Crown 8vo, cloth cvtra, 6s
Mºriyat (Florence), Novels by. Post 8vo, illust. boards, 2s. each.
A Harvest of Yiğıld Oats. Fighting the Air,
Open 1 Sesame 1 YWritten in Fire.
Massinger’s Plays. From the Text of WILLIAM GIFFORD, Edited
by Col CUNNINGII AM Crown 8vo, cloth cvtra, 6s
Masterman (J.).-Half-a=Dozen Daughters. Post 8vo, boards, 2s.
Matthews (B1 and cr).—A Secret of the Sea, &c. Post 8vo, illus-
trated boards, 23 , cloth lump, 2s 6d'
Mayhew (Henry).-London Characters, and the Humorous Side
London Life With numerous Illu'.tr utions Crown 8vo, cloth, 35 6d
Meade (L. T.), Novels by. Crown 8vo, cloth, 3s. 6d each.
A Soldier of K'ortune. | In an Iron Grip.
The Yoice of tho Chalºmer. Three Vols, 15 º not
Merrick (Leonard).-The Man who was Good. Post 8vo, illus-
trated boards, or
Mexican Mustang (Ori a), through Texas to the Rio Grande. By
A E SWFTT and J ARMOY IS-NON With 265 Illustrations Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 7s 6d
Middlemass (Jean), Novels by... Post 8vo, 111ust. boards, 2s. each.
Touch and Go. | Mr. Dorillion.
Miller (Mrs. F. Fenwick).-Physiology for the Young; or, The
House of Life With numerous Illustrations Post 8vo, cloth lump, 2s 6d
Milton (J. L.), Works by. Post 8vo, Is each , cloth, 1s. 6d. each.
The Hygiene of the Skin. With Directions for Dict, Soaps, Baths, Wines, &c
Tºle Bath in Diseases of the Skin.
The Laws of Life, and their Relation to Diseases of the Skin.
Minto (Wm.).-Was She Good or Bad P Cr, 8vo, Is ; cloth, 1s. 6d.
CHATTO & WINDUS, PUBLISHERS, PICCADILLY. 17
%
Mitford (Bertram), Novels by. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s.6d, each.
The Gun-Runner: A Romance of Zululand. With a Frontispiece by STANLEY J. WooD.
The Luck of Gerard Ridgeley. With a Frontispiece by STANLEY L.WOOD.
The King's Assegai. TVWith Six full page Illustrations by STANLEY L.WOOD
Renshaw Fanning's Quest. With a Frontispiece by STANLEY L WOOD
Molesworth (Mrs.), Novels by.
Hathercourt Rectory. Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s
That Girl in Black. Crown 8vo, cloth, 1s 6d
Moncrieff (W. D. Scott-).-The Abdication: An Historical Drama.
With Seven I’tchings by John PCfa IE, W. Q ORCHARDSON, J MACWHIRTER, COLIN IIUNTLR,
R MACBETH and TOM GRAHAM Imperial 4to, buckram, 21s
Moore (Thomas), Works by.
The Epicurean ; and Alciphron. Post 8vo, half bound, 2s
Prose and Yerse; including Suppressed Passages from the MF MOIRS OF LORD BYRON. Edited
by R II SHEPIIERD With Portrait Crown 8vo, cloth cxtra, 7s 6d
Muddock (J. E.) Stories by.
Stories Yeird and Wonderful. Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s , cloth, 2s 6d
The Dead Man’s Secret, Frontispiece by I BARNARD C r 8vo, cloth, 5s , post 8vo, boards, 2s.
From the Bosom of the Deep. Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s
Maid Marian and Robin Hood. With 12 Illusts by S1ANLLYWOOD Cr 8vo, cloth extra 3s 6d
Basile the Jester. Crown 8vo, cloth, 3s 6d [Shortly
Murray (D. Christie), Novels by.
Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s 6d each, post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s each
A Life’s Atonement. The Yſay of the Yorld, A Bit of Human Natures
Joseph’s Coat. 12 Illusts A Model Father. First Person Singular.
Goals of Fire. 3 Illusts. Old Blazer’s Hero. Bob Martin’s Little Girls
Yal Strange, Cynic Fortune. Frontisp Time’s Revenges.
Hearts. By the Gate of the Sea. A Yasted Crime,
Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s 6d each
In Direst Peril, | Mount Despair, &c Tºrontispiece by GR, .NVILLE MANTON
The Making of a Novelist - An Experiment in Autobiography With a Collotype Portrait and
Vignette Crown 8vo, art linem, 6s
Murray (D. Christie) and IIenry Herman, Novels by.
Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s 6d each, post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s each.
One Traveller Returns. | The Bishops' Bible.
Paul Jones's Alias, &c. With Illustrations by A FORLS I ILR and G NICOLET.
Murray (Henry), Novels by.
Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s each, cloth, 2s 6d each
A Game of Bluff. | A Song of Sixpence,
Newbolt (Henry).-Taken from the Enemy. Fop. 8vo, cloth, 1s 6d
Nisbet (Hume), Books by.
*Bail Up.” Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s 6d. post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s.
Dr. Bernard St. Yincent. Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s
Lessons in Art. With 2r Illustrations Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 2s 6d
Yºſhere Art Begins. With 27 Illustrations Square 8vo, cloth extra, 7s 6d
Norris (W. E.), Novels by. Crown 8vo, cloth, 3s. 6d. each.
Saint Ann’s. | Billy Bellew. With Frontispiece [Short/y,
O’Hanlon (Alice), Novels by. Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. each.
The Unforeseen. | Chance 7 or Fate 7
Ouida, Novels by. Cr 8vo, cl, 3s 6d ea , post 8vo, Illust bds, 2s ea.
Held in Bondage, Folle-Farine. Moths. | Pipistrello.
Tricotrin. A Dog of Flanders. A Yıllage Commune
Strathmore, Pascarel. | _Signas In Maremma. Wanda,
In a nºiras Tyo Yooden Shoes, Birnbi. | Syrlin.
Cecil Castlemaine's Gage | In a YWinter City. Frescoes. | Othmar.
Under TYo Flags. Järiadne, Princess Napraxine.
Puck, | Idalia, Friendship, Guilderoy, I Ruffino,
Square 8vo, cloth cxtra, 5s each.
Binnbi. With Nine Illustrations by EDMUND H GARRC (T
A Dog of Flanders, &c. With Six Illustrations by DDMUND II GARRETT
Santa, Barbara, &c Square 8vo, cloth, 6s, crown 8vo, cloth, 3s 6d , post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s.
Two Offenders. Square 8vo, cloth extra, 6s , crown 8vo, cloth ext 1, 3s 6d
Yºisdom, Wit, and Pathos, selected from the Works of OU IDA by F. SYDNEY MoRRIs, Post
8w Q, cloth cwtra, 55, -CHL.API, DI I ION, illustrated boards, 2s. *...
18 CHATTO & WINDUS, PUBLISHERS, PICCADHLLY.
Ohnet (Georges), Novels by. Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. each.
Doctor Rameau. | A Last Loxe.
A Yelrd Gift. Crown 8vo, cloth, 3s 6d , post 8vo, picture boards, 2s
Oliphant (Mrs.), Novels by. Post 8vo, Illustrated boards, 2s. each.
The Primrose Path. | Whiteladies, ---
The Greatest Heiress in England.
O'Reilly (Mrs.).--Phoebe's Fortunes. Post 8vo, illust, boards, 2s.
Page (H. A.), Works by.
Thoreau : His Life and Alms With Portrait Post 8yo, cloth lump, 2s 6d
nimal Anecdotes. Arranged on a New Principle” Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 5s
i.e. |
Pandurang Hari; or, Memoirs of a Hindoo. With Preface by Sir
BARTLE FRF RE Crown 8vo, cloth, 3s 6d , post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s
Pascal’s Provincial Letters. A New Translation, with Historical
Introduction and Notes by T M'CRIE, D D Post 8vo, cloth limp, 2s
Paul (Margaret A.). —Gentle and Simple. Crown 8vo, cloth, with
Frontispiece by HLLEN PATERSON, 3s 6d , post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s.
Payn (James), Novels by.
Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s 6d each, post 8vo, Illustrated boards, 2s each,
Lost Sir Massingberd, Holiday Tasks.
Yalter’s Word. The Canon’s Yºſard. With Portrait,
Iless Black than Ye’re Painted. The Talk of the Town. With 12 Illusts,
By Proxy. | For Cash. Only, Gloy-YWorm Tales.
High Spirits. The Mystery of Murbridge,
unaer One Roof. The ord and the Will.
A Confidential Agent. With 12 Illusts The Burnt; M11 lion,
A Grape from a Thorn. With 12 Illusts Sunny Storless | A Trying Patients
Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s each
Humorous Stories. | From Exile, Found Dead.
The Foster Brothers. Győzendoline’s Harvests
The Family Scapegraces A Marine Residence,
Married Beneath Him, Mirk Abbey.
Bentinck’s Tutor. Some Private Yiews,
A Perfect, Treasure. Not Yooed, But YWon,
A. County Family. Two Hundred Pounds Reyards
Like Father, Like Son. The Best of Husbands,
A Woman’s Yengeance. Halyes.
Carlyon's Year. Cecil’s Tryst, Fallen Fortunes. (t
Murphy’s Master, Yhat Ke Cost, Here
At Her Mercy. R1t A Memory.
The Clyffards of Clyffe, A Prince of the Bloods
In Peril and Privation. With 17 Illustrations Crown 8vo, cloth, 3s 6d.
Notes from the “News.” Crown 8vo, portrait cover, Is , cloth, 1s 6d
Pennell (H. Cholmondeley), Works by. Post 8vo, cloth, 2s. 6d. ea.
Puck on Pegasus. With Illustrations
Pegasus Re-Saddled. With Ten full page Illustrations by G DU MA URIER.
The Muses of Mayfair . Vers de Societe Selected by H C PENNELL
Phelps (E. Stuart), Works by. Post 8vo, 1s. ea. , cloth, 1s. 6d. ea.
Beyond the Gates, | An Old Maid's Paradise. Burglars in Paradise,
Jack the Fisherman. Illustrated by C W REED Crown 8vo, Is , cloth, 1 s 6d
Phil May’s Sketch=Book. Containing 50 full-page Drawings. Imp.
4to, art canvas, gilt top, Ios 6d
Pirkis (C. L.), Novels by.
Trooping with Crows. Feap 8vo, picture cover, rs.
Lady Loxelace. Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s
Planche (J. R.), Works by.
The Pursuiyant of Arms. With Six Plates and 209 Illustrations Crown 8vo, cloth, 7s 6d
Songs and Poems, 1819 1879. With Introduction by Mrs MACKARNESS Crown 8vo, cloth, 65.
Plutarch’s Lives of Hlustrious Men. With Notes and a Life of
Plutarch by JOHN and WM LANGHORNE, and Portraits Two Vols, demy 8vo, half bound ros. 6d.
Poe’s (Edgar Alian) Choice Works in Prose and Poetry. With Intro.
duction by CHARLES BAUDELAIRE, Portrait and Facsimiles Crown 8vo, cloth, 7s, 66.
The Mystery of Maele Rogot, &c. Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s.
CHAT TO & WINíj US, PUBLISHERS, #1CCAD11.LY. 19
Pope's Poetical Works. Post 8vo, cloth limp, 2s.
Praed (Mrs. Campbell), Novels by: Post 8vo, 111ust. bās., 2s. each.
The Romance of a Station, he Soul of Countess Adrian,
Outlaw and Laymaker. Crown 8vo, cloth, 3s 6d , post 8vo, boards, 2s
Christina Chard. With Irontispiece by W PAGE T Crow n 8vo, cloth, 3s 6d.
Price (E. C.), Novels by.
Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s 6d each, post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s each
Yalentina, | The Foreigners. | Mirs, Lancaster's Riyal,
Gerald. Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s
Princess Olga.—Radna : A Novel Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 6s
Proctor (Richard A., B.A.), Works by.
Floyers of the Sky With 55 Illustrations Small crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s 6d
Easy Star Lessons. With Star Maps for every Night in the Year Crown &vo, cloth, 6s.
Familiar Science Studies Crown 8vo, cloth extra,
Saturn and its System. With 13 Steel Plates Demy 8vo, cloth extra, Ios 6d
Mysteries of Time and Space. With numerous Illustrations Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 6s.
The Universe of Suns, &c. With numerous Illustrations Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 6s.
Yages and Wants of Science Workers. Crown 8vo, 1s 6d
Pryce (Richard). Miss Maxwell’s Affections. Crown 8vo, cloth,
with Frontispiece by HAL LUDLOW, 3s 6d, post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s
Rambosson (º); Pºpular Astronomy. Translated by C. B. PIT-
MAN With Coloured Frontispiece and numerous Illustrations Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 7s 6d
Randolph (Lieut.-Col. George, U.S.A.). — Aunt Abigail Dykes :
A Novel Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 7s 6d
Reade’s (Charles) Novels.
Crown 8vo, cloth extra, mostly Illustrated, 3s 6d each, post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s each
Peg Yoffington. Christie Johnstone, Hard Cash Griffith Gaunt,
* It is Neyer Too Late to Mend.” Foul Play. | Put Yourself in His Place,
The Course of True Loye Neyar Did Run A Terrible Temptation,
Smooth. A Simpleton | T The Wandering Heir,
The Autobiography of a Thief; Jack of A Y&oman-Hater.
all Trades , and James Lambert, Singleheart and Doubleface.
Love Me Little, Love Me Long. Good Stories of Men and other Animals,
The Double Marriage. The Jilt, and other Stories
The Cloister and the Hearth, A Perulous Secret. | Readiana,
A New Collected LIBRARY EDITION, complete in Seventeen Volumes, set in new long primer type,
printed on laid paper, and elegantly bound in cloth, price 3s 6d each, is now in course of publication. The
volumes will appear in the following order —
1 Peg Woffington, and Christie John- 7 Love_Me_Little, Love me Long [Mar
Stone, 8. The Double Marriage, A 27-z/
2 Hard Cash. 9 Griffith Gaunt. [May
3 The Cloister and the Hearth. With a Io Foul Play. ISKitzie
Preface by Sir WALTER BFSANT Ir Put Yourself in His Places [3 tely.
4 * It is Neyer too Late to Mend.” [Dec 12 Å Terrible Temptation. [Auguest
5 The Course of True Love Neyer Did 13 A Simpleton. [Sept
Run Smooth; and Singleheart and I4. Wonnan-Hater. [Oct
Doubleface. [3a7t 1896 15 The Jilt, and other Stories, and Good
6. The Autobiography of a Thief; Jack Stories of Meri & other Animals.[Wow
of all Trades; Hero and a Mar- x6 Å Perilous Secret. [Dec
tyr; and The Wandering Heir. [Feb 17 Readiana; & Bible Characters.[3<n.'97
POPULAR EDITIONS, medium 8vo, 6d each cloth, 1s each.
* It is Neyer Too Late to Mernd.” | The Cloister and the Hearth
Peg Yoffington; and Christie jºi. arths
Christie Johnstone. With Frontispiece, Choicely printed in Elzevir style FCap 8vo, half Roxb 2s 6d.
Peg Woffington. Choicely printed in Elzevir style H cap 8vo, half Roxburghe, 2s 6d
The Gloister and the Hearth. In Four Vols, post 8vo, with an Introduction by Sir WALTER BF
SANT, and a Irontispiece to each Vol 2 14s the set, and the ILLUSTRATED LibRARY EDITION,
with Illustrations on every page, Two Vols, crown 8vo, cloth gilt, 42s net.
Bible Characters. FCap 8vo, leatherette, 1s
Selections from the Yorks of Charles Reade. With an Introduction by Mrs ALEx IRE.
LAND Crown 8vo, buckram, with Portrait, 6s , CHEAP EDITION, post 8vo, cloth limp, 2s 6d
Riddell (Mrs. J. H.), Novels by.
Weird Stories, Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s 6d , post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s.
Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s each
The Uninhabited House. Fairy Water.
The Prince of Yales's Garden Party, Her Mother’s Darling,
The Mystery in Ralace Gardens, The Nun’s Curse, Šale Tales,
20 CHATTO & WINDUS, ptſBLISHERS, PiCCADiLLY.
Rimmer º , Works by. Square 8vo, cloth gilt, 7s. 6d, each.
Our Old Country Towns. With 55 Illustrations º the Author.
Rambles Round Eton and Harrow. With 50 Illustrations by the Author,
About England with Dickens. With 58 Illustrations by C A VANDI RHOOF and A. RIMMER.
Rives (Amelie).--Barbara Dering. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. 6d. ;
post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s
Robinson Crusoe. By DANIEL DETOE. (MAJoR's EDITION.) With
37 Illustrations by GEORGE CRUIKSIIANK Post 8vo, half bound, 2s
Robinson (F. W.), Novels by.
onnen are 'Strange. Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s
he Hands of Justice. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3 s 6d , post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s.
The Yoman in the Dark. Two Vols, ros not {
Robinson (Phil), Works by. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 6s, each.
The Poets’ Birds. | The Poots’ Beasts.
The Posts and Nature: Reptiles, Fishes, and Insects.
Rochefoucauld's Maxiins and Moral Reflections. With Notes
and an Introductory Essay by SAINTE BEUVE Post 8vo, cloth lump, 2s
Roll of Battle Aº, The . A List of the Principal Warriors who
came from Normandy with William the Conqueror, xo~6. Printed in Gold and Colours, 5*
Rosengarten (A.).-A Handbook of Architectural Styles. Trans-
lated by W COLLETT SANDARS With 630 Illustrations Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 7s 6d
Rowley (Hon. Hugh), Works by. Post 8vo, cloth, 2s. 6d. each.
Puniana. Riddles and Jokes. With numerous Illustrations
More Punjana. Profuscly Illustrated
Runciman (James), Stories by. Post 8vo, bds., 2s. ea , cl., 2s 6d. ea.
Skippers and Shellbacks. | Grace Balmaign’s Sweetheart,
Schools and Scholars.
Russell (Dora), Novels by. Crown 8vo, cloth, 3s. 6d. each.
A Country Sweetheart. | The Driſt of Fate, [Shortly.
Russell (W. Clark), Books and Novels by.
Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 6s each, post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s each, cloth limp, 2s 6d each. ,
Round the Galley-Fire, A Book for the Hammock.
In the Middle atch. The Mystery of the “Ocean Star.”
A Yoyage to the Cape. The Romance of Jenny Harlowe,
Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s 6d, each, post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s each, cloth limp, 2s 6d each.
An Ocean Tragedy, | My Shipmate Louise. Alone on a Wide Wide Sea,
Crown 8vo, cloth, 3s 6d each
Is He the Man? | The Phantom Death, &c. With Frontispiece.
The GoodShip “Mohock.” The Convict, Ship. [Shortly.
On the Fo’k'sle Head. Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s , cloth lump, 2s 6d,
Heart of Oak. Three Vols, crown 8vo, 153 net
The Tale of the Ten. Three Vols, crown 8vo, 153 net. [S/tortºy.
*-*-
Saint Aubyn (Alan), Novels by.
Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s 6d each, post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s each
# Fellow of Trinity. Yº:a Note by OLIVFR WENDLLL Holm ES and a Frontispiece
he Junior Dean, | Ine Master of St. Benedict's. | To His Oxºn Master,
FCap 8vo, cloth boards, 1s 6d each
The Old Maid's SYeetheart, | Modest Little Sara,
Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 33 6d each
Orchard Damerel. In the Face of the World. | The Tremlett Diamonds. [Shortly
Sala (George A.).-Gaslight and Daylight. Post 8vo, boards, 2s.
Sanson. — Seven Generations of Executioners: Memoirs of the
Sanson Family (1688 to 1847) Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s 6d
Saunders (John), Novels by.
Crown 8vo, cloth c-tra, 3s 6d each, post 8vo, illustrated boards, 23 each
Guy Yaterman. | The Lion in the Path. The Tºxo Drearmara,
Bound to the Wheel, Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s 6d
CHATTO & WINDUS, publišHERS, PICCADILLY. 21
Saunders (Katharine), Novels by.
Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s 6d, each, post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s each.
Margaret and Elizabeth, | Heart Salvage,
The High Mills. } Sebastian,
Joan Merryweather. Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s
Gideon's Rock, Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s 6d
Scotland Yard, Past and Present Experiences of Thirty-seven Years.
By Ex Chief Inspector CAVANAGH Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s , cloth, 2s 6d
Secret Out, The . One Thousand Tricks with Cards, with Entertain-
ing Experiments in Drawing room or ‘White' Magic By W II CREMER. With 3oo Illustrations Crown
8vo, cloth extra, 4s
Seguin (L. G.), Works by.
The Country of the Passion Play (Oberammergau) and the Highlands of Bavaria. With
Map and 37 Illustrations, Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s.6d
Walks in Ålgiers. With Two Maps and 16 Illustrations Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 6s
Senior (Wm.).-By Stream and Sea. Post 8vo, cloth, 2s. 6d.
Sergeant (Adeline).--Dr. Endicott’s Experiment. Crown 8vo,
uckram, 3S
Shakespeare for Children: Lamb’s Tales from Shakespeare.
With Illustrations, coloured and plain, by J MOYR SMITH Crown 4to, cloth gilt, 3s
Sharp (William).-Children of To-morrow. Crown 8vo, cloth, 6s,
Shelley’s (Percy Bysshe) Complete Works in Verse and Prose.
Tollted, Prefaced, and Annotated by R. IILRND SHEPHIFRD Five Vols., crown 8vo, cloth, 3s 6d each
Poetical YMorks, in Three Vols
Vol. I Introduction by the Editor. Posthumous Tragments of Margaret Nicholson, Shelley's Corre-
spondence with Stockdale ; The Wandering Jew, Queen Mab with the Notes; Alastor,
and other Poems, Rosalind and IIelen, Promētheus Unbound Adonals, &c
II Laon and Cythna. The Cenci, Julian and Maddalo, Swellſoot the Tyrant, The Witch of
Atlas, Dpipsychidion, Hellas
,, III. Posthumous Poems, The Masque of Anarchy, and other Pieces.
Prose Works, in Two Vols
Vol I The Two Romances of Zastrozzi and St Irvyne the Dublin and Marlow Pamphlets, A Refu
tation of Deism, Letters to Leigh Hunt, and some Minor Writings and Fragments
,, II The Essays, Letters from Abroad Translations and Tragments, edited by Mrs SHELLEY
With a Biography of Shelley, and an Index of the Prosc Works,
*** Also a few copics of a LARGE PAPER EDITION, 5 vols, cloth, ×2 12s 6d.
Sherard (R. H.).—Rogues: A Novel. Crown 8vo, Is. ; cloth, Is. 6d.
Sheridan_(General P. H.), Personal Memoirs of. With Portraits,
Maps, and Facsimiles Two Vols, demy 8vo, cloth, 24s
Sheridan’s (Richard Brinsley) Complete Works, with Life and
Anecdotes. hº his Dramatic Writings, his Works in Prose and Poetry, Translations, Speeches,
and Jokes. With ro Illustrations Crown 8vo, half bound, 7s 6d
The Riyals, The School for Scandal, and other Plays Post 8vo, half bound, 2.;
Sheridan’s Comedies: The Rivals and The School for Scandal. Edited, with an Intro
duction and Notes to each Play, and a Biographical Sketch, by BRANDER MATTHEws. With
Illustrations Demy 8vo, half parchment, 12s 6d
Sidney’s (Sir Philip), Complete . Poetical Works, including all
those in ‘Arcadia " With Portrait, Memorial Introduction, Notes, &c., by the Rev A. B. GROSART
D D Three Vols , crown 8vo, cloth boards, 18s
Sims (George R.), Works by.
Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s each, cloth limp, 2s 6d each.
Rogues and Yagabonds, Tales of To-day.
The Ring o' Bells, Dramas of Life. With 60 Illustrations.
Mary Jane’s Memoirs, Memoirs of a Landlady.
Mary Jana Married. My Two YWiyes.
Tinkletop's Crime. Scenes from the Show.
Zeph : A Circus Story, &c. The Ten Commandments: Stories. [Shortly.
Crown 8vo, picture cover, rs each, cloth, 1s 6d each
How the Poor Livre; and Horrible London.
The Pagonet Reciter, and Reader . Being Readings and Recitations in Prose and verse,
selected from his own Works by GLORGE R SIMS
The Case of Goorge Candlemas. | Dagonet Ditties. (From The Referee.)
Dagonet Abroad. Crown 8vo, cloth, 3s 6d.
I
¥
(22.
cHAtto & wiNDUs, publishers, PiccAdilly.
tº zºº.
Signboards: Their History, including Anecdotes of Famous Taverns arid
Remarkable Characters By JACOB LARWOOD and Joſſ N CAMDEN HOTT EN With Coloured Frontis
piece and 94 Illustrations Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 7s 6d
Sister Dora: A B10graphy By MARGARET LoNSDALE. With Four
Illustrations. Demy 8vo, picture cover, 4d , cloth, 6d
Sketchley (Arthur).-A Match in the Dark. Post 8vo, boards, 2s
Slang Dictionary The Etymological, Historical, and Anecdotal.
6
Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 6s
Smart (Hawley).-Without Love or Licence: A Novel. Crown
8vo, cloth extia, 3s 6d , post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s
Smith (J. Moyr), Works by.
he Prince of Argolis. With 130 Illustrations Post 8vo, cloth extra, 3s 6d
The Yooing of the Water Witch. With numerous Illustrations Post 8vo, cloth, 6s.
Society in London. Crown 8vo, Is., cloth, Is. 6d.
Society in Paris: The Upper Ten Thousand. A Series of Letters
from Count PAUL VASILI to a Young Irench Diplomat Crown 8vo, cloth, 6s
Somerset (Lord Henry).-Songs of Adieu. Small 4to, Jap. vel, 63.
Spalding T. A., LL.B.).- Elizabethan Demonology: An Essay
on the Belief in the Existence of Devils Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 5s
Speight (T. W.), Novels by.
Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s, each
The Mysteries of Heron Dyke. Back to Life,
By Devious YWays, &c The Loudwater Tragedy,
}Hoodwinked ; & Sandycroft Mystery. Burgo's Romance.
The Golden Hoop, Quittance in Full,
Post 8vo, cloth lump, 1s 6d each
A Barren Title, | YWife or No Yife 7
The Sandycroft Mystery. Crown 8vo, picture cover, Is
Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s 6d each
A Secret of the Sea. | The Grey Monk. [Shartly.
Spenser for Children. By M. H. TowRY. With Coloured Illustrations
by WALTER J MORGAN Crown 4to, cloth extra, 3s 6d
Starry Heavens (The) : A POETICAL BIRTHDAY Book, Royal 16mo;
cloth extra, 2s 6d
Stedman (E. C.), Works by. Crowſ 8vo, cloth extra, 9s. each.
Yictorian Poets. The Poets of America,
Sterndale (R. Armitage).-The Afghan Knife: A Novel. Crown
8vo, cloth extra, 3s 6d , post 8vo, illustratcd boards, 2s
A.
Stevenson (R. Louis), Works by. Post 8vo, cloth limp, 2s. 6d, ea.
Trayels with a Donkey. With a Frontispiece by WALTER CRANE,
An Inland Yoyage. With a Frontispiece by WALTFR CRANE.
Crown 8vo, buckram, gilt top, 6s, each.
Familiar Studies of Men and Books.
The Silverado Squatters. With l'rontispiece Éd D STRONG
The Merry º: trait | Underwoods t Poems,
Memories an OFEF3,15Ss
yirginibus Puerisque, and other Papers , , Ballads, | Prince Otto,
Across the Plains, with other Memories and Essays
New Arabian Nights. Crown 8vo, buckram, gilt top 6s ... post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s
The Suicide Club; and The Rajah’s Diamond. (From NEW ARABIAN NIGIITs) With
Eight Illustrations by W J IIENNESSY Crown 8vo, cloth, 5s
Father Damien. An Open Letter to the Rev Dr Hyde Cr 8vo, ſand made and brown paper, 1s.
The Edinburgh Edition of the YWorks of Robert Louis Stevenson. I wenty Vols
demy 8vo. This Edition (which is limited to it ooo Copies) is sold only in Sets, the price of which
may be learned from the Bocksellers The Vols are appearing at the rate of one a month, beginning
Nov 1894,
Yeir of Hermiston, (R. L. SILVENSON'S LAST WORK) Large crown 8vo, 6s, [Shortly.
CHATTO & WINDUS, PUBLISHERS, PiCCADILLY. 23
Stoddard (C. Warren).—Summer Cruising in the South Seas.
Illustrated by WALLIS MACKAY Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s 6d
Stories from Foreign Novelists. With Notices by HELEN and
ALICE ZIMMERN. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s 6d , post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s
Strange Manuscript (A) Found in a Copper Cylinder. Crown
8vo, cloth extra, with 19 Illustrations by GILBERT GAUL, 5s , post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s
Strange Secrets. Told by PERCY FITzGERALD, CoNAN Doyle, FLOR-
ENCE MARRYAT, &c Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s
Strutt (Joseph). — The Sports and Pastimes of the People of
England, including the Rural and Domestic Recreations, May Games, Mummeries, Shows, &c., from
the Earliest Period to the Present Time Edited by WILLIAM HONE With 140 Illustrations Crown
8vo, cloth extra, 7s 6d
Swift's (Dean) Choice Works, in Prose and Verse. . With Memoir,
Portrait, and Facsimiles of the Maps in ‘Gullivers Travels ' Crown 8vo, cloth, 7s 6d
| Gulliyer's Travels, and A Tale of a Tub. Post 8vo, half bound, 2s
Jonathan Swift : A Study By J CHURT ON COLLINS Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 8s
Swinburne (Algernon C.), Works by.
sºgº: from the Poetical YMorks of A Note on Charlotte Bronte. Cr 8vo, 6s
. C. Swinburne, Fcap 8vo, 6s A Study of Shakespeare. Crown 8vo, 8s
Atalanta in Calydon. Crown 8vo, 6s Songs of the Springtides. Crown 8vo, 6s
Chastelard : A Tragedy Crown 8vo, 7s Studies in Song. Crown 8vo, 7s
Poems and Ballads, FIRST SERIES Crown Mary Stuart - A Tragedy Crown 8vo, 8s
8vo, or feap 8vo, Tristram of Lyonesse, Crown 8vo, 9s
9.5
Poems and Ballads. SECOND SERIES, Crown A Century of Roundels. Small 4to, 83.
8vo, 9s A Midsummer Holiday. Crown 8vo, 7s
Poems & Ballads. THIRD SERIES Cr 8vo, 7s. Marino Faliero A Tragedy Crow n 8vo, 6s.
Songs before Sunrise. Crown 8vo, Ios 6d A Study of Yictor Hugo Crown 8vo, 6s
Bothwell - A Tragedy Crown 8vo, 12s 6d Miscellanies. Crown 8vo, 12s
Songs of Two Nations. Crown 8vo, 6s 4ocrine . A Traged Crown 8vo, 6s
George Chapman. (See Vol II of G CHAP K. Study of Ben Jonson. Crown 8vo, 7s.
MAN'S Works) Crown 8vo, 6s The Sisters A Tragedy Crown 8vo, 6s
Essays and Studies. Crown 8vo, 12s Astrophel, &c Crown 8vo, 7s
Erechtheus: A Tragedy Crown 8vo, 6s. Studies in Prose and Poetry. Cr 8vo, 9s.
}
Syntax's (Dr.) Three Tours: In Search of the Picturesque, in Search
of Consolation, and in Search of a Wife With ROWLANDSON'S Coloured Illustrations, and Life of the
Author by J C IIOTTEN Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 7s 6d
Taine's History of English Literature. Translated by HENRY VAN
LAUN Four Vols, small demy 8vo, cloth boards, 30s —POPULAR LDITION, Two Vols, large crown
8vo, cloth extra, 15s
Taylºr (Bayard). — Diversions of the Echo Club: Burlesques of
odern Writers Post 8vo, cloth lump, 2s
Taylor (Dr. J. E., F.L.S.), Works by. Crown 8vo, cloth, 5s each
The Sagacity and Morality of Plants. A Sketch of the Life and Conduct of the Vegetable
Kingdom. With a Coloured Frontispiece and roo Illustrations
Our Common British Fossils, and Where to ſind Them With 331 Illustrations
The Playtime Naturalist. With 366 Illustrations
*
Taylor (Tom). — Historical Dramas. Containing “Clancarty,
‘Jeanne Darc,’ ‘’Twixt Axe and Crown,’ ‘The Fool's Revenge,' ‘Arkwrights Wife,' 'Anne Boleyn,
"Plot and Passion " Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 7s 6d
*** The Plays may also be had separately, at 1s each
Tennyson (Lord): A Biographical Sketch. By H. J. JENNINGs. Post
8vo, portrait cover, Is , cloth, 1s 6d
Thackerayana: Notes and Anecdotes. With Coloured Frontispiece and
IHundleds of Sketches by WILLIAM MAKEPEACC TH ACKERAY Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 7s 6d.
Thames, A New Pictorial History of the. By A. S. KRAUssE.
With 34o Illustrations Post 8vo, is , cloth, is od
Thiers (Adolphe). — History of the Consulate and Empire of
Irance under Napºleon, Translated by D. For BES CAMPBELL and IoHN STEBBING. With 36 Steel
Platec. 12 Wols, demy 8vo, cloth extra, 12s, each,
W
k
$4 —l CHATTO & WINDUS, PUBLISHERS, PHCCADILLY.
Thomas (º), Novels by. Cr. 8vo, cl., 3s 6d ea.; post 8vo, 2s. ea.
The Yiolin-Player. | Proud Maisie,
Cressida. Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2.;
Thomson’s Seasons, and The Castle of Indolence. With Intro-
duction by ALLAN CUNNINGIIAM, and 48 Illustrations. Post 8vo, half bound, 2s
Thornbury (Walter), Books by.
The Life and Correspondence of J. M. W. Turner. With Illustrations in Colours. Crown
8vo, cloth extra, 7s 6d
Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s each
Old Stories Re-told, | Tales for the Marines.
Timbs (John), Works by. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 7s. 6d each.
The History of Clubs and Club, Liſe in London: Ancodotcs of its I'amous Coſſec houses,
Hostelries, and Taverns With 42 Illustrations
English Eccentrics and Eccentricities Stories of Delusions, Impostures, Sporting Scenes,
5ccentric Artists, T heatrical I olk, &c. With 48 Illustrations
Troſiope (Anthony), Novels by.
Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s 6d each, post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2 r each
The YWay Ye Liye Now. Mr. Scarborough’s Family,
Frau Frohmann, The Land-Leaguors.
Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s each
}{ept in the Dark. The American Senator.
The Golden Lion of Gran pere. John Caldigate. | Marion Fay,
Trollope (Frances E.), Novels by.
Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s 6d each, post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2 r each
Like Ships. Upon the Sea. | Mabel’s Progress. | Anne Furness,
Trollope (T. A.).—Diamond Cut Diamond. Post 8vo, illust, bds, 2s.
Trowbridge (J. T.).—Farnell’s Folly. Post 8vo, illust. boards, 2s
Tytler (C. C. Frasere).-Mistress Judith : A Novel. Crown 8vo,
cloth extra, 3s 6d , post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s
Tytler (Sarah), Novels by.
Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s 6d each, post 8vo, illustrated bonrds, 2 r each
Lady Ball, | Buried Diamonds, | The Blackhall Ghosts,
Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s each
Yhat She Carne Through, The Huguenot Family,
Citoyenne Jacqueline. Noblesse Oblige.
The Bride’s Pass. Beauty and the Beast,
Saint Mungo's City. Disappeared.
The Macdonald Lass, With Trontispiece Crown 8vo, cloth, 3° 6d
Upward (Allen), Novels by.
The Queen Against Oyen. Crown 8vo, cloth, with Frontispiece, 3s 6d , post 8vo, boards, 2s.
The Prince of Balkistan. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 33 6.d
+
Vashti and Esther. By the Writer of “Belle’s' Letters in The World.
Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 33 6d
Villari (Linda).-A Double Bond: A Story. Foap 8vo, Is.
Vizetelly (Ernest A.).-The Scorpion : A Romance of Spain. With
a Frontispiece Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 33 6d
Walton and Cotton’s Complete Angier; or, The Contemplative
Man's Recreation, by IZAAK WALT ON, and Instructions IIow to Angle, for aTrout or Grayling in a
clear Stream, by CHARLES COT ION With Memoirs and Notes by Sir IIARRIS NICHOLAS, and 6x
Illustrations rown 8vo, cloth antique, 7s
Walt Whitman, Poems by. Edited, with Intl oduction, by WILLIAM
M ROSSETTI. With Portrait Crow n 8vo, hand made paper and buckram, 6s
Ward ſº Books by.
Five Years with the Congo Cannibals...With 92 Illustrations Royal 8vo, cloth, 14s,
My Life Yith 5tanley's Rear Gū&rd. With Map. Post $Wo, ºs., cloth, is, $3.
*
Arº ČHATTO & WiNbus, publishERS, PiccADHLLY. ... 25
Walford (Edward, M.A.), Works b
Yalford's County Families of the United Kingdom (1896). . the Descent,
Birth, Marriage, Éducation, &c, of 12,000 Heads of I'amilies, their Heirs, Oſlices, Addresses, Clubs,
&c Royal 8vo, cloth gilt, 5os y
Walford’s shiiiing £eerage (1896). Containing a List of the House of Lords, Scotch and
Irish Pecrº, &c., 32mo, cloth, 1 y
Yafford’s $hilling #aronetage (1296). Containing a List of the Baronets of the United
Kingdom, Biographical Notic, s, Addresses, &c 22mo, rioth, 1s 3.
Yafford's"shiiiing Knightäge (1896). Coſtaining a List of the Knights of the United
Kingdom, Biographical Notices, Addresses, &c., 3°mo, cloth, 1s
Yalford's Shiiiing House of Commong (1836). Containing a List of all the Members of the
New Parliament, their AddressCs, Clubs, &c 32mo, cloth, Is
Yalford’s complete Peerage, Baronetage, Knightage, and House of 99mmons
(1896). Royal 32mo, cloth, gilt edges, 5s [Preparing
Tales of our Great Families. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 33 6d
Warner (Charles Dudley).-A Roundabout Journey. Crown 8vo,
cloth extra, 6s
Warrant to Execute Charles I. A Facsimile, with the 59 Signatures
and Seals Printed on paper 22 m by 14 in 2s º
Yarrant to Execute Mary Queen of Scots. A Facsimile, including Queen Elizabeth's Signa
ture and the Great Scal 2s
Washington’s (George) Rules of Civility Traced to their Sources
and Restored by MONCURE D CONWAY FCap 8vo, Japanese vellum, 2s 6d
Wassermann (Lillias): Novels by.
The Daffodils, Crown 8vo, is , cloth, 1s 6d *
The Marquis of Carabas. By AARON WATson and LILLIAS WASSERMANN Post 8vo,
illustrated boards, 2s
Weather, How to Foretell the, with the Pocket Spectroscope.
By F W CoRY With Ten Illustrations Crown 8vo, 1s , cloth, 1s 6d
Webber (Byron).-Fun, Frolic, and Fancy. With 43 Illustrations
by PHIL MAY and CHARLES MAY Fcap 4to, cloth, 5s
Westall (William), Novels by.
Trust-Money. Post 8vo, Illustrated boards, cs , cloth, 2s 6d.
Sons of Belial. Two Vols , crown 8vo, Ios not,
Whist, How to Play Solo. By ABRAHAM S. WILKs and CHARLEs F.
PARDON Post 8vo, cloth lump, as
White (Gilbert). —The Natural History of Selborne. Post 8vo,
printed on laid paper and half bound, 2s
Williams (W. Mattieu, F.R.A.S.), Works by.
$); Stories by. Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s, each;
cloth lump, 2s cach.
Cavalry Life, | Regimental Legends,
Chapters. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 7s 6d
on Heat. With Illustrations Crown 8vo, cloth, 2s 6d
Cookery, Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 6s
Iron and Steel Making. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 9s
Phrenology. With Portrait and 43 Illusts Denny 8vo, cloth extra, ros. 6d
Williamson (Mrs. F. H.).-A Child Widow. Post 8vo, bds, 2s.
Wilson . Andrew, F.R.S.E.), Works by.
Orl
With 259 Illustrations, Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 7s 6d.
Note-Book. Post 8vo, cloth lump, 2s 6d
Illustrations Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 6s
With numerous Illustrations Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 6s
to Treat Them. With lllustrations Crown 8vo, 1, , cloth, 1s. 6d.
35 Illustrations Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s
Winter (J.
A Soldier's Children. With 34 Illustrations by E G THOMSON and E STUART HARDy Crown
8vo, cloth extra, 3s 6d
Wissmann (Hermann von). — My Second Journe ---
Equatorial Aſºº With 92 nº. bº, cloth, 16s. y through











26 cilAtto & windus, PUBLISHERS, PiccAbilly.
Wood (H. F.), Detective Stories by. Post 8vo, boards, 2s. each.
The Passenger from Scotland Yard.
Wood (Lady).--Sabina: A Novel.
woolley (Celia Parker).-Rachel Armstrong; or, Love and The-
ology
st 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s , cloth, 2s 6d
Wright (Thomas), Works by. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 7s.6d. each.
The Caricature History of the Georges.
With 4oo Caricatures, Squibs, &c
History of Caricature and of the ºtesque in Art, Literature, Sculpture, and”
Painting. Illustrated by F W TAIRHOL T, FSA
Wynman (Margaret).—My Flirtations.
Post 8vo, cloth, 3s 6d
BERNARD PART RIDGE
Yates (Edmund), Novels by. Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. each.
| T
Iland at Last.
Zangwill (I.). — Ghetto Tragedies.
he Forlorn Hope. |
The Englishman of the Rue Cain.
Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s.
With 13 Illustrations by
A S BOYD F cap 8vo, picture cover, Is net
Castaway.
With Three Illustrations by
Zola (Emile), Novels by. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. 6d. each.
The
Money.
Dºhe Dream. Translated by ŁLi/ A CHAS}.
Doctor Pascal.
at and the Thin. Translated by ERNTST A VIZETELLY.
Translated by ERNLST A VIZLTELLY
The Downfall. Translated by JE A V17F I DI LY
y With Eight Illustrations by JEANNIOT.
| 1 ranslated by E A VIZI I I LLY With Portrait of the Author.
Lourdes. Translated by 1. RNI ST A VIZLT CLLY.
Rome. Translated by LRNI S T A VIZLTELLY
[Shortly.
SOME BOOKS CLASSIFIED IN SERIES.
*...* For fuller cataloguing, see alphabetweal arrangement, pp. 1-26. \
The Mayfair Library.
A Journey Round My Room . By X DT MAISTRE
Translated by Sir IIENRY AT I WTI L
Quips and Quiddities # W D A DAMS
The Agony Column of . The Times
Melancholy Anatomised Abridgment of BURTON.
Poetical Ingenuities By W T DOBSON
The Cupboard Papers y FIN Bro
W. S. Gilbert's Plays Three Scries
Songs of Irish Wit and Humour
Animals and their Masters By Sir A HELPS.
Social Pressure By Sir A HJ LPS
Curiositieg of Criticism. By H J JFNNINCS
The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table By OLIVER
WENDELL HOLMES
Pencil and Palette By R KEMPT
Little Essays from LAMB'S LF 1 TLRS
Forensic Anecdotes By JACOB LARWOOD.
| The Golden Library.
| Diversions of the Echo Club BAYARD TAYLOR
songs for Sailors By W C BLNNL14
I.ives of the Necromancers By W. GODWIN
| The Poetical Works of Alexander Pope
| scenes of Country Life By EDWARD JTSSF
| Tale for a Chimney Cornel By LLIGH II UNT
The Wanderer’s Library.
Wanderings in Patagonia. By JULIUS BEFR
BoHM Illustrated
Merrie England in the Olden Time. By G DANIBL.
Illustrated by ROBERT CRUIKSHANK.
Circus Life %; I HOMAS I ROST
Lives of the Conjurers. By FIOMAS FROST
The old showmen and the Old London Falls By
THOMAS E. ROST
Low Life Deeps By JAMFS GREENWOOD
The Wilds of London. By JAMES GRE-BNWOOD,
Post 8vo, cloth limp, 2s. 6d. per Volume,
Theatrical Anecdotes . By JACOB LARWOOD.
Jeux d'Esprit Tdited by HrnRY S LEIGH.
Witch Stolies By D. LYNN LINTON
Ourselves By E LYNN LINTON
Pastimes and Players. By R MACGRT GoR
New Paul and Virginia. By W II MALLock,
The New Republic By W H MALLock
Puck on Pegasus By H C PLNNLLL
Pegasus Re saddled By H C PENNR LL
Muses of Mayfair Edited by II C PENN FLL.
Thoreau. His Life and Auns. By H A PAGE,
Puniana . By Hon HUGH ROWLEy
More Puniana. By Hon HUGH ROWLEY.
The Philosophy of Handwriting
By Stream and Sea. By WILLIAM SENIO'z
Leaves from a Naturalist's Note Book By Dr.
ANDREW WILSON
Post 8vo, cloth lump, 2s. per Volume.
The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table By
OLIVER WENDLLL IIOLMES
La Mort d'Arthur Selcctions from MALLORY,
Provincial Letters of Blaise Pascal
Maxims and Reflections of Rochefoucauld
Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s 6d each,
Tunis By Chev HESSE WARTEGG
Life and Adventures of a Cheap Jack
Wolla Behind the Scenes By P I I IzGERALD.
Tavern Anecdotes and Sayings
The Genial Showman. By FTP IIINGSTON
Story of London Parks. By JACQB LARwooD.
London Characters . By HiRRY MAYHElw
Seven Generations of Executionels
Summer Cruising in the South Seas,
WARREN STODDARD, Illustrated.
22 Illusts.
By C,
cHAtto & windus, PUBLISHERS, PiccADILLY.
27
Books IN SERIEs—conteſttted.
Handy Novels.
The Old Maid's Sweetheart. By A. ST AUBYN.
Modest Little Sara . By ALAN ST AUBYN
Seven Sleepers of Ephesus M E COLTRIDGE.
Taken from the Enemy. By H NEWBOLT
FCap, 8vo, cloth boards, 1s. 6d. each.
A Lost Soul By W L ALDEN
Dr Palliser's Patient. By GRANT ALLPN
Monte Carlo Stories By JOAN BARRE IT.
My Library.
Citation and Examination of William Shakspeare
By W S. LANDOR
Printed on laid paper, post 8vo, half Roxburghe, 2s 6d each.
Christie Johnstone By CHARLES READE.
Peg Woffington. By CHARLES READI:
The Journal of Maurice de Guerin | The Dramatic Essays of Charles Lamb
The Pocket Library. Post 8vo, printed on laid paper and hſ -bd , 2s each.
The Essays of Elia . By CHARLEs LAMB White's Natural History of Selborne
Robinson Crusoe Illustrated by G CRUIKSHANK. Gulliver's Travels, &c. By Dean SWIFT
Whigs and 93dities . By I HòMAS Hoop Plays by Richa RD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN
The Barber's Chair. By DOUGLAS JLRROLD. Anecdotes of the Clerg By JACOB LARWOOD
Gastronomy. By BRILLAT SAVARIN Thomson s Seasons lllustrated
The Epicuream, &c. By THOMAS MOORE Autocrat of the Breakfast-Table and The Professor
Leigh Hunt's Essays dited by E OLLIER at the Breakfast-Table By O W I IOLMES
THE PICCADILLY NOVELS. -
LIBRARY EDITIONS OF Novels, many Illustrated, crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s 6d each.
By F. M. ALLEN. HALL CAINE.
Green as Grass
Philistia.
Strange Stories
loaby]om
k or Maimie's Sake,
In all Shades
The Beckoning Hand.
The Devil's Die
This Mortal Coil
The Tents of Shem.
Dy GRANT, Akhi: N.
he Great Taboo
Dumaresq's Daughter
Duchess of Powysland
Blood Royal
Ivan Greet 8 Master
piece
The Scallywag
At Market Value
Under Sealed Orders
By MARY ANDERSON.
Othello's §º.
EDWIN
Phra, the Phoenician
L. ARNOLD.
The Constable of St Nicholas
By Rev. S. BARING-Gould.
ve
ROBERT BARR
Red Spider
By
In a Steamer Chair
| Trom Whose Bourne,
* By FRANK BARRETT.
The Woman of the Iron Bracelets
By ‘BELLE.”
Washti and Esthel
By Sir W. BESANT and J. RICE.
Ready Money Moltiboy
§ Little Glrl
With Harp and Crown
This Son of Vulcan
The Golden Butterfly
The Monks of Thelema.
By Celia s Arbour
Chaplaim of the Fleet
The Seamy Side
The Case of Mr Lucraft
In Tlafalgar s Bay
The Ten Years Tenant,
By Sir WALTER BESANT
All Sorts and Condl
tions of Men
The Captains' Room
All in a Galden Fair.
Dorothy Forster
Uncle Jack
The World Went Wery
Well Then
Children of Gibeon,
Herr Paulus
For Faith and Fleedom
To Call Her Mine
The Bell of St Paul's
The Holy Rose
Armorel of Lyonesse
S Katherine's by Tower
Verbena Camellia Ste
phanotis
The Ivory Gate
The Rebel Queen.
By ROBERT BUCHANAN.
Shadow of the Sword The New Abelard
A Child of Nature Matt || Rachel Dene,
God and the Man Master of the Mine
Martyrdom of Madeline | The Heir of Linne
e for Ever,
Foxglove Manor
Woman and the Man
1&ed and White Heather.
ROB. BUCHANAN & HY. MURRAY.
The Charlatan
By J. MITCHELL CHAPPLE.
The Minor Chord,
B
The Shadow of a Cilme | The Deemster.
A Son of Hagar
By MACLAREN COBBAN.
The Red Sultan | The Burden of Isabel
By MORT. & FRANCES COLLINS.
Transmigration From Midnight to Mlds
Blacksmith & Scholar night
The Willage Comedy You Play me False
By WILKIE COLLINS.
Armadale The Frozen Deep
After Dark, The Two Destinies
No Name - The Law and the Lady.
Antonina. 3 The Haunted Hotel
Basil The Fallen Leaves
Hide and Seek Jezebels Daughter.
The Dead Secret, The Black Robe
Queen of Hearts Heart and Science.
My Miscellanies * I Say No"
The Woman in White, Little Novels
The Moomstone The Evil Genius
Mam and Wife The Legacy of Cain,
Poor Miss Finch. A Rogue's Life.
Miss or Mrs T. Blind Love
The New Magdalen
By DUTTON COOK.
Paul Fosters Daughter
By E. H. COOPER.
Geoffory Hamilton
By V. CECIL COTES.
Two Girls on a Barge
By C. EGBERT CRADDOCK,
His Vanished Star
By H. N. CRELLIN.
Romances of the Old Seraglio
By MATT CRIM.
The Adventures of a Fair Rebel
By S. R CROCKETT and others.
Tales of Our Coast
By B. M. CROKER.
To Let '
Diana Barrington d
Ploper Pride Mr Jervis
A Family Likeness Village Tales & Jungle
Pretty Miss Neville Tragedles
A Bird of Passage The Real Lady Hilda's
By WILLIAM CYPLES.
Hearts of Gold
By ALPHONSE DAUDET.
The Evangelist , on, Polt Salvation
By H. COLEMAN DAVIDSON.
Mr Sadler's Daughters
By ERASMUS DAWSON.
The Fountain of Youth
By JAMES DE ME LLE.
A Castle in Spain,
28
CHATTO & WINDUS, PUBLISHERS, PiCCADILLY.
THE PICCADILLY (3/6) Novels—continued.
By. J. LEITH DERWENT.
Our Lady of Tears | Circe's Lovers
By DICK DONOVAN.
Tracked to Doom | Man from Manchester,
By A. CONAN DOYLE.
The Firm of Girdlestone.
By S. JEANNETTE DUNCAN.
A Daughter of To day | Wernon's Aunt
By G. MANVILLE FENN.
The New Mistress The Tiger Lily
Witness to the Deed The White Virgin.
By PERCY FITZGERALD.
Fatal Zero.
By R. E. FRANCILLON.
One by One t Ring or Knave 7
A Dog and his Shadow | Ropes of Sand
A Real Queen. Jack Doyle's Daughter.
Prefaced by Sir BARTLE FRERE.
Pandurang Hari
BY EDWARD GARRETT.
The Capel Girls
By PAUL GAULOT.
The Red Shirts
By CHARLES GHBBON.
Robin Gray |* Golden Shaft.
Loving a Dream.
By E. GLANVILLE.
The Lost, Heiress. | The Fossicker,
A Falr Colonist
By E. J. GOODMAN.
The Fate of Herbert Wayne
By CECIL GRIFFITH.
Corinthia Marazion
By SYDNEY GRUNDY.
The Days of his Vanity
By THOMAS HARDY.
Under the Greenwood Tree
By BRET HARTE.
A Waif of the Plaims Susy
A Ward of the Golden | Sally Dowg
Gato A Protégée of Jack
A Sappho of Green Hamlins
Springs Bell Ringer of Angel's
Col Starbottle's Client | Clarence
By JULIAN HAWTHORNE.
Garth Beatrix Randolph
Ellice Quentin David Polndexter's Dis
Sebastian Strome. appearance
ust The T Spectre of the
Fortune s Fool Camera,
By Sir A. HELPS.
Ivan de Biron
By I. HENDERSON.
Agatha Page
By G. A. HENTY.
Rujub the Juggler | Dolothy's Double
By JOHN HILL.
The Common Ancestol
By Mrs. HUNGERFORD.
Lady Werner's Flight | The Red House Mystery
The Three Graces
By Mrs. ALFRED HUNT.
The Leaden Casket Self Condemned
That Other PeräOn Mrs Juliet
By C. J. CUTCLIFFE HYNE.
Honour of Thieves
By R. ASHE KING.
A Drawn Game
• The Wearing of the Green.'
By EDMOND LEPELLETHER.
Madame Sans Gêne
By HARRY LINDSAY.
Rhoda, Roberts.
By E. LYNN LINTON.
Patricia, Kemball
IJmdel which Lord?
‘My Love l'
Oºle
Paston Carew.
Sowing the Wind
The Atonement of Loam
Dundas
The World Well Lošt.
The One Too Malay.
By H. W. LUCY.
Gidcom Fleyce
By JUSTIN McCARTHY.
A Fair Saxon
Linley Rochford
lear Lady Disdain.
Camiola.
Waterdale Neighbours
My Lnemy's Daughtcr
Miss Misanthrope.
Domna. Quixoto.
Red Diamonds
Mald of Athens,
The Dictator
The Comet of a Scason,
By JUSTIN H. McCARTHY.
A London Legend
GEORGE MACDONALD.
By
IIeathel and Snow
| Phantastes
L. T. MEADE.
By
A Soldier of Fortune
| In an Ilon Grip.
By BERTRAM, MITFORD.
The Gun Rumner
The Luck of Gerard
Ridgeley
The ICing's Assegai,
Renshaw
Quest Famming's
ll
By J. E. MUDDOCK. ,
Maid Mariam and Robin Hood,
Basile the Jester
By D. CHRISTIE MURRAY.
A Life s Atonement.
Joseph S. Coat.
Coals of File
Old Blazer's Hero
By the Gate of the Sea
A Bit of Human Nature
By MURRAY
The Bishops' Bible
One Traveller Returns
First Person Singular.
Cynic Fortune
The Way of the World.
Bob Martin's Little Girl,
Time's Revenges
A Wasted Crime
In Direst Perll
Mount Despair
and HERMAN.
| Paul Jones's Alla3.
\
By HUME NISBET.
“Bail Up !'
By W. E. NORRIS.
Saint Ann's | Billy Bellew.
By G. OHNET.
A Weird Gift
By OUIDA.
Held in Bondage Two Little Wooden
Strathmore Shoes
Chandos In a Winter City.
Under Two Flags. Friendship
Idalia TMoths
Cocil Castlemailne's Ruffino
Gag Pipistrello
Tricotrim
Puck
Foile Farine
A Dog of TlanderB.
Pascarel
Slgma,
Primcess Napraxine
Ariadne
A Village Commune. \
Binlbi
Wanda,
Flescoes | Othmar
Marem
3.
| Guilderoy.
Santa Barbara
Two Offenders
T
Syrlin
By MA RGARET A. PAUL.
Gentle and Simple
By JAMES PAYN.
Lost Sir Massingberd
Less Black than We're
Palnted
A Comfidential Agent
A Grape from a Thorn
In Peril and Privation
The Mystely of Mir
By Proxy [bridge
The Canon's Ward,
Walter 8 Wold
High Spirits
Under One Roof
Glow Worm Taleſ;
The Talk of the Town,
Holiday Tasks.
For Cash. Only
The Burnt Million
The Word and the Will,
Sunny Stories
A Trying Patient,
CHATTo & WINDUS, PUBLISHERS, PICCADILLY.
THE P1ccADILLY (3/6) Novels—continued.
By Mrs. CAMPBELL PRAED.
Outlaw and Lawmaker | Christina Chard.
By E. C. PRICE
Valentina,
The Foreigners
8, fancaster's Rival.
By RICHARD PRYCE.
Miss Maxwell's Affections
By CHARLES READE.
It is sº Late to
en
The Double Marriage
Love Me Little, Love
Me Long.
The Cloister and the
Hea,
The Course of True
Love
The Autobiography of |
8, ©
Put Yourself in His
Place
A Terrible Temptation
The Jilt
Singleheart and Double
face
Good Stories of Men
and other Amimals
Hard Cash
Peg Woffington
Christie Johnstone.
Griffith Gaunt,
Foul Play
The Wandering IIeir.
A Woman Hater
A. Simpleton
A Perilous Secret.
Readiana
*
By Mrs. J. H. RIDDELL.
Weird Stories
Barbara Der
É. AMELIE RIVES.
W. ROBINSON.
The Hani’ſ Justice.
DORA RU
SSELL.
A Country Śwº | The D1 1ſt of Fate.
By W. CLARK RUSSELL.
Ocean Traged
©
My Shipmat £ouise
Alone on Wide Wide Sea,
The Phantom Death
By JOHN SA
Guy Waterman
Bound to the Wheel.
Is He the Mau ?
The Good Ship “Mo
hock ’
The Convict Ship
UNDERS.
The Two Dreamers
The Llon. In the Path
29
By HAWLEY SMART.
Without Ilove or Licence
By T. W. SPEIGHT.
A Secret of the Sea | The Grey Monk
ALAN ST. AUBYN.
A Fellow of Trinity In Pace of the World
The Junior Dean Orchard Damerel
Master of St Benedict's The Tremlett Diamonds.
To hug Own Master
By R. A. STERNDALE.
The Afghan Knife
By BERTHA THOMAS.
Proud Malsie | The Violin Player
By ANTHONY TROLLOPE.
The Way we Live Now. || Scarborough s Family.
Frau Flonmann | The Land Leaguers
By FRANCES E. TROLLOPE.
Like Ships upon the Anne Furness
Sea, Mabel s Progress
By IVAN TURGENIEFF, &c.
Stories from Foreign Novelists
By MARK TWAIN.
The American Claimant | Pudd'nhead Wilson
The g1,000,000Bank note | Tom Sawyer, Detective.
Tom Sawyer Abro
By C. C. FRASER=TYTLER.
Mistress Judith
By SARAH TYTLER.
Ilady Bell The Blackhall Ghosts.
Buried Diamonds. The Macdonald Lass
By ALLEN UPWARD.
The Queen against Owen
The Prince of Balkistan
By E. A. VIZETELLY.
The Scorpion A Romance of Spain
J. S. WHNTER.
By KATHARINE SAUNDERS.
Margaret and Elizabeth Heart, Salvage
Gideon's Rock Sebastian
The High Mills
By ADELINE SERGEANT.
Dr Endicott's Experiment
By
A Soldier's Children
By MARGARET WYNMAN.
My Flirtations
By E.
The Downfall.
The Dream
Dr Pascal
ZOLA.
Money | Lourdes.
The Fat and the Thun
OIſle
CHEAP EDITIONS OF POPULAR NOVELS.
Post 8vo, Illustrated boards, 2s. each.
BY FRANK BARRETT.
By ARTEMUS WARD.
Artemus Ward Complete
By EDMOND ABOUT.
The Fellah
By HAMILTON AID#.
Carr of Carrlyon | Confidences,
By MARY ALBERT.
Brooke Finchley's Daughter
By Mrs. ALEXANDER.
Maid, Wife or Widow 7 || Valerie's Fate
By GRANT ALLEN.
Philistia, The Great Taboo
Strange Stolies Dumaresq's Daughter
Babvlon Duchess of Powysland
For Malmie's Sake. Blood Royal
In all Shades Ivan Gleet's Master
The Beckoning Hand piece
e Devil's Die The Scallywag
The Tents of Shem This Mortal Coil
By E. LESTER ARNOLD.
Phra, the Phoenician
By Rev. S. BARING = GOULD.
Red Spider, ( EV6.
Fettered for Life
Little Lady Linton
Between Life & Death
* in of Olga Zassou
1C
Folly Morrison
Lieut Barnabas.
#. º
TO S Progress,
Found § gr
A Recoiling Wengeance.
For Love and Honour
John Ford, and His
Helpmate
º SHELSLEY BEAUCHAMP.
Grantle
y Grange
By Sir W. BESANT and J. RICE.
Ready Money Mortiboy
My Little Girl
With Harp and Crown
This Son of Vulcan
The Golden Butterfly
The Monks of Thelema.
By Cella's Arbour
Chaplain of the Fleet.
The Seamy Side
The Case of Mr Lucraft,
In Tlafalgar's Bay
The Ten Years' Tenant.
By Sir WALTER BESANT.
All Sorts and Condi
tions of Men
The Captains' Room
All in a Garden Falr
Dorothy Forster
Uncle Jack
The World Went Very
Well Then
Children of Gibeon,
Helr Paulus.
For Faith and Freedora.
To Call Her Mine
The Bell of St Paul's
The Holy Rose
A morel of Lyonesse
S Katherine's by Tower,
Wei bena. §§ Sto
ry
The Rebel Queen,
30
Two SHILLING Novels—continued.
By AMBROSE BIERCE.
In"the Midst of Life
#. FREDERICK BOYLE.
Camp Notes Chronicles of No man's
Savage Life Land
BY BRET HARTE.
Californian Stories Flip | Maruja
Gabriel Conroy A Phyllis of the Sierras
The Luck of Roaring | A Waif of the Plains
Camp A Ward of the Golden
An Heil ess of Red Dog Gate
By HAROLD BRYDGES.
Uncle Sam at Home
By ROBERT BUCHANAN.
Shadow of the Sword The Martyrdom of Ma-
A Child of Nature dellne
God and the Man Annan Water
Love Me for Sver #. New Abelard
Foxglove Manor at
The Master of the Mine | The Heir of Linne.
By HALL CAINE.
The Shadow of a Crime | The Deemster
A Son of Hagar
By Commander CAMERON.
The Cruise of the ‘Black Prince
By Mrs. LOVETT CAMERON.
Deceivers Ever | Juliet's Guardian
By HAYDEN CARRUTH.
The Adventures of Jones
y AUSTIN CLARE.
For the Love of a Lass
By Mrs. ARCHER CLIVE.
Paul Ferroll
Why Paul Ferroll ICilled his Wife
By MACLAREN. COBBAN.
The Cure of Souls | The Red Sultan,
By C. ALLSTON COLLINS.
The Bar Slmister
By MORT. & FRANCES COLLINS.
Sweet Anne Page, Sweet and Twenty
Tiansmigration The Village Comedy
From Midnight to Mid | You Play me False
Blacksmith and Scholar
night
A Fight with Fortune Frances
By WILKIE COLLINS.
Armadale My Miscellanies
After Dark. The Woman in White,
No Name The MoonStone
Antonina. Man and Wife
Poor M158 Flnch
The Fallen Leaves
Jezebel's Daughter
The Black Robo
Ba.811
Hide and Seek
The Dead Seclet.
Queen of Hearts
Miss ol Mrs ? IHeart and Science,
The New Magdalen. ‘I Say No l'
The Frozen Deep The Evil Genius.
The Law and the Lady, Little Novels
The Two Destinies # of Cain,
The Haunted Hotel Blind Love
A Rogue s Life
{ . J. COLQUHOUN.
Every Inch a Soldier
By DUTTON COOK.
LeO. | Paul Foster's Daughter
By C. EGBERT CRADDOCK.
The Prophet of the Great Smoky Mountains.
ñº
The Adventº of a Fair Rebel
#. B. M. CROKER.
Pretty Miss Neville. A Bird of Passage,
Diana, Barrington Proper Pride
*To Let ' A Family Likeness
By W. CYPLES.
Hearts of Gold
By ALPHONSE DAUDET.
The Evangelist, or, Polt Salvation
By ERASMUS DAWSON.
The Fountain of Youth,
CHATTO & WINDUS, PUBLISHERS, PICCADILLY.
By JAMES DE MILLE.
A Castle in Spain
J. LEITH DERWENT.
By
Our Lady of Tears
Sketches
Oliver Twist;
Boz,
| Circe's Lovers
By CHARLES DICKENS.
y | Nicholas Nickleby.
y DICK DONOVAN.
B
The Man Hunter
Tracked and Taken.
Caught at Last !
Wanted
Who Poisoned Hetty
Duncan 7
Man from Manchester
A Detective's Triumphs
In the Grip of the Law
From Information R6-
ceived
Tracked to Doom
Link . Link.
Suspicion Aroused
Dark Deeds
The Long Arm of the
Law
By Mrs. ANNIE EDWARDES.
A Point of Honour
| Archie Lovell
By M. BETHAM-EDWARDS.
Felicia,
By EDWARD
Roxy
| Kitty
EGGLESTON.
By G. MANVILLE FENN.
The New Mistress |
Witness to the Deed.
By PERCY FITZGERALD.
Bella, Donna,
Never Forgotten,
Polly
Tatal Zero,
Second Mrs Tillotson.
Seventy five Brooke
Street
The Lady of Brantome.
By P. FITZGERALD and others.
Strange Secrets
By ALBANY DE FONBLANQUE.
Filthy Lucre
By R. E. FRANCILLON.
Olympia, k
One by One
A Real Queen
Queen Cophetua,
Ring or Knave 7
Romances of the Law.
Ropes of Sand
A Dog and his Shadow.
By HAROLD FREDERIC.
Seth's Brother's Wife
| The Lawton Girl
Prefaced by Sir BARTLE FRERE.
Pandurang Hari
By HAIN FRISWELL.
One of Two
By EDWARD GARRETT.
The Capel Girls
By GHLBERT GAUL.
A Strange Manusclipt
By ChláRLD'S GREBON.
Robin Gray
Fancy Free
For Lack of Gold
What Will the World
Say?
In Love and War.
For the King
In Pastilles Green
Queen of the Meadow.
A Heart's Problem
The Dead Heart
In Honour Bound
Flower of the Fol est.
The Braes of Yarlow.
The Golden Shaft
Of High Degree
By Mead and Stream.
Loving a Dream
A Hard Knot
Heart's Delight
Blood Money
By WILLIAM G.ILBERT.
Dr Austin's Guests.
James Duke
By E
The Lost Heiress
A Fair Colonist
The Wizard of the
Mountain
RNEST GLANVILLE.
The Fossicker
By HENRY GREVILLE.
Nikanor
A Noble Woman
By
Corinthia Marazion
In O
CECIL 'diffith.
By SYDNEY GRUNDY.
The Days of his Vanity
By JOHN HABBERTON.
Brueton's Bayou
B
| Country Luck
y ANDREW HALLIDAY.
Every day Papels
Lady DUFFUS HARDY,
y
Paul Wynter's bacı ifice,
cíIATTo & wind US, PUBLISHERS, PiccADliliy. 31
Two-SHILLING Novels—continued. By FLORENCE MARRYAT.
te Open I Sesame ! Harvest of Wild Oatge
Under aft3.Tº. HARDY Fighting the Air. | ritten in Fire.
By J. BERWICK HARWOOD.
The Tenth Earl
By JULIAN HAWTHORNE.
Garth Beatrix Randolph
Ellice Quentin Love—or a Name
Fortune's Fool, David Poindexter's Dis
Miss Cadogna appearance
Sebastian Strome. The Spectre of the
Dust. Camera.
By Sir ARTHUR HELPS.
Ivan de Biron
By HENRY HERMAN.
A ſleading Lady
By HEADON HILL.
Zambra the Detective
By JOHN HILL.
Treason Felony.
By Mrs. CASHEL HOEY.
The Lover's Creed
By Mrs. GEORGE HOOPER.
The House of Raby
By TIGHE HOPKINS.
Twixt Love and Duty
By Mrs. HUNGERFORD.
A Maiden all Forlorn. A Mental Sti uggle.
In Durance Wile Modern C1rce
Marvel Iady Werner's Flight.
By Mrs. ALFRED HUNT.
Thornicroft's Model. Self Condemned
That Other Person The Leadern Casket,
By JEAN INGELOW.
Fated to be Free
É. WM. JAMESON.
My Dead Se
§ HARRIETT JAY.
The Dark Colleen | Queen of Connaught,
By MARK KERSHAW.
Colonial Facts and Fictions
By R. ASHE KING.
A Drawn Game Passion's Slave,
* The Wearing of the Bell Barry.
Green."
By JOHN LEYS.
The Lindsays
By E. LYNN LINTON.
Patrícia Kemball The Atonement of Leam
The World Well Lost, Dundas
Tunder which Lord 7 With a Silken Thread
Paston Carew. The Rebel of the
* My Love l' Family
Ione Sowing the Wind.
By HENRY W. LUCY.
Gideon Fleyce
By JUSTIN McCARTHY.
Dear Lady Disdain Camiola.
Waterdale Neighbours Domma Quixote
My Enemy's Daughter | Maid of Athens
A Fair Saxon he Comet of a Season
####: The D1Gtator
Miss anthrope Red Diamonds.
By HUGH MACCOLL.
Mr Stranger's Sealed Packet
• By AGNES MACDONELL.
Quaker Cousins
By KATHARINE S. MACQUOID.
The Evil Eye | Lost Rose
W. H. MALLOCK.
By
A Romance of the Nine | The New Republic,
teenth Century,
By J. MASTERMAN.
Half a dozen Daughters
By BRANDER
A Secret of the Sea.
MAT THEWS.
By LEONARD MERRICK.
The Man who was Good
By JEAN MIDDLEMASS.
Touch and Go |
Mr Dorillion
Mrs. MOLESWORTH.
By
Hathercourt Rectory
By J. E MUD DOCK.
y
Stories Welrd and Won
del Aul
The Dead Man's Secret
From the Bosom of the
eep
By D. CHRISTIE MURRAY.
A Model Father.
Joseph's Coat.
Coals of Fire
Val Strange
Old Blazer's Hero
Hearts
The Way of the World
Cynic Fortune
A Life s Atonement
By the Gate of the Sea.
A Blt of Human Nature
First Person Singular
Bob Martin's Llttle
Girl
Time's Revenges
A Wasted Crime
By MURRAY and HERMAN.
One Traveller Returns
Paul Jones's Alias
The Bishops' Bible.
By HENRY MURRAY.
A Game of Bluff
| A Song of Sixpence
By HUME NISBET.
* Bail Up |
Dr Bernard St Vincent.
By ALICE O’HAN LON.
The Unfoleseen
| Chance 7 or Fate?
By GEORGES OHNET.
Dr Rameau
A. Last Love
| A Weird Giſt.
By Mrs. OLIPHANT.
Whiteladies
The Primlose Path
By Mrs. ROBE
Phoebo S Fortunes
By OUIDA.
Two
The Greatest Heiress in
England
RT O’REILLY.
Held in Bondage, Little Wooden
Stl’athmore Shoes.
Chandos Moths
Idalia, Blmbl
Under Two Flags Plp1strello
Cecil Castlemaine'86 age | A Willage Commune,
Tricotrin Wanda,
Puck. Othmar
Folle Farine Frescoes
A Dog of Flanders, In Maremma.
Pascarel. Guilderoy
ignº, Ruffino
Princess Nanraxine.
In a Winter City.
Arladne
Friendship.
By MARGARET
Gentle and Simple
By C. L.
Lady Lovelace
Syrlin
Sºunta Barbara
Ouida's Wisdom, Wit,
and Pathos
AGNES PAUL,
PIRKIS.
By EDGAR A. POE.
The Mystery of Marie Roget
By Mrs. CAMPBELL PRAED.
The Romance of a Station
The Soul of Countess Adrian,
Outlaw and Lawmaker
By E. C.
Valentina,
The Foreigners.
By. RICHARD PRYCE.
PRICE.
Mrs Lancaster's Riva
Gerald { l,
Miss Maxwell's Affections,
42 chAtto & wiMDUS, PUBLISHERS, piccAbíliy.
—-aº.
Two SHILLING Novels—continued. By HAWLEY SMART.
By JAMES PAYN. Without Love or Licence
J3entinck's Tutor The Talk of the Town. B
Mulphy's Master Holiday Tasks y T. W. SPEIGHT.
A County Family. A Perfect, Treasure Tho Mystelaes of Fol on I Back to Life
At Her Melcy What He Cost Her Dyke The LoudwaterTragedy
Cecil's Tlyst A Conſidential Agent The Golden Hoop, Burgo's Romance
The Clyffands of Clyffe Glow worm Tales Hoodwinked Quittance in Full
. ;º othel 8 §: .g.: *hon l3y Devious Ways
Otºl ©2, unny Stolies
The Best of Husbands, Lost Sir Massimgberd A Fe}} º, *N ST. AUBYN. *
Walter's Word A Woman's Wengeance Th º OW O D rinity Master of St Be'nedict's
#ºr t The Family jº". © * ". A sº His §. Master
0n FOrtillnes Gwendoline's Hall ves s ſº a tº ©
Humorous Stories, Like Father, Like Son The Af : Knlf ERNDALE
&200 Reward Married Beneath Him g e
§§ Residence, ; Wº: §: Wº By R. LOUIS STEVENSON.
© LøS8 Blºc an. We'ro
By Proxy y Painted New Arabian Nights | Prince Otto
TJnder One Roof, Some Private Views By BERTHA THOMAS.
High Spilits A Grape from a Thorn. Cressida | The Violin Player.
§§Year. º ºystery of Mir Proud Maisie.
I’Oſſºl bºxlle TiCºe By WALTER THORNBURY
TOT Cash 0 h6 d and the Will. tº
#: mly { . # the Blood Tales for the Marines | Old Storieg Retold
The Canon's Ward A Trying Patient By T. ADOLPHUS TROLLOPE.
By CHARLES READE.
It is Never Too Late to A TerribleTemptation.
Mend Toul Play
Chiistie Johnstone The Wandering Heir
The Double Marriage. Hard Cash
Put Yourself His Singleheart and Double
a,C8 face
Love Me Little, Love | Good Stories of Men and
Me Long other als
The Cloister and the § Woffington.
Hearth
Griffith Gaunt
The Course of True | A Pelilous Secret,
A Simpleton
The Jilt Readiana,
The Autobiography of A Woman Hater.
a Thief
By Mrs. J. H. RIDDELL.
Weild Storieg The Uninhabited House.
Fairy Water The Mystery in Palace
Her Mother's Darling Gardens
The Prince of Wales's The Nun's Curtie.
Garden Party Idle Tales
By AMELIE RIVES.
Barbara Dering
By F. W. ROBINSON.
Women are Strange | The Hands of Justice.
By JAMES RUNCIMAN.
Skippers and Shellbacks
Glaue Balmaign's Sweetheart
Schools and Scholars
By W. CLARK, RUSSELL;
Round the Galley Fire The Romance of Jenny
On the Fo'k'sle Head Harlowe
In the Middle Watch An Ocean Tragedy
A Voyage to the Cape My Shipmate Louise
A Book for the Ham | Alone on a Wide Wide
mock Sea
The Mystery of the
‘ Ocean Star'
By, GEORGE AUGUSTUS SALA.
Gaslight and Daylight
By JOHN SAUNDERS.
Guy Waterman The Lion in the Path,
The Two Dreamer8
º KATHARINE SAUNDERS.
Joan M6
rryweather Sebastian
The High Mills Mangaret and Eliza
Meart Salvage \oeth
By GEORGE. R. SIMS.
Pogues and Vagabonds | Tinkletop's Crime.
The Ring o' Bells Zeph
My Two Wives
Mary Jame's Memoirs
Mary Jane Married Memoils of a Landlady
Scenes from the Show
Talog of To day
Dramas of Life Ten Commandments.
By ARTHUR SKETCHLEY.
y
A Match in the Dark.
Diamond Cut Diamond
By F. ELEANOR TROLLOPE.
Like Ships upon the Anne Furness
Sea, Mabel's Progress
By ANTHONY TROLLOPE.
Frau Frohmann. The American Senator,
Malion Fay Mr Scarborough's
Kept in the Dark Family
John Caldigate The Golden Lion of
The Way We Live Now Grampel 6
The Land Leaguers
By J. T. TROWBRIDGE.
Farnell's #.ii.
y IVAN, TURGENIEFF, &c.
B
Stories from Foreign Novelists
By MARK TWAIN.
A Pleasure Trip on the Life on the Mississippi.
Continent The Prince and the
Pauper
A Yankee at the Court
of King Arthur
The £1,000,000 Bank-
Note
Huckleberry Finn
Mark Twain's Sketches,
Tom Sawyer
A Tramp Abroad
Stolen White Elephant
B C. C. F ASE =T e
Mitºti R R-TYTLER
By SARAH TYTLER.
The Bride's Pass The Huguenot Family.
Bulied Diamonds The Blackhall Ghosts
St. º City. What She CameThrough
§. Bell Beauty and the Beast.
Noblesse Oblige Citoyenne Jaqueline
Disappeared
y ALLEN UPWARD.
Tho Queen against Owen
By AARON WATSON and LILLIAS
WASSERMANN.
The Marquis of Carabag
By WILLIAM WESTALL.
Tl ust Money
By Mrs. F. H. WILLIAMSON.
A Child Widow
By J. S. WINTER.
Cavalry Life B | *ś Legends,
The Passenger from Scotland Yard.
The Englishman of the Rue Calm
Sabi By Lady WOOD.
3,01713,
By CELIA PARKER WOOLLEY.
Rachel Armstrong, or, Love and Theology.
By EDMUND YATES.
The Forlon n Hope. Castaway.
Land at laſt
oGDEN, smalE AND co, LIMITLD, PRINTERS, GREAT SAFFRON HILL, E.C.
univ. of Micº’
SEP 26 f$07

|
|
|
|
|
#
|
9015 030
|
|
UNIVERSITY
|
t
|
|
\ſ:№ſ
ģ;&#$%
§§

ſaeșae.！|-~¿
§§§§§§№ººººººººº， №. 3） §≡£; £·ſae